houseofcards_rp | It's Swing Time~

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It's Swing Time~

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Elisha's motivation for organizing - or, honestly, delegating the organization of - a semi-formal dance party. Lucinda had suggested a ball, with stars in her eyes. She probably had already picked out ballgowns and themes in her head when Elisha had nixed the thing and - in a moment of desperation, with the memory of the swing-themed Fox wedding still in his head - suggest a Spring Swing, instead.

Everyone had run with it, and Elisha was pleased to say it had come out well. He was even more pleased to say that he didn't have to wear a suit, even if he stepped out into the lantern-lit gardens in everything but the tie. He paused near the raised dais provided for dancing and gave the small band the signal to start up the music before he attempted to fade back in the crowd. Not that that ever worked.

"Let the games begin," he murmured to no one in particular as he picked up a glass of champagne off a tray.

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"You don't, doll." At least she's cheerful as she says it, hand still extended rather expectantly in his direction. "But does anyone in here?"

Acceptable answers, of course, are either that no one does, that her daughter does, or that she should ask again once she's seen him in a kilt. Any which way, her eyes are absolutely sparkling.

"And I wouldn't, even wearing the family colors," he tells her. Which is, of course, two acceptable answers in one. Ben's a clever one like that.

He's also setting aside his whisky without a second's hesitation. There'd been a few...imprudent displays earlier that had sent the crowd tittering, but he feels certain that they won't be having with those.

The band strikes up a jaunty number, and it's not quite the Glenn Miller Band, but it'll do, Ben thinks. "Shall we show them how it's done, lass?"

He absolutely is. It's absolutely one of the reasons she's asked him to dance. What's the point of dancing with someone who isn't going to be a fabulous dancer or at least an amusing partner for the few minutes you're together?

"I think we shall." She can't resist one last quirk of her brow, one more entirely cheeky flash of a grin as she tugs to bring him properly onto the floor with her. "Think you can handle taking the lead?"

Because tonight was a night of being absolutely on point. No ex-husbands or underage home-wreckers were going to be allowed to see her miss a beat.

He is a very fine dancer. The Scots aren't quite the Irish, who've been said to prefer dancing to eating, but Ben Mackinnon was raised to dance a very fine reel. And having gone to college himself during the early days of the swing revival, this one's a skill he picked up, too. Nothing impresses a history major in a vintage dress quite like the ability to actually jitterbug.

It remains to be seen if it has that same effect on accountants.

"Oh, I think I can take it, Rita," he says as he sketches her a charming bow with a rakish grin. "If you can, at least."

Likely nothing will ever be as impressive as a way with numbers. That doesn't mean having a light touch with pink drinks and an easy way on the dance floor aren't quality picks for a man to spend time with.

The laugh on her lips is bright in her eyes, fingers squeezing his for the final half-seconds before the music shifts from preparation into proper dancing. "Money where your mouth is, Ben."

He is at least not terrible at numbers - he can even claim he does his own books before being forced to admit that it's not too hard, considering Zoe Fox set them up for him. It's true, however, that his forte lies in other areas. Like mixing pink drinks, and dancing.

He doesn't answer right away, as he's taken her hands. Of course, it's a little hard to talk when you're doing this.

If he's going to be properly athletic about it, no, there isn't much space to talk. That's fine. What there is space for, after all, is bright and entirely cheerful laughter. There's time for the momentary sparks in eyes before a body gets thrown around, through the air or along the ground.

And that's what makes dancing wonderful.

He knows he's not getting away with just one song, doesn't he?

He'll be exhausted at the end of the night. But it'll be the good kind of exhaustion, and Ben is too much of a showman at the heart of it to let go of a partner who's good enough to clear the floor of pretty much everyone else. They're putting on a show now, and this is the part of Ben that led him to the Diamonds in the first place.

When he wants to, he shines.

So when the music changes into another bright, bouncing song, he doesn't argue much. "You'll let me know when I start monopolizing you too much, I expect."

It's the best kind of exhausted. The best kind of sore. The wonderful kind of happy that doesn't let other thoughts enter a person's head. She had needed that, tonight.

"If that's your way of surrendering, Mackinnon, I'm a smidge disappointed." The catch of her nails against his hand is brief before she flashes a better smile. "One more. With a cherry on top."

Most men weren't up for a floor to shoulder or a titanic these days, least of all with a woman past the age of 25, which apparently meant 'infinite fragility.'

"I'd hate to disappoint you, Rita." He understands, a bit, though not entirely. His marriage broke up in the engagement phase, and he's never had to see his Kirstin with the other, undoubtedly steadier, man she eventually ended up with. Still, it's an ache in your heart that's hard to erase, no matter the years between then and now.

"As long as I get plenty of whipped cream too, lass," he says with a wicked grin and a saucy wink. And if they're in full view of the ex and the new one when Ben Mackinnon dips Rita James and then swings her around so she's laughing again?

Well, that's just too damn bad, isn't it.

The ache never goes away, she's guessing. The pain is always there. The having to actually see the other half is what really makes it worse.

She's glad there are men like Ben who even half understand it. Who don't question that she needs to spend the night flirting and not thinking and being helped to show the world how perfectly okay everything is.

The end of the next song will, of course, require a break for some water, and likely a relinquishing of her partner. But not before she smacks a big, lipstick-y kiss against his cheek.

"You're something else, you know."

Not entirely, it doesn't. Sometimes, he believes, you meet someone better - you're lucky enough to do that. And the ache fades to near nothing, then. But sometimes, you haven't that luck.

He grins, though, not allowing himself the melancholy. It's been too close to the surface lately as it is.

"I do my best," he tells her. "You're something else yourself, Rita."

She's still laughing a little breathlessly as she reaches to smudge the lipstick mark from his cheek. Wouldn't do to let all the pretty young things get distracted.

"I know it." If others didn't, well, that was hardly her problem, was it. "Thank you, though."

It'd be a shame if they all stared at Ben all night instead of someone in their age bracket. And then Ben would be getting scowls from his twentysomething regulars once the pub opened again.

Admittedly, that would be kind of fun in it's own way.

"'Twas my pleasure," he tells her. "We can repeat the experience anytime you like."

Surely men don't exist in this world who flirt with women of their own age in anything like seriousness. Rita all but refuses to believe it.

"Anytime? You're joking. Can I make demands in your place of business?"

Because she will. She already intends to.

And yet, Ben has been doing just that on more than one occasion. One of these days, perhaps, she'll buy that he's serious about it. He but lives in hope.

"Darling lass," he said. "If you came into the pub and demanded a dance, I couldn't possibly refuse you."

And the regulars would probably enjoy the show enough that they wouldn't whine about their bartender swinging a lovely lady about.

"Quite the saint." She does have to pause quizzically for a moment, not yet properly moving to get the water she likely needs. "Do I have to pick between a pink umbrella drink and a dance? Or are you really ungodly generous?"

Surely no one is that good. Surely not even Ben.

"Both?" His eyebrows wing up, and the pause is like he's considering it. Considering it quite seriously, really. "I suppose for a lady like yourself," he says after that pause, "I could really be that ungodly generous."

"You're still a cad." So they're clear. "And, I suspect, a scallywag. But a generous one, I'll give you that."

Does he kiss a lady's hand when she leaves? Or does he awkwardly shake if she holds our her fingers expectantly?

"Shoo. Go break some hearts."

"Absolutely. I'd never deny either of those things."

Just as he would never awkwardly shake. Certainly not when he can bend gracefully over her knuckles and give her a steady look out of gleaming brown eyes.

"As you wish."

Yes. Just like that. With those eyes just like that is how he should go break hearts. She'd applaud him if she didn't have to go get herself a drink and find another dance partner.

Just have to show up on Monday to let him know. And have a drink. And steal a dance. And maybe flirt despite no one important being there to see.

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It's Swing Time~

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