#pshd

Day 2: She accepted her, obviously!

TW/CW: Panic attacks and ableist language. (Also for context, Sleuth is autistic here. This is mostly just me projecting blehhhh)

Problem Sleuth walked into the club. It really was the same as ever, the lights were dim and violet and red, whoever was running music was running swing instead of smooth jazz, meaning it'd been an exceptionally busy night. He tried not to think about how familiar he'd become with this place. He came on a Thursday because it wasn't slow enough to draw attention but not quite busy enough to merit any kind of live performance. The Midnight Crew played on Wednesdays and Slick would stop the set at the first sign of trouble, maybe because he was just eager to whip out a knife. Sleuth didn't really know, the guy stopped interrupting sets for him ages ago. 

Slick was sat over in that corner, facing the door, looking as miserable as ever. He was preoccupied with something in his hands from the look of it. Good. Sleuth had rehearsed this in his head he entire walk over. He'd make his demands crystal clear. It'd be easy, for real this time. It'd be easy work. I'll do your little job, he was gonna say, just as soon as you get me the tools I need. Alls I'm gonna need is a bomb. You get me some dynamite, no, C4 and we're golden, buddy boy. I'll have it done by tomorrow at midnight and you'll have my payment by noon.

Yeah. That'd do.

He leaned up against the bar, sliding over a handful of cash. Bourbon, on the rocks. Beautiful. He took a drink and turned to wander his happy ass over to Spades Slick's booth with a grin. He paid no mind to the paper in front of the mobster, nor was he interested in what his hands were writing. He had business to conduct and no matter how this ended up going, he was one-hundred percent sure that he was about to walk away with a win. "Spades Slick."

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Day 3: Bad fankid design

Keeping this short. I'm Callie!(She/her) And this is my (not so) daily DameSletuh blog :o3. FAQ under the cut!!

The manhole clattered to the ground behind Slick when he righted himself. The hideout had been annoyingly silent with the guys out and about, the sound of the fans seemed to bounce from one wall to the other and he swore it'd drive him goddamn crazy. Comparatively, the feeling of the evening wind snapping at his face and the cigarette between his fingers came as a great comfort. He turned his eyes up to the sky overhead. He remembered the days before there were enough lights to block out any of the stars at all. It wasn't so bad out here, a short ways from the city, but much further in and you could hardly see any lights twinkling up there. There's something poetic in there but Slick, he wasn't a feelings guy, he wasn't going looking for it. 

He didn't remember lighting his cigarette, he was only aware that he'd done it because he caught himself midway through taking his first (?) drag and sighing it out. He thought back on his success. He'd successfully recruited Problem Sleuth to do his bidding. Nothing serious, he just needed the dogs out of the house for a few nights, something Sleuth should be able to handle. Something about the guy was irking Slick, the way his laughter died in his throat and the light drained out of his eyes. He couldn't tell why he'd cared this time. He'd knocked grins off of that freak's face countless times since he'd tried to rear his ugly head in the Midnight Crew's direction, but something about this time was different.

Another drag and he decided that this time wasn't different. He'd sat across from that detective, that problem, at least twice before to exchange information and every single time had been the same. He and Sleuth exchanged services until both of them were satisfied and then parted ways. The only thing different was that Sleuth would be contacting him to satisfy his end of the bargain. That was it. That and Sleuth's tie, it occurred to him, which was striped horizontally tonight instead of just being solid green. Obnoxiously green.

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his heel. No one would ever know he'd wasted this much time thinking about that stupid prick, which meant it didn't happen. His lips pulled upward in satisfaction with that simple fact: it didn't happen. Nothing in his head, none of this nonsense about Sleuth bothering him, none of it was real to the outside world. Problem Sleuth wouldn't know he was taking up space in Slick's head and his adversaries wouldn't ever know that there was anybody in this city that he had anything but hatred for, save his men, and most of the time, he told himself, he hated those assholes too. 

He hated everybody. Not everything.

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Problem Sleuth's car was quiet for the first few minutes. While he was sure he'd regret feeling uncomfortable in the silence the very minute that Slick stopped brooding for long enough to open his mouth, for the time being, he found himself incredibly ill at ease. He wasn't sure what to say. He knew where he was going, small talk about the weather didn't work with Spades, and any other casual conversation about work was well out of the question. That last one was for his sake, he wasn't sure he should open that can of worms.

He didn't actually know if this was a good idea. If this was a trap, he was trapped-trapped now. He figured he wouldn't have a mobster-provided gun in his coat if that were the case, but truth be told, he didn't know if it was loaded and he did know that Spades Slick was a faster shot than he was. Those few blocks of silence, Sleuth was sure, would finish eating his stomach from the inside before he figured out what the right course of action was.

Was there a right course of action? Is there such thing as a good opener with Spades fucking Slick?

"You hear me over there, princess?"

Slick's voice startled him back into reality. His eyes cut from the road in front of him to his passenger. "No, I was driving. Say it again."

"I said the place's busier at night. Drive 'n listen, damn it. I think at worst there's like eight of 'em. Can you handle that?"

"Eight's a few..."

"Ain't like I expected you to demand to go at it with me alone. I figured you'd take your little gang and clean it all up easy, but no," Slick huffed. It made Sleuth roll his eyes and snicker. The unreasonable expectations set for him and his friends, it comforted him. Double the men and undoubtedly more guns, and Spades Slick still thought they'd be able to wipe them out of the warehouse.

He spared another glance to his right, where Slick was staring out the window. If Sleuth didn't know better, he'd think that the guy's scowl had softened up just a little bit, that maybe his face had softened up into something more neutral, less... Filled with hate. He's a handsome man when he's not growling in a guy's face, even his neutrality is rough around the edges. Sleuth wondered for a second, maybe because he caught the corners of his own lips pulling up in something other than contempt, what Spades Slick looked like with a regular smile on his face. "Tall order, but I think we can take 'em."

"I can. Dunno about you."

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