keep right on stumblin'

This one's actually two prompts, one for each half of the story. The original was the AU prompt itself (I was given a choice of two and went with #22 - two miserable people meeting at a wedding - because the image just amused me too much), and the second was a request for "a slow dance (bc they're already a little drunk, for old times' sake, bc he knows she loves the song, any other reason you choose, etc)". Both prompts ended up being far too much fun to write, probably in large part due to buckets of unspoken history (that kind of spontaneously manifested).

Thanks to D for being the music part of my brain and giving me a boatload of blues and jazz suggestions to my tentative, "That works for slow dancing, right?" The song being played is either Herbie Hancock's "Minuit Aux Champs-Elysées" or (an instrumental setting of) B.B. King's "There Must Be a Better World Somewhere". Title comes from the latter.

He hates weddings enough to begin with, and this one – for people he doesn't care about and only really knows because of work – is especially horrid. He despites high society, the false politeness of so many of its people, and yet that's all that's swirling around him in this overheated reception hall, turning it into a sea of tuxedos and gowns and conflicting perfumes, and as soon as Porthos comes back from a turn on the dance floor he hands off Aramis (miserable, moping Aramis, and god only knows why he came, when the sight of the putatively happy couple all too clearly cuts into him) and strides away to the bar. He needs a drink. Badly.

The bar (an open one, thank god for small mercies) is at the corner, where the barest hint of a breeze from the terrace beyond cools things off slightly. It's summer, hot and sticky in the crush of people, but out here he can breathe a little, and he loosens his tie and undoes the first button at his collar as he props his elbows on the polished surface. "Armagnac. Neat."

Too late, as the bartender pours, he notices the woman beside him – properly notices, because he'd absently registered the pale long-fingered hand wrapped around a glass as he settled there. But she turns to look at him, cool green eyes and wet red lips, and his gut tightens, roils even as they regard each other with all evidence of calm. "Athos," she says, and her low voice still ties him into knots and sends heat lancing through him after all the time and distance they've put between themselves.

"Anne," he returns coldly, watches her shoulders tighten for the briefest of moments before she lifts her drink. Her throat works as she swallows, eyes fluttering closed briefly, and it's visceral memory – how she'd enjoyed the burn of a good drink, but also that same expression when he'd teased her, fingers and lips and teeth and tongue on sweaty skin in a tiny flat in some forgotten city while waiting for their extraction team. They'd burned together, he and she, but they'd burned bright and fast and when it was done he'd only been left with ashes and regrets and the fading ghost of her perfume on his pillow.

"I didn't think to see you here," he continues, as if they were old acquaintances with nothing more complicated between them, and she studies him over the rim of her glass.

"Not by choice." It's a meaningless confession, one that costs her nothing, but it's plain she wants to be here as little as he does. He knows the tightness in her jaw, the steel in her spine, the flick of her pale jade eyes as they move over the room, never settling on one thing long. She's working, but judging by the drink in her hands, it's the last thing she wants to be doing. "No more than you."

"No," he agrees, taking the glass the bartender has set in front of him and downing half the cognac in one gulp, heedless of the lack of respect he's showing it. He's too sober by far for this discussion.

He's too sober by far for her.

~ x ~

It's grown quieter by the time he finishes his second glass, this one nursed more slowly. To say he's been doing that to avoid company is only a partial truth, but it's equally incomplete to say he'd lingered to watch her. (He does - he has been. She's as stunning as he remembers, and it would be a lie to say he isn't wondering if she tastes the same too, even if he knows it would be a terrible idea to try and kiss her. She's got a mean left cross, and they're neither of them drunk enough for that kind of foolishness.)

And yet she hasn't moved away any more than he has, just turned to lean back against the bar, bare elbows a pale contrast where they rest against the dark polished surface. While her eyes may be on the dance floor and the tables beside it, he's under no illusions; she's well-aware he's still here, even in their silence.

"Another?" the bartender asks, and he slides the empty glass back across. Another, and he may be able to justify being a fool. (Another, and she may be willing to blame the drink if he forgets why they'd parted.)

"Your friends have gone," she observes, as if to ask why he hasn't done the same. Her voice is just as cool as when he'd first stopped beside her, but he's still acquainted with the nuances in her manners; some of that tension has gone as well. He wonders, idly, who she'd been here to keep an eye on.

He makes a noncommittal sound of agreement, the kind of noise that might mean any one of a number of things or nothing at all, and turns to follow her gaze. She's watching the band now, visible through the couples dancing to an old blues melody, and he thinks of that summer, and the sound of the neighbour's radio filtering through the wall as he'd mapped the hidden places of her body. They'd laughed about it despite the tension, joked about it being the soundtrack to their own personal film noir.

(He can't listen to the blues sober anymore, nowadays - not when the sound always sends him back, makes him wonder, makes him wish …)

She's looking over at him now, out of the corner of her eye, and the slightly bitter twist to her mouth makes him think she knows precisely where his mind has wandered off to. As she knocks back the last of her drink and pushes away from the bar, though, his hand shoots out to catch her arm - doesn't miss the flinch, how she stops herself from pulling away (or worse) and instead just turns to look at him. While her expression is studiously neutral, there's a warning glint in her eyes.

"Dance with me," he blurts, before she can withdraw or say anything, and watches her go tense with surprise. It's clear the invitation has caught her off-guard. But the band brings the current song to a close, and as he releases her arm, ready to concede defeat and blame the Armagnac for his ill-advised words, she extends a hand.

"One song."

There's little of the ballroom dances his mother had insisted he learn a lifetime ago to this, save perhaps for the hold. Instead there's just the warmth of her body against his, the sweet smell of her hair, the gentle swaying rhythm. Her hand burns through his shirt and jacket; the other, held in his own, is still cool and slightly damp from her glass. His own splays across the small of her back, holding her closer than is strictly proper, but she hasn't drawn back - to the contrary, just rests her cheek against his shoulder. The tune's a familiar one, and in the moment he just closes his eyes, breathes, lets himself take the moment for what it is (for it is all that can be).

For as long as the song lasts, for as long as she is in his arms, that summer never left.

Endnotes: As always, you can find me on Tumblr (myalchod). My askbox there is always open for prompts and questions.