Because there is simply not enough slow-dancing for me okay shhhh I know there’s like five billion fics/arts that is not enough
“A gentleman must know how to slow-dance.”
“Uh-uh.” Eggsy shook his head hard. “I failed the dancing unit in training.”
“Because Merlin doesn’t understand how to teach dancing.” Harry held out his hand. Eggsy eyed him warily, then sighed and took the hand, and bit back an undignified yelp as Harry lifted him to his feet easily. God, the strength of the man…
“I can’t even dance regularly,” Eggsy complained, his hand tingling as Harry let go. “How am I supposed to slow-dance?”
Harry stepped forward and grabbed Eggsy’s wrists. Eggsy tensed immediately, but Harry was just positioning his arms… and then he stepped closer still, so that one of Eggsy’s hands was on Harry’s arm and the other was held up by Harry and Harry’s free hand settled on Eggsy’s waist. Eggsy tensed even more, years of running from every unwelcome touch mixing with the training that told him not to let others touch him so intimately–
But this was Harry, and he would not hurt Eggsy. So, gradually, Eggsy relaxed. Then he realized that Harry hadn’t moved, letting Eggsy get used to this. As soon as he realized that, though, Harry began to pull him to the side.
“One step, Eggsy. Follow my lead. One, two, three four; one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four…”
Carefully, slowly, Harry led Eggsy around the room once. Eggsy scowled and grumbled, but learning to dance with Harry was far more enjoyable and soothing than learning with people who already knew how to dance. Soon, with Harry murmuring time, Eggsy’s feet learned the rhythm, and he managed a credible performance by the fifth circuit. Harry smiled warmly and Eggsy felt his insides go all warm and gooey with pride.
“Excellent,” Harry murmured. “One more round, just to make sure, and then we’ll sit.
Eggsy actually lost count of how many rounds they went. He just knew that at some point he leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry didn’t push him away.
hey could you maybe write a fic where debbie gets ruth's shoes back from melrose for her? thankyou for doing these fics, they are keeping me going through this shit fest of a summer
Sorry it took me a little while! For you anon - How Ruth Got Her Shoes Back :) Hope it gives you a boost.
“What are you
doing?” Debbie finds herself asking, as Ruth hopscotches across the damp
“Avoiding the puddles.”
“Sorry,” she replies, automatically, “I didn’t mean to be
“I don’t…” Care,
she almost says, but catches herself in time. “I know that. But why are you
“Oh. Um, my shoe has a hole.”
“So, buy new ones.” Sometimes she wonders if Ruth has been
hit very hard on the head and failed to mention it. Maybe around the time she
first decided fucking Mark was an a-plus idea. For someone so undeniably intelligent, she can
be incredibly stupid.
“I did,” Ruth continues, quietly, as they enter the gym.
Debbie sighs. But it’s always been her job to force these
cracks open in the conversation, even before they became Best Enemies. “Explain.
In less than three sentences.”
“Melrose borrowed my shoes.”
“She borrowed your new
“Not the old shoes, which you are now wearing?”
Ruth cringes, ashamed. It freights less catharsis than it
used to. “Yes,” she says, in a small voice.
Debbie opens and closes her mouth a few times, as various
responses suggest themselves. “I… don’t even know what to say to that.”
“I know I should just ask,” Ruth practically wails, “but it’s
been weeks now, and it just feels so awkward to… have to.”
Debbie rubs her forehead. “They’re your shoes.”
“Yes, but…” Ruth physically writhes with discomfort, unable to articulate the problem. Debbie shakes
her head and picks up the medicine ball; she’d rather squat than have to deal
further with this peculiar piece of spinelessness.
But there’s a feeling she can’t shake, an itch under the
skin, that it’s somehow her fault.
The office door at the top of the stairs slams open and Sam
appears on the balcony. “Ruth,” he barks. “Up here.”
Ruth puts down the weights she is working with and trots off
diligently. On the mats, Melrose makes a quiet noise of contempt, but only
just. She catches Debbie’s eye. “What do you think that’s about?”
“I have no idea.” Privately, she’s happy not to care. Sam’s
talented enough as a director, but she has enough to deal with as things are,
without adding his raft of personal problems.
“You think she’s fucking him now?”
“What?” she snaps, sharper than she intended. “No… No. Aren’t
he… and Rhonda… Anyway?”
“Nah, they broke up.” Melrose shakes her head. “Who gives a
fuck though, right?”
“Right,” she says, unconvincingly. She carries on stretching,
trying to put the words in her mouth out of mind. It’s not her job to look out
for Ruth anymore, she doesn’t owe her anything.
But caring about her seems to be a hard habit to break. “Um,” she hears herself
saying, “do you still have… Ruth’s shoes?”
“Yeah. I’ve been
wondering how long it will take for her to work up the nerve to ask for them
back. Five weeks and counting.”
A beat. “You think I
should give them back?”
“Well… yeah. I don’t think she’s going to ask.”
Melrose shrugs. “That’s kind of my point though. I mean,
first it was kind of funny just messing with her. When I thought she was just a
bad person. Now… I dunno. She needs to toughen up. Assert herself more.”
“And the shoes are what, your teaching aid in this life
“Pretty much.” Melrose shrugs. “You know her best. If it’s
A part of her still wants to contest this, put some protective
distance between the two of them. But
she knows how hollow the words will sound. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting the
inevitable. “I don’t think it’s working,” she says, faintly.
“I’d be careful,” says Sheila, as she crosses to her car. “I
saw Melrose doing something to your trunk when you were meeting with Sam.”
“Something? Like what?”
“I don’t know. She was messing with it though.”
“Oh, great,” Ruth says to herself. The rain is starting up
again as she dithers on the parking lot. There’s nothing for it, she’s just
going to have to open it and deal with whatever’s in there. It can’t be worse
than ketchup or roadkill, surely?
She pops the trunk, leaning back to hopefully put herself
out of splatter range. Nothing pops or explodes as she gingerly lifts the lid…
Inside is a perfect pair of white sneakers and a post-it
note. She picks up the note carefully. In a looping hand someone, presumably
Melrose, has written: Sometimes you just
have to ask.
She crushes the note in her hand and smiles. “I did,” she
says to no-one.