come on, babe (we're gonna brush the sky)

hold on, hon (we're gonna bunny hug)

i really went and titled all three of the fics in this series (and the series itself) using "and all that jazz" from chicago. iconic of me

~*~

To say Claire had a hell of a headache was an unspeakable understatement. In fact, Claire was almost certain the reason her head ached like a bowling ball had been slammed into it was because at this very moment, her head was quite literally splitting open, as if someone had taken a meat cleaver down the center of her skull. And with her beauty mark, she wouldn't even be blessed with matching halves, which could be very important.

Groaning, Claire reached out with her left arm and aimlessly maneuvered it to and fro until she managed to shut off the blaring of her alarm, a sound so loud and shrill it might as well have been a police siren reverberating within her skull. But even after the booming noise subsided, Claire still didn't dare open her eyes—she feared a single ray of sunshine creeping through the cracks of her blinds might render her sightless for the better part of today.

God. How much had she had to drink last night?

Claire massaged her pounding forehead with her right hand, and hazy memories of her adventure with Margot began to return. Margaritas, shots, maybe a corkscrew or two? She'd lost count at some point, though the general ache that permeated her body told Claire a general estimate of 'too much' summed up the amount of alcohol she'd consumed.

Well, she and Margot had gone out with the intent to get hammered—Claire's eyes fluttered open, causing her to immediately wince at the incoming sunlight—and God, they sure as hell had succeeded.

Hopefully Margot was doing better than her.

Even if she wasn't, though, she'd had the good sense—unlike Claire—to schedule their night out before her day off. No clients would be disturbing her, Margot had gloated after her third shot, while she slept the morning and afternoon away.

Claire gritted her teeth and forced herself to open her eyes a fraction, just enough to get a gauge on her surroundings. She couldn't stop another pained groan from slipping out, however, as she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. She rested the majority of her body weight against her bed's wooden backboard—sweet, sweet support.

As Claire's senses gradually returned, however low functioning they were, her mind came to a screeching halt with the realization that wait a minute—

She was in her own bed. In her own pajamas. And though her mouth tasted unpleasant and was drier than a desert, there was nonetheless a hint of mint that crept along the back of her teeth—toothpaste, presumably.

What time had she gotten home?

How had she gotten home?

Margot. God, Margot, had Margot gotten home okay—

To Claire's left was a glass of water resting atop her nightstand, the unexpected sight of which distracted her from her influx of panicked thoughts. Beside the glass were two white pills and a folded piece of paper, torn from one of her lined yellow notepads.

Wincing at the stiffness of her shoulders and the thunder that continued to boom against the inside of her skull, Claire reached over to retrieve the folded paper.

It was a note, she realized upon closer inspection, a note scribbled in very familiar cursive. Its message was concise: You'll need these.

Right.

Jack.

Well, that explained how she and Margot had gotten home, and... Oh, God.

The dress. The drinks. The dancing.