[She realizes the implication of his reply, yet again foreboding but flattering all at once, vague and giving away nothing about him, only strengthening the air of mystery to him, like some dark, brooding hero from a penny dreadful. She should find it off-putting, and part of her heart trembles in unease, but he must, again, just be having a joke on her.
She struggles in answering him, not trying to evade his question, but simply trying to be honest. She can't draw a comparison to him and anything, because he blurs so many boundaries. He is blunt, and forward, almost rude, even—but he is also patient, and has the grace to know when he has pushed too far, and he has been willing to dance with an upset woman when there is nothing to gain from it.]
I don't know, I don't think I've ever met anyone like you.
[She shrugs one shoulder, as if hoping to pluck a more satisfactory answer from the air. Nothing in his question strikes her as egotistical—slightly authoritative perhaps, but nothing aggressive, nothing like the overbearing masculinity of her husband when he demands things from her, nothing cruel or harsh. There is no hint of violence simmering in his tone, or the familiar sort of thinning patience.
[He genuinely has to think about it, because although he should have
expected having the question turned back around on him, he hadn't, not
enough to prepare an adequate or glib response, at least. He pauses, both
for the sake of lighting himself another cigarette -- and offering her one,
of course -- and for the sake of stalling, trying to come up with an
answer.]
I guess you do, kinda.
[Should he really say it? It would be frank rather than flirtatious,
honest rather than flattery, and he's not sure she'll take it favorably.
Not everyone would, and he's still having a hard time trying to determine
just what type of person she is, what makes her smile and what makes her
look slightly afraid.]
You kinda remind me of a woman I used to know.
[It's saved from being at all flirtatious or lascivious by the
completely serious, almost sad expression on his face.]
But of course it ain't just that. You're your own person, too.
[It's all if the light-hearted atmosphere of the party has vanished, summer turning to winter. The somber quality to his tone, the hint of darkness flickering across her face makes her regret asking at all. What kind of girl was she, she wonders, if she could make him wear such a morbid, weary expression? What history must they have shared? But, after seeing him turn brooding and serious for the first time tonight, she does not dare ask for details.]
I shouldn't have asked.
[she murmurs, ashamed in her own way of having brought tender memories to the surface. She draws deeply from her new cigarette, tobacco crumbling away into gray ashes, at a loss for how to respond to something as private as he has just confessed.]
I'm sorry, if I upset you terribly.
[It doesn't feel nearly as powerful as it should. All the fumbling, fragile apologies in the world wouldn't be able to heal what-ever manner of wounds that are still causing him to suffer. Wild possibilities spring forth: a sick mistress, or a first wife, or something of that sort. Faceless women, about whom she has no business imagining what history he might have had with them. It's not her affair to pry into.]
[If he notices that he calls her by the probably altogether too comfortable moniker of 'kid,' he doesn't let on. It's just something that comes out of his mouth sometimes, intended to be affectionate and reassuring all at once. He smiles at her, and it's a genuine smile, not something dredged up just for the sake of preserving the atmosphere.
Though it's true, the last thing he wants to do is sadden her. The party should be enjoyable, just as sparkly and delightful as she is, not some kind of depressing affair -- though no matter what he does, he keeps making things somber, entirely by accident.]
Just a thought, that's all. Nothin' to worry about.
[He wonders, then, if that sounds dismissive, if he sounds like he's ordering her not to worry. Why is all of this so very fraught, so very hard to talk about? Emotions are always that way, he supposes -- just a big goddamned mess.]
[She blushes, color rising in her cheeks at being comforted as much at his foul language—perhaps it is presumptuous to even consider that she could upset him at all, but the look on his face was so troubling...
Not that it is her place to delve into his private matters, to dig into his past and uncover his buried memories, bitter or otherwise. He has a wife, after all, and who is she but just another party guest, some woman he has decided to speak with, just to pass the time? She knows little about him, just as he should know as little about her. They're little more than lukewarm strangers, acquaintances who pass in the night and cross paths, and she has no reason to fret over his frown, or—or to feel reassured by the sight of his smile.
She forces herself to laugh, then, a strange mixture of gin-induced giggles and the attempt to smother the lump of tears in her throat. Aren't they both a couple of wrecks? Her with her husband, him without his wife, both trying not to upset the other and making a regular disaster of the whole evening! It's almost funny, the whole business, in a morbid sort of way.]
Mr. Darmody—
[She struggles for a moment, grasping for the right words, how to assure him that she isn't in need of assuring, that she never meant to insult him, that he is a perfectly fine man and she never meant to imply he is in need of a woman—
Instead, she gives the most brilliant smile, her eyes damp and swallowing down everything she could never hope to say.]
[He says it slowly, like he's really savoring the sound of it, and
maybe he is. It suits her, he thinks, and the smile he gives her says that
much, although it's not something he'd be likely to say aloud. He's sure
she's heard similar things before, insipid lines talking about a beautiful
name for a beautiful woman, and since that's not particularly how he'd mean
it -- not that she's not beautiful, but that's certainly not the only
reason he thinks it suits her -- he's not going to go down that
road.]
Well, if I'm gonna call you that, then you gotta call me Jimmy.
[It's a certain kind of intimacy they're extending to each other, he
thinks, and that's not so bad. Then again, he's never been particularly
hesitant about being intimate with anyone, and it's gotten him into trouble
countless times in the past. He wonders, for just a second, what kind of
trouble Daisy could get him into.]
You're...
[He'd been going to mention something about the way he notices her
blushing, about the way she seems seized with some kind of emotion, and
there seem to be tears welling up in her eyes, but nobody ever likes having
that pointed out. So instead he settles for something else, something
perhaps even less reassuring.]
[Her name sounds curious on his lips, sweet and delicate and pronounced with all the awkwardness of strangers. As if he's never really handled such fragile names and the fragile women they belong to, trying it out for the first time to see if he likes the shape of it. It's her turn to speak his name, she supposes, and she feels a bit silly for being on such informal terms so soon.]
—Jimmy, then.
[It takes more effort than she thought, and she is breathless when she utters it. She feels unbearably childish for suggesting they leap onto first-name basis so quickly. How must he think of her, for being so bold?]
They wouldn't be very enjoyable if I got sick of them. I think they're wonderful.
[They are, truly—or at least they had been, in the beginning. She adored it all, getting lost in the grandiosity and gaiety, able to forget certain thorns in her heart with a glass of champagne or three or five. Who had time to worry about domestic troubles, when women were cooing over her diamond necklace, when men kept fumbling for her hand, weighted with gold rings and pearls, with undisguised greed and envy? Yes, how could she not adore these vibrant little types of gatherings, where her husband made simpering eyes at every lithe young actress who crossed his way, and all anyone, anyone ever wished to discuss was the Sweetheart of Louisville, the golden girl, how lovely and wealthy and happy she must be!]
Just wonderful.
[She repeats, a little flatly, her smile souring slightly at the edges. Recently, only Gatsby's parties have been something she has genuinely been able to enjoy, but for reasons other than simply the fireworks and entertainments—none of which he needs to know about.]
[What's he supposed to tell her? That he isn't a fan of parties like this because they always involve doing business and they always mean he has to spend his time talking to people who act as though they're so much better than he is? That he doesn't like showing up and pretending to fit in with the kind of guys who wear a tuxedo like it's a second skin, but that he feels hurt when they recognize that he doesn't fit in all the same? No, he's not going to tell her any of that.
But there's a part of him that would certainly like to.]
Y'know, it seems overwhelmin'.
[That's a half-truth, really. They're not overwhelming so much as they are simply... Wrong somehow. He'd thought, when he'd gone away to college, that maybe he'd finally learn how to blend in at events like this. Would he have, if he'd stayed there instead of going off to war? Probably not. As much as he can pretend to be Nucky Thompson's son -- and as much as his biological father, who he shudders at even thinking of, is an important man -- he's pretty sure everyone can tell that he, himself, comes from...
He shouldn't go down that mental pathway. His emotions always show too strongly on his face, and he doesn't want to frown again. So he just turns it into a smile instead, a small one, somehow more intimate and flirtatious than his bigger grins have been.]
[They're overwhelming, he says, and then casts a smile her away, as if confessing silently that he doesn't find her as overwhelming as the confetti steamers and the boisterous music and acrobatic dancers, but rather, somehow even more—enjoyable.
She knows how he looks at her. She recognizes the shadow of—well, if not lust, then at least a willing craving in his expression. How her spouse once looked at her, after the wedding for a few short weeks, when there was just him and the comfort of his broad frame, and beach salt in the air and the wide expanse of honeymoon suites. How her lover looks at her, and with him, there is no need to disguise the passion and delight they share with each other, during hot private afternoons spent in the cool, silk sheets.]
Is that why you came all the way out here?
[She asks, choosing to pretend that she hadn't glimpsed the seductive curl of his mouth. As if they're just chatting, innocently—because that is what they're doing, isn't it? Talking, dancing, smoking to pass the time, watching their cigarettes burn away as the moon rises higher in the sky. Never mind that she shouldn't be alone with him. Never mind that someone should have come along by now. And certainly, never mind that they're addressing each other as if they have been together all their lives.]
Did you just want to be alone, or—
[Her own lips perk up, in something a little more genuine than the one she had forced before, along with her strained laugh. Rather than just being there to occupy the quiet, her smile is a little more earnest, a little teasing.]
[He really shouldn't say anything more, really shouldn't say
anything that might take this past the point of innocent flirtation, but
that teasing smile of hers is enough to make him choose to ignore the
little voice in the back of his head that tells him to stop talking. If
only he listened to that voice more often.]
'n then I saw you, 'n I knew why I came out here in the first place.
[It could so easily sound trite, sappy, just plain stupid, the words
of someone who's trying to butter up a pretty girl, but the blunt honesty
in his tone is very much obvious. He really does feel as though he'd been
looking for her, even though he hadn't quite known it.]
I guess that ain't the kinda thing I'm supposed to say.
[But then, she'd been the one to bring up the possibility that he'd
been looking for her.]
[Neither of them should be doing any of this. He shouldn't have wandered into the garden. She shouldn't have lingered behind, and instead gone in to wait for her wayward lover to return. She was only teasing him, with her ridiculous little joke, the impossible insinuation that he would be looking for her—but he answers her utmost seriousness, and she never expected him to take her mischievousness at face value.]
I...
[He's flustered her, her heart fluttering in her throat, surprise written across her features. Perhaps it's because the hopeless romantic in her, despite all her cynicism for the institution of marriage, is helplessly weak when it comes to those syrupy lines and sickly-sweet praises. Or maybe, because the last person to speak to her with such warmth and affection has now left her feeling so shaken and frightened, with his ideas of the future he has planned for them, persistently coaxing her to agree. Or because, as much as they have merely been toying with the absurdity of the notion, if he really does mean it—]
You shouldn't.
[She abruptly agrees, with an embarrassed shake of her head. She is all too grateful when the moon disappears behind a patch of wispy clouds: hopefully it would hide the patches of red in her cheeks, all worked up into a tizzy once again. In an anxious gesture, she reaches up to straighten her diamond headpiece, although it really needs no such adjustments. And very suddenly, she finds she can't look directly at him, forcing her gaze down towards his knees.
Now would be the time to go in, to excuse herself and leave. But something in her wills her to stay, and she doesn't move away.]
[That could be a confession, if said in the right tones, and it almost is. He does do a lot of things he shouldn't, both in situations like this one and in ones that are far more dangerous. He wonders what he seems like to her, whether he seems like a dangerous person by nature, whether she's scared of him or simply intrigued by him. She doesn't seem scared. She seems... Flustered.
The fact that she's not meeting his gaze should probably be a sign that he should step away, that pursuing this -- and what is this, really? What does he want, here? He's not sure -- is foolish, but instead of leaving, he takes another step towards her.]
I'll leave, if you tell me to.
[Because he's always been so, so good at following orders, and he'll put it in her hands. If she wants him to stop disrupting the quiet solitude of the garden, he'll go back inside and talk to all those people he doesn't want to talk to. If she tells him to stay -- or rather, doesn't tell him to go away -- he'll stay. He knows which he'd prefer.
There's still that flirtatious note in his voice, but he's serious, too. Maybe too serious, around someone he's just met, but he's never been all that good at caution, not at parties and certainly not when talking to women he finds oddly fascinating, in places where they're alone. The idea that her husband (or some other individual) may stumble across them talking here and suspect something untoward occurs to him, but he dismisses it. He's not worried. Maybe he should be.]
[She watches his feet advance as he takes a step towards her, the rustle of long grass and the scattering of fireflies as he moves closer, the darkness of his shadow falling upon her.
Anyone would have to be severely lacking in sense to not have noticed the tension between them, at first cloying and light, but now electric and heavy enough to press like a tangible weight on her shoulders, drawing tightly together. She remains where she is, immobile and silent, her teeth worrying with her bottom lip, pale brows drawing together. There are at least a hundred-thousand things that they could (should) be doing: returning to the party, having another drink, going back to their warm homes and safe automobiles and returning to where they had come, anything but steadily, slowly lessening the distance between them with every step.
Overwhelmed, the only movement she makes is to let her scarcely-touched cigarette slip from her fingers, letting it burn out amongst the grass. She should call for someone—even one of the brass-knuckled waiters, if she felt so threatened—or any one who could get a firm grip on the situation. But she is not threatened, and she does not call out. For what reason would she have to be scared of him? It is certainly reasonable to be cautious, even a touch wary of his behavior and his lack of straightforward responses, but there is nothing about him which sets her nerves jangling with instinctual dislike, nothing which makes her feel honestly frightened, in the way she would be of a drunken fist or raised voices.
Nor is she forward enough to command him to leave, in a garden which is not hers, when she is just as guilty, having come here for the purpose of a romantic rendezvous with another man, in the exact same place where they stand now. It—it is not the desire for his company which prevents her from sending him away, after all. With all of her heart, she truly loves another—and her affections do not wane, just because Gatsby is rumored to be off dealing with dark underbellies of unsavory businesses, just because he is trying to make her into the perfect likeliness of her late teen-aged self, which he has imposed upon her now, five years tragically, terribly too late. He may have concocted a fairytale ending for them, but in a reality which could never exist, no matter how much she hopes for the opposite.
He does a lot of things he shouldn't: he just gave her a warning, as plain as day, and she tries desperately to imagine she doesn't know what those things could be, what the undertone in his voice is really referring to. She cannot protest, and she cannot leave: she is caught between choices, unable to move forward or back, and it is far too late to be blissfully ignorant now.]
[There's a part of him that wants to close the gap between them entirely, that wants to scoop her up into his arms and kiss her, although he has no idea where that desire has suddenly sprung from. Of course, of course she's beautiful, he'd be an idiot not to recognize that, but it's something in her demeanor, too. Something... sad? Or maybe he's just reading into it too much, imposing his own story on her.
But instead of doing that, which would certainly be one of those things he absolutely shouldn't do, he simply steps a little closer, buoyed by the fact that she's not telling him to go, and holds out a hand to her.]
You wanna dance again?
[It's not the most eloquent way of phrasing it, and it might not be what she's expecting, either, but it is straightforward, and straightforwardness is something she's likely come to expect from him.
He hopes it makes him seem like less of a threat. If, indeed, she'd been seeing him as one at all. She hadn't asked him to leave. He keeps reminding himself of that. If she'd really wanted him to go, she would have said so, wouldn't she?
He won't think on why it might matter to him so much what this stranger might think, nor the fact that he's offering to dance with her when the music playing inside is barely audible. It would be hard to distinguish what type of dance it's meant to be, much less what the actual tune or pace is, but yet he's asking.]
[His voice breaks the silence between them, and the sound almost makes her startle, still hearing the wild racing of her heart and her own shallow breathing in her ears, unprepared for what he offers her next. She tilts her face up, meeting his gaze at last, not expecting the innocent invitation to dance—what she had been expecting was something quite different, and she feels a rush of sweet relief that he is not the sort of brutish man who takes what he wants, that one of them has the sense to prevent—
What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]
[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]
[One dance, and then he disappears from her life forever. As it should be: she has enough complications in her life, she has enchanted (and been enchanted by) enough men, she has had her heart broken for so many years that it aches to count them all, she has grown jaded and tired of so much of everything, like a black heart borne from the glamor of a lustrous pearl.
She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]
[It's usually difficult for him to stop talking, to let a moment go by silently without filling it with some kind of chatter, but he's silent here, made silent by the way she's pressing slightly closer, perhaps, or just lulled into silence by the rhythm they seem to have found. She feels so delicate, and he still wonders so many things about her, but he knows he's never going to have the chance to discover them.
Maybe that's for the best.
It's hard to tell how long their dance goes on, because they're not paying attention to the music, not following along with what everyone else inside is very likely doing, and for what feels like a considerable period of time, he's content to just move with her, trying not to think about all the things he's going to need to do soon. This has been an unexpected and enjoyable distraction, but he'll be back to the real world quickly enough.
And then, finally, when the dance seems to have come to an end -- he's not sure why, but the time feels right for it, and he's always been so guided by impulse and instinct -- he does bend down, just for a moment, to press a kiss to her forehead before letting go of her waist. It's gentle, and almost, almost sweet, in a strange way.]
[It has been a pleasant interlude, but that is all that it is—an interlude. Merely a short respite from reality before she is ushered back inside, before she rejoins her husband, the weight of pearls and diamond necklaces like hands closing around her vulnerable throat. Their odd course of conversation, the undertone of something darker and somber in their words, all but forgotten as their slow dancing comes to a gradual end. His hands vanish from her waist, and she is just as quick to retrieve her own hands from his shoulders.
For how unbearably polite they had been, attempting to be on their best behavior to the stranger before them, the sentimental press of his lips against her forehead is at once affectionate and ill-suited as a parting gesture. Truthfully, a handshake would feel just as artificial as any rehearsed farewells, but a kiss—a kiss is just too much. Too intimate, too visceral, something that is better shared between even the meekest of lovers, not them. Lovers would taken it all in stride, lovers would have long forgotten dancing in favor of all scandalous sorts of ways to pass the time, lovers would have been far more bolder and blunter and—well, not that it applies to them.
She should have recoiled, but it's far too late. All she can do to return the favor is to smile, graciously and sweetly. And, just because they are being rather silly and sentimental, swept up in the fever of summer, she dips her head and spreads out the lace edges of her skirt in a little old-fashioned curtsey.]
[The curtsey makes him smile, even if he does feel slightly odd about the kiss, like he'd crossed some kind of invisible line that he perhaps shouldn't have, or, at least, that he should have been aware was there. It probably doesn't mean anything, not really, but maybe it had been a bad idea, anyway.
There's nothing for it now, and he's not going to apologize, because that seems like a bad note to leave on. All the same, he does need to leave, and he's well aware that he'll probably never see her again, unless he runs into her at another party like this. There's a chance, maybe, but...
... well, that's not for thinking about, either.]
Bye.
[And with that, he's turning away, heading back for the noise and light and chaos of the party, not offering a 'see you later' or anything particularly reassuring, not the formalities and niceties that most people give when they're parting ways.]
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no subject
She struggles in answering him, not trying to evade his question, but simply trying to be honest. She can't draw a comparison to him and anything, because he blurs so many boundaries. He is blunt, and forward, almost rude, even—but he is also patient, and has the grace to know when he has pushed too far, and he has been willing to dance with an upset woman when there is nothing to gain from it.]
I don't know, I don't think I've ever met anyone like you.
[She shrugs one shoulder, as if hoping to pluck a more satisfactory answer from the air. Nothing in his question strikes her as egotistical—slightly authoritative perhaps, but nothing aggressive, nothing like the overbearing masculinity of her husband when he demands things from her, nothing cruel or harsh. There is no hint of violence simmering in his tone, or the familiar sort of thinning patience.
No, he seems genuinely interested.]
Do I remind you of anything?
no subject
Well...
[He genuinely has to think about it, because although he should have expected having the question turned back around on him, he hadn't, not enough to prepare an adequate or glib response, at least. He pauses, both for the sake of lighting himself another cigarette -- and offering her one, of course -- and for the sake of stalling, trying to come up with an answer.]
I guess you do, kinda.
[Should he really say it? It would be frank rather than flirtatious, honest rather than flattery, and he's not sure she'll take it favorably. Not everyone would, and he's still having a hard time trying to determine just what type of person she is, what makes her smile and what makes her look slightly afraid.]
You kinda remind me of a woman I used to know.
[It's saved from being at all flirtatious or lascivious by the completely serious, almost sad expression on his face.]
But of course it ain't just that. You're your own person, too.
no subject
I shouldn't have asked.
[she murmurs, ashamed in her own way of having brought tender memories to the surface. She draws deeply from her new cigarette, tobacco crumbling away into gray ashes, at a loss for how to respond to something as private as he has just confessed.]
I'm sorry, if I upset you terribly.
[It doesn't feel nearly as powerful as it should. All the fumbling, fragile apologies in the world wouldn't be able to heal what-ever manner of wounds that are still causing him to suffer. Wild possibilities spring forth: a sick mistress, or a first wife, or something of that sort. Faceless women, about whom she has no business imagining what history he might have had with them. It's not her affair to pry into.]
no subject
[If he notices that he calls her by the probably altogether too comfortable moniker of 'kid,' he doesn't let on. It's just something that comes out of his mouth sometimes, intended to be affectionate and reassuring all at once. He smiles at her, and it's a genuine smile, not something dredged up just for the sake of preserving the atmosphere.
Though it's true, the last thing he wants to do is sadden her. The party should be enjoyable, just as sparkly and delightful as she is, not some kind of depressing affair -- though no matter what he does, he keeps making things somber, entirely by accident.]
Just a thought, that's all. Nothin' to worry about.
[He wonders, then, if that sounds dismissive, if he sounds like he's ordering her not to worry. Why is all of this so very fraught, so very hard to talk about? Emotions are always that way, he supposes -- just a big goddamned mess.]
no subject
Not that it is her place to delve into his private matters, to dig into his past and uncover his buried memories, bitter or otherwise. He has a wife, after all, and who is she but just another party guest, some woman he has decided to speak with, just to pass the time? She knows little about him, just as he should know as little about her. They're little more than lukewarm strangers, acquaintances who pass in the night and cross paths, and she has no reason to fret over his frown, or—or to feel reassured by the sight of his smile.
She forces herself to laugh, then, a strange mixture of gin-induced giggles and the attempt to smother the lump of tears in her throat. Aren't they both a couple of wrecks? Her with her husband, him without his wife, both trying not to upset the other and making a regular disaster of the whole evening! It's almost funny, the whole business, in a morbid sort of way.]
Mr. Darmody—
[She struggles for a moment, grasping for the right words, how to assure him that she isn't in need of assuring, that she never meant to insult him, that he is a perfectly fine man and she never meant to imply he is in need of a woman—
Instead, she gives the most brilliant smile, her eyes damp and swallowing down everything she could never hope to say.]
Call me Daisy. I absolutely insist.
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Daisy...
[He says it slowly, like he's really savoring the sound of it, and maybe he is. It suits her, he thinks, and the smile he gives her says that much, although it's not something he'd be likely to say aloud. He's sure she's heard similar things before, insipid lines talking about a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, and since that's not particularly how he'd mean it -- not that she's not beautiful, but that's certainly not the only reason he thinks it suits her -- he's not going to go down that road.]
Well, if I'm gonna call you that, then you gotta call me Jimmy.
[It's a certain kind of intimacy they're extending to each other, he thinks, and that's not so bad. Then again, he's never been particularly hesitant about being intimate with anyone, and it's gotten him into trouble countless times in the past. He wonders, for just a second, what kind of trouble Daisy could get him into.]
You're...
[He'd been going to mention something about the way he notices her blushing, about the way she seems seized with some kind of emotion, and there seem to be tears welling up in her eyes, but nobody ever likes having that pointed out. So instead he settles for something else, something perhaps even less reassuring.]
D'you ever get sick of parties like this?
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—Jimmy, then.
[It takes more effort than she thought, and she is breathless when she utters it. She feels unbearably childish for suggesting they leap onto first-name basis so quickly. How must he think of her, for being so bold?]
They wouldn't be very enjoyable if I got sick of them. I think they're wonderful.
[They are, truly—or at least they had been, in the beginning. She adored it all, getting lost in the grandiosity and gaiety, able to forget certain thorns in her heart with a glass of champagne or three or five. Who had time to worry about domestic troubles, when women were cooing over her diamond necklace, when men kept fumbling for her hand, weighted with gold rings and pearls, with undisguised greed and envy? Yes, how could she not adore these vibrant little types of gatherings, where her husband made simpering eyes at every lithe young actress who crossed his way, and all anyone, anyone ever wished to discuss was the Sweetheart of Louisville, the golden girl, how lovely and wealthy and happy she must be!]
Just wonderful.
[She repeats, a little flatly, her smile souring slightly at the edges. Recently, only Gatsby's parties have been something she has genuinely been able to enjoy, but for reasons other than simply the fireworks and entertainments—none of which he needs to know about.]
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[What's he supposed to tell her? That he isn't a fan of parties like this because they always involve doing business and they always mean he has to spend his time talking to people who act as though they're so much better than he is? That he doesn't like showing up and pretending to fit in with the kind of guys who wear a tuxedo like it's a second skin, but that he feels hurt when they recognize that he doesn't fit in all the same? No, he's not going to tell her any of that.
But there's a part of him that would certainly like to.]
Y'know, it seems overwhelmin'.
[That's a half-truth, really. They're not overwhelming so much as they are simply... Wrong somehow. He'd thought, when he'd gone away to college, that maybe he'd finally learn how to blend in at events like this. Would he have, if he'd stayed there instead of going off to war? Probably not. As much as he can pretend to be Nucky Thompson's son -- and as much as his biological father, who he shudders at even thinking of, is an important man -- he's pretty sure everyone can tell that he, himself, comes from...
He shouldn't go down that mental pathway. His emotions always show too strongly on his face, and he doesn't want to frown again. So he just turns it into a smile instead, a small one, somehow more intimate and flirtatious than his bigger grins have been.]
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She knows how he looks at her. She recognizes the shadow of—well, if not lust, then at least a willing craving in his expression. How her spouse once looked at her, after the wedding for a few short weeks, when there was just him and the comfort of his broad frame, and beach salt in the air and the wide expanse of honeymoon suites. How her lover looks at her, and with him, there is no need to disguise the passion and delight they share with each other, during hot private afternoons spent in the cool, silk sheets.]
Is that why you came all the way out here?
[She asks, choosing to pretend that she hadn't glimpsed the seductive curl of his mouth. As if they're just chatting, innocently—because that is what they're doing, isn't it? Talking, dancing, smoking to pass the time, watching their cigarettes burn away as the moon rises higher in the sky. Never mind that she shouldn't be alone with him. Never mind that someone should have come along by now. And certainly, never mind that they're addressing each other as if they have been together all their lives.]
Did you just want to be alone, or—
[Her own lips perk up, in something a little more genuine than the one she had forced before, along with her strained laugh. Rather than just being there to occupy the quiet, her smile is a little more earnest, a little teasing.]
Or did you just want to find me?
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I didn't know why I came out here, 'n then...
[He really shouldn't say anything more, really shouldn't say anything that might take this past the point of innocent flirtation, but that teasing smile of hers is enough to make him choose to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that tells him to stop talking. If only he listened to that voice more often.]
'n then I saw you, 'n I knew why I came out here in the first place.
[It could so easily sound trite, sappy, just plain stupid, the words of someone who's trying to butter up a pretty girl, but the blunt honesty in his tone is very much obvious. He really does feel as though he'd been looking for her, even though he hadn't quite known it.]
I guess that ain't the kinda thing I'm supposed to say. [But then, she'd been the one to bring up the possibility that he'd been looking for her.]
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I...
[He's flustered her, her heart fluttering in her throat, surprise written across her features. Perhaps it's because the hopeless romantic in her, despite all her cynicism for the institution of marriage, is helplessly weak when it comes to those syrupy lines and sickly-sweet praises. Or maybe, because the last person to speak to her with such warmth and affection has now left her feeling so shaken and frightened, with his ideas of the future he has planned for them, persistently coaxing her to agree. Or because, as much as they have merely been toying with the absurdity of the notion, if he really does mean it—]
You shouldn't.
[She abruptly agrees, with an embarrassed shake of her head. She is all too grateful when the moon disappears behind a patch of wispy clouds: hopefully it would hide the patches of red in her cheeks, all worked up into a tizzy once again. In an anxious gesture, she reaches up to straighten her diamond headpiece, although it really needs no such adjustments. And very suddenly, she finds she can't look directly at him, forcing her gaze down towards his knees.
Now would be the time to go in, to excuse herself and leave. But something in her wills her to stay, and she doesn't move away.]
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[That could be a confession, if said in the right tones, and it almost is. He does do a lot of things he shouldn't, both in situations like this one and in ones that are far more dangerous. He wonders what he seems like to her, whether he seems like a dangerous person by nature, whether she's scared of him or simply intrigued by him. She doesn't seem scared. She seems... Flustered.
The fact that she's not meeting his gaze should probably be a sign that he should step away, that pursuing this -- and what is this, really? What does he want, here? He's not sure -- is foolish, but instead of leaving, he takes another step towards her.]
I'll leave, if you tell me to.
[Because he's always been so, so good at following orders, and he'll put it in her hands. If she wants him to stop disrupting the quiet solitude of the garden, he'll go back inside and talk to all those people he doesn't want to talk to. If she tells him to stay -- or rather, doesn't tell him to go away -- he'll stay. He knows which he'd prefer.
There's still that flirtatious note in his voice, but he's serious, too. Maybe too serious, around someone he's just met, but he's never been all that good at caution, not at parties and certainly not when talking to women he finds oddly fascinating, in places where they're alone. The idea that her husband (or some other individual) may stumble across them talking here and suspect something untoward occurs to him, but he dismisses it. He's not worried. Maybe he should be.]
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Anyone would have to be severely lacking in sense to not have noticed the tension between them, at first cloying and light, but now electric and heavy enough to press like a tangible weight on her shoulders, drawing tightly together. She remains where she is, immobile and silent, her teeth worrying with her bottom lip, pale brows drawing together. There are at least a hundred-thousand things that they could (should) be doing: returning to the party, having another drink, going back to their warm homes and safe automobiles and returning to where they had come, anything but steadily, slowly lessening the distance between them with every step.
Overwhelmed, the only movement she makes is to let her scarcely-touched cigarette slip from her fingers, letting it burn out amongst the grass. She should call for someone—even one of the brass-knuckled waiters, if she felt so threatened—or any one who could get a firm grip on the situation. But she is not threatened, and she does not call out. For what reason would she have to be scared of him? It is certainly reasonable to be cautious, even a touch wary of his behavior and his lack of straightforward responses, but there is nothing about him which sets her nerves jangling with instinctual dislike, nothing which makes her feel honestly frightened, in the way she would be of a drunken fist or raised voices.
Nor is she forward enough to command him to leave, in a garden which is not hers, when she is just as guilty, having come here for the purpose of a romantic rendezvous with another man, in the exact same place where they stand now. It—it is not the desire for his company which prevents her from sending him away, after all. With all of her heart, she truly loves another—and her affections do not wane, just because Gatsby is rumored to be off dealing with dark underbellies of unsavory businesses, just because he is trying to make her into the perfect likeliness of her late teen-aged self, which he has imposed upon her now, five years tragically, terribly too late. He may have concocted a fairytale ending for them, but in a reality which could never exist, no matter how much she hopes for the opposite.
He does a lot of things he shouldn't: he just gave her a warning, as plain as day, and she tries desperately to imagine she doesn't know what those things could be, what the undertone in his voice is really referring to. She cannot protest, and she cannot leave: she is caught between choices, unable to move forward or back, and it is far too late to be blissfully ignorant now.]
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But instead of doing that, which would certainly be one of those things he absolutely shouldn't do, he simply steps a little closer, buoyed by the fact that she's not telling him to go, and holds out a hand to her.]
You wanna dance again?
[It's not the most eloquent way of phrasing it, and it might not be what she's expecting, either, but it is straightforward, and straightforwardness is something she's likely come to expect from him.
He hopes it makes him seem like less of a threat. If, indeed, she'd been seeing him as one at all. She hadn't asked him to leave. He keeps reminding himself of that. If she'd really wanted him to go, she would have said so, wouldn't she?
He won't think on why it might matter to him so much what this stranger might think, nor the fact that he's offering to dance with her when the music playing inside is barely audible. It would be hard to distinguish what type of dance it's meant to be, much less what the actual tune or pace is, but yet he's asking.]
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What-ever this may be.]
Just for a little while.
[She agrees softly, a hint of reluctance—or a somber, wistful quality—to her voice. She submits to his request, just as she meekly folded beneath pressure before. She could no more ask him to leave any more than she could refuse to dance with him. It could have to do with that he is charming and intriguing in his own little devious ways, that he affords her a distraction, or that his touch is warm and she feels cold from neglect, even in the bayou warmth of this sticky-sweet summer night.
Here they are again, on the precipice. She takes his hand once more, hers looking very small and slender within his, squeezing lightly. She takes a hesitant step forward, her other hand reaching out rest on his shoulder, her fingers curling over the dark blue of his suit. The music is a faint din, hardly audible. The rhythm is barely discernible, and it is already difficult enough to dance when they could hear it crystal-clear.
She wonders if he already knew before offering, if it's not just a dance at all he is after. More troubling, she wonders why she has not broken away from him yet, why he persists in keeping in her company, and why she has not refused his advances. Ugly words—muttered only in the thick of drunken rage—rise to the surface of her mind, much too vile and revolting to repeat. Things she has been accused of being, things that she knows she will be accused of, if the truth is ever brought to light. Every unsavory and terrible name for a woman—of course, Tom had apologized profusely once he had sobered up, kissing her bruises and offering her more boxes of sweets and jewelry. But now, she remembers those foul names, and she feels a hot burn of shame, wondering if those names do not suit her, after all?
It is just a dance, she reminds herself. An innocent dance, a playful and perfectly reputable way to pass the time.]
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[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]
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She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]
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Maybe that's for the best.
It's hard to tell how long their dance goes on, because they're not paying attention to the music, not following along with what everyone else inside is very likely doing, and for what feels like a considerable period of time, he's content to just move with her, trying not to think about all the things he's going to need to do soon. This has been an unexpected and enjoyable distraction, but he'll be back to the real world quickly enough.
And then, finally, when the dance seems to have come to an end -- he's not sure why, but the time feels right for it, and he's always been so guided by impulse and instinct -- he does bend down, just for a moment, to press a kiss to her forehead before letting go of her waist. It's gentle, and almost, almost sweet, in a strange way.]
Thanks.
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For how unbearably polite they had been, attempting to be on their best behavior to the stranger before them, the sentimental press of his lips against her forehead is at once affectionate and ill-suited as a parting gesture. Truthfully, a handshake would feel just as artificial as any rehearsed farewells, but a kiss—a kiss is just too much. Too intimate, too visceral, something that is better shared between even the meekest of lovers, not them. Lovers would taken it all in stride, lovers would have long forgotten dancing in favor of all scandalous sorts of ways to pass the time, lovers would have been far more bolder and blunter and—well, not that it applies to them.
She should have recoiled, but it's far too late. All she can do to return the favor is to smile, graciously and sweetly. And, just because they are being rather silly and sentimental, swept up in the fever of summer, she dips her head and spreads out the lace edges of her skirt in a little old-fashioned curtsey.]
You're absolutely welcome.
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There's nothing for it now, and he's not going to apologize, because that seems like a bad note to leave on. All the same, he does need to leave, and he's well aware that he'll probably never see her again, unless he runs into her at another party like this. There's a chance, maybe, but...
... well, that's not for thinking about, either.]
Bye.
[And with that, he's turning away, heading back for the noise and light and chaos of the party, not offering a 'see you later' or anything particularly reassuring, not the formalities and niceties that most people give when they're parting ways.]