A/N: Hey there! Ok, this is AU! It is first person POV with Morgan narrating. There will be slash, of course, this is me, you know. Please review-I don't know exactly how this is going to go, so your input will make a difference! Thanks, loves!
So, I blew into town late on a Friday night. All I brought with me was a few changes of clothes and my gun-Chicago PD issue, nice and heavy. When I got off the train at Grand Central, I was still under the impression that I wouldn't have to use it. Turned out, I was wrong about that. I was wrong about a lot of things.
It was too late to do any business, so I took a cab to the Belmont Hotel, checked in and found my room-small and a little shabby for the kind of scratch they wanted for it, but hell, it wasn't my dime. I made a couple of calls, thought about calling it a night, but I was antsy and wishing for some company, preferably the kind that might join me in a nightcap, and maybe, later, in bed.
I decided to head down to the bar. Not much happening there, pretty dead in fact, but there was a half-drunk couple swaying on the dance floor, and the music was good. It kind of drew me in, and before I knew it, I was leaning against the battered old baby grand piano, feeling the vibrations flow through the wood and into my groin.
I swirled my gin and tonic and watched the piano player's hands. Long, slender fingers. Elegant-sculpted. Not feminine at all, but graceful-prancing across the keyboard, striking every note, sharp, just right. I envied him that skill, I always wanted to play, but seems my talents lie elsewhere. For him, it was natural as breathing, the way he made the notes slide fluidly into the air.
He was a lanky young fellow, wearing a starched white shirt with perspiration stains at the armpits. No surprise about that-never mind the lazy turning of fan blades above us, it was damned hot in there, even after dark. Black suspenders criss-crossed his back. He had on a thin silk tie with little arrows running up the middle and a diamond tie clasp. Classy.
He wore his hair long. It was the color of honey, with thick curls that fell around his neck, topped by a fedora that put his eyes in shadow until he leaned back. When he did, I saw how large and dark they were, looked like you could fall into them if you weren't careful. A cigarette dangled from his lips; he played one-handed when he took a drag, so smooth that you wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention.
I waited until he finished the number, then I leaned forward, held up a cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, and said, "Say, pal-can I trouble you for a light?"
He smiled and it was like somebody turned on the sun. I've never seen a smile like that before, all mischief and sex and sweetness like candy. He reached into his breast pocket for a heavy chrome lighter, then stood, flicked a flame from it, leaned toward me and lit me up. I filled my lungs, the kid patted me lightly on the chest, and I noticed that damn smile had deepened.
"There you go, sport," he said. He caught my eye and suddenly I felt hot and electric and I knew I ought to get the hell out of there, but he winked, and I wasn't going anywhere. He sat back and began playing, soft, wispy snatches of some classical piece, taking his time before going into his next dance number. He gave me a little glance from under the brim of his hat, his eyebrow cocked like he was two steps ahead of me, and I fell right into those pretty dark eyes. "So... what are you doing later?" I said.
"Close up shop at midnight." He took his cigarette from an ashtray he kept by him, then looked back at me. No one else was around, so I got right to the point.
"Room 212, if you're interested."
The heart-stopping grin just about slayed me. "Two-twelve. I'll try to remember that."
"I can write it down, if you want."
A slow drag, then tendrils of smoke curled up toward the ceiling as the kid exhaled. "That's okay. Two-one-two. Think I've got it. So, midnight?"
Those perfect fingers took a boogie-woogie turn, and a few more couples hit the dance floor.
I stuck a bill in the fish bowl where he kept his tips, turned and headed back to the bar. I bought myself another drink and had one sent to the piano player. I liked the way he nodded his head toward me, the way he raised his glass like he was toasting me from across the room.
I wondered if the kid would taste as good as he looked.