Boy Meets Dance
Summary: Yeah, he spoke their language. The language of secret eye messages and the even-more-secret meanings behind them. Loosely inspired by the hallway moment in "Girl Meets Father".
A/N: Okay so one of my guest reviewers suggested that I should consider continuing this story. But since it was meant to be a one shot, I probably won't continue it per say… instead I am turning this into an anthology, a collection of (let's be honest, mostly Lucaya) moments from my Long Game universe.
These are one-shot stories I realistically see happening or having the potential to happen in this world so I decided, instead of posting them all separately, why not just put them all together? Since they do, after all, fall under the Long Game category anyway…
So, without further ado, I am proud to present to you my first ever anthology (which, let's face it, basically writes itself): "Girl Meets the Long Game"!
I hope you enjoy it!
He'd dubbed it "the Dance". When it first happened, its meaning wasn't as clear as it became later on. By then he had become semi-fluent in their language of shared looks and moments and the true meanings behind them… not that there was a dictionary for them, but he liked to think that he broke their code.
As time went on and their endless game continued, he stood watch as others wondered at the meaning of what they had seen transpire between them. But only he was well-versed enough in their language to know what it meant when they "danced".
They were angry, livid, furious… so much so that those around them thought that they might come to blows. But he knew the truth; it was just the start of their dance.
They yelled, they screamed, they stuck blows with words and venom and it began. Her hand came up in the shape of an open claw, her way of saying she was at the point where part of her wanted to end him, strangle him, choke the life out of his smirking face.
"Urgh!" was her only cry, because she could never quite bring herself to do him physical harm, as she turned on her heel and their argument ended. And thus their dance began.
He grabbed her hand that had been curled into a fist so tight that, if she didn't keep her nails short as to not get paint under them, they would have drawn blood. And like in a dance he twirled her back around to face him, the fire in his eyes simmering down to a sizzle and locking with hers. And like salve on a burn that look made the fury in her ebb away to nothing more than discontent.
"Hey," is all he said.
In the infancy of their dance, the words she spoke now were never the same and never nearly so cliché. But by now their dance was engraved in stone and her response was always the same:
"Hay is for horses."
And though their words never did them justice it was the language they spoke with their eyes that promised the world.
Because for those well-versed in their language, she meant
'I know… wild horses couldn't tear us apart.' And in that moment it was an absolute truth.
Because no matter how much they fought or bickered, they were drawn to each other in a way that two celestial bodies were. And he knew that even the two bodies in question weren't fully aware of how they seemed to gravitate towards each other and lose themselves in a world of their own making.
And because she had said it, it was also understood to be a lighthearted jab at the cowboy, which was always a step in the right direction with them. It meant that, though they would have to revisit the conflict at a later date, they would do so with clear heads and open minds and that it would be resolved. Because neither of them could untangle their heart from the other's, nor did they really want to.
Gradually, her hand slid open against his and their fingers tangled together the way their hearts had, their palms pressed together to feel each other's pulse. And with a flash their anger and resentment vanished. They lowered their joined hands and turned to walk off together.
To the outside observer it certainly looked like a dance. One of the partners walks off only to have the other pull them back and rekindle their flame. But to him, there were multitudes spoken in their looks, with their eyes and touches. It was never so simple and straightforward but then, with them, it never was.
Once someone had asked him if that was it, if after all the fighting and arguing they just allowed their anger to melt away and could walk away as if nothing had happened. He just smiled. No one seemed to understand all that had passed between them in that moment; he was amongst the privileged few. And like those that he observed he kept his words few and vague:
"It's their dance."
A/N: So here's a not-so-random question: what should the secret eye language of Lucaya be called? Lucayanese or simply Lucayan? Personally, I think I like the latter...
