Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Whose idea was it to make it a Gangsters and Molls party? What on earth is festive about that?”

Serena Campbell had often been known to growl - perhaps at a hapless F1, or at the fool who got between her and her shiraz - but just now she was perilously close to whining.

“Oh, don’t be such a grinch!” Fleur was as merry as Serena was dour, and she stood on tiptoe to take a closer look at the flyer on the pinboard. “It’s just a dress code, look, not an invitation to engage in all out gang warfare. I think some people are just a bit bored with the same old Christmas jumpers, that’s all - and this gives us a chance to dress up and have some proper fun,” she said, a wicked gleam in her eye.

Serena looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I know your idea of proper fun,” she said, “and if you think you’ll get me dancing on the tables in nothing but my finest M&S longline at the works Christmas do, you can forget it!”

Fleur clutched a hand to her imaginary pearls, offended and wounded. “Darling, nothing could be further from my mind. Who’d put a magnificent cleavage like yours in a longline bra? It would be a crime against - everything. I was picturing a balcony bra at the very least!”

Serena smacked Fleur’s behind very firmly with the clipboard she was carrying.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you. You keep your eyes to yourself and leave my cleavage out of it.”

“Aye aye, what have I missed?”

Serena swung round to find Bernie Wolfe leaning against the door frame, a bemused look on her face.

“Oh, ignore her, Bernie. She’s over excited - the notion of a party always goes to her head.”

“Especially one where I get to dress up,” Fleur agreed amiably. “Gangsters and Molls - you’re up for it, aren’t you, Werewolfe? I could just see you in a devastating evening gown, slit all the way up to here - it’s about time we got a good look at those incredible legs of yours…” she had a faraway look in her eye, and Serena was obliged to activate the clipboard again.

Bernie laughed. “I don't mind a bit of a knees up,” she said “And it could be a lot worse than gangsters and whatnot. Been to some very dodgy mess nights in my time, I can tell you. Go on, count me in. Be nice to dress up for a change.”

Serena stared at her in disbelief.

“What, don’t think I can pull it off?” Bernie asked. “I might surprise you…”

***

Bernie, it was fair to say, had surprised her. Serena had grudgingly poured herself into a dark red dress that looked as dangerous as it did dramatic, while Fleur had gone down the flapper route with fringing and feathers all over the place, but Bernie - well, Bernie had outdone herself.

Albie’s had been painstakingly decorated to mimic a Prohibition era bar, all the usual soft furnishings stowed away somewhere and replaced with sleek chrome and dark leather, the lighting dimmed to the lowest setting that health and safety permitted, and a jazz soundtrack underpinning everything. Serena stood at the bar, exchanging a crisp twenty for a bottle of shiraz, while Fleur clinked a cocktail of an unlikely hue against Roxanna MacMillan’s Old Fashioned, when an excited murmur from the door reached them.

Her entrance coinciding with a lull in the music that made it seem choreographed, Bernie positively swaggered into the room. As she shrugged her overcoat off her shoulders and hung it by the door, Serena heard a low wolf whistle from beside her followed by a murmured “Oh, hel-lo” from Fleur, and as Bernie turned her head to seek her out, Serena had to agree with Fleur’s barely coherent appraisal.

Her suit was such a dark charcoal grey that it appeared black, and a faint pinstripe nodded casually to the gangster theme that had been stipulated. Either the suit was tailored to Bernie’s precise measurements, or she happened to be exactly the size that the designer had in mind, for it fitted her perfectly. Far from making her seem masculine, it emphasised the slight curves of her slender body, stroking her waist, trousers draped perfectly over long legs, and as for the waistcoat - never before had Serena thought of a waistcoat as a sensuous garment, but this one seemed to adore the body it was hugging, highlighting every curve and plane firmly, emphasising Bernie’s slim frame to perfection. The chain of a pocket watch swung elegantly across her midriff, and a silk handkerchief spilled carelessly over the pocket of her jacket. The finishing touch was the hat in the same dark grey - was that a trilby, Serena wondered, or a fedora? Either way, it cast an alluring shadow across her face, and she exuded a sense of power, of danger, and to Serena’s astonishment, an extraordinary elegance.

Beside her, Fleur had regained the power of speech. “Good lord, Serena, why didn’t you tell me she was hiding that perfection under her scrubs? All this time I thought she was a perfectly serviceable army lesbian, but you’ve got this gorgeous soft butch in your office?! How do I request a transfer to AAU?!”

Serena shook her head a little, as much to dispel a fog as to chide Fleur. “I don’t know what soft butch means, but I had no idea that she… Oh, eyes front, Fanshawe! You leave her alone. Let’s just have a nice night and not upset the horses, yes?”

“Spoilsport,” Fleur mumbled amiable. “All right, I’ll behave. But seriously, that is one good look on her.”

Bernie had eased through the crowd by now and grinned as she reached them. “Hello, Dollies,” she said, and raised her hat, revealing her hair parted, slicked back and pulled tightly into a much neater ponytail than she usually managed.

“Very Victor / Victoria,” Fleur said, looking up at Bernie. “Don’t suppose you’ve got the cigar as well?”

Serena trod firmly on Fleur’s toe, eliciting a squawk. “If that’s you behaving yourself, I’d hate to see you in full flow,” she said.

“What do you think then - do I pass muster?” Bernie asked. “I have to admit, I thought there might be one or two more women in suits - looks like I’m the only one here though.” She looked round the room, but her first impression seemed to be right.

“I doubt there’s a woman here who could pull it off like you do,” Fleur said appreciatively, earning another dark look from Serena. Bernie didn’t seem to notice the flirtatious tone, and grinned back at her.

“So much more comfortable than a dress - though you all look amazing,” she amended hastily. Fleur preened a little, but she noted with as much interest as disappointment that it was Serena who had evidently captured Bernie’s attention, judging by the way Bernie’s gaze lingered on the blood red swathes enveloping her curves. Who can blame her, Fleur thought ruefully, having long admired her friend’s fine figure, though it had been made abundantly clear to her that Serena wasn’t that kind of woman.

For all that, though, Serena was acting in a most proprietorial way over Bernie, Fleur mused. She had been practically lost for words at Bernie’s appearance, and what was with all the dirty looks and sharp elbows every time Fleur made a harmless, if flirtatious remark? Was it possible that Serena Campbell was jealous? Or at least, protective of Bernie’s oblivious naivety, for Bernie seemed quite unaware of the effect she was having on the women in her little circle. Roxanna had given an appreciative murmur at Bernie’s attire when she walked in, but her attention had soon returned where it had been inexplicably lingering - on Fleur’s generous hips.

***

The band played on, and the taps flowed generously. Surgeons lindy-hopped with porters, nurses jived with pathologists and anaesthetists charlestoned with anyone they could persuade to dance. More and more raucous the party grew, and at their card table, the four of them struggled to hear each other over the din. They had long since had their fill of dancing, and Fleur had kicked off the high heels that still didn’t even bring her up to Serena’s shoulder. They had broken out a pack of playing cards and as yet another drunk party-goer threatened to overturn their table, Bernie gave them a good shove in the opposite direction, and looking round, had an idea. Sweeping up the cards on the table, she started to her feet.

“Come on,” she said commandingly. “Follow me.”

She pulled at Serena’s hand and practically dragged her through the crowd of people, trusting that Roxanna and Fleur would follow on behind, as indeed they did. She led them behind the bar and into the store room, and put the cards in her pocket as she assessed the situation. She dragged an empty barrel into the centre of the room, and pulled packing cases over to serve as seats, Seeing her idea, Roxanna fossicked about and came up with a large tin serving tray that she set atop the barrel, and the scene was set. The only lighting was from a naked bulb that hung from the ceiling directly above, and racks of dusty bottles glinted in the darkness to each side. It felt every bit as authentically Prohibition Era as the decorations out in the bar, and the devil, lately returned from Georgia, got into Bernie. She reached over to one of the racks and snaffled a bottle of bourbon.

“This feels like the right stuff to accompany a decent game of poker - you all in?” Serena wavered, and Bernie said with a roll of her eyes, “I’m not suggesting we steal the stuff, we’ll pay for it before we leave, but - oh, come on, just roll with it, will you?”

Never one to tolerate an accusation of priggishness, Serena rolled with it as she was bid. She rummaged in a box on the shelves and returned triumphantly with four solid, stocky little shot glasses, and thumped them down firmly on the makeshift card table.

“Alright then Major, set ’em up!”

They had been playing bridge, but not very well, to Roxanna’s frustration. She was a decent player, and much as she had enjoyed being partnered with Fleur, the tactician in her was exasperated with the impetuous woman, so when Bernie suggested they switch to “something a little more interesting,” she leapt at the chance.

“Poker it is, then,” Bernie grinned, shuffling the pack dexterously.

Fleur hiccuped, and with only a little effort, suggested that they make it really interesting, “what’s more racy and all that jazz than strip poker?” she asked with a leer.

Serena tutted at her, and rolled her eyes at the others, but to her surprise (and dismay), Roxanna high fived Fleur, and Bernie gave a great honking laugh.

“Why not!” she said, the bourbon evidently already doing its wicked work, and Serena gulped in trepidation. Ah, well, at least she knew how to play the game, she thought. And they were among friends. Fleur, of course, had seen Serena in her undies many a time (and occasionally in less, though Fleur had had the decency to forget those occasions in the fog of hungover retribution). Roxanna, though - she didn’t know her terribly well, though tonight had gone a long way to forging a firm friendship, but still… and then there was Bernie.

Bernie, with the long legs and slim hips. Bernie, with the toned arms, the slender waist. Bernie, with that magnificent, ridiculous hair and those deep, dark eyes.... She shook herself. The fact of the matter was that she just felt very self conscious about her own body in comparison to her friend’s Army approved frame. But a challenge had been issued, and Serena was never one to back down from that, so it seemed as though the game was very much afoot.

“Why not indeed,” she said stoutly, and knocking her own drink back in one slightly ill-advised gulpd, she slammed her glass down on the table. “Let’s do it!”

The first few hands were dealt and played in a lighthearted, playful way, but two things became evident very early on. Firstly that Bernie in her three piece suit, had a huge advantage over the other three in their cocktail dresses; and secondly, that this was not the Major’s first time playing this particular game. Before the bottle was even half empty, an untidy pile of shoes, bracelets and wristwatches had accumulated next to the barrel, but Bernie had only had to part with one garment - her jacket. With mounting dismay (but with a strange feeling of anticipation), Serena saw that beneath her jacket Bernie wore not just the well fitted waistcoat that hugged her back and gave surprising emphasis to her bust, Bernie wore classic silver armbands to prevent her sleeves from overshooting the cuff, and the glint of a clip at her waistline showed that she had truly gone for belt and braces this evening. Even if her luck were to change significantly, it would be a long time before Bernie was anywhere near revealing so much as a sliver of skin.

The next hand saw Roxanna have to choose between a stocking or her feathered headband, and with much encouragement - and in the event, some practical assistance - from Fleur, she found herself bare legged. Fleur’s elbow length silk gloves were next, followed rapidly by her garter, which she flung on the pile with a flourish.

“Another souvenir for you, Major!” she crowed. “Though perhaps not one that you’ll cherish as much as that rather lovely choker. I expect you’ll find it still has Serena’s perfume on it if you give it a - what?!” she exclaimed indignantly as Serena shot her a filthy look. “It’s a very lovely perfume.”

“It’s alright for you,” Serena grumbled. “You’re wearing half of Ratners, you can discard a bangle with impunity every hand for the foreseeable. If I’d known we were going to be playing strip poker, I wouldn’t have opted for simple, classy elegance.”

There was good natured laughter at Serena’s petulance, but Bernie couldn’t help but notice a line of tension setting in as Serena fanned out her hand and peered anxiously at her cards.

Whether it was the thought of the scent of Serena’s warm neck lingering on the deep red velvet, or the memory of the way she had removed it, or simply sheer bad fortune, Bernie’s luck suddenly seemed to change. In no time at all, she found herself sans armbands, sans shoes, sans - well, not quite everything, but headed very much in that direction. The smart necktie had been discarded along with its sparkling tie pin, her socks were rolled neatly inside her shoes, and the only reason she still wore the waistcoat was that as she had moved to take it off, Serena had cried, “oh, leave it on, Bernie, it suits you so well!” The bourbon was definitely doing its work.

It had not escaped Fleur’s eagle eye that Serena, while relieved to be on something of a winning streak, was becoming more and more - affected with each garment Bernie removed. The more flustered she became, the more bourbon she knocked back, and the more she drank, the less guarded she was. Noting this development with great interest, Fleur nudged Roxanna’s bare foot and drew her attention to the interesting little scene playing out in front of them. Roxanna, a seasoned cardsharp herself, recognised Bernie’s strategy for what it was, and she smiled knowingly as she saw Bernie spot a good hand, then discard it in favour of a play that would give Serena yet another win, and cost herself another item of clothing. The next moment, Roxanna was surprised to find that Fleur’s foot, having nudged her own, was now making its way up the back of her calf, and all thoughts of the careful dance that Bernie and Serena were performing fled her mind as she turned wide eyes on Fleur, who met her startled gaze with a mischievous smile and the ghost of a wink. There was a question in that smile, and when Fleur excused herself to go to the bathroom, Roxanna followed swiftly after her.

Serena had hardly noticed that the other women had left the room. She could hold any quantity of shiraz, but bourbon was a different matter, and her inhibitions had definitely suffered. Thoughts that she never usually allowed to surface swam up through the fug, and long repressed feelings began to assert themselves. She thought back to drunken nights in the upper sixth, and Caroline Shaw’s long glossy hair; to a party she and her housemates had gatecrashed in Stepney that time in their third year, and the woman with the red hair and the sexy grin, and she remembered Bernie, swaggering across the car park, unlit fag in mouth and her hair windswept and glorious.

It was Bernie in front of her now, she told herself stupidly. Bernie, her friend and colleague, wearing a three piece suit, - well, she had been wearing it. Where had it gone? She still wore the crisp shirt, and that devastating waistcoat, but the jacket had gone, along with the hat, the tie and - inexplicably - her trousers. Why wasn’t Bernie wearing any trousers? She’d been winning a minute ago - mostly at Serena’s expense. She narrowed her eyes and leaned across the makeshift card table.

“Bernie Wolfe, are you letting me win?”

Unruffled, and seemingly quite comfortable with the fact she was sitting there in her undies, Bernie glanced up from her cards with a small smile.

“No. But I’m not letting you lose, which is a different matter. Do you mind?”

Serena huffed. “I ought to,” she said with mock severity, “but in the circumstances - no, I don’t. Thank you, it’s very gallant of you.”

Bernie smiled at her, and shook her head to dismiss the complement, but the bourbon made Serena bold.

“And I don’t exactly object to you losing your trousers, either.”

Looking up sharply with a startled look on her face, Bernie assessed her friend with a practiced eye.

“Maybe it’s time to ease up on the shots, hmm?”

But Serena had let the genie out of the bourbon bottle, and it wasn’t going to go back in without a fight.

“In bourbon veritas,” she said with a little hiccup of a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to pounce on you - I know I’m not exactly your type,” she said drily. “But a red blooded bi would have to be blind or contrary not to enjoy this lovely view,” she said, practically leering at Bernie’s strong forearms, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of her white shirt; the slicked back hair that revealed a slender neck, and those impossibly long legs, with their shapely calves, their toned thighs, and the tantalising glimpse of figure hugging boxer shorts that peeked out beneath the long shirt tails.

Staring at her friend in several different flavours of disbelief, Bernie was speechless for a moment. She didn’t know where to start with this extraordinary revelation, which Serena had dropped as casually as she might mention a change in the rota.

“A red blooded…” she echoed at last. “Since when are you bi, Serena?”

Without losing a beat, Serena narrowed her eyes in the expression universally reserved for quick mental calculations. “Oh, since about 1983, I’d say.” She suddenly leaned across the barrel with a conspiratorial wink. “Sshhh, it’s a secret!” she whispered unconvincingly.

“Not any more, it’s not,” Bernie said with a note of wonder in her voice. “And you still - I mean, you’re sure it wasn’t just-”

“A phase I was going through? No, thank you very much, it wasn’t, whatever my mother had to say about it at the time. No, I just sort of tucked it away as deep as I could, but it just kept resurfacing until I married Edward - though goodness knows, that ought to have fanned the flames even more. Anyway, you can’t just sit there looking all gorgeous and butch and - and leggy, and not expect me to notice. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

“Sorry? Why on earth would I be sorry? And what on earth makes you think you’re not my type?” Bernie asked hotly. “You’re exactly my type, as it happens. Couldn’t be more my type if you tried.”

Bernie, it should be noted, had also been making regular visits to her good friend Jack Daniels.

“Pfffft, nonsense. I’ve met your ex, remember? That square jaw, all those cheekbones. All that stupid youth.”

“I’m pretty sure she had the regular number of cheekbones,” Bernie said without thinking. “Anyway, why are we talking about her? I’d far rather talk about you. Why didn’t you tell me all this before? You weren’t worried I’d try and seduce you, surely?”

Taking a sudden interest in her cards, Serena mumbled something that Bernie couldn’t quite catch, and she put her hand over Serena’s forcing her to put the cards down, looking her in the eye with a questioning look.

“I said, I was scared that you wouldn’t,” Serena blurted out. “You turned up all handsome and confident that first day we met, and then we ended up working together - and you were so talented, and so funny, and so loyal - and so bloody gorgeous - and, well, how could I help myself from falling for you?”

Bernie looked a little as though she had just been hit in the head with a cricket ball, but Serena ploughed on.

“But you had this supermodel of an ex, damn her, and all the juniors flocking round you as though you were some sort of rock star, and - well, look at me,” she said, shrugging.

“I do little else but look at you, every chance I get,” Bernie said with such feeling that Serena stopped in her tracks. “I can barely take my eyes off you at the best of times, but dressed like that? And playing strip poker with you? You’re right, I was letting you win, but for my sake as much as yours! I mean, I wasn’t going to jump you in the car park or anything like that, but my blood’s every bit as red as yours, I’ll have you know, and there’s only so much teasing I can take.”

They were grasping each other’s hands now, gazing intently at one another. The atmosphere was as thick as fog, but suddenly it dispersed as Serena giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Bernie asked, not a little put out.

“You - you’ve got me over a barrel,” Serena said, and her laugh was drowned in Bernie’s anserine guffaw.

“Oh, don’t give me ideas,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her cheek. “My word, what a thought. But maybe one to save for another time. We’re both at least two and a half sheets to the wind right now, and I want to be careful about this - careful with you, Serena. But maybe… I mean, perhaps we could…”

It was Serena who found the courage and the words.

“Would you like to kiss me, Bernie?” she asked, and Bernie nodded, strangely shy.

“Very much,” she whispered, and she made to lean across the table, but Serena was ahead of her, and she suddenly found herself with a lap full of red silk and warm curves, and then she was aware of little else as their lips met in a kiss that was soft but by no means tentative. They explored each other slowly, savouring the taste of bourbon on each other’s mouths, the warmth of each other’s bodies, the sense of finally coming home to each other. But when Bernie felt Serena’s hand drop to her bare thigh, she gasped and broke from their kiss.

“Slow down,” she murmured as she took Serena’s straying hand and brought it back up to her waist. “Plenty of time for that later. If you still feel the same when you’re perfectly sober, of course,” she added carefully.

“I will,” Serena promised. “I’ve felt the same for months now, if I’m honest. Apparently I just needed a bit of Dutch courage and the right circumstances to act on it.” She leaned her forehead against Bernie’s with a smile.

“I thought Jack Daniels was American,” Bernie said with a puzzled note in her voice, and Serena laughed as she kissed her again.

“We should probably stop before Fleur and Roxanna get back,” she said reluctantly, but Bernie just laughed.

“I suspect they’ve started their own party somewhere else by now,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry too much about them. But how about we go somewhere a little less sordid than a store room to continue the, ah, conversation? Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee - not here, though. There’s a nice little coffee shop near mine, then you can get a taxi home from there.”

She took a little bundle of notes from her waistcoat pocket and tucked a couple in the neck of the bottle for the landlord to find at his leisure, and she stood, helping Serena to her feet.

“Let’s go,” she said eagerly, and taking Serena’s hand she led her to the door, surprised to meet with resistance.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Serena asked with a glint in her eye, and she looked meaningfully at the pile of clothes next to the barrel, and Benrie laughed sheepishly.

“I was, rather,” she said, and Serena watched with a smile as Bernie pulled her trousers on.

***

The walk sobered them up as much as the coffee did. The little coffee shop was decorated more traditionally than Albies had been, and there was a cosy feeling of warmth and festivity. The coffee was good, and they sat together on a comfortable sofa, enjoying the feeling of closeness.

“I was thinking,” Serena said after a while, “If you don’t think it’s too much, would you like to come over to mine tomorrow? Come for lunch, or dinner - both, if you like? If you haven’t got plans already, of course.”

“Spend Christmas Eve with you? I’d love to. I’ll come for lunch and we’ll take it from there - no expectations, no plans. Just time together.”

“Perfect.” Serena beamed at her, fairy lights reflected in her dark eyes. The toot of a car horn interrupted the moment, and she sighed as her mobile pinged. “That’ll be my cab,” she said. “I’d better not keep it waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

They stood, and Bernie stole one last kiss before Serena wished her goodnight. She watched from the window as the taxi drew away, and turning to the table, she pulled her money from her waistcoat pocket to settle the bill. As she did so, the last card she had palmed to throw the hand tumbled to the table, landing face up. She picked it up with a little laugh.

“Well, would you look at that. I think I’ll be keeping you,” she said as she tucked it back into her pocket. “And tomorrow? I’ll be spending Christmas Eve with my very own Queen of Hearts.”