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It’s nothing particularly fancy, no flourishes or elaborate steps, just a gentle sway to and fro along with the tune of the soft music that plays from the house. The notes are just loud enough they can be heard from so far away, even over the crickets and late summertime bugs whose sounds only create a choir to the melody. Arthur knows the songs well, he’s grown up hearing Dutch play it during late evenings to the winding down of the camp. He’s drank to it, told stories over it, and even let it lull him to sleep, but this is the first time he’s danced to it.
It feels like an honor that it gets to be with her.
Whatever luck had recently befallen him that she would approach him and wordlessly intertwining her fingers with his, was surely of the holy kind. They had stood on the edge of the camp like that for what seemed like years and Arthur felt if he were to die right then it’d be happy. He felt something for her but he didn’t dare give it word or thought or action. Until the music found them and he tests the waters by gently pulling her closer to him. She had seemed to understand what he wanted and placed her hand on his shoulder then smoothly trailing up to rest on his neck. It’s more intimate than he had expected from something so unsure and his hold on her hip is light and timid, as if he’s never touched a real woman before.
But when she holds his hand just a little tighter and steps just a little closer, to the point his arm is around her waist, it feels natural and dream-like to be with her like this. As she lets him lead her to the melody he regrets not seeking her out sooner, especially had he known it’d feel like this. It’s a certain kind of peace he’s never really felt from someone else. Yet there’s something in the back of his mind that tells him she doesn’t feel the same towards him, that she’s just using him to fill the hole in her heart that her husband has left and he’s the only one she can trust to do that job. Still, he foolishly allows himself to feel some sort of pride that she’d trust him,
She’s so hardened to life in a way he hasn’t really seen in anyone else, like those walls she has are to protect herself, not because of the things she’s seen. He would have thought otherwise until he had the privilege of seeing her like this now, that there’s still someone so soft and fragile underneath. She had made it very clear on more than one occasion that she could handle herself but he still felt like he wanted to protect her.
Oh the door that just a simple dance has opened for him.
Even the scars on her face hurt his heart to see now in the dim moonlight, accompanied by the far-off stare she has cast back towards the house. In the daylight they added to the terrifying attitude she carried with her, but here they looked like they carried the stories of pain he wanted to make go away. But he could be wrong, they could simply have an awkward story and nothing more, much like a few of his own.
Yet his attention is drawn to the long and deep one over her brow that she mostly keeps hidden by wisps of hair. It was the first one he drew when he sketched her out in his journal after the day he took her to Rhodes with him. Somehow it looked even deeper up close and so personal. He doesn’t think much of it as he reaches up and ghosts his fingers over it, he probably should have stopped himself because he feels like he’s just been shot when she snaps out of her own trance and pulls her head back away from his touch and looks at him, confused and perhaps a little angry. Feeling awful with himself, he lets her go so he can give her space but surprised when she pulls him back to her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t--” he starts but she scoffs and readjusts them so they were as before, except the swaying has stopped.
“You just scared me. Coulda said something first.”
“Oh.”
She huffs when the silence between them drags on for too long and Arthur does his best to remember the place in the song and soon enough they’re back in the dream. Except he’s holding his breath with the question he wants to ask. And once again he doesn’t think about it, doesn’t learn from his lesson, he goes for it, says, “What happened?” immediately regretting it when she doesn’t say anything at first. But she pulls him closer which must mean something.
“O’Driscolls,” Sadie mutters after a brief moment, bitter and resentful, and the way her brows wrinkle as she says it doesn’t go unnoticed by him, “They thought it’d be funny.” The addition makes him angry, fills him with a familiar hatred his short temper is used to but something about it feels so much more personal.
He starts to apologize for asking but before he can form the words properly her fingers find the parallel scars on his chin and she stares at them fixedly. “What about you? What happened here?” He’s never realized how sensitive the skin there was until now.
Arthur chuckles at the fond memory behind his scar, a small hope his story would lighten the mood despite the guilt he had that his couldn’t be worse than her’s, “I use to have this dog,” he starts, reaching up to brush a few of the hairs from her eyes so he can see them better, returning his hand to her hip when she flinches, “His name was Copper, he’d get so excited whenever I’d get back to camp that he’d jump in my arms so one day he kicked me and his claws caught right there.” She laughs so he imagines the story serves its purpose. He’d spare the longer story of the bullet scar he had on his hip from the day for another time.
It’s when she looks up and into his eyes, some unreadable expression hiding behind her own, as if there’s still some kind of hurt he can heal, or maybe it’s wishful thinking, that he tilts his head forward and meets her brow as well as the scar their in a gentle kiss that she leans into. He doesn’t believe in magic or powers or anything of the like but in the moment he wills any sort of healing he has left in himself to her, so that at least one of them can find peace. And if he could give her something beautiful to remember something so ugly by then it’d be enough.
He’s fearful of her reaction when she pulls back from him only for her to hold his head still between her hands kiss his scar, not that his needed healing, he’s learned to live with them.
And then she runs her hands down his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms, and finally stop to hold his hands in hers, resting her head on his chest. He gently places his head on hers, wrapping his arms around her to hold her securely as the music fades out, lights in the house dimming, and chorus of the bugs droning ever on.