1930s Gangster AU. After Watching Public Enemy
Gangsters are a dangerous breed.
She knows it well. And so, when she notices the man speaking so familiarly with the man in all of the papers hailed as Public Enemy No.1 looking at her intently, she quietly slips away when he is distracted. She takes her coat with sincere thanks to the woman taking coats from everyone, enjoys her surprise and leaves. Of course, it isn't that simple. She removes her coat and hat, hails a taxi and is glad she never uses her legal name in these establishments.
Once several days have passed in normalcy, or what passes for it these days, she deems it safe to collect some of her money from the bank that has been robbed weeks ago, and is therefore an unlikely target.
Unlikely, and yet, three men enter just as she leaves, with concealed weapons. One of them is John Delenger. Well. She counts her luck. And thinks that it won't hold for much longer.
She counts her money and knows it is only until the end of the year until she has enough to move to Australia. Half a world away awaits a new life.
She removes herself from public life with claims of a nasty cold. Her work allows her to do it at home and send it in with the new girl from downstairs who will do many things for a ten cents. Working girls, the both of them, and yet one still has aspirations of grandeur whereas she herself never did beyond the desire for a secluded mountain hut where no one would ever think to knock on her door. She almost has enough to move out of this city.
Soon.
It happens when she shops across from the police station. She doesn't usually. Here, the casinos and the banks, one is subjected to the most shoot outs.
However, only this shop sells the tobacco from France that she smokes. At a decent price, that is. She rolls them herself, and she has no use for the young man behind her attempting to garner her attention by commenting on the brand. Unfavourably, she might add. Certainly not the way to gain knowledge of her telephone number, or even her name.
John Delenger himself enters the shop. She recognises him instantly, as one does when one is observant. She promptly dismisses him with her eyes. She knows that he will think her attention was only secured by the chime of the doorbell at his entrance. She knows that he will notice her irritation with the young man. She knows that he will do nothing about it unless she begs him with her eyes and is willing to pay the price for his interference.
She pays for her tobacco instead. "Merci comme toujours, Monsieur Gerard."
He nods at her and with the package he hands her more papers for rolling. "Votre clientele est précieuse," the elderly gentleman replies.
She nods at him with a genuine smile and exits without acknowledging anyone further. Or attempts to.
"Hey, don't you know I was talking to you?"
She removes the grabbing hand on her arm with a twist of her wrist. "I noticed." She leaves a spluttering man behind, and ignores the curious eyes of John Delanger. She has made a mistake.
The next time she sees him is in a newspaper. He is being hunted by the police. Part of her feels pity. The other sighs in relief. He has other things to concern himself with. She knew this before, of course, but she cannot help but worry about some things when she must be so careful.
However, it is in front of her building that there happens a shootout during the night.
She has armed herself with her handgun. She waits, watching from the curtains with the lights out.
Surely enough, one of the gangsters escapes into her building. She positions herself by the door with her gun and a towel. She hears him on the stairs and hopes that, since hers is the first door, that he will move right past it. He does not. He pounds on it like a madman, which surely he is.
She steels herself, then yanks it open, and as he stumbles inside she flicks her wrist and whips his hand holding the gun with the towel harshly enough that he drops it as she cocks her gun.
"Fully inside, slow movements, keep your hands where I can see them."
The man does as told. She closes the door and thinks.
"I recommend taking the exit out the window to the next building, and the following."
He wets his lips and she realises that she's got the leader himself at gunpoint. Well, shit. "Thank you for the sound advice. Do I have permission to take my gun with me?" She lets him through. She doesn't care how he makes a living and he does like to pretend he cares for the poor. Fact of the matter is that he robs everyone, but that's equally true for bankers and traders and she doesn't look at them funny either.
"You have a spare," she states, a firm no.
He smirks at her, a devious little thing that has caught him the attention of many a young inexperienced thing with big hopes.
He goes, when all she does is raise a brow, to the window, brushes her curtains aside and slides it open. "Hey lady," he pauses with one leg outside, and just as he faces her, she tosses him the gun. He catches it, surprised.
"Watch your step on the tiles," she tells him, and with another smirk he's gone.
She sighs and readies her flat for when the coppers will undoubtedly come to search for him. Thankfully, she looks like the kind of meticulous person to only leave out the things that are currently in use. That, and she knows very well how to get policemen out of her hair.
"Why are you bringing me a message from John?" the young woman is beautiful, certainly. But very naïve in her suspicions. She should have not opened the door at all if she were truly cautious.
"I was asked to. You can surely tell it's authentic. I'll be on my way then."
"Wait! Why are you doing him favours? He's never mentioned you!"
"The nature of favours is that they are returned. The only thing your man knows about me is where I get my tobacco. The situation is delicate enough that he's asked me this favour. So treasure that letter. You never know when the next might come."
She has enough. She has bought herself a ticket to _, from where she will board a ship to Sydney. Farewell, Chicago, she thinks. And I didn't even need that favour.
Of course, things go differently.
Once more, she meets John Delenger. This time, at the docks, where she is just about to board the ship. He looks ill. Beneath his coat, she manages to catch a glimpse of wet material. He must be wounded. He is holding a ticket, like hers, but she doubts his has his real name on it.
Their eyes meet. He smiles, and walks towards her. She returns the smile for the sake of the charade. He moves in close for an embrace. "Pretend we're lovers, eloping together," he whispers into her ear.
"And why would I do that?" She whispers as she presses a kiss to his clammy cheek.
"I've got contacts where we're going. Could help set you up," he murmurs as they slowly move apart. His arm remains on her shoulders, and hers is still around his waist, where she takes some of his weight without making it seem so to outsiders.
"Hmm," she sighs. She doesn't have much of a choice.
His girl is not with him. And so, she assumes he has his own cabin. But he follows her to hers. As soon as the door falls shut behind them, she has him once more at gunpoint.
"Why have you followed me?"
"I wasn't. But your presence allowed me to get on unquestioned."
"So why follow me to my cabin?"
"I don't have one."
"Usually, when one owes a favour, one does not go about increasing the debt."
She treats his gunshot wounds. She leaves for a smoke. She sighs. Her luck truly has run out.
She has never felt so acutely the need to reject men's advances. But to even allow them to know her cabin's number would be to endanger both them and John. And her. She is under no illusions that he would be gentile towards her more than the men stupid enough to follow.
So, whenever she leaves her now shared cabin, she takes care not to appear too attractive. She knows well enough.
John comments on it one day, when she puts the lipstick down without making use of it. "I like it on you."
"So do others," she replies, and his face does the most funny little dance of surprised jealousy. "Have a nice day, dear," she says as she closes the door behind her. She does not imagine his huff of laughter following her out.
One day, she does not manage to shake the man off before reaching her cabin because his is a few doors down.
"Good night, Sir," she bids him and turns to unlock her door when he leans over her and drunkenly attempts to fumble.
She does not enjoy his hands on her hips and removes them before spinning around and drawing her switchblade disguised as a nail file. "I said," she repeats carefully, looking him dead in the eye, "Good night."
He buggers off.
When he's just out of earshot her cabin door opens of its own accord and she is drawn inside.
"We need to get you a ring," is what John says to her, instead of wishing her a good evening.
She laughs. "I can handle unwanted advances."
"Can you?" He asks, suddenly behind her and far too close. She is aware of his wounds, and so does not jab out her elbow to his solar plexus. All she does is suddenly invade his personal space and twist around, causing him to stumble as her shoulder pushes his chest away.
"There is no need to test me," she says, voice colder than it has been for weeks. She puts her switchblade down on the dresser deliberately. "And there is no need to antagonise me. Your boredom is understandable and I have been helping to alleviate it. However, this sort of behaviour is unappreciated."
He looks suddenly as though no one had ever spoken to him this way, and he is uncertain as how to deal with it.
"I have agreed to allow you to remain here, but make no mistake, John. I am not her."
He looks, suddenly, forlorn.
She will not ask what has happened between them, for she does not want to get herself further involved.
"Here," she says and finally puts the book she is borrowing from her favourite bartender on the dresser next to the blade. "It should keep you busy for two days. Good night."
It's in the morning, when the breakfast arrives that she notices his absence. And the switchblade is gone. She sighs.
Well. Perhaps he will no longer be her problem, then.
"Good morning, Steve," she says to the man bringing in the trolley.
"Morning, Madam. Had a long night?"
She smiles, "Yes, a bit. And you? Are you well?"
"In your presence, Madam, I could never be unwell."
"Flatterer," she smiles and takes the cup of coffee he pours her. "Be careful before I get any ideas."
"Knowing you, Madam, I would never think of them as bad," he smiles and winks at her.
She laughs and drinks her coffee. "You are too kind, Steve."
He leaves with a few more flirtations, and she smiles as she cuts into her breakfast.
"If you're that way with every young man you meet," his voice startles her as it comes from behind, "It's no wonder they follow you to your door."
She doesn't turn. He does not have the power to make her cease eating her breakfast. "Then you and I have very different ideas about what constitutes as young, John."
He steps to the other chair across from her, brushing so closely by her that she feels the fabric of his clothing against her arm. He is, slowly, making her more aware of himself. He is attempting to take possession of her.
She will not have it. She shows it by not commenting on his newly trimmed beard. She shows it by not forcing conversation, since he is not her guest, and she is not a host.
Once she has finished her breakfast, she pours herself another cup of coffee and scrutinises him. His pallor is far healthier than weeks ago. He looks once more crisp and well-cared-for.
She is of a mind to set him out in front of her door again, looking for a new owner.
Instead, she moves to the dresser and picks out her clothing for the day. She has long stopped caring for his presence as she selects her garters. That does not mean that she will change in front of him.
By the bathroom mirror, she finds her switchblade, neatly cleaned and set aside. She tucks it back into the strap of her stocking, where she always keeps it.
As she picks up her purse to get at her tobacco, he speaks again. "Why are you so indifferent?"
She turns to look at him, for this deserves the dignity of eye-contact. "What I desire has always been freedom, John. Don't pretend I would have it if I cared."
He rises then, mouth slightly parted, ready to argue, but no sound reaches her ears.
He stands there, staring. She cannot help but smile. How young he looks then, as if having encountered something before unseen. She goes back to sit at her formerly abandoned place at the table, so different from earlier when she was in her dressing gown and still soft from sleep. She rolls herself two cigarettes, slots them neatly into their holder, checks that she has her lighter, and finishes the coffee.
He doesn't seem to like it as much as her and so she is always the one to finish it off.
"I would like to accompany you today," he says as she stands.
She looks him over. He looks inconspicuous enough. Not recognisable as the dangerous man he is.
"Your wounds?"
"Well enough."
That's all she needs to know not to stop him. If he feels caged, and has even gone so far as to state his desire more akin to a plea, then she will not stop him.
She nods and makes for the door. Outside, as she locks it, she feels his eyes on her almost intimately. "Come, then," she says when he makes no move to follow her to her usual place to smoke.
He walks up to her almost leisurely, but she sees the stiffness in his gait. Her sharp look tells him she has noted it, and his returning one tells her that he will not hear a word of it.
They meander along the corridors slowly, without speaking. They have never felt the need for unnecessary commentary and will not in public.
Once outside, in a windstill corner of the deck, he watches as she lights her first cigarette of the day. She does not offer him the second. It would slow his healing process.
He seems not to have the same caution. "May I have a drag?"
She sighs. She is not his mother. She hands him her cigarette, half-smoked.
He looks then, more young than old, but ever so weary. Loved and lost describes this man very well, now that he has experienced the same.
"Where are you from?" the question surprises her. She's never been asked it before. She supposes that she will have to get used to it. She has no talent for accents beyond the ones she has learned in her childhoods.
She looks out at the sea. "From everywhere at once."
His laugh is pleasant as it curls into her ear. So pleasant in fact, that she adds, "There is no place like home."
He continues to express his mirth and her lips curl of their own accord to show a smile.
Dinner is a pleasant affair. They have requested and received a table for two, her rapport with the staff doing wonders for the service they are provided with.
They speak little, as is their custom, content to watch the other patrons, to listen to the music they play in the background. And, once the first bottle of wine has dwindled into stains on the inside of their glasses, they watch each other.
She thinks, less starkly than usual, that he is an exceedingly attractive young man. Quite dangerous. Her amusement at the thought shows, and his curiosity does in turn.
It is an unusual conversation they hold, with only expressions.
His frown is her cause to respond with raised brows. And his answer is to squint.
Desert is accompanied by the bemused waiter who has taken a shine to them and their strange interactions. She breaks eye contact with John to give the man a smile in thanks. He winks.
She laughs as she watches him go.
"Adeline," he says her name, a call for attention, and this once, she gives even as the smile fades from her lips. She realises that he has never before said her name. They never made introductions. They were unnecessary, then. Perhaps, she thinks, they are now.
They finish their dessert, and the second bottle in silence.
They stand to leave, and this time he offers her his arm. She is undecided for a long moment.
"John," she says, and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. Never before in this life has she done this. Allowed herself to be escorted in such a way. She laughs to herself, and steers them to the bar.
The bartender is the same, and he has her martini waiting for her when they sit.
"Evening Miss Joyce," he greets, smile as charming as ever, but she sees real warmth in his eyes. She returns it.
"Good evening Mister Springfield. How are you tonight?"
"Wonderful, now that you're here," he tells her sincerely.
She twitches her eyebrow. "You know I only come to speak with you."
And this makes him acknowledge John who has seated himself next to her, watching them talk closely. Springfield interprets the look as jealousy.
"And you, Sir? What will you have to drink with this wonderful lady?"
John sends him a knowing look. Then he returns his eyes to her as she waits patiently. She has nothing but time after all.
"Another martini."
The look she sends him is a bemused one. His answer is the raise of his brows. It makes her smile.
"What did you think of the Steppenwolf?" Springfield finally asks as he places the martini in front of John.
"Hopeless," she smiles as she says it.
And Springfield, because he has read it, understands. "The reality of a mind in flux."
She feels her face twist into something akin to sadness and slowly eases it back into something less personal. "Are we ever fixed?"
Springfield kindly ignores her lapse and laughs at her question. "In a moment?"
"And the next?"
He chuckles and moves a few steps away to prepare the drinks of a cluster of people who have decided that their evening is just beginning.
She lets them into the cabin, less steady on her feet than she is used to being and doesn't mind having to keep both herself and him steady as well. She puts him on the chaise.
He stretches out on it with a groan and kicks off his shoes. She laughs as she sits by the table to take off her own. He watches, drunk and tired.
When she returns from the bathroom, he barely acknowledges her as she brushes past him.
"Good night, John," she says and moves to the bedroom.
"Good night Adeline," he replies, sounding as though his mouth were already half-smothered by the pillow.
Her head hurts.
Finding the dressing gown, she gets up to open the door to Steve.
"Morning Madam," he greets her, voice considerately quiet.
"Hello, Steve," she replies, voice rough from sleep, feeling rather like she would do with a cigarette and crawl back into bed.
He goes so far as to set the table for two. "Thank you," she tells him quietly and he smiles.
"I really don't mind, Madam."
"You're kind," she tells him as he leaves.
He smiles at her with a shake of his head. They both ignore the prone man on the chaise.
He's at the table when she exits the bathroom. He looks terrible.
She doesn't speak. Her head is rid of most of the pounding ache. He glares at her balefully because he has without a doubt noticed her smirk. She brings the coffee to her mouth.
He wallows in his self-pity. She can see the impenetrable castle for what it is. She refuses to build her own. These things are made to be broken into, after all.
It's when he doesn't return from the bathroom for an hour that she wonders if perhaps he requires assistance. She knocks. Her answer is a pained groan.
She picks the lock with a sense of irony. She is breaking into a room occupied by the most notorious gangster of his generation.
His wounds look angry, red, some have re-opened. She plays nurse, ignoring the stench of vomit. She will remove all that once he's situated.
Once she has gotten him mostly clean, she decides that, just this once, he can have the bed.
"Going soft on me?" he rasps. The question irritates her slightly. She is not made of ice, and she has come to tolerate him. But then, she knows that this man cannot be trusted. However, she also knows that he is no more dangerous in the bed than on the chaise.
She pats his head patronisingly and leaves to smoke. If she is, it's because she's made her boundaries clear to this stray who is utilising her to get to where he wants.
What he does once they get off the ship is not her problem.
Her return is remarkable because the door almost hits hm in the face. As it is, she barely manages to catch his elbow. "Careful there, John," she murmurs and guides him back to the sofa.
He stares at her. She has gotten used to the intensity of his eyes, but the scrutiny is obvious. She never comments, and so she doesn't now.
"What are your plans for Sydney?" he asks, suddenly and without preamble.
"Anonymity and time to myself," she replies, noting carefully the slight disappointment and the lack of surprise. It is something of a conundrum, now that she has begun to care. She finds herself wanting to know his thoughts. And yet, as she would not lick a frozen lamp post, she will not ask.
"Do you have a place to get started already?"
This is dangerous territory and she feels no thrill. She meets his eyes over the rim of her glass of water and does not answer.
He huffs a little, wincing just noticeably to her sharp eyes and gives her the impression of a boy denied his wishes for reasons that seem entirely unreasonable to him. It should not be as charming as she finds it. But then, she thinks, this makes it easier to deny him knowledge.
She allows the smile to surface.
She returns to the room that night to find him nowhere. She suspects that either he has made himself scarce, or he has taken her earlier action of putting him to bed as permission.
In a slight impulse of irrationality, she doesn't check to see. Instead, she goes to the window and watches the black ocean glittering in the moonlight.
She has made it out of that town, that city, the country and yet she has not left behind the danger it presented. Through no fault of her own, she has put it in her pocket and to an extent, she finds it pretty. Like the steady ticking of a watch, this danger is predictable in its casing.
And yet, she knows that it is only within that box that she finds it charming. Chained to the inside of her coat. But the nature of danger is to break chains. It is free and cannot be confined without dulling.
No, soon there will be polish to renew and she desires to be far away from John when the time comes.
She spends half the night at that window before readying herself for bed. Indeed he has made himself comfortable there, on the side. She laughs softly before laying down, getting accustomed to the warmth of another body beside her. It has been a long time since she was this close to another vulnerable body. She watches the ceiling, listens to the faint motor of the ship and the powerful crash of the ocean.
Morning finds her strangely relaxed for the lack of sleep.
She glances at him before sitting up. He snores lightly and she thinks that this is a good act, if it is one.
Putting on the dressing gown, as every morning, she is careful to be silent as she closes the door and waits for breakfast. She notes that something has shifted within her.
She has accepted this man into her life, for a time, in the box that he is in. She must take care to never forget that it is a casing that she tolerates.
"Good morning, Steve," she tells him.
"It's looking up, now that I see you, Madam," he replies as he rolls in the cart.
She smiles at him, with a slightly sardonic tilt to her mouth. "Tricky customers?"
"Always," he says, and pauses as he is about to leave. He takes in her appearance.
She doesn't know what he sees, she doesn't ask, but she meets his eyes. He is young, Steve, almost still a boy. "Are you saving up for something, Steve?" she finds herself asking, wanting more for this young man than he has now. Thinking his escape should be more successful than hers.
He blinks, surprised. "I am."
She smiles. "I hope it's worth your while."
He nods, "Me, too."
He turns to leave, then. "Have a good day, Madam."
"And you make the best of yours," she replies.
He laughs. His expression seems lighter than she has seen it in a while. "I will."
There is a smile on her mouth as she softly closes the door. Another opens.
"Morning," John greets and goes to sit on his customary chair.
"Hello," she says and pours the coffee.
It seems they will not acknowledge that they have shared the bed. Just as well. She rolls three cigarettes then. A silent offer.
He goes to smoke with her.
They have dinner with less wine.
She is the only one to indulge in a martini.
He meets her at the door to the bedroom. She doesn't know what it means, but they lie down together once she's gotten ready to sleep. Their upper arms touch.
"Good night," she offers and arranges herself in a more comfortable position on her side, facing him.
"Good night, Adeline," he returns, amusement in his voice as he turns his head to look at her. There is a smile in his eyes.
She closes hers and drifts off to dreamless sleep.
The next day is a repeat of the one before.
Only that night, she is woken. By what, she is uncertain of at first, but then she hears a familiar keening noise again. He is having a nightmare.
Knowing better than to touch, she speaks to him. "John," she says urgently, louder than she would usually, but in a calming voice. "Don't worry. In this place, you are safe. You have left the city behind. You survived. Do you remember how we first met, John? You fled from the police through my apartment. You left them behind. It wasn't tricky to play the distressed young woman who had been woken by the gunshots."
The whine in his throat quiets, his hands roam the sheets. One finds her body and seeks out her fingers as his eyes flutter open. She does not find herself surprised at the widening of his eyes, the sadness she sees on his damp face. She squeezed his fingers.
"Sleep, John," she tells him, "You are as safe as you will ever be here."
He laughs softly, but does as told.
She wakes with the feeling of fingers between her own. She opens her eyes to see that John has sat up and his expression is pensive as he scrutinises their joined hands in his lap.
She puts her elbow beneath her, contemplating pulling her hand away, but deciding that the way he plays with her fingers isn't altogether unpleasant. Dangerous, she thinks.
"You have never lied to me," he says, still looking at their hands. "Except for last night."
She tilts her head in question.
"We met in the tobacco shop across from the police station," he tells her.
"We never spoke," she tells him, running her thumb across scarred knuckles, "In that shop."
He huffs, "A question of definition, then."
She nods and sits up, bringing her legs to where her torso was, so that she does not have to stretch her arm awkwardly, since his grip tightens on her fingers.
"But if it's the truth you want, John," she says, catching his eyes when they snap to her face, "Don't rely on me to give it to you."
He seems oddly unwilling as he untangles their fingers, but grasps her wrist loosely instead, smoothing out her palm with his other hand. "And yet you just gave it to me," he says in that low-pitched voice of his.
She laughs. "Then from this day forward, I expect you to take me at my word."
"Which one?" he asks, tone droll, "This now, or going forward?"
"Whichever suits you best," she shrugs, watching and feeling as he delicately traces her hand's life line.
He looks at her, then, eyes squinted, "Good morning, Adeline."
"Good morning, John," she says and gently takes her wrist back. He watches her slip on the dressing gown and disappear out of the room.
When they return to the room that night, readying themselves for bed, he watches her more closely than he does usually, intense stare growing heated.
She has no desire to acknowledge it.
She sleeps on her side, facing him, but not touching, although his eyes on her feel intimate enough.
Ever more dangerous.
She wonders, silently, why this young man would look at her the way he does. Not only mentally, but physically is she older than him, and the woman she gave the letter to looks nothing like her. She does not have the thick dark hair or deep brown eyes.
Her colouring is colder, especially her glacial blue eyes.
So it must be something different.
Perhaps it is the way she does not allow his whims if she does not like it. Perhaps it is because she is his only partner in conversation. Perhaps it is because she allows him closer, but no closer than she wants. Perhaps it is because he does not understand her, and a mystery has always been attractive, to a certain degree.