Bill's never been married before; he really has no idea what or where or when or how. But he is good at taking a large task and breaking it down into its fundamental pieces. Tucking the passports away safely, he juggles the packages and jewelled tiara and every other thing in the world, it seems.
"Let's... put these things away in our room, love, and find the courthouse, and then we can go from there. Right?" Everything here is so close, after all, and they're right here by the hotel. And so with arms full and a very bouncy and excited Fleur at his side, they deposit everything in their suite, where Bill does have the foresight to put enough protective charms on everything so that nothing might be taken in their absence.
"Courthouse." He pats his pocket: passports are there and a quick check tells him that he's still got paper money to spend on this, and the clock tells him they've more than an hour for paperwork, though he doubts it will take quite that long.
A quick taxi ride deposits them in front of the courthouse where things really do go like clockwork. He gets the impression that the clerk there could really care less about the legitimacy of the passports; she does this by rote and with a congratulations and good luck! hands them a brochure with chapel names and locations and hours, and a State of Nevada Marriage License ("not valid unless signed," the clerk reminds them).
Bill kisses Fleur as they leave the courthouse: this is one time when moving quickly feels perfect.
And why, he asks himself, should anybody mess about with perfection?
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2005-07-19 02:53 pm (UTC)"Let's... put these things away in our room, love, and find the courthouse, and then we can go from there. Right?" Everything here is so close, after all, and they're right here by the hotel. And so with arms full and a very bouncy and excited Fleur at his side, they deposit everything in their suite, where Bill does have the foresight to put enough protective charms on everything so that nothing might be taken in their absence.
"Courthouse." He pats his pocket: passports are there and a quick check tells him that he's still got paper money to spend on this, and the clock tells him they've more than an hour for paperwork, though he doubts it will take quite that long.
A quick taxi ride deposits them in front of the courthouse where things really do go like clockwork. He gets the impression that the clerk there could really care less about the legitimacy of the passports; she does this by rote and with a congratulations and good luck! hands them a brochure with chapel names and locations and hours, and a State of Nevada Marriage License ("not valid unless signed," the clerk reminds them).
Bill kisses Fleur as they leave the courthouse: this is one time when moving quickly feels perfect.
And why, he asks himself, should anybody mess about with perfection?