visual and audio prompt: sleazy 1980s crime AU, fusion of American Gigolo and Miami Vice, call it “You Belong to the City”
(top photo is by nikki graziano photography - meant here to be a standin for James McAvoy)
Good. Fucking. Idea.
bringing this back because I really want this
Charles the alcoholic detective, who has to keep his choice in sexual partners a secret, and who is rapidly becoming obsessed with Erik, a man with a dangerous past and obsessions of his own to chase; Raven, Charles’s ingénue sister, who leads a double life he knows nothing about; Moira the on-off again lover and colleague with secrets of her own, forced to watch Charles fall apart at the seams when Raven goes missing
maybe Charles is the one who goes missing
MAYBE ONE OF THEM IS AN ESCORT AND THE OTHER IS A POLITICIAN AND THE ESCORT IS FRAMED IN A MURDER yes that’s the plot of American Gigolo
the opportunities are endless really but sleazy 80s dramas are my lifeblood
added inspiration: this Miami Vice clip, set to In the Air Tonight
jable ilu for reblogging this anyway and everyone else who has
He knows it’s a bad night when he can’t taste the whiskey anymore. Or hell, maybe it’s a good night. Or was. The numbers on the clock blur and run together like they’ve been poured out of a bottle, too. That could be a one, or a seven. Maybe a five.
"It’s nine in the morning," a voice that clangs like jackhammers says. He knows that voice, and the tone, both disapproving and somehow indulgent. It presses right on the pain in his temples. Moira. “It’s nine, and you’re going to have to pull yourself together, sweetie. You’re going to get a call from the precinct in fifteen minutes, and you’re going to want to be awake."
When he can focus, or get as close to focusing as he can, he stares at the bedside table. Yeah, there’s the whiskey, not even a finger left in the bottom of the bottle. There’s white powder flurried across the mahogany. The razor he must have cut it with is gone.
So, he realizes sluggishly, is Erik. The bed is a wreck, and empty except for him.
"What do they want?"
"Captain Xavier’s going to be called in on a case, if he can drag his coked-up ass out of bed." Charles groans; he doesn’t have to see her to know Moira’s smirking, but he sits up anyway. “You’ve got about thirteen minutes now."
Moira’s curled into a chair by the window, barely decent in her short skirt and camisole top. Charles wonders if she has a bra on. Sometimes when she’s out arranging a <I>rendez-vous</i> for him, she doesn’t. Sometimes it means she wants to join in. Right now, Charles doubts he could get it up even if both she and Erik were climbing on top of him.
"What’s it about?" Charles asks. He pushes himself up a little straighter, mostly to make it easier to reach the whiskey.
"A murder, of course," Moira says briskly. Charles frowns at her. “And a disappearance. Both high-profile."
"Who?" God, this fucking city. He can’t crawl into a bottle and never come out, so he crawls into other people’s bodies instead. Erik’s good for that. Charles wishes he were here, wishes he could break into the Vice evidence storage locker, sell a fuckton of coke, and spirit himself and Erik off to the Caymans.
Instead, Charles drags himself to the edge of his bed, uncaring that he’s naked and covered in scratches and bites and dry come. She knows what he and Erik get up to. She’s the only person who does. She’s a good assistant.
"Janos Quested," Moira says. When Charles stares at her blankly, she elaborates, “Personal assistant and boytoy of financier Sebastian Shaw. They found him carved up in his bedroom at the Ritz. He had a condom of coke jammed up his ass. Not as much fun as having other things up there."
"Any suspects?" Charles asks. His pants are an insurmountable distance away, lying on the floor by Moira’s feet. Sighing, he wobbles over to her, manages his old smirk as she runs her eyes over him appreciatively.
"Fingerprints all over," Moira confirms. “But even better, a business card. You’ll find it familiar. Silver, embossed red M."
Charles freezes. His heart goes paralytic for a long minute before it recovers. The blood it pumps thunders hollowly in his ears.
"Nine minutes now, Charles," Moira says. For a wonder, she sounds sympathetic. “Nine minutes to figure out how you’re going to play this."