#nyc!verse

Rare was the day that folk were let beyond the mask Ron wore in his day-to-day. The façade of being an affable publican wasn't an untruth, granted, but its outward expression - the intricacies of tracking expressions; the energy spent forcing his voice to sound right; the tamping down on what, to Ron, were quite normal means and methods of exploring and experiencing his world but that to everyone else round him would look…off - taxed him beyond description if he was without reprieve.

This evening though…

This evening was just such a reprieve, and Tony, for the first time beyond a glance here and there after a long day with fumes for energy, was allowed in on it. Quiet music was playing as the dear man, at home in his apartment with his self-confessed scatty Brit, prepared them a light dinner while Ron, needing movement, contented himself with an amble through the room. He wasn't on the hunt for anything, wasn't paging through books he found or poking the vinyl collection. Like Tony had reached for chopsticks once upon a time to help him think, Ron moved through the space he was in to help himself unwind; to let his focus drift inward, let himself relax and just be without masking up to look neurotypically present and correct.

If Tony chanced a look round at him then he'd find Ron's proverbial shop front - his expression, his eyes and his voice if he spoke at all - closed; relaxed but neutral, unaffected by even a monster win on the pools where your usually-brained person would light up ecstatic. To the unlettered, the unknowing, this could easily translate as disinterested at best, but it wasn't that; wasn't a negative. It spoke to Ron's comfort with the man that he could allow him access to this side of himself; spoke to it just as much as Ron's leisurely approach did as Tony worked his culinary magic in the kitchen.

He was curious, was the visiting Brit, of the alchemy being worked with chopping board and knife and veggies, and so came up on Tony's left for a looksee. A low rumble was his only greeting beyond a gentle touch to the man's elbow and then, two steps closer, Ron slipped an arm round Tony's waist and touched his brow to his shoulder blade. There he remained for a couple of breaths-worth of rest and reorientation time and then, with a slight lean so he could see what was going on on the counter, Ron mustered up a question.

Closeness like that he and Tony shared now - the touch of brows, the mixed breath, the murmured words - would've sent Ron right out his skin had it been moved in on too quickly, or chanced at all by anyone else besides this dear man whose weight Ron held in his hands as he perched comfortably atop him. For anyone else his brain would've rebelled blink-fast; would've made outta nothing the sensation of being invaded and made as well, to combat that feeling, the need to escape and rid himself of it how ever he could mandatory. But this new closeness hadn't come on sudden, and Tony--

Ron could never truthfully say his scattier bits wouldn't ever snarl in Tony's direction. They snarled at most everyone, family, friends, neighbours, patrons, at some point. It was the nature of the condition he had. By name it was contradictory, inconsistent, schizophrenic...but today, now, as Tony touched their brows together just a breath before he kissed him, not even a seed of rebellion was sown in Ron's mind by parties most unwelcome. It was instead - beyond the faintest static pop as touch translated to sound as well as sensation - all scent and warmth and the gentle press of brow to brow before heads tilted and lips brushed; Ron's pliant and slightly parted by how he'd smiled that moment before.

He'd have nipped Tony right back had the other man not spoken into the air between them as they parted, the sentiment enough of a surprise that it showed in how Ron's brows quirked up and his head tilted. A feeling he wasn't much used to - bashfulness - rose up in him unbidden. It made him want to duck his head and look away, but he didn't. He fixed on Tony's expression instead, on the hunt for even the implication of a fib or a half-truth. But he found nothing; just an earnest, warm regard that, once he'd clocked it was genuine, Ron let himself mirror - his dark eyes affectionate and lips faintly smiling as he tipped his head and stroked the tip of his nose against Tony's. When he spoke-

"--I'll try f'yah"

It's a day that lives in infamy in the UK's historical annual as that upon which, in 1605, a plot to assassinate then King James I was foiled - to gruesome comeuppance for them involved. The plot involved, as stated, blowing up the Palace of Westminster; that'll be the Houses of Parliament to them not well acquainted terminologically. And so, to mark this day, where revolution was foiled, it became custom to let off fireworks, to burn a Guy - Guido Fawkes being a key member of the Gunpowder Plot - and to generally make merry.

But not if you're Ron Kray.

"Ronnie!!"

A balled fist larruped Ron's bedroom door, Fort Vallance his chosen bastion on this most auspicious of days. He'd been at this intermittently for ten minutes or so, had Reg, and he'd got not even a response's implication.

"Ronnie!" he tried again. "S'almost time t'go dahn th'park f'th show, mate! Get y'knickers on!"

"--Ain't goin'-"

Reg perked at the muffled response in the same second he rolled his eyes. "Th'fuck not?!"

He almost fell through Ron's door, the speed it was yanked open all sudden. His glowering brother, all simmering...something and harsh edges looked about ready to lump him one. But he didn't. He spoke instead.

"You dense?!" he seethed. "Ain't leavin' me dogs 'ere while th'world sahnds like i's endin'! Sod off aht wiv yah. Go'orn, fuck off!"

And with that the door swung shut and Reg, feeling a bit like he'd been slapped cross the face by a hurricane, abandoned his attempts at including Ron in the socialising and hustled off to collect Frances from downstairs. They'd head out early, fetch up at the toffee apple stand, make an evening of it. Fuck Ron and his dogs and his shit-arse disposition.

The front door shut behind the pair heavily enough that Ron, upstairs behind a locked door and blacked out windows, heard it and flinched hard enough to displace Claude the Mastiff from where the dog lay across his torso. The mighty hound came back instantly, laid more heavily upon his dad's bow-string-tight body and gave the man's chin a lick. He tasted salt there, though didn't think to place if it was sweat or tears that'd caused it. It didn't matter to the dog any more than did the pistol clutched in Ron's white knuckled right hand. It'd been this way every year he'd known him, and would be every year hence because, for all it was Guido that got hung, drawn and quartered for his trouble--

..they're coming for you..the police're at the door downstairs..BANG BANG OPEN UP..

..OPEN THE DOOR KRAY..

A Moment More Meme

"Don't, Tabs!" Ron pleaded. He was stood in the doorway of his New York apartment, blocking the way of his tiny but mighty newest bestie in the world. She was bedecked all angel-like - wings and white and glitter and all - and was gigglingly trying to get round him again; darting left and right on her tippy-toes, just like she had the last time, and the last time...And the Last Time too.

"Tabs please" Ron tried, but she wasn't up for listening. She scuttled towards him instead, so quick his arms came down to catch her onto to connect with nothing. Not even cold air, this time. The room lost all the light that'd been in it when she had been; came back to its actual state - dark and upheavalled and empty. So fucking empty.

That didn't happen when she visited propah.

Scenes From Our Canon Meme

"--Firs' day was usual" Ron offered after a weighty, lengthy pause for thought. They'd fetched up in a bar that neither of them owned or had vested interests in this evening and had found their way into a booth were, with a sharing platter of food and a stiff drink each, they'd got on to talking about things that lay pretty close to Ron's marrow-bones if he was honest. Which he'd sworn to be. And so, his gaze fixed on one of the bangles adorning Tabby's delicate wrist, he dredged up words and memories.

"--Usual b'cause there's a routine t'gettin' banged up 'n I'd been in p'lice nick b'fore. Not jail-propah, bu' cells f'th night. Said g'bye t'me ma'm tha' mornin', t'Reg, Charlie, th'dogs 'n-"

Something sharp near his heart made him wince.

"-N me aunts as well. May...'n Rose."

Ron took a breath, deep in, slow out, and reached across himself to tap at his left bicep. Tabby'd been round him in summer when it was vests for him, less shirt sleeves. She'd seen the inkings he had up there - the timepiece with no hands and the sumptuously rendered red roses. It was a memorial, that piece, to his Rose - gone but never, ever forgotten. Settling again as before, forearms to table, Ron went on.

"Took nuffin' wiv me. They take everyfin' off yah in jail, so I jus' went there - got dropped off by Albie - one'a our drivers. Walked in. Got read me rights 'n all, 'n then was processed like anyone else. Cloves taken. New ones - nick-ones - given. Cell assigned. Numbah given. 'N then it was th'grind tha' started -- same again 'n again, rhythmic undah ovvah-bright lights 'tween off-white walls, day on day on day..."

A shudder - tightly suppressed - went through Ron's whole body.

Minor Details Meme

Ron's amenability to answering phone calls depends on a few factors - the point in his med-cycle folk're calling at being a big one. On the tail-end of his prescription the paranoia his condition is known and part-named for prickles up and makes telecoms iffy at best; downright avoided at worst. Outside of medical-condition-caused anxiousness though, he feels no nerves or concern answering calls. It's part of his job and has been for donkeys years.

It's routine now, as well as a social necessity.

Much as his mate larked about being some sort'a billionaire, playboy, philanthropist type, Ron had come to learn over the years ensuing that he wasn't joking about the job-lot of that description. Sod the bank account mention, it was the philanthropy that moved him and that'd bought Ron a long-running respect and well of empathy for the man. He himself, while vastly less wealthy, had made it his entire business round the East End making sure the vulnerable were looked after, the cold warmed and the hungry fed. Riley's work doing similar got right into Ron's marrowbones. It spoke to that nature in him and so it was no shock to any fucker, come a late in the day drop out of a coach at one of the free boxing clinics Riley'd organised through the festive period to give local kids something productive to do with their energy, that Ron leaped at the chance to get involved.

Four full days out his work calendar Ron cleared for his volunteering stint. His staff, gleeful at the extra pay and extra hands on deck, particularly shooed him out the door and so, bright and early - long before the clinic opened for the day - Ron rocked up at the gym where it was held in his training togs ready to get to work. Weren't nothing about it he'd not turn his hand to. The sweeping got done, the mats were checked and put out, and the loose curriculum he and the other trainers were to keep to was given a thorough once over before classes started at 8am sharp.

It was fuckin' bedlam, but a controlled and productive kind.

Ron and two others - three trainers being the minimum needed to keep track of the kids attending and make sure everyone was safe as 'ahses while they played silly buggers - warmed 'em all up then split off in groups: one at the standing bags to work on conditioning, one on the mats for grappling practice and the other working on technique in the boxing ring. It was a helluva laugh, topped off by the arrival of The Boss himself come lunchtime.

The self-restraint it took Ron not to bellow Oi Oi Saveloy! at the sight'a Riley was stratos-fuckin'-pheric, but he managed to catch all the ebullience he felt behind his teeth. His fellow trainers had gone all gooey over their benefactor's visit, and while Ron wasn't about that life at all he didn't want to cause a riot by seeming to disrespect the man. Riley copped a snaggle-toothed grin off him instead as he was shown round by the self-appointed Head Lad of the day; that and, when said Lad weren't lookin', a snigger-worthy I've got an eye on you gesture; two fingers flicking between black eyes and hazel eyes during a brief let up in in-ring work. The kids loved that. One relatively tiny lad even copied him at one of his classmates, and that...

That made Ron a bit gooey, must confess.

Much'a the rest of the day was a blur of classes, kids and martialling Mr Head Lad's new ego at having managed to collar Mr Riley for a chat before he'd dipped out to go about the rest of his day. Ron didn't have the heart to tell 'im he'd known this most High Top Personage easily over half a decade now and counted him amongst his nearest and dearest. He just nodding-dogged it, listening but not hearing as the place emptied, the ego left and let him clean off the mats, sweep the floors, and tidy up ready for tomorrow's classes; all to the crooning tones of Bublé on the radio.

The Christmas season came this year - Ron's first living in New York - with its usual excited social fanfare. He'd been watching it sneaking up since September, hand on heart, enjoying how its coming affected his pride and joy; his business. Menus were updated, new tipples bought in stock, decorations ordered, prepped and readied for use as winter closed in and that ol' yuletide spirit caught the city, lighting it up from within like it did to London. The page in Ron's diary had barely been turned to December 1st before The Venture's halls were decked, his staff's Christmas bonuses budgeted for, his list of pals who he planned on treating penned; gifts sourced and wrapped, bless May, with some real hands on help from his darling aunt, who'd be jetting home to London for a week soon to see family.

Cory's was the first Ron delivered.

She was a new face in his life for all intents; the gentle lady down his local café who'd welcomed him with a smile and kindness and had struggled to get rid of him (in the fondest, earned herself a regular patron sense) since. They'd settled into a comfy kinda rhythm, she and Ron - either taking time, by 'n by, to give the other a quietly social spot to vent when their paths crossed and they needed it. It'd made Ron's first year in a new country easier, feeling like he'd made a connection outside his closed-circle, and with the thankfulness that made him feel in mind on a very early morning walk with his pack'a dogs, an envelope was slipped in through the café's mail box. There was a card inside-

-hand - well, paw - made, that read when opened: