AN: Please enjoy this silly, cathartic piece.
"I still don't understand the point of this." Jack stood by his sentiment. Well, he stood by the living room wall, but that was beside the point.
"You're slick with your hands," said Dylan, shoving furniture aside. "But you need that same ease with your feet. With etiquette."
"Slick." Jack raised a brow. "Daniel Craig just phoned me for an endorsement. Did I mention that? Plenty slick."
Dylan leveled the youth a look. A smile, quivering at the corners of his mouth, took the bite out of his expression.
Jack rolled his eyes. "I'm not doing it."
Dylan nodded, as if he'd expected to lose the argument all along. "Sure. I'm just going to ask that you watch, that's all."
Jack shifted. His crossed arms made the leather at his elbows creak.
Alma had dropped by for another month's stay. Even in dress pants and a lilac collared work shirt, she was ten times more graceful than Jack could ever conceive of faking, let alone actually being. Street smooth was one thing. Ballroom dancing? Pff. Forget it.
Dylan nudged the Interpol agent into a quick twirl. She laughed, swatting his arm on the way by.
"When will we ever need to know this?"
"What if you're on a job and you need to distract a pretty lady?" Dylan countered. Though he continued to waltz Alma to an invisible three beat, his eyes remained on Jack's hunched form. "It's just another skill in your arsenal."
Jack frowned. Merritt chose that moment to saunter in and fling an arm around the sleight's shoulder. He flipped his porkpie over Jack's furrowed brow and eyes.
"Naw, ole Jacky Boy is just the only one here who's never learned to dance."
With the subtlety of much practice, Jack schooled his face into something easy, calm, in time for Merritt's thumb to gently lift the hat. Dylan's lopsided grin replaced the darkness.
"This hat smells like toe sweat," was all Jack said.
An answering wink summed up Merritt's thoughts. And then a warm hand found Jack's wrist and blam—Jack was in the middle of the antique carpet.
He wasn't quite sure how Alma had pulled the sly on him, honestly.
"This is so stupid," he bleated.
Jack expected some kind of snide rebuke—"you're stupid, Cards"—but none came except for a palm and manicured fingers tapping his cheek.
"You'll be fine," said Alma. "I've got you."
"Oh there!" Dylan waved his arms like he was directing a plane. "You made a box."
"A box?" Jack jerked in alarm. "That doesn't sound good."
"With your feet," Dylan explained. "Make a square with your feet by swaying to the beat."
"What beat?"
Dylan set the needle on their dusty record player. Jack grit his teeth. Alma led his dance for the first song, teaching him how to lead, before letting him try. Jack dutifully made the "frame" with his arms. Sweat frothed along his brow. Nothing to do with exertion.
"Your partner is the picture," Dylan repeated.
Jack splashed on a quick smile for his audience at the door. "Can't a guy get a little privacy around here?"
Daniel's eyes crinkled, just the barest hint fond. "Nope."
Merritt had his phone out, videoing the whole thing.
Jack groaned. "Aww, come on!"
"It's a proud day for all of us," Merritt deadpanned.
Dylan mouthed something at him that Jack was pretty sure was a swear word, a string of them.
Merritt grinned.
"Didn't you ever go to school dances?" Alma asked Jack, correcting the youth's off time steps.
Jack just laughed. Alma threw Dylan a confused smile to which the magician shook his head.
This barely registered past the perfume of lighthearted laughter, Strauss's sweet melodies, and no one yelling. Jack's smile became genuine. The tight pinches around his lips smoothed. At the sight, so did Dylan's.
Jack still didn't see the point of dancing, but he enjoyed it anyway.
The first time Jack used his newfound waltzing skills was in the back alleys of Calcutta.
Not exactly what he was expecting. Not what the two private security sharks sprinting after him expected either.
Jack smirked under the shadowed folds of his hood. The street was a dead end and Jack heard his pursuers slow their breakneck pace, the woman on heels and the man in his pin stripe three piece. Jack didn't pause, didn't put the brakes on. The pair shouted a tandem warning.
The mud and mortar wall racing for Jack's face was crumbling in places, despite its height, and cracks fanned along one edge.
It proved plenty stable enough for Jack to run up the wall and do a side flip over the male agent's head. The man gasped. His partner blocked the alley with her arms.
"Make a frame."
Jack didn't even try to sideswipe but went straight for the woman's arms. Alarm flickered in her eyes. She held her ground.
Jack grabbed her hand, the other under her shoulders, and twirled a three step with his feet. The woman reached for an automatic at her hip but Jack was faster. He threw her into a quick dip. Center of gravity skewed, the agent instinctively reached for Jack's arm.
The tracker fit snugly on the cuff of her blazer. Jack pressed it for activation.
"Thank you kindly!" Jack set her on her feet with a wink and vanished down the alley entrance. Bullets staccato-ed off the walls.
Jack palmed the access card he'd picked from the man's pocket earlier. His feet did a tiny skip.
A three beat.
The next time, at least, it was at an actual dance. With a woman who, you know, actually wanted to dance with him.
A seventy year old woman, in fact—and the mother of his pretty mark. The dame had a field of wrinkles, expertly hidden by white powder. Jack twirled the aging matron to a live orchestra under marble arches, trying to look relaxed in his coat tails and white gloves. He felt like he'd become seventy percent starch at this point.
His mark, a wealthy socialite and smokin' hot if anyone was asking (they hadn't yet) waved with a flirty gesture at Jack from the edge of the dance floor. Next to her father. He didn't look as impressed.
Focus, Jack snapped at himself. You've gotta keep Melina here, downstairs, while the others raid her safe and Daddy's files.
Still, the 59th Street bridge incident came unnervingly to mind. Being the decoy never went well for him.
No one knew how close he came to flipping the car that day. Except, perhaps, Dylan—who later confessed in private that he thought the car switch hadn't worked, until he'd surged close enough to the wreck to see the cadaver's body. That his initial panic was very real and he'd been ready to fling himself off that bridge because he couldn't live with the slaughter of a child on his hands. Jack, though he had flushed at Dylan's vehemence, had replied with a little smile.
"I'm technically eighteen," he'd mumbled.
Dylan's throat had worked up and down and he'd squeezed the nape of Jack's neck.
"Mind if I cut in?"
Melina, in her plunging midnight blue dress, set manicured nails on Jack's arm. Her mother offered the pair an indulgent grin and a pat on Jack's cheek that made him rigid.
"I'll leave suitors be," the matron cooed. Jack bowed.
"You'll have to forgive my parents," said Melina. Her back felt warm under Jack's hand. "They're a little...particular about how things ought to be."
"You inherited their beauty and brains, then," said Jack.
The woman's eyes sparked with amusement. "Aren't you just a charmer this evening?"
Jack laughed and thought that under different circumstances, they could have been good friends. He spun her in a lazy circle. A mental timer ticked in his head, but he also liked the sea foam green of Melina's eyes and marveling at a life style he'd never been able to afford.
"Where did you learn to dance?"
Jack shrugged. "Here and there."
Sixty seconds and they'll have cleaned out the vault. Jack's muscles unwound. Melina was thoroughly enjoying herself. They had this in the bag and the fraud in her father's company would be exposed...
"Not this again!"
Jack tracked the husky male voice to a shadowy corner of the atrium. Melina's father threw back the last of his wine and barked something else at his indignant wife, hands on her hips. They were drowned out by the orchestra. If Jack hadn't been dancing so close, he wouldn't have heard them at all.
"Ignore my parents." Melina seemed bored watching the interaction. "It's probably over Mom's spending budget or Daddy's travel schedule or something."
"They fight like this a lot?" Jack felt proud when his voice came out rock steady.
Melina cocked her head. "You know…they never used to. Just this year they've, well, you get the picture. Maybe it's old age."
Jack didn't hear any of this, owing to his fixed gaze upon the couple.
"How dare you insinuate such a thing!" the older woman railed at her husband.
"Me?" The man drew back. He flushed magenta. "You're the one who humiliates me at every opportunity!" His bare hands went in the air. "You ungrateful excuse of a—"
Jack didn't know when his feet started moving but suddenly he was between the wealthy tycoon and his wife. "Is there a problem here?"
The man whirled on Jack, still breathing hard. "Just because you took my daughter out to dinner a few times does not mean you get to stick your nose in our family's affairs!"
Jack swallowed but squared his stance. "Look, you shouldn't yell at a lady. At least take this outside—"
"You imp," the older man snarled. "Get out of my sight!"
Jack's eyes blazed. "Get away from the lady."
"She is my wife!"
Jack flinched a little at the volume. "All the more reason to discuss this when you have a clearer head."
The male stare-down lasted longer than was socially comfortable, certainly longer than Jack expected. A shiver went down his spine. One wrong move and the Horseman's whole tapestry unraveled.
A warm hand on Jack's shoulder made him jump. Dylan, waiter's cloth hung over one forearm, pretended to look disinterested.
"Monsieur," he said to Jack in a flawless German accent, "There is a phone call for you in the lounge. Your meeting's been cancelled."
Jack blinked at him. That had never been a code word. Had the mission failed?
But then he found a tint of concern under Dylan's character and deflated when he realized what it was.
'I'm getting you out of here,' it said. A safe word.
Jack bowed to Melina, kissed her mother's hand, and with a soft "excuse me" followed Dylan out the servant's entrance. Once in the crisp Vienna air, Jack ripped off the gloves with his teeth, then unclipped the cummerbund. Dylan yanked away his skinny server's tie.
"Did we get the information?" asked Jack.
Dylan nodded. "Our part went off without a hitch."
Jack nodded too. "Good. That's good…"
Dylan didn't look at Jack, but he clapped him on the back. His hand rubbed a quick circle before dropping. Jack felt as heavy as their steaming breath.
"I'm sorry," said Dylan. He wasn't talking about tonight.
Jack sighed. "There's nothing you could have done. You didn't know me then."
Neither was Jack.
"That was your job!" Jack hissed.
Merritt's hat had slipped to a crooked angle, humorous against his glitzy purple bow tie.
"The bus roster said the theater," the mentalist defended. "I had no idea we'd end up...here."
Jack kept his eyes firmly on his friend, refusing to look to the right and the reality of here. A bumblebee circled Jack's head before deciding he was not a flower. June heat drew beads of sweat from the brows of both men.
"They seem happy to have us…"
"No." Jack slashed his hands to either side. "We are not entering this hokey talent show."
"Oh come on." Merritt snorted. "I've done way more embarrassing things in my youth."
Jack had the sudden mental image of Merritt in a sundress and shook it away.
"It's either this or the cops catch up with us," said Merritt, softer.
"They still might."
Merritt spread his arms. "All the more reason to enter! Hide in plain sight."
Yet another old lady—wearing the blue ribbon for best cherry jam—cooed over their ridiculous Vegas outfits. Merritt lapped it up.
Jack wondered whether Dylan and the others had made it to the safe spot, if they panicked when he and Merritt didn't show up. Splitting up had been their only choice after the show. The SWAT team had surprised even Dylan. Logically, their contingency plan made sense ("that's a fancy way of saying plan B," Merritt had drawled, brows knit) but still…
"Since you picked the wrong get away bus and got us into this mess," said Jack, "you get to be my assistant."
Merritt's head whipped up from where's he'd been looking at a woman's grandbaby photos. Eyes wide. He waved the ladies off with an absent smile. "You know, on second thought, we shouldn't enter. Magic might attract more bad attention."
Jack raised a brow. "It's a middle-of-nowhere county fair. Do you see anyone ready to bust us? We just have to kill enough time to catch the evening Greyhound. Though I still say we should've wired a car..."
"And I told you that would only alert the authorities to our presence," said Merritt patiently.
They shuffled over to the sign up table in silence. Merritt leaned down to the smaller man's ear.
"It'll be a piece 'a cake, Brooklyn Boy."
His eyes narrowed, mouth quirked up on one side. It took a minute to recognize that Merritt was laughing at Jack's leather jacket in the sweltering heat. Jack stubbornly pulled the lapels closer and hated to admit that he felt better with Merritt by his side.
"Shut up," he said, but it was weak and the mentalist wasn't fooled. He put his hat on Jack's messy hair with a fond chuckle.
This is becoming a habit, Jack thought.
"You're signing up for the talent finale at five?" asked an acne faced male attendant.
"You betcha!" Merritt wrote their names on the clipboard with a flourish.
"What's your talent?" asked the teen.
A bright glint flared in Merritt's eye. His hands froze and he grinned, teeth and all.
"Oh no," said Jack. He paled. "Whatever you're thinking—no."
Merritt ignored him. "We'll be doing a combination magic dance act, my good man."
Jack gaped at him. "Dancing? Seriously? What is this, West Side Story?"
Now would have been a fantastic time for Dylan to swoop in with that safe word. Jack ran a hand down his face.
"This is gonna be the best hiding-from-the-FBI story ever!" Merritt gushed.
Jack wanted to say, 'This is our only hiding-from-the-FBI story, Merritt,' but realized he couldn't.
This is becoming a habit, and Jack had to blink the vertigo daze from his vision.
"We have three hours to kill and I already called Dylan to apprise him of our bus switcheroo." Merritt checked his watch. He made no move to grab the fedora back, which surprised Jack more than anything else in this crazy day. "Candy apple?"
Jack worried about Merritt's head getting sunburned. Then realized he was worried about a bald man getting sunburned who lived to tease him.
With a long, weary look up at the sky, Jack shrugged a shoulder. "Why not?"
They rode the Ferris wheel and the Hurricane ride. Merritt told Jack all about how the ride operator had just had twins but was conflicted because his brother had died in childhood, all while the mentalist dripped caramel everywhere so Jack couldn't keep a straight face.
He got to pet a sheep and the prize Clydesdale with her dinner plate sized hooves. Jack snapped pictures of Merritt winning a gargantuan duck for a little girl at the 'how many marbles are in this jar' station (he argued that "funky mind powers," as Jack put it, were not technically cheating).
It was the most…normal day Jack had experienced in years.
"It's no Coney Island," said Jack around a mouthful of peanuts, "but they make a mean candy apple. Who knew?"
"You've never been to a fair?" asked Merritt, not even trying to hide his surprise.
Jack shrugged. "Couldn't afford Coney Island either. I usually just…slipped in."
A frown dipped Merritt's face before he slapped Jack's arm. "Come on. Twenty minutes 'til curtain."
"They don't have a curtain," said Jack. But he dogged after Merritt and donned the tux jackets they'd stored behind a vendor cart.
And as Jack waltzed with a woman Merritt hypnotized, doing heel clicks and spins during his card routine that would make Billy Elliot proud, he decided that maybe dancing wasn't so stupid after all.
Even when the feds appeared, one by one in their dark sedans, Jack swayed off stage to the singing of Merritt's volunteer. Merritt snapped his fingers and the spell broke. Applause called out for an encore. Jack left the packed audience of Corn Creek County Fair with a confetti of cards.
"Time to catch a bus," said Merritt.
"Yup." Jack looked just as cavalier.
Their tense posture belied them. It was only when their Greyhound roared onto the I-95 that they relaxed. Merritt groaned and snatched the hat from Jack.
"What?" asked the younger man.
"We don't know if we won! There was a fifty dollar jackpot for the local bar!"
Jack had no idea if Merritt's display was genuine or that signature wry humour. It certainly sounded real. He didn't get to ask—Merritt had yanked the brim over his eyes, slouched in his seat, and fallen asleep still muttering about "perfectly good Guinness, wasted."
Jack shook his head. "Unbelievable."
Merritt woke to a newspaper the next morning on his motel room doormat in Oregon. The headline read: TWINKLE TOES TAKE NAMES AND HYPNOTIZE HEARTS.
It detailed two strange men who danced their way to winning a county talent show, despite no one having seen them before. Merritt never figured out the near-miracle of how the paper got to his door and he never asked.
Though he did buy a pint on his next pass through Corn Creek and toasted it to a scrawny boy in a leather jacket.