Sway (1/1)
Title: Sway
Characters/ Pairing: Taylor/Ayani, Wash/Taylor
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 5,513
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General for Season One
Summary: Alicia Washington learns to dance.
A/N: Done for my twitter girls (prompted by zapf_chancery) who keep feeding my unholy obsession with this concept. I love you all and hopefully this was worth it.
Sway
Dinner.
The one word carries all manners of connotations with it. In the young field's medics mind it calls up pleasant memories of small, enjoyable, personal affairs; conversations spent over painstakingly prepared meals, usually spent with friends, loved ones, families. Dinners are intimate.
What they are not, on the other hand, is what is suddenly being described to her by the other men in her unit, the soldier's chattering on with one another, bemoaning their fate. Jensen sends her a particularly pathetic sort of look, runs a hand through his sandy hair, "You gotta have some infectious disease in that black bag of yours to get us out of this, LT."
Her smile is far from conciliatory, the amused sentiment behind it real enough as she settles down at her makeshift desk (technically, it's Taylor's but the man spends so little time here it is unofficially recognized as the medic's), sorts through files that ought to have been tended days prior, "Afraid not, Private. You'll just have to grin and bear it."
"Grin and bear it," someone scoffs, "Like it's that easy."
"It's dinner, Sergeant," the woman's tone shifts, hardens, suddenly their superior officer again, "And for one evening I think you can indulge a few politicians."
Cobbs, a young man, no older than twenty-six, holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Not a problem, ma'am; idle chatter I can do." He frowns, crosses his arms over his chest, and "Just doesn't sit right with me though. Having us dress up all nice just to parade us around like some goddamn show ponies."
"Taking shots at us."
Someone else snorts, "Least out there we can see who's trying to gun us down."
The negative picture is already painted before she's considered the evening. In her head it's just dinner; now it's something else entirely. Pursing her lips, she leans back in her chair, folds her hands over her stomach (an almost direct duplicate of the Commander's own posture), listens to them continue with their chatter. Talk about previous events they've been to. The subject strays to the conversation (dull, patronizing), the meet and greet (dull, patronizing), the food (perhaps the only redeeming quality) and, inevitably, the dancing.
It's then the Lieutenant realizes she's well over her head. That her humble appreciation for the event has led her completely astray to its purpose; Cobbs is giving her an appraising look, "You dance, LT?"
"Not when I can avoid it."
Michaels laughs, "Better get your shoes on, Wash. Your card's gonna be full up."
"First dance is mine."
"Damn it, Casey, you already have Rodriguez."
The young man in question simply shrugs, "Gotta have a safety net."
Wash grits her teeth, staring at the men now crowding around her desk. It's an expression they've come to know well and each adopts a look of near caution, taking careful steps back. They are almost instantly placated, the subject of dancing dropped as soon as her stance on it is verified. No dancing for the medic, not as long as she can help it (knows she will be expected to partake in at least a few of the damn things). Running a hand tiredly through her hair, she picks up their conversation as they stride blithely away.
"Think she'll wear a dress?"
"That'd make those bitches jealous."
Someone snorts, "They're always jealous, man. They just know if they get caught, Wash'll knock their teeth in. Or worse." Worse is something that has Wash smirking to herself, the image of a certain auburn haired friend appearing unbidden in her mind. Both the Taylor's will be in attendance and she figures at least one of her dances will be owed to her superior.
This doesn't help matters. Once more, Wash runs a tired hand through her hair, turns unseeing eyes on the paper work in front of her (wasn't done yesterday, won't be done today), frowns.
She's over her head. She's really screwed this time.
______________
Wash glares pointedly at the couples moving in time in front of her, leaning casually on her knees. It's easy to write off her expression as simple disinterest. Closer inspection reveals a telling flaw in this disguise. Ayani arches a brow as the young woman's eyes track each of the movements, seemingly maps them to memory for later reference. It is out of character for the soldier. Taps her foot along in admirable time with the music, only barely swaying as if she's out there with them.
Intriguing.
Crossing her arms over her chest, the woman crosses to stand beside the soldier. She is not attempting silence and the younger woman's senses are keen, turns to regard her almost immediately. The change that overtakes her is instantaneous, absolute. The swaying stops; her foot stills, posture becoming nearly ramrod straight, expression becoming more neutral. Suspicion in her amber eyes, silently asking how much she saw (everything).
Ayani holds up a pacifying hand, "At ease, soldier." No change; she sighs, shaking her head. There is a reason this girl is one of her husband's (and her own) favorite; she remains unmoved by the wide, compelling, smile on her face, the bright expression only inciting her caution. The older woman takes a seat without being asked, stares out at the dancers.
They really are good, twirling, moving, in time with the slow beat, seemingly floating more than walking. There's elegance to the whole of the ordeal that is sorely lacking in their lives, a sort of old world charm so openly on display here. It's perfectly simple, to lose oneself in the languid rise and fall of the tune. She takes great pains to avoid looking at her companion for a few moments, watches the dancers, fabric billowing about the lady's leg. They appear elegant, feminine (things the Lieutenant has never attempted to lay claim to). Green eyes shift ever so slightly; carefully note the medic's expression.
Very slightly dazed (not so much caught up in the majesty of the sport as she is impressed by the sheer vastness of it), amber eyes still quickly darting from figure to figure. Noting the movements of the elegant ladies feet, how they behave in their escorts arms. Every small detail is noted with almost painstaking attention, a student studying desperately for an exam they have forgotten (willingly or otherwise) until the last moment.
From the grim set of her jaw, she does not have high hopes for passing.
There is a dinner not far down the road. Two weeks or so, if she is remembering her husband's grumbling correctly (as desperately as he loves his career, he will be the first to admit such principles are outdated, wasteful; he should be fighting battles not showboating for politicians). A black tie affair if ever there was one. The upper class, foreign delegates, champagne…
And dancing.
The Taylor woman inclines her head to the side again, a sly smile turning her lips; there, she supposes, is the explanation for the young woman's sudden genesis to the park. No desire to better herself, no desire for the finer things in life, sophistication; a simple urge to keep herself from looking like a floundering fool. Alicia Washington does not know how to dance. Is using the textbook knowledge that got her through those difficult medical classes to salvage what little she can from the example of others. A sound theory, in practice, but the body rarely moves as it does in theory.
Wash frowns as the men dip their partners, the motion smooth, bespeaking a certain degree of trust between them, a confidence than cannot simply be conjured. This is noted, undoubtedly added to her mental catalogue. The concentration, the sheer determination, on her face is something to behold; Ayani smiles, shakes her head. Speaks more to herself than the Lieutenant at her side, "It's relaxing, isn't it? Two beings moving perfectly in sync with one another," nothing more than a small nod to mark she's been heard. Her lips quirk up, however; for all her supposed indifference Wash is sitting up a little straighter, posture inclined towards her, "It sounds like over idealize garbage but for once it's true. There's something…almost magical about it."
"It doesn't look that difficult," there is very little conviction behind that statement and the older woman chuckles, arching a brow.
"If you know what you're doing it's not half bad." The young woman's features fall almost imperceptibly, almost as if her testimony has only just confirmed what she's already known as true. This is not just something she can wing and hope for the best. It's going to take effort. It brief, barely a flicker, but she catches her worrying her lower lip between her teeth (a small tell she rarely indulges in, certainly only when she's overly concerned, usually over something that is comparatively small). She leans in to nudge the Lieutenant's shoulder lightly with her own, "Do you dance, Alicia?"
"Sometimes," a lie; it earns her an amused look, green eyes twinkling too knowingly. Another sigh, "Once. At my brother's wedding." Still an expectant look; grits her teeth, "eight years ago."
"And how'd that go?" Awful, her purposefully schooled expression says it before she can.
Wash snorts, "Awful."
"Who knows," they both do, "Maybe you've improved since then." Comforting words spoken with ample conviction and little truth. It elicits a grateful smile but little else, both aware of the falsity. Wash
simply nods, goes back to her people watching.
Ayani returns to watching her.
The young woman is a most intriguing sort of creature, devoted to her husband to a length some would call fanatical (not unheard of where Nathaniel is concerned, though Wash is grounded more firmly than that), willing to martyr herself for the sake of his family. She a pretty sort of thing (beautiful, without any doubt) but there are others that surpass her in that regard, especially in the more traditional sense. She's clever but stubborn. Talented but opinionated. Fury only barely contained with vice like control; an interesting set of contradictions if ever there was one.
There's too much life in her for a soldier and she isn't lively enough to fit in.
She leads naturally but is altogether too eager to follow her Commander, seemingly unwilling to surpass him.
Ayani Taylor has always been fond of puzzles. There is an undeniable charm in solving them, producing an answer were there was none previously. If nothing else, her friend is that incarnate. There is a desire to help, undoubtedly (she is remarkably fond of the medic, owes her more than she cares to admit), but it is tempered with a more healthy, logical, fascination. Watches amusedly as Wash's foot begins to tap along to the music again, a subtle thing, barely noticeable (a refusal to surrender in the face of a daunting task).
She hums to herself, smiles. "I used to like dancing." Ayani does not say anything for nothing, sees no point in wasting words. It is something her friend knows well. Wash turns slightly to watch her, bemused by the pleased expression on her face, "When I married Nathaniel I suppose I just…let it go." Back to watching the dancers, so elegant, so light, moving in time with the rise and fall of the tempo, "It's lovely, isn't it?" Another delicate nudge with her shoulder, another smile, auburn hair overlapping the medic's dark tresses.
This time, Wash nods.
"Nathaniel tells me you have an important dinner coming up. Politicians, dignitaries, dancing," lingers on the last word longer than strictly required. The Lieutenant shakes her head, amused. Meets the other woman's gaze full on (determined amber to equally fiery green). She is entirely capable of discretion but has little use for it now.
Her husband's fiery field medic is too proud to admit to entering such an arrangement. In the end, it is nothing more than how her gaze lingers slightly on the older woman before flicking out towards the dancers again. Tracings movements she will never perfect through simple observation. With a slow smile, Ayani clasps the other woman's knee, rises.
"Nathaniel will be gone most of tomorrow. You're welcome to stop by."
They both know she will before she's even finished the offer.
___________
It turns out the young woman is not overstating matters when she says she's talentless at this. For all her skill with a needle, for her quick hands and tongue, for being such a talented physical combatant, she relies heavily on the old cliché of having two left feet. Ayani sighs, adjusts the young woman's hands again as they stray to her shoulders (uncomfortable with them on her waist, uncomfortable being unable to lead the smaller woman), "Alicia."
She winces, drops her hands. Well, at least she can adjust to correction readily enough. The older woman gently edges one her legs between the medics (almost smirks at the way her eyes widen at the more hands on approach, something she could have simply instructed her to change), uses the leverage to gently adjust her footing, widening her miserably tight stance. It earns her a cautious look but the motion is not protested. For all her spirit, the Lieutenant is remarkably proficient at following orders. Lingers there for a moment, gives a gentle squeeze. The woman takes the hint, stares down at their joined legs, memorizes the positioning. The next step is obvious enough; move back, away from her partner. Ayani will pursue, insinuate herself in much the same manner.
It begins well enough; the soldier takes her step back; Ayani comes forward.
She's never been one to flee, certainly not one to back down from a challenge. Alicia is used to playing the aggressor and this is against all of that. She fails to take the second step back. Her partner does not. It leaves them grappling awkwardly, the soldier clutching the older woman's arm in a last ditch attempt to steady her. Not quite enough. They still collide, a tangle of limbs barely kept upright. There is an awkward moment where the soldier is left to simply offer her a sheepish (or as close as the woman will ever come to such a timid emotion) smile. The absurdity of it is not missed; the auburn haired woman lets out an amused huff, chuckling to herself as she drops her head on her partners shoulder, naked humor coloring her tone, "Oh, Alicia…how are you managing this?"
"Special effort, ma'am," still rather mortified but able to laugh at her own misfortune.
"Yes, well, why don't we try something a little less…intensive?"
It's a slightly less blunt way to say "keep us further apart". A comforting sort of smile, another squeeze to her shoulder, puts some space between them. Fingers digging lightly at her hip.
Despite the disparities in height, Ayani manages to lead them effectively enough, hand resting at the small of the younger woman's back (perhaps lower than propriety strictly dictates but it seems prudent to adjust the girl to handsy politicians and she does not comment), leading her through the steps of a simple waltz. Old fashioned, assuredly, but popular enough to indulge in, easy enough to learn. She falls into her positioning easily enough it's simply…moving, that seems to give her trouble.
When she trips again, Ayani tightens her arms around her. The medic has transcended idle frustration and crossed into a sphere of anger, amber eyes livid as she steps away from her partner. Runs a hand through her hair. "This is…" she holds up a hand, silencing herself, cutting off the tirade before it can properly manifest itself. Alicia Washington, as a rule, does not give up, does not surrender. She's lived through injuries that ought to have been fatal; she's brought soldiers back from the brink. She's made a career of the impossible.
This is not life or death; there is nothing to gain from it. It's simply beating her head against a rock wall. Green eyes trail over her, curious, as she takes a seat, fingers twining tiredly in her hair. The Taylor can practically see plan after plan, tactics, running through the medic's head. Approaching matters in the academic sense she so favors.
Perhaps that's the problem.
"Alicia," Ayani cocks her head lightly to the side, smiling, extends her hand to her, "Come here a minute."
"I think I'm done for now, ma'am."
"Indulge me."
And there is no debating the woman when she says such things, dulcet voice low, sliding over one's nerves. It's never ceased to set the Lieutenant on edge, knows she's being openly manipulated (never really resists). Settles her hands on the medic's hips; Wash arches a brow immediately. Is shushed.
"Ayani…"
"Hands on my shoulders, Lieutenant," tone leaving no room for argument. With an indulgent sigh, she complies. It's a childish, youthful, sort of dance (if it can even be called that), more about proximity, swaying, then anything else. The rigid quality does not leave her posture even for such a simple thing and Ayani frowns.
Steps bodily into the other woman, offering a comforting smile as her hold tightens about her waist, holding the medic pinned flush against her. The effect is much the same as if she'd jabbed her with a pin, breath catching in a comical hiss (logged away for future deconstruction). "You're too tight, Alicia. Dancing is light, freeing, and your standing here like a damn pole."
"I'm uncomfortable."
"Why?" there's a tinkling note, almost teasing, flirting with her tone. "Because I'm so close to you?" She presses nearer (it's is sheer stubbornness that keeps the soldier where she is), leans her forehead against the woman's cheek, "I recommend you overcome such qualms, dear. You know me and I will be far less handsy then some of your partners." Some, but not all; she shrugs in good natured acceptance over that, smirking, not in the least ashamed. Nose against her ear, "Relax, Alicia. Just let go," her voice is too low, soothing, smoothing over the wrinkles in her patience, her misgivings, "I'll lead you."
It almost imperceptible at first; nothing more than a loosening in the young woman's shoulders. Then it is her posture, easing her into the dance, more giving. Still awkward but certainly less rigid. Ayani nods, chuckles, "Good. Now," still swaying more than moving; gently adjusts her hold on the woman's hips, shifts them to match the movement of her own. "I need you to move with me. When you spar with my husband…"
There's a spark of something (undeniable affection and something else she has long since been made aware of) in those amber eyes at even his mention. Relaxes into her further, shifts against the older woman with more force. Hmm. Perhaps she simply needs a different partner…
That, too, is logged away for consideration.
"With Nathaniel," better controlled this time under her questioning stare, "You've learned to function as one. Together, apart," lunging forward to catch the other only to slide back, twisting and writhing in the others grasp. "This isn't any different. Together," pressed tightly against her, "Apart," a quick step back, distance created.
Wash stares at her for a long moment, a sentiment almost like confusion flitting over her features before she nods, accepts what has been said. When Ayani moves to rest her hands on her waist this time, she doesn't even tense.
____________
A little over a week does wonders for the woman. While she's hardly a proficient dancer she's capable of moving in time to the music, rarely treads on her partners toes (a thing Ayani suddenly finds herself infinitely grateful for), and looks elegant enough.
Until her comfortable sweats and tank are exchanged for a restrictive dress. It's a simple black number (she has no tolerance for anything more), long enough for propriety, short enough that her movement feels far less impaired. Her hair, Ayani insists, must be left down. Heels are added to her ever expanding repertoire. In short order she feels (and most likely) looks precisely like what her unit described earlier. She's a show pony, nothing more; a soldier done up to look pretty, serene, for foreign dignitaries and politicians longing to get their pictures down with a local hero.
"Stop fidgeting, Alicia," the older woman mutters, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric, "I realize you're uncomfortable. We all are. The trick is lying to yourself effectively enough to convince everyone else."
"Sounds healthy."
The auburn haired woman snorts, "You're a politician tonight, dear; your health is the least of your concerns." She's still standing too close but Wash has stopped noticing, simply accepts it as another facet of her friend's personality (true, after a fashion).
It's the first time Taylor happens by their little sessions. He's simply passing through, a stack of paperwork under his arms, when he happens to catch sight of them, all done up and nowhere to go. Blue eyes sliding appreciatively over his wife's figure; stop completely when they make it to the Lieutenant.
She is not a stupid woman (far from it) and she has made where she is in life in large part thanks to her ability to read others. Emotions come to her easily, are both decoded, and, occasionally, manipulated, easily. Her husband's reaction to the young woman is…odd. Intrigued, confused, undoubtedly interested. Attracted, though she doubts he's aware of it (and would never act on it if he were). But his eyes linger on her, voice perhaps a tad too throaty when he speaks, "Wash? You dance?"
"Only as much as Ayani's taught me, sir."
That does cause his eyes to narrow somewhat, flicking back to his smiling bride. He makes a low humming sort of sound, nodding, "Then you're in good hands." It's a rather surreal experience, short, and barely a conversation. He simply nods at them both (eyes lingering on Wash, trouble justifying the beautiful, if dark, creature with his fiery field medic), leaves the room, focuses on the paperwork tucked under his arm. Wash watches him go, eyes tracing each of his movements (as Ayani's weighs her own, carefully takes notes of them).
The Lieutenant dances with particular care that afternoon, a slightly more dreamy light in those amber eyes.
For the remainder of their sessions (five) Taylor is constantly present. There is always some new bit of work under his arm but he insists on taking it near them. Throughout the ordeal, Ayani see's him actually focus on the forms perhaps once. All other times, his gaze is on them, seemingly fascinated by how they sway, move across the floor. He pulls his wife aside only once (his first sit in), back to chest, whispering in her ear, "Not appropriate."
Two words and she hardly requires an explanation. Simply raises a brow, turns in his embrace to find those wonderfully blue eyes already pinning her with a serious look. "I remember teaching you in much the same way." Auburn hair ghosting across his chest, "Certainly that wasn't inappropriate?"
"If she goes out there like that…"
"Why, Commander," nearly a purr, "I'd say you're worried about our pretty Lieutenant." It earns her a glare (but not a vocal denial) and she gives his arm a reassuring pat, "If she goes out there like that she'll be perfectly fine. And if she isn't, one of three things will happen. She'll knock the man's teeth in. You'll knock the man's teeth in. Or I'll handle it." There's an edge to that smile, a thing that plays itself off as innocent (succeeds, for the most part, save for the hint of something else lingering near the edges), that puts strangers at ease and those who know her on guard. In this respect, it only elicits a throaty chuckle, lips dragged over her forehead.
He's had women in his unit before. Wash is the only one he desires to protect in such a manner. It is noted by his wife (in fascination rather than jealousy or worry; she does not, cannot, doubt the strength of his affection for her). The woman in her arms is simply an anomaly, affecting them both in strange ways. A kindred spirit of sorts and her antithesis all wrapped in one.
Feels her husband's eyes fixed on them as they come together again, how the taller woman's hands settle so easily around her, how her own fit perfectly on her waist. The supposed lack of hesitation between them. A quick glance assures her of what she already knows. He's positively fascinated. By both of them.
They remain closer together this time (Wash barely noting the change in proximity), hands resting lower on her spine. It brings a swell of pride rushing through the elder woman as her protégé moves through the steps with enviable grace, still moving more as a fighter than a dancer (a thing that will never change). The same slow sort of dance, keeping them near; every time they touch she feels Nathaniel's interest sharpen, rising and falling with the tempo of the music.
Perhaps she's simply feeling childish; perhaps it's something else entirely. She likes to imagine it's caught somewhere between the two. The song is nearing its conclusion and it's the simplest thing in the world, a spur of the moment decision. Turns them to face Nathaniel, flashes him a light smile as she dips the young woman. Too close for the most part, leg fetching against the other woman's knee, as she's drawn back. He treated to a view that somehow refuses to leave him. Wash's dark hair spilled out behind her, chest rising and falling in such a manner, flushed, with Ayani flanking her, smiling. Beautiful and entirely different, night and day.
He suffers an undignified wave of something he does not care admit to.
Ayani gives a light tug, drawing her back up, smiling(though the medic's eyes remained trained on her Commander), "I'd say you're ready for a real partner. Nathaniel," green eyes flashing with mischief, "How would you like to test my work?" Alicia looks entirely too ready to protest; is silenced with a soft smile, a hand on her shoulder, "You'll be expected to dance with him at least once, Alicia. It couldn't hurt to get some practice under your belt." It's an unfortunate (and deliberate) turn of phrase that has the Lieutenant stiffening almost imperceptibly.
To Wash's surprise, Taylor closes the distance between them, extends his hand like a perfect gentlemen (despite the unfamiliar note dancing in his eyes), throws a quick glance at his wife (nods lightly, going to take a seat), "May I have this dance, Miss Washington?" The definitive tenors of his voice caressing the old world form of address.
As desperately as she prides herself on her stoicism, Alicia is not able to keep the smile from turning her lips (or the shiver that seemingly passes through her as soon as their fingers brush), "Of course, Commander." Her smile is evidently an infectious sort of one, quickly spreads to his lips.
Whether he's aware of it or not, she's good for him.
Ayani always makes certain her husband has what's best for him.
_________
It's their last meeting before the dinner. Wash is prepared, attends only because Ayani insists on doing a final run through. Evidently, this consists of nothing more than revisiting the familiar dances they've spent hours, days, on. For as tedious as this might be, she finds she cannot complain. Her friend has been strikingly absent for the majority of the morning, her partner none other than her Commanding Officer.
It is…disconcerting, a mixed bag at the very best.
Her feelings, whatever they are (love, though she denies it to the best of her logical abilities even as her heart screams it), are only stirred to life by his proximity, the feel of him beneath her hands, pressed against him. There are moments where her control is stretched nearly to its breaking point, spun out and pulled back into his chest. Times when they are simply left swaying to the music (making idle small talk that neither is thinking much of) where he watches her with such intensity that she doesn't wonder if it isn't more than her imagination.
It's wrong, horribly so, to feel such a thing. For her Commanding Officer and for her dear friends spouse. But with his hand at the small of her back, warm, a comforting weight, thumb tracing delicate patterns through the material of her dress, it's difficult to think of anything else. Difficult not to imagine his hands moving over her skin, his lips on her throat, surrounded by his heat.
Wash shakes her head, focuses on the music (together, apart, together). It seems to coil within her as they move, does not assist as the more sensuous beat slides over them. His hand slides higher, coming to rest not far beneath her shoulder blades as he leans her back, dips her with a bit more vigor then his wife had employed. Brings their hips flush against each other.
It takes conscious thought to stifle the desire to moan, grind against him. What's worse, the man seems to go taut, watching her carefully as he draws her back to him. The music has died off; he doesn't release her (she does not move away). Not an inch of light between them (the black of her gown so perfectly suited to the black of his uniform), his arms holding her against him. Blue eyes to meet amber (it's just the dance, nothing more, simply a dance). But her breath is coming out woefully uneven, catching in her throat as he searches her face for something.
All she knows is that in this one moment, she cares very little in regards their rank, Ayani, the future. In this one moment, she wants nothing more than for him to kiss her. The future matters little in light of that. His breath is ghosting over her lips, his heat licking at her skin, and she needs him to kiss her.
For one moment, he is going to. His fingers weave in her hair, pale through the midnight dark mass. The heat in their gaze is one shared. He wants her, for one moment she does not doubt the strenght of that sentiment.
But he simply smiles at her, pulls away and offers her his hand.
_________
Alicia handles herself perfectly throughout the whole of the ordeal. It sends a surge of almost irrational pride through him as he watches her conduct herself. Beautiful and dark and something almost like a force of nature. Standing beside Ayani again (his wife's arm wrapped easily about her waist), her smile reserved, all teeth. It has a protective sort of glint to it as a more inebriated man attempts to make nice with the auburn haired woman. A nod of her head as she leading her to safety, the hand on the other woman's hip and effective warning to anyone others considering insinuating themselves where they do not belong. The protective behavior earns her an amused smile, a chuckle, as they make their way through the crowd towards him.
Wash has danced with her dignitaries, made her small talk, performed swimmingly in every arena. The night is well along, fading into morning and the hints of weariness are beginning to manifest on her features. Nothing terribly evident, simply a tired quality beneath her eyes. Her posture less guarded, her tone slightly more expressive. After tonight's performance, she's more than earned it.
And he cannot stop watching her, not for the life of him. There's something miserably, impossibly, undeniably fascinating in the figure of his fiery field medic, his friend of so many years. His wife (beautiful, perfect, cunning, Ayani) smiles at him, head held high, green eyes twinkling in the low light. They've been together too long for him to hide such feelings from her.
But she does not react with anger, jealously. Simply that glimmer in her eyes, almost knowing, almost accepting. She releases the young woman's hand, steps into her husband for a grateful kiss, eager, affectionate. Takes his lower lip between her teeth as she pulls back, inclines her head lightly to the side again. Watches him carefully for something.
And evidently likes what she sees.
With a smile, she buries her nose in her husband's suit, inhaling him, reveling in him, as his arm comes about her waist. Glances up at him (his gaze flicking from her to Alicia, resting on the Lieutenant) fingers fisting in the material of his shirt as she addresses the younger woman, "Would you care to join us for a drink, Alicia?"
It's a perfectly friendly turn of phrase, hardly uncommon. They've had such evenings hundreds of times before. But there is that heat again in her Commanders eyes, something she cannot place (longs to indulge). Glances back towards the dinner, the music still wafting out towards them.
Green eyes and heated blue ones turned upon her.
Alicia doesn't bother to hide her smile (infectious, spreads to each of their faces), accepts her Commander's extended hand.
Characters/ Pairing: Taylor/Ayani, Wash/Taylor
Genre: Romance
Word Count: 5,513
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General for Season One
Summary: Alicia Washington learns to dance.
A/N: Done for my twitter girls (prompted by zapf_chancery) who keep feeding my unholy obsession with this concept. I love you all and hopefully this was worth it.
Sway
Dinner.
The one word carries all manners of connotations with it. In the young field's medics mind it calls up pleasant memories of small, enjoyable, personal affairs; conversations spent over painstakingly prepared meals, usually spent with friends, loved ones, families. Dinners are intimate.
What they are not, on the other hand, is what is suddenly being described to her by the other men in her unit, the soldier's chattering on with one another, bemoaning their fate. Jensen sends her a particularly pathetic sort of look, runs a hand through his sandy hair, "You gotta have some infectious disease in that black bag of yours to get us out of this, LT."
Her smile is far from conciliatory, the amused sentiment behind it real enough as she settles down at her makeshift desk (technically, it's Taylor's but the man spends so little time here it is unofficially recognized as the medic's), sorts through files that ought to have been tended days prior, "Afraid not, Private. You'll just have to grin and bear it."
"Grin and bear it," someone scoffs, "Like it's that easy."
"It's dinner, Sergeant," the woman's tone shifts, hardens, suddenly their superior officer again, "And for one evening I think you can indulge a few politicians."
Cobbs, a young man, no older than twenty-six, holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Not a problem, ma'am; idle chatter I can do." He frowns, crosses his arms over his chest, and "Just doesn't sit right with me though. Having us dress up all nice just to parade us around like some goddamn show ponies."
"Taking shots at us."
Someone else snorts, "Least out there we can see who's trying to gun us down."
The negative picture is already painted before she's considered the evening. In her head it's just dinner; now it's something else entirely. Pursing her lips, she leans back in her chair, folds her hands over her stomach (an almost direct duplicate of the Commander's own posture), listens to them continue with their chatter. Talk about previous events they've been to. The subject strays to the conversation (dull, patronizing), the meet and greet (dull, patronizing), the food (perhaps the only redeeming quality) and, inevitably, the dancing.
It's then the Lieutenant realizes she's well over her head. That her humble appreciation for the event has led her completely astray to its purpose; Cobbs is giving her an appraising look, "You dance, LT?"
"Not when I can avoid it."
Michaels laughs, "Better get your shoes on, Wash. Your card's gonna be full up."
"First dance is mine."
"Damn it, Casey, you already have Rodriguez."
The young man in question simply shrugs, "Gotta have a safety net."
Wash grits her teeth, staring at the men now crowding around her desk. It's an expression they've come to know well and each adopts a look of near caution, taking careful steps back. They are almost instantly placated, the subject of dancing dropped as soon as her stance on it is verified. No dancing for the medic, not as long as she can help it (knows she will be expected to partake in at least a few of the damn things). Running a hand tiredly through her hair, she picks up their conversation as they stride blithely away.
"Think she'll wear a dress?"
"That'd make those bitches jealous."
Someone snorts, "They're always jealous, man. They just know if they get caught, Wash'll knock their teeth in. Or worse." Worse is something that has Wash smirking to herself, the image of a certain auburn haired friend appearing unbidden in her mind. Both the Taylor's will be in attendance and she figures at least one of her dances will be owed to her superior.
This doesn't help matters. Once more, Wash runs a tired hand through her hair, turns unseeing eyes on the paper work in front of her (wasn't done yesterday, won't be done today), frowns.
She's over her head. She's really screwed this time.
______________
Wash glares pointedly at the couples moving in time in front of her, leaning casually on her knees. It's easy to write off her expression as simple disinterest. Closer inspection reveals a telling flaw in this disguise. Ayani arches a brow as the young woman's eyes track each of the movements, seemingly maps them to memory for later reference. It is out of character for the soldier. Taps her foot along in admirable time with the music, only barely swaying as if she's out there with them.
Intriguing.
Crossing her arms over her chest, the woman crosses to stand beside the soldier. She is not attempting silence and the younger woman's senses are keen, turns to regard her almost immediately. The change that overtakes her is instantaneous, absolute. The swaying stops; her foot stills, posture becoming nearly ramrod straight, expression becoming more neutral. Suspicion in her amber eyes, silently asking how much she saw (everything).
Ayani holds up a pacifying hand, "At ease, soldier." No change; she sighs, shaking her head. There is a reason this girl is one of her husband's (and her own) favorite; she remains unmoved by the wide, compelling, smile on her face, the bright expression only inciting her caution. The older woman takes a seat without being asked, stares out at the dancers.
They really are good, twirling, moving, in time with the slow beat, seemingly floating more than walking. There's elegance to the whole of the ordeal that is sorely lacking in their lives, a sort of old world charm so openly on display here. It's perfectly simple, to lose oneself in the languid rise and fall of the tune. She takes great pains to avoid looking at her companion for a few moments, watches the dancers, fabric billowing about the lady's leg. They appear elegant, feminine (things the Lieutenant has never attempted to lay claim to). Green eyes shift ever so slightly; carefully note the medic's expression.
Very slightly dazed (not so much caught up in the majesty of the sport as she is impressed by the sheer vastness of it), amber eyes still quickly darting from figure to figure. Noting the movements of the elegant ladies feet, how they behave in their escorts arms. Every small detail is noted with almost painstaking attention, a student studying desperately for an exam they have forgotten (willingly or otherwise) until the last moment.
From the grim set of her jaw, she does not have high hopes for passing.
There is a dinner not far down the road. Two weeks or so, if she is remembering her husband's grumbling correctly (as desperately as he loves his career, he will be the first to admit such principles are outdated, wasteful; he should be fighting battles not showboating for politicians). A black tie affair if ever there was one. The upper class, foreign delegates, champagne…
And dancing.
The Taylor woman inclines her head to the side again, a sly smile turning her lips; there, she supposes, is the explanation for the young woman's sudden genesis to the park. No desire to better herself, no desire for the finer things in life, sophistication; a simple urge to keep herself from looking like a floundering fool. Alicia Washington does not know how to dance. Is using the textbook knowledge that got her through those difficult medical classes to salvage what little she can from the example of others. A sound theory, in practice, but the body rarely moves as it does in theory.
Wash frowns as the men dip their partners, the motion smooth, bespeaking a certain degree of trust between them, a confidence than cannot simply be conjured. This is noted, undoubtedly added to her mental catalogue. The concentration, the sheer determination, on her face is something to behold; Ayani smiles, shakes her head. Speaks more to herself than the Lieutenant at her side, "It's relaxing, isn't it? Two beings moving perfectly in sync with one another," nothing more than a small nod to mark she's been heard. Her lips quirk up, however; for all her supposed indifference Wash is sitting up a little straighter, posture inclined towards her, "It sounds like over idealize garbage but for once it's true. There's something…almost magical about it."
"It doesn't look that difficult," there is very little conviction behind that statement and the older woman chuckles, arching a brow.
"If you know what you're doing it's not half bad." The young woman's features fall almost imperceptibly, almost as if her testimony has only just confirmed what she's already known as true. This is not just something she can wing and hope for the best. It's going to take effort. It brief, barely a flicker, but she catches her worrying her lower lip between her teeth (a small tell she rarely indulges in, certainly only when she's overly concerned, usually over something that is comparatively small). She leans in to nudge the Lieutenant's shoulder lightly with her own, "Do you dance, Alicia?"
"Sometimes," a lie; it earns her an amused look, green eyes twinkling too knowingly. Another sigh, "Once. At my brother's wedding." Still an expectant look; grits her teeth, "eight years ago."
"And how'd that go?" Awful, her purposefully schooled expression says it before she can.
Wash snorts, "Awful."
"Who knows," they both do, "Maybe you've improved since then." Comforting words spoken with ample conviction and little truth. It elicits a grateful smile but little else, both aware of the falsity. Wash
simply nods, goes back to her people watching.
Ayani returns to watching her.
The young woman is a most intriguing sort of creature, devoted to her husband to a length some would call fanatical (not unheard of where Nathaniel is concerned, though Wash is grounded more firmly than that), willing to martyr herself for the sake of his family. She a pretty sort of thing (beautiful, without any doubt) but there are others that surpass her in that regard, especially in the more traditional sense. She's clever but stubborn. Talented but opinionated. Fury only barely contained with vice like control; an interesting set of contradictions if ever there was one.
There's too much life in her for a soldier and she isn't lively enough to fit in.
She leads naturally but is altogether too eager to follow her Commander, seemingly unwilling to surpass him.
Ayani Taylor has always been fond of puzzles. There is an undeniable charm in solving them, producing an answer were there was none previously. If nothing else, her friend is that incarnate. There is a desire to help, undoubtedly (she is remarkably fond of the medic, owes her more than she cares to admit), but it is tempered with a more healthy, logical, fascination. Watches amusedly as Wash's foot begins to tap along to the music again, a subtle thing, barely noticeable (a refusal to surrender in the face of a daunting task).
She hums to herself, smiles. "I used to like dancing." Ayani does not say anything for nothing, sees no point in wasting words. It is something her friend knows well. Wash turns slightly to watch her, bemused by the pleased expression on her face, "When I married Nathaniel I suppose I just…let it go." Back to watching the dancers, so elegant, so light, moving in time with the rise and fall of the tempo, "It's lovely, isn't it?" Another delicate nudge with her shoulder, another smile, auburn hair overlapping the medic's dark tresses.
This time, Wash nods.
"Nathaniel tells me you have an important dinner coming up. Politicians, dignitaries, dancing," lingers on the last word longer than strictly required. The Lieutenant shakes her head, amused. Meets the other woman's gaze full on (determined amber to equally fiery green). She is entirely capable of discretion but has little use for it now.
Her husband's fiery field medic is too proud to admit to entering such an arrangement. In the end, it is nothing more than how her gaze lingers slightly on the older woman before flicking out towards the dancers again. Tracings movements she will never perfect through simple observation. With a slow smile, Ayani clasps the other woman's knee, rises.
"Nathaniel will be gone most of tomorrow. You're welcome to stop by."
They both know she will before she's even finished the offer.
___________
It turns out the young woman is not overstating matters when she says she's talentless at this. For all her skill with a needle, for her quick hands and tongue, for being such a talented physical combatant, she relies heavily on the old cliché of having two left feet. Ayani sighs, adjusts the young woman's hands again as they stray to her shoulders (uncomfortable with them on her waist, uncomfortable being unable to lead the smaller woman), "Alicia."
She winces, drops her hands. Well, at least she can adjust to correction readily enough. The older woman gently edges one her legs between the medics (almost smirks at the way her eyes widen at the more hands on approach, something she could have simply instructed her to change), uses the leverage to gently adjust her footing, widening her miserably tight stance. It earns her a cautious look but the motion is not protested. For all her spirit, the Lieutenant is remarkably proficient at following orders. Lingers there for a moment, gives a gentle squeeze. The woman takes the hint, stares down at their joined legs, memorizes the positioning. The next step is obvious enough; move back, away from her partner. Ayani will pursue, insinuate herself in much the same manner.
It begins well enough; the soldier takes her step back; Ayani comes forward.
She's never been one to flee, certainly not one to back down from a challenge. Alicia is used to playing the aggressor and this is against all of that. She fails to take the second step back. Her partner does not. It leaves them grappling awkwardly, the soldier clutching the older woman's arm in a last ditch attempt to steady her. Not quite enough. They still collide, a tangle of limbs barely kept upright. There is an awkward moment where the soldier is left to simply offer her a sheepish (or as close as the woman will ever come to such a timid emotion) smile. The absurdity of it is not missed; the auburn haired woman lets out an amused huff, chuckling to herself as she drops her head on her partners shoulder, naked humor coloring her tone, "Oh, Alicia…how are you managing this?"
"Special effort, ma'am," still rather mortified but able to laugh at her own misfortune.
"Yes, well, why don't we try something a little less…intensive?"
It's a slightly less blunt way to say "keep us further apart". A comforting sort of smile, another squeeze to her shoulder, puts some space between them. Fingers digging lightly at her hip.
Despite the disparities in height, Ayani manages to lead them effectively enough, hand resting at the small of the younger woman's back (perhaps lower than propriety strictly dictates but it seems prudent to adjust the girl to handsy politicians and she does not comment), leading her through the steps of a simple waltz. Old fashioned, assuredly, but popular enough to indulge in, easy enough to learn. She falls into her positioning easily enough it's simply…moving, that seems to give her trouble.
When she trips again, Ayani tightens her arms around her. The medic has transcended idle frustration and crossed into a sphere of anger, amber eyes livid as she steps away from her partner. Runs a hand through her hair. "This is…" she holds up a hand, silencing herself, cutting off the tirade before it can properly manifest itself. Alicia Washington, as a rule, does not give up, does not surrender. She's lived through injuries that ought to have been fatal; she's brought soldiers back from the brink. She's made a career of the impossible.
This is not life or death; there is nothing to gain from it. It's simply beating her head against a rock wall. Green eyes trail over her, curious, as she takes a seat, fingers twining tiredly in her hair. The Taylor can practically see plan after plan, tactics, running through the medic's head. Approaching matters in the academic sense she so favors.
Perhaps that's the problem.
"Alicia," Ayani cocks her head lightly to the side, smiling, extends her hand to her, "Come here a minute."
"I think I'm done for now, ma'am."
"Indulge me."
And there is no debating the woman when she says such things, dulcet voice low, sliding over one's nerves. It's never ceased to set the Lieutenant on edge, knows she's being openly manipulated (never really resists). Settles her hands on the medic's hips; Wash arches a brow immediately. Is shushed.
"Ayani…"
"Hands on my shoulders, Lieutenant," tone leaving no room for argument. With an indulgent sigh, she complies. It's a childish, youthful, sort of dance (if it can even be called that), more about proximity, swaying, then anything else. The rigid quality does not leave her posture even for such a simple thing and Ayani frowns.
Steps bodily into the other woman, offering a comforting smile as her hold tightens about her waist, holding the medic pinned flush against her. The effect is much the same as if she'd jabbed her with a pin, breath catching in a comical hiss (logged away for future deconstruction). "You're too tight, Alicia. Dancing is light, freeing, and your standing here like a damn pole."
"I'm uncomfortable."
"Why?" there's a tinkling note, almost teasing, flirting with her tone. "Because I'm so close to you?" She presses nearer (it's is sheer stubbornness that keeps the soldier where she is), leans her forehead against the woman's cheek, "I recommend you overcome such qualms, dear. You know me and I will be far less handsy then some of your partners." Some, but not all; she shrugs in good natured acceptance over that, smirking, not in the least ashamed. Nose against her ear, "Relax, Alicia. Just let go," her voice is too low, soothing, smoothing over the wrinkles in her patience, her misgivings, "I'll lead you."
It almost imperceptible at first; nothing more than a loosening in the young woman's shoulders. Then it is her posture, easing her into the dance, more giving. Still awkward but certainly less rigid. Ayani nods, chuckles, "Good. Now," still swaying more than moving; gently adjusts her hold on the woman's hips, shifts them to match the movement of her own. "I need you to move with me. When you spar with my husband…"
There's a spark of something (undeniable affection and something else she has long since been made aware of) in those amber eyes at even his mention. Relaxes into her further, shifts against the older woman with more force. Hmm. Perhaps she simply needs a different partner…
That, too, is logged away for consideration.
"With Nathaniel," better controlled this time under her questioning stare, "You've learned to function as one. Together, apart," lunging forward to catch the other only to slide back, twisting and writhing in the others grasp. "This isn't any different. Together," pressed tightly against her, "Apart," a quick step back, distance created.
Wash stares at her for a long moment, a sentiment almost like confusion flitting over her features before she nods, accepts what has been said. When Ayani moves to rest her hands on her waist this time, she doesn't even tense.
____________
A little over a week does wonders for the woman. While she's hardly a proficient dancer she's capable of moving in time to the music, rarely treads on her partners toes (a thing Ayani suddenly finds herself infinitely grateful for), and looks elegant enough.
Until her comfortable sweats and tank are exchanged for a restrictive dress. It's a simple black number (she has no tolerance for anything more), long enough for propriety, short enough that her movement feels far less impaired. Her hair, Ayani insists, must be left down. Heels are added to her ever expanding repertoire. In short order she feels (and most likely) looks precisely like what her unit described earlier. She's a show pony, nothing more; a soldier done up to look pretty, serene, for foreign dignitaries and politicians longing to get their pictures down with a local hero.
"Stop fidgeting, Alicia," the older woman mutters, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric, "I realize you're uncomfortable. We all are. The trick is lying to yourself effectively enough to convince everyone else."
"Sounds healthy."
The auburn haired woman snorts, "You're a politician tonight, dear; your health is the least of your concerns." She's still standing too close but Wash has stopped noticing, simply accepts it as another facet of her friend's personality (true, after a fashion).
It's the first time Taylor happens by their little sessions. He's simply passing through, a stack of paperwork under his arms, when he happens to catch sight of them, all done up and nowhere to go. Blue eyes sliding appreciatively over his wife's figure; stop completely when they make it to the Lieutenant.
She is not a stupid woman (far from it) and she has made where she is in life in large part thanks to her ability to read others. Emotions come to her easily, are both decoded, and, occasionally, manipulated, easily. Her husband's reaction to the young woman is…odd. Intrigued, confused, undoubtedly interested. Attracted, though she doubts he's aware of it (and would never act on it if he were). But his eyes linger on her, voice perhaps a tad too throaty when he speaks, "Wash? You dance?"
"Only as much as Ayani's taught me, sir."
That does cause his eyes to narrow somewhat, flicking back to his smiling bride. He makes a low humming sort of sound, nodding, "Then you're in good hands." It's a rather surreal experience, short, and barely a conversation. He simply nods at them both (eyes lingering on Wash, trouble justifying the beautiful, if dark, creature with his fiery field medic), leaves the room, focuses on the paperwork tucked under his arm. Wash watches him go, eyes tracing each of his movements (as Ayani's weighs her own, carefully takes notes of them).
The Lieutenant dances with particular care that afternoon, a slightly more dreamy light in those amber eyes.
For the remainder of their sessions (five) Taylor is constantly present. There is always some new bit of work under his arm but he insists on taking it near them. Throughout the ordeal, Ayani see's him actually focus on the forms perhaps once. All other times, his gaze is on them, seemingly fascinated by how they sway, move across the floor. He pulls his wife aside only once (his first sit in), back to chest, whispering in her ear, "Not appropriate."
Two words and she hardly requires an explanation. Simply raises a brow, turns in his embrace to find those wonderfully blue eyes already pinning her with a serious look. "I remember teaching you in much the same way." Auburn hair ghosting across his chest, "Certainly that wasn't inappropriate?"
"If she goes out there like that…"
"Why, Commander," nearly a purr, "I'd say you're worried about our pretty Lieutenant." It earns her a glare (but not a vocal denial) and she gives his arm a reassuring pat, "If she goes out there like that she'll be perfectly fine. And if she isn't, one of three things will happen. She'll knock the man's teeth in. You'll knock the man's teeth in. Or I'll handle it." There's an edge to that smile, a thing that plays itself off as innocent (succeeds, for the most part, save for the hint of something else lingering near the edges), that puts strangers at ease and those who know her on guard. In this respect, it only elicits a throaty chuckle, lips dragged over her forehead.
He's had women in his unit before. Wash is the only one he desires to protect in such a manner. It is noted by his wife (in fascination rather than jealousy or worry; she does not, cannot, doubt the strength of his affection for her). The woman in her arms is simply an anomaly, affecting them both in strange ways. A kindred spirit of sorts and her antithesis all wrapped in one.
Feels her husband's eyes fixed on them as they come together again, how the taller woman's hands settle so easily around her, how her own fit perfectly on her waist. The supposed lack of hesitation between them. A quick glance assures her of what she already knows. He's positively fascinated. By both of them.
They remain closer together this time (Wash barely noting the change in proximity), hands resting lower on her spine. It brings a swell of pride rushing through the elder woman as her protégé moves through the steps with enviable grace, still moving more as a fighter than a dancer (a thing that will never change). The same slow sort of dance, keeping them near; every time they touch she feels Nathaniel's interest sharpen, rising and falling with the tempo of the music.
Perhaps she's simply feeling childish; perhaps it's something else entirely. She likes to imagine it's caught somewhere between the two. The song is nearing its conclusion and it's the simplest thing in the world, a spur of the moment decision. Turns them to face Nathaniel, flashes him a light smile as she dips the young woman. Too close for the most part, leg fetching against the other woman's knee, as she's drawn back. He treated to a view that somehow refuses to leave him. Wash's dark hair spilled out behind her, chest rising and falling in such a manner, flushed, with Ayani flanking her, smiling. Beautiful and entirely different, night and day.
He suffers an undignified wave of something he does not care admit to.
Ayani gives a light tug, drawing her back up, smiling(though the medic's eyes remained trained on her Commander), "I'd say you're ready for a real partner. Nathaniel," green eyes flashing with mischief, "How would you like to test my work?" Alicia looks entirely too ready to protest; is silenced with a soft smile, a hand on her shoulder, "You'll be expected to dance with him at least once, Alicia. It couldn't hurt to get some practice under your belt." It's an unfortunate (and deliberate) turn of phrase that has the Lieutenant stiffening almost imperceptibly.
To Wash's surprise, Taylor closes the distance between them, extends his hand like a perfect gentlemen (despite the unfamiliar note dancing in his eyes), throws a quick glance at his wife (nods lightly, going to take a seat), "May I have this dance, Miss Washington?" The definitive tenors of his voice caressing the old world form of address.
As desperately as she prides herself on her stoicism, Alicia is not able to keep the smile from turning her lips (or the shiver that seemingly passes through her as soon as their fingers brush), "Of course, Commander." Her smile is evidently an infectious sort of one, quickly spreads to his lips.
Whether he's aware of it or not, she's good for him.
Ayani always makes certain her husband has what's best for him.
_________
It's their last meeting before the dinner. Wash is prepared, attends only because Ayani insists on doing a final run through. Evidently, this consists of nothing more than revisiting the familiar dances they've spent hours, days, on. For as tedious as this might be, she finds she cannot complain. Her friend has been strikingly absent for the majority of the morning, her partner none other than her Commanding Officer.
It is…disconcerting, a mixed bag at the very best.
Her feelings, whatever they are (love, though she denies it to the best of her logical abilities even as her heart screams it), are only stirred to life by his proximity, the feel of him beneath her hands, pressed against him. There are moments where her control is stretched nearly to its breaking point, spun out and pulled back into his chest. Times when they are simply left swaying to the music (making idle small talk that neither is thinking much of) where he watches her with such intensity that she doesn't wonder if it isn't more than her imagination.
It's wrong, horribly so, to feel such a thing. For her Commanding Officer and for her dear friends spouse. But with his hand at the small of her back, warm, a comforting weight, thumb tracing delicate patterns through the material of her dress, it's difficult to think of anything else. Difficult not to imagine his hands moving over her skin, his lips on her throat, surrounded by his heat.
Wash shakes her head, focuses on the music (together, apart, together). It seems to coil within her as they move, does not assist as the more sensuous beat slides over them. His hand slides higher, coming to rest not far beneath her shoulder blades as he leans her back, dips her with a bit more vigor then his wife had employed. Brings their hips flush against each other.
It takes conscious thought to stifle the desire to moan, grind against him. What's worse, the man seems to go taut, watching her carefully as he draws her back to him. The music has died off; he doesn't release her (she does not move away). Not an inch of light between them (the black of her gown so perfectly suited to the black of his uniform), his arms holding her against him. Blue eyes to meet amber (it's just the dance, nothing more, simply a dance). But her breath is coming out woefully uneven, catching in her throat as he searches her face for something.
All she knows is that in this one moment, she cares very little in regards their rank, Ayani, the future. In this one moment, she wants nothing more than for him to kiss her. The future matters little in light of that. His breath is ghosting over her lips, his heat licking at her skin, and she needs him to kiss her.
For one moment, he is going to. His fingers weave in her hair, pale through the midnight dark mass. The heat in their gaze is one shared. He wants her, for one moment she does not doubt the strenght of that sentiment.
But he simply smiles at her, pulls away and offers her his hand.
_________
Alicia handles herself perfectly throughout the whole of the ordeal. It sends a surge of almost irrational pride through him as he watches her conduct herself. Beautiful and dark and something almost like a force of nature. Standing beside Ayani again (his wife's arm wrapped easily about her waist), her smile reserved, all teeth. It has a protective sort of glint to it as a more inebriated man attempts to make nice with the auburn haired woman. A nod of her head as she leading her to safety, the hand on the other woman's hip and effective warning to anyone others considering insinuating themselves where they do not belong. The protective behavior earns her an amused smile, a chuckle, as they make their way through the crowd towards him.
Wash has danced with her dignitaries, made her small talk, performed swimmingly in every arena. The night is well along, fading into morning and the hints of weariness are beginning to manifest on her features. Nothing terribly evident, simply a tired quality beneath her eyes. Her posture less guarded, her tone slightly more expressive. After tonight's performance, she's more than earned it.
And he cannot stop watching her, not for the life of him. There's something miserably, impossibly, undeniably fascinating in the figure of his fiery field medic, his friend of so many years. His wife (beautiful, perfect, cunning, Ayani) smiles at him, head held high, green eyes twinkling in the low light. They've been together too long for him to hide such feelings from her.
But she does not react with anger, jealously. Simply that glimmer in her eyes, almost knowing, almost accepting. She releases the young woman's hand, steps into her husband for a grateful kiss, eager, affectionate. Takes his lower lip between her teeth as she pulls back, inclines her head lightly to the side again. Watches him carefully for something.
And evidently likes what she sees.
With a smile, she buries her nose in her husband's suit, inhaling him, reveling in him, as his arm comes about her waist. Glances up at him (his gaze flicking from her to Alicia, resting on the Lieutenant) fingers fisting in the material of his shirt as she addresses the younger woman, "Would you care to join us for a drink, Alicia?"
It's a perfectly friendly turn of phrase, hardly uncommon. They've had such evenings hundreds of times before. But there is that heat again in her Commanders eyes, something she cannot place (longs to indulge). Glances back towards the dinner, the music still wafting out towards them.
Green eyes and heated blue ones turned upon her.
Alicia doesn't bother to hide her smile (infectious, spreads to each of their faces), accepts her Commander's extended hand.