Author's Note: There seem to be a lack of Archy/Johnny fics in this fandom, so I thought I would take a stab at it. Just a warning for this particular chapter, it's the only chapter that's going to be in first person (that I've planned so far anyway), the rest will alternate between third-person limited of Johnny and Archy's POV, where appropriate. I know it's usually not recommended to alternate perspectives so much in a story, but I do hope you all don't mind. I just want to bring out the emotions I hope for readers to feel from each chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! This is my first story under this penname—I have another one that I have been using since 2003, but if you want to know more about the story behind that, please check in my profile, as I do not want to take up more space than necessary here.

By the way, I do appreciate constructive criticism as it helps me to create a better story to entertain you all with, so I would appreciate any feedback you can! This is also my first time writing such a long first-person...I usually avoid doing first-person POV because it's definitely not my forte, but I hope I did a decent job.

Disclaimer: None of the characters or the original plot of the film belongs to me, though if it did, there would have been actual slash going on between Archy and Johnny, as well as One-Two and Handsome Bob. There's a chance that some OCs will pop up in this fiction—if you recognize someone you don't recognize from the film, then it's more than likely of my creation—those I lay claim to, of course.

Warnings: Tone is going to be mostly bittersweet/borderline angsty, I suppose. There's slash here, so if you don't like it you should probably find another fanfic to read because this fic will be riddled with it. There may be a sex scene or two later on and all that, but we'll see how this pans out—I can't always seem to control my imagination. So just in case, that's why the rating is as it is, not to mention it's also that way to address how much language this fiction is going to be littered with, haha.

Prologue

People still ask the question.

What's a RocknRolla?

Well in case you've forgotten, I'll tell you again, though I don't much like repeating myself.

At this point though I guess I don't see too much harm in it. Things like that seem to be of less consequence as one gets older—or maybe it's because I'm closer to the finish than the starting line.

You might be wondering what I'm talking about.

Well, it's simple.

I've become a rather old bastard, as Johnny likes to put it; not in an insulting way of course, he knows better than to do that. Besides, he's got a few years on him himself; not that he's really learned a thing or two—still the same pain in the ass he's always been.

Johnny. Johnny Quid.

Lenny Cole's boy, or rather his ex's boy, as that good-for-nothing son of a bitch used to put it. Just as well, the old bastard doesn't deserve to be remembered as Johnny's father, or anything remotely relative. Johnny may have lived a screwed up life, but he's as bright as they come. He just had to have that sorry fucker for a stepfather and that's the only place he went wrong. So as you can see, none of it was his bloody fault to begin with, he just needed someone to push him the right direction. After all, my Johnny's bright. Unfortunately, fate had dealt him Lenny. Probably a mistake on fate's part, because Lenny's a terrible fucking card to have been dealt to anybody.

That's right, I just called him my Johnny-boy, and yes, that is what I mean.

I ain't got the mind to hide it. No one would dare challenge me anyhow, not while I've still got power in my backhand. The "Archy slap," as they call it. You might've 'eard of it.

Johnny and I have been together a long time—known each other even before the little bugger was old enough to warm my bed; an' no, I wasn't one of them perverted bastards that had 'is eyes on some jailbait, it just happened that way. Not that I really need to defend myself to the likes of you.

I've known Johnny since he was just a little brat, no older than about four or five, and even then he was a li'l devil. I was twenty-nine or thirty when I first met John; I had already been working with Lenny for years by then. The old prick had given me work and gotten me off the streets in my teens, of which I was quite grateful at the time. I used to respect the man, I regretfully admit, but back then Lenny wasn't going senile and his late wife hadn't passed yet, so things were still peachy.

I'll never understand what Johnny's poor mother saw in the bastard, or in Johnny's biological father, who was supposedly no better and left the open spot for Lenny to fill up in the first place. It was like a cliché from a bad gangster flick—she was way too sweet and much too kind and stuck with the likes of Lenny Cole. After she passed, poor Johnny didn't have a chance. I did the best I could to be everything for him that Lenny wasn't, but back then I couldn't completely stand up for Johnny because I was so fucking loyal to Lenny. If only I could have seen the future and known that he would feed me to the vultures later or that he would shoot Johnny, being the sorry, cowardly fucker he was. No, I had to be Lenny's loyal fucking lapdog, as Johnny used to call me, still sometimes calls me when he's try'na fight, without the expletive of course—that one's my variation.

He says he doesn't blame me for those times, says he admired that about me then, says he still does now, but it doesn't matter much because it doesn't change the fact that I had always failed Johnny and 'ave been try'na make up for it ever since. When I went and drowned Lenny it was more for Johnny than it had been for myself, though I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't feel even the slightest bit o' joy from it, and I even went so far as to fetch that blasted paintin' from that cheeky Russian—fuckin' annoying bastard, really. It wasn't enough to relieve him of one limb, he had to go and make me saw off two; and I do dislike complicated scenarios, especially when the solution is usually quite simple.

Then again, this only proves that no one is as smart as Johnny, though I'll admit I'll never quite understand his obsession with that painting, but so long as it keeps 'im happy then I could bloody care less about what fascinates him—it just can't be something that'll bring him harm. That I won't allow.

Now, where was I?

Bloody 'ell, I must be finally losin' it a little bit; never thought I'd say it, but I must be getting' a bit old to forget what it was I was sayin'. Once I start talkin' about Johnny I tend to get a little lost; I start forgetting which story I've told and which I've yet to tell—usually Johnny's the one runnin' 'is mouth, but right now he's sleepin' right next to me and I've been watchin' his peaceful expression for a couple o' hours now, reminicin' as I wait. It's 11:45 in the mornin', so he should be getting' up soon. No matter how early or how late he gets to bed he always manages to wake up at noon. It doesn't matter; in out line of work, and especially at our age, there's no real rush. I'm always up b'fore him, but I don't mind, I just occasionally run my fingers across his cheek and brush a strand of what's left of his hair outta 'is face, watchin' him. Gone is his rugged yet youthful appearance, and it reminds me I'm no prince charming anymore myself, which also reminds me that I'm twenty-five years older than Johnny, and much closer to the end of life's travels than he is.

In fact, these last few days I've been regrettin' not having trained another, younger man to be Johnny's right hand—not that Johnny's treated me less than a superior, but that's not the point. The point is, Johnny's never truly been on his own—even during that period o' time during Lenny's reign, Johnny may have been fine and did whatever the hell he wanted to, but that was because he knew I was always close by, if not right behind 'im. I say it's only lately where I've been thinkin' of this, but in actuality it's an old idea that's only recently resurfaced.

It's an argument Johnny and I had once, a long, long time ago. A fight I should've won, but didn't because I went against common sense and gave into Johnny—I was always givin' in to Johnny. The boy is more spoiled than he knows, or maybe he does know, after all my boy is sharp. In my defense, it has always been almost impossible for me to resist his pouty lips and childish reasoning—he didn't much take to the idea of having a "sibling" or "belong" to somebody else, not that it took much to convince me against either idea. I never did quite like sharing my things.

My sleepin' beauty stirs next to me as I press my lips to his forehead. Hah. Sleeping beauty? Years ago I would have found a way to slap m'self for sayin' that. Being with Johnny has turned me a romantic—gettin' old has made me a sap.

I can't help but smile a li'l as I watch Johnny roll over and press his backside against my chest, stretching his arms an' legs out forward before turning his head over his shoulder to look at me, all slow-like, eyes still half-closed and a lazy smile on 'is face.

"Well 'ello Archy," he says with that endearin' drawl of his.

I slide an arm under his head and the other around his waist, pressing him tighter against me as I take a brief glance at the clock before looking back down at him again. Twelve o'clock on the nose—he never strays from his pattern. I feel the corners of my lips twitch involuntarily. Johnny's chucklin'.

"Yer a chipper one this mornin', aren't yeh, Arch?"

"I suppose I am," I says. "Good mornin', John."

He's brushin' his lips lightly against my chin an' I'm lowerin' my head to capture his mouth with mine. My heart still will skip a beat when I'm with John like this, all intimate-like, though you can be sure I'll take a hit from a bullet before I admit that out loud, 'specially to Johnny of all people. As much as I am fond of 'im I would never let him have the satisfaction of such knowledge, knowledge of which he is sure to take to exaggerated proportions. Then again, maybe someday I will. Of course, he probably already knows—bloody brilliant, my Johnny.

Mm. There's that burn in my chest, I've felt it for the last few days now, but I haven't yet told Johnny. I don't want him to worry, that's my job.

"Say, you a'right, Arch?" There's confusion in those beautiful eyes. Bollocks. I wonder when I started losing my poise.

"I'm fine, Johnny," I tell him. He doesn't seem convinced.

"Well...all right then, Arch. If you says so."

He's decided to play along then. I move the arm around his waist and cup my hand around his cheek, stroking it softly as I press my lips gently against his forehead. That's a good boy, Johnny.

He's turnin' around to face me. He's eying me more carefully now, I can tell. He only gets that far away look when he's deeply concentrated or high, and I know it's not the latter because Johnny hasn't lit up in years; just the occasional cigarette since he turned twenty-six and rolled fresh out o' rehab. I remember how proud of 'im I was then and how happy I felt when he told me quietly in the car that he had done it for me just as much as if not more than for his own self. He told me that just out o' Turbo's earshot, he was drivin', and that was probably for the best at that time, 'specially sicne with Lenny gone I had more time to think about certain things and had begun to struggle with thoughts and emotions I thought had been developing. In reality, I knew most of those feelings had already been there for quite some time—maybe not the whole time, but at least since Johnny had left his teens and entered his twenties, just a few years into his pursuit of fame, women, drugs, and rock n' roll.

That reminds me, I've gotten rather far away from my initial point, haven't I? I apologize, that is rather unlike me—and would y'look at that, I've gone and apologized too. Will wonders never cease?

I'd better say what I want to say quickly, before I forget again or before Johnny-boy says somethin' himself, whichever comes first. From the looks o' it, looks like it's goin' to be the second, so let's get on with this quickly before that happens, eh?

Right. So what exactly does it mean to be a RocknRolla?

Contrary to what you may have 'eard or what you've probably been told, it's not about the drugs, booze, or the women—and it's not about the fame or the fortune either. We all like a taste of the high life.

Some, the prestige.

"Say, Arch..."

Damnit, and there he goes. Let's see if I can keep it together before he starts whinin' and all that. Now, where was I...right. The drugs.

Some live for the substances. Others are constantly on the prowl for a good wank, the glitz, or the fuckin' paparazzi try'na shove themselves up their asses. This was the life my Johnny had, but that's all nothing. No, a real RocknRolla, now that's different.

Why?

Because a real RocknRolla is beyond the little schoolboy dreams and is makin' a real fuckin' difference.

"Arrrchyyy..." Johnny is drawling out my name long and slow, the way he's always done when he wants my attention.

"What'cha thinkin' so hard about in there?"

Looks like I can't put him off any longer.

"Nothing," I says to him. He doesn't seem to buy it.

"If you say so."

"I do," I say, though I'm surprised he's not makin' much of a fuss today, he must be tired. Funny enough, so am I, I'm just now realizin'.

"Well," he says, stretching his body out a bit, but still looking at me. "You 'bout ready to get the day started? I was thinkin' of maybe payin' a visit to the Wild Bunch, shake them ol' timers in their boots a li'l bit. How 'bout it, eh, Arch?"

I can't help but 'ave a li'l chuckle at that. Same Johnny, no matter how old he gets. Same cheeky, lovable—

"I love you," I says to him suddenly. He's lookin' at me surprised, or maybe more like I've finally lost a marble or two, an' I can't blame him. Maybe I have.

"Loves yous too," he says to me. I can see the muscles on his face twitchin' a li'l here and there because he probably doesn't know what kind of expression to make. Can't say I'd know myself if this situation were reversed; we're not shy about things, but we don't have sudden bursting declarations either. Can't say I know what came over me just now anyways, just that I felt I needed to say it.

"Hey Arch, you feelin' a'right?" he's askin' much softer this time, meaning he's worried, so I'd better answer him proper and see to it that he doesn't.

"Right as rain, dove," I says to him.

"Archy..." He's not buyin' it, and of course he's not buyin' it. There's that awful pain in my chest again and I'm sure I'm doing a rather lousy job at seeming "fine."

He's got himself propped up a little now, eying me with all the concern of a flustered mother hen. Oh, for fuck's sake...

"Yeh tired, Arch?" he asks me. "Yeh look a bit wiped out, if I do says so m'self," he says. "Why don'y yeh try goin' back t'sleep? Maybe you'll feel better when yeh get up, an if not, we can bother them lot another day, eh, Arch? Whad'ya say?"

"I think I'm likin' that idea," I says to him. And it's the honest truth. I'm getting pretty tired, and the pain in my chest ain't disappearin'.

"A'right then," Johnny says. He's layin' back down, not takin' his eyes off me. "Y'go back to sleep then. I'll be waitin' fer ya right 'ere when you wake up, a'right, Arch?"

I nod at him. My eyes feel a bit heavy now. In fact, I feel like a ton o' fuckin' bricks is weighing me down, not to mention that burnin' feels like it's fuckin' burnin' through my chest...and I don't get why I'm so tired when I was fine but a minute ago—oh. Y'know when I think about it, I remember someone tellin' me once that there will come a time in your life where you'll just know, and you won't know why or how you know for sure, but that you'd understand when you get there. I think I may be havin' somethin' of a revelation, like I'm seein' my hands for the first time or somethin'. And Johnny. What about Johnny, then? I shoulda fuckin' done for 'im when I could 'ave so that I wouldn't feel regrets about it now.

"Archy...?" Johnny's voice sounds distant, like it's a thousand miles o' way, but that can't be right because he's right fuckin' here, so he must be whisperin'.

"I'm a'right, John," I says to him. "G'night, Johnny."

That takes the fuckin' wind out o' me, but that's a'right because I said it to 'im. I said what I needed to say to put his mind at rest, never mind the fact that Johnny's a bright one, fuckin' brilliant and all the rest...

Rest. Rest and reflect. I read that mantra on some memorial plaque once; I found it somewhere in nature in one o' the places where I took Johnny when he was still jus' a li'l tyke, an' though he's always been a li'l devil he wasn't always so difficult to manage. Back then it was easy to take him 'round places because Johnny's mum hadn't passed on yet and Johnny hadn't yet learned how to have a mouth from Lenny. Those words I found were engraved on some placard pasted on some park bench—y'know the kind where people dedicate some place in the memory of so and so, an' I'd be lyin' if I said I remember who it was for or how long the person had lived. All I can remember is them three words and how they made me feel; how I felt a little chill inside me that didn't feel one way or the other about it, bad or good. An' since I never knew how to feel about the words or knew what the author could've possibly meant—was it a play on words? Rest and reflect on the bench? A message to the deceased? I don't know. All I know is that those words 'ave stayed with me ever since and I'd done forgot about them until now. Seems appropriate though, I'll admit.

Rest and reflect.

Still don't know if I really understand it's meanin', though I think maybe now I could probably take more of a guess at it. Maybe I should've asked Johnny—cheeky brat always did love him some riddles.

"G'night, Uncle Arch." Johnny's voice is a distraction from my thoughts.

Uncle Arch. He hasn't called me that in quite some time. I've missed it. I'm glad to hear it again.

Now he's gone and pressed his lips to mine and tellin' me to stop dallying and get me some o' that good ol' shut-eye.

I'm sorry, John. I don't want to tear my eyes away, but I can't seem to keep my eyes open any longer and that pain in my chest is gettin' to be quite unbearable.

"I'll be right 'ere waitin' fer ya when yeh get up," he says. "I promise." I know.

Goodbye, Johnny. Take care o' yourself.

A/N: So what did you guys think? Good, I hope? Not quite sure how long or short this fic is going to be, but it was an idea that struck me a couple of days ago and caused a series of daydreams vivid enough that I could write it all down.

The idea was actually inspired by the bench scene, which was a real description—I actually did find a dedication plaque on some park bench on one of my walks. I've been walking around this one park for exercise recently and I've always been meaning to read the plaque on this one park bench, but I either always forget or there's always someone sitting there so I didn't get the chance to read it until earlier this week. Anyway, after I read it the words "rest and reflect," which was at the very bottom of the dedication, just kind of stayed with me and this entire fanfic just kind of formulated from there, which is kind of funny because I had actually been looking for inspiration to write an X-Men: First Class fanfic, but for some reason the idea seemed more appropriate for this fandom.

Anyways, I'm going to stop rambling here before my ranting and raving gets to be as long as this chapter itself, and I must say this is probably the longest prologue I've ever written in my life, almost a good six pages, and it was even more than that before I typed it out because I didn't have access to a computer right away and I had spent all day yesterday handwriting the whole thing. But yes, I hope to see you all soon next chapter, and I hope you all enjoyed reading this. The ideas area all ready, I just need to write them down quickly before I lose all the clear images in my mind, so wish me luck!