Watched 'Gangster Squad' again and, well, when you ship your OTP this hard, everything spawns an AU. I finally got a chance to use some 1920s slang, which I'm in love with, but I tried not to overdo it too much while still giving it a era-appropriate feel. Glossary is at the bottom and listed in order of appearance.
Cross-posted from AO3 to here on time.
"You ever seen the Boss's moll?" Phil asked, grimacing as he laid down a pair of threes.
"Nah, but I hear the broad's a bearcat," Sal replied, smirking as he turned over a full set of Queens.
"I hear she ain't a bird at all," Dimmock replied back, flipping a full house and grinning when his two poker companions groaned. He was scraping the dough from the short table when a new voice spoke up behind them.
"You goons best be careful." THe three of them startled, standing and turning so quickly that their chairs toppled as they whipped out their pistols. "Watson hears you taken about his moll and the only thing you'll be trading out those nice jackets for a Chicago overcoat."
The speaker was grey-haired, but oddly young, and had a pistol and a badge clipped to his belt. It wasn't uncommon to see some bull loitering around the Big Shot's joint, 'specially if they were on the payroll, but none of them had seen this one before. Dimmock shot his partners a look and tentatively lowered his gun, but didn't put it away.
"And who are you?" Sal asked, his dark mitt curling tight around the grip of his gun and his finger playing footsie with the trigger.
"Name's Lestrade. Just here to see some old friends," the stranger replied easily, posture relaxed.
Dimmock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Yeah? Who?"
"Me." The fifth voice made the three poker players jump and whirl again, guns raised, only to drop them a second later, this time to the ground.
"Boss!" Phil exclaimed, looking like he was about to drop to his knees and start kissing the well-made shoes. Sal and Dimmock felt inclined to do the same, but all three of them held their ground, even if the ground was shaking a bit. They'd all met their boss once, as every goon should to know who they were working for, and they'd all heard the rumours about what the man could do more times than they could count.
Watson was a short man, stocky, light-haired, kind-faced. Didn't look like he could hurt a fly. Some say that was how he got so high in the game so fast- easy to underestimate a man your sister could take home to your father. People who slighted his appearance or tried to play him for a fool went out quick and easy. And then there was his moll. The other reason people underestimated the gangster. Thought he was going soft or mental, thought he was weak.
Watson's moll was a full head taller than he was, dark haired and pale skinned, dolled up like a flapper, and nearly draped over the shorter man's shoulder. A pinstripe-suited arm was wrapped tightly around a sequined waist and a tanned hand was curled possessively around one belted hip. All that was the norm. What wasn't was that, on closer look, the boss's moll wasn't a broad at all, the cross-dressing man's exotic face leading the way the dress's deception had started.
Blue eyes watched them all patiently as grey eyes narrowed, running down and up first Phil, who was closest to the pair, then Sal, then Dimmock. Then the moll- could he still be called a 'moll' if he wasn't a she?- ducked his dark head down to the boss's ear, whispering low and fast. Slowly, something in the tanned and weathered face eased from an odd tension none of the three men had even realised was there.
"That so, Baby?" Watson asked, pulling the dress-clad man at his side flush to his chest. The moll lifted a long fingered hand and rested it against the shorter man's shoulder, lips quirked in an odd little smile.
"Absolutely, Daddy," he murmured in sultry reply as he leaned down to brush dark red lips against the boss's. Even if they hadn't been able to take a closer look at the moll and discovered her- his- true gender, then the voice would have done all the work, a deep smoky tone well-suited for slow songs in a juice joint.
The boss hummed as he pulled the taller man inappropriately close as the soft kiss deepened into something uncomfortably intimate. And then the boss backed his partner into the wall as the necking turned rough, and the faces of all three poker players turned bright red. A second later, right when hands started moving down bared gams, a throat was cleared behind them and they jumped, having completely forgotten about Lestrade.
The boss pulled back slowly, lingering, leering as his moll's cheeks flushed slightly. Not that the moll seemed to be complaining.
"My apologies," Watson said insincerely. "When my Sherlock deduces things to me, I can't help myself." Behind them, Lestrade snorted and then brushed past the poker players.
"Bank's closed, you two," the grey-haired copper reprimanded with a fatherly sternness. "Once you get started, it takes forever to get you to stop."
"Mmm, you wouldn't either if you had sweetheart like mine," the boss said as Lestrade stepped up next to him. "His brother's still quite lonely, you know. We're not suggesting manacles, just a blind date."
"I'll consider it," Lestrade laughed as he and the boss turned towards the stairs, the moll, Sherlock, leading the way. Though Watson's hand on his arse implied he may be in front merely for the boss's viewing pleasure.
"Wait!" Phil cried out hastily, throwing out a hand. As one, all three men turned to look at him, all with a raised eyebrow, and Sal and Dimmock turned to him with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, I mean- I meant," Phil stuttered, dropping his hand back to his side.
"What did you mean then, lad?" Watson asked, kind voice still sending shivers down Phil's spine.
"Does that mean- I mean- Your moll- er" Sal and Dimmock were frantically shaking their heads, and bright blue eyes were narrowing at him, making sweat break out over his brow. "Is this really a safe place for people like you?" Now grey and brown eyes narrowed at him and Watson took a step back down the stairs. "I mean-! People like- like u-us?" he stuttered out, his hand shaking as he made an abortive move to reach out to Sal.
Sal shook his head minisculely as the boss's eyes turned to him. Phil shot his secret lover a pleading look, and hesitantly, the man stepped closer. It probably wasn't enough that they were queers, but the fact that Sal was a negro was a double strike against them both. Cautiously though, he linked his fingers with Sal's, his lover's body tight with nerves against his.
The moll was still narrowing his eyes at them as he slid his arms around the boss's shoulders, draping them over the shorter man's chest in a blatant gesture of possession. Without looking, Watson lifted a hand to cup his sweetheart's pale cheek and guided lipsticked lips to his neck, both of them maintaining eye contact with Phil. It felt like some odd test, like they were waiting to see how disgusted he got by the sight of one man kissing on another. So he held his ground and he held his gaze and he tightened his grip on his own lover.
Finally, the moll pulled away, leaving a dark hickey and a faint ring from his lipstick. The boss's eyes had gotten darker and the copper's expression had turned exasperated.
"Yes," Watson finally said. "It is a safe place for our kind."
"Okay, beat it you three," Lestrade finally said. "And you two, what'd I say? Bank's closed. Go," he demanded, waving his hands.
Now it was Phil's turn to go eyes-wide at hearing someone give their boss a command. But Watson didn't seem to mind.
"You heard the copper, Baby," the shorter man said, turning his moll and himself back up the stairs. "Get a move on," he instructed, delivering a sharp smack to the dress-covered bottom.
"As long as you deliver on that promise later, Daddy," the moll returned, throwing a coy look over his shoulder as his heel clicked on the stairs.
"Anything you want, Baby," Watson agreed, disappearing around the corner at the top.
Lestrade dropped his face into his hand, and Dimmock could have sworn he heard the man mutter, "God help me," before he followed.
As soon as the copper was out of sight, Sal, Phil, and Dimmock all sank to their chairs.
"I thought the boss was gonna bump you off!" Dimmock exclaimed breathily, scrubbing a hand over his face. After a moment, he looked up at both Sal and Phil, who hadn't let go of one another yet. "So, is it true. You two're the real McCoy?"
The two exchanged cautious looks.
"Yes."
Dimmock stared at them for another long minute, tension ramping higher the longer he looked. Then: "Okay then. Phil, you lost last round. You're turn to deal."
Phil and Sal exhaled breathy laughs as they nodded.
"Yeah," Phil replied as he gathered up the cards. "Fair enough."
FIN
moll: a gangster's girlfriend
broad: girl
bearcat: hot-blooded/fiery girl
goon: thug
Chicago overcoat: coffin
bull: plainclothes police officer
mitt: hand
Baby: sweetheart, term of endearment indicating high value and respect
Daddy: a young woman's rich boyfriend
juice joint: speakeasy (secret clubs that sold liquor during the prohibition [American period when liquor was illegal])
necking: making out
gams: legs
bank's closed: no more kissing
manacles: wedding rings
real Mccoy: genuine article
Due to FFN's terrible link-restriction (which is again making me reconsider staying an active poster on this site), please visit my AO3 posting of this story for reference links for the slang.
This turned out so much different than I'd expected. There's likely to be a sequel at some point. Or a prequel. Something more from the verse, in any case. But for now, back to the regularly scheduled WIP shota Sherlock. It's nearly done, I promise.
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