SPN FIC - Of Course Not, Dear, Tuxedoes Are For Waiters (Part 2)
As promised -- Part 2 of ... I don't know how many. :) ( Part 1 is here.)
The premise? Dean receives an unexpected bequest from someone he worked for for a month, seven years ago. A generous gift, one he decides to wallow in like a pig in...you-know-what. Because he deserves a little pampering. A little relaxation. A little luxury. Especially if he's got his bro at his side. But things aren't always what they seem -- and Dean will come to realize how very much he needs Sam beside him, keeping watch over him, and protecting him from someone who wants to make sure that he pays for this unexpected gift -- with his life.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam, and various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 2476 words
OF COURSE NOT, DEAR, TUXEDOES ARE FOR WAITERS
By Carol Davis
Flinging the doors wide, Rodney went on in. Dean walked boldly along behind him and Sam brought up the rear.
"Holy crap," Dean blurted.
A small smile flickered across the bellman's face. "Shall I put these in the bedroom for you, Mr. Gillis?" he asked, indicating the duffels.
"Uh…no. You can just…put 'em down."
As much as he'd been prepared for what he'd seen in the lobby, Dean was not prepared at all for the penthouse. If someone had asked him to describe what he thought he'd find there, he would have used vague terms like big and fancy. The penthouse was certainly both those things, but it went so far beyond anything he'd ever experienced in the past that he was left momentarily speechless.
"You sure this is - are we in the right place?" he sputtered.
"Yes, sir," Rodney nodded. "The penthouse."
"The penthouse."
"Yes, sir. There's just the one."
"And they told you to put me - us - up in here."
Rodney set the duffels gently down on the floor. "Would you be more comfortable in another room, sir? I can ask the desk."
"No," Dean said quickly. "This is good."
"Of course. Would you like me to show you the various features, sir?"
Dean turned to his brother, who had taken up a position just inside the double doors and was making a careful survey of his surroundings. When Sam noticed Dean looking at him, he frowned slightly but said nothing.
"Can we just look around on our own?" Dean asked the bellman.
"If that's what you prefer."
"It is. That's what I prefer."
"I'll leave you to your exploring then, sir. Enjoy your stay. And please do call the desk if we can be of any assistance."
To Dean's relief - and in keeping with the manager's promise that all gratuities would be automatically billed to the AmEx card - Rodney slipped past Sam without angling for a tip and left the suite, closing the heavy double doors silently behind him.
He had been gone only a few seconds when Dean said again, "Holy crap."
"Is this - is this right?" Sam asked.
"He said it is."
"This can't be right. Dean. This place has to go for…my God, like three or four thousand dollars a night."
The suite was laid out in a U surrounding the hallway they had just walked down, with the living room - where Sam and Dean were standing - forming the belly of the U. Its far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass; visible beyond it was a large terrace with a spectacular view of the Strip. The living room itself was furnished with a pair of long, cream-colored leather sofas and two matching chairs, a central glass-topped fire pit, a flat-panel TV the size of a door, a leather-trimmed wet bar with a row of six leather-topped stools, a dining area with an enormous glass-topped table and eight chairs…
And a grand piano.
"Dude," Dean said. "We've got a freakin' piano."
"Which neither of us can play."
"It's the concept, Sam. We're stayin' in a room with a damn piano."
Shaking his head, Sam walked past his brother across the living room to the sliding doors leading out to the terrace. He stood there in silence for a minute, arms folded across his chest, then said quietly without turning, "You might want to look at this."
"What?"
"Just come look."
"Another piano?" Chuckling, Dean joined Sam at the terrace doors. The moment he saw what Sam was talking about, the amusement dropped off his face and was replaced by slack-jawed awe. "That's a -"
"Swimming pool."
"We got our own pool?"
Sam gestured. "Indoor and outdoor. Like the guy said."
"I meant does the hotel have one. Holy crap, Sam. This is -" Dean sighed heavily. "There ain't even a category of 'awesome' big enough to include this."
"What I said before? I'm thinking closer to ten grand a night."
"No way."
Before Sam could go on, Dean had trotted away, aiming down the hallway that led away from the bar area. Down there he found a bedroom with an attached bath, and beyond that, the master bedroom, complete with king-sized bed, a sitting area that included another fireplace and two comfortable-looking chairs, a wide glass-topped desk equipped with a laptop, a phone and a fax machine, another enormous flat-panel TV, a walk-in closet and dressing area, and the master bath.
"Dude!" he called to Sam. "There's a freakin' TV in the can!"
"I'm surprised there's not a movie theater in there," Sam said from the doorway.
The hallway at the other end of the living room offered a small but complete kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, a laundry room with washer and dryer, another bedroom with attached bath, and a workout room.
"No movie theater," Dean said, feeling vaguely disappointed.
"Maybe we could get them to build one."
"Who do you figure stays in here? Clooney? Brad and Angelina? Diddy? Somebody like that?"
"I have no idea."
Still pondering the question, Dean wandered into the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator, gaping when he found it fully stocked with a variety of drinks, fresh produce, prepared meals ready to be microwaved, and half a dozen different desserts. Beaming, he turned to Sam with a cold beer in one hand and a single-serving sized peach pie in the other.
"Paradise, Sammy," he announced. "We've found paradise on the Las Vegas Strip."
Not entirely interested in whether Sam had a response or not, Dean rummaged around until he located a fork, then carried his snack out to the massive dining table and sat down facing the view of the city. Sam followed him part of the way, ending up alongside the piano, where he ran a hand idly along the instrument's glossy edge.
"Get y'rself sumpinta eat," Dean said around a mouthful of pie.
"Maybe later."
Fork hovering in midair, Dean heaved a sigh at his brother and swallowed his mouthful. "Now what?"
"Who's paying for this, Dean?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters."
"Yeah, well, don't worry about it."
"Dean…in what kind of idiot wet dream is this for real? Huh? Look at this place! You're telling me somebody's -"
"I said, don't worry about it."
"I have to. Because you're obviously not."
Dean pondered his fork for a moment, then laid it down on the table. "You want to know who paid for this?" he said slowly. "We did. We paid for it. With our whole lives, Sammy. All the stuff we've done? We get the crap kicked out of us all the time. Look at what we've lost. Look at who we've lost. I don't know what kinda math you want to use, but I figure we've got this coming to us. I figure we paid for this about ten times over. Somebody sent me a letter and said come here and enjoy yourself for a little while. Was I supposed to say no? Was I supposed to say, 'Ya know, I'd rather stay in Cockroach Heaven, if it's all the same to you.' Somebody said I could get something nice for a change, Sam, and I said okay. If that doesn't suit you, well then, I'm sorry. But fuck you, Sam. You can leave if you want to, but I'm staying."
"I'm just asking you to think about this," Sam said stubbornly.
"I've done all the thinking I plan to do. Now? I'm gonna eat my pie."
Dean made a show of not looking at his brother as he finished his snack. The first few bites had been delicious; the last few went down hard.
"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam said quietly.
"You do that."
There was nothing satisfying in the relief Dean felt when Sam walked away.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sam drifted awake in the middle of the night - 3:17 a.m., according to the clock on the bedside table. As was true of all three bedrooms in the penthouse, one of the walls of the room he'd chosen was all glass, and because he hadn't bothered to close the drapes before he went to bed, his room was well lit by the glowing neon of the Strip. He didn't need to worry about stumbling as he got up and shambled across the room to use the bathroom.
He and Dean had said little to each other during the evening. After a quick flip through the room service menu, Dean had ordered himself a mammoth cheeseburger and fries for dinner and washed it down with another couple of beers. Sam had made do with one of the prepared meals from the fridge, eating because he felt he ought to rather than because he was hungry. He half expected Dean to head down to the Diamond's ground-floor casino after dinner to amuse himself gambling or flirting with waitresses, but Dean had taken refuge in the master bedroom and spent a couple of hours staring at a Chuck Norris movie on the giant TV before he crawled underneath the covers to go to sleep.
Neither one of them had said "good night."
A moment of lurking in the doorway of the master bedroom was enough to convince Sam that Dean was sound asleep. Even sprawled out, he took up little space in the big bed. He'd shoved most of the pillows (the bed had been decorated with nine of them) onto the floor and had wadded up the one he'd kept so that it was as lumpish as a motel pillow. He had an arm slung around it as if he thought it was going to try to get away from him while he slept.
It struck Sam how silent this place was: no traffic noise, no clanking air conditioners, no running-water sounds from the room next door. All he could hear was Dean's soft snoring.
Padding back down the hall to the living room, Sam picked up the duffel his brother had left sitting on the floor and held it in his lap as he perched on the edge of the leather couch, careful not to jostle the bag and its noisy contents for fear of waking Dean.
The letter was where he hoped it would be, folded inside the FedEx envelope, which was jammed into the duffel with Dean's long-unwashed clothes and his collection of weapons and charms. Laundry, Sam thought vaguely; there was a washing machine here. Soap and fabric softener and dryer sheets, too, probably. The people who had equipped the suite had thought of everything a guest might need, or want.
He had a momentary, disconcerting flash of Diddy washing a load of underwear in the laundry room as he unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr. Winchester, it said.
~~~~~~~~~~
He remembered from that first trip to Vegas, back when Sammy was six and he was ten, how empty the streets were early in the morning. That, at least, hadn't changed in the intervening twenty years; as Dean leaned against the terrace railing and looked down, he could see no traffic other than a stray cab or two, a couple of delivery trucks, a car here and there. When he'd gone to bed the streets had been jammed, and the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Unlike New York, Vegas did sleep, and looked oddly haunted while it was doing so.
He remembered peering out the car window as Dad piloted the Impala down the deserted Strip not long after dawn, watching scraps of paper tumble around in the gutter, wondering at the newspaper vending machines that said XXX, thinking how very different it all looked when all the multicolored neon was turned off. Most of the places he'd seen in his ten years looked better in the daylight. Las Vegas, he'd decided, looked better in the dark.
That, too, hadn't changed in twenty years.
He poured himself a glass of fruit juice from the fridge and carried it back out to the terrace. He sipped it slowly, sitting alongside the swimming pool in a chrome-and-leather chair that was one of six, bare feet propped on a small decorative table.
Ms. Carlisle was grateful for your devotion to her during…
Sam had been sound asleep when Dean peeked into the bedroom in the kitchen-laundry-gym wing of the penthouse on his trip to and from the kitchen. Didn't look like he was sleeping easily - he was frowning, and the covers were all bunched up, like he'd been tossing and turning.
…Wished to express her gratitude by…
"Dammit, Sammy," he murmured. "Can't you just -"
Apparently not.
With a small sigh Dean set down his empty glass, got up from his chair and peeled off the sweatpants he'd been wearing as pajama bottoms. He didn't own a bathing suit, but up here where no one could see him but the birds, his underwear would do just as well. Didn't even need to bother with underwear, he supposed.
He hadn't been skinny-dipping since…well, with Cassie, that one time.
He gave it a moment of thought, then stripped off his underwear and climbed down the narrow aluminum ladder into the pool.
"Mr. Gillis?"
Crazy old broad, he thought.
"I thought we might take a spin up to Lake Mead and admire the scenery."
The water was just cool enough. Felt like silk against his skin as he ducked beneath the surface and hung, silent and weightless, before he stretched himself out long and began to glide, propelled with small, fluttering kicks, toward the far end of the pool.
He swam laps, sleek as a porpoise, for what seemed like hours but wasn't. When he thrust his head up for a gulp of air he could see the sun still hovering only a little ways above the horizon, as if it hadn't yet made up its mind whether or not to rise any further. It'd be fine by him, he thought, if it stayed where it was - if the city stayed the way it was, drowsy and empty and haunted, the way he'd seen it that morning when Dad had driven them away, toward another town, another job, another place that wasn't home.
"Mr. Gillis?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Do you know where we are?"
The morning desert air was cooler than the water, prompting him to duck back beneath the surface and slide into another lap, smiling absently at the feeling of strength in his shoulders and back as he swam.
He was halfway to the far end of the pool when he glanced down and saw something shine down at the bottom, something that wasn't a part of the blue and green and white mosaic tiles. Frowning, he pushed himself to the floor of the pool, scrabbled a little with his fingers and closed them around the object.
He came back up to the surface with his fist curled around a woman's wedding band.
Part 3...
The premise? Dean receives an unexpected bequest from someone he worked for for a month, seven years ago. A generous gift, one he decides to wallow in like a pig in...you-know-what. Because he deserves a little pampering. A little relaxation. A little luxury. Especially if he's got his bro at his side. But things aren't always what they seem -- and Dean will come to realize how very much he needs Sam beside him, keeping watch over him, and protecting him from someone who wants to make sure that he pays for this unexpected gift -- with his life.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam, and various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 2476 words
OF COURSE NOT, DEAR, TUXEDOES ARE FOR WAITERS
By Carol Davis
Flinging the doors wide, Rodney went on in. Dean walked boldly along behind him and Sam brought up the rear.
"Holy crap," Dean blurted.
A small smile flickered across the bellman's face. "Shall I put these in the bedroom for you, Mr. Gillis?" he asked, indicating the duffels.
"Uh…no. You can just…put 'em down."
As much as he'd been prepared for what he'd seen in the lobby, Dean was not prepared at all for the penthouse. If someone had asked him to describe what he thought he'd find there, he would have used vague terms like big and fancy. The penthouse was certainly both those things, but it went so far beyond anything he'd ever experienced in the past that he was left momentarily speechless.
"You sure this is - are we in the right place?" he sputtered.
"Yes, sir," Rodney nodded. "The penthouse."
"The penthouse."
"Yes, sir. There's just the one."
"And they told you to put me - us - up in here."
Rodney set the duffels gently down on the floor. "Would you be more comfortable in another room, sir? I can ask the desk."
"No," Dean said quickly. "This is good."
"Of course. Would you like me to show you the various features, sir?"
Dean turned to his brother, who had taken up a position just inside the double doors and was making a careful survey of his surroundings. When Sam noticed Dean looking at him, he frowned slightly but said nothing.
"Can we just look around on our own?" Dean asked the bellman.
"If that's what you prefer."
"It is. That's what I prefer."
"I'll leave you to your exploring then, sir. Enjoy your stay. And please do call the desk if we can be of any assistance."
To Dean's relief - and in keeping with the manager's promise that all gratuities would be automatically billed to the AmEx card - Rodney slipped past Sam without angling for a tip and left the suite, closing the heavy double doors silently behind him.
He had been gone only a few seconds when Dean said again, "Holy crap."
"Is this - is this right?" Sam asked.
"He said it is."
"This can't be right. Dean. This place has to go for…my God, like three or four thousand dollars a night."
The suite was laid out in a U surrounding the hallway they had just walked down, with the living room - where Sam and Dean were standing - forming the belly of the U. Its far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass; visible beyond it was a large terrace with a spectacular view of the Strip. The living room itself was furnished with a pair of long, cream-colored leather sofas and two matching chairs, a central glass-topped fire pit, a flat-panel TV the size of a door, a leather-trimmed wet bar with a row of six leather-topped stools, a dining area with an enormous glass-topped table and eight chairs…
And a grand piano.
"Dude," Dean said. "We've got a freakin' piano."
"Which neither of us can play."
"It's the concept, Sam. We're stayin' in a room with a damn piano."
Shaking his head, Sam walked past his brother across the living room to the sliding doors leading out to the terrace. He stood there in silence for a minute, arms folded across his chest, then said quietly without turning, "You might want to look at this."
"What?"
"Just come look."
"Another piano?" Chuckling, Dean joined Sam at the terrace doors. The moment he saw what Sam was talking about, the amusement dropped off his face and was replaced by slack-jawed awe. "That's a -"
"Swimming pool."
"We got our own pool?"
Sam gestured. "Indoor and outdoor. Like the guy said."
"I meant does the hotel have one. Holy crap, Sam. This is -" Dean sighed heavily. "There ain't even a category of 'awesome' big enough to include this."
"What I said before? I'm thinking closer to ten grand a night."
"No way."
Before Sam could go on, Dean had trotted away, aiming down the hallway that led away from the bar area. Down there he found a bedroom with an attached bath, and beyond that, the master bedroom, complete with king-sized bed, a sitting area that included another fireplace and two comfortable-looking chairs, a wide glass-topped desk equipped with a laptop, a phone and a fax machine, another enormous flat-panel TV, a walk-in closet and dressing area, and the master bath.
"Dude!" he called to Sam. "There's a freakin' TV in the can!"
"I'm surprised there's not a movie theater in there," Sam said from the doorway.
The hallway at the other end of the living room offered a small but complete kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, a laundry room with washer and dryer, another bedroom with attached bath, and a workout room.
"No movie theater," Dean said, feeling vaguely disappointed.
"Maybe we could get them to build one."
"Who do you figure stays in here? Clooney? Brad and Angelina? Diddy? Somebody like that?"
"I have no idea."
Still pondering the question, Dean wandered into the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator, gaping when he found it fully stocked with a variety of drinks, fresh produce, prepared meals ready to be microwaved, and half a dozen different desserts. Beaming, he turned to Sam with a cold beer in one hand and a single-serving sized peach pie in the other.
"Paradise, Sammy," he announced. "We've found paradise on the Las Vegas Strip."
Not entirely interested in whether Sam had a response or not, Dean rummaged around until he located a fork, then carried his snack out to the massive dining table and sat down facing the view of the city. Sam followed him part of the way, ending up alongside the piano, where he ran a hand idly along the instrument's glossy edge.
"Get y'rself sumpinta eat," Dean said around a mouthful of pie.
"Maybe later."
Fork hovering in midair, Dean heaved a sigh at his brother and swallowed his mouthful. "Now what?"
"Who's paying for this, Dean?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters."
"Yeah, well, don't worry about it."
"Dean…in what kind of idiot wet dream is this for real? Huh? Look at this place! You're telling me somebody's -"
"I said, don't worry about it."
"I have to. Because you're obviously not."
Dean pondered his fork for a moment, then laid it down on the table. "You want to know who paid for this?" he said slowly. "We did. We paid for it. With our whole lives, Sammy. All the stuff we've done? We get the crap kicked out of us all the time. Look at what we've lost. Look at who we've lost. I don't know what kinda math you want to use, but I figure we've got this coming to us. I figure we paid for this about ten times over. Somebody sent me a letter and said come here and enjoy yourself for a little while. Was I supposed to say no? Was I supposed to say, 'Ya know, I'd rather stay in Cockroach Heaven, if it's all the same to you.' Somebody said I could get something nice for a change, Sam, and I said okay. If that doesn't suit you, well then, I'm sorry. But fuck you, Sam. You can leave if you want to, but I'm staying."
"I'm just asking you to think about this," Sam said stubbornly.
"I've done all the thinking I plan to do. Now? I'm gonna eat my pie."
Dean made a show of not looking at his brother as he finished his snack. The first few bites had been delicious; the last few went down hard.
"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam said quietly.
"You do that."
There was nothing satisfying in the relief Dean felt when Sam walked away.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sam drifted awake in the middle of the night - 3:17 a.m., according to the clock on the bedside table. As was true of all three bedrooms in the penthouse, one of the walls of the room he'd chosen was all glass, and because he hadn't bothered to close the drapes before he went to bed, his room was well lit by the glowing neon of the Strip. He didn't need to worry about stumbling as he got up and shambled across the room to use the bathroom.
He and Dean had said little to each other during the evening. After a quick flip through the room service menu, Dean had ordered himself a mammoth cheeseburger and fries for dinner and washed it down with another couple of beers. Sam had made do with one of the prepared meals from the fridge, eating because he felt he ought to rather than because he was hungry. He half expected Dean to head down to the Diamond's ground-floor casino after dinner to amuse himself gambling or flirting with waitresses, but Dean had taken refuge in the master bedroom and spent a couple of hours staring at a Chuck Norris movie on the giant TV before he crawled underneath the covers to go to sleep.
Neither one of them had said "good night."
A moment of lurking in the doorway of the master bedroom was enough to convince Sam that Dean was sound asleep. Even sprawled out, he took up little space in the big bed. He'd shoved most of the pillows (the bed had been decorated with nine of them) onto the floor and had wadded up the one he'd kept so that it was as lumpish as a motel pillow. He had an arm slung around it as if he thought it was going to try to get away from him while he slept.
It struck Sam how silent this place was: no traffic noise, no clanking air conditioners, no running-water sounds from the room next door. All he could hear was Dean's soft snoring.
Padding back down the hall to the living room, Sam picked up the duffel his brother had left sitting on the floor and held it in his lap as he perched on the edge of the leather couch, careful not to jostle the bag and its noisy contents for fear of waking Dean.
The letter was where he hoped it would be, folded inside the FedEx envelope, which was jammed into the duffel with Dean's long-unwashed clothes and his collection of weapons and charms. Laundry, Sam thought vaguely; there was a washing machine here. Soap and fabric softener and dryer sheets, too, probably. The people who had equipped the suite had thought of everything a guest might need, or want.
He had a momentary, disconcerting flash of Diddy washing a load of underwear in the laundry room as he unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr. Winchester, it said.
~~~~~~~~~~
He remembered from that first trip to Vegas, back when Sammy was six and he was ten, how empty the streets were early in the morning. That, at least, hadn't changed in the intervening twenty years; as Dean leaned against the terrace railing and looked down, he could see no traffic other than a stray cab or two, a couple of delivery trucks, a car here and there. When he'd gone to bed the streets had been jammed, and the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Unlike New York, Vegas did sleep, and looked oddly haunted while it was doing so.
He remembered peering out the car window as Dad piloted the Impala down the deserted Strip not long after dawn, watching scraps of paper tumble around in the gutter, wondering at the newspaper vending machines that said XXX, thinking how very different it all looked when all the multicolored neon was turned off. Most of the places he'd seen in his ten years looked better in the daylight. Las Vegas, he'd decided, looked better in the dark.
That, too, hadn't changed in twenty years.
He poured himself a glass of fruit juice from the fridge and carried it back out to the terrace. He sipped it slowly, sitting alongside the swimming pool in a chrome-and-leather chair that was one of six, bare feet propped on a small decorative table.
Ms. Carlisle was grateful for your devotion to her during…
Sam had been sound asleep when Dean peeked into the bedroom in the kitchen-laundry-gym wing of the penthouse on his trip to and from the kitchen. Didn't look like he was sleeping easily - he was frowning, and the covers were all bunched up, like he'd been tossing and turning.
…Wished to express her gratitude by…
"Dammit, Sammy," he murmured. "Can't you just -"
Apparently not.
With a small sigh Dean set down his empty glass, got up from his chair and peeled off the sweatpants he'd been wearing as pajama bottoms. He didn't own a bathing suit, but up here where no one could see him but the birds, his underwear would do just as well. Didn't even need to bother with underwear, he supposed.
He hadn't been skinny-dipping since…well, with Cassie, that one time.
He gave it a moment of thought, then stripped off his underwear and climbed down the narrow aluminum ladder into the pool.
"Mr. Gillis?"
Crazy old broad, he thought.
"I thought we might take a spin up to Lake Mead and admire the scenery."
The water was just cool enough. Felt like silk against his skin as he ducked beneath the surface and hung, silent and weightless, before he stretched himself out long and began to glide, propelled with small, fluttering kicks, toward the far end of the pool.
He swam laps, sleek as a porpoise, for what seemed like hours but wasn't. When he thrust his head up for a gulp of air he could see the sun still hovering only a little ways above the horizon, as if it hadn't yet made up its mind whether or not to rise any further. It'd be fine by him, he thought, if it stayed where it was - if the city stayed the way it was, drowsy and empty and haunted, the way he'd seen it that morning when Dad had driven them away, toward another town, another job, another place that wasn't home.
"Mr. Gillis?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Do you know where we are?"
The morning desert air was cooler than the water, prompting him to duck back beneath the surface and slide into another lap, smiling absently at the feeling of strength in his shoulders and back as he swam.
He was halfway to the far end of the pool when he glanced down and saw something shine down at the bottom, something that wasn't a part of the blue and green and white mosaic tiles. Frowning, he pushed himself to the floor of the pool, scrabbled a little with his fingers and closed them around the object.
He came back up to the surface with his fist curled around a woman's wedding band.
Part 3...