Right, another part of the trilogy. All the stuff I said for "The Dance" still applies. Something I forgot before--this takes place somewhere in the first season, toward the end I think. (How would I know? I'm only writing the bloody piece...)

Oh, yes, I don't recall it ever being mentioned if Fogg was a good dancer or not...if he *is* actually, then just remember this is purely fantasy, and try not to let that niggling little detail get in the way of your pleasure or interest in the story. Please? ;-)

Fire and Ice

He is watching her like always.

She is hard to miss, even at these functions, filled with beautiful women dressed in even more beautiful frocks. She blazes in comparison to the rest of them.

And he finds tonight he doesn't want to merely watch her surreptitiously, take note of who she dances with, chats with, flirts with, hoping she doesn't notice his constant attention but suspecting she does even though she never says anything. He wants to be the one she is dancing with, chatting with, flirting with.

Well, he'll settle for one of the three at least.

So he approaches her and asks her to dance, keeping his voice cool, disinterested. Showing it won't matter how she answers. But he knows she will accept, because there really are very few ways to refuse politely, even to one's cousin, and because they haven't danced together in ages. She is forever cajoling him to dance more at these occasions. He's never understood why.

She moves so easily, he notes once again, part in admiration, part in envy. He hates to dance, hates being reminded there is this physical endeavor at least that he has never felt comfortable mastering. Still, he can fake it with the best of them. But she doesn't need to feign anything-- once again he admires her strength, her litheness, the delicate grace of her light movements around the ballroom.

She is looking over his shoulder, dreaming he thinks. He allows her to, because there are so few times she allows herself to relax and dream. Neither of them do it very often, nor very well, now that he considers it. So he looks over her shoulder and dreams as well, sufficiently aware of her to mirror her every move, take note of her every expression out of the corner of his eye, sense the fiery passion she is allowing to die down for the evening as she relaxes and enjoys herself fully. And even as she cools off, he can feel himself warm, his icy demeanor falling away in her presence. Like always.

He knows his place. He knows exactly where they stand with each other. He knows their boundaries, their limitations, how far they can push each other before she burns him or he turns her cold. So when the music ends, he takes his leave smoothly, coolly, quickly, slipping away before she can speak to him, before he can give too much away when neither of them are ready.

He wants to be left alone for a moment, to collect himself, to cool off. He finds a niche in which to stand without being bothered. And once again his eyes stray to her of their own accord, as always with an almost frightening ease, picking out the fiery gleam of her red-gold hair, the blazing sparkle of jewels in her tresses and on her pale, smooth skin. Her fire always draws him.

She is dancing--ah, with him. Of course. She is always taking care of him, almost shepherding him at these balls; they both know full well the boy is hopeless by himself. She takes care of them all, really.

And he knows she enjoys his company, takes great pleasure in his youthful optimism. As he does himself--that passion can save him from his own cynicism, his own self-destructive tendencies, tendencies that hurt others rather than himself.

But not as much as her passion. Not as much as her fire. The boy is also studying her as they dance--has he ever been able to look up before from the floor while dancing? Has he ever been able to study her face before like that, so seriously, so completely, unimpeded by embarrassment or fear that she would notice his intense attentions? Eyes unguarded, honest, even unafraid. He isn't a boy, he realizes in that moment with a spark of some emotion he can't or won't as yet allow himself to identify. He is a young man and perhaps wiser and more understanding than either of the cousins put together.

She meets the young man's glance and after her initial surprise holds it consideringly, with almost the same serious, complex look as he has on his face. Something moves in her eyes, a certain fire burns out inside her, and she looks quickly away from her dancing partner, an unreadable look on her face as she holds herself straighter, more regally, more proudly.

He watches the young man turn his gaze, now expressionless and unreadable, away as well, watches them finish the dance mechanically, and he remains deep in thought. He wonders if the young man understands now what he himself has always known, if the young man has finally and fully realized the others' relationship to each other in that thorough study of her--that she is his fire, he is her ice.