Camden Social Club, 1935

Grimacing as he sat, exhaling on his way down, Alfie kept a hand against his dodgy hip, the colder weather unkind to his sciatica. You'd probably have tutted and rolled your eyes and helped him sit more comfortably, what an angel.

You'd always have some new potion or tincture for him to try, or bath salts or a cream or something.

He sighed and watched on as he tried to seem present and happy and all those things he knew you'd pick up on, get those big sad eyes when you were convinced Alfie wasn't having a good time.

Truth be told he wasn't, but he'd never tell you, he'd taken it upon himself to take you to every party he heard of, because all you wanted to do was dance, and he couldn't deny you, he'd never been good at that.

But you weren't dancing, and it was his fault and his damn gammy leg, he cursed and swore up and down that he wished he could move like he used to, swing you up and down any dancehall just to hear your elated giggles and let you feel as light as a feather if only for a moment.

He closed his eyes, pinching his brow in the middle as another wave of nauseating pain rolled through him from his hip, his cane gripped stiffly in his free hand, knuckles white.

He quickly wiped the pained look off his face before you returned from the bar, two drinks in hand, such a good little thing you were.

"Come and sit by me, treacle eh? Keep an old man company?" he smiled up at you, as you obliged, he set his arm across the back of the bench as you nestled into his side. Alfie tried to sit up a little straighter but his hip immediately protested, making him groan which he tried to cover under a cough.

He was no fool, he saw how you watched the couples already dancing with eager almost hungry eyes, how you'd tap your foot along to the music or bounce your knee absentmindedly in time, your feet shuffling in the steps of whatever shuffle or slide was currently taking place.

Alfie sighed inwardly, gently squeezing your shoulder to get your attention.