It was supposed to be a fundraiser—a charity gala in Vegas, because Bruce had noticed that airheaded socialites were more likely to spend money when they were in a casino, which he thought was a good idea. Now, sprawled across a Bellagio penthouse, gold band glittering on his ring finger, Bruce wasn’t so sure anymore. Because next to him was you, Dick’s best friend, who was wearing a diamond ring so large it could probably be seen from space, and absolutely no clothing. Just like him. Shit.

“It was a mistake,” he shook his head, in a rough timbre rather than the higher one that he used for galas. “I don’t even remember the ceremony. Holy… how much did we even drink?” He glanced at you, and the tension was palpable, but unsurprisingly familiar. Even though you were Dick’s best friend, you had met through the Wayne Foundation, and there had always been something between you and Bruce, though the both of you liked to ignore it in favor of pretending the other didn’t exist, because the both of you were also stubborn bastards.

But this? This was different, because marriage wasn’t something Bruce took lightly. The only person he’d even come close to marrying was Selina, and even then, that idea had fizzled out, and fast. He hadn’t even thought about the PR implications of this—of course, he could play it off as one of his playboy antics for himself, but for you, this would look horrible if it ever came out into the tabloids. Not to mention that he would be facing Dick’s most protective side, because that’s who he was when it came to you.

The groan he let out was probably audible, because when he turned around, you were giving him an unimpressed glare, followed by a groan of your own, though yours was more likely induced by the copious amounts of alcohol that you had drank and not the societal implications of getting married to Bruce Wayne. “Don’t look at me like that,” Bruce grumbled. “This wasn’t my idea, and I’d rather get this wedding annulled than face Dick’s wrath, which is basically the ninth circle of hell.”