New Object of Worship || 1920's AU
He crushed out the butt of his cigarette in one of the remaining spaces of his filling ashtray. The speakeasy was practically quaking, it was a wonder the people upstairs didn't hear... or if they did, they didn't dare tell or complain. Yet in the middle of it all, Archer looked so resigned.
The brunette glanced into the crowd. Everyone here was blitzed off their asses, doing the popular dances of the time-- as bored as he looked, the bartender would rather be here than one of those Wall Street stiffs.
--Speaking of stiffs, here came one now. Redheaded and dressed in one of those expensive, designer leisure suits. That wasn't to say Archer himself didn't dress sharply outside of work... but there was an obvious difference between he and this stranger. Everything Archer owned was bought with filthy, illegal money.
But this guy. Well, he looked out of place in every meaning of the expression.
