[Deaths] the Morrigan
Title: dance with me, just for the hell of it
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; the Morrigan, a friend of hers
Prompt: 68B "dance"
Word Count: 369
Notes: after the campaign. No, you haven't met him before. You will. :)
Rose? You want to read this one. Promise.
---------
It's summer, and the open-air market is crowded with stalls, shoppers, and buskers.
She's assumed the thin, sweet trumpet line is someone's distant gramaphone or stereo, but when she turns a corner, there's a boy with floppy hair and puffed-out cheeks, with his hat upended on the curb by his feet and playing his scruffy little heart out.
She can't help but grin, drops a couple of Black Gregors in his hat, her toes already tapping.
He gives her a thank-you glance as the coins tinkle among their brethren, and her grin widens as he does.
When he pauses at the end of the song, she chirps a request in his direction.
It's an old song, tricky for a trumpet alone but oh, so danceable, and she can tell he knows it. He seems to take it as a challenge, dives in with his own toes tapping out the beat, and she almost blooms past her skin, but reins herself in just barely in time.
Starts dancing with an invisible lead, instead, half-daring someone from the crowd to come up and replace the air she's dancing with with skin.
When someone does she's so startled she almost loses beat, almost doesn't recognise him in a summer-weight shirt instead of the winter tweed she'd seen last.
As he dips her, big broad calloused hand cupping easily at the small of her back, just below where she usually keeps her sickles, she says "I thought we were to meet in Tuscany in three weeks?"
"Rumour has it you like French roses--I thought I'd see if it was true," he grins down at her, then brings her back up and into a spin as the trumpet soars over the bridge.
She's breathless by the time the song ends, half from laughter and half from exertion, keeping up with a man a third again her height who moves like exactly what he is, these days.
They bow to grinning, breathless musician, to watching, applauding shoppers, then he tucks her hand into his arm, looks down at her every inch the genteel companion. "Had you an agenda for your afternoon?"
"I suppose I could be persuaded to take tea at a shop I know," she allows, and he laughs, just a little.
'Verse/characters: Death be not Proud; the Morrigan, a friend of hers
Prompt: 68B "dance"
Word Count: 369
Notes: after the campaign. No, you haven't met him before. You will. :)
Rose? You want to read this one. Promise.
---------
It's summer, and the open-air market is crowded with stalls, shoppers, and buskers.
She's assumed the thin, sweet trumpet line is someone's distant gramaphone or stereo, but when she turns a corner, there's a boy with floppy hair and puffed-out cheeks, with his hat upended on the curb by his feet and playing his scruffy little heart out.
She can't help but grin, drops a couple of Black Gregors in his hat, her toes already tapping.
He gives her a thank-you glance as the coins tinkle among their brethren, and her grin widens as he does.
When he pauses at the end of the song, she chirps a request in his direction.
It's an old song, tricky for a trumpet alone but oh, so danceable, and she can tell he knows it. He seems to take it as a challenge, dives in with his own toes tapping out the beat, and she almost blooms past her skin, but reins herself in just barely in time.
Starts dancing with an invisible lead, instead, half-daring someone from the crowd to come up and replace the air she's dancing with with skin.
When someone does she's so startled she almost loses beat, almost doesn't recognise him in a summer-weight shirt instead of the winter tweed she'd seen last.
As he dips her, big broad calloused hand cupping easily at the small of her back, just below where she usually keeps her sickles, she says "I thought we were to meet in Tuscany in three weeks?"
"Rumour has it you like French roses--I thought I'd see if it was true," he grins down at her, then brings her back up and into a spin as the trumpet soars over the bridge.
She's breathless by the time the song ends, half from laughter and half from exertion, keeping up with a man a third again her height who moves like exactly what he is, these days.
They bow to grinning, breathless musician, to watching, applauding shoppers, then he tucks her hand into his arm, looks down at her every inch the genteel companion. "Had you an agenda for your afternoon?"
"I suppose I could be persuaded to take tea at a shop I know," she allows, and he laughs, just a little.