Work Text:
"Hey, Ry?"
You glance over your shoulder to the kitchen, where Ortega leans against the doorway, nodding his head along with the jaunty tune on the radio. The apron no longer hangs from his neck. His lips are quirked in a half-smile, but give no real clues as to what he's thinking, and, for the millionth time, you're foiled by his stupid static brain.
"... Yes?" You ask, slightly cautious. Your gut says something ridiculous is coming. You aren't disappointed when he answers.
"Dance with me?"
"... what." You don't know what you were expecting, but this wasn't it.
He walks over to the sofa, takes one of your hands. Gives you a gentle tug forward that you resist. "Dance," he repeats, brown eyes glittering. "With me."
"I—" Your face warms. Dancing isn't something you've ever enjoyed. "Aren't you busy cooking? You'll burn the food," you finished lamely.
"It's in the oven now," he says. Laughs, gives you another tug. You let him pull you to your feet this time. "We have some time to kill."
"And you want to dance." You're repeating his words, trying to scramble for time. Answers. Anything. Fuck, you're close enough to smell his cologne over the meal he's been working on. It goes right to your head like liquor.
"Yes." The answer comes from him so easily.
"...with me?"
"Yes." A raised eyebrow and a smirk this time. Your stalling is transparent.
Your gaze falls, you rub the back of your neck. The last time you danced was on a job. Seducing a target to— You shake the Farm thoughts from your brain. You're free now. You have been for four years.
"I don't know how," you lie.
He chuckles, shakes his head. Leads you out into the open area of the living room. You follow like a lamb. Hopefully not to slaughter. "Everyone can dance, Ry."
"I'm not everyone."
"Boy, if that isn't the truth." Teasing, not insulting. He sways lightly with the beat, taps his foot. "But it's not much different from sparring. And you're very good at that."
Your nose scrunches up as you try not to think about it too much. Don't want to taint that joy. "It's not?"
"Just follow my lead. Feel the ebb and flow of the beat."
You're not quite sure what to do with your hands until he takes them in his. He starts to lead you across the floor. You just need to follow right?
Your foot comes down hard on his and he swears. "You've gotta relax, Riley."
He hasn't let go. Hasn't stopped, really. It takes another false start before you hit your rhythm with him. The way he moves to the beat is art in itself and you can't help being drawn in. He leads you into a twirl, you're grinning as you come back around. It's a very different kind of dancing to what you know— formal waltzes, how to seduce in a club, not this free form movement he takes to like a bird to flight.
His energy, the beat, it's contagious. It's hard to feel self conscious when he's smiling at you like you're the only thing in his world right now. Can't read his thoughts to know if he's judging your fumbling. You just take his smile at face value. You're having fun. It is just like sparring, matching your energy and movement to his.
Less chance of one of you nursing a black eye by the end of it, though.
The catchy pop song fades on the radio and another takes its place. It's slower. Somber. Some ballad you aren't familiar with.
Just as slowly as the beat, he draws you in closer. His right hand trails down to your hip.
Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, ready to push. Create distance. Flee. "Ric, what are you doing?" You almost manage to keep the waver out of your voice.
"Dancing with you," he says softly, guides your left hand to his shoulder. Then knots his fingers with your other. He sways gently with the beat and you follow, trapped in his orbit like the moon.
Your stomach somersaults as you look up at his face. There's a tenderness in his deep brown gaze you can't remember seeing before. It makes your heart pound in your chest, contrary to the languid beat of the music. Makes it hard to look away. Makes your mouth go dry.
His eyes fall to your lips as you lick them nervously. He leans in closer, captures them in his and your eyes flutter shut. The kiss is sweet, just the tiniest bit of hunger, but no demand for more.
He pulls away and you lean your head against his shoulder.
"See, isn't this nice?" he asks, just the smallest hint of teasing. Still sways with the music. "We should dance more often."
"Hnnn, maybe." It's the closest you'll get to admitting you're enjoying yourself. Enjoying him. It goes to his head too much if you outright give in. "It's not the worst thing you've talked me into."
His chest vibrates with a chuckle as he presses another kiss to your temple. "And what tops that list?"
You have to think of a good answer, but your brain stutters when his left hand lets go and joins his right on your hips. Intimate, drawing you closer, but still respectful. Not handsy. It takes you a moment to figure out what to do with your own hand now and you settle for sliding it around his torso.
Almost an embrace.
He's warm and solid against you, around you, smells like ozone and sandalwood, the barest hint of static tingles under your skin, and fuck, what did he ask again? Does it matter?
You like this.
The timer chimes far too soon for you. Your grip tightens around him. Not ready to break away yet.
"I thought you didn't want me to burn the food," he teases, his lips brushing your ear.
"I don't," you grumble into the crook of his neck.
"Then you're going to have to let me go."
"Should have thought about that before you asked me to dance."
"I knew you'd like it."
Augh, he's getting smug. It practically oozes from his voice. You give him a playful shove away and point to the kitchen. "Dinner."
"So demanding." He laughs, hands up in surrender, heads for the kitchen. Calls over his shoulder, "Get some plates on the table, then."
You do as you're told and a few minutes later, you're both settled at the table. Fresh drinks, good food, better company. You catch him glancing at you every so often with that same tenderness from before, and every time it warms you more than the meal.
Might have to dance more after dinner.
Just a little.