#mistressofmischief

Rose sighs heavily, though the amused curl of her lips gives her away as a fraud.  

"Poor, misguided Dave.  When will you learn?"  She extends an elbow, silk-clad fingers hanging like ebony chandeliers.  

"You have to ask me to dance if you want me to get my, and I quote: ‘Butt on the dance floor’."

Dave drops to a knee, taking her hand instead and clearing his throat in a manner that for a moment has Rose concerned he’s going to beatbox.  She wouldn’t put it past him.

"Yea.  That’s what’s up.  I mean," he adopts the same tone he uses on ‘no homos’ and ‘haha losers’, sailing brows past the rim of his mask.  Impressive.

"Verily so, m’lady.  May I, David Elizabeth Strider, ask that you, Rosalynn I-forgot-your-middle-name Lalonde dance with me on this most marvelous of nights?"

Rose giggles in earnest at his display.

"Yes, yes, now get up.  You’re going to ruin your suit, idiot."

Dave gives a grin that reads ‘checkmate’, adopting his usual swagger as he leads her onto the spacious dance floor where music pours like fine wine from the speakers.

There are others there, of course, all of them dressed in period-appropriate wear as requested.  Rose watches in the same sense that she always does, taking in details most would miss until she feels the warm slide of his hand.

Dave waggles eyebrows at her, though it doesn’t change the practiced horizon of his mouth.

"We gonna do this or what, spacehead?"

The music swells and Rose takes her first steps, dress whispering across her ankles.  She looks up at him, the faux-blue of her contacts meeting the veil of his mask, but they each know what the other holds.

Red and purple.  Fire and water.  Rose rests her hands on his waist, taking comfort in the steady heat that even now bleeds through his clothes.