[APH] Don't Get Around Much Anymore [USUK]
Title: Don't Get Around Much Anymore
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: America and fem!England
Warnings: Genderbent England, swing dancing, shameless fluff
Summary: Elizabeth Kirkland is a war nurse in England. Alfred Jones is an injured American soldier. And it's Christmas Eve, and a live band is playing.
Notes: This was originally written for the usxuk Summer Camp Month Day 10: Period Piece, but I somehow failed to notice that the prompt called for submissions from 1935 or older. This is set in 1941. Blargh. But I enjoyed writing it anyway, it's a little look into WWII social culture for the boys abroad.
~*~
“There’s a party tonight.” Elizabeth Kirkland groaned inwardly at the sound of the voice speaking to her from behind as she shook out the bed sheets she was folding. She turned on her heel, clean sheets hanging from calloused hands, and gave a stern look to the soldier grinning at her from his bed.
“I’m aware, Alfred,” Elizabeth responded, flicking a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. She finished folding the sheet and dropped it into the bin, reaching into the basket for another one. She smoothed it out over her hips, the soft cotton crinkling into her long skirt, and folded the next one. But she didn’t turn back around, as Alfred had expected her to.
“You should come,” Alfred suggested, leaning back against his pillows. Another soldier to his right was busy chatting up his own nurse, and she was giggling with red ringlets falling about her face.
Stupid Americans, she thought grimly as she watched her coworker flirt mercilessly with the American soldier from Alabama.
“Livia!” she barked, “please fetch the rest of the towels from the line, would you?” Livia, the vivacious red-headed Wales-native, pouted but complied. She lingered a moment too long with the soldier and hurried off. Elizabeth scoffed.
“So frivolous,” she murmured as she bustled about Alfred, pointedly ignoring him.
“So, you comin’ tonight?” Alfred pestered. He leaned forwards, a look of earnest painted on his boyish face.
“I’m working Alfred, I’m a nurse,” Elizabeth stressed to him. “What if more wounded soldiers come into the hospital tonight?”
“Lizzie, it’s Christmas Eve-“
“Don’t call me ‘Lizzie!’-“
“-no one is fighting tonight,” he assured softly. “Even Nazi bastards celebrate Christmas.”
“Don’t use such language in here,” Elizabeth scolded. She pushed her glasses up her nose and set about folding the next sheet.
“Besides, you like me. I know it.”
“I do not,” she insisted, but her cheeks were burning. True, the British WWII nurse did have sort of a crush on the young American but, it didn’t mean anything. They’d never have met without the war, so they weren’t meant to be. And that was that.
“I know you, what is it you say, you ‘fancy’ me, dontcha?” Alfred pressed. He leaned forwards over his thin blanket, pulling his legs into his waist and sitting cross-legged across from where Elizabeth was working. “Please come, Lizzie, it’ll be fun.”
“Alfred, I can’t,” she said again, and this time there was a hint of sadness in her frustration. “As much as abandoning my duties would be delightful right about now... I just can’t.”
“Then come for one dance,” Alfred suggested. “Just one. I swear I’m a swell dancer, you’d never even believe it, Lizzie.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease? What, you’re not a dead hoofer or somethin’, are you, Lizzie?” Alfred asked. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but then settled her gaze on Alfred’s sincere face. He was tanned from being out in the sun, his skin probably taut and leathery but still gentle, and his eyes sparkled behind broken glasses. His chest wound was mostly healed, although his hand was still in a bandage. His left eye was doing much better as well, and he didn’t even need to wear the eye patch anymore (although he still did) and of course, that bomber jacket was hanging around his shoulders like an exoskeleton. He was so infuriatingly endearing, it made Elizabeth’s stomach twist into knots. She broke the gaze (she was afraid she’d be transfixed if she continued staring) and sighed.
“... alright,” she said in a small voice. “I can’t promise you anything, Alfred, but... I guess I can try to make one dance.” Alfred beamed and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Elizabeth managed to give Alfred a small smile and then, as her cheeks burned with embarrassment she looked down at the sheet and concentrated as hard as she could and not look at the dashing soldier just feet from her. Livia had returned, pushing a small cart, and shot a glance at the soldier in the next bed over as she pushed the cart into the laundry room.
Just one dance, Elizabeth thought. If I can manage.
--
Elizabeth managed. She rushed her way through her meager supper, and then hurried to her other duties, which included sorting medicine for the following day, counting out rations and folding the rest of the sheets. She somehow was able to get another nurse to organize the sutures and surgical spirits, and by close to eleven p.m. she had gotten enough done that if she snuck away now, no one would notice she was missing for ten, twenty minutes.
She quickly changed out of her medical clothes (which were stained and faded) and changed into her other dress; it wasn’t anything special, in her opinion, just a simple skirt, bodice with no sleeves (she wore a clasped shrug over it) with a small sash, but it made her feel a bit more feminine than her medical uniform. She glanced in the mirror in the washroom, running her fingers through her long pigtails to straighten them out a bit.
“What am I doing,” she muttered to herself. She turned away from the mirror and pulled her coat on, walking into the lightly snowing evening with the click click of her heels. She finally hit the building (still on base) where the dance for the soldiers was being held, and went inside.
It was warm inside, much warmer than outside, and she quickly shucked her coat as she entered to where the party was. There was a huge crowd of people dancing in the center of the room, soldiers in their official dressings dancing with local London girls in big, flouncy, vibrant dresses and curly hair. Elizabeth looked away from the flashy girls and searched the room for the familiar blonde. She finally spotted him, adorned in his tan jacket and tan slacks, with insignia hanging from his jacket. Elizabeth cleared her throat and crossed the edge of the room, coming up behind Alfred as he was talking to a fellow pilot. He turned, surprised, and broke into a smile as he realized Elizabeth was standing behind him.
“Lizzie!” he said excitedly, and he took a step back once he realized what she was wearing. “Is that... a dress? A real dress, not a nurse dress?”
“Oh hush,” Elizabeth said, averting his gaze. Her hands were balled into fists in front of her and she suddenly felt foolish for coming. Alfred’s face curved into a gentle smile and he reached out, putting a finger under her chin and stepping closer.
“You look like a fifth-avenue duchess,” he said, and Elizabeth’s cheeks burned once more. He took her (gloved) hand and kissed her knuckles. Like a true English gentleman would do.
Like an American gentleman would do.
“So,” Alfred said, straightening his posture, “one dance?”
“One dance,” Elizabeth echoed. The music currently playing, thanks to the lovely live band had just died down. Suddenly, there was a familiar trumpet lick, followed by fast piano and the rumble of a drum set. A young woman stepped up to the microphone in front of the jazz band, and smiled out at the crowd.
“I guess you all want another hip-bumper?” she said happily. “We’ll do this one last fast song and then slow it down so you Yanks can catch your breath!” There was laughter throughout the room. “You Americans all know this song,” she said, and she took a breath and started to sing as the music swelled. “He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way, he had a boogie style that no one else could play-”
“Come on, Lizzie!” Alfred said, and he pulled her onto the dance floor as it filled with excited soldiers and their dates. Alfred was humming along with the words and the floor broke out into a scurry of clicks from heels and the swish of swing skirts as girls were twirled, tossed and dipped to the fast-paced song.
Elizabeth wasn’t a bad dancer, she was just out of practice. Alfred, on the other hand, wasn’t kidding when he said he was a good dancer. Alfred took her waist in his hand, took her hand in his other hand, and they moved together. Alfred led and Elizabeth had to stay one step ahead to keep up with his joyous pace. Step forward, step back, step side, swish swish, skirt flare, spin DIP-up again, spin in, spin out, Alfred’s fingers on her waist, her hips, squeezing gently, arms crossed spin in, spin out, arms straight, hair brushing his shoulder- Every single touch he laid on her body sent sparks straight through her.
Oh my God, was all Elizabeth could think. All she wanted was him to keep touching her, softer and softer, and faster, and gentler, and lower and closer-
“They made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam, it really brought him down because he couldn't jam,” the singer continued, holding the microphone stand with both hands, eyes closed, lost in the song. “The captain seemed to understand-Because the next day the cap' went out and drafted a band! And now the company jumps when he plays reveille, he's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!”
Elizabeth was starting to get dizzy from spinning and dipping and jumping, but she didn’t care. She felt like she was flying. Alfred’s touch was as light as could be, and even though he had a little stiffness from his injuries, he moved gracefully. She couldn’t help but notice the perfect way their bodies fit together when she spun in and leaned against him, and he would run his fingers through her hair and then spin her out again.
“Lose the shrug,” he said in her ear as they twirled, “you’ll be able to move your arms easier.” And she complied, unbuttoning the shrug and tossing it aside on a vacant chair. They clasped hands and she allowed him to twirl her several times over, her hair spinning out and whipping her in the face. He then caught her by the waist and in one movement lifted her into the air, her hands on his shoulders as she steadied herself.
Alfred’s face was sweating but he smiled at her and he lowered her a bit, then pushed her higher into the air and she let go, and she flew into the air and he grabbed her waist and dipped her between his legs and she was flying, flying through the air an her legs were bent around his waist and her arms were hugging his neck and her forehead was pressed to his and he spun her around his body and she finally landed on her feet. She wobbled and bit and fell back, and Alfred caught her, pressing his sweaty cheek against hers. She giggled and let his arms fall on her waist and sway back in forth in time with the music, and he ran his hands over her bare shoulders and she shuddered from the touch.
“He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night, and wakes 'em up the same way in the early bright. They clap their hands and stamp their feet, because they know how he plays when someone gives him a beat!”
The song was ending. The couples around them were slowing down, moves becoming less wild, as everyone began to lose their energy. Elizabeth spun for the umpteenth time and nearly collapsed in Alfred’s arms as the song soothed into silence. She was leaning against him and panting, pushing her hair out of her face. She took her hair pins and re-adjusted them in her hair to get the bangs out of her eyes. Her glasses were sliding down her nose at record speeds from the amount of sweat that dotted her brow. Alfred was having the same problem, and his glasses were even a bit fogged from all the heavy breathing.
“You alright?” Alfred murmured into her ear. She just nodded, panting. Her fingers were wound with Alfred’s and she didn’t want to let go for anything.
“Now we have somethin’ a little slower to cool you down and ease you into the nighttime,” the singer said, and she stepped away from the microphone as the trumpeter behind her began playing. Some of the couples left the dance floor completely, while others took the pace much slower and danced in small circles, either talking in hushed tones or just simply leaning on one another.
Alfred straightened up and spun Elizabeth around, taking her hand in his and placing a hand on her waist, pulling her close. She looked up at him, blushing.
“W-what is it?” she stammered. Alfred smiled.
“I love this song,” he said to her. “I know all the words, too.”
“This song doesn’t have words,” Elizabeth protested as she recognized what it was.
“But it does. And I know them. You know the wordless version.”
“Hmph.” Elizabeth hadn’t even noticed that they were already rotating in small circles, sashaying hips and light steps abounding.
“Missed the Saturday dance, heard they crowded the floor,” Alfred half-sang, half whispered to her, “it's awfully different without you, don't get around much anymoooore.” His soothing tenor nearly lullabied her to sleep, she was quite tired from the rigorous dancing and her everyday life as a war nurse. Alfred drew her closer, noticing her fatigue, and protruded his shoulder so that her nose was almost touching it. Finally, reluctantly, Elizabeth lowered her cheek to his shoulder and upper chest, and closed her eyes as they turned in a lazy circle. She could feel his breaths, and nearly hear his heartbeat beneath his jacket. She closed her eyes and he tightened his grip on her waist, and he leaned his cheek on the back of her head.
“Thought I visit the club, got as far as the door, I just couldn't bear without you, I don't get around much anymooooore.”
“This isn’t a terribly romantic song,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice muffled by his coat. He laughed heartily.
“But it is! He’s sayin’ he just can’t do it without his girl. It’s just not the same, ‘cause he loves her,” Alfred responded. They were silent for a time, and their movements slowed down slightly as they drew closer and closer together.
“Thank you for coming, Elizabeth,” Alfred said, in just above a whisper. “You’re one of the only things that makes being so far from the States so bearable. Thank you. Thank you.” Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart sped up. She could feel his heartbeat quicken as well, for it was beating through her own chest. She wondered to herself if he could feel her heartbeat as well as she could feel his, and that would explain why he was suddenly holding her as if she were going to disappear at his fingertips.
She liked to think he could.
--
Cultural notes:
1. Dead hoofer: 40s slang for someone who can't dance
2. Fifth-avenue duchess: 40s slang for a pretty girl
3. Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy: a song that was popular during WWII, performed by the Andrews Sisters
4. Don't Get Around Much Anymore: another popular song from WWII. It was first written without words as a big band piece by Duke Ellington, and then two years later Bob Russell added lyrics.
♥
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: America and fem!England
Warnings: Genderbent England, swing dancing, shameless fluff
Summary: Elizabeth Kirkland is a war nurse in England. Alfred Jones is an injured American soldier. And it's Christmas Eve, and a live band is playing.
Notes: This was originally written for the usxuk Summer Camp Month Day 10: Period Piece, but I somehow failed to notice that the prompt called for submissions from 1935 or older. This is set in 1941. Blargh. But I enjoyed writing it anyway, it's a little look into WWII social culture for the boys abroad.
~*~
“There’s a party tonight.” Elizabeth Kirkland groaned inwardly at the sound of the voice speaking to her from behind as she shook out the bed sheets she was folding. She turned on her heel, clean sheets hanging from calloused hands, and gave a stern look to the soldier grinning at her from his bed.
“I’m aware, Alfred,” Elizabeth responded, flicking a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. She finished folding the sheet and dropped it into the bin, reaching into the basket for another one. She smoothed it out over her hips, the soft cotton crinkling into her long skirt, and folded the next one. But she didn’t turn back around, as Alfred had expected her to.
“You should come,” Alfred suggested, leaning back against his pillows. Another soldier to his right was busy chatting up his own nurse, and she was giggling with red ringlets falling about her face.
Stupid Americans, she thought grimly as she watched her coworker flirt mercilessly with the American soldier from Alabama.
“Livia!” she barked, “please fetch the rest of the towels from the line, would you?” Livia, the vivacious red-headed Wales-native, pouted but complied. She lingered a moment too long with the soldier and hurried off. Elizabeth scoffed.
“So frivolous,” she murmured as she bustled about Alfred, pointedly ignoring him.
“So, you comin’ tonight?” Alfred pestered. He leaned forwards, a look of earnest painted on his boyish face.
“I’m working Alfred, I’m a nurse,” Elizabeth stressed to him. “What if more wounded soldiers come into the hospital tonight?”
“Lizzie, it’s Christmas Eve-“
“Don’t call me ‘Lizzie!’-“
“-no one is fighting tonight,” he assured softly. “Even Nazi bastards celebrate Christmas.”
“Don’t use such language in here,” Elizabeth scolded. She pushed her glasses up her nose and set about folding the next sheet.
“Besides, you like me. I know it.”
“I do not,” she insisted, but her cheeks were burning. True, the British WWII nurse did have sort of a crush on the young American but, it didn’t mean anything. They’d never have met without the war, so they weren’t meant to be. And that was that.
“I know you, what is it you say, you ‘fancy’ me, dontcha?” Alfred pressed. He leaned forwards over his thin blanket, pulling his legs into his waist and sitting cross-legged across from where Elizabeth was working. “Please come, Lizzie, it’ll be fun.”
“Alfred, I can’t,” she said again, and this time there was a hint of sadness in her frustration. “As much as abandoning my duties would be delightful right about now... I just can’t.”
“Then come for one dance,” Alfred suggested. “Just one. I swear I’m a swell dancer, you’d never even believe it, Lizzie.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease? What, you’re not a dead hoofer or somethin’, are you, Lizzie?” Alfred asked. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but then settled her gaze on Alfred’s sincere face. He was tanned from being out in the sun, his skin probably taut and leathery but still gentle, and his eyes sparkled behind broken glasses. His chest wound was mostly healed, although his hand was still in a bandage. His left eye was doing much better as well, and he didn’t even need to wear the eye patch anymore (although he still did) and of course, that bomber jacket was hanging around his shoulders like an exoskeleton. He was so infuriatingly endearing, it made Elizabeth’s stomach twist into knots. She broke the gaze (she was afraid she’d be transfixed if she continued staring) and sighed.
“... alright,” she said in a small voice. “I can’t promise you anything, Alfred, but... I guess I can try to make one dance.” Alfred beamed and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Elizabeth managed to give Alfred a small smile and then, as her cheeks burned with embarrassment she looked down at the sheet and concentrated as hard as she could and not look at the dashing soldier just feet from her. Livia had returned, pushing a small cart, and shot a glance at the soldier in the next bed over as she pushed the cart into the laundry room.
Just one dance, Elizabeth thought. If I can manage.
--
Elizabeth managed. She rushed her way through her meager supper, and then hurried to her other duties, which included sorting medicine for the following day, counting out rations and folding the rest of the sheets. She somehow was able to get another nurse to organize the sutures and surgical spirits, and by close to eleven p.m. she had gotten enough done that if she snuck away now, no one would notice she was missing for ten, twenty minutes.
She quickly changed out of her medical clothes (which were stained and faded) and changed into her other dress; it wasn’t anything special, in her opinion, just a simple skirt, bodice with no sleeves (she wore a clasped shrug over it) with a small sash, but it made her feel a bit more feminine than her medical uniform. She glanced in the mirror in the washroom, running her fingers through her long pigtails to straighten them out a bit.
“What am I doing,” she muttered to herself. She turned away from the mirror and pulled her coat on, walking into the lightly snowing evening with the click click of her heels. She finally hit the building (still on base) where the dance for the soldiers was being held, and went inside.
It was warm inside, much warmer than outside, and she quickly shucked her coat as she entered to where the party was. There was a huge crowd of people dancing in the center of the room, soldiers in their official dressings dancing with local London girls in big, flouncy, vibrant dresses and curly hair. Elizabeth looked away from the flashy girls and searched the room for the familiar blonde. She finally spotted him, adorned in his tan jacket and tan slacks, with insignia hanging from his jacket. Elizabeth cleared her throat and crossed the edge of the room, coming up behind Alfred as he was talking to a fellow pilot. He turned, surprised, and broke into a smile as he realized Elizabeth was standing behind him.
“Lizzie!” he said excitedly, and he took a step back once he realized what she was wearing. “Is that... a dress? A real dress, not a nurse dress?”
“Oh hush,” Elizabeth said, averting his gaze. Her hands were balled into fists in front of her and she suddenly felt foolish for coming. Alfred’s face curved into a gentle smile and he reached out, putting a finger under her chin and stepping closer.
“You look like a fifth-avenue duchess,” he said, and Elizabeth’s cheeks burned once more. He took her (gloved) hand and kissed her knuckles. Like a true English gentleman would do.
Like an American gentleman would do.
“So,” Alfred said, straightening his posture, “one dance?”
“One dance,” Elizabeth echoed. The music currently playing, thanks to the lovely live band had just died down. Suddenly, there was a familiar trumpet lick, followed by fast piano and the rumble of a drum set. A young woman stepped up to the microphone in front of the jazz band, and smiled out at the crowd.
“I guess you all want another hip-bumper?” she said happily. “We’ll do this one last fast song and then slow it down so you Yanks can catch your breath!” There was laughter throughout the room. “You Americans all know this song,” she said, and she took a breath and started to sing as the music swelled. “He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way, he had a boogie style that no one else could play-”
“Come on, Lizzie!” Alfred said, and he pulled her onto the dance floor as it filled with excited soldiers and their dates. Alfred was humming along with the words and the floor broke out into a scurry of clicks from heels and the swish of swing skirts as girls were twirled, tossed and dipped to the fast-paced song.
Elizabeth wasn’t a bad dancer, she was just out of practice. Alfred, on the other hand, wasn’t kidding when he said he was a good dancer. Alfred took her waist in his hand, took her hand in his other hand, and they moved together. Alfred led and Elizabeth had to stay one step ahead to keep up with his joyous pace. Step forward, step back, step side, swish swish, skirt flare, spin DIP-up again, spin in, spin out, Alfred’s fingers on her waist, her hips, squeezing gently, arms crossed spin in, spin out, arms straight, hair brushing his shoulder- Every single touch he laid on her body sent sparks straight through her.
Oh my God, was all Elizabeth could think. All she wanted was him to keep touching her, softer and softer, and faster, and gentler, and lower and closer-
“They made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam, it really brought him down because he couldn't jam,” the singer continued, holding the microphone stand with both hands, eyes closed, lost in the song. “The captain seemed to understand-Because the next day the cap' went out and drafted a band! And now the company jumps when he plays reveille, he's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!”
Elizabeth was starting to get dizzy from spinning and dipping and jumping, but she didn’t care. She felt like she was flying. Alfred’s touch was as light as could be, and even though he had a little stiffness from his injuries, he moved gracefully. She couldn’t help but notice the perfect way their bodies fit together when she spun in and leaned against him, and he would run his fingers through her hair and then spin her out again.
“Lose the shrug,” he said in her ear as they twirled, “you’ll be able to move your arms easier.” And she complied, unbuttoning the shrug and tossing it aside on a vacant chair. They clasped hands and she allowed him to twirl her several times over, her hair spinning out and whipping her in the face. He then caught her by the waist and in one movement lifted her into the air, her hands on his shoulders as she steadied herself.
Alfred’s face was sweating but he smiled at her and he lowered her a bit, then pushed her higher into the air and she let go, and she flew into the air and he grabbed her waist and dipped her between his legs and she was flying, flying through the air an her legs were bent around his waist and her arms were hugging his neck and her forehead was pressed to his and he spun her around his body and she finally landed on her feet. She wobbled and bit and fell back, and Alfred caught her, pressing his sweaty cheek against hers. She giggled and let his arms fall on her waist and sway back in forth in time with the music, and he ran his hands over her bare shoulders and she shuddered from the touch.
“He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night, and wakes 'em up the same way in the early bright. They clap their hands and stamp their feet, because they know how he plays when someone gives him a beat!”
The song was ending. The couples around them were slowing down, moves becoming less wild, as everyone began to lose their energy. Elizabeth spun for the umpteenth time and nearly collapsed in Alfred’s arms as the song soothed into silence. She was leaning against him and panting, pushing her hair out of her face. She took her hair pins and re-adjusted them in her hair to get the bangs out of her eyes. Her glasses were sliding down her nose at record speeds from the amount of sweat that dotted her brow. Alfred was having the same problem, and his glasses were even a bit fogged from all the heavy breathing.
“You alright?” Alfred murmured into her ear. She just nodded, panting. Her fingers were wound with Alfred’s and she didn’t want to let go for anything.
“Now we have somethin’ a little slower to cool you down and ease you into the nighttime,” the singer said, and she stepped away from the microphone as the trumpeter behind her began playing. Some of the couples left the dance floor completely, while others took the pace much slower and danced in small circles, either talking in hushed tones or just simply leaning on one another.
Alfred straightened up and spun Elizabeth around, taking her hand in his and placing a hand on her waist, pulling her close. She looked up at him, blushing.
“W-what is it?” she stammered. Alfred smiled.
“I love this song,” he said to her. “I know all the words, too.”
“This song doesn’t have words,” Elizabeth protested as she recognized what it was.
“But it does. And I know them. You know the wordless version.”
“Hmph.” Elizabeth hadn’t even noticed that they were already rotating in small circles, sashaying hips and light steps abounding.
“Missed the Saturday dance, heard they crowded the floor,” Alfred half-sang, half whispered to her, “it's awfully different without you, don't get around much anymoooore.” His soothing tenor nearly lullabied her to sleep, she was quite tired from the rigorous dancing and her everyday life as a war nurse. Alfred drew her closer, noticing her fatigue, and protruded his shoulder so that her nose was almost touching it. Finally, reluctantly, Elizabeth lowered her cheek to his shoulder and upper chest, and closed her eyes as they turned in a lazy circle. She could feel his breaths, and nearly hear his heartbeat beneath his jacket. She closed her eyes and he tightened his grip on her waist, and he leaned his cheek on the back of her head.
“Thought I visit the club, got as far as the door, I just couldn't bear without you, I don't get around much anymooooore.”
“This isn’t a terribly romantic song,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice muffled by his coat. He laughed heartily.
“But it is! He’s sayin’ he just can’t do it without his girl. It’s just not the same, ‘cause he loves her,” Alfred responded. They were silent for a time, and their movements slowed down slightly as they drew closer and closer together.
“Thank you for coming, Elizabeth,” Alfred said, in just above a whisper. “You’re one of the only things that makes being so far from the States so bearable. Thank you. Thank you.” Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart sped up. She could feel his heartbeat quicken as well, for it was beating through her own chest. She wondered to herself if he could feel her heartbeat as well as she could feel his, and that would explain why he was suddenly holding her as if she were going to disappear at his fingertips.
She liked to think he could.
--
Cultural notes:
1. Dead hoofer: 40s slang for someone who can't dance
2. Fifth-avenue duchess: 40s slang for a pretty girl
3. Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy: a song that was popular during WWII, performed by the Andrews Sisters
4. Don't Get Around Much Anymore: another popular song from WWII. It was first written without words as a big band piece by Duke Ellington, and then two years later Bob Russell added lyrics.
♥