[Oopsies. His slick moves slow some (but don't stop, they can't stop) and he pulls a face.]
Oh, fuck. I forgot.
[It was hard to remember. She'd never confirmed it outright, and her otherworldliness trampled down most other facts about her. Yet come to think of it:]
Wait, you just said you were having trouble keeping track of me. How the hell did you know it was me coming by?
[ Eloquent. You're forgiven, probably. Nobody remembers, and she'll take it as an eternal compliment. ]
[ At his question, though, her eyebrows quirk up. And her considerably less slick moves do stutter, but like his own, they fail to stop entirely. It's just too infectious, even if he has yet to tell her how to do it quite right. Damn this. Damn him. ]
Do forgive me if someone has already informed you, Richie, but you are very loud. [ Said just deliberately enough to fall short of polite, while skirting just above the threshold of genuinely jabbing. ] But all noisiness aside, I can sense that it is you, just fine. Consider it another spiritous trick up my sleeve. It is the finer movements I cannot pick up...
[ Such as that sprightly grapevining he's doing there in his two-step... She doesn't know what grapevining is, this is getting her nowhere. ]
[Guilty as charged, there. Richie gives a cheeky shrug.] Oh I knew that. My comportment grades were always in the shitter. [Maybe the rest of the world just needs to speak up.
"Sense" is too vague a concept to be relied on as a definition. From how she's talking Richie figures it's something like how the hairs on the back of your neck raise when someone's spying on you from across the room. Little whiskers picking pings and hair trigger movements that your eyes and ears were to clumsy to catch. The steps she's making, though uncertain and mostly incorrect, show that she's able to catch something of what he's doing right now. It's the broad strokes of the dance.
He thinks he gets it. It's still so strange to him, and even now in the heavy thrum of the music and the gaiety of the party it reels him back to times where his own curious instincts locked him into action. Knowing to throw the sneezing powder when bullets had failed, shifting into a voice over the tormented scream he felt ping-ponging through his lungs. Knowing that he shouldn't take a bite of the fortune cookie before he'd broken it open...
Gee-yawd. Richie's stomach does a nasty curl as he battles back the image of cookie shards wedged in sclera, blood and ooze welling around the punctures, that brown iris staring unblinking up from the golden folds like a grisly pearl in a clam shell. Let's lay the horseshit in the grave where it belongs, Tozier, and enjoy yourself like you're supposed to.]
Finer movements, huh? [He'll deign not to commentate on the surreal notion of sensing for the time being. He can always needle her brain for particulars over a pint.] Okay okay—start off feet together, then step to the side.
[He does so himself, moving outside of the beat (though it kills him some, the glitter's compulsion demanding a more dedicated boogie) to ensure that she's able to follow along.] Step the other foot behind then side step again. Bring in that other foot with a tap. Then repeat in reverse.
[ But yes, sensing. It comes so naturally to her at this point, she hardly thinks to explain it without any further prompting. Even now she, for the sake of the dance, has her claws gently sunk into Richie's brain in an attempt to get the gist out of him. What she gets for her troubles, however— ... Her steps halt abruptly, as a vague mess of thoughts flutter briefly to the surface of his mind. Not that she's any stranger to violence by a long shot, but of all things, being slapped with it in the middle of a party after centuries of peace? ]
[ She hovers still, even as Richie begins to move along to his explanation, lips pursed and head bowed in the direction of their feet without much acknowledgement. Never did have the pleasure of knowing, just what her eyes might have looked like after Golathanian was through with them. Never had the opportunity to get the mirror out for that one. Thanks for that, Richard. First the dissonant flickers through his memories of Yusuke, now these bizarre, haunting visions, why does your head do these things... ]
[ ... She feels at some point, she will have to press further, for her own morbid curiosity if nothing else, but they are—allegedly—attempting to enjoy themselves here. And the beat is so desperately trying to keep her dancing. So she sighs, brushes it off for now as he does, and her own feet begin to move again, joining in after a telltale tap that apparently signifies the repeat of the cycle. ]
Like so?
[ Now that she's got a point of reference, it's easy to quicken her steps back up to the tempo proper. Is she going the right way... ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sandra Dee
[Oopsies. His slick moves slow some (but don't stop, they can't stop) and he pulls a face.]
Oh, fuck. I forgot.
[It was hard to remember. She'd never confirmed it outright, and her otherworldliness trampled down most other facts about her. Yet come to think of it:]
Wait, you just said you were having trouble keeping track of me. How the hell did you know it was me coming by?
no subject
[ At his question, though, her eyebrows quirk up. And her considerably less slick moves do stutter, but like his own, they fail to stop entirely. It's just too infectious, even if he has yet to tell her how to do it quite right. Damn this. Damn him. ]
Do forgive me if someone has already informed you, Richie, but you are very loud. [ Said just deliberately enough to fall short of polite, while skirting just above the threshold of genuinely jabbing. ] But all noisiness aside, I can sense that it is you, just fine. Consider it another spiritous trick up my sleeve. It is the finer movements I cannot pick up...
[ Such as that sprightly grapevining he's doing there in his two-step... She doesn't know what grapevining is, this is getting her nowhere. ]
no subject
"Sense" is too vague a concept to be relied on as a definition. From how she's talking Richie figures it's something like how the hairs on the back of your neck raise when someone's spying on you from across the room. Little whiskers picking pings and hair trigger movements that your eyes and ears were to clumsy to catch. The steps she's making, though uncertain and mostly incorrect, show that she's able to catch something of what he's doing right now. It's the broad strokes of the dance.
He thinks he gets it. It's still so strange to him, and even now in the heavy thrum of the music and the gaiety of the party it reels him back to times where his own curious instincts locked him into action. Knowing to throw the sneezing powder when bullets had failed, shifting into a voice over the tormented scream he felt ping-ponging through his lungs. Knowing that he shouldn't take a bite of the fortune cookie before he'd broken it open...
Gee-yawd. Richie's stomach does a nasty curl as he battles back the image of cookie shards wedged in sclera, blood and ooze welling around the punctures, that brown iris staring unblinking up from the golden folds like a grisly pearl in a clam shell. Let's lay the horseshit in the grave where it belongs, Tozier, and enjoy yourself like you're supposed to.]
Finer movements, huh? [He'll deign not to commentate on the surreal notion of sensing for the time being. He can always needle her brain for particulars over a pint.] Okay okay—start off feet together, then step to the side.
[He does so himself, moving outside of the beat (though it kills him some, the glitter's compulsion demanding a more dedicated boogie) to ensure that she's able to follow along.] Step the other foot behind then side step again. Bring in that other foot with a tap. Then repeat in reverse.
no subject
[ But yes, sensing. It comes so naturally to her at this point, she hardly thinks to explain it without any further prompting. Even now she, for the sake of the dance, has her claws gently sunk into Richie's brain in an attempt to get the gist out of him. What she gets for her troubles, however— ... Her steps halt abruptly, as a vague mess of thoughts flutter briefly to the surface of his mind. Not that she's any stranger to violence by a long shot, but of all things, being slapped with it in the middle of a party after centuries of peace? ]
[ She hovers still, even as Richie begins to move along to his explanation, lips pursed and head bowed in the direction of their feet without much acknowledgement. Never did have the pleasure of knowing, just what her eyes might have looked like after Golathanian was through with them. Never had the opportunity to get the mirror out for that one. Thanks for that, Richard. First the dissonant flickers through his memories of Yusuke, now these bizarre, haunting visions, why does your head do these things... ]
[ ... She feels at some point, she will have to press further, for her own morbid curiosity if nothing else, but they are—allegedly—attempting to enjoy themselves here. And the beat is so desperately trying to keep her dancing. So she sighs, brushes it off for now as he does, and her own feet begin to move again, joining in after a telltale tap that apparently signifies the repeat of the cycle. ]
Like so?
[ Now that she's got a point of reference, it's easy to quicken her steps back up to the tempo proper. Is she going the right way... ]