Summary: You were right - Simon does have nice stuff in his swanky right-hand room.
Warnings: N/A.
Prompt: D is for DANCING.
A/N: I can't appreciate Simon's arms ENOUGH-
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"I miss dancing," you confess with a sigh as Eugene drives his currently wailing RV into the dead of night, leaving you and Simon on temporary watch together. Something about luring the 'corpses', as Simon so eloquently describes them, away from the roads they take when scavenging. It's borderline eerie, how the opera-esque droning sounds like a woman calling for help.
Simon gives you a strange look, his binoculars falling limp around his neck. "You'd dance to that?"
"Typically no, but it isn't as if the end of the world is the time to be picky," you lament, your staple optimism peeking through as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "I could make anything work at this point."
Your superior looks at you, first fleetingly, then with focus. A smirk slowly spreads across his face like butter. "You didn't strike me as the dancing sort," he says, eyeing you up and down, and the path his eyes draw blazes in ways you're too scared to admit to. You've never really felt desirable before, but in quiet moments like these, it's as if you're the only woman in the world. "Which, I admit, was probably a resounding oversight on my behalf. Dancing suits you."
"What does that mean?"
"It just–" He makes a vague gesture with his hand before his second joins the equation. They curl into fists and beat against one another briefly before he mimes an explosion with outstretched fingers. "- clicks. Makes sense."
You tilt your head, first to the left, then to the right, before giving him a bright smile. "I'll take it as a compliment." Never mind that it's more an observation than anything, the glint in his eye makes the confession feel like a secret, as if you're in the midst of a forbidden affair, and that much just has to count for something. "... can you dance?"
"Hmm. Define 'dance'."
A tiny version of him takes centre stage in your mind's eye, performing a boneless jig with his long limbs. You fight the urge to crack up.
"Ah, can you slow dance?" you finally ask. It seems logical not to settle on a particular style. Surely he'd have confessed to being capable of ballet if it was indeed within his skillset. You snicker at the thought of him in a tutu.
"Anyone can do that," he replies with a chuckle. "You just sway to music. Hardly room to fuck that up."
You huff - a rare sound, for you're usually so agreeable. "It's nice to do!"
"Sure," he allows, amused by your ruffled feathers. He's seldom seen you so irate. Even your frustration is prime material for gentle mockery. "But easy."
Eugene's squealing truck can no longer be heard, and you settle into a comfortable silence. You used to be terrified of Simon, though he'd quickly become the person that you trusted the most in this clusterfuck of a society. Some argue that it's incredibly foolish of you to hold him, such a murderous, ill-tempered man, in such high regard, but you don't care.
It's selfish, but he's never been cruel to me.
"... how bad do you miss it?"
The question wrenches you from your thoughts quickly enough to cause whiplash. "Eh?"
"Dancing," he elaborates, and the world slots itself back into place. The look he's giving you is expectant, and you realise (not for the first time) how much taller he is than you. "Do you miss it a lot?"
You hold his gaze as you nod feebly, trying to ignore the nervous somersault your gut performs as he grins wide.
"Well, darlin'," he croons, his hands curling around his belt as he looks down at you with a smug smile. "Do I have somethin' for you."
You follow him through the Sanctuary's meandering halls with your heart in your throat. Ever since his mischievous announcement, he'd barely said another word to you until Eugene returned. When he came back, Simon had told him to take your post before relieving you of your duties for "a special assignment".
Your heart beats as he stops in front of a door.
"You ready?"
"F-For what…?"
His smile is wolfish as he turns to look at you. "Why are you nervous?"
The question makes your cheeks fuel with heat, your head turning away in petulant dismissal. You resent being put on the spot, but he's just so good at it. Your fragile heart beats so loudly that you fear everyone in this cursed place can hear it.
"I'm not," you utter, with as much hate as you can muster– which isn't much– and Simon relents, knowing already that he's beat you. Without another word, he turns the knob and opens the door, giving you a glimpse into a foreign room.
His room.
"I'm letting you in, in case that wasn't obvious." He gestures inside with his head as you hesitate at the threshold. This is different. This is new. You're not quite sure what to expect.
The door closes behind you with a soft click as you take in the room with curious eyes. The walls are in desperate need of a coat of paint and there are ugly pipes jutting out in the right-hand corner of the room, but he's living like a king in comparison. Your eyes skirt over his belongings with a sense of wonder. These kinds of amenities used to be so commonplace– armchairs and kettles and television sets– but you haven't seen any of these in working condition for the better part of seven years.
Your eyes linger on his bed for a little longer than they should. His blankets are organised and his pillow is fluffed. There's a book sitting atop it, open and face down, likely preserving his place in the text.
You turn as you hear him fiddling with someone. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he presses buttons and pushes something into a designated slot. A VHS tape, you realise.
"What do you have?" you ask, blinking owlishly at the tv. The picture is grainy and lines of static intervene on occasion, but the audio is as clear as can be. Suddenly, you feel extremely poor– as if you're a pauper that's stumbled their way into a mansion. Given how the world has collapsed in on itself, it's a strange feeling, one that leaves you buzzing with anticipation as he clicks the play button and turns to you with a smile.
I've… had… the time of my life.
Your heart picks up speed, recognition registering on your face. It's been such a long time since you've heard music that you enjoy, and it fills you with euphoria so potent that you feel yourself tearing up.
"Oh, c'mon. The song's not that bad, is it?" Simon jests, eyebrows raised high, and you bring up an arm to wipe at your eyes as the familiar tune continues to play. You've never booked him as someone who owns a copy of Dirty Dancing, for whatever reason, but you're certainly not going to let it go. You understand that it likely has little to do with his personal taste and more to do with resources being limited, but in your head? He's a superfan. He went to private screenings. He owned signed posters before the turn. Hell, he auditioned for the damn thing.
"No! S-Sorry, it's just… the music…" You sniffle, a joyous smile forming on your face as he extends a hand towards you.
"You can apologise with a dance," he says, beckoning you towards him.
"Are you serious?" you blurt, feeling an odd mix of trepidation and excitement as you stare at his offered hand. It's large, much larger than yours, and thick veins travel up the length of his forearms, twisting around them like vines. You realise all too late that you're staring, looking up to catch him smirking at you.
"As a funeral," he answers, eyes alight with mischief that seems to reach new heights when your fingers connect. They slither along his palm gradually, as if testing the waters, before settling snugly in his grasp.
With sudden momentum, you're yanked towards him, and you stumble into his chest as the dreamy synth morphs into that all-too-catchy bassline.
"Simon–"
"You said you missed it, didn't you?" he questions playfully, his free hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you in a circle. You've always recognised how taut he is, how his built frame can cast a shadow over you like he's an oncoming storm, but being this close makes you realise how strong he really is. Though his grip is anything but rough, his firm hold on you has you keenly aware of how small you are in comparison. "Show me those moves, eh?"
You feel hot, hot to the touch, and his hands are only worsening the burn. You've always thought he was attractive, but you've never been this close before– so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his body; so close that your eyelids feel slightly heavy, as if you want to lay your head on his chest, or kiss him, or both. As if you'd ever have the guts to do either.
"You're tense," he notes, and you suddenly feel your stomach lurch as you plummet downwards in the form of a dip. The fall is short but fast, and his arm keeps you anchored in place. Your stare is doe-like, wide and bewildered, as he pulls you back to him with a provocative smirk. "I'm gonna need you to up your effort here, alright [Y/N]? I'm really not feeling your supposed love for this activity at the moment."
I've never felt this way before.
"Okay…" you mutter, a coy smile forming on your face as you force yourself to match his movements. You tell yourself that you were thrown off by his blatant display of kindness, that it's nothing more than that, and though the illusion is weak, it enables you to regain control of your feet.
You've never had exceptional talent when it comes to dance, but you certainly know your way around a track when you're happy. Something about music makes you need to move, and it just so happens that you can do it well enough to be classified as good. Gradually, the nerves fall away. You feel the most normal you've felt in a long time as your feet carry you in rings. What once were laborious shuffles turn into the pair of you swinging around the room, you being spun in tight, mind-scattering circles that leave you deliciously dizzy.
"Now I'm gettin' it! Look at you go!"
His enthusiasm only spurs you on, and by the time the music has reached its climax, your cheeks are a dusty scarlet, the lights in your eyes shimmering like stardust.
You squeak as your feet suddenly leave the ground, your hands searching for purchase on his shoulders as he hoists you up and spins you around. You're mirroring what's happening on screen– sort of, in a roundabout way– but you're far more interested in the ease with which he keeps you suspended, thick arms tense but not struggling.
When he puts you down again, your knees feel weak with more than exertion.
"Wow," Simon remarks pointedly, his trademark grin stretching effortlessly across his face as he nods with approval. His hands are still firmly on your waist. "Truly breathtaking. Your passion moves me."
"Oh stop teasing me."
"I'm not teasing you." There's a pause, his tongue tracing his teeth for a moment as he bites back amusement. "... alright, maybe I was a little. In part."
He's alerted by a sudden clicking sound, turning his head to find you hitting the reverse button. Normally, he'd be irritated by somebody touching his things without his expressed permission, but he's swept up in the unusual direction his night's taken– and the surprisingly bratty smirk on your face.
"Did I tire you out, old man?" you goad as the tape rewinds, and his eyebrows raise so high that you feel a momentary swell of power travel straight to your head.
Then he levels you with a devilish grin and the bravado you'd garnered seeps straight to your toes.
"I've got a few more numbers in me yet, sweetheart."
