OOM: Paris, New Year's Eve, 1955

[redintheledger]

She had, three days earlier, insisted that she'd take Alex dancing. It's a frivolous wish. They are busy with controlling and taking advantage of the fallout from Quentin's death, and while she thinks they are doing well, it's no time to stop working.

Except...

It's New Year's Eve. Both of them are increasingly tired and while they could use the parties for politicking, equally they could run the risk of being caught. It would not be out of character for James and Nancy to take the time to themselves like the devoted pair they are.

And what better time to finally get Alex to dance than New Year's? Get dressed in something nice and warm, head over to the big street party at Avenue des Champs-Élysées...

Not that she's going to tell him that. There's an element of surprise she's looking forward to. But while she's not going to tell him the details, it'd be the right thing to see how he'd like the idea, and if she should use one of her plans for a smaller celebration instead.

She waits until they are doing the clean-up from lunch (she washes, he dries), and then, with more artful innocence than she'd ever do for a real assignment, asks,

"What are your feelings on large crowds?"

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

"Depends."

He slants a sidewise look at her as he finishes with a glass and sets it in its place on the shelf.

"Why am I in the crowd?"

[redintheledger]

"A party."

Her smile is small, and hopeful, and completely guileless.

"A very big party. On the street."

[nerves_of_ice]

He stares at her for a few seconds, then chuckles and reaches for a plate.

"I did say I'd let you take me dancing, didn't I? And even choose where."

[redintheledger]

"You did," she says, rinsing off the frying pan.

"I have several back-up ideas. But..." she glances at him. "A big night-time party, with thousands of people. Who would remember us in that?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"I don't know," he teases. "I find you pretty memorable. But you make an excellent point."

He sets the plate aside and reaches for the second one.

"Sure, why not? Sounds like fun."

[redintheledger]

She looks entertained.

"Only because you imprinted like a duckling when I tried to brain you with a book," she says, and then she brightens.

"Fantastic. I was thinking the party at Avenue des Champs-Élysées."

They are, after all, in Paris.

"But I'm favouring clothing more towards the 'so we don't get frost-bite' instead of 'looking glamorous'."

[nerves_of_ice]

"That sort of thing does tend to make an impression," he deadpans.

"Maybe we can do both. You're the fashion expert."

[redintheledger]

"Chic, but not eye-catching. Just...normal people."

Her expression turns briefly sad, but she takes a breath, and resolutely shoves all thoughts of her last New Year's Eve away.

"And! Absolutely no work, unless it's unavoidable."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Unless it's unavoidable," James agrees.

"Just as long as you don't ask me to go completely unarmed."

[redintheledger]

Weapons are dangerous things to carry. Get caught, and there is very, very little ability to plead innocence.

Then again, his prosthetic arm already makes it hard.

"I won't do that to you," is what she says.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Thanks."

He puts away the last of the dishes, dries his hands, and leans back against the counter.

"So. What can we expect from the Champs-Élysées tonight?"

[redintheledger]

"According to my sources...

Food, champagne, music and dancing. Possibly we'll have to dodge good luck kisses and mistletoe. But there'll be fireworks."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Sounds like fun," he repeats, with a smile.

"Especially the dancing."

[redintheledger]

"Good," she says. His smile is returned, but a touch distantly.

"I miss dancing."

She wipes her hands clean, and then hangs up the towel. There are things she wants to say - to confess that today is not the best day, today she is pouring herself into keeping it together and living, that it's still a little hard to breathe - but she swallows them.

It's always best to treat things as if someone else might be listening.

"I suspect, given the crowds, we'd probably best arrive earlier. Do you mind eating out? If we can find anywhere?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"It's a holiday, cherie," he teases, gently. "Let me take you out to dinner. There must be somewhere."

[redintheledger]

Natasha regards him for a moment, then her expression lightens again.

"I accept your offer. And, good luck. Of course," she adds, taking off her apron, "tomorrow is a holiday as well. We'll be able to enjoy the entire morning in quiet, as everyone else will be hungover."

[nerves_of_ice]

That far-off look in her eye has faded, and her smile is brighter. He's glad of it.

"Good point." He waits only a single beat. "You're not hinting I should cook tomorrow, are you?"

[redintheledger]

"An actual meal?

No.






But I might be wondering if you've magically improved on the subject of 'toast'."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Only one way to find out."

[redintheledger]

Hours later, when they are rugged up in heavy coats and walking down the street, he has that same look in his eye. Like he's far too amused at himself and his plans.

She breaks her patience only because they aren't being serious.

"Where are you taking me?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Out to dinner," he replies, without even the slightest hesitation. The smile he slants at her has more than a hint of mischief in it.

[redintheledger]

She arches her eyebrows at him.

"How mysterious."



She does not sound displeased.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Me? I'm an open book."

The street curves slightly, leading downhill. He doesn't follow, but guides her up the hill, toward the mouth of a small alley where dim candlelight discreetly indicates the presence of a door.

[redintheledger]

"Mmm, maybe," she says.

"But I'm not always sure what language the book is written in."

The discreet door gets a flare of excitement - discretion tends to mean exclusiveness of one form or another, always fascinating. But she doesn't ask; this is his show.

[nerves_of_ice]

He chuckles, and escorts her to the door, opening it for her with a small flourish.

"Monsieur, Madame," murmurs the host just within, as he beckons to someone to come take their coats. "Welcome to Anjou."