redintheledger | OOM: Paris, New Year's Eve, 1955

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?"

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1955 has been...Not the worst year of her life, but it ranks up there in the (dis)honourable mentions.

"Happy New Year," she replies, with a faint emphasis that she really couldn't help.

"Now, important matters," Nancy says, glancing down at the menu. "...did any of your sources make any recommendations?"

He laughs, and relaxes into the easy companionship between them.

Some time later, as an after-dinner coffee and cordial are set before them, James raises his eyebrows at her.

"Was there any particular time we needed to be -- wherever you're leading me next?"

It's nice, talking to him outside their rented apartment. Normally when she goes out with company, it's to be Nancy, and working. Here, right now, she's just Natasha-known-as-Nancy, talking with Alex-known-as-James.

"Mm, no, not really. It'd be a good idea to get there soon, but it's not a set time."

"Soon we can manage."

He takes a sip of his coffee. Blandly, he adds,

"I'm entirely at your mercy."

His comment garners the faintest arching an eyebrow.

"Always a good thing to be aware of."

A little more directly (perhaps, even, a little too quickly): "So you have no other tricks up your sleeve?"

"All kinds," he says, with a casual shrug of his left shoulder.

"But none that need playing tonight."

"Then I propose they get played not tonight.

We have fun."

(Not that the two are mutually exclusive, even if the last major piece of play had involved more of her own emotions than acting.

But there's a thrill, much like with any other kind of fight.)

"And you've spent so long avoiding dancing with me, I'm not sure if you can or not."

He leans forward over the table, a sparkle in his glance.

"That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."

"Oh, did it," she murmurs with an innocent flutter of her lashes.

"I can't imagine how that happened.

"I'm sure."

"Lead me to the dance floor, and we'll find out."

"Challenge accepted, then."

Suits her.

And it's not as if Paris's jazz bands are driven underground like Moscow's.

The night is colder now, although not as cold as she's used to winters being when you actually walk around in them. She adjusts her hat, and then steps back in to his side.

"That, I think, was the best meals I've had since we've arrived."

He puts his arm around her waist, both to guide her through the growing crowd and to reduce the chance of anyone bumping against his left arm and noticing anything off.

"I'm glad I was able to take you there, then."

"Let me know if you require any assistance in paying the favour back?"

She's not talking about dinner, but rather, whatever strings he pulled to get them there. There are strings. Of course there are strings. Even if war had never happened, and she'd had a perfectly normal academic career without being recruited anywhere more dramatic than a social club, there would have been strings.

"I will."

Not that he expects to, but it's nice of her to offer.

Partners.

The closer they move towards Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the more the crowds build, both in number and laughter. It's a party night, and the mood is infectious.

(Briefly, she thinks of Enjolras, banished from his beloved Paris by death. There is no opportunity to show him, and it's not worth the secruity risk, but she tries to remember what she sees. If he could stand it, maybe he wouldn't mind hearing.)

"And now," she says, twirling out from Alex | James in a flare of coat and skirts, "we mingle."

He catches her hand, and turns her twirl into an impromptu dance move with a grin and with surprising ease of motion.

"Suits me."

"Ohhhh, so you do have some moves."

She still has that dare in her voice from before, but also a measure of delight.

He laughs.

"What, you didn't believe me?"

"Well, you'd been so mysterious about it..."

She spins back in close.

"At the very least, I'm sure you're out of practice."

"Let's find out."

There's enough of a space in the flowing crowd for him to send her into another turn, matching his footwork to hers.

Natasha is a good dancer, and one who enjoys it. He might be a little out of practice, but they've both had the good fortune of being able to move in step with each other.

The crowd, always enjoying a show, easily moves out of their way, and eventually one of her twirls ends with her curtsying at Alex, giggling.

He bows in return, smiling, then straightens as a few of the people around them celebrate with impromptu applause.

Happy New Year, after all. She ducks her head, grabs his hand, and with a brief curtsy at the crowd, drags him back into it.

"I might concede that you know how to dance."

"You're a hard woman to impress."

He sounds amused.

Natasha looks at him, and then there is the faintest smirk.

"Not a bad thing, I hope."

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