Work Text:
Title: “Smoke and Sugar”
The music at Lackadaisy was louder than usual that night—horns blaring, piano keys dancing, and laughter spilling like bootlegged champagne. Ivy Pepper twirled on the dance floor in a swirl of sequins and sass, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Freckle McMurray, nursing a drink at the bar like it might bite him.
She sauntered over, heels clicking like punctuation marks.
“You gonna sit there all night looking like a noir novel cover, or are you gonna dance with me?” she teased, leaning on the bar with a grin that could melt steel.
Freckle blinked, startled. “I—I don’t really dance.”
“You shoot people, but you don’t dance?” Ivy raised a brow. “That’s tragic.”
He flushed, ears twitching. “Shooting’s easier. Less risk of stepping on toes.”
Ivy laughed, the sound like a saxophone riff—bright, brash, and a little reckless. “Come on, McMurray. I promise not to sue if you crush a heel.”
Reluctantly, Freckle let her pull him onto the floor. The band shifted into a slower tune, something smoky and sweet. Ivy slid her arms around his neck, and Freckle’s hands hovered awkwardly before settling at her waist.
“You’re stiff as a corpse,” she murmured, amused.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m just... not used to this.”
“To dancing?”
“To you. Being this close.”
Ivy’s smirk softened. “You know, for a guy who can go full Tommy gun berserker, you’re awfully shy.”
Freckle looked away, his voice low. “I’m not shy. I’m just... careful.”
They swayed together, the music wrapping around them like velvet. Ivy tilted her head, studying him. “You ever wonder what it’d be like if we weren’t always dodging bullets and bootleggers?”
Freckle gave a small smile. “I think about it more than I should.”
“Me too,” she admitted. “Sometimes I imagine us in a little apartment above a bakery. You’d make coffee, I’d steal pastries, and we’d argue about jazz records.”
He chuckled. “You’d win every argument.”
“Obviously.”
The song ended, but Ivy didn’t let go. “Walk me out back?”
Freckle hesitated, then nodded. They slipped through the crowd and out into the alley behind the speakeasy, where the air was thick with smoke and moonlight. Ivy leaned against the brick wall, her eyes glinting.
“You ever think we’re just playing dress-up in a world that’s too sharp for softness?” she asked.
Freckle leaned beside her. “Sometimes. But then I see you laugh, and I think maybe softness is the only thing keeping us sane.”
She looked at him, surprised by the honesty. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said quietly. “A lot.”
Ivy’s heart skipped. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re... chaos. But you make me feel like maybe I’m not just a weapon waiting to go off.”
She reached out, brushing a hand against his cheek. “You’re not. You’re more than that. You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re... mine, if you want to be.”
Freckle swallowed hard. “I do.”
She leaned in, and their lips met—tentative at first, then deeper, like they were both trying to memorize the moment in case it got stolen by gunfire or fate. When they pulled back, Ivy rested her forehead against his.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “But I want it.”
Freckle nodded. “Me too.”
From inside, the music swelled again, but out here, in the quiet, Ivy and Freckle stood wrapped in something stronger than jazz and danger—hope.