Work Text:
John knows how to dance. His feet used to bleed, used to bruise purple and blue, was unable to fit them into his shoes with how swollen they got; to exist near the Director she would accept nothing less. He keeps this from Helen when they first meet in a dingy old bar, a decrepit building still clinging to the prime era of jazz. She makes the first move and buys him a drink of something he doesn’t like but sips nevertheless.
“I don’t think I’ve heard sweeter music than this,” she says, looking to fill the void as she glances between John and the old crooning man with his sax.
John nods, not certain why she’s approached him - he’s a year out of the marines, smelling of sweat and smoke, looking to wind down after a rough job the Russians gave him. She’s in a red dress with smudged makeup (was she stood up? John never finds out) and doesn’t know him, must see a man who can handle her shit and everything else he never asked for.
When they take to the floor, she holds him like he could fall to pieces under her eyes, like he’s made of sticks rather than the bloody, half-hearted thing he’s slowly becoming. Distracted, he steps on her foot once (just once, but enough to feel the phantom bruises and swelling), apologising as she winces. For a moment they idle among the older couples swaying around them, pairs of wrinkled and smiling eyes reminiscing, realising the uncomfortable intimacy they have stumbled into. They leave together in a slow bumble, and go to fuck in his car.
It is only years later, when Helen (“My name’s Helen,” she says as they rut, laughing when their jostling hits the car horn) struggles to leave her bed most days does she ask to dance again. John’s hesitant, worried she might strain herself, but he’s weak to her, only her, and they sway for what feels like an eternity yet is not nearly long enough. The IV stand creaks with the sudden force of Helen giggling softly.
“What is it?” He asks, scanning her for signs of over-exertion.
“I just remembered how you stood on my foot that day, how we’re swaying just like the old coots did. One day I’ll teach you how to dance, John.”
She settles back down on the bed, panting slightly but gently beaming with memories. Neither have the heart to bring up the dwindling time she has left. They sit together with hands intertwined for a while longer.
Weeks later, Daisy arrives. He holds the squirming pup in his arms and remembers the crone of the old man, her red dress and his body made of sticks. It’s not enough, but it’s all he has left.