TITLE: Stranger Things
SUMMARY: Response to Challenge 310: Woke Up In Vegas by Jinni. Faith ends up in bed with one Jack O'Neill.
For Buffy and Angel: Set after Chosen
For Stargate: Through Season 8
RATING: FR18, at the moment, just to be safe.
"A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend." - I do not own any of the characters in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel: the Series or Stargate. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission. Joss Whedon is God…
A/N: What? Another of these challenges? Yes, I said the same thing myself as this darned idea came to me. But I have been working on this story for awhile, a long, long while, and I think I am at a point where I can finally start to post it. Enjoy!
Reviews are happily welcome, though not necessary.
Before I even had the chance to wake on my own I was disturbed by the person in bed next to me shifting. The shifting led to waking up noises and the popping of joints – stiff after a night’s rest.
“Holy shit,” the man swore, obviously surprised about something, I had money down on the fact he had spotted me. Naptime was over, time to really wake up.
I slowly opened my eyes, blinking against the bright light that had managed to sneak past the drapes. I stretched slightly feeling my own joints pop. In addition to the joints popping I had that down low tingling. Apparently I had gotten lucky last night. Very lucky according to my body.
The hotel room I was in was not my own. I knew that immediately. So, I guessed I was in his room. Time to bite the bullet and figure out just who this mystery man was.
I turned my head to face him and honestly wasn’t sure what to think. He definitely wasn’t what I had expected to find in bed with me. He’s clearly older than me. Old enough to be my dad, if I had to guess. His brown hair was starting to go gray, but nothing too serious. But for an older guy he was wicked hot and knew how to take good care of his body.
Even shit-faced I know how to pick ‘em.
He’s looking at me with a rather odd look on his face. I see the confusion, the lust, the struggle to remember, but I’m concerned when I see horror and guilt on his face. What is going on? He rakes a shaky hand through his hair and the sunlight catches the simple gold band on his hand.
“Oh fuck,” I mutter. His eyes widen slightly. “You’re married,” I finally get out. My voice is still rough from sleep and too much partying last night.
“Huh?” he questions, looking even more confused.
I reach out and grab his left hand and hold the ring finger up. I watch as the color drains off his face. I drop his hand and put a little more distance between us.
“I…um…I’m actually divorced,” he started.
“Even better, I bed a divorced man still wearing his band,” I groan and go to get out of bed. But as the light hits my hand on the sheet I get the same glare his got. Slowly I pull my hand to my face, hoping against hope that the closer it gets it will not be a matching wedding band. But fate wasn’t on my side this morning I realize with a dropping stomach.
“Hey!” the guy’s annoyed tone cuts through the silence of my discovery. “This isn’t even my wedding band. I took it off years ago…and certainly didn’t bring it to Vegas with me,” he defended himself.
“My apologies,” I snap and continue to stare at the ring. Then my eyes focus on a piece of paper sitting just past me, on the bedside table.
A marriage certificate.
Shit, my life is ruined.