Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You're doin’ it again.”

Wolfwood knows, by now, to speak a bit louder than normal to get Meryl's attention. Like most nights, she has her earplugs in to make spending time in a public room easier; unlike many of those nights, there's music playing. When Meryl glances over at him, about to ask the reason for his remark, he points to her foot, tapping against a rung of her stool, in time with the music. She'd been doing it earlier, too.

Her own gaze is on her foot, but his stays on her face, so he sees the moment her expression falls. The way she looks almost disappointed in herself. “It's just catchy. That's all.” He's convinced she mumbles it so he won't hear it. Unfortunately for her, his fucked-with senses catch it anyway.

Meryl shifts on her barstool and turns her gaze back to the crowded makeshift dancefloor. The country dance is in full swing; none of the townspeople had minded them all joining in. Vash and Milly are easy to spot in the crowd; even though Vash is blending in better without his coat on, he and Milly are both taller than most of the crowd. They've been dancing since the start of the current record, and show no signs of slowing down.

“Doubt he'd mind switchin’ partners.” He's not sure himself why he says it, only that Meryl's looked a bit moody ever since the dancing started, and that she's on her second drink of the evening. “Big girl, either, come to that. Two o’ you have to have danced together now and then.”

“We have. Once or twice.” Meryl takes the little umbrella out of her drink and starts making little tears in the paper. “I don't want to tonight.”

“Didn't look like it to me.”

“Would you drop it?” Meryl snaps, irritated, or at least, he's pretty sure that's what she says. A squeal of feedback from the speakers drowns her out, and the sudden, harsh noise makes Meryl startle so badly she knocks over what's left of her drink. It spills onto the bar, pinkish and sticky.

He has no doubt she'd be flustered if she noticed. He doesn't think she has, based on how her hands flew to cover her ears, her breathing quickening as she tries to block out even more noise than her earplugs allow. The lighting's dim, but his sharp eyes can see the sheen of tears in hers. He reaches into an inner pocket of his blazer for the very scant handful of bills he has there and tosses two—he doesn't know which two—onto the bar, and grabs her by the waist to haul her off the stool and out of the room, onto the back porch.

He'd feel guilty hauling her out of there, never wants to touch anyone not expecting it if he can help it, but from the way Meryl stumbles to the railing and braces her arms against it, shaking her head as if to clear it, he doesn't think she minds. She pulls a breath in, then another, and the tension gradually drains from her stance. It's so quiet and still on the porch, the night air heavy, silence only broken by the sounds of insects and what they can still hear of the now-resumed music inside, that she slowly calms, her breaths coming steadier, her tears drying on her skin.

He passes her a handkerchief and hauls himself up to sit on the creaking railing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her dry hers. Finally she whispers, “Thank you. It just—I just—”

“The noise bothers ya.”

“I know it's stupid,” she starts, defensively, and he holds up his hand.

“Ya think that was what I was gonna say?”

“Wasn't it?”

“Nah.” She turns away slightly, seemingly chastened, so he continues. “Ya never had to explain the earplugs. Was obvious they help ya function. They didn't cut it back there. It happens.”

Meryl turns away enough he gets the message—no more talking. He occupies himself with lighting a cigarette and taking a drag; his own cigarettes are a welcome return to familiarity after the stale air of the packed inn. Meryl paces a little to keep herself warm in the cold air and, from the looks of it, get herself back together. He tries not to eye her too much; he doesn’t think he’d hold his tongue well enough if she snaps at him again.

When she speaks next, it’s a question. “Why’d you say all that, about dancing?”

“Wasn’t saying that ‘cause I wanted to dance with ya. To be clear.”

“Obviously. I’d sooner—” Maybe she doesn’t have the energy for a creative metaphor. Meryl slumps back against the railing. “So if you didn’t ask because you wanted to dance—”

“You wanted to. Seemed like ya wanted somebody to give ya permission, or somethin’.”

“I didn’t…” Meryl’s arms, already crossed, cross even tighter. “I didn’t want to dance. I was just keeping the time. There’s a difference.”

“So watchin’ the entire time, tappin’ your foot, that’s you not wantin’ to. Doesn’t make any sense.”

A brief lull of silence, as he ashes his first cigarette and lights another.

“I’m not good at it. Dancing. At least, not that way.”

He looks at her skeptically and lets out a breath of smoke. “Didn’t strike me as something ya had to be good at. Just gotta—”

“Feel the music, right? Just go with it, or whatever? That’s what you’re going to say?” Meryl lets out a faint, irritated snort. “That’s the problem. Everyone says the same thing. That’s not—I need steps to be any good at it. And you saw how I was in there. It’s… it’s too loud. Too crowded. I just—know I wouldn’t enjoy it. So there’s no point in trying.”

“Ain’t gonna get very far if that’s what ya tell yourself about everything. If ya ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Meryl reminds him tightly, and he sighs.

He wants to be annoyed at her, can feel it pricking at the edges of his thoughts, but she looks so miserable he can’t let it go. “What’d you mean. About needing steps.”

“I can’t just… make up my own. But if it’s—a waltz, or a two-step, or anything like that, it makes sense to me. I had to learn. My mother had me learn.” She smiles thinly and picks at a stray thread poking out from the hem of her blouse. “She felt I was lacking social skills. That I just needed to learn how to be the right kind of woman—future wife, future mother. If I went to all the dances, got everything right, I’d catch a husband.”

“I don’t see ya wearin’ a ring, so…”

“Correct.” If she tugs any harder at the stray thread she’ll start unraveling the whole blouse. “What she wanted was never what I wanted. I learned the dances. I kind of liked the dances. But the noise, the people, the… the expectation I’d just—parade myself around, become a decoration in someone else’s home—I couldn’t stand it.”

He can’t picture it either, admittedly. Can’t imagine many men on this planet want their wives earning a fortune in hazard pay, risking their necks and getting shot at on the regular. There’s a part of him that thinks better of her now, knowing what she’d walked away from—a safe life, a comfortable one, married to one of the goddamn fat cats who run the whole show.

Well, he can think better of her and still find her a thorn in his side overall.

The dull roar of music and conversation from inside has lessened some. Maybe people have headed out for the night; maybe the music has shifted to something slower, something quieter. He doubts she’d want to head back in there, somewhere she’s already decided she doesn’t fit.

He holds his cigarette between his lips and digs into his pockets, inner and outer, finding what he wants quickly. “Where’d that come from?” Meryl asks, when she steps closer to inspect the cassette player in the mostly-dark.

“You and big girl helped out that family coupla days ago, with the roof damage. Older son said this thing was broken; offered to have a look at it for him. Pretty sure all it needed was new batteries and the screws on the door needin’ tightening. Was gonna give it to ya to bring back to him when ya head back to check in, but may as well get some use out of it now.”

“By…?”

Wolfwood uses his free hand to hold up the wire for the earbuds and one of the kid’s cassettes. “Kid had decent taste in music. Try onea these. See how ya feel dancin’ to it.”

“Oh, no, no, no—”

“Look at it this way. Nobody’s out here but me, so there’s no people. That’s your first problem solved. Ya can control the volume. That’s the second. Ya can pick the music. That’s the third. Pretty sure there ain’t a waltz on this, but something’s gotta fit with what ya got in your head. Ya can dance yourself, or ya can dance with me. I’ll warn ya I got two left feet, but I’m just here to be a warm body anyway. Important thing is, ya get to have some fun. Doesn’t make much sense to me, sidelinin’ yourself.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the longest speech to ever pass between them. He’s not even entirely sure why he cares so much. They hardly know each other and he has no doubt she’d rather dance with Milly or even Vash. But there’s something in her expression—she looks uncertain, but… touched.

Slowly, Meryl removes her earplugs and pockets them.

“You mean it?” she asks hesitantly, reaching out for the cassette player, before she pulls back her hand.

“I mean it.” He hands her the cassette player and the handful of cassettes the kid had given him to test it with, though she glares at him with a look of distaste for wiping the earpieces on the hem of his blazer first.

She listens to a bit of each cassette, before murmuring this one, I think, and hesitantly passing him one of the earbuds. She clips the player to the waistband of the skirt and steps carefully closer, reaching for one of his hands. “It’s… it’s easy enough,” she starts, though he can tell she’s nervous—about offering a hand, about getting the steps wrong, about Vash or Milly finding them and asking what’s going on, he doesn’t know. “It’s just a count—one, two, three—and a box step, which is when you…”

He needs a few minutes to get it right, but when he does he finds she’s right; it’s simple enough. The song is slow, mostly a guitar and a woman’s voice singing about growing up in a small town, moving away, finding freedom. Meryl seems to know the words, based on how when she closes her eyes—damn if he doesn’t know how she can dance with her eyes closed; he needs to see so he doesn’t trip over his own feet—she’s mouthing them.

She’d been holding her body somewhat rigidly before, but she eases as they dance. Every so often, when she opens her eyes, he sees her cast a glance back at the door they’d came out of, as if she’s waiting for someone to find them, but she doesn’t stop. They waltz to a few songs, and her steps grow looser and freer, until she’s dancing on her own—still unsure, but free.

Wolfwood looses the earbud from his ear and steps back, then back again, until he’s back by his previous spot on the railing. He leans his elbows on it and stares out at the night sky, lighting his third cigarette for something to do with his hands now they’re empty.

He hears her steps slow, her breathing a bit harder in the night air from the uncommon exertion, as she stops dancing. She comes closer, then closer still, until she’s at his side, setting the cassette player on the railing between them.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For—for not watching, just now. And for… that.”

He can see her out the corner of his eyes well enough, so he doesn’t turn his head to look. Milly had said something offhand once about not spooking her, likening it to… what had she said? Well, if you bother a cat and try to spend time with it before it’s ready, it runs away, more often than not! But if you let it do its cat things in peace, eventually, that cat will sit next to you sometimes, won’t it?

“Wasn’t mucha anything,” he says, shrugging it off. “Just wanted ya to enjoy yourself for once. ‘Steada watchin’ everyone else have a crack at it.”

For once Meryl doesn’t seem to mind she’s breathing in his cigarette smoke. “I think I’m bad at that.” She taps her fingers against the wooden railing. “Letting myself enjoy things. My mom… that was something else she had opinions about. Too much enjoyment wasn’t ladylike. … I’d say it sounds stupid, saying it now, but it always did.”

“Agreed.” Not that he’s one to talk. There are things he knows damn well he could enjoy, if he lets himself, but… those things aren’t meant for a man like him. “Ain’t a bad thing, in the end.”

“I guess. … I felt—self-conscious, before, but… it felt nice, too. For a little while.” He watches Meryl’s hands fidget on the railing. “I should really go back inside. Milly’s probably…”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t do to worry the missus.” He takes another drag on his cigarette and flicks his free hand in that direction. “I’ll join ya. In a few minutes.”

Few minutes, Meryl repeats in a murmur, stepping away.

And then back.

She wraps an arm around his waist and presses closer momentarily, nothing more than a quick squeeze. She shuts her eyes as she does, probably so she doesn’t have to watch herself, and she doesn’t say anything, but as she breaks away, he thinks he knows what she means.

She’s almost to the door when he calls after her. “Pipsqueak. Hey.”

He hears her stop.

“You’re welcome,” he says, unfamiliar as the words feel in his mouth. He’s shrugged off so many thank yous, so much gratitude. He’s a bastard and he knows it, wishes sometimes everyone else would know it too, that people like Vash and Milly weren’t so damn earnest about believing he’s a good person, and saying so.

Meryl, though… she doesn’t believe much of anything of him. Or at least, she probably didn’t before tonight.

Maybe he’s kidding himself. This one scene—a kindness he isn’t even sure why he offered—isn’t exactly going to wash the blood off his hands.

Meryl nods, and turns the doorknob, and lets herself back inside. When the door closes behind her, he stays on the porch, listening to the background hum of the insects, breathing his smoke back into the night air.