She took his hand and beamed at him. It was stupid, the happiness that she felt from being given a single dance, but there it was. Not like she could - or would, if she was honest - change it. “You know, you say that every time and my feet are always intact,” she remarked, leading him onto the floor.
It was a slower dance; probably for the better, honestly. Anything faster and he likely would murder her feet. Cure only did so much for trampled feet, and she still had to go to work after this. As tempting as it was to just wrap her arms around his shoulders and just sway - the heels had been a bad choice, and while she was more than capable of dancing through the pain, part of her wanted to enjoy the time she was going to get because Faram only knew when she’d get it again - she placed one hand on his bicep and waited for him to take the other.
“Every time, I step on you,” he said. “For some reason I don’t understand, this is the one thing you decide to forgive me for. Why the hell is that?” he mused before saying, “Never mind; that’s rhetorical. Have it your way.” He knew where to put his hand, anyway. Unlike some of these so-called high-class assholes, he even knew where not to put it. He wasn’t ever going to be the type for fancy footwork, but he’d get them through this, more or less.
After a few moments, realizing they’d be stuck in awkward (almost intimate) silence unless he broke it, he found something relatively harmless today: “If no one causes a scene at this wedding, I’m going to be fucking disappointed. This whole thing’s made to blow up like a powderkeg.”
Being the gracious woman that she was, Ash refrained from answering his rhetorical question. Who knew, he could always get angry and stop stomping on her toes. Besides, she felt like the answer to that particular question wasn’t something to discuss out in the middle of a dancefloor at someone’s engagement party. Instead, she smiled prettily and let him twirl her around.
She was enjoying herself, at least, until she remembered the last time that they had danced. How they had ended up in a cellar, with her back against the wall. No way that was happening this time (she didn’t even want to think about whether or not she wanted it to), and so she latched onto the conversation to take her mind off of her unhelpful fucking thoughts.
“If the groom was anyone else, my gil’d be on him kicking the bucket shortly afterward,” she said, shrugging. “And Audrey Leradine is involved - something has to explode.”