What a nice, firm dance frame V did have, Evey mused to herself as she and her beau swayed to the music. A new Gallery, an old jukebox, another song -- out of all those 872 -- for them to now claim as their own, and two large hands gently guided their combined 'frame'. Isn't that what it was called? The proper term? So had said the instructor with whom she'd danced many moons ago, at the gala for the new House of Commons' first seating. The gentleman that night -- a coworker's son -- had complimented her on her stance, suggesting she might even consider proper lessons.
Oh it had been an attempted pick-up line, no question. She wasn't that daft. And it wasn't her dance skills that had impressed him, either. But all in all, it had constituted one of her more pleasant evenings of recent years, and so she remembered it well.
To have been dancing again, had been refreshing ... as too had been the gentleman's politeness. No wandering hands, like those she'd encountered in her youth, and would again be vexed with upon meeting Mr. Viedt. No impatience over the inevitable faux pas, when he'd tried going one way and she'd tried going the other.
Bittersweet though so very bittersweet ... when his 'frame' had reminded her so much of her lost love's.
There was one difference though, in this firm frame V presented her with now. V was born just as much from affection, as from proper technique.
His hand did not curve around her waist solely to steer her their steps had traveled barely three yards from their initial starting point. And when one of his fingers -- just one had inched its way between hers. that wasn't entirely formal either, now was it?
And unlike a formal ball or gala, where guests buzzed about to keep up with the event's itinerary ... ... it was easy to lose time down here in the tunnels. There was very little to mark its passage, save the clicking of the Wurlitzer as one song led into the other. Very little to distract the couple, as dance steps became second nature, and the gaze of each partner fell into the other.
Unfortunately, Evey did face an early morning. She'd been trying to institute a new work schedule, to allow for more frequent visits with her newly rediscovered paramour. Easier said than done though, when neither assistants, nor coworkers, nor underlings, could understand her sudden need for more 'free time'.
There was always time for one last dance though, and V invited his lady to choose the tune. Of course she had no idea what she was picking, and ended up with a jazzy piece that had more life to it than it had words.
Didn't stop them though. On the contrary, he was soon stepping quite repeatedly into her 'personal space' -- blaming it on the tempo, obviously. Then her hand dared just a little further around his neck only so she could keep up, mind you. Their frame was beginning to look rather collapsible.
Behind the mask, V's grin really did match that of Fawkes's, and he found himself chortling softly along with his lady. She apparently found colliding feet to be terribly amusing, while it was her laughter that *he* found simply bewitching.
He really shouldn't have been too surprised then, when she leaned further into him, cast him the most coy expression, and said, "Dip me!"
Dip you?" he repeated ... though one could tell from his voice that the idea did hold some instant appeal.
"Yeah." ... She drew still closer, until his hand made the most natural shift from her waist to her back. ... "I think I've been dipped maybe twice in my life. Once by my father, and once by a dance instructor. The instructor was trying too hard, to be too impressive; and your dad is 'your dad'." ... Her lips fluttered dangerously close to the mask's chin, as though they may alight any moment. But instead, they simply whispered a hushed request. ... "I want *you* to dip me."
