Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. The author does not own any of the following names or personalities. The author does not imply that the people mentioned within would act or have acted in the ways depicted. No money has been made from this.

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Kirk's eyes felt like they were glued shut. He opened them a crack, enough to ascertain that it was daylight, and shut them again. His head throbbed, more than it usually did the morning after a show. He was aware of a heat against his back; apparently he'd let some groupie stay the night. And now she had her arm wrapped snugly around his waist. Kirk sighed. Part of him-- no, most of him-- wanted to go back to sleep. But the remaining part told him to get up, ditch this chick, then find Lars and get some breakfast.

Kirk squirmed. The chick's arm didn't move. This was fucking inconvenient. He hated morning after scenes-- especially when he had no recollection of the night before. Kirk weighed his options. He could wake her up, mumble something about showering, then lock himself in the bathroom and hope she left on her own. But that probably wasn't going to happen.

Maybe he'd picked up a hooker and had babbled something to her about spending the night. Why the fuck he would do something like that, Kirk didn't know. He did some crazy shit when he was drunk. And judging by the fuzzy feeling in his brain, it wasn't only booze he'd been doing last night. Maybe if it was a hooker, he could just pay her and be done with it. But how do you ask some chick you just slept with if she's a hooker? "Pardon me, whatever your name is, but are you a hooker?" That'd go over real well. And besides, why would Kirk have picked up a hooker when groupies were free? All this thinking was making his head hurt more.

Kirk felt the body behind him stir. Yes! Maybe she'd wake up, get her clothes, and leave without disturbing him. As long as Kirk kept still, kept his breathing even... fuck. Who was he kidding? She'd probably try to wake him with a kiss. Thankfully, though, the wriggling behind him stopped.

Eventually, Kirk decided, he was going to have to face the music. First step: remembering what the hell happened last night. The first memory his brain coughed up was of the stadium. Having to wait fucking forever for the Guns N' Roses guys to get out of the showers. Standing there, feeling sweaty and disgusting, listening to those fuckheads splashing and shouting and taking their sweet time. Lars wandering by, handing him a baggie... so that's where the fuzzy feeling came from. One mystery solved.

Finally, the Gunners filed out of the showers, ignoring him and his scowl completely... except for Axl, who had smirked at him and asked, "What's up your ass, Hammett?", and then whacked him with a towel.

"Fucker," Kirk had mumbled, taking hold of the doorknob that led to the locker room.

Axl laughed. "Oooh, strong language, there, Tinkerbell! Are you going to hit me with your magic wand?"

Kirk had felt his face reddening as he stepped into the locker room, the sound of Axl's laughter ringing in his ears.

Remembering Axl worsened Kirk's headache. He took a deep breath, tried to push his brain back to the locker room in the stadium. He remembered snorting the coke at the bathroom sink. Then an uneventful shower while he waited for the buzz to hit him. Then what? James wandering in. Asking if Kirk wanted to go out partying with him, Lars, Jase, and the GNR guys. He couldn't remember what he'd told James. Judging from his predicament at the moment, Kirk guessed he'd said yes.

Events after that were muddled, hazy, disjointed. Sitting in a circular booth between Lars and Duff. Duff's arm around him almost constantly, his slurred voice fading in and out, like a radio that wasn't quite on the frequency. Then... shit. Axl kicking him in the shin, giving him the finger from across the table when Kirk had glared at him. Then Axl's voice ringing out above the din. "Hey!" The chatter around the table had stopped as everyone leaned in to hear what Axl had to say. Axl's voice lowered to conspiratorial tones. "You guys see those stacked chicks over there?"

Lars glanced behind them to see, and then nudged Kirk, grinning.

"Yeah," James said. "Get on with it."

"They're checking us out. Who wants to go over there with me and pick 'em up?"

Grunts and laughter rang out around the table. Then James's growl. "Not my type, dude."

Axl had fixed Kirk with a piercing stare. "What about you, Hammett?"

Lars had jabbed Kirk in the side repeatedly. "Come on Kirk, when's the last time you got laid, man? Go on."

Kirk's head had started to swim as soon as he stood up to get out of the booth. There was a dangerous glint in Axl's eyes to go along with his ever-present smirk. "Well this is a surprise," Axl sneered when Kirk finally joined him beside their booth. "Thought you were a pussy."

So that was it. Kirk had picked up chicks with Axl (thanks to Lars's prodding), and must have fallen asleep right after he banged whatever chick it was he took back to his hotel room.

Kirk sighed. At least now the prospect of confronting whoever was in his bed didn't seem so daunting anymore. He wrapped his fingers around the wrist at his waist and tugged, finally opening his eyes.

Oh shit.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

The forearm Kirk held was tattooed with the familiar design of a cross decorated with five skulls. Kirk's thumb rested on the top- hatted skull. Kirk closed his eyes, opened them again. The tattoo didn't go away.

No fucking way. Kirk's pulse pounded in his ears. No fucking way he slept with Axl Rose.

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