Title: Sweet Blues My Baby Gives To Me
Author: WickedGame
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG
Pairing: 1=2
Warnings: none really.
Notes: Written for link_worshiper some time ago because I luff on her and she and I talk way too much about music. Disclaimer: I do not own the song "Steamroller Blues".

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I've never seen him here before, but he's drawing my attention. He makes my fingers dance over the strings of my guitar to his tune. It's not like he's making me play just for him; I just want to do it. I want to see his face light up, if only a little, as I play a tune that touches him.

I want to touch him.

It's pure charisma, I know; but that same charisma is drawing every eye in the room to him as he possesses the brunette in his arms. She can't see that he's not serious but she's drowning just the same as she follows his lead, their fishtails and dips speaking of both experience and innate sexuality. She's lost and breathless while he's hardly broken a sweat.

I'm taking the guitar down low, slowing the blues down, bringing them in deep and slow, dragging those last notes out as he braces her lower back and dips her so low her hair dusts the ground. Then the song is over and he excuses himself while she stands there and wonders why she doesn't feel so special any more.

He's done it so many times tonight and I can't help but wonder what his motivation is. What does he get out of this dance, out of these women who seem so disposable? Cold water is trickling down his throat as he swallows eagerly and I wonder, not for the first time, what those lips would feel like on mine, dancing with me in a way that those disposable blues babes will never experience.

I'm holding my mic stand and my lips are moving before I've even had time to really think. "For our friend with the braid whose name we don't know: one hot love song."

I hear the bass guitar and drum brushes start up and I feel a longing to sway with the beat so I do so. I'd like to pretend I'm swaying with him but I can hardly do that while sitting on a metal stool.

I expect him to do anything but what he ends up doing, which is dancing alone. Alone and not bothered by all the eyes on him, unfettered in spirit or soul. I bring my lips back to the mic and sing as honestly as I dare. "I'm a steamroller baby. I'm 'bout to roll all over you. I'm a steamroller baby. I'm 'bout to roll all over you. I'm gonna inject your soul with sweet rock'n'roll, poor heaven. I'm a cement mixer. A churning urn of burning funk. I'm a cement mixer. A churning urn of burning funk. I'm a demolition derby. A hefty hunk, steaming junk..."

I feel what those girls felt, like we're the only two people in the room, although my logical side screams at me that I'm being absurd. But it seems like him and me, being backed by an invisible blues band and they're playing our song. Our song, just for us.

He's turning across the floor, his braid whipping around him. He's dancing like I'm a mirror in front of him only his reflection won't come out to play. I feel like it's an invitation to join him and yet it's a warning to stay away too. I feel like he could hurt me, while saving me at the same time.

He is the blues. He's salve and the pain beneath it. He's grief and hope and love and realization. He's dreams and nightmares. He doesn't just dance the blues, he lives and breathes the blues and I want to share his air and space. I want to be the blues with him and see if he can hold me as tightly in bed as he holds those blues babes on the floor.

His strut toward the stage is predatory yet playful, letting me know he means no harm. His eyes are focused on me as I sing the last part. "I'm a napalm-bomb, guaranteed to blow your mind. I'm a napalm-bomb, guaranteed to blow your mind. If I can't have your love now baby there won't be nothing left behind..."

The bass hums out the last of the notes and then everyone's clapping but us. His stare is a challenge and I don't flinch. He seems to see something in my answering stare that he likes because he smiles knowingly and backs up with a nod. I exhale and then realize I had been holding my breath. The hair brushing his ass teases me and I swallow hard before beginning the next song.

It's all blues, all night at this joint. The crowd ranges from genuine old-timers to wide-eyed newcomers that only discovered blues because of illegal downloads off the internet. The in-betweeners are the young to middle-aged people who were raised on the blues and who dance it for the intensity and sensuality of it.

Some nights seem to last forever and this night was one of those. It seems like hours before I get to pack up my guitar and look around to see who is left in the room. I look around carefully but he isn't here. He must've slipped out at some point but I can't pinpoint when. I growl at the missed opportunity and make my way to the exit.

It's a long walk home at two in the morning but disappointment makes my feet and the time move faster. I walk up and pull my keys out of my pocket. Before I can slip the key into the hole a hand closes around my wrist, stopping me. I wonder how he got so close without me noticing. I only know it's him by the tattoo on his right hand. It just says 'love' but I bet it means much more than that to him.

I don't know when we came to have our own unspoken language. I don't know how, when, or where we learned it but we seem to be fluent in it because my nod tells him he's welcome and his smile tells me he's glad.

I can hear his dancing shoes as they follow me, gliding softly over hardwood. He doesn't say a word as I close the door and set the locks.

His arms are around me and his face is buried in my neck as I slide the chain into place. His lips murmur a plea against my skin.

"Dance with me?"

I want to say that it's all I ever wanted. I want to say a lot of things but the truth is that they all seem so out of place in this moment so I settle for moving with him as he begins to sway, his slim hips moving with a silent beat. Our fingers are barely touching but he's responding to my every move. It only takes me a moment to realize that he's letting me lead.

"I don't know the steps," I say softly, not wanting to break the spell.

"Forget the steps and follow the music," he says, and I knew we had to be hearing the same tune in our heads.

"A follow," he explains, "is just as important as the lead. The steps belong to the lead but the follow makes them real. But even more important than either the lead or the follow is the music. Without the beat, we'd be lost."

I pull him into my chest and move with him to the music only we can hear. "So what do you do when there's no music to be heard?"

He smirks at me as I dip him slowly. "Don't be coy. I know you can hear it too. It's music only we can make together. It's the blues, in twelve count time."

"Is that what the blues is?" I wonder at his opinion on the subject.

His laughter is a purr and he turns so perfectly in my arms. "No baby, we're the blues. It's you and me and nothing else around us. We can make the blues and we can live the blues, even if all we have is each other."

Damn if he ain't right.

-The End-