Learning to Dance

“I told the doc you’d be more comfortable if he wasn’t
here today,” she said, hands on her hips. She wore sweats to
match his and her signature tank top. Her hair she had
pulled up into a rough, miniscule ponytail at the back of her
head. This was a different Taz from the tough son-of-a-bitch
Ranger in camouflage and dog tags, but she looked healthy,
young, whole. Everything he wasn’t. His mood dampened a
bit.
“So what are we doing then?” he asked.
She crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. “We –
are going to learn to dance. Together.”
She was daring him to refuse. “You know I’m no good at
dancing, Taz.”
“Well, you’re relearning everything, aren’t you?” she
said. “What better time to start from scratch?”
He thought about how easily she’d moved across the
floor at that ball on Europa, how right it had felt to twirl
and catch her, how annoying it had been to watch the spy
do it better.
He held out his hands. “Okay.”
Her arms fell to her sides in surprise. “Okay?”
Up gave a lopsided shrug. Why not?
They started with salsa, because that was what Taz knew
best, and because its steps were simple enough to break
down into bits and pieces. Up found, to his surprise, that
being forced to move slowly made it easier to perform the
steps accurately – he didn’t step on Taz’s feet once.
Patient was not a word he would have ever used to
describe Taz before, but that’s what she was, patient and
understanding and behaving completely unlike herself.
Something about that bothered him. He didn’t want her to
treat him differently than before. He almost would rather
insults.
Her smile never faded, but it didn’t reach her eyes.