Define 'Morality'

May 10, 2010 00:10

Title: Define 'Morality'
Characters: America/Romano
Rating: R
Warnings: filthy language and even filthier plot points
Summary: Also for aph_rarexchange--some 1920's-era hijinks. These people are not role models.



Where it really started to go sour was when Romano got hit by the car.

Well, okay, maybe in hindsight things could have gone a little better in the run-up to that, so to speak, and maybe there was some point further back where fate took a more ominous turn and the bit with the Buick was getting a little ahead of things. Possibly them being down by the docks at all was cause enough for a ruckus, but sooner or later that was just splitting hairs.

Anyway, the car-hitting was certainly the part where America got the distinct impression that something had turned out less than copacetic. It was also the part he would put in a movie picture first if it were up to him, because while the trials and tribulations of two honest down-on-their-luck types confronting the twisty moral dilemmas of modern society would make for a pretty swell story, America had a feeling that the sight of Romano doing a triple midair cartwheel was something a lot more likely to get people in the theater, not to mention a lot less likely to ever happen for capture on the big screen again.

So when the dust had settled, he trotted across the alleyway to the pile of crates that had broken Romano's fall to see what else they might have broken in the process; and to say, "Jesus," in case he felt like helping any.

Upon which Romano stood up, wobbled, told him not to use the fucking Lord's name in fucking vain, and then fell right the hell over again.

It was not exactly what either of them had planned for that evening.

--

"Shut up."

America laughed under the brassy-yellow ceiling light instead. "I'm just saying, it was like something straight outta the movies! Perfect arc and everything." He lifted one arm from what it was doing long enough to demonstrate theatrically, his hand a gently sweeping miniature of airborne Mediterranean rage. "Beautiful."

At his other elbow, Romano snarled and sank down all hunch-shouldered. "If you turn this into one of your little party stories," he said, glaring around the rag of ice pressed firmly to his left eye, "I'm going to break every bone in your miserable carcass." He stewed for a second. "And then I'll never speak to you again."

"You keep promising me things like that, but danged if you're not there every time I turn around." America smiled and rolled his shoulders to loosen them, switched rhythms for a change of pace. "Still, though." He whistled. "What a night, huh?"

--This being something of an understatement, naturally. The original plan, near as America could tell, six hours later and with a not insignificant amount of something that definitely wasn't apple juice in his system, had in fact involved averting crime as opposed to becoming the victims of one. Because everyone knew where the rum runners landed up on the Jersey coast, see, or maybe not everybody but definitely most of the people who made it their business to know these kinda things, and the thing about that whole racket was that while it was fun to watch and a fine example of American entrepreneurship, it was also not by the strictest of interpretations legal. So clearly the only responsible thing to do if you happened to find yourself in that area at an opportune time, as America and Romano had, would be to dissuade such terrible wrongdoing, just possibly by confiscating aforementioned illicit goods in the better interest of society at large. It was a real charitable cause. And two dedicated civil servants hoping to steer evildoers away from their sinful degenerate paths and maybe necking a little in the alleyway to pass the time certainly didn't deserve to get smacked around by getaway cars, but, well, best laid plans.

(And by the way America totally was going to tell that story to pretty much everyone, at every conceivable opportunity, but Romano didn't have to know that.)

Fortunately, no living soul on the east coast had quite mastered the art of the speedy getaway the way America could like breathing, so they'd found themselves after a little bit of preliminary limping in one of New York's less notorious speakeasies without much fuss from the locals over their sudden inexplicable appearance. It wasn't the swankiest place, just a sort of hole in the wall with some cozy lamps and enough regulars to keep the noise level at a comfortable buzz, but it was decent and theirs were the sort of woes best solved via drowning at the moment. One lack of a liquor license was just as good as another, after all, and even if this joint hadn't caught up with the times yet and brought in some more live jazz, they did at least still have the piano he and Romano had more or less occupied. America generally knew what to do with one of those.

So he was trying to make the best of a disappointing situation, being an optimist and all, and even if his company didn't seem too invested in helping out he was at least getting some great freestlye practice in with this baby grand. "I mean, the docks looked sort of cool," he tried, reaching around Romano's far shoulder to get that last ping to finish the measure off.

Romano slapped the arm away. "Fuck you and fuck those guys. And New Jersey, New Jersey can go straight to Hell for all I care."

"Ain't all that bad," America said, changing keys like trying on ties. He looked around the room at all the people milling "Least the shipping industry's thriving, so to speak, and the road's just fine as long as you're not obliged to drive on it. Plus, for a guy with an uncommon physical situation such as yourself, it's nice not having to walk all that way either."

"You calling me fat?" Said Romano, poking experimentally at his shiny new black eye.

"What? Nah! You're fit as a cello. But you gotta admit, not having to hoof it everywhere is one of the better perks of this, uh, occupation. Next to doing okay after grievous bodily harm, that's still way up there on my list. Say, I ever tell you about that trip I took out to Oregon, few years back?"

But Romano, being Romano, persevered admirably in continuing to be pissed off. He buried his head in his arms and shared his woes with the piano top. "Assholes knocked my hat off, too. I liked that hat."

"I said I'd help you look for it," America sighed, giving Gershwin a try. That usually cheered people up. "Plus, to be perfectly honest you did kind of step into the middle of the road there. Some folks--not me, obviously!--but some folks might say you was just about as much to blame as the driver." He snickered. "Hey, you think if you tracked them down they'd have a dent in their car shaped like your--"

"I have plenty of people to blame," Romano snapped, about two octaves too high. "And don't think you're not on that list either. That's always how it goes with the fucking mafia, you got all this crime and nobody ever does anything about 'cause they're too damn lazy. A hit and run's still a hit and run, damn it! That car would've killed me if I weren't me! It's practically murder."

"I'd be practically upset," said America, while a waitress with pretty green eyes and a skirt that at best indicated a very limited fabric budget came by to set a glass of something ambiguously colored on top of the piano. He winked at her and tossed his head in Romano's direction. "Hey, some more ice for my friend here? He's awful tender."

Suddenly Romano straightened and slammed a fist on the counter. "Fuckers!" he yelled, while the girl took off running.

"You gotta work on that temper," America sighed, watching her go. Not the worst view. "By the way, was that one of yours? She had a funny accent when she said hi back then."

Romano stopped muttering something that sounded an awful lot like I'll show you funny to shake his head and say, "No, wrong accent. It sounded like she's one of Hungary's."

"Well, hey, she can be one of mine too, if you know what I'm saying."

"Pig." And damn the luck, America just might have gotten a smile out of the guy if some very familiar Buick-driving types in neat black suits, apparently very pleased with themselves and interested in making a sale, didn't happen to walk through the door just then. Romano set his ice down and grabbed the edge of the piano so hard America thought he might break it. "Is that...?"

It was hard to make out faces he had only seen through an oncoming windowsill and voices he had only heard yelling at forty miles an hour, but America did have to admit, the resemblance was incriminating. "Sure looks like 'em, huh?" he admitted, still playing. "But see, I told you we got from Jersey to here before them! Hey, you think if we go outside they'll have a dent in their car shaped like your--" America became suddenly aware that the seat next to him had emptied completely. He blinked. "Uh. Buddy?"

"Okay, assholes, I'll show how you hit a guy off guard!"

Oh.

Well.

As the joint cleared out and the sounds of yelling, punching, and, briefly, gunfire made him switch back into a major key just to keep hearing himself play, America considered getting up to stop the fight, or maybe at least to convince Romano to not do that thing with the table leg because seriously ouch; but then again maybe it was better to let the guy get it all out here. Better to beat up people who more or less deserved it than some poor paperboy yelling too loud in the morning when Romano had a hangover, right?

Besides, the table leg thing was kind of cool to watch, when it wasn't being done to you.

"You want family connections? I'll show you family connections! Stop running, I've got some tough love for you right the fuck here!

Come to think of it, the piano could have used a little tuning, America realized. Though getting shot at certainly wasn't going to help.

"Think you're so tough, hitting pedestrians and peddling your booze around like a buncha no-good delinquent sons a' whores! You ever think about what you're doing to society, huh? Huh?! Of course you don't, 'cause you don't fucking think, you--"

"What the fuck're you talking about, you're the one sitting in a--"

"Don't you interrupt me, dead man!"

Eventually America ran out of fun things to punctuate the scene with, so he was going through Chopsticks for about the hundredth time when the last sounds of skittering retreat shot through the door and Romano collapsed in his old spot on the piano bench, panting. "Hi again," he said. "Are we done here?"

Romano picked up his ice again and applied it to the other eye, which now matched. "No thanks to you, fancazzista."

"You're just antsy," America said, leaning back and twiddling his thumbs, "'cause they teach you this stuff all wrong in Europe. If you can't play piano with a coupla people shooting at you, then you've got no business learning in the first place." He flexed his fingers languidly. "So what happens now?"

"Steal a car, track down a headquarters, loot some contraband and burn the fucking place to the ground," Romano answered flatly.

"First three and you use some of it to pay for what you done to this joint."

"Fair enough."

See, that was probably the Gershwin talking. Soothing stuff.

--

Four in the morning was a special bird, America thought. Too late to feel like starting new messes and too early to worry about cleaning the old ones up, so if you were lucky or unlucky enough (whichever) to still be awake, there wasn't much else to do but lay low and wait for morning to bring some color back into the picture. Which would be nice, seeing how blue and quiet the bathroom got around this time. If he listened hard enough, he was pretty sure he could hear his stubble growing in for tomorrow morning's shave, over various other background noises.

"So, hey," he started, once his mouth was free again.

Something tugged at America's shirt sleeves and a head full of not-very-clean hair bumped against the underside of his chin, just at the right spot for the growl to bounce off his throat. "What."

America gave a spirited effort to stretch his legs and arms. That was the other thing about four in the morning--it took the fight right out of a guy. What had started as a tussle for the sink and first showering rights had turned somewhere along the line into America sprawled in the empty tub with his feet propped on the opposite rim while Romano apparently did his best to squash the rest of him. They had since progressed past necking and were now exploring through various means of nonverbal communication what sorts of other anatomical parts they could throw into the equation, proceeding in a general fashion according to the laws of gravity except for Romano getting hung up on America's collarbone again every couple of minutes. America had decided that this was totally okay.

He squirmed anyway and nudged the teeth away from his earlobe long enough to continue: "Something occurs to me, just, you know--mm--incidentally and all. So what happened earlier, that was sort of a good deed, right? Because smuggling's wrong, and running over people's worse, and guys like you an' me, we're like--hell, do that again--we're like the last pillars of morality and human decency in a world gone all crackers with sin, yeah?"

"This place is a goddamn cesspool," Romano confirmed, unbuckling America's suspenders.

"Right," said America, helping Romano out. Harder than it looked, lying down. "Only I can't help noticing, out of the corner of my eye sort of, that we seem to have one, two..." America craned his chin over Romano's shoulder and counted, mumbling under his breath. "--Four bottles of hooch very mysteriously sitting on the counter for some reason which totally escapes me."

"Plus the ones in your pockets," Romano said, jerking his head towards the coat rack in the hall.

America nodded slowly. "Plus those two, yeah. Also the one I'm holding," he added, hefting it. America blinked stupidly at the bottle, then poured another shot into the glass which--by complete chance!--had wound up in his other hand and swirled it around a little, contemplating. "That's, uh. That's still not legal, is it," he hypothesized.

Being so busy helping to remind America what buttons were good for at the time, Romano couldn't manage much more than a noise that sounded like, "Tch." America took the opportunity to mull it over some more, in between sips.

"But then, hey!" he decided, smiling hopefully at the fishes on the shower curtain. They smiled back, but to be fair they didn't have much choice. "Technically we stole it thieves, so, ha, that might take some of the wrong off it. Kind of dilutes the bad deed, don't you think?"

Romano picked America's glass up off the floor as soon as he'd set it down and drained in in one go, propping himself up with his elbow on America's chest. "Doesn't taste diluted. Fine." He groaned and sat up so he was straddling America and swished the last dregs of poison around absently like he was thinking of pouring them in someone's eye if pants didn't start coming off soon. "You wanna know what I think?"

"Not if it's that I'm a nasty word in Italian."

"Too bad, leccacazzi. But no, what I think is that you're kinda thick, but you're not that thick, and you can see just as well as I can that you're playing both ends here. And you like it, don't you dare lie about that. That's why you hang around stupid places after dark. That's why you play your little jazz tunes and know every speakeasy in a fucking ten mile radius, even though you'd swear up and down at your day job (if you had one, lazy fucker) that you never touch either of 'em. So you do your best to keep it all under control and you put a stop to the worst of it when you can, even though it's you causin' the trouble in the first place." Romano shrugged, or managed something close to it, considering all the swaying. "And so what? Maybe that's what we're here for. Think of it as, as self-flagellation."

America thought about it. "Man," he said. "That's too Catholic."

"Good, maybe it'll start catching one of these days. Now stop being a dumbass and kiss me or whatever before I put my boot halfway down your throat." With that, Romano collapsed like someone had hit the 'off' switch on him and curled up against America's chest, letting the glass slip from his hand and thunk to the tile outside the tub. "That's it, though," he told America, after practically biting his lip off. "It's Sunday." Romano curled up on his side with his face buried in America's shoulder. "We got church today."

America snorted, threw an arm around Romano's shoulders, pulled him closer. "Gonna make a confession?" he mumbled. "Might take 'til Tuesday."

"Not as long as you'll take once I nail your feet down inside the booth. Idiot."

"Mm." America's own eyes started getting heavy. "I think next week I'm going back to officially having money again," he decided, petting at Romano's hair a little. "Different apartment, maybe someplace kinda swanky with windows that close an' all that. Shake things up, you know? Nobody does rags to riches like me."

"You got shit for brains no matter what."

More or less companionable silence for a minute, except for some way-too-early birds outside. "Could buy you a new hat," America offered, but if Romano heard it he didn't answer, so America settled in and count a few sheep of his own in time to the curses being mumbled softly into his left ear.

Of course it would all lose some of its charm when Romano got up in a couple of hours and turned the water on America full-blast, because he really didn't kid around about the church stuff. That was alright. At least he'd have some stuff to whisper in the priest's ear that'd make it worth the ice bath.

romano, america, [genre] gen

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