The last part of the dance at the ball trilogy--all that's been said before still applies here. ;-)

Suspended

"May I have the honor of this dance?"

He has walked straight up to her, smoothly, coolly, almost but not quite insolently. Nothing unusual in that, though the request he makes is certainly unexpected from him.

Of course she accepts, lightly taking his hand and allowing him to lead her onto the floor. There are so few times he willingly dances at one of these balls; she isn't going to miss the chance to be his partner this time. He moves so well, with such an admirable economy and grace in fencing, in hand-to-hand combat, in just about every other physical activity he attempts, that it is rather sweet to feel this unaccustomed stiffness of his body as he feigns ease with these difficult, alien moves. And there is always the secret delight in bettering him at something.

They never look at each other the few times they do dance together. There is no need. Simply being this close to each other is enough to speak volumes.

And besides, there is a simplicity in allowing themselves this dance. A relief, to move in concert without having to fight, without having to kill. To use their deep connection with each other for something as simple as a dance, theirs and others' lives not depending for once on their ability to read each other's mind. It is a moment in which to suspend thought, to quit planning her moves ahead for the days to come, and simply enjoy--existing. In his arms. She finds herself wishing the song will go on forever, that she will never have to give up this blissful, uncomplicated moment with him.

Foolish.

With that thought, she comes back to herself, all her keen senses reawakening themselves after their brief respite. She can feel herself being watched, but she suppresses her instinctive reactions to that ugly feeling with a practiced ease, having known full well for many years that she can't avoid being looked at--both covertly and more obviously--at a society ball.

They applaud the orchestra politely and bow to each other when the music finishes, and he immediately strolls away as if he has discharged a duty to his satisfaction and has no more need to think about it. She isn't put out by it very much, though she does wish he'd given her the chance to speak with him. She is used to his ways, as he is to hers. They understand each other. She is grateful for that, grateful that they don't yet ask each other for more.

She looks around, and only after she finds him--looking straight back at her in fact, she notices with a tiny shock--does she realize for whom she has instinctively been checking up on. He is alone again, a solitary and lonely figure in the formal dress required for this sort of occasion which he so rarely attends. It suits him very well, but she would never tell him that and embarrass him. She smiles at him warmly, easily, as always glad to see his sweet, friendly face. She begins making her way toward him. He smiles back openly, like always, comforting and safe in his familiarity.

"Dance with me?" she asks him. She wants the easy movement of the dance to continue, to suspend and take pleasure in the simple magic of the evening. She hasn't felt this free from her worries in a long time. Besides, she can't leave the poor dear alone in a corner like this, and while he doesn't seem to have realized it, his dancing skills have certainly been improving. She doesn't think she will tell him that either-- not for a while yet, even though there is no danger of him becoming big- headed because of his skills and talents. Unlike certain other people she knows.

He blushes, looking away with that boyish bashfulness that is so endearing, muttering something about how he can't possibly or some such nonsense. She takes his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor proper; he goes willingly. She smiles. She knows his excuses mean nothing; he has only said them because he always says them; it is almost expected of him, a ritual they must both go through before reaching the desired end. That awkward embarrassment is as much a part of him as his faith in human nature and passion about life and the future--she wonders if he will ever grow out of it. She wonders if she wants him to grow out of it, and she finds herself fiercely wishing she could suspend this moment with him, keep him young and vibrant and innocent. The horrors he is growing accustomed to facing with them just aren't the same as the mundane, trivial horrors that affect everyone. Like disillusionment. Growing old. Loneliness.

But these thoughts are for another time, she tells herself firmly. Enjoy this moment, enjoy this dance, enjoy this night, simply for itself. Lay the plans and worries aside to deal with tomorrow. It will come soon enough.

She loses herself in the music, in the slow, stately movement across the dance floor. He really is doing a marvelous job tonight, she realizes with a lazy elation, and turns her face to look down at him, as she sometimes likes to do when they dance together. She often secretly and without his knowing delights in the fierce look of concentration on his face as he tries to keep count of the steps in his head. It is an indulgence on her part, but a shameless one. And he never knows.

He is watching her.

It takes her a frozen and uneasy moment of confusion, knowing something is off without knowing what, to realize that his eyes aren't latched onto his feet at all but rather onto her face. She frowns at him inquiringly, not understanding the peculiar and serious look on his face that she has never seen on his countenance before. And then the frown melts away from her face as she studies him anew, as if she is seeing him truly for the first time. For an instant she feels they are suspended, frozen while the rest of the world dances on around them in blissful ignorance.

There is something in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, in the line of his mouth, which warns her perhaps he isn't as innocent and embarrassed as she thought. Her illusion feels shattered. He is growing up. She doesn't want to know. He has betrayed her somehow. Invaded a privacy he should have left alone.

She looks away, angry at him for trying to reveal something to her she refuses to deal with or even acknowledge, angry at herself for her foolishness. She knows nothing will come of this dance, knows their lives will go back immediately to the way they were before and that both of them will forget this unexpected intrusion--she knows it because it has happened to her so many times before. But the moment is gone. The eternity of the rest of the dance seems suspended forever before her.