Brütal • Mötley Crüe •

Thirty-One • June 1st, 1983

Warnings: Vulgar Language, Drug & Alcohol Use, Mentions of Gang Affiliations, Guns

8:36AM: Coffee

The fresh morning sun peaked through the loose overlap of the curtains, hit the glossy, walnut-stained top of Halston's dresser, and reflected rainbow prisms along the walls.

Nikki's eyes refused to adjust at first. It was hours before his usual waking time, and he laid on top of Halston's box-spring-equipped bed, staring at the wobbling colors as the world around him slowly came into view. The miniature rainbows pulsed against burgundy paint in tandem with his brain pulsing against his skull; the doing of his regular hangover. He should've been used to the headaches by now, but he didn't know if anyone ever really got used to hangovers. Not even veteran alcoholics.

He could've flopped over onto his left side, could've dug his face into the mint-scented pillowcase and forced himself back to sleep for another five or so hours, but he didn't. He had too many things to do before him and his blushing bride went to the LAX Courthouse and pledged their lives to one another that afternoon.

Well, the next year of their lives if you asked Halston, but the government didn't need to know that any more than they needed to know the last thing his bride could be called was blushing.

Nikki internally chuckled at that thought, threw the tie-dyed covers off, and stealthily began to climb over Halston's unconscious body. His whiskey-tainted stomach lurched at the sudden movement, his head whirling, and he paused to settle himself before instinctively looking down. Halston's eyes were flicking rapidly beneath their lids and her nose was scrunched up as if she'd smelled something sour.

She was having another nightmare.

They were constant as of late, and it didn't take a psychology degree to understand why. He understood what was behind the strained and inaudible mutters, the sharp twitches and flinches, the tears stained to her pillow every morning. He understood that every time her legs sashayed underneath the blanket she was running from the boogeyman in her head, and he understood that when they abruptly seized she'd been caught.

He did his best to help soothe her, whether that was by rubbing her back or—during the worst ones—shaking her awake. The latter almost always ended with him having a sore jaw, so he tried to just let her play them through. A quick stroke to her arm or a brief grab of her hand usually quieted her some.

He was wondering what the boogeyman in her head looked like when his left knee slipped against the slick sheets. He face-planted right into her chest, barely catching himself on the headboard before he crushed her flat. The air in her lungs whistled out at the weight and her eyes ceased their compulsive movements, but their lids stayed shut. Thank God, because he was in the perfect position for a kick to the groin.

He hung there, frozen, and waited for the catch in her breath to signal he hadn't woken her all the way up.

The only person that loathed the eighth—and ninth, and tenth—hour of the morning more than him was Halston, and he made a mental note to help rearrange her furniture to where he would no longer only have one way out.

Hell, maybe he would try to convince her to move into his apartment instead, since they were going to be married and all. They didn't have this problem there. How could they? He only had a mattress.

But he knew that probably wouldn't go over well. She was already going against everything she ever stood for just by pretending to be married. He could so vividly remember the speech she'd given him and Vince at RTB's party—the cursed spiel had been playing through his mind on a loop—and he knew he was one lucky bastard she said yes in the first place.