Just a musing on that first dance encounter at The Starlight and the true meaning of "It". DC canon notwithstanding, it only takes two to tango!
Chapter One
It, happened dancing. There had always been something between them, a back and forth banter that bordered on irritating when at their worst together or intimate and downright flirtatious when at their best. They chalked it up to the years; they had been chasing after each other since kindergarten.
But It…this was something new—at the very least, something that could no longer be denied. It, happened in a single moment…a single look…a single caress. It, was attraction, chemistry, fireworks.
She came back for him. She said she forgot her coat, but she looked around for him. And when she saw him sitting there, sorrowful and dejected, beating himself up over the caustic exchange that had occurred between them only minutes before—she couldn't resist the urge to go in and tell him she had decided "to take pity" on her poor testosterone-impaired partner.
He smiled, amazed that she would give him a second chance after making such a juvenile blunder, flaunting a no-holds-barred, no-emotions-involved sex pact with a mutual friend.
She held out her hand, surprised to see him so affected by this modest falling out. In the grand scheme of all things Potter and Witter, it was nothing compared to the full-fledged warfare of their childhood years when both delighted at making each other uncomfortable, on edge, constantly searching for something…better.
And yet it was different; they were different. All that pushing and pulling and tugging at each other had evolved into something far more meaningful and tender. She told herself she was needy and he was just compensating for the loss of an important romantic relationship. He rationalized that she was being uncharacteristically nice, lulled into her even temper by a weariness with all that had gone wrong in her young life; this could never be about him.
It, had been happening all year. Somewhere along the line, they had stopped following the dominant path and embarked on their own journey of snails and tidepools and first kisses…of special moments between them that they refused to acknowledge had any real significance.
They had, in fact, fled in opposite directions only to find themselves here, at The Starlight, chasing after an elusive scholarship for her whilst she resuscitated his flailing academic career during late afternoons and early evenings. Dance classes, study sessions, home improvement…any reason they found to spend time together without admitting the obvious. But It was there.
Sparks had begun to fly.
How was that possible?
Between them?
It, was not only possible—It, was inevitable.
She, the tall-legged beauty of the doe-eyed variety, her intelligence etched into a furrowed brow, further evidenced in that most sarcastic, charmingly lopsided smile; she could shoot daggers with those eyes, but when they were focused on him, he found it increasingly difficult to put up his usual witty defense.
He, the lanky heartstopper of the Sexiest Man Alive variety, his sensitivity and vulnerability offset by his goofy sidekick status; his sparkling blue-green eyes changing in color with his moods: scintillating blue, penetrating azure, breathtaking midnight. Lately, she had found herself afraid to look into those eyes, far too anxious about what might be reflected back.
Insecure, unsure, fearful about transitions, both continued to play their cat and mouse verbal sparring game, and both found stability in the fronts they had erected. Which is why the dancing unsettled them. Dancing didn't allow for rigid defenses, dancing was about fluid proximity; dancing was about watching and listening and feeling—anticipating one another. They could joke and make excuses, but sooner or later their eyes would have to meet. And then…
It, happened. A moment, a look, a touch. He took her hand and they walked out of the room, refusing an opportunity for more dance instruction, and instead taking advantage of the opportunity to extend this subtle dance between them. Down the steps, across the street, along the chain of ropes and posts that marked the marina—fingertips touching fingertips, tactilely communicating everything they were afraid to articulate on their leisurely walk home.
One simple, perfect moment.
There would be detours along the way, brief flirtations to avoid the complications of what seemed to be a misguided union, but in reflection both knew down to the exact millisecond when things had changed. And it made them smile. Because Penny Pretty was right after all: the dancing doesn't lie. The dancing was all about…
It.