You're so focused on trying to make out the words that you don't hear the footsteps behind you.

"You dance?" There's a lilt to Tim's voice that tells you he's not completely sober.

"Not well", you mumble, grabbing a soda and smiling as you attempt to step by him.

"Ain't hard." He shifts slightly, grabbing your wrist before you can crack the can open. His grip is tight enough to make you pause. He takes a step closer, takes the drink and sets it aside.

He then takes your other wrist in his other hand. His palms slide down until he's cradling your hands and tugging your forward into the living room. His eyes are half-lidded as he gazes at you, eyebags especially evident in the low lighting.

He stops in the living room, shifts closer. He nudges your feet apart, slotting a boot betwee your bare feet. His calloused hand envelopes one of your's and his other hand settles on your hip. He squeezes once, his skin heating your's even through the fabric.

The dance is more a ryhthmatic shuffling than dancing, the movements more sluggish than particularly graceful.

It's the softest Tim has ever been with you.

Your distraction leads you to misstep.

Tim laughs, well, he makes a soft sound that seems amused. His head dips and he presses a cheek to your temple, humming off-key. The scruff of his face scratches your skin.

He smells like cigarettes, faintly like whiskey and something that may be leather. It's strangely comforting.

After a moment of swaying, you almost feel like maybe things are normal. That this man hasn't murdered with the same hands he guides and holds you with. That maybe the stains on his boots are mud and red clay and not evidence of so many lives lost.

You don't realize you're crying or that the music has stopped until you hear Tim sigh. He wraps his arms around you, chin on your head.

"Don' cry." He mumbles, grip too tight. "I'm your's and you're mine."