Brokeback Mountain: Drink Up (Ennis/Jack | T | 825w)
[ Ennis/Jack | 2007-07-15 | 825w | Mirror]
Bootlegger AU. “Jack Twist,” the fellow said, extending his hand, his smile as slick as his pinstripes.
Drink Up
“I need more juice, honeycheeks. My mouth is dryin’ up worse than the Sahara over here.”
“Ain’t got no more juice to give ya, Jackie boy.”
Jack leaned on the bartop, flashing her his most charming smile. “Last week you had plenty a juice to give me.” He snagged the ruffles on Alma’s waist, grinning wider when she squeaked and slapped at his hand. She adjusted her rags-and-sequins outfit, patting down her tight blond curls for good measure, but she was still blushing.
“That was before we got shut down for sellin’ juice three days ago by the coppers.”
Jack lost his smile. “You gonna let those bulls push you around?”
She shrugged, her just-fixed shoulder strap falling down again. “Geary’s rules. Maybe go to Lureen’s down Broadway; word on the street is they’re easy over there, you catch my drift.”
He tipped his hat at her. “Thanks for the tip. See ya ’round.”
She sighed, watching him go, wishing he was interested in the other wares she had to offer. Jack Twist was a helluva catch, illegal juice or no.
*
The last of the moonshine was inside, and Ennis was ready to go home-K.E. promised this was the last run he’d have to make. He was sure as hell tired of doing his brother’s dirty work. But his sister Rose needed the dough, what with her husband being killed in a recent shoot-out, so didn’t have much choice. But after tonight he’d be out in the yards stirring instead of doing the dangerous work, so that was all right by him.
He leaned against the Jalopy, careful not to rest all his weight on it, because the thing might as well have been made out of bathtub parts the way it held together. Folding up his white sleeves, he started rolling himself a cigarette while he waited for K.E. to finish up inside with Lureen-sometimes K.E. lingered and took advantage of the shadier aspects Lureen’s had for sale, so he started a second cigarette, just in case, tobacco releasing rich fragrance as he tightened the paper around it.
He heard the shoes before he saw them; he could tell from the way they hit the pavement that they were slick, black, and sure enough, when they came into his downcast view, they shone with new polish, sharp black and white wingtips
“Evenin’,” a friendly voice said, but he didn’t look up, just nodded, licking the tip of his cigarette.
The wingtips went to the front door, knocking three times. Bruno answered and they exchanged hushes whispers that always got Ennis’s spine crawling-the whole gig screamed suspicious. His cheeks twitched as he listened for sirens.
But then Bruno shut the eyehole and the sounds of jazz were abruptly cut off. The wingtips sauntered over his way, stopping right in front of his feet.
Ennis, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, looked up.
“Jack Twist,” the fellow said, extending his hand, his smile as slick as his pinstripes, big-shouldered, narrow-hipped, topped off with a mop of jet-black hair that sprouted out even from under his black and white hat.
“Ennis.” Jack’s hand was warm. “Del Mar.”
Jack nodded his head back towards the door. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me the word, do ya?”
Ennis almost scowled, turned away to get in the car, but Jack’s hand tightened around his, and Jack’s smile went from being slick to… something else. Something light-headed like the moonshine fumes that stung Ennis’s nostrils.
“On second thought,” Jack said, “Prob’ly stupid to mess with a hard-broiled fella like Bruno.” He leaned against the Jalopy before Ennis could stop him, hips tilted indecent and smiling from under his gangster’s hat. “Whaddya say you hand me a ciggy and a little of that juice you’re keeping in this piece of junk car, and we’ll have a little party of our own?”
Ennis blinked at his sheer audacity and shook his head, ash falling off his cigarette, but the moonshine-fume feeling wouldn’t go away, especially as Jack kept smiling at him, smiling and crossing his feet at the ankles.
“’Kay,” he mumbled after a few minutes in the direction of Jack’s shoes, because the word no wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard he tried.
They drank too much, more than Ennis had ever had in his life, until all the lights were haloes and everything Jack said sounded like music, and they smoked, smoked until his tongue was dry from licking papers and he was out of matches. Jack’s voice roughened, rumbled low in Ennis’s ear, warmed the side of Ennis’s face when they started falling into each other.
After a few hours, after he laughed himself closer to Jack and they kissed so hard they broke the passenger seat of the Jalopy, Ennis finally understood why it was called moonshine: drinking it, anything could happen.
Bootlegger AU. “Jack Twist,” the fellow said, extending his hand, his smile as slick as his pinstripes.
Drink Up
“I need more juice, honeycheeks. My mouth is dryin’ up worse than the Sahara over here.”
“Ain’t got no more juice to give ya, Jackie boy.”
Jack leaned on the bartop, flashing her his most charming smile. “Last week you had plenty a juice to give me.” He snagged the ruffles on Alma’s waist, grinning wider when she squeaked and slapped at his hand. She adjusted her rags-and-sequins outfit, patting down her tight blond curls for good measure, but she was still blushing.
“That was before we got shut down for sellin’ juice three days ago by the coppers.”
Jack lost his smile. “You gonna let those bulls push you around?”
She shrugged, her just-fixed shoulder strap falling down again. “Geary’s rules. Maybe go to Lureen’s down Broadway; word on the street is they’re easy over there, you catch my drift.”
He tipped his hat at her. “Thanks for the tip. See ya ’round.”
She sighed, watching him go, wishing he was interested in the other wares she had to offer. Jack Twist was a helluva catch, illegal juice or no.
*
The last of the moonshine was inside, and Ennis was ready to go home-K.E. promised this was the last run he’d have to make. He was sure as hell tired of doing his brother’s dirty work. But his sister Rose needed the dough, what with her husband being killed in a recent shoot-out, so didn’t have much choice. But after tonight he’d be out in the yards stirring instead of doing the dangerous work, so that was all right by him.
He leaned against the Jalopy, careful not to rest all his weight on it, because the thing might as well have been made out of bathtub parts the way it held together. Folding up his white sleeves, he started rolling himself a cigarette while he waited for K.E. to finish up inside with Lureen-sometimes K.E. lingered and took advantage of the shadier aspects Lureen’s had for sale, so he started a second cigarette, just in case, tobacco releasing rich fragrance as he tightened the paper around it.
He heard the shoes before he saw them; he could tell from the way they hit the pavement that they were slick, black, and sure enough, when they came into his downcast view, they shone with new polish, sharp black and white wingtips
“Evenin’,” a friendly voice said, but he didn’t look up, just nodded, licking the tip of his cigarette.
The wingtips went to the front door, knocking three times. Bruno answered and they exchanged hushes whispers that always got Ennis’s spine crawling-the whole gig screamed suspicious. His cheeks twitched as he listened for sirens.
But then Bruno shut the eyehole and the sounds of jazz were abruptly cut off. The wingtips sauntered over his way, stopping right in front of his feet.
Ennis, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, looked up.
“Jack Twist,” the fellow said, extending his hand, his smile as slick as his pinstripes, big-shouldered, narrow-hipped, topped off with a mop of jet-black hair that sprouted out even from under his black and white hat.
“Ennis.” Jack’s hand was warm. “Del Mar.”
Jack nodded his head back towards the door. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me the word, do ya?”
Ennis almost scowled, turned away to get in the car, but Jack’s hand tightened around his, and Jack’s smile went from being slick to… something else. Something light-headed like the moonshine fumes that stung Ennis’s nostrils.
“On second thought,” Jack said, “Prob’ly stupid to mess with a hard-broiled fella like Bruno.” He leaned against the Jalopy before Ennis could stop him, hips tilted indecent and smiling from under his gangster’s hat. “Whaddya say you hand me a ciggy and a little of that juice you’re keeping in this piece of junk car, and we’ll have a little party of our own?”
Ennis blinked at his sheer audacity and shook his head, ash falling off his cigarette, but the moonshine-fume feeling wouldn’t go away, especially as Jack kept smiling at him, smiling and crossing his feet at the ankles.
“’Kay,” he mumbled after a few minutes in the direction of Jack’s shoes, because the word no wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard he tried.
They drank too much, more than Ennis had ever had in his life, until all the lights were haloes and everything Jack said sounded like music, and they smoked, smoked until his tongue was dry from licking papers and he was out of matches. Jack’s voice roughened, rumbled low in Ennis’s ear, warmed the side of Ennis’s face when they started falling into each other.
After a few hours, after he laughed himself closer to Jack and they kissed so hard they broke the passenger seat of the Jalopy, Ennis finally understood why it was called moonshine: drinking it, anything could happen.