[Lackadaisy] Laisse les bons ton rouler
Title: Laisse les bons ton rouler ("Let the good times roll.")
Characters: Nico/Ivy, Serafine
Rating: R
Length: 2600
Summary: Ivy goes dancing.
Warnings: None
Notes: This fic requires you be up to date on canon as of Lackadaisy Memento.
The Little Daisy is “closed for repairs” that Thursday. The sign on the door says the stove blew, and a new one has been ordered, but Ivy knows better. Poor Viktor's still flat on his back, and still woozy from Dr. Quackenbush's whateveritwas that made him smile and mutter things at Ivy in slurred Slovak. And Rocky's cute cousin Freckle has finally shown his face again, but Ivy's still not sure it counts, what with all the hyperventilating and panicked laughter. The Lackadaisy is in shambles, the Little Daisy has closed with it while Ms. Mitzi desperately tries to get things back into some semblance of order.
And Ivy hasn't got anywhere to go. She only knows one dance hall, her own, but she thinks that if Zib played his sax she could dance anywhere. Too bad Zib's got his tail tucked between his legs and is as stubborn about leaving the building as Freckle is about entering it.
A door bangs in the back of the dark cafe. Ivy glances over her shoulder, but it's just the saxophone devil himself. He's too busy spinning the flint on his lighter-that's his fourth cigarette this hour-to even wave. Ivy sighs. Time to find something to do. Time to find a dance partner!
Her search doesn't take her far. She dismisses the first few dance halls immediately. Too small, too crowded, too dark. But the hunt for a good hall has left her thirsty, so she ducks into a nearby cafe, one advertising sandwiches and iced coffee. It's not as nice as Ms. Mitzi's Little Daisy, but Ivy supposes she might be a little biased.
The booths are full, but there are a few spare spaces at the counter. Alone, maybe taking a booth would be a little rude. Getting to the counter is an ordeal. The cafe is popular (of course it is; it's lunchtime), and Ivy yelps when another customer, eager for his iced coffee, tramples one of her feet. She has to remind herself that it wouldn't be ladylike to stamp on his in return, or to yank off her shoe and blow on her abused toes, so she settles for a “Hey, watch it,” which of course does nothing, and now the counter is full, because the offending foot stomper has taken the last seat. Damn. Ivy turns, ears flat, resigned to taking a booth either alone (rude) or with strangers (so rude!) when a hand on her arm stops her.
“Mebbe you take my seat, cher,” purrs the hand's voice, and when Ivy turns, she's face to chest with one of the handsomest looking cats she's ever seen.
He's already out of his seat and helping her into it when Ivy's brain remembers its manners. “Wait, I can't take your seat! Where will you sit?”
Handsome is already turning his smile and purr toward the guy who took the seat Ivy had aimed for. “Mebbe I just take his? I tink he's done wit' it, yeah.” He leans in toward the guy, and though Ivy listens hard, she can't quite make out their quick conversation, but Mr. Foot-Stomper sure does get out of the cafe pretty fast after that. Handsome slides into the now empty seat like he owns it, all full of the same lazy kind of confidence Viktor has. The same kind that always makes Ivy feel a little squirmy on the inside.
They chat for a while, Ivy hoping her completely inappropriate attraction isn't too obvious. He introduces himself as Nico, and Ivy spends several minutes trying to place his accent. She guesses Canada first, then Oklahoma (no and no, he says), then starts going a little crazy with European countries and guessing at random (“Tahiti?” “Mais, no!”) before Nico finally laughs, waves his hands “enough” and tells her where he's from. Ivy stumbles a little over that, embarrassed that she couldn't identify a Louisiana accent (“No, cher,” Nico says, “it's different from dat.”), but the faux pas is quickly forgotten in between her quick chatter and Nico's easy drawl.
Ivy's coffee cools from hot to lukewarm to chilled, and the conversation turns more personal. It's hard not to brag about her status as head of the college rifle team, especially when Nico pricks his ears forward in apparent interest, but she manages somehow.
Nico mentions he's a boxer, and Ivy leans forward in her chair. “Like Jack Dempsey,” she asks.
Nico laughs. “Nah, beb, ain't nothin' like dat grand beede. Faster, yeah. Ain't never lost, either.”
“Not a single one?” She finds it hard to believe. Every fighter loses now and again. “Then I bet you're real quick on your feet, huh?”
“I know de two-step, yeah.” Nico shrugs, as if to say it's no big deal, but Ivy's out of her seat in a heartbeat, ears perked, and tail swishing with excitement.
“You're just what I need,” she says, “because I'm in desperate need of a dance partner, and I haven't found a good one yet!”
Nico raises an eyebrow. “Dance, cher?” He taps a finger against his chin, eyes aimed at the ceiling while he thinks. “Mebbe I know a place we can go.”
That's enough of a “sure, I'll take you dancing” for Ivy's purposes. She tugs a few bills out of her handbag to pay for her untouched coffee and resists the urge to follow up with a tug on Nico's arm. He gets up, slow and lazy and full of potential, and holds out an arm for her to take. Ivy covers her mouth with one small hand to hide her giggle and her grin, and loops her other arm through Nico's.
The trolley they catch outside the cafe takes them on a winding journey through downtown. The tracks run near the Little Daisy, and Ivy briefly entertains the thought of stopping into check on Viktor before remembering just how cranky he was just the night before and changing her mind. Besides, she thinks, Ms. Mitzi is there, and can take care of him just fine. But who other than Ivy can take care of Nico?
Nico takes Ivy to a lively little joint halfway to the other side of the city. The band plays some upbeat music that Ivy can't identify and Nico calls zydeco. Whatever it is, it makes Ivy's feet itch. It must make Nico's feet itch, too, because they've hardly walked in the door when he's tugged her out onto the dance floor as if they've been there for hours instead of seconds.
Nico was right when he said he knew the two-step, Ivy decides. The steps are quick, but simple, and Ivy picks them up easily. She stumbles a little on some of the kick-backs, and the full-bodied twirls throw her off balance the first few times, but somehow Nico comes out of each spin without a hint of dizziness and is right there to catch her before she falls. They stand side to side, and Nico loops Ivy's arm around his shoulders. She giggles. It's awkward, being so much shorter than he is. She laughs a little breathlessly when he bends, catches her behind the knees, and swoops her up into his arms. She can just see the dark tip of Nico's tail over his shoulder.
Nico oofs. Another pair of dancers has bumped into them.
“Sorry,” Ivy calls over Nico's shoulder, “we'll move!”
Nico's laughter is a rumble deep in his chest. Ivy can't quite hear it, but she can feel it. He doesn't say anything, but he puts Ivy back on her feet. They wind their way around couples in motion to get back to the tables at the edge of the large room. On the other side of the hall, the band starts up a new song (“Is that a washboard?” Ivy asks in disbelief. Nico just grins.), and the sound of the instruments with cheerful laughter and the tack-tack-tack of dancers' feet makes conversation difficult. Ivy has to lean over the table and ask Nico to repeat himself twice before she catches his question.
“Mebbe we go somewhere else, yeah?” Nico jerks his thumb toward a door near the stage. “S'quieter upstairs.”
Ivy likes the sound of that, and lets Nico lead her to the half-hidden door. The band's violinist, taking a break, nods at Nico, tips his hat to Ivy. Ivy waves back at the violinist, never able to resist a friendly gesture toward a good looking guy, while Nico tugs a couple keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. It opens just as a new song begins, revealing a hallway with a few sparse doors scattered here and there. At the end is a set of stairs, and above the stairs an electric lamp swings, casting a cheerful yellow glow over the hall. Nico shuts and locks the door again once both of them are in the hallway, and waits for Ivy to follow him up the stairs. Already it's quieter, the boisterous joy of the zydeco music muffled by concrete and fabric. Upstairs, it's nearly silent; only the faintest buzz of music and conversation from downstairs makes it up here.
In front of her, Nico's tail swishes idly, the keys in his hand chiming against each other as he switches from one key to another. The latch to a door near the top of the stairs clicks, distracting Ivy from watching Nico's tail.
“After you, cher,” he says and pushes the door open, hanging his jacket on a hook nearby.
The apartment is small and spare, only a main room with a table and chairs and two doors at the back. There's not even a stove, but then, who cooks at home these days if they can help it? She hardly has time enough to take even that in when she feels Nico's arm slide around her waist.
She giggles. “If you wanted to keep dancing, we should have stayed downstairs.”
“Downstairs ain't de kind of dancing I been thinkin' of, cher,” Nico says. He's practically purring. Ivy can feel it, warm against her back. He's close. Closer than they ever got on the dance floor.
She can feel Nico shift his weight to one leg and she follows the movement. It's easy. Natural. She follows again when he shifts the other direction, and she can feel the purr getting deeper. One of Nico's hands rests on her hip. Ivy hardly hesitates to curl her own over top, enjoying the warmth. There's a certain sense of sinful, playful indulgence in the situation; the feel of Nico's hand shifting under hers and sliding down her thigh only reinforces the idea. A claw catches in the filmy material of Ivy's dress. Nico murmurs an apology and lets go of her while he detaches his hand from the fabric.
It's enough of an opening that Ivy has time to wiggle her way around to face Nico and sling her arms over his broad shoulders. She has to stand on her tiptoes to steal a kiss, to catch the smell of Nico's fur. It's nice, she thinks, because he smells like oil and wood. And dancing. She wants to bask in it.
Nico doesn't give her the chance. Ivy squeals in delight when Nico sweeps her up into his arms. They almost don't make it to the big chair hulking in the corner. Nico collapses into it comfortably, Ivy snug in his lap. There's barely a breath between them before Ivy's pushing Nico's suspenders off his shoulders and Nico's got a hand halfway to Ivy's garter belt. Nico shifts, bends a little, licks Ivy's small hand on his shoulder.
Ivy squeaks.
Nico grins at her, a flash of teeth. “All right dere, cher?”
“Absolutely,” she says, and impulsively twists to lick Nico's other shoulder.
Nico's grin widens. His fingers find the clips holding Ivy's stocking in place, and open them one by one. Ivy has to half contort herself to take off the stocking without falling off Nico's lap. His hand snakes between her legs to find the clips attached to the other stocking. Ivy squeaks in surprise and nearly topples herself. Only clinging to Nico's neck keeps her from hitting the floor. She's less surprised when he takes the opportunity to lick her ear; it sends little shivers down her spine. She's never been with a cat who likes to lick before.
It takes a little teamwork to get Ivy's other stocking off. They fumble a little, trying to get Nico's shirt untucked at the same time, and even that's a process, with the two of them distracting each other the entire time. Nico kisses Ivy's throat, licks it, and both his hands are under her skirt now, both of hers working blindly to open his trousers.
The air in the apartment is hot, and getting hotter. Ivy can't make herself care too much, though, not with her skirts hiked up to her hips, and Nico's trousers shoved down to the same. A faint wash of cooler air startles them both. Nico raises an eyebrow at something unseen, and Ivy chances a peek back over her shoulder.
A woman stands in the door. The beads around her neck click quietly when she takes steps into the room and shuts the door again. Ivy is suddenly painfully aware of how she must look, but there's nothing to be done for it now. It's all she can do to try and smooth her skirts, make it less obvious to the newcomer where Nico's hands are. Nico seems shameless in the face of the intrusion, nipping at Ivy's ear.
“Don' you worry, cher,” he says, while the woman heads into the bedroom, and starts changing, “she's my sister, yeah. She don' mind.”
Ivy dares to look. The toothy smile the now only half-dressed dame flashes back seems to indicate Nico's right, but the mood is lost, and everyone knows it.
“Mebbe next time,” Nico offers.
“I think so,” Ivy responds, gathering up her stockings. She squeaks in surprise when Nico tugs her back into his lap and slides the stockings on himself. He takes particular care with the garters, letting his hands linger. She can hear the sister moving around in the bedroom. Nico lets her strap her shoes herself, then helps her up off his lap, standing once she's up.
“Next time,” Ivy says, and shuffles her feet a little. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss Nico's cheek, and he obligingly leans down a little to let her. “You should come see me sometime,” she whispers while she's got his ear, “and we can get to know each other better.” There's no mistaking her meaning. She presses the little clover-leaf pin she carries around with her for situations just like this one into his hand.
And with that, she's off, throwing a cheerful wave and a playful smile over her shoulder. She can see him smiling back out of the corner of her eye.
It's been a good day.
Characters: Nico/Ivy, Serafine
Rating: R
Length: 2600
Summary: Ivy goes dancing.
Warnings: None
Notes: This fic requires you be up to date on canon as of Lackadaisy Memento.
The Little Daisy is “closed for repairs” that Thursday. The sign on the door says the stove blew, and a new one has been ordered, but Ivy knows better. Poor Viktor's still flat on his back, and still woozy from Dr. Quackenbush's whateveritwas that made him smile and mutter things at Ivy in slurred Slovak. And Rocky's cute cousin Freckle has finally shown his face again, but Ivy's still not sure it counts, what with all the hyperventilating and panicked laughter. The Lackadaisy is in shambles, the Little Daisy has closed with it while Ms. Mitzi desperately tries to get things back into some semblance of order.
And Ivy hasn't got anywhere to go. She only knows one dance hall, her own, but she thinks that if Zib played his sax she could dance anywhere. Too bad Zib's got his tail tucked between his legs and is as stubborn about leaving the building as Freckle is about entering it.
A door bangs in the back of the dark cafe. Ivy glances over her shoulder, but it's just the saxophone devil himself. He's too busy spinning the flint on his lighter-that's his fourth cigarette this hour-to even wave. Ivy sighs. Time to find something to do. Time to find a dance partner!
Her search doesn't take her far. She dismisses the first few dance halls immediately. Too small, too crowded, too dark. But the hunt for a good hall has left her thirsty, so she ducks into a nearby cafe, one advertising sandwiches and iced coffee. It's not as nice as Ms. Mitzi's Little Daisy, but Ivy supposes she might be a little biased.
The booths are full, but there are a few spare spaces at the counter. Alone, maybe taking a booth would be a little rude. Getting to the counter is an ordeal. The cafe is popular (of course it is; it's lunchtime), and Ivy yelps when another customer, eager for his iced coffee, tramples one of her feet. She has to remind herself that it wouldn't be ladylike to stamp on his in return, or to yank off her shoe and blow on her abused toes, so she settles for a “Hey, watch it,” which of course does nothing, and now the counter is full, because the offending foot stomper has taken the last seat. Damn. Ivy turns, ears flat, resigned to taking a booth either alone (rude) or with strangers (so rude!) when a hand on her arm stops her.
“Mebbe you take my seat, cher,” purrs the hand's voice, and when Ivy turns, she's face to chest with one of the handsomest looking cats she's ever seen.
He's already out of his seat and helping her into it when Ivy's brain remembers its manners. “Wait, I can't take your seat! Where will you sit?”
Handsome is already turning his smile and purr toward the guy who took the seat Ivy had aimed for. “Mebbe I just take his? I tink he's done wit' it, yeah.” He leans in toward the guy, and though Ivy listens hard, she can't quite make out their quick conversation, but Mr. Foot-Stomper sure does get out of the cafe pretty fast after that. Handsome slides into the now empty seat like he owns it, all full of the same lazy kind of confidence Viktor has. The same kind that always makes Ivy feel a little squirmy on the inside.
They chat for a while, Ivy hoping her completely inappropriate attraction isn't too obvious. He introduces himself as Nico, and Ivy spends several minutes trying to place his accent. She guesses Canada first, then Oklahoma (no and no, he says), then starts going a little crazy with European countries and guessing at random (“Tahiti?” “Mais, no!”) before Nico finally laughs, waves his hands “enough” and tells her where he's from. Ivy stumbles a little over that, embarrassed that she couldn't identify a Louisiana accent (“No, cher,” Nico says, “it's different from dat.”), but the faux pas is quickly forgotten in between her quick chatter and Nico's easy drawl.
Ivy's coffee cools from hot to lukewarm to chilled, and the conversation turns more personal. It's hard not to brag about her status as head of the college rifle team, especially when Nico pricks his ears forward in apparent interest, but she manages somehow.
Nico mentions he's a boxer, and Ivy leans forward in her chair. “Like Jack Dempsey,” she asks.
Nico laughs. “Nah, beb, ain't nothin' like dat grand beede. Faster, yeah. Ain't never lost, either.”
“Not a single one?” She finds it hard to believe. Every fighter loses now and again. “Then I bet you're real quick on your feet, huh?”
“I know de two-step, yeah.” Nico shrugs, as if to say it's no big deal, but Ivy's out of her seat in a heartbeat, ears perked, and tail swishing with excitement.
“You're just what I need,” she says, “because I'm in desperate need of a dance partner, and I haven't found a good one yet!”
Nico raises an eyebrow. “Dance, cher?” He taps a finger against his chin, eyes aimed at the ceiling while he thinks. “Mebbe I know a place we can go.”
That's enough of a “sure, I'll take you dancing” for Ivy's purposes. She tugs a few bills out of her handbag to pay for her untouched coffee and resists the urge to follow up with a tug on Nico's arm. He gets up, slow and lazy and full of potential, and holds out an arm for her to take. Ivy covers her mouth with one small hand to hide her giggle and her grin, and loops her other arm through Nico's.
The trolley they catch outside the cafe takes them on a winding journey through downtown. The tracks run near the Little Daisy, and Ivy briefly entertains the thought of stopping into check on Viktor before remembering just how cranky he was just the night before and changing her mind. Besides, she thinks, Ms. Mitzi is there, and can take care of him just fine. But who other than Ivy can take care of Nico?
Nico takes Ivy to a lively little joint halfway to the other side of the city. The band plays some upbeat music that Ivy can't identify and Nico calls zydeco. Whatever it is, it makes Ivy's feet itch. It must make Nico's feet itch, too, because they've hardly walked in the door when he's tugged her out onto the dance floor as if they've been there for hours instead of seconds.
Nico was right when he said he knew the two-step, Ivy decides. The steps are quick, but simple, and Ivy picks them up easily. She stumbles a little on some of the kick-backs, and the full-bodied twirls throw her off balance the first few times, but somehow Nico comes out of each spin without a hint of dizziness and is right there to catch her before she falls. They stand side to side, and Nico loops Ivy's arm around his shoulders. She giggles. It's awkward, being so much shorter than he is. She laughs a little breathlessly when he bends, catches her behind the knees, and swoops her up into his arms. She can just see the dark tip of Nico's tail over his shoulder.
Nico oofs. Another pair of dancers has bumped into them.
“Sorry,” Ivy calls over Nico's shoulder, “we'll move!”
Nico's laughter is a rumble deep in his chest. Ivy can't quite hear it, but she can feel it. He doesn't say anything, but he puts Ivy back on her feet. They wind their way around couples in motion to get back to the tables at the edge of the large room. On the other side of the hall, the band starts up a new song (“Is that a washboard?” Ivy asks in disbelief. Nico just grins.), and the sound of the instruments with cheerful laughter and the tack-tack-tack of dancers' feet makes conversation difficult. Ivy has to lean over the table and ask Nico to repeat himself twice before she catches his question.
“Mebbe we go somewhere else, yeah?” Nico jerks his thumb toward a door near the stage. “S'quieter upstairs.”
Ivy likes the sound of that, and lets Nico lead her to the half-hidden door. The band's violinist, taking a break, nods at Nico, tips his hat to Ivy. Ivy waves back at the violinist, never able to resist a friendly gesture toward a good looking guy, while Nico tugs a couple keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. It opens just as a new song begins, revealing a hallway with a few sparse doors scattered here and there. At the end is a set of stairs, and above the stairs an electric lamp swings, casting a cheerful yellow glow over the hall. Nico shuts and locks the door again once both of them are in the hallway, and waits for Ivy to follow him up the stairs. Already it's quieter, the boisterous joy of the zydeco music muffled by concrete and fabric. Upstairs, it's nearly silent; only the faintest buzz of music and conversation from downstairs makes it up here.
In front of her, Nico's tail swishes idly, the keys in his hand chiming against each other as he switches from one key to another. The latch to a door near the top of the stairs clicks, distracting Ivy from watching Nico's tail.
“After you, cher,” he says and pushes the door open, hanging his jacket on a hook nearby.
The apartment is small and spare, only a main room with a table and chairs and two doors at the back. There's not even a stove, but then, who cooks at home these days if they can help it? She hardly has time enough to take even that in when she feels Nico's arm slide around her waist.
She giggles. “If you wanted to keep dancing, we should have stayed downstairs.”
“Downstairs ain't de kind of dancing I been thinkin' of, cher,” Nico says. He's practically purring. Ivy can feel it, warm against her back. He's close. Closer than they ever got on the dance floor.
She can feel Nico shift his weight to one leg and she follows the movement. It's easy. Natural. She follows again when he shifts the other direction, and she can feel the purr getting deeper. One of Nico's hands rests on her hip. Ivy hardly hesitates to curl her own over top, enjoying the warmth. There's a certain sense of sinful, playful indulgence in the situation; the feel of Nico's hand shifting under hers and sliding down her thigh only reinforces the idea. A claw catches in the filmy material of Ivy's dress. Nico murmurs an apology and lets go of her while he detaches his hand from the fabric.
It's enough of an opening that Ivy has time to wiggle her way around to face Nico and sling her arms over his broad shoulders. She has to stand on her tiptoes to steal a kiss, to catch the smell of Nico's fur. It's nice, she thinks, because he smells like oil and wood. And dancing. She wants to bask in it.
Nico doesn't give her the chance. Ivy squeals in delight when Nico sweeps her up into his arms. They almost don't make it to the big chair hulking in the corner. Nico collapses into it comfortably, Ivy snug in his lap. There's barely a breath between them before Ivy's pushing Nico's suspenders off his shoulders and Nico's got a hand halfway to Ivy's garter belt. Nico shifts, bends a little, licks Ivy's small hand on his shoulder.
Ivy squeaks.
Nico grins at her, a flash of teeth. “All right dere, cher?”
“Absolutely,” she says, and impulsively twists to lick Nico's other shoulder.
Nico's grin widens. His fingers find the clips holding Ivy's stocking in place, and open them one by one. Ivy has to half contort herself to take off the stocking without falling off Nico's lap. His hand snakes between her legs to find the clips attached to the other stocking. Ivy squeaks in surprise and nearly topples herself. Only clinging to Nico's neck keeps her from hitting the floor. She's less surprised when he takes the opportunity to lick her ear; it sends little shivers down her spine. She's never been with a cat who likes to lick before.
It takes a little teamwork to get Ivy's other stocking off. They fumble a little, trying to get Nico's shirt untucked at the same time, and even that's a process, with the two of them distracting each other the entire time. Nico kisses Ivy's throat, licks it, and both his hands are under her skirt now, both of hers working blindly to open his trousers.
The air in the apartment is hot, and getting hotter. Ivy can't make herself care too much, though, not with her skirts hiked up to her hips, and Nico's trousers shoved down to the same. A faint wash of cooler air startles them both. Nico raises an eyebrow at something unseen, and Ivy chances a peek back over her shoulder.
A woman stands in the door. The beads around her neck click quietly when she takes steps into the room and shuts the door again. Ivy is suddenly painfully aware of how she must look, but there's nothing to be done for it now. It's all she can do to try and smooth her skirts, make it less obvious to the newcomer where Nico's hands are. Nico seems shameless in the face of the intrusion, nipping at Ivy's ear.
“Don' you worry, cher,” he says, while the woman heads into the bedroom, and starts changing, “she's my sister, yeah. She don' mind.”
Ivy dares to look. The toothy smile the now only half-dressed dame flashes back seems to indicate Nico's right, but the mood is lost, and everyone knows it.
“Mebbe next time,” Nico offers.
“I think so,” Ivy responds, gathering up her stockings. She squeaks in surprise when Nico tugs her back into his lap and slides the stockings on himself. He takes particular care with the garters, letting his hands linger. She can hear the sister moving around in the bedroom. Nico lets her strap her shoes herself, then helps her up off his lap, standing once she's up.
“Next time,” Ivy says, and shuffles her feet a little. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss Nico's cheek, and he obligingly leans down a little to let her. “You should come see me sometime,” she whispers while she's got his ear, “and we can get to know each other better.” There's no mistaking her meaning. She presses the little clover-leaf pin she carries around with her for situations just like this one into his hand.
And with that, she's off, throwing a cheerful wave and a playful smile over her shoulder. She can see him smiling back out of the corner of her eye.
It's been a good day.