DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are the
creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2005 by Djinn. This story
is Rated PG-13.
Lessons
by Djinn
Ruth feels Jim's hand on her
braid, tugging at it a little as if he can pull it down.
"Doesn't this take a lot
of time to put up?" He catches a strand of hair, and it pinches.
"Ow." She slaps his
hand away. "Yes, it does. I'd like to leave it up." She is not sure
how she ended up sitting on the floor like this, her head back where he could
get to it, or how he ended up sprawled above her on the couch, playing with her
hair. "This isn't what you're paying me for."
"Dancing can wait."
He's had the strangest
attitude about the lessons, has since he walked through her door five weeks
ago.
"Why are you really
here, Mister Kirk?"
"To learn the
waltz."
Pushing herself up, she says,
"Well, Jim, darling, this is not the way to learn it." She feels his
hand on her arm, trying to pull her down.
He forgets how strong she
is--dancing is hard work. Drawing him up, then with her to the dance floor, she
moves his hand into position on her back. "Ready?"
"Say it like you mean
it," he murmurs, his eyes burning--she thinks he's practiced that look in
the mirror. He knows how handsome he is. But that's not why he practices. He is
handsome but around her--and probably most women--he lacks confidence.
"Say
what like I mean it? 'Ready'?" She keeps her voice languid. She's learned
over the years how to turn off these young cadets who come to her for dancing
lessons and end up wanting more after a few passes around the floor.
"'Jim, darling.' Say
that like you mean it." His hand tightens on hers.
"Relax or you'll spoil
our line." She urges him out, counting softly for his benefit. "One,
two, three, one, two, three." She knows the dance as if it is part of her.
He's gotten better. He's
gotten much better. She relaxes even as she assesses his new assurance. Wanting
to test him, she delays her next step, trips a little.
He catches her, moving them
along with barely a break in their form.
"You've been
faking." Turning her face up to him, she smiles. "Where did you learn
to dance?"
"Here and there." His
smile is a dangerous thing, full of determination and a little bit of chagrin. It's
dangerous because it's so charming.
"Have you
competed?"
"No." He laughs. "I
have other goals."
"A starship of your
own?" It is the goal of the other cadets too. Certainly
that annoying boy Finnegan never shuts up about it.
"That's one of
them." His hand on her back presses more firmly, his body is closer. "There
are other dances..." He's moved them close enough to rumba.
"I don't teach Latin
dances."
"But you know
them." His pelvis is pressed against hers, she
can feel he's interested in more than just the dance.
"I know many things. That
doesn't mean I'm going to do them with you."
He smiles. Again, it's a very
dangerous expression. "Dance with me?"
"We were dancing."
"This dance. Dance this
dance with me." He calls for a music change. Strauss gives way to
something Cuban.
Then he's moving her, his
hips swaying, her own following as if helpless to resist. Suddenly, he isn't
the only one interested in more than a dance. She tries to pull away, but his
grip on her is like steel.
She attempts a diversion. "A
fox trot might be better."
"So might a tango,"
he says with a grin. "You want to switch to that?"
"No." Never the
tango.
"Rumba it is,
then."
He doesn't falter, and she
stops trying to resist, lets him lead them into a dance she hasn't done like
this for years. Close, sway, swing. It has sensual, almost violent, steps.
She hasn't forgotten how to
do this. She can feel the beat through her entire body, the heat of the rhythm
filling her. "Don't, Jim."
"Don't, Jim,
darling," he murmurs, pressing against her more tightly, which she would
have bet he couldn't do and still stay upright in the dance.
"What is this
about?" She's aroused, but she can still think. She can still recognize a
chase for exactly that. He's seducing her for a reason. "You came here to
get me, not lessons. Why?"
He smiles, and it's a
surprised look. Clearly, he didn't expect her to figure this out.
"I'm not stupid,"
she says, pulling away slightly. "Dancing is performing. Like acting, you
need a brain to memorize the steps."
"Just as you need
personality to infuse into them."
"Yes." She's sick
of that too. Men who think she's nothing more than blonde hair and a great pair
of legs. The Finnegan boy is like that. Always groping, always trying to do
just what Jim is doing, with much less success.
The Finnegan boy...who goes
on and on about someone named Jim.
She pulls out of the dance,
causing them both to nearly fall. "You're doing this to get one over on
Finnegan?"
It irritates her. No, it
angers her. He's using her to get back at a boy. Once again, she's nothing more
than a thing. "End music."
The room goes dead except for
the sound of his footsteps on the dance floor, chasing after her as she storms
off. "Ruth, wait."
She's startled to feel tears
on her cheeks. Has this silly boy made her feel something? She turned off her
emotions years ago, after Carlo died. She tried to dance with other men but it
didn't work. Eventually, no one asked her to partner them. Eventually, she
faded away into obscurity. Her life is now teaching cadets how to dance well
enough to not embarrass themselves at official functions.
"Ruth." His hands
on her back are gentle, reminding her of how Carlo used to touch her.
She can feel herself shaking,
isn't sure if it's in anger or some other emotion. "Get out. I'll refund
the rest of your lesson credits."
"I don't care about the
credits." He's pulling her close, his chest so warm she wants to stay
there forever. "This is about Finnegan, but not how you think."
"He hates you. He wants
me. You get me, and you hurt him."
"You're right. He hates
me, and he wants you. He talks about that, what he wants the two of you to do."
He takes a breath. "But if I get you, I don't hurt him; I protect
you."
He turns her, despite the
fact that she's fighting him. She's strong; he's stronger.
"Ruth, I want you for
you. Keeping him off you, that's just an added extra."
"Keeping him off me? You
think I can't do that for myself? You think I'd ever let him touch me?" She
pushes him away. "You're glib and charming. You're a thousand times more
dangerous to me than he is."
It's the wrong thing to say. He
grins. "Really?" Grabbing her, he pulls her in hard against his
chest.
It's the movement of a tango.
"Call for music,"
he says, as he nuzzles her neck.
He's making her start this. Damn
him.
"And if I won't?" But
her knees are nearly buckling, and she's having trouble forming words.
"I can. But I think it
should be your choice." He's moved up to her ear, his breath hot like
Carlo's used to be. "Why do you dance alone, Ruth? You're so
beautiful."
"I had a partner once. He
died." She can feel his lips stop moving. "I've danced alone since
then."
He pulls away and studies
her. "I didn't know." He touches her cheek, where another tear has
stolen out. "Do you want me to go?"
And she sees in his eyes that
he will go. His compassion is overwhelming, even more so than his desire.
"Music. Tango. Eight-beat
intro." She smiles at him. "This doesn't mean I'm letting you seduce
me."
"No," he says
gently. "It means more. You're letting me partner you."
She didn't expect him to
understand the difference. She wonders if he'll always surprise her.
"I will seduce you,
though," he says, becoming a boy again. He laughs as she trips on the
opening.
"Stop distracting
me."
"Yes, ma'am." He's
all business then, their steps long and sensual as they cover the dance floor,
turning, dipping, back again. He holds her the way a tango demands. Close,
possessive. As if he's making love to her while they dance.
She can feel the barriers she
put up since Carlo died breaking. The barriers that kept her sane, but kept her
dance without passion, without life. She may have gone on when he died, but
this part of her did not.
And she's missed it. God how
she's missed it.
The music ends, they are both
breathing harder.
"Again?" he asks.
"Again."
He calls for music, a
specific piece. "Mi Noche Triste." It is a
classic, one of the first.
Carlo hated it. She dances it
anyway.
"Another?" She
asks, leaning in before he can answer and kissing him. He won't seduce her if she
seduces him first.
She can see by his grin he's
thinking the same thing. "La Cumparsita. With a
long intro."
The music indulges them, lets
them kiss, bodies pressed together in a way that has little to do with dancing.
Then she hears the intro change and give way to the last free beats.
He has already assumed
position. "Ready?"
She senses he's asking her
about more than just this tango.
Smiling, she nods. "For
anything," she murmurs, and sees him smile as he catches it.
"You should compete again,"
he says.
"Compete with me."
"I can't. I'll be in
space."
For the first time she's
sorry she will lose one of her students to the stars. She holds him tighter,
lets the beginning of sadness color her steps. The tango isn't just about sex. It's
about life. And about loss.
She hasnot
danced the tango since Carlo died. It was the last dance they ever had
together. That evening in Buenos Aires, in the bar on Avenida Corrientes. They
danced the night away, as if they somehow knew it was their last. Then she
walked him to the shuttle port, and he climbed onto the little transport that
would take him to visit his ailing uncle. A transport that never made it to Mar
del Plata.
She's always wondered why she
chose to stay in the city. What was so important that she couldn't have gone
with him? She wanted to die with him, not be left to carve out what little life
she could without him.
"Are you all right?" Jim asks, and she realizes she's clutching
him in a way that has nothing to do with tango.
"My husband...I died
when he died."
He doesn't offer sympathy or
any words of wisdom, but his hand on hers tightens. It's the right kind of
support. There's nothing to say in reply. She has been dead. Now...now she
lives again.
"I only want what you
want to give." His voice is pitched low, as if they're surrounded by a
crowd rather than alone.
She realizes she could give
this young man everything. But she thinks he doesn't want quite that much of
her.
"Ruth?"
The music has stopped. They
need to go again. Or they need to walk upstairs and fall into her bed.
She hasn't made love since
Carlo. Four years ago in a few weeks.
She looks up at him, lets
herself play with his hair. "This may be more than you bargained for,
Mister Kirk."
"It may be." He
smiles. "And I've told you. It's 'Jim, darling.'"
He's pushing her off the
floor, toward the couch. She's forgotten about that as a venue for love. But
when they get there, he doesn't lie down or push her down. He sits and pats the
seat next to him.
Sitting, she looks at him,
trying to read his expression. This is confusing.
"I don't know you,"
he says. "And you don't know me."
She can feel herself
relaxing, hadn't realized she was tense. "You know all that matters."
She realizes she doesn't want to wait, wonders if that's what he intended--for
her to have this epiphany. Can a boy be so smart?
"Let's go upstairs, Jim,
darling." It's odd to call him that. Odd, but nice.
She thinks she can get used
to it. She just hopes she won't get too used to it. He's leaving her. Someday,
he'll graduate, and he will leave her. Not dying, not so final. She may see him
from time to time. But he will never belong to her, not the way Carlo did.
She still feels the emptiness
in her heart where Carlo lived. The part that will never be filled.
Maybe it's good that this
young man will never be that to her.
She will enjoy this for what
it is. She won't try to make it what it's not. She leads Jim by the hand, up
the stairs, through the gossamer draperies that divide off her living area from
the changing rooms.
She has never brought a
student up here. Then again, she doesn't think Jim is her student anymore. At
least not in dancing.
"Have you made love
before?" she whispers as she begins to take off his clothes.
"Once or twice." His
grin falters. He isn't lying, but she can tell he hasn't been satisfied with
his encounters.
"It's like dancing, Jim.
You can let me lead until you feel comfortable."
She senses he's about to
argue, so she pushes him down and begins to kiss her way from his lips to parts
south. Any protest he has gives way to a groan.
She takes him through the
steps, leading gently, the way she would a new dance student. She shows him how
to please her, how to please himself, how to please them both while they dance
this intimate tango of flesh.
In no time at all, he's begun
to lead, the transition seamless, his steps assured. The same magic he has on
the dance floor finds its way here, and she's no longer worried that she's made
a mistake. She no longer worries about anything--not even that she doesn't
conjure up Carlo until she and Jim lie sated, curled around each other. And
when she does conjure her husband up, he doesn't stare at her with disdain or
disappointment, but with love.
"Dance again," she
thinks she hears then realizes it's Jim who's said it. The words coming from
him as he dozes.
Once he's gone, once he's
left her for the stars, she'll do it. She'll find a partner and dance again.
In the meantime, she will
practice with him.
FIN