Disclaimer-- The movie, musical, and characters belong to their respective powers that be. I just borrow them.

A/N-- This began as an experiment of sorts to see if it was possibly to write a Chicago slash fic in which nobody has graphic sex with Roxie. She does feature, briefly and indirectly, but the main pairing in this case is between Liz (or "pop," if you prefer the Cell Block Tango method of identification) and the hunyak ("uh-uh"). I'd like to think it's not as odd as it sounds, but I'll leave that for the readers to judge.

*

For newcomers, Mama wasn't too difficult to get along with, provided you went about it right. Money always talked, but if you came in without much to trade you had to know how to pique her interest--that was the only tough part. If you missed your mark, the most you'd get from the wardress was a knowing laugh and a pat on the head. If you knew which cards to play, though, you mostly had it okay. To start, anyway.

Liz had wised up to these things right from the start. She wasn't all that pretty, but she'd always believed she could talk her way in and out of anything. So far, there had never any reason for her to doubt it, and the jail provided no exceptions.

And that was how it started. Like most of the girls, she'd slip Mama a few bucks for cigs or stockings, but it was only Liz who was taken back to the office to work out the finer points of their negotiations. The deal wasn't half-bad; she got a few phone calls out of it, buying another juror for the appeal. If things kept up, she was sure she could get a little more before running out of luck or money. She'd always been good at talking.

But when she started getting nothing more than a slap on the thigh along with her cigarettes, the actions spoke louder than anything. Tough as nails with a tongue like a whip, and there wasn't a damn thing she could say when Velma Kelly, smug as a Persian cat, went sauntering into Mama's office.

It wasn't unexpected. Velma stirred things up wherever she went, any newspaper could attest to that. Her behavior hadn't faltered for a second, even when she first came to murderer's row. Annie was the one who had announced it.

"Hey," she'd said, traipsing into the dining hall after an interview, tossing her halo of hair and smirking unctuously. "Guess who I saw coming in?" She'd paused for emphasis until even the hunyak, who didn't understand a word, was leaning forward in anticipation. "Velma fucking Kelly."

Liz had gone on her guard right away, not for an instant allowing herself to be starstruck or intimidated. The famous Velma Kelly be damned, all that mattered was keeping the new murderess from somehow undermining her. She'd seen it happen too many times to believe such a thing might be avoided.

And she was right. In spite of her watchfulness, it happened anyway. After a week of slaps and cigs and biting back curses, there was no denying matters.

She'd spent the last several evenings sneering through the bars of her cell, simultaneously listening and trying not to listen as the office doors opened and closed before Velma was let back into her own cell for the night. Thankfully, Liz was usually asleep by then.

The one night she was still awake had proven the clincher. Nothing all that special was happening, just Mama putting the bitch into her cell. The two of them were talking, voices too low for any words to be distinguished. Liz was pretty sure she wouldn't have minded it so much if they hadn't laughed together about something. It was the last straw, not that there'd been that many straws to begin with, and the memory of that velvety laughter kept Liz awake a good two more hours. She eventually fell asleep with her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists.

She caught Velma by the mirrors the next morning, propping one long leg up on a sink as she tugged up a stocking.

Liz marched over, her frown deepening when Velma's smooth black eyes didn't so much as flicker in her direction. "Mama'll get bored with you," she burst out, not caring how childish she sounded. "Just wait. It always happens. To everyone."

Velma arched an eyebrow and barely glanced at the smaller women before saying dismissively, "I'm not like everyone." 

"You ain't?," Liz snorted derisively, annoyed at the her target's indifference. "What, you think she'll keep you on forever? Maybe you'll go on a little longer, being the famous Velma Kelly, but that's all."

Velma looked amused. "Yeah? Well, don't think that means she'll want you back." She assumed an expression of mock seriousness. "You'd have better luck with the hunyak."

"Least I'm more than the fuck of the week. Anything'll last longer than you will."

The dancer finished with her stockings and turned from the sink with a defiant pivot that sent the ugly gray prison dress flaring around her knees. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you know so much more about it than me."

"Yeah, actually, I do," snapped Liz. "And you know what? You can't keep up this sort of favor forever."

"Shut your goddamn mouth."

Liz laughed raucously and calmly began fixing her hair. "Got you worried, haven't I?"

There was a long, deliberate silence, and then Velma's face was at her shoulder. "Worried? Oh, no."

Liz sniffed and pointedly avoided her gaze in the mirror.

"So," Velma purred. "Do you really think you've got a better chance with the hunyak than I've got with Mama?"

Involuntarily, Liz's lip curled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Velma's smile widen.

"I don't think you do," Velma continued, voice lowered complacently. "Not that it's any surprise. Everyone on the row says you're all talk."

Liz stifled another sneer and contemplated spearing a hairpin through one of those gleaming eyes.

"So does Mama."

Correction. This was the last straw. "Bitch."

"Not me, sweetie."

"You don't think I was serious?" She spun around and practically spat the words in her opponent's face. "C'mon, then, name the stakes."

Liz wasn't sure, but she thought she saw Velma's eyes widen slightly before the other woman assumed a bored expression. "You don't have the money to make it interesting."

"How's this, then? You do my laundry for free until one of us gets out. And," she added, when Velma snickered, "you pay for my cigarettes. Oh, and magazines, too. I go through 'em like mad, and I can't keep spending like that if I want to get off."

Velma tossed her an infuriating little smile. "­You're on. Just keep in mind I like Cosmopolitan and my kimonos need to be hand washed."