I tried using both. It’s a Paul/Biff from The Alienist, because I’ve been trying to write something about them forever and failed so far lol
Biff hands Paul a cigarette. The look on his face is a well rehearsed mix of apologetic and harmless that Paul doesn't believe one bit. He takes the cigarette anyway, holds it between his lips as he rubs his hands together to warm them up.
“I was having a perfectly good time,” he says, hugging himself.
“It ain't going to happen again,” Biff assures him, shooting another look in the direction in which the cop he brought to Paul disappeared. “People just need some time to, hm. Adjust.”
He concludes the sentence with a smile, and Paul is kind of unnerved by how easily he's letting himself be persuaded. He got dragged out of a well heated hall, away from a delicious dinner, and he still can't find it in himself to be angry at Biff.
It's probably even worse than that.
The muffled sound of the music played by the chamber orchestra reaches them in the alley beside the restaurant, the high notes of the violins ringing softly. Paul could turn around and leave, but he stays. Standing, without a coat, in the cold early winter night. Just to look at Biff as he smokes his cigarette.
Something tells him Biff's lips would be incredibly soft, if he reached out and touched them.
“It's not a big deal,” Paul says, and smiles at Biff in a way that is very similar to Biff's own, perfectly studied, persuasive smile. “I cannot be mad when such a pretty boy comes asking for a favor.”
Biff makes a sound between a snort and a chuckle. He flicks his cigarette away. “With all due respect,” he says, looking straight into Paul's eyes and tilting his head just so. “I ain't a boy.”
There is no threat in Biff's words (and Paul knows Biff can be extremely threatening if the situation requires it,) but there is a challenge.
“You're right,” Paul says. “My mistake.”
“I was hoping you wouldn't say that,” Biff says, his voice lower. He steps closer, his eyes only leaving Paul's to briefly hesitate on his lips. He doesn't touch Paul, but his proximity in itself is a promise. “I would have loved to prove you wrong.”
Paul finds himself genuinely smiling at that. “I'm afraid our location is hardly suitable,” he says.
“What a pity,” Biff says, taking a step back.
“I should go, before my companions think I've deserted them.” Paul says. “But you have nothing to worry about.”
Biff frowns. He pouts a little when he does it.
“I will make sure the right people know that anybody who fucks with you, fucks with me.”
This time around, it's more of a smirk than a smile, but it is, at last, an honest one. And as if Biff had noticed, and didn't want that honesty to show too much, he bites his lips.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “Maybe after you take care of business, you pay me a visit.” he adds, “I'll let you be the judge of how suitable the location will be.”
“I'm honored,” Paul says, and Biffs chuckles and turns around.
When Paul opens the door, the music grows louder. He doesn't walk in immediately, even though the warmth is impossibly inviting. He keeps his eyes on Biff until he walks out of the alley and into the main street.
[Paul Kelly’s] principal lieutenants, who led their own subdivisions as well as working for Kelly, included Biff Ellison, who made a significant career at running rackets on his own behalf and later came to own a short-lived but wide-open homosexual bar on Cooper Square called Paresis Hall (the name apparently derived from a patent-medicine advertisement commonly found in saloon toilets).
Luc Sante, Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York
