SHUT UP AND DANCE
moonlustre
Prompt: "Dance with me!"
The Garrison was a cacophony of noise, laughter and music, and had been since the late hours of the afternoon, though the thick Birmingham smog made it easy to confuse teatime for evening, and a slight drizzle had begun to lap at the soot-dusted streets to give the city an even darker, sombre, melancholic visage. You'd arrived after the affair had gone into full swing, an old piano stuffed lazily into the corner as its poorly-played tunes riled patrons up to a frenzied, drunken dance, none of them caring when their beers sloshed against rim of their mugs too high, amber liquid splashing against the grubby hardwood floor. Polly had muttered a line that you didn't catch, but Ada, her gloved arm laced around yours, giggled before shouting for Harry to fetch the three of you a drink.
While Polly quickly vanished into the crowd, most likely to locate her second eldest nephew, you and Ada had remained near the door, leaning against the least stickiest pillar in the pub as you nursed a large glass of Irish whiskey—or in Ada's case, a flute of champagne and a cigarette—and you both watched the scene before you like the pictures at Penny Crush Cinema.
It wasn't long before Ada was on her third glass, divulging her love affair with Freddie Thorne to you, a fact (as her best friend) you were already aware of. But the brunette had quite the habit of expelling extreme details about the things she and the communist did in his bed, quietly but confidently, and you merely nodded, pretending you were talking about politics so as to not arise the attention of any of her brothers. But one such brother had already caught yours, and you'd started only half listening to what Ada was saying as you eyed the third eldest Shelby, flat cap tilted over his face and a toothpick set between a grin like always.
John's laughter penetrated your ears like a knife, sending a wave of heat across your palms as you watched on, the boy happily thumping his older brother, Arthur, on the shoulder in jest before chugging back the remainder of his beer. A dark grey suit jacket clenched at his figure, tight around his upper arms as he raised them, hailing the bartender over to demand a refill, revealing a golden pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat, and you forced a large gulp of whiskey down your throat to quell the oncoming desert that was quickly expanding across your tongue and throat.
You'd become completely fixed on him, so much so that Ada's voice was a distant memory. Until he noticed you staring and you were ripped from your delight, a heavy shade of red blooming over your nose and cheeks. Another, even larger sip left your glass empty.
"Will you just bloody talk to 'im already?" Ada commanded, clearly annoyed—though whether it was because you'd stopped listening to her long ago, or if it was because of your unrelenting pining, you weren't sure. But your diverted ogling had ensured that you missed a particular scene within this picture, of Arthur's teasing as he patted his brother on the back, glancing at you as he mouthed words you would've wished you'd heard.
Instead, you plucked the half-empty bottle of whiskey from your table, reading over the label for no reason beyond avoiding Ada's question before your glass was finally refilled, amber liquid pleasantly sparkling like the King's crown itself in the light of the pub.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about," you mumbled, raising the glass to your lips once again. The music had begun to change to an even livelier tune, if that was at all possible, though it remained to be played badly, perhaps even worse than before, as the 'pianist' swigged on his forever-full mug of rum.
"Of course you don't." Ada said wryly and cocked her head, her chocolate brown bob pooling onto her shoulder as she did. "Do you think I'm bloody stupid? You've been eyein' up my brother all night!" Truthfully, you were surprised she'd noticed, so engrossed in her own conversation topic she was, it was a shock she cared about anything else. But, as much as she hated to admit it, Ada was a Shelby, and she seemed to always have her eye on prize when it mattered to her.
You slowly spun on your heels, turning your back on the centre of the pub to lean on the table, immediately regretting putting your elbows on its sticky surface but too stubborn to move. The new position forced the hem of your lace dress upwards ever so slightly, to your knees, but apparently enough to make a few patrons notice, though you'd failed to pick up on it, and you looked up at Ada, pokerfaced.
"Which brother, Ada?" You jested, a cheeky kind of smile making your eyes glisten.
Ada's own eyes rolled and she took another drag of her cigarette, knocking away loose ash into the crystal tray atop the table you'd leant on. "Well it's not going to be fuckin' Arthur, is it?" She quipped.
You rocked your head back to laugh. It's not that Arthur wasn't a handsome man, but you'd made it crystal clear in the past that he, though somewhat charming and almost suave, was far from the man of your dreams. "I don't know, he could have a massive—" You'd placed your glass down to emphasise a certain size with your hands, far enough apart for the gap to cross the expanse of your chest, one brow raised in a childish joy.
"For all that is holy, you will not finish that fucking sentence." Ada snapped before licking her lips, and she shifted uncomfortably across her feet in an attempt to remove the image of Arthur from the forefront of her thoughts.
In an attempt to change to a different topic, Ada directed her displeasure back to the original subject, and an amused smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth. She motioned her head towards her new line of fire. It was enough to spark your interest, she didn't even need to speak, and you curved your head round to see John gaping at your bent over posture. It was an automatic reaction to swerve yourself upwards, to stand up straight like your mother had taught you, a hot torrent of bashfulness colliding into your conscience that made you want to leave the pub there and then.
Ada simply gave a smug sort of smile. "Still don't know what I'm talking about?" She teased. You had no qualms polishing off your untouched refill in two threaded gulps and quickly pouring yourself another, grumbling a "fuck you," quiet enough that Ada couldn't hear. "You know 'e feels the same. You've known each other since primary school; I don't know what this embarrassment is all about!"
You sighed heavily, refusing to respond, and the conversation fell to silence as you resumed your initial position, your shoulders melded to the least sticky pillar in the pub, and you watched John from a distance, who'd grown significantly drunker in the small slice of time since you'd caught him ogling your skirts. Arthur had disappeared, replaced by a much more sober Thomas, a cigar wedged between his teeth as he watched his brother join in on the dancing (which hadn't waned at all during your conversation with Ada), clumsily tripping over his own feet as he attempted to locate a nonexistent rhythm, before falling back onto his barstool, chugging on more beer, and repeating the process.
After one too many times collapsing back into his seat, John violently kicked the bar and spurted out some form of profanity that would've made your mother quiver. "Look, you ought to get over this shyness. You used to dance; why don't you go over there?" For the first time since you'd arrived, Ada's words were warm, with a complete lack of silent judgement or attitude. A little bit of sober Ada was starting to come through. Meanwhile, the stability of your own consciousness was beginning to falter. Fuck it. You couldn't deny you were a least adequate at dancing, and if anything it might force Ada to drop the topic for the remainder of your lifetime.
The crystal whiskey glass slammed against the table, now empty as you'd poured its remaining contents down your throat, and with a cheery "good luck," from your friend, you stepped across the pub, your stride relentless and strong. As you approached John and his band of Blinders, he began to shift, a sudden jerk into action as he straightened himself out on the barstool, needlessly readjusting his cap. Tommy whispered something in his ear before nodding at you.
Your name was sweet on John's lips as he spoke, desperately attempting to sound coherent enough to pull together a working sentence, but all he could muster was a greeting and the repetition of your name. You smiled, pinching on the fabric of your dress to keep your courage in tow.
"What can we do you for?" Tommy questioned, having to shout over the music which was much louder on this side of the pub, the men having started to sing though the tune resembled the sound of dying cats more than a chorus of Harry's regulars.
You cleared your throat, a sudden excess of blood pumping through your ears making you lightheaded and you felt yourself sway for a quick moment, catching yourself before Tommy or anyone else had to. "I came to ask John a question."
"Well then ask, but do be quick about it, I don't know how much he's got left in 'im." Tommy turned to order another round, leaving you 'alone' with his brother, and you found yourself leaning closer to the third youngest Shelby as you congealed together every ounce of courage you had within you.
"Will you... will you dance with me, John?" You asked, too quietly as John retorted with a loud and obnoxious "what?" as he shifted in his seat, almost falling off in the process.
You would've put a gypsy curse on the entire pub if you could, you weren't sure if you had the guts to repeat your question, and it was only thanks to a quick glance to Ada as she grinned at you, her face positively beaming as she watched you, that a sudden spark lit in the pit of your stomach. You lifted your hands to tug on John's arm, somehow gathering the strength to lift him from his seat, and shouted. "Dance with me!"
John struggled to remember his weight as he was removed from the barstool, launching himself towards you while you laced your fingers with his, and his face was inches from yours by the time he'd found his feet again. Your breath had hitched itself in your throat he was so close, but you managed to keep yourself steady as you began to move, John slowly starting to follow your—if not slightly swaying—lead, stepping to a rhythm neither of you could hear. Don't hold back.
With his face so close and so clear, you could see the light freckles scattered across his skin, illuminated in The Garrison's light, and you would've tried counting them if you weren't so abuzz. Between his place at the bar and his place on the floor, John's hat had been swiped off his head by Tommy, revealing soft strands of brown, groomed neatly beyond a few strands lead awry by his antics. As though nervous, he pursed his lips, pink and smooth like silk, a healing cut in the left corner, a cut you'd tended to only several days ago. Unlike Ada, you'd actually passed the nurse's class at the church (and though you'd deny it, it was your fault she was thrown out for giggling), and quietly started the healing process as John boasted that his opponent had received far worse.
You were patient with the boy; he was no dancer, but your sweet words of encouragement pushed him to try harder, and the world fell into slow motion as the two of you spun across the room, bumping into tables and knocking over beers. It was a surprise when he slipped out of your grip to press his palms to your waist and lift you up into the air, a sharp intake of breath entering your lungs to steady the newfound dizziness that invaded your brain, and a tight knot formed in your core. You were far from quick to recover as your feet found the ground and you tumbled into John's embrace, your palms against his chest to keep yourself steady.
At first you thought you'd lost all your senses when the music slowed to a far from beautiful pause, and it wasn't until you craned your neck to see the musician falling asleep into his empty pint glass, and the pub roared with a din guffawing, the clinking of drinks ending the recital with a crescendo.
John couldn't keep himself from stifling a cackle until his eyes landed on you again. You couldn't find the words to speak, your lips simply left ajar as cool air blew through the doors of the pub as it started to empty, staggering men pooling onto Garrison Lane and into the night until it was just you and the Shelby's, John's arms still locked around you. His blue eyes swirled with thoughts and emotions you couldn't read and in truth that frustrated you. With a flutter of your eyelids, you felt yourself lean closer, the bridge between your tingling lips compressing, steady, hot breaths against your cheeks. Your hands climbed from his shoulders to the base of his neck, your thumb gently caressing the edge of his jaw. A mere inch away, the tether of your stare broke with a snap when your head fell to rest on John's shoulder as the world started to spin, and it took everything you had to hold down your liquor. So close.
A warm hand found the top of your back and gingerly rubbed. "Alright, I think it's time to go 'ome." Your vision started to blur but the voice was Polly's, mothering and tender as she gently tore you from John's grip. "Come on, Ada—you too."
You grinned widely at the sound of Ada's giggling. "Aunt Pol, I can take 'er 'ome." With a struggling balance, John spun on the balls of his feet, attempting to straighten himself out to appear more sober than he truly was.
"No you bloody won't, you can 'ardly walk, yourself. Tommy, make sure your brother doesn't do anything stupid." Tommy merely blinked slowly as a cigarette rose to his lips. John pursed his lips after leaning against the bar, placing his cap back on his head and lighting a cigar.
Polly guided you and Ada out into the streets, the path damp and cold beneath your heeled feet, The Garrison's warmth thrown off your skin like a blanket. The Birmingham air had cooled and the rain had ceased, and your never-leaving smile only widened as John's muffled laughter reverberated on the wind, and you found yourself wondering what was said back inside to make him bark with such glee. Polly leaned down as the three of you walked away into the night, brunette curls bouncing against your cheek with every step, a happy and songful tune in her words. "Less whiskey next time, love. Per'aps then I won't have to interfere."
My first time writing a Blinders fic! There's not enough John appreciation, like anywhere. I want to change that. I purposely left this so that I could maybe write a second part. If you'd like to see that, feel free to drop a comment here or on my tumblr at moonlustre.