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mtxref_ficAny, any, "You better give your heart to Jesus, 'cause that ass is mine." Featuring Jack Harkness/Angelo Colasanto and an anNOYing OMC interloper. Contains mild homointolerance and Catholic-bashing (hence why anNOYing interloper is anNOYing).
A dive bar on the waterfront, the kind of place where sailors hung out: Jack had chosen the place as a rendezvous point, in the event that they had to split up, dodging either police or other rival bootleggers, chasing them off their turf.
Not the kind of place that Angelo liked: for all its nondescriptness, it had a seedy air that attracted the wrong kind of clientèle, the sort that eyed Angelo askance as he sat at a corner table, two glasses of rum before him, one for himself, the other awaiting Jack, part of the signal that they had arranged.
A tall, husky, tanned fellow with a sinister-looking scar running from the corner of his jaw to his ear sidled up to the table, standing over the back of Angelo's chair. "Yew a Kris-chun?" the newcomer asked, with a thick, strange accent which Angelo barely understood.
Angelo looked up without turning in his chair. "Excuse me?" he asked, careful to hide his own Italian lilt: he found native-born Americans tended to side-eye him at best if he sounded too "fresh off the boat".
"Ah... sayed... Are? Yew? A Kris-chun?" the interloped demanded, looking him up and down
"I'm a Catholic," Angelo replied, flatly.
"Ugh, wunna them Pay-pissts, eh? Well, throw away yer Mary-beads and get ready t' give yer heart to Jesus, 'cause that ass is mine," the interloper said, with a gap-toothed grin, as he reached for the back of Angelo's trousers.
The shadow of a tall man in a long coat fell over the two of them. "Sorry, Bubba-Joe: that ass is *mine*," Jack cut in, hand on the intruder's collar, the husky red-headed Irish gent who watched the door at his back, helping him steer the intruder to another seat, far away from Angelo's table and plunking him down. The bouncer had a few words to say "Bubba-Joe" while Jack returned to their table.
"Making friends with the visitors from the Deep South?" Jack asked, sitting down across from Angelo. "I've met guys from Rigel-5 with lighter accents and less grabby hands. And better hygiene."
"He was trying to make friends with me, if you call that making friends," Angelo grumbled. "What took you so long?"
"Had to triple-back to lose a tail," Jack said, reaching under the table to find Angelo's knee. "Just so I could get another tail."
"Don't make jokes like that: I just got manhandled by a pest," Angelo said, pulling his knee away from Jack's hand.
"The pest bothered you?" Jack asked, his mocking tone fading into concern. "Come on, let's blow this joint," he said, rising and holding his hand out to Angelo.
A dive bar on the waterfront, the kind of place where sailors hung out: Jack had chosen the place as a rendezvous point, in the event that they had to split up, dodging either police or other rival bootleggers, chasing them off their turf.
Not the kind of place that Angelo liked: for all its nondescriptness, it had a seedy air that attracted the wrong kind of clientèle, the sort that eyed Angelo askance as he sat at a corner table, two glasses of rum before him, one for himself, the other awaiting Jack, part of the signal that they had arranged.
A tall, husky, tanned fellow with a sinister-looking scar running from the corner of his jaw to his ear sidled up to the table, standing over the back of Angelo's chair. "Yew a Kris-chun?" the newcomer asked, with a thick, strange accent which Angelo barely understood.
Angelo looked up without turning in his chair. "Excuse me?" he asked, careful to hide his own Italian lilt: he found native-born Americans tended to side-eye him at best if he sounded too "fresh off the boat".
"Ah... sayed... Are? Yew? A Kris-chun?" the interloped demanded, looking him up and down
"I'm a Catholic," Angelo replied, flatly.
"Ugh, wunna them Pay-pissts, eh? Well, throw away yer Mary-beads and get ready t' give yer heart to Jesus, 'cause that ass is mine," the interloper said, with a gap-toothed grin, as he reached for the back of Angelo's trousers.
The shadow of a tall man in a long coat fell over the two of them. "Sorry, Bubba-Joe: that ass is *mine*," Jack cut in, hand on the intruder's collar, the husky red-headed Irish gent who watched the door at his back, helping him steer the intruder to another seat, far away from Angelo's table and plunking him down. The bouncer had a few words to say "Bubba-Joe" while Jack returned to their table.
"Making friends with the visitors from the Deep South?" Jack asked, sitting down across from Angelo. "I've met guys from Rigel-5 with lighter accents and less grabby hands. And better hygiene."
"He was trying to make friends with me, if you call that making friends," Angelo grumbled. "What took you so long?"
"Had to triple-back to lose a tail," Jack said, reaching under the table to find Angelo's knee. "Just so I could get another tail."
"Don't make jokes like that: I just got manhandled by a pest," Angelo said, pulling his knee away from Jack's hand.
"The pest bothered you?" Jack asked, his mocking tone fading into concern. "Come on, let's blow this joint," he said, rising and holding his hand out to Angelo.
