Electro Swing by BlueBerryOatmeal

Mixed Drinks and Smoke Rings (part 4)

Summary:

Dipper is not amused that their date night got blown off all so Bill could go meet with a business contact. He's especially not amused by how familiar they look together.

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Doofy 1920's setting for a lot of slow burn and a little soft smut.
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Dipper wasn't simply unimpressed, he was down right angry.

He'd been sitting alone for over an hour now, tapping his fingers against the hard table top of a far back booth. The rich thick mahogany dark against the pale white skin of his hand. Every so often his wrist would flick and the delicate pearl of his cuff link would hit the base of his drink glass and chime almost deftly quiet, drowned out by the big brass band playing through out the night club. The trumpet was loud and the drums hammered away for the dancing crowd which occupied most of Dipper's attention, though it didn't have his amusement or interest.

What he wanted was to be at the dinner he'd been promised. A nice quiet meal for two, away from prying eyes and the aggressive hustle of 'business'. He'd been looking forward to it all week. A romantic date night just for the two of them. At least that's what Bill had promised him. However, here he was, alone. Dipper sunk further down into the booth's leather bench, frowning over the top of his glass. He nudged the crystal stem and watched as the bubbly alcoholic drink swirled below the low rim. By now he didn't want dinner itself anymore. His appetite was long gone and he wanted to trade out his tight dress shoes for thick wool socks and the comfort of an armchair.

He didn't even want Bill's company tonight. That no good louse could sleep in his office for all Dipper cared.

Dipper glanced back to where all the mixed couples cut up the dance floor, spinning and jiving around to the jazz music. To it's credit, the club was nice. It wasn't one of Bill's speakeasies and lacked the charm Dipper liked so much. You could tell by the warm reds colours and cheap clientele. It made Dipper feel simultaneously over and under dressed in comparison. Granted he'd dressed for dinner with a nice suit, tailored for him to show off the slim cut of his waist and long legs. He wasn't dressed to dance, wasn't decked out in glitter or trimming. He wasn't wearing a lavaliere or any other bobbles for the occasion. Maybe he might have, if Bill had suggested they go dancing instead, but he hadn't. Bill promised him dinner.

Dipper should have known the second he'd climbed into Bill's plated Lincoln town car and not the Rolls Royce. It had been a dead give away and Dipper should have gone right back inside their townhouse, should have slammed the door in Bill's face for good measure.

'Five minutes, Pine Tree. I promise.'

Over an hour and Dipper was still sitting alone in a booth like a fool. Obviously no one would dare come by and chat him up, not after the entrance they made on the way into this joint. Bill's charismatic, loud voice carrying over the jazz as his men swept in behind them. Dipper in tow under Bill's arm like he was some kind of giggle gal and not the lover to one of the Fed's most wanted gangsters this side of the country. He hadn't been introduced to anyone and sat quietly in the corner before a drink was called for him. After that Bill disappeared into a room behind the stage with a few men, yet to reappear.

Now on his own, most people avoided Dipper like the plague. Wouldn't look his way or acknowledge his existence, just in case it elicited Bill's wrath. But when Bill chose to disregard their date night in favour for a business deal, Dipper found it frustratingly lonely and didn't care who did or didn't try to speak with him.

He shrugged off his coat, warm with anger and alcohol. This was just swell.

Dipper dropped any pretense of his appearance meaning anything half an hour ago. His fidgety fingers had worked the wax from his hair so now it fell in messy curls, clumped and oily around his face. His tie was loosened a fraction. And his waistcoat was wrinkling from how he slouched and kept crossing his arms. With another low groan, not his first this evening, Dipper grabbed the drink in front of him and took a mouthful far larger than a delicate sip. The whipped froth around the rim stuck to his lips and made his mouth curl downwards. He almost couldn't tell if there was something off about his drink or if it was his own bitterness he was tasting.