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beingalive1 · 7 months ago

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Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 2

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Part 1: Here

Summary: Coerced by Harry Crosby to sing at Captain Dye's 25th mission celebration, Batya spends her evening crooning on stage. Her dulcet tones enchanting everyone around her. Finally calling it a night Batya runs into someone unexpected as she breaks for the door, her toe almost breaking in the process...At least her attacker sounds rather guilty.

Author's Note: Ok so I sad a couple of days - I lied. I'm a woman obsessed so here is another chapter! Hope you enjoy x

September 20th, 1943

The evening had come too quickly. Frozen fingers gripping the singular telephone belonging to the entirety of the female officer dorms – manicured red fingernails shining as she gripped the cord with a newfound sense of cold. Even inside the confines of her dorm she couldn’t feel her ears, the scarf tightly wrapped around her face doing nothing to quell the icy breeze of the English air. Nights like these made her miss New York and her apartment’s central heating.

Her father’s voice transcended through the earpiece; it was too late to be listening to such loud exclamations. How stupid she was for leaving home and joining the war effort. How disappointed he was. How the Rabbi was no longer joining them for breaking of the fast on Yom Kippur due to her terrible behaviour. How he would most definitely have to build a second structural addition to the synagogue in order to make up for such a blunder. He briefly had mentioned her mother: how her mama had not stopped crying in multiple rooms of their apartment staining his new white fringe carpets. Batya assumed she had about ten more minutes of him shouting about shame and the rabbi before he eventually gave up trying to convince her to jump on the next boat back home and ask her what she was having for dinner. She’d tell him she was having whatever the cooks at the mess hall were making, he’d get upset again and rant for another ten minutes.

She’d been dealing with the same scenario for the last year.

Holding the telephone in her left hand and a cigarette in her right, Batya balanced the earpiece of the phone precariously between her ear and the dirty white dorm room wall. Her eyes drifted around the metal tin box she had called home since she had been shipped over to Thorpe Abbots in the winter months of early 1942. It was unnaturally quiet without the poignant rush of the other girls. Her fellow officers most likely dancing the evening away in their sensible heels down at the officer’s club. She longed to be there. Her father’s speech of shame continued on in her ear.

Abandoning her park avenue apartment and condemning her parents to a never-ending cycle of shame within the community, Batya had joined the war effort with a smile upon her red-rimmed lips. She was an Air-traffic operator and a damn good one at that. Her dulcet tones no longer crooning across a jazz club in downtown New York, but guiding her many pilots through take-offs and landings onto the cold tarmac of Thorpe Abbots air base. She leaned on the dorm room wall; hair tucked up into what her mother would surely dub as an “unflattering” bun. Her khaki dress uniform tight upon her figure. Thanks to good old President Roosevelt she had finally been granted a rank along with a pretty little badge upon the lapel of her uniform jacket. Second Lieutenant Bernstein. She thought it sounded pretentious, but it gave her first dibs on the red-cross donuts ahead of the other girls every morning, so she didn’t mind it too much. Helen, one of the red cross girls, had told Batya she looked professional with her bronze badge. Batya figured Helen just wanted a friend with a higher ranking than most of the male officers.

Perks of the job.

Her father’s time spent raving about her choices in life had finally come to an end. Batya had briefly said goodbye with horribly pathetic kissing noises and a poignant slam of the telephone onto its hook. She had places to be. A crowd to impress. Stepping out of the freezing interior of her dorm and into the even cooler exterior of Thorpe Abbots air base, Batya made her way to the officer’s club with a brisk pace. Her hands stuffed so deeply within her pockets she could feel the rough stitching of her dress jacket. She silently cursed whoever had made it compulsory for female officers to wear a sensible skirt and stockings with their dress jackets in favour of her comfortable tweed work trousers. It must have been a man, only a man would think woman would prefer to freeze their assess off in the icy tundra that is the English Countryside.

She heard him before she saw him.

The faint sound of his atrocious voice paired with the crushing noise of gravel under rubber tyres echoed through her ears. She continued on walking. Maybe if she pretended to ignore him, he’d drive past her. She heard the sound of the vehicle coming to a halt. Her eyes meeting his cheeky grin with a slight turn of her head. She was never so lucky. ‘Songbird.’ He greeted cheerfully, his tone dripping with excitement. She briefly wondered what he would do if she stopped and lay down in the path of his jeep’s tyres. Hopefully drive.

Deciding that taking a ride in his jeep would get her to the officer’s club and out of the cold much quicker than walking in her uncomfortable heels, she climbed carefully into the passenger’s seat. He took off without haste. A cloud of dust formed in their wake. They drove swiftly across base, headlights illuminating the greenery of the surrounding English farmland. He lent across from his seat and reached towards the console placed in front of her person: two cigarettes. He held his face towards her as she lit the one placed within his mouth. ‘So,’ he began, his eyes stilling upon her figure before drifting back to the road. ‘heard you singing tonight.’

Her fingers found their place wrapped around her cigarette. The warm smoke emulating from her mouth a small aid in her fight against the cold. Her scarf blowing in the breeze behind her. If she were with anyone else it would seem almost romantic, an evening drive around the countryside, but she was with him. He wouldn’t know romance if it hit him in the face. ‘Yeah,’ she replied coyly, ‘you jealous?’

He laughed, a rough sound breaking through the stillness of their surroundings. ‘No’ he exclaimed, his chuckle still resounding through his words, ‘excited to hear you is all. Crosby’s been raving about you for a week now.’

Harry Crosby. The unlucky navigator had been in charge of the decorating committee for the little soiree they were on their way to. Celebrating Captain Glenn Dye completing his 25th mission. Hearing rumours about her enchanting voice from the red cross girls: Crosby had asked her to sing. She would have been ecstatic to preform again if it was for anyone else; but Captain Dye had given her dormmate Susan the clap and she was secretly hoping he’d be medically prevented from flying for weeks now. No such luck. The bastard came back unscathed. ‘Well,’ She sighed her eyes drifting to the officer’s club as it flew into view, ‘hope it lives up to your expectations Major.’

They screeched to a halt, her feet already on the ground by the time he had ran around the jeep to help her out. Major John Egan shook his head at her with a smile. ‘You, Bernie, never fail to make a gentleman feel small.’ It was said as a compliment, but the use of her nickname made her roll her eyes in frustration. She grabbed his arm roughly, he chuckled. Bernie. A new nickname given to her by one of her many pilots. They had been rather shocked at the realisation that their flight operator was a woman, but had quickly warmed up to her brash and sarcastic commentary. She had a sneaky suspicion it had to do with the pilot whose arm she held at this very moment. He had always seemed rather forward thinking. She might’ve even had found him chivalrous - if he wasn’t so downright annoying.

Her red fingernails tapped his cheek in farewell, ‘See you later Johnny boy.’ A smile breaking out upon her face as she entered the warmth of the club. Removing her scarf, she placed it on the overrun hatstand by the club’s entrance door. The stand tilting slightly due to the sheer number of coats upon its hooks. He hated being called Johnny, but she figured it was a fair trade for the hideous name he and his crewmates had given her. Colonel Harding had been extremely confused as to why they were calling her by a man’s name; it had taken two meetings and five cups of coffee to reassure the Colonel that it was merely a nickname and that no man named Bernie was helping her in the radio tower.

She almost killed Egan.

Her eyes caught the group of women she had been looking for: khaki uniforms of her fellow officers and the blue tint of red cross badges shining brightly in the warm light of the club. They cheered as she caught their eye; her girls welcoming her with a pat on her back and a cold iced martini thrusted into the palm of her hand. She sipped it slowly, the bitter taste bright upon her tongue.

‘So’ began Helen, her face flushed due to the heat of the room and most definitely a few gin and tonics, ‘How was your talk with your dad?’ Helen’s voice, tinted with warmth and interest, was loud throughout the rush of the room. The small woman definitely succeeding in being heard despite the chaos of the club.

Batya sighed as she swirled her drink. Ice tinkling against the sides of her glass as she thought back to her previous conversation. ‘Same old same old.’ She started, her finger immediately cooled as it entered her drink and fished out its olive garnish. ‘My mother is moments away from a self-inflicted stroke. The rabbi still hasn’t forgiven them. I’m a disappointment to my family. Normal father-daughter conversation.’ She popped the garnish into her mouth, the bitterness of her drink mixed with the tarte of the olive set her tastebuds alight.

Helen nodded in recognition. She was far from unaware of Batya’s status as the black sheep of the Bernstein family. Her eyes drifted around the room. ‘Well you didn’t miss much.’ She sighed airily, her hand gesturing vaguely to a group of men across the room. Batya didn’t bother turning to look. ‘We were only scoping out the new replacements that arrived this morning. There was this dancer guy that we thought you might’ve liked. Absolute twinkle toes. He looked Jewish, think his name was Ros-‘ Her sentence was cut off by a new arrival at their table.

He looked flushed. His hair in disarray as he smiled widely at them. ‘Ladies,’ he greeted, his eyes jumping immediately towards Batya’s figure. ‘Bat.’ His head tilted awkwardly towards the stage. She briefly thought he resembled a cartoon character, his face screwed up into an expression she could only describe as mild guilt. She nodded in defeat. The blaring melody of the band tittering to a close as they made their way towards the wooden stage. The palm of his hand wrapped around hers as he led her up the stairs, her red lips drifting towards his ear. ‘You owe me for this Cros.’ He only nodded in resignation, his eyes easily conveying his day-old promise of buying her a drink after her performance.

She’d force him to buy her multiple.

He swiftly made his way back down the stairs resembling that of a man fleeing a burning building. Her hand wrapped around the base of the microphone. A few of her pilots whistled, she smirked wildly as her eyes met Captain Dye’s across the room. ‘Before I begin, I just want to say congratulations to Captain Dye for achieving his 25th successful mission.’ Her voice echoed over the cheers. ‘Hope everyone clapped when your plane landed safely.’ Clapped. Even from across the hall she could see the burning of the Captain’s ears. Only a few people in this room would understand her peculiar choice of diction. Somewhere within the crowd Major Egan laughed loudly. She adjusted herself on stage, clearing her throat, ‘this one goes out to all of you lover boys out there searching for someone to spend your Saturday nights with. It’s a little song I wrote myself called "Bibi and her blue-eyed baby". Hope you all enjoy.’ The sound of trumpets burst through the air. The crowd roared with a fury.

She sang five songs before calling it a night. The incessant whines of the crowd only increasing when she happily told them that Major Egan would be taking her place on stage. It had made her laugh, a rare smile perched upon her lips as the sound of Blue Skies began to swirl through the room. She minced her way to the bar, the grin remaining upon her face as Crosby handed her a martini. He seemed relieved, the apparent stress of organising such a party and entertainment seemingly melting off of him as he leaned against the wooden counter.

They spoke for about an hour, her eyes eventually drifting away from the bar and onto the now almost deserted dance floor. Helen seemed to be dancing with a handsome soldier whom Batya had not seen before; must have been a replacement. The smile upon the red cross woman’s face enough for Batya to decide against asking Helen to join her on her walk home. Batya instead headed towards the club’s entrance on her lonesome. Crosby’s promise of buying her another drink tomorrow evening wafting over her ears as she reached for the club’s brass doorhandles. The cool metal of the handle felt icy against the palm of her hand.

The door opened from the outside swiftly, the wooden frame colliding briefly with her left toe as she stumbled backwards to avoid it. She cursed under her breath. Her head faced downwards towards her now most definitely blackened toe. Pain radiating up her shin as she willed herself not to hop on one foot like a child. ‘Oh god! I am so so sorry!’ A hand reached out and gently perched upon her elbow. The voice of her attacker rambling on as he helped her into the nearest chair he could find. ‘I don’t know why I was in such a rush. First night on base and I’m already injuring pretty officers. These doors should never open both ways I mean that’s just dangerous. You could sue. I would know I’m a lawyer, or I was one before the war –‘ She looked up at him, his ramblings coming to a swift halt at the sight of her face.

Through the haze of martinis and aching pain her mind vaguely registered a khaki uniform and a pilot’s badge upon his jacket. Her gaze drifting up and up until she met a pair of eyes. Her entire body froze.

Two years later.

Thousands of miles away from New York.

Here he was, wearing a uniform of a pilot and slamming a door into her toe.

Her Blue-eyed baby.

Hashem help her.

Yiddish/Jewish terms dictionary: • 'Yom Kippur' - incredibly high holy day. The day of fasting and asking G-d for repentance and forgiveness for any wrongdoings you have committed in the past year. Breaking of the fast is a huge deal - inviting the rabbi and him showing up is basically the jewish equivalent of winning an Oscar. • 'Hashem' - word for G-d meaning 'the name.' [If there are any parts of yiddish/jewish diction you are ever mildly confused about - never be afraid to ask! Happy to explain x ]

Authors note: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This is also posted on my AO3 if any of you prefer reading there: username is All_the_small_things. Link is here. [If you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments xx]

#gale cleven x reader #john egan x reader #rosie rosenthal fanfiction #rosie rosenthal imagines #rosie rosenthal x reader #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal #masters of the air fan fiction #masters of the air #masters of the air imagine #mota #mota fanfic #hbo war fanfic #rosie rosenthal fic #robert rosenthal #harry crosby

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beingalive1 · 7 months ago

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Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 1

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Summary: In an attempt to escape his office and the mutterings of the war occurring an ocean away, Rosie Rosenthal hails a cab and finds himself in a dingy jazz club in downtown New York. Never did he think he'd find himself hopelessly enchanted by the jazz singer with the curly hair and white fur coat but he here he is following her outside, his legs moving on their own accord. Maybe he would see her again? Maybe he would ask her for a dance? Maybe she'd write a song for him?

Part two: Here

Author's Note: I've been hooked line and sinker with all these MOTA men and have felt the need to join the fray and write my own fic so here it is - hope ya'll enjoy x

September 5th, 1941

The dull purple glow of the club made the red lipstick placed carefully on her lips shine as she crooned into the microphone. Many blocks away from her silver spooned upper east side apartment she knew if anyone saw her stood upon that stage swaying her hips to the music, she would never escape the judgemental gazes of the Jewish community. Batya Bernstein, twenty-one, unmarried and swaying precariously in a tight little black dress as she sang through a haze of cigarette smoke. The vague taste of a vodka soda still remained on her tongue; the drink adding to the delightful haze of her evening.

This was downtown New York – nobody knew who she was here.

Walking on a tightrope between never ending shame and the thrill of anonymity, Batya continued her swan song. The warmth of admiration caressed her skin like a summers ray; here she was loved and cherished for the gifts she possessed. Here she was merely a woman with an enchanting voice, not the daughter of the famous jeweller Harvey Bernstein.

Harvey Bernstein. The prized and beloved chairman of the Park Avenue synagogue. The famed owner of Bernstein Jewels. Her father. She often wondered how a man like him could have a daughter like her. It must’ve felt rather shameful. His lack of a son and his only daughter being what many in the community dubbed as ‘wild.’ The park-avenue princess had refused every proposal he had sent her way. The only reason she had not been completely dismissed within the community was due to her quick wit, the love the rabbi had for her and the fact that her father had been the one to finance the new children’s school adjacent to the synagogue. For all her faults he did love her so, his secret Shanda singer of a daughter.

She could imagine her papa’s face if he caught here tonight: his already greying hair would surely turn completely white at the sight of many men enthusiastically clapping along to the tune of her passionate lyrics. Her songs of melancholy and sadness set to a happy tune subdued her silent feelings of shame. Here, she was not Batya rather Bibi: the jazz singer who would frequent this club every second Saturday Night. As soon as Shabbos had come and gone, she’d greet her beloved audience with a flutter of her fingers, sing for twenty -five minutes, polish off two vodka sodas and leave before she became too memorable.

But this night was different.

This night she was going to be remembered.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way her lips graced the metal expanse of her microphone. How her hair began to fall out of its silken scarf prison as she sang, a rich brown curl falling in front of her face. It was if he was cast under a spell, the dulcet tones of her voice dragging him under the surface and into the smoken depths of her influence. He wasn’t meant to be here. His need to escape the overpowering mutterings of his office had caused him to lose all rational thought, call a cab, and to command the driver to take him to the best jazz club he knew.

That’s how he ended up here.

Watching her.

He knew her from somewhere. Couldn’t tell if she resembled a girl on a war-bond poster or in a movie he had watched at some point but somehow and somewhere he had seen her before. The familiar shape of her nose, her deep brown eyes, the way she smiled as the audience applauded. He didn’t know what overcame him, a force coercing him to stand from the rickety chair at the back of the room and to follow her bewitching figure out of the club’s back door. A fur coat had been placed on her shoulders; the white material glistened in the evening moonlight. He rushed out towards her, his feet splashing against the puddled gravel of the club’s back alley.

Her figure froze, her fur-draped shoulders tensing as she turned to face him. Her dark eyes almost glowed as she gazed upon him, a perfectly shaped eyebrow moving upwards as she took him in. His feet shifted from side to side, a nervous grin on his lips as he looked upon her. He was a never a nervous man. He had no idea why he was acting so strange; he blamed the scotch he had sipped as he watched her sing, and the empty stomach he possessed due to his rush here from work. She smirked at him. “Can I help you?” Her voice echoed through the darkened alley, the same rich tone gracing his ears as she spoke. He coughed awkwardly. A futile attempt to pull himself together with a rough hand combed through his curls does nothing to cool the slight burning of his ears. She watched the movement with a curious look upon her face: as if she was waiting for him to scare and run off like a deer in headlights. She looked amused. He coughed once more. He wasn’t the running type.

‘I..’ He began, silently cursing himself for stammering so foolishly. He was a lawyer. His mother’s pride and joy. His ma’s favourite topic over the Shabbos dinner table: boasting to her friends about how his eloquent way of speaking could convince any judge. Why he was struck silent in the presence of this woman he knew not, his lips dry as he tried to throw a sentence together. ‘I enjoyed your show.’ The eyebrow remained raised. A grin broke out upon her face, he didn’t think he had ever seen something so bright.

Her gaze drank him in like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. Heat flushing upon his ears as he waited for her to reply. Her mouth opened as she attempted to speak, her dark curls fluttering slightly in the breeze. He couldn’t hear what she had said in reply, the rich tone of her voice drowned out in favour of the sound of a yellow cab screeching to a halt on the pavement next to them. Her hands tightened across her coat; he spotted red nail polish painted carefully upon her fingers. It reminded him of her lipstick. Red suited her. She smiled once more, her body gliding past his own as she entered the back seat of the cab. His eyes followed her powerlessly, his hand itching to reach out and stop her. To touch her red-nailed fingers and ask for a dance.

His eyes remained on her until the cab drove away, the white coat dazzling through the rear end window of the vehicle. He never heard her reply, but he had an inkling he’d see her again.

She refused to look back as she drove away. The urge to gaze upon him once more burned through her like an inferno as she sat comfortably on the cab’s black leather seats. His eyes had been so blue. A crystalline colour that made her skin flush when he stared at her, his full attention on her figure. She didn’t get his name, but Batya had a feeling she’d see him again.

And even if she didn’t all would not be lost.

After all, ‘Bibi and her blue-eyed baby’ sounded like a perfect addition to her Saturday Night set list.

Word count: 1231

Yiddish dictionary: • 'Shanda' - shame, can be used in reference to a person who makes their family feel shame • 'Shabbos' - the sabbath.

Author's Note part 2: Thank you for reading! I'm really excited to share this with you guys - been a while since I've written something so I hope you liked it, next part I think will be out in the next few days x [if you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments]

#gale cleven x reader #rosie rosenthal #john egan x reader #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal x reader #robert rosenthal #masters of the air #masters of the air fan fiction #mota fanfic #mota #hbo war fanfic #masters of the air imagine #rosie rosenthal imagines #rosie rosenthal fanfiction

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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the kids are alright.

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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one of the best f1 edits of all time...

#f1 #formula1

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-Smells like F1 Spirit-

I am new to F1 but I have quickly noticed the weird mentality around a lot of people believing that these drivers need to recklessly risk their lives for our entertainment as well as the hypermasculinization of not being allowed to have friends or forced into rivalry with each other. This took me a while but enjoy!

Song: “Smells like Teen Spirit” (Nirvana)

Cover: Malia J

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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why the hell not lmao

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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So helpful omg

Resources For Describing Characters

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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Ambient sounds for writers

Find the right place to write your novel…

Nature

Arctic ocean

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Chloe’s room (Life is Strange)

Blackwell dorm (Life is Strange)

Two Whales Diner (Life is Strange)

Star Wars apartment (Star Wars)

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Coruscant with rain (Star Wars)

Yoda’s hut with rain ( Star Wars)

Luke’s home (Star Wars)

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Diamond City (Fallout 4)

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Founding Fathers Garden (Bioshock)

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Train ride in the rain

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Fireplace in medieval tavern

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beingalive1 · 3 years ago

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I’m literally wheezing oh my god this is gold

26/?

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beingalive1 · 4 years ago

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Confessions On Drugs - Finn Shelby

Pairing: Finn Shelby x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: Not proofread so I’m sorry in advance for any possible mistakes. I may have changed your request up a bit but I hope you like it xx

Wordcount: 3216

Summary: After being shot, you’re high on pain relief medication and accidentally confess your love for Finn in the presence of the entire Shelby family.

Being shot was not fun. In fact, it hurt like hell. Well, at least you thought it did. You were currently so high on pain relief medication that you could barely remember your own name, but you guessed that it had hurt, or else you wouldn’t have been where you currently were, lying in the hospital bed surrounded by the very family that had raised and taken care of you your entire life.

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beingalive1 · 4 years ago

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oh my gdO CAN YOU DRAW GODZILLA MOMMA CARRYING LIKE A HUNDRED LIZARD BABIES ON HER BACK FOR TAKE YOUR CHILD (lizard) TO WORK DAY

oh SHOOT well i cant swing 100 but how bout

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beingalive1 · 4 years ago

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thi is too fücking cute :)

Trapped in Legends — Part 2

PART 1

THE EPILOGUE

Tommy Shelby struggles with the fact that he can’t really control his daughter. Then again, why is he so surprised since there never was one person alive who could fully control Tommy Shelby himself?

I also posted this on AO3 if someone prefers to read there.

OR Read here in third person with Tommy’s Daughter as Original Character if Reader isn’t your thing

————————————————-

“I really don’t like this, Tommy,” your Aunt Polly said for the hundredth time today, as she stubbed out her hundredth cigarette. “That man is not to be trusted.”

“We all know that, Pol,” your father said as he fixed the lapels of your coat. “But we have a deal.”

“Well, now… that’s different then,” she huffed. “I’m sure he’ll be bloody honorable this time — it’s not like he double crossed you before or something.”

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beingalive1 · 4 years ago

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This is bloody adorable omg I’m obsessed.

Crowns of London — Alfie Solomons/OFC

Chapter 1 — King of Camden Town

Alfie Solomons sends his regards. Well, not exactly — Alfie Solomons sends his goons with big guns, as one does, because he requires an audience with his former lover.

Also on AO3.

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It’s been quite some time since Jane Moore last set her foot in London. Not that she counted the minutes or anything. She prided herself in having better things to occupy her mind with, thanks very much, but if one were to be extremely thorough — it has been something along the lines of six months, seven days, twelve hours and...

“Shit!”

As soon as she left the train station, she stepped in a puddle that could have been mud, but could very well turn out to be something else entirely. Blessed fucking London.

“Welcome to the city!” a drunkard sitting on the nearby bench exclaimed, then followed that with a loud burp and a giggle.

“Fuck off,” Jane hissed, then promptly stomped on the hat he had laid down on the pavement to beg for change.

“Oi!” he bellowed behind her, but she paid him no mind.

Glorious London — just as smelly and busy as she remembered. Jane was almost glad she took some time off, since that made the reunion that much sweeter.

After Jane finally managed to find her way and arrive at her destination more or less in one piece, she knocked on her friend’s door and was greeted with ungodly sounds coming from the other side. Some reunions were apparently meant to be sweeter than others, since the first words that came out of said friend’s mouth were:

“You daft cow!”

After that delightful exclamation, the door to the flat swung open and in it stood none other than Agnes Fletcher — the first and oldest friend Jane had ever made in this godforsaken city. Agnes pulled her into a tight embrace before Jane even got the chance to speak.

“Come ‘ere, you twat! Give us a kiss!”

“Hello, Agnes,” Jane groaned. “Jesus Christ, you’re trying to kill me!” she wheezed and Agnes cackled at the sound.

She finally moved aside to let Jane in, then promptly shut the door behind them. Jane noticed that the door had only one lock on the inside and quickly made a mental note to fix that first thing. With all the strange relationships she had abruptly ended the last time she was here, including one particularly complicated, she should actually think of getting a gun, too.

“Long time no see, Jane!”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Jane said as she took a quick look around the flat. It was small but tidy, aside from the sewing project that had taken over most of the kitchen table. Agnes followed Jane’s eyes and scoffed at the scrutiny.

“Well, aintcha glad I didn’t!” Agnes exclaimed, then moved towards the table to clean it up.

“Still the same old kitten, eh?”

Agnes rolled her eyes at that, but Jane could see she was smiling.

“Well? So how have you been, really?” Agnes asked, then moved to the tiny kitchenette to prepare tea. “Your letters were so formal, bloody hell, might as well look for a job as a censor next time we’re at war!”

“Come now, there’s not going to be another war,” Jane sighed, then took off her coat and gloves and sat at the table to have a cigarette.

“We’ll see,” Agnes said mysteriously and turned around, gesturing towards her updo. “How’s my new hair, then?”

“Gorgeous, as always,” Jane said with a cheeky grin and Agnes scoffed at that, but returned the smile nonetheless.

They met years ago in a workhouse. Agnes had been there nearly all her life and Jane was placed there after she became an orphan. Some time after, a nasty case of typhus decimated the inhabitants and the place had to be shut down. Thankfully, both women found work in the textile manufactory and somehow landed on their feet. After the medieval treatments performed by the “doctors” at the workhouse, it took some time for Jane’s hair to finally grow back. Agnes’s never really did. Since then, she was forced to wear it short and this season she was overjoyed to see the style was finally in fashion.

“I was thinking we could go to a club on Friday?” Agnes poured the tea and took one cigarette from Jane when she offered. “You know, celebrate your homecoming?”

“I don’t know,” Jane smirked mischievously, “got any dresses?”

“Bitch!” Agnes laughed and took a long drag on the cigarette. “You know I do. Best designs this hellhole has ever seen, I’ll tell you that.”

“And I believe you.” Jane put out her cigarette and took a sip of her tea. It was weak but entirely acceptable. “So, how is the apprenticeship going?”

“Well, could be worse,” Agnes shrugged, “after the factories nothing really surprises you anymore.”

“Very true.”

“These cunts honestly don’t know how good they have it at the shop,” Agnes scoffed and drank her tea, “I’m obviously the best one there.”

“Obviously.” Jane grinned at her.

“And you? Still yearning for your numbers and books?”

Jane rolled her eyes at the sentiment, but did not deny it.

“Eh, I’m glad you’re back,” Agnes waved her hand dismissively, “it was boring without you.”

“Thanks.” Jane smiled at her and took another look around the place. “This is cosy.”

“Yeah.” Agnes shrugged and followed Jane’s eyes. “‘S decent. But the old hag is tryin’ to cheat me on the rent. Would be great if you could look at my books later, I mean…You, I trust.”

“Who’s the landlady?”

“Some wop.”

“Agnes!” Jane giggled and shook her head.

“What?” Agnes smirked. “Aintcha supposed to hate them? You kept books for your Jew, he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, you were probably too… tied up.”

“Agnes!”

“They’re at war again or something.” Agnes grinned. “Apparently, your man’s been busy.”

“Not my man. He never was.”

“Well, have it as you like, then,” Agnes smirked and poured them more tea, “but this is all what I heard, at least. I’m staying out of Camden these days, you know… Safer that way. Doubt I’d have any luck pretendin’ to be Jewish.”

Jane giggled and lit another cigarette. “Maybe with some paint and gold.”

“Well, I’d say that’s half the appeal.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing, I—”

“Like you’re going to sit in my kitchen, pretending that the man didn’t go bloody feral over these damn red locks!” Agnes clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Nah, sister. We both know the truth.”

Jane smirked at the notion and licked her lips, unable to look her friend in the eye with a straight face. “He liked it even better when I helped him dodge these pesky taxes,” she said and Agnes cried out triumphantly.

“Knew it!”

It was true, Jane was exceptionally good with numbers. Even better at manipulating them. A year after the factory, Agnes managed to get a job as a seamstress apprentice, and meanwhile Jane, having shadowed the factory forewoman for months, started to look for a placement as an accountant. Obviously, becoming a seamstress would mean infinitely more job opportunities for a woman, but Jane was hopeless with sewing. She could barely fix a hole in her sock.

“Plenty of accountin’ jobs, don’t worry,” Agnes said, seeing how Jane suddenly went quiet. “You’re goin’ to look for another?”

“You know, not really,” Jane lied smoothly and lit another cigarette, “I was actually thinking of becoming a governess, full-time.”

Agnes roared with laughter and nearly knocked over both their cups. The walls in the building must have been thin because soon after that, someone started to bang their broomhandle against the ceiling. Both women giggled at that even more.

“You? You hate children!” Agnes exclaimed.

“Well, maybe. But I’m not trying accounting again.”

“And why not?”

“You know why not,” Jane said sharply and finished her tea.

“Oh, God. Jane…”

“Stop it. It’s a done deal. It’s not even about him anymore.”

“Jane.”

“I mean it! It’s not about the bloody bakery, I honestly tried to look for another employment, they all refused as soon as they saw my name.”

Agnes rolled her eyes and stood up to pour them more tea. “Christ almighty.”

“Just… No.”

“Wait! You don’t even know what I wanted to say.”

“I know what you wanted to say, I’ve known you for twenty bloody years. The answer is no.”

“Fine.” Agnes rolled her eyes again, then poured them more tea. “I just meant, are you sure it wasn’t his doing?”

“Whose doing?”

“Well, your little gangster fella. You sure he didn’t… sway the market?”

“Agnes!” Jane hissed and covered her friend’s mouth with her hand, then looked around as if expecting spies to jump out from under the table.

“Oh, fuck off!” Agnes swatted her hand away and sat back down, her floral robe whooshing behind her dramatically. It was beautifully made and Jane had a strong suspicion that Agnes designed it herself. “I mean, you never introduced us, me, your dearest, most cherished friend—”

“And oldest.”

“Honestly, the cheek on ya!” Agnes scoffed and pretended to be annoyed. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted… You never introduced us—”

“And for a damn good reason!”

“Right, but from what I heard he was a stubborn fucker.”

“So?”

“So maybe he made sure you wouldn’t find any other accounting jobs? I mean, he’s a man. And a bloody gangster. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“True, but he was the one who ended things.” Jane shrugged, but honestly started to think about it a little bit more. “And then I left… Why would he want to make my life harder?”

“Hm, that complicates my theory…”

“Yes, well. Scotland Yard would be lucky to have you.”

They smoked and drank the tea, and after that they opened a bottle of gin. Then, Jane finally shared the full story on the events that followed her hasty departure from London:

“The house was gorgeous. Four stories, fireplace in every room, the biggest windows I have ever fucking seen.” Jane poured herself and Agnes another drink, then continued:

“I shared the room with the other maids, there were six of us all together. Even in the attic, you could see the gardens and the canal, it was heaven. But,” Jane arched an eyebrow and smirked, “the rich have their secrets. And the lady of the house was a madwoman, honestly, a fucking madwoman,” she shook her head and lit another cigarette.

“So… is that why you suddenly try to act so posh now?”

“Shut it, I’m not posh! Six months in Bath, even a pro skirt would get an accent.”

“Whatever you say, doll.”

“Oh, bugger off!” Jane chuckled and poured them another round. “Well, so the lady of the house, right, she checked every letter that came out. Nosy fuckin’ broad. I found out because she commented on my penmanship once, that’s why I couldn’t really tell you anything interesting. But, she paid us handsomely, I have to give her that. She was fair and most of the time she just complained of the migraines, so she was out of our hair. It’s the eldest son that was the real fuckin’ nightmare.”

“Knew it,” Agnes muttered, then emptied her glass. “Tried to stick his cock where it didn’t belong?”

“Well, he certainly tried.”

“Oh, God…”

“I know,” Jane shuddered at the memory, “so, I don’t think they’ll be sending any references.”

“Why?”

“I packed in the middle of the night and spent half my wages on the train ticket back.”

“Right… so you could say you also need a place to stay, then?”

“Well, yes. You could definitely say that.”

“Glad I asked.”

“Glad you offered.”

“Oh, you bitch…”

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For the first two weeks, being back in London was almost fun. This was home, after all, and Jane felt infinitely more confident now that she was living in the familiar territory. Having Agnes close proved to make life more enjoyable, too. They went out almost every other evening and cruised any pub or club that would serve two single chicks. Thankfully, both didn’t really have to stay single or buy their own drinks for long — courtesy of the dresses by one Agnes Fletcher. All the bar crawling and harmless attention served its purpose. Jane finally managed to forget what a disaster the past months have been.

But that was, of course, when the first letter came.

It wasn’t a letter, per se, it was almost a note, but it served its purpose nonetheless — she got scared. Jane knew exactly where it came from; she would know that hand anywhere. She used to spend her days trying to read that handwriting, after all. Said hand, and the man it belonged to, still sent shivers down her spine whenever Jane would let her mind venture in that direction. Deciding it was no use to open back that door, Jane tore the note up and threw the pieces out the window.

Of course, she should have known better than to trust it would end there. Another note came two days later, then another one just a day after that. All were pushed under the door just as soon as Agnes left the flat to go to work. That thought unnerved Jane more than anything else — he knew she was back in London and he knew where she stayed.

Jane never managed to buy a proper lock for the door, but she did get that gun from some crook in an alley. A shady business deal like that honestly filled Jane with less anxiety than having to face her former lover without any weapon. And he would come for her — this much was certain. She ignored him three times now, and if there was one thing Alfie Solomons hated most of all, it was to be ignored.

Jane expected new threats after Sabbath, but it never came. Another thing she was very much aware of when it came to Alfie, though, is that he would sooner die than be predictable. It was time to play the waiting game. By another week, Jane almost let herself believe this would all be over as soon as it began, had it not been for her first shift at work and the events that followed.

Thanks to all the bar crawling with Agnes, Jane had found employment as a barmaid. As she walked to the pub to pick up her shift, out the corner of her eye she noticed a man following her. She ignored him at first, but he was walking behind her nearly the entire way from the flat to her workplace, so she definitely wasn’t mistaken in thinking he was suspicious. Then, of course, there were the clothes he was wearing — the long black coat and the black hat. The beard was a clue in itself.

Jane left the pub close to eleven in the evening. As she walked back home, she noticed another man following her. It was a different one than before, but this here was quite obvious in everything he did, too, what with the nervous glances and a notepad in his hand. He was making notes as he followed her and he didn’t even try to hide it. Jane was honestly beginning to get annoyed rather than scared.

“He’s having men follow me around,” Jane announced to Agnes as soon as she entered the flat.

“Who?” Agnes asked dreamily, looking up from the dress sketches she was currently busy perfecting.

“The… man.” Jane locked the door and hung her coat on the hook.

“The man?” Agnes scoffed and pointed towards the kitchen cabinet. “Christ. There’s gin, pour us a nightcap, eh?”

“Gladly.”

As Jane sat down at the table and put two glasses before them, she glanced at the drawings and nodded, visibly impressed.

“That’s very good.”

“Why, thank you… My creatively challenged friend.”

“Oh, bugger off!”

Both smiled and clinked their glasses.

“Oh, speaking of gin,” Jane stood up to get her purse, “as the new gal, I got me some handsome—”

“Fellas?”

“Tips!” Jane rolled her eyes and placed a bill and a pack of cigarettes in front of Agnes. “Here. My part of the rent. I wanna be fair.”

“Oh, that’s more than fair.” Agnes pocketed the money and poured them another round. “Have I told ya already how much I missed you?”

“Well, you better!”

They smoked and drank, then got to bed together and talked some more. The flat had only one room with a kitchenette, but it did have a bathroom, so in the end Jane could definitely see the appeal, despite there being only one bed.

“Do you really think it’s him?” Agnes asked, as she shifted to her side to look at Jane.

“Who else?” Jane closed her eyes. “First the letters, now this? He’s obviously trying to scare me.”

“Why would he do that?” Agnes scoffed. “Your Gangster Boss Man…”

Jane chuckled at that and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to find out what he’s up to, either.”

The following week, each time Jane had a shift at the bar, a new man would be following her from and to her building. She was honestly getting fed up with the attention, as each next spy proved to be even less discreet than the former. Finally, by Wednesday, Jane had had enough.

“Stop!” She promptly turned around and pointed her finger at an oblivious young man in a dusty black jacket. He had the audacity to look behind his shoulder, but she knew the type too well to have been fooled by his act. He had that sort of look in his eyes that was meant to be charming, but really said, “I’m wearing a gun holster under that pathetic shirt.” Jane was almost certain she had seen him once or twice at the bakery.

“Stop! Following me!” She walked to the man briskly and snatched the notepad from his hands. “What is that? What the fuck are you bloody writing in that fucking thing?!” She flipped the pages back before he could stop her and noticed it was all mostly dates, names of the streets, and time. “Oh, motherfucker,” Jane hissed, then tore up a page from the notepad, satisfied to hear the man gasp. “Give me that!” She took the pencil from him and wrote a quick, but thoroughly passionate message. “Give this to him and fuck off!” She turned around then and marched straight ahead, not even trying to keep it cool.

She was still shaken a bit when she got to the pub. Sure, in the moment that outburst felt bloody great, but now, as she calmed down, Jane wasn’t so sure it was worth it. To her utter dismay, that feeling would prove entirely correct — as soon as she finished her shift and stepped out of the pub, she was greeted by three goons who didn’t even bother to try and pretend they weren’t there for her. These three were big, in every sense of the word. They wore all black and didn’t even try to cover up the fact they were carrying guns.

“Mr. Solomons would like a word,” the middle one said, then moved aside to gesture towards the car parked nearby. It was one of Alfie’s, she had seen it before.

Jane looked at the car, then at the three gangsters before her. There was no way she could escape them. That little stunt with the note must have seriously pissed Alfie off.

“Fine.”

The men looked almost relieved as all four walked towards the car. One of them sat in front, while the other two sat in the back with Jane, on each side. It was a short drive to Camden Town. To the surprise of no one, they drove her straight to the bakery. Deciding it was as good a place to die as any, Jane followed the men inside. It was close to midnight and the main warehouse was eerily quiet and empty. Only one light was still on and that would be of course the one in Alfie’s office. Memories flooded Jane and she scolded herself for the sudden impatience that settled in her stomach. They didn’t exactly part ways in a peaceful manner and still... She was ashamed to admit, her heart simply did not care. She was still excited to see him; curious to see how he fared, curious to see if he still looked the same.

Jane desperately needed a cigarette, but knew better than to smoke in a distillery. She settled for the sobering feeling of the anxiety that consumed her and nearly jumped when one of the men knocked on the office door.

The gruff voice on the other end barked:

“In!”

One of the goons opened the door for Jane, then promptly shut it behind her as soon as she stepped inside. Trying to remain calm, she took in the familiar surroundings, doing everything in her power not to look at the man sitting behind the desk.

Alfie wasn’t really looking at her, either — not at first. He was reading by the desk lamp, squinting his eyes as he tended to do when he couldn’t find his glasses. The room was dimly lit and Jane was seconds away from remarking he would ruin his eyes if he kept it up. “Already ruined, sweetheart,” Alfie would probably say then, and she would scoff at the pet name. At least… That’s how it used to go. Back in the day. Before he told her to go to hell and broke her heart.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, yeah,” Alfie finally said, his low voice resounding in the small room like thunder, “but I never took ya for the vindictive type, darlin’.” He looked up from behind whatever the hell he was reading and their eyes finally met. Jane tried to stay composed, despite the circumstances, but she couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy at the words. What the hell did he mean by that?

Alfie outstretched his hand then and, to her utter dismay, Jane noticed it was the page from the notepad — with her delightful little message written in pencil.

“Right, so,” Alfie obviously must have noticed her nerves, because Jane could swear there was a little smirk there that he tried very hard to hide underneath all that beard, “the sheer logistics of it, mate, right, it’s bloody outstanding, that… How exactly would I need to position myself to do what you ordered me here, now, sweetheart, I ain’t a young man anymore, I ‘ave my limits, bloody hell.” Alfie clicked his tongue, then put the note down and looked at Jane intently. “Please,” he gestured towards the chair in front of him.

She moved towards it like in a trance and sat down stiffly, back straight as a pole. She glanced to her left, to where she knew was the drawer Alfie kept his gun in. He followed her eyes, she noticed he did, but before she could even begin to formulate any coherent thoughts on the matter, Alfie spoke again:

“Now, why would I do that?”

“What?” Her eyes darted towards him and this time she definitely noticed the smirk.

“Shoot ya.” His tone was considerably softer and Jane wanted to slap him for it.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, then opened her purse and looked at the gun inside it. “Out of sentiment?”

Having decided against threatening him directly, she took out one cigarette from the pack and lit it. That offended him all right, she knew it would, but she didn’t care. He hated people smoking in his personal space, hated the smell and the audacity of it, but since she could very well be dead before sunrise, Jane decided to piss him off before that, at least.

“Right,” Alfie drummed his fingers against the desk, then leaned back in his chair, “so lemme get this straight—”

“By all means, Alfie, we got all night.” That came out a tad more snarky that she wanted it to, but Jane decided to just roll with it.

“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” he barked.

She let the smoke out through her nose and shrugged. “Fine.”

“That’s an interruption, Jane, if I ever fuckin’ heard one.”

She shrugged again, but this time said nothing. Somehow, hearing him say her name made it all the more real.

“Right,” Alfie frowned and traced the long scar on the side of his jaw, “as I was fuckin’ saying, lemme get this right, so I understand… Y’ think I had you brought here just to shoot ya and paint my own walls with yer brains?”

She said nothing to it and neither did Alfie. He was just looking at her, letting the words sink in. The entire thing didn’t have the desired effect, though. He was still the most unpredictable man Jane had ever known. Alfie’s style has always been to confuse the opponent as much as humanly possible. She was prepared for a scheme and was sure this was exactly what it seemed.

Jane wouldn’t put it past him to orchestrate the entire thing just to get her good and scared and then have her dramatically offed in the very place they had first met. It would be calculated, manipulative… poetic, even. Most importantly — very Alfie Solomons. So no, Jane wouldn’t be surprised if he did pull out that gun on her right this second and shot her in the exact same chair she had once sat when he interviewed her for the accountant position.

“Something to remember me by, I’m sure. Like a little painting,” Jane said finally, then stubbed out the cigarette in the large ashtray placed in the very corner of the cluttered desk.

She was surprised to see that little addition to the office. It didn’t used to be here, not during her time, but if it was here, that could only mean that Alfie needed it for business. He was doing business with someone who smoked and, more importantly, someone whom Alfie would allow to smoke in his office on a regular basis. Her curiosity piqued, Jane wondered who it was, exactly. She really hoped it wasn’t a woman.

Alfie noticed her eying the ashtray and he smirked again.

“Yeah, alright,” he stood up and this time Jane didn’t hesitate. She reached into her purse and pointed the gun at him, then engaged the safety with her other hand, trembling slightly.

Alfie froze for a split of a second, she knew he did. For that fleeting moment, Jane had the upper hand. As it happens, of course, this wasn’t the first time that someone pointed a gun at Alfie fucking Solomons, so all it did really was to surprise him for exactly that long — a split of a second.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asked smoothly.

“Sit,” she said quietly, then pointed the gun down to his groin, “please.” She smiled sweetly and he scoffed at that, but he did sit back down. “Now,” Jane said slowly, “either tell me why I’m here or let me go, or preferably... just let me go, Alfie, alright? Because as far as I remember, some months ago you had me sitting in that very fucking chair when you accused me of stealing from you, then told me to go to hell and get out of your fucking city. So. If I’m here to die, at least tell me the bloody reason.”

Alfie chuckled at that, then shook his head. “Yeah, alright.” His low baritone was all soft again and Jane hated herself for liking it so damn much. “You weren’t stealin’.”

“I know I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I know that! Now.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, “I wasn’t stealing from you and you didn’t believe me. My books were fucking impeccable, Alfie! Well, your books, as a matter of fucking fact, were fucking impeccable, with my invaluable bloody supervision, as the only person in that establishment that could actually count the correct percentage of—”

“Will you shut up, woman!” Alfie exclaimed again, but this time he was really smiling. “I was gonna say that, alright? ‘S all true.” He shook his head, then threw her the note. “Read it.”

“I know what it bloody says.”

“Nah, the other side. Read it.” Alfie waved his hand dismissively, completely unfazed by Jane still insisting on holding him at gunpoint.

She quickly grabbed the note and looked at the dates scribbled on the side. Her eyes darted to Alfie as she read, daring him to do something stupid and make her shoot him in the balls.

“It’s nonsense,” she decided finally, then leaned back in the chair.

“Bloody illegible, is what it is.”

“Most of it. Why should I care?”

“Yeah, you might not ‘ave recognized him, right, but Abe used to go through the books after you.”

“What?!” Jane hissed, now properly mad. “No! You had him double-check me?!”

“Now, don’t get angry again, love, let me—”

“No, you will not bloody finish!” she shouted and moved closer, this time aiming for his head. “You had me double-checked, accused me of stealing, fired me — publicly, if I may add — and then you have the bloody nerve...! Why the fuck are you smiling?!”

“Yeah, no reason.”

“Are you enjoying this?!”

“Maybe, but the gun part… not especially, sweetheart, if I’m bein’ bloody honest.”

“Go to hell, Alfie.”

Alfie let out a low grunt, watching Jane closely as she put the gun down. She lit another cigarette. Alfie didn’t even flinch, the bastard. Jane snatched the note from his desk and looked at it once again. As she read the childish scribbles, she frowned more and more.

“Yeah, he writes his sevens like his ones,” Alfie said finally. “That’s… why I thought we were missin’ some merchandise.”

Jane looked at him, fuming. “You bastard,” she spat, then crumpled the note into a ball and let it fall to the floor. She stood up then and Alfie watched as she paced around the office. “Alfie, I have no fucking words for this, don’t… Just how in the fuck! How the fuck would I be prancin’ around your offices, carrying out boxes of your bloody rum?! Where would I take them? How in the hell? When have you ever seen me do any heavy lifting?!”

“Darlin’...”

“Don’t fucking call me that! And now, when I am trying to move on and trying to find some honest employment, I am being dismissed left and right through all bloody London, I swear to fuck, Alfie, if you had something to do with this—”

“Right, sweetheart, sit back down, let’s talk about this like people.”

“I swear to God, Alfie, I’m going to fuckin’ shoot you, then feed you to the fucking orphans, they will never find your body!”

“Right, well.” He had the audacity to smile at the idea. “You, uh... left your gun here.”

“I said I was going to do it, I’m getting to it!” Jane marched towards the desk and put out her cigarette, then sat back down.

“Want your gun back then, darlin’?”

She outstretched her hand and Alfie smirked at the gesture.

“Yeah, alright.”

He gave her back the gun and genuinely laughed again when she pointed it back at his head. Jane arched an eyebrow and cocked back the hammer.

“Something funny, Alfie?”

“Nah.” He leaned on his elbows and looked her straight in the eye, still smirking.

“Are you fucking sorry?” she asked, this time in a hushed voice.

Alfie clicked his tongue and broke the eye contact first.

“You’re not,” Jane sighed and lowered the gun. “Well, in this case, I got nothing more to say.”

“So can I fuckin’ speak, then? In my own bloody office? Seems I should be allowed.”

Jane rolled her eyes and waved the gun around, which was a dumb thing to do as she accidentally pulled the trigger and shot straight at the ceiling. She screeched, startled, and Alfie surged forward to take the gun away from her. Jane let out a yelp when he snatched it and grabbed her wrist, hard.

“FUCK!” he roared.

They looked at each other a little longer than strictly necessary, before Alfie let her go and then promptly emptied the chamber, letting all the other bullets fall to the floor. He put the gun in the drawer where he kept the other one and rubbed his face with his hand, huffing and snarling like an angry animal. “You could’ve fuckin’ shot me!”

“That was kind of the idea,” Jane said, suddenly amused for no reason other than the stress in her entire body reaching some downright ridiculous levels.

“Fuck!” Alfie waved his hands about and paced in front of the desk, then finally sat back down and opened another drawer.

With a loud thud, he dropped three ledgers on the desk. Jane rolled her eyes at the theatrics and pointed at them.

“What the fuck is this now?”

“Fuck off. I’m gonna need ya to check the past eleven months.”

Jane snorted at that and shook her head. “No way in hell I’m touching your books again, Alfie Solomons.”

“Fuck you, like hell you won’t.”

“You wish.”

“What?”

“I said what I said.” She stood up and took her purse.

“Sit the fuck down!” This time, he was entirely serious. Jane rolled her eyes but did as she was told. “Fuck’s sake, woman, nobody taught you how to shoot these things proper?!”

She shrugged and looked to the side, avoiding the answer.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie got up to get two glasses from the nearby shelf, then poured them a generous drink each, “as I was fuckin’ saying, before getting interrupted by a fuckin’ bullet in my own, private ceiling!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” Jane took one glass, then downed it in one go. She didn’t even check for poison, but then again... She didn’t think him mad enough to poison his own damn product. Alfie sighed like an exasperated parent, then refilled her glass.

“Ya drink too much, Jane.”

“You don’t drink at all. I even it out.”

“Yeah, right, ‘s ‘cause I’m a polite fuckin’ company.” Alfie looked at the contents of his glass, then swirled it around and took a tentative sip. Jane was surprised, but said nothing. “I need ya to look at the books, Jane.”

“Why?” she sneered. “Scared you fucked up your statements? They're gonna put ya in the slammer for the bloody taxes?”

Alfie shot her a quick look and said nothing, which told her exactly what she needed to know.

“Bloody hell.” She shook her head and emptied the glass. “Fine.”

Alfie nodded at that curtly, but Jane could clearly see he was a bit relieved.

“But first, you apologize,” she demanded. “For calling me a liar and a thief. You apologize right fucking now. You know I cared for you, I bloody did, I would never steal from you, Alfie.”

Alfie looked at her angrily, then took another sip. He was thinking about it, she could tell.

“No.”

Jane shrugged. “Then we’re done here. Have fun in prison, Alfie. Hope your cellmate is handsome.”

“It had to be done,” he said dryly, avoiding her eyes again.

“What had to be done?”

Alfie shook his head and put the glass back down. He gestured towards Jane.

“Had to send ya away.”

“I’m not a fucking dog, Alfie, you can’t just send me away.”

“Yeah, well, when I thought you were stealin’, it seemed like the perfect occasion, didn’t it?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Alfie huffed, completely ignoring the tone that he would never in a million years allow from most.

“It was the fuckin’ war, alright?”

“War.” Jane frowned, wondering if she should call him a doctor. “What war?”

“The Italians. Sabini.” Alfie leaned against the wall and this time fixed his gaze on Jane. He crossed his arms over his chest and Jane couldn’t resist looking at the familiar crown tattoos. “Had to send you away. Everybody knew, alright?”

“Knew what?”

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me say it?” He bit his lower lip and Jane really wished he wouldn’t. It made him look almost boyish and she couldn’t take it.

“Well, I don’t know, Alfie, what exactly—”

“You were my girl. Alright? You were bloody impressive with the books, fuckin’ smart, got a pistol for a mouth, so,” his tone got low and dangerous again, “they’d kill ya. Just to show me they could.”

“Really?” Jane leaned forward against the desk.

“Very bloody likely.”

“You didn’t even call me pretty.” Jane smirked and Alfie looked at her the way he used to, like she had just exceeded every single expectation he might have had for a person. Jane tried to pretend it didn’t matter.

“Nobody in London would ever believe you were dating a goy girl, Alfie.” Jane pointed at the ledgers. “Now, if I told you to go fuck yourself about the books… Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yeah, I’d ‘ave ya shot. Hypothetically.”

“But you still wouldn’t apologize.”

“Nah.”

Jane nodded at that, weighing the options. Alfie watched her like a hawk, obviously feeling bloody clever about the entire thing. In the end, Jane had only one option left and she knew she had to use that particular strategy wisely.

“Fine. I’ll come check them in the morning. Since you asked so nicely. Now,” she finished her drink and got up, “I’ll have my gun back, Alfie, and thanks very much for the…” she gestured around the office, “evening. Nice to know you’re still great fun.”

He said nothing, just watched her with a smirk. Jane sighed and decided to use her secret weapon, since it was either now or never. She had to check if his sentiment was genuine. If he still cared, if only just a little.

She took out the two hairpins that held her updo together. Rich, red curls cascaded all the way down to her waist, as she rolled her shoulders back, pretending she didn’t just orchestrate that entire performance just to leave the man bloody stupid.

“My gun, Alfie.” She outstretched her hand.

Alfie was on her in seconds. He moved entirely too swiftly for a guy who spent half his adult life trying to seem as broad and heavy as possible. He pinned her to the wall and looked her up and down, letting out a guttural hum that could have either meant approval or the sudden urge to slit her throat ear to ear. Jane still wasn’t entirely sure if teasing a man like Alfie Solomons was such a great idea, until he let go of one of her arms to gently run his hand through her hair. She knew she had won.

Alfie paused to admire one loose strand in the light, watching as the dim flame of the lamp enhanced the fiery shades even more. Alfie liked pretty, shiny things and Jane was very much aware of that fact. Her hair, looking like a halo around her head, had Alfie transfixed. Jane parted her lips just slightly, letting out a gentle sigh. She knew exactly what she was trying to do here and she was surprised to find it working so well.

“It’s late.” She arched her back, trying to wiggle out of Alfie’s hold, but not really as strongly as she could have.

Alfie grunted at the statement, or perhaps at that sudden closeness, and didn’t budge an inch. He could make himself immovable like a mountain if he really put his back to it. Jane knew that trick well and she would be lying if she said it had no effect on her.

“Tomorrow,” she said again, a bit harsher this time.

He let go of her hair then and looked her in the eye, brow furrowed in annoyance. He reminded Jane of a frustrated dog and she did everything in her power not to smile at the comparison. Alfie finally stepped aside and walked back to his chair behind the desk.

“Pick ‘em up,” he commanded, pointing to where the bullets were scattered on the floor.

“I’ll buy some new ones, thanks,” Jane scoffed, but then one look at Alfie’s face told her it was not really a request.

“Fuck almighty, you’re impossible,” she said through gritted teeth and bent over to do as she was told.

He didn’t move to do anything this time, just watched her do it. Then, with a shit-eating grin she was ready to slap him for, Alfie handed her the gun.

“Now, be careful with that, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Oh, don’t worry, I can still practice on your bloody goons,” Jane barked, then promptly turned her back to him, mane of red curls flowing behind her as she stormed out.

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