[with a dry note:] Didn't you notice? The ballroom has quite the array. Were none of them to your tastes? [or is he off to partake now? admittedly, she didn't expect to hear his long-legged strides behind her.]
A few of them are. A lot of it's too sweet, though. [He wants a drink, not dessert.
He keeps those strides in check enough to stay behind her. He got used to playing rearguard, and besides, they usually have an easier time talking when it's not face to face. The kind of people they are like to limit how much they give away at any one time.]
[He, in turn, looks down to meet her reflection's eyes. There's probably some kind of metaphor to be found in that, only looking directly at each other through the shadows they cast on the glass. He's not fanciful enough to come up with it, though (and there's something painful in keeping the thought long enough to try).
Best to just be relieved their reflections aren't trying to kill them.]
[her mouth curves up faintly, briefly, before the reflection is blurred with her moving inside, back into the noise and movement of the party. she remembers many like them, though none are ever precisely the same. the lifting of her chin is as much a response to the atmosphere as it is necessity to see over dancing figures and survey what she can beyond them: the ever-flowing dance floor is bordered by throngs of bodies or tables...a dense jungle to navigate. one could be terrible and bully themselves through any and everything in the way, but that's so unbecoming, and could also yield some consequence greater than a party foul - fey nonsense is a threat here, after all.
before her foot can even cross the threshold of the dance floor, she turns her head to peer behind her at her lanky, shaggy-haired shadow.]
[He shrugs, as casually as he can in this stupid, stupid coat.]
I may not be much use with politics or spells, but I know how to have a friend's back.
[Or sides, or front, as may be necessary when such a large crowd of people and tables are shoved into such narrow borders.
...Wait. That's the gauntlet, right? Not the dance floor. Please tell him he simply has to bully a path through a crowd. Please do not tell him he's just committed himself to dancing.]
He's been shoved around to these kinds of parties for...3 years? It's really been that long? The point is, Wolfwood has been very successful at not dancing. It's just too...too much like putting himself at the center of attention. Too exposed. Too distracting in the event that something's about to attack, which it probably will.
But she's smiling, and that's really unfair. That it's crooked just makes it kind of cute.
He holds out a hand.]
About all I can promise is that I won't step on your feet.
[she almost balks in surprise, having expected him to have a fresh excuse. two left feet, no rhythm, something...
instead, there's a hand out for her. how unique a happening - not dancing, she's done that thousands upon thousands of times - but his offer. despite knowing she's better left in the periphery of his life, she can't refuse this offer.
while settling her hand in his:] Do you know how to lead?
[To be honest, objections other than "I don't know how" or "not my thing" never occurred to him. Anyone who's seen him in a fight would immediately call him on claiming no agility or balance, and anyone who knows him well enough to get past his honest reasons not to dance is automatically assumed to have seen him fight.
Her surprise and, well, his own tendency to claim he knows something just so he won't be shown up puts him very close to saying that of course he knows how to lead. But that'd just mean being shown up even more in a few minutes, so he bites it back.]
No idea.
[It feels strange, her hand on his. Wolfwood realizes that pretty much all the contact they've ever had has been pulling the other away from something, with the occasional clinging to someone familiar in a crowd for variety. This is new territory. He's not sure what that means.
Other than, you know, condemning himself to public embarrassment.]
[she smiles small, taking a step backward, being the first to cross the threshold of the floor, meaning to gently pull him with her.]
Then I'll talk you through it. [she's done so before for...many before this. and always, her heart squeezes in some kind of way, but the quality is different this time.] The moment you start, you're forbidden to look at the floor or your feet. It's easier that way.
[He follows, keeping his strides small so he doesn't accidentally outpace her and embarrass the both of them immediately.]
Right.
[Makes perfect sense to him. The moment you start double-checking yourself is the moment you slow down enough to get shot. ...Or bump into someone, as the case may be. Still, his eyes do dart around the dance floor, identifying some of the more skilled couples so he can watch their feet if he needs reference.]
[she leads the hand she took to her waist, then takes the other one as she stands before him, lifting her chin.]
You lead with your body, not your feet. Pick a direction, then step...as though you meant to step carefully to avoid making too much noise or jostle something on the floor. Glass cups, perhaps...
[or bombs? bombs may have been a better analogy for Wolfwood in particular, but such an idea doesn't actually come to mind right now.]
You needn't worry about me; I know how to follow. Your steps should match the rhythm of the sound around you...or the people closest, lest we collide.
[Lean before taking a step and then take that step like the floor is loaded with mines, got it.
His hand rests lightly on her waist - not avoiding touching her, because that would be detrimental to both of them in this situation, but trying to be polite. It's a very polite kind of dance. His eyes flicker between her, the couples on either side of them, and the crowd at the sides of the room. He misses a few steps or takes a stride too far a few times, but it's easy enough to catch himself and match the pace of the couple ahead. The only sign that he's still feeling lost is that his grip on her hand is a bit too tight to be polite.]
What, your lead? [after those stumbling few steps, she's able to surmise his intentions well enough to follow along - even predict, lest he step on her gown.
[That gets him to stop scanning the people at the edge of the dance floor and look back down at her, sharply.
What exactly is that supposed to mean? She'd told him to act like they never knew each other before, sure, but that was in the context of others having forgotten. This is something different. He can't quite guess at what it is. But he can connect it to how willing she was to have him act like a total stranger as well. She'd been wandering - was she trying to go entirely unnoticed through all of that?
If that's the case...that's an even lonelier life than Vash's.]
That doesn't sound like much of a risk to me. It's not like you've gone and murdered dozens of people.
[As a completely hypothetical reason why it could be best to forget someone.]
As far as I know. [He concedes that. She could have accidentally vaporized an entire city at some point. It's not like she'd be the first friend of his to do that.
But he's examining her face carefully, looking for signs of the loneliness she's more or less admitted to. Whether it's self-imposed or not, being entirely forgotten is no way to live. Or to die. He wanted plenty of people not to care about his presence or absence, but he could never have been satisfied with how things turned out if he hadn't been damn sure there were a few who wouldn't forget him.]
Not that it'd matter to me.
[For all his focus on her, he's been able to keep his dancing mostly passable. It's not that hard of a pattern if you're not doing anything fancy.]
[she looks back at him, matching gaze for gaze as her ages of skill have given her. despite the way her heart aches and yearns as she etches the moment to a sensory memory, she does not let her placid expression break.
instead, she just gently teases him:] Slippery slope, Wolfwood. I pray you raise your standards a bit above 'mysterious, potentially dangerous.'
Not true. [she lifts her chin a bit, turning her head in the direction he's leading them.] It'd just mean you'd have to chat a bit more to learn things.
I do plenty of chatting! [Just ask any of the shopkeepers! Or some of the locals he's given a hand, or people he meets in passing at cafés. He's cheery and mostly polite, fitting right in.
...Which was always the point. It's easier to slide in and out of places if you're a friendly, pleasant guy. Maybe a bit weird, but not some mysterious, potentially dangerous loner. It's not that he's naturally chatty. He's perfectly willing to talk if the situation calls for it, but he was always blunt, even when those situations were frequent. He'd worked out how to chat, because people were less likely to match 'hired assassin' with 'nice oddball priest.']
Just...not with friends.
[His steps had slowed; he picks up the pace now so the next couple won't run into them.]
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mycrosstobear) wrote2021-11-14 03:26 pm
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He keeps those strides in check enough to stay behind her. He got used to playing rearguard, and besides, they usually have an easier time talking when it's not face to face. The kind of people they are like to limit how much they give away at any one time.]
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Sauvignon Blanc. It's dry, but not without flavor.
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Best to just be relieved their reflections aren't trying to kill them.]
Thanks. I'll ask for that next time.
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before her foot can even cross the threshold of the dance floor, she turns her head to peer behind her at her lanky, shaggy-haired shadow.]
Are you going to cross the gauntlet with me, too?
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I may not be much use with politics or spells, but I know how to have a friend's back.
[Or sides, or front, as may be necessary when such a large crowd of people and tables are shoved into such narrow borders.
...Wait. That's the gauntlet, right? Not the dance floor. Please tell him he simply has to bully a path through a crowd. Please do not tell him he's just committed himself to dancing.]
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And her hand?
[across a dance floor, right?]
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He just committed himself to dancing.
He's been shoved around to these kinds of parties for...3 years? It's really been that long? The point is, Wolfwood has been very successful at not dancing. It's just too...too much like putting himself at the center of attention. Too exposed. Too distracting in the event that something's about to attack, which it probably will.
But she's smiling, and that's really unfair. That it's crooked just makes it kind of cute.
He holds out a hand.]
About all I can promise is that I won't step on your feet.
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instead, there's a hand out for her. how unique a happening - not dancing, she's done that thousands upon thousands of times - but his offer. despite knowing she's better left in the periphery of his life, she can't refuse this offer.
while settling her hand in his:] Do you know how to lead?
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Her surprise and, well, his own tendency to claim he knows something just so he won't be shown up puts him very close to saying that of course he knows how to lead. But that'd just mean being shown up even more in a few minutes, so he bites it back.]
No idea.
[It feels strange, her hand on his. Wolfwood realizes that pretty much all the contact they've ever had has been pulling the other away from something, with the occasional clinging to someone familiar in a crowd for variety. This is new territory. He's not sure what that means.
Other than, you know, condemning himself to public embarrassment.]
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Then I'll talk you through it. [she's done so before for...many before this. and always, her heart squeezes in some kind of way, but the quality is different this time.] The moment you start, you're forbidden to look at the floor or your feet. It's easier that way.
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Right.
[Makes perfect sense to him. The moment you start double-checking yourself is the moment you slow down enough to get shot. ...Or bump into someone, as the case may be. Still, his eyes do dart around the dance floor, identifying some of the more skilled couples so he can watch their feet if he needs reference.]
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You lead with your body, not your feet. Pick a direction, then step...as though you meant to step carefully to avoid making too much noise or jostle something on the floor. Glass cups, perhaps...
[or bombs? bombs may have been a better analogy for Wolfwood in particular, but such an idea doesn't actually come to mind right now.]
You needn't worry about me; I know how to follow. Your steps should match the rhythm of the sound around you...or the people closest, lest we collide.
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His hand rests lightly on her waist - not avoiding touching her, because that would be detrimental to both of them in this situation, but trying to be polite. It's a very polite kind of dance. His eyes flicker between her, the couples on either side of them, and the crowd at the sides of the room. He misses a few steps or takes a stride too far a few times, but it's easy enough to catch himself and match the pace of the couple ahead. The only sign that he's still feeling lost is that his grip on her hand is a bit too tight to be polite.]
Doesn't it make you nervous?
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so that question gets a crooked smile.]
I assure you, I've seen far worse.
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Bein' out in the middle of everyone like this.
[He knows that probably only a few people, at most, are watching them. But there are so many more who could. Possibly while armed.]
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Only if it were a risk I'd be a remembered.
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What exactly is that supposed to mean? She'd told him to act like they never knew each other before, sure, but that was in the context of others having forgotten. This is something different. He can't quite guess at what it is. But he can connect it to how willing she was to have him act like a total stranger as well. She'd been wandering - was she trying to go entirely unnoticed through all of that?
If that's the case...that's an even lonelier life than Vash's.]
That doesn't sound like much of a risk to me. It's not like you've gone and murdered dozens of people.
[As a completely hypothetical reason why it could be best to forget someone.]
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But he's examining her face carefully, looking for signs of the loneliness she's more or less admitted to. Whether it's self-imposed or not, being entirely forgotten is no way to live. Or to die. He wanted plenty of people not to care about his presence or absence, but he could never have been satisfied with how things turned out if he hadn't been damn sure there were a few who wouldn't forget him.]
Not that it'd matter to me.
[For all his focus on her, he's been able to keep his dancing mostly passable. It's not that hard of a pattern if you're not doing anything fancy.]
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instead, she just gently teases him:] Slippery slope, Wolfwood. I pray you raise your standards a bit above 'mysterious, potentially dangerous.'
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If I did that, I wouldn't have any friends.
[Hell, if said friends had standards above that, he would also not have any friends.]
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...Which was always the point. It's easier to slide in and out of places if you're a friendly, pleasant guy. Maybe a bit weird, but not some mysterious, potentially dangerous loner. It's not that he's naturally chatty. He's perfectly willing to talk if the situation calls for it, but he was always blunt, even when those situations were frequent. He'd worked out how to chat, because people were less likely to match 'hired assassin' with 'nice oddball priest.']
Just...not with friends.
[His steps had slowed; he picks up the pace now so the next couple won't run into them.]
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There's more to remember if you do. I hope you can.
[just not with her.]
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