let that be, so that the wandering foot's content.

God, he was fussy. She had probably been around Italian and Black men too long but admitting this much vulnerability was certainly not something she was used to finding in her representations of masculinity. It took all kinds, she supposed. There was a value in being careful. She was careful too, just not cautious to the point of exhaustion. 

“My mistake, I failed to mention the sewer entrance, didn’t I?” She rounded the bar and removed a rug to expose a near seamless trap in the floor. “Had it installed just last week. I’m told it goes straight to the river but figured you know best.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat and let the door fall again. 

“I would put security wherever you wish and however you wish. It’s your operation. I am only a very interested buyer.” Very was an understatement. She was a ruthless buyer and a hungry one. Lucienne’s specialty ever since she’d been small was numbers. Finances. Opportunities and patterns. She saw them everywhere and she practically itched to fix them at their most efficient point. The longer she stayed in Paris, the more missed opportunities she saw. She laughed at the protests of the Chicago Outfit that they “ran this town.” Cities were not run by Cosa Nostra. They were protected by them. They provided order to chaos, made everything flow smoothly. There was so much to smooth here. So much to fix. There were soldiers in need of opium and sex workers in need of condoms and rich people in need of a little humility. She enjoyed watching the privileged bleed, whether it was pride, blood, or money. And Lucienne would provide. 

But that returned her to the unfortunately named Irishman, who looked like the wind had been knocked out of him at the very prospect. “Really, Captain, if you find it too daunting, I can offer to buy you out entirely. But I don’t think that’s what you want.” Was it a threat? Was it benevolence? Did it matter?

She couldn’t have been at this for long. Christ, to look at her - couldn’t be thirty, even. Couldn’t have been at anything for long. But Miss Picou was so sure of herself. That. That scared him witless, more than her easily spent money, more than whoever might be standing in the shadows, behind all this. Because there had to be someone. Didn’t there? Wasn’t likely to find out tonight, anyway. As it was, Conor gave the trapdoor a short scoff. “Oh, right. The sewer entrance. Changes everything, that.” Built in nicely, at any rate. Everything was, around here. Style didn’t mean substance, though. He’d seen too many men shot through nice uniforms, sharp suits, to mistake the one for the other. 

Wherever and however. Promises, promises. Either she didn’t see the scope of the thing, or... she had too many toughs at her beck and call for him to be entirely pleased at the thought. If it came to that - fuck, Conor didn’t have an army. He had crews. Rough men, but not soldiers. Not anymore, if they had been. Too old or young for it, if they hadn’t. And none of them, armed for that. Conor took another deep drag, brushing a hand over the roulette wheel, watching the red and black pockets spin, spin, spin. Not a squeak to be heard, all smooth. No surprise. But no comfort, either. This, this was all too perfect. Too tidy. Nothing too good, too straightforward, too easy to be true ever was. Learned that one the hard, bloody way, hadn’t he? Ought to know better. 

Still. A load of Lucienne’s boys, between his and the milieu, and the fascists, and the anarchists, and the Russians, and so on; that’d be something, wouldn’t it? If she could deliver. Picou was baiting him, now. Or something like that. Hard to say, actually. “Daunting. There’s a word for it.” For all this intriguing. None of his deals - for more dangerous goods than what Lucienne was after, for the moment, anyway - had ever involved such an opening play as that little stunt she’d pulled at the races. It’d done the job, small as it was. The job being to leave him wondering. Conor gave the roulette another whirl. Then, as it ticked to a stop, talked terms. “I’ll meet your security, before I take them anywhere of interest to me.” Even then, not everywhere. Had to keep a burrow or two to yourself. 

“And you’ll pay double, yeah. On top of which you’ll cover the cost of care, if any of my men are damaged moving your goods. They die? You cash out all unpaid earnings, and a lump sum, in compensation, straight to their families. If they’ve any. In Paris, or further.” An important stipulation, one he leaned into. Most of the lot, they were leftovers. Soldiers left, over, after the war. With an old da in Dublin or a widowed sister someplace around Cork. Maybe grandparents, still fishing off St. John’s. Just because Conor couldn’t say the same didn’t mean he couldn’t honour the fact of it, now that he had the means. “ And if they’ve no-one, you split the same across the crew. Even cuts. For doing a dead man’s work, while I find a replacement.” He spun the roulette again, circling round that pretty table, eyes traveling along the glittering bar. “I don’t know you, or how you do things, in America. Or how you’d like them done, here. But that much, it’s non-negotiable. Company policy,” he underlined. Deadly serious, as the saying went. “You want to do business, there’s my price.” Lucienne was the one talking as if she had the cash to burn, anyway. If she wanted the damn opium, well, she could have a fight, or pay. And save them all the trouble. 

Another survivor. It was all he could do not to ask the questions, check in with every other veteran he’d met–did it fuck you up too? Are you carrying socks right now? But to acknowledge it felt like weakness; and especially here, watching men beat each other down in aggressive displays of masculinity, wasn’t the time or place.

He hadn’t gone out looking for a fight, but he’d found one. Tom knew this was a little reckless, but it was all in good fun. A legitimate gym, a public challenge–all above-board. A casual sparring between strangers, former soldiers, testing out a friendly theory.

You might be the biggest. Tom smiled, suddenly back in the alleyway talking to his friends, the same adolescent part of him that used to brawl in the streets wanting to add another comment on size. He was old enough now that he felt it, coupled with those moments/flashes of his younger days to highlight just how long he’d lived, how far he’d come. He may have outgrown the crude commentary and the need to talk about his manhood, but was apparently still down for a fight.

“Alright. You’re on.” This would be interesting. “Gloved,” he added, for a bit of additional clarity. The Irish were a rough crowd, and he had enough of people trying to take a swing at him as they fled crime scenes. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and bare fists held no appeal.

Big men came in three types, broadly, Conor had found; and sure enough, his view on the whole thing might be a bit skewed, given the low angle. But how it seemed was this - big men, the three sorts. The first, they couldn’t be big enough for themselves. Always out to be louder, rougher, meaner, more, to prove the point. The second, those never grew into the size. Strangely sorry for it, trying to draw down, slouch out of sight. Even if they didn’t realize that’s what they were up to. And the third, someplace between the other two. Knew their strength, minded it. Didn’t need a show. Didn’t have to apologize. Conor had met more of the first, over the years. Flattened a fair few of them, got dropped by the rest. As for where Tom fell, in all that? They’d find out, wouldn’t they? Things shook out of a man, when he had his fists up. And his kidneys beat in. 

This Tom, here, he was game, at least. Americans always were, weren’t they? Conor lit up, chuckling - then groaned, as they got to making rules. “Ah, Christ. You won’t go toe to toe then, will you? Shame.” 

It’d be a lie to say Conor hadn’t seen parties so entirely off the walls as those at the Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève; but, he’d be hard-pressed to think of any that looked like more of a genuinely fine time, good craic, all the way through. And he wouldn’t just say so because the bals made such brisk business for him. Though, he’d got used enough to their particular seasons so as to start marking the calendar, and stocking up, in advance. They’d want loads of champagne, and plenty of absinthe; with a bit of that calvados, brought special for Danièle. (The old stuff with the pears, from Domfront. A lady of taste.) 

She’d swanned over all a-glitter, leaving a pucker of lipstick on his jaw and sweeping the gift aloft, tilting the bottle this way and that under the light like it were a whole string of pearls. “Ah, mon mignon! You spoil me. Terrible. You’re terrible.” A neatly varnished nail pushed into his shoulder, not a moment wasted. “You will be staying, won’t you? Last year doesn’t have a thing on tonight.” Now, that was saying something, wasn’t it? Conor shrugged, loosely. “A bit, anyway. Outdone yourselves again, yeah?” Madame Messire scoffed, ferociously. “Always. You’ll see. Just spectacular. Phenomenal. Beyond compare - oh, there’s Gigi. Carry on, Captain, and I’ll see you. I’ll see you!" Off she went, wagging a finger. Serious, like. 

Couldn’t go letting Danièle down. Shrugging out of his jacket, Conor sighed, started up a smoke, and helped himself to some of that bubbly. He picked at the foil, smiling to himself as the lights went up and the streamers were tossed down, all a-tangle. Grand way to spend a sticky summer night, wasn’t it? Ah, it would be. 

Boys and their toys. Lucienne sighed to herself at the sight of the weapon. She could ask Elio to take it off him, but that would show a weakness she did not want and actually did not possess. In all her strange time, her long and short twenty-five years of life, seven of them working for a very, very dangerous man, she hadn’t had so much as a fist fly in her direction. Elio was good at his job and she was good at hers. If you looked like you couldn’t be killed, no one tried to kill you. No one had been bold enough in New Orleans to press their luck, so she found herself wondering if the Irishman was scared or stupid. The two could certainly coexist, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Fair enough, Captain.” All the other foreigners in New Orleans seemed very direct for Lucienne’s taste. She came from a culture of innuendo and ease, but it wasn’t for her to tell them how to live their lives. So she went to the table, picking up a pile of chips. They made no noise until she wanted them to, clacking softly against one another as she slid them in a makeshift tower. 

“I would like to buy all your opium in perpetuity at double your price.” Clack, slide the tower went. “This fee would involve disclosing your client list and any competitors you might be aware of as well as introducing me to said persons.” Clack, slide. “The arrangement would, of course, include legal and material protections for you and your men should any unfortunate events arise.” Clack, slide. “I assume greater risk for greater control and remove all your competitors from the board. We both make a good deal of money.” Clack, slide, click. She let the tower stand still, leaning back on the edge of the table. She didn’t keep her eyes on him. Didn’t need to. Lucienne surveyed the intricate finishings of the room, assessing every detail to make sure it was ready for the late start. Miss Brindamour had done a remarkable job. She waited for him to speak, knowing the position of power that could hold. When you ask a question, Luc, Silver Dollar used to say. Don’t ever ask it twice.

She was cool as ever, wasn’t she; not that Conor had expected any different, in her own house. Gambling house, that was. The sort Paris was decidedly against, far as he knew. Be a grand day for your average flic, catching wind of this not-so-little undertaking. No, not so little at all. He circled round, taking in the well-stocked bar, the roulette wheels, the rest, shaking a cigarette from his case. Wondering, again, how much velvet glove there was between him and the iron fist that must’ve punched out the room for something like this, here. In the heart of a city not short of its own kind of crime. 

Conor had heard things, of course, about those American operations. How they were running New York, Boston, Atlantic City, Chicago. He’d even met a few, professionally. Representatives, that sort of shite. Never negotiating from a position of strength, and clearly none too fucking pleased about it. (Still, they wanted their champagne and cognac, so. That was that. Flash tastes, they’d get you in all sorts of trouble.) But Miss Picou, her setup - it spoke to strength. A load of the stuff, hauled all across the ocean and dug in, fortified. The Lucienne Line. 

His smirk, there, had a wiriness. The barbed kind. But, Lucienne talked, and Conor had come to listen, so he walked, lighting up with a pop, the comforting stink of a struck match. He waved that out to the sound of all. All the dope? In perpetuity. How long had she even been in town, anyway? To talk about perpetuity. His head had cocked off towards a frown; Conor took a deep drag, trying to gauge how much she really knew. More than she’d let on, for certain. That the opium was his wouldn’t have been hard to come by, as facts went. The competitors? Natural enough. The booze, the hash, that had gone unmentioned, entirely. So they’d stay that way. “Legal and material protections," he echoed. Dubious, plainly. “I should fucking hope so. Double’s no good to the dead, and regular, bulk trade - that makes for opportunity. Makes for problems, the sort I don’t have, at present.” Not for the moment, anyway. But he’d be running into more than his usual amount of trouble to keep her supplied, no doubt. L’Ortolan was a ways out of his run, far from his quays. From his boltholes. The bistro was a push through a new no man’s land, a prettier one, maybe, but not his ground, all the same. Nowhere he could hold, or wanted to. 

Conor watched Lucienne not watch him, a moment. Then hooked his boot under the nearest chair, and took it, elbows propped against the roulette table, keeping his cigarette well away from the felt. You had yourself a seat to stay awhile, do business. Double wasn’t enough to buy his confidence, no questions asked. But it was enough to sit for. Double could mean a great deal, to those crews of his - to people with families to look after. And those forgeries, they wouldn’t be cheap. Shouldn’t be, with all Brannon would wind up being in on. Christ. Conor sighed smoke, and, sure, pushed on. “So. What’s it to be? You’ll be providing security, will you? Alongside my people, in my places?” Wasn’t too fond of the idea, but she’d had him into hers, now. Counted for something. Not much, but something. “Or, would you want to kit us out, and we see to the rest ourselves?” Didn’t much like that, either. None of his boys wanted another war. Which was why he tended to make the messes, when they needed making. This - this would be messy. If he said yes. He hadn’t. Not yet. 

Mary, mother of God. He shouldn’t have sat. 

“I went through my share of helmets.”

Movement. It was all he could do to keep moving, helmet coated in mud for extra camouflage. As First Sergeant, that had been much of his job anyway–keeping the guys running, shooting…doing. Motivator and initiator, the conduit between what the higher powers had to say and what the squad had to do. A lot of his fellow sergeants hadn’t made it. When others could sit still, hunker down, hold a position, they’d had no choice but to get up, get around, and help lead the charge over the top.

Creating fire from your fingertips. Communicating from beyond the grave. Carrying your own head through Paris. These were the kind of stories he’d been told growing up, evidence of the piety and canonization of the saints. Tom didn’t know if he believed in miracles, not really. But he’d watched hundreds of men on either side of him get hit, collapse into the mud, and yet there he stood. Divine intervention to keep Cora from being left alone? Blind luck of a reckless son of a bitch? Despite the faith of his parents, he was more inclined to believe the latter.

“First time. At least here.”

Conor was visibly sizing him up. The Irishman was built like a brick wall. Held himself with the type of casual arrogance that enticed others to challenge him, put it to the test, and walk away as pulp for their trouble.

“I’ve gone a round or two. Why? Interested in testing out that height theory?”

That had been a sound, hadn’t it - the pulpy, ringing tang of a bullet popping through one of those tin hats they’d been handed, along with the fifty, sixty, seventy, seemingly endless pounds of kit. Funny thing, though, wasn’t it; those helmets. Battered and bent, and still, enough to them that they could still hold the night’s thin, salt-heavy soup, and keep you going another day. Like a body, in that. The things a bit of flesh and bone could weather. Until you hit it just right. Until it all wore out. But they’d both got lucky, hadn’t they? Him and Tom. Seemed that way, to look at the pair of them. 

Often did, didn’t it? Looks, deceiving. 

“Bet you did.” Conor chuckled, teeth to it. “Dinged a few, myself.” Who hadn’t? Besides the bastards in charge. Speaking of dings - the clang of the bell rang out, their fighters pushing off each other, back to their corners. Oh, but the big fellow was weaving. The little one, though; he had his blood up, now. Could be what won him the thing. Might make him cocky, though. Wasteful. They’d see.

 All in all it was a better match than most, for a fresh impression of the place. An impression, yeah. DuFort and Bellerose came out swinging, both eager to end it and hitting hard, the meat of them quaking with it. His eyes swerved and snapped with the pair of them. “Yeah, yeah. Why else? You wouldn’t be the first.” To test him. Sure, not. Conor smiled, a broad, bright sort of glee to the thing, and sent a quick wink up Tom’s way. “But you might be the biggest.” Didn’t have to say it, did he? That bit about bigness, and falling. Tom must’ve heard it before. Whether he’d wind up on his face or his backside, they’d settle soon enough. “It’ll be a laugh. What do you say?”   

There was something to summer, wasn’t there? Something sticky-sharp, something that got you by the back of the neck and shoved. Especially in a city so far off the sea as this. Christ - the way the air started to sit on your shoulders, some days. Like it’d crush the life out of you. The weather had been seasonable enough until the morning burned off; then, and since, it had stayed searing. And slowly, surely, it seemed to be wearing on just about everyone. Conor had passed plenty of stoops and balconies draped in sweat-slowed locals, fanning themselves with whatever was at hand. The tourists were spreading thin, too over-warm to want to crowd even for the finest sights. Him? He’d been enjoying it, for the most part, peeled down to his shirtsleeves and pleasantly scuttered from a bottle - or two, who’d been counting - of champagne, the real thing, fished out from the Catacombs for the occasion. 

Which one? The deal. Their newest American deal, with their newest American friend. Conor had wanted his crews in their cups, for the announcement - thin on details as his delivery was, enough that he wouldn’t have held some uncharacteristic questions against them - and it’d worked a treat. There’d been some curious eyes, sure enough. But they weren’t the type to press, or they’d be nowhere near his boats. And the drink had done the rest. 

Then, well, he’d stopped off at the house, and, like usual, carried Gosse along to some patch of grass for his before-lunch stroll. (The dog needed taking out, but not on those cobbles - hot enough to melt the balls off a brass monkey, today.) All in all, it’d been a fine enough afternoon. Better than average, even. Until he’d turned like a terrier, hearing them before he saw them: English officers, unmistakably. Careening drunkenly through the Place du Tertre, dress uniforms unlaced in the heat, having a jolly old time, making a bloody fucking nuisance of themselves. Bastards. What in the holy hell were those shitehawks doing in Paris, anyway? 

Sopping bloodied noses, now. Far behind him. As he crouched by the quayside, Conor scooped that so-familiar water up and over his head as Gosse, ears trailing, lapped a bit for himself. “Some thirsty work, that was. Good lad.” He gave the basset hound a solid pat on the shoulders, and got a stumpy, self-satisfied wag. With a sigh, and a wince, Conor pawed some more of the Seine over his solidly split lip. That shiner, too; sure to purple up nicely. Then he sat back, shaking his hair out, sweeping it back. And keeping that hand raised, shading his eyes to squint at some passerby who’d stalled before the passing by - rather too close for comfort. “Grand old day, isn’t it?” Conor tossed over, in French. As unremarkable about it as he could manage, looking as much a mess as he likely did. “Just the thing. How are you faring, eh? No trouble, I hope.” 

mad sweeney (american gods)

“Hey, Sweeney,” said Shadow, breathless, “why are we fighting?” “For the joy of it,” said Sweeney, sober now, or at least, no longer visibly drunk.  “For the sheer unholy fuckin’ delight of it. Can't you feel the joy in your own veins, rising like the sap in the springtime?” His lip was bleeding.

From the novel by Neil Gaiman (and the series created by Bryan Fuller, as played by Pablo Schreiber). There’s a lot of solid Conor inspiration here, from the weird poetic streak to the size of the fight in him. But, most of all, there’s the “unholy fuckin’ delight” of being alive - and the element of having run from something, abandoned a fight, a cause, his people.

Conor isn’t as torn up about that as Mad Sweeney, given the circumstances. While some - including former friends, old brothers in arms - would call his departure from Ireland a kind of cowardice, Conor is too done to argue, or mind, terribly. Sure. Call him a coward. He’d rather be that than anyone’s soldier, at this point. He’s no more fearless than Sweeney, when it comes to the terror of death... but that also hasn’t stopped him living, yet. (Or from doing some genuinely dumb things. Like take on the milieu.) In the meantime, the fighting isn’t over - mostly because he keeps looking for it. Too Sweeney. As the meme goes, you’ve gotta pick your fights. No, not that many. Put some back.

the púca

This shape-shifting, mischievous Irish fairy has always been a personal favorite. Like all fae things, they’re mercurial, a bit mystifying. Can seem a little arbitrary, even cruel. But they have their rules, strange as those might be, and they stick to them. Conor’s meant to be a bit puckish, hard to read, prone to surprising kindnesses and shocking horrors - overall, a bit out of place, as a career criminal, or as a veteran supposedly after a change, a quieter life. How did someone like him wind up in the position he’s in? Well, mostly by accident. Once you figure that out, everything starts to make a little more sense, including the peculiar principles he runs by. Suddenly, he’s not so unpredictable at all. In fact, most of what he does is for the sake of keeping his days as predictable as possible.

Not that that’s exactly what he’s wired for, but... still. It sounds nice. Doesn’t it? Unfortunately, the púca has its seasons, and so does he. Peace is just a prelude, in Conor’s experience. There’s always a storm after the calm, isn’t there? And if it doesn’t arrive? Well, he might just stir up some thunder himself. For the rhythm of the thing.

tommy shelby

Peaky Blinders. What a show. What a time. What a performance out of Cillian Murphy. Conor doesn’t have quite the same kind of damage as Tommy; he certainly doesn’t stock any of that frothing ambition, at all. But the nearly total lack of self-regard, the inability to really settle down into any sort of healthy routine, and the intensity of his loyalty (when it’s won, in Conor’s case) are very right.

In terms of presence, Conor has the most in common with early Tommy - where he has less to lose, and is generally at his least refined. Conor doesn’t act like a man with a criminal empire on the line, because he doesn’t really think of himself that way. And he doesn’t know the ins and outs of polite society, but, unlike Shelby, he’s not really interested in climbing that ladder, except as a kind of personal, and very light, entertainment. It’s funny to hang around these people, watching their strange lives unfold. It’s all stories, to him. He sure doesn’t want what they have. No thank you. But it’s interesting to visit, now and then.