song_tra_bong | (no subject)

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The door opens onto a dimly lit bar. Two men in suits sit at a table by the wall, speaking in low voices; they don't look up when Mary Anne and Ramon walk in.

Four men at the pool table in the back do look up, then go back to their game. Their rolled up sleeves show off jailhouse tattoos--tattoos that mean murderers, time served, rank in their organization. Just because they aren't staring openly doesn't mean they aren't paying attention. The fact that no one makes a fuss just yet over Ramon's machine gun is telling.

A waitress in a short skirt goes by with a tray, delivering drinks to the suits by the wall. Mary Anne heads for the bar, taking a seat that's a few stools over from the next man. She beckons the bartender over.

"Vodka for me and my friend," she says in flawless Russian. "And keep them coming. We're out on the town tonight."

The bartender shakes his head. "You picked a hell of place to come," he says, but pours the drinks all the same then wanders down to the customer at the other end of the bar.

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"Fair enough."
(I want to hold you close--soft breath, beating heart)
She catches his hand, lifting his arm enough to twirl herself under it before letting go.
(as I whisper in your ear, I want to fucking tear you apart)
If this is going to be her last dance for a little while, she's going to make the most of it. She doesn't bother with any partners this time, just keeps moving while now and then bits of the song's lyrics filter through the noise.

He moves too but still doesn't take his eyes off her shifting form. After a minute of this he moves in, placing one hand on her hip just above her ass and the other on her waist.

Hey, it's the last dance for a while, right? And he's never gone so long without touching another person in his life. It's harder for him that he'd like to admit.

She leans into him, because touching always seemed like the point of dancing with a partner to her.

She reaches up and rests one hand lightly against his neck, more because she wants to than out of any real need to steady herself. She can't remember the last time she danced with someone she knew, someone she liked. She'd forgotten how much she enjoys it.

He's suddenly very aware of her, even more than he was a moment ago. How could he not be, with her leaning against him like this?
I wanna fuck you like an animal...
'You're a good dancer,' he says, for something to say. It comes out a lot quieter than he meant it to.
I wanna feel you from the inside...

She tilts her head to look up at him, faintly surprised.
(my whole existence is flawed)
"You're not bad yourself."
(you get me closer to god)

'I know.'

He stays silent for the rest of the song and lets her go when it's over, both reluctant and relieved.

'Lets drink.'

Fuck yeah, he wants to drink.

"Sure thing."

She leads the way back to the booth and pours herself another heavy-handed measure of vodka. When she reaches for Ramon's glass, she pauses.

"This still good for you, or are you sick of it yet?"

He waves a hand at it, unconcerned.

'It'll do. We'll hit the tequila when we finish this one.'

He makes sure she's liberal when she pours.

'So, who's your friend in the infirmary at the bar? You never told me his name.'

She slides the (very full) glass over.

"Kit Marlowe. You met him?"

'No. Name's familiar though.'

Obviously. He swirls the drink in its glass before emptying half of it.

'He a boyfriend?'

Just curious.

"He wrote around the same time as Shakespeare, before he became an assassin."

She takes a sip of vodka.

"He's a friend."

With some benefits, though they haven't really talked about that aspect since he ended up in the infirmary.

Ramon snorts. There's only one kind of 'friend' that people have, in his mind.

'Sure. Writes you stuff, does he?'

He finishes his drink and pours another. He's definitely getting fuzzy around the edges now, especially as the adrenlaine from the killing has more or less worn off and he's just left with the alcohol.

She smirks faintly around the rim of her glass.

"Nothing yet. I'll have to see how inspired he's feeling once his hand heals."

'If he really cared, he'd dictate it.'

Suddenly her constant philandering irritates him. He couldn't put his finger on why, it just does.

'This shit never bothers your husband?'

He already knows the answer but whatever. He just has another drink and, as the vodka is nearing its end, motions to the waitress to come over.

Mary Anne empties out the bottle into her glass and takes a long drink before answering.

"Hasn't bothered him yet."

She decides not to mention that the only time Ruin had seemed...bothered was after she kissed Ramon.

He already knows that because Ruin had taken the trouble to talk to him about it. He hasn't forgotten either - which is why he now smirks.

'Yes it has, and you know it.'

He turns to the waitress and barks 'Tequila - a bottle' before looking at Mary Anne to see whether she'll deny it.

Damn him and he good memory. And damn her husband's need to be chatty, while she's at it. She drains the glass.

"Alright. Doesn't bother him often," she amends, smile crooked.

'Did you get in trouble over all of that?'

He knows he did.

"Some, yeah."

The waitress is back with the tequila; Mary Anne opens the bottle and takes a swig straight from it before passing it over to Ramon.

'Good.'

He smirks and takes the bottle off her.

'So you should have. Kissing me like that.'

Damn woman.

She laughs.

"Oh, excuse me for playing the wicked temptress while you were under the influence of mind-altering...whatever and hitting on anything breathing."

'Well, yeah.'

Sure.

'You took advantage of me.'

He pauses and then grins.

'It was pretty fun getting to hit on things again though.'

He hopes she never tells Random he said that. or will, when he#s more sober.

"I was trying to keep you from taking advantage of somebody else. It's not my fault you were all sexy and articulate."

Definitely not one of her better laid plans.

"You certainly didn't seem to have lost your touch at it."

As far as she's concerned, this whole conversation is staying just between the two of them.

'You have fucked up logic.'

More drink, and he relights his cigar.

'And if there's one thing I'll never lose, it's my touch.'

Of this, he is completely sure.

"Hey, I never said I was thinking clearly at the time."

See also: Ramon, sexy and articulate.

She pours herself a glass of tequila and starts working on it.

"Oh, I believe that."

Because the thought of Ramon losing his touch is just a crime.