Title: Voglia Di Dance All Night
Characters: Spock, Uhura, Kirk, Bones, Scotty, Chekov, Sulu
Warnings: Slightly cracky.
Notes: Crackmeme strikes again. I think I’m adding a crackmeme tag, later today, when I get up off my lazy. OP asked for some clubscene bridge-crew. I made it happen in the worst possible way, and probably actually failed to fill the prompt. And if you know the dance Kirk’s doing, by name, you’re probably from my town.
From this prompt:
It’s a dance club.
Spock is that guy that dances with a really serious face. Uhura is the life of the party in her minidress.
Kirk looks great with glitter eyeshadow.
McCoy got dragged here and is being all grumpy and can’t be pulled away from the bar.
Cardassian Sunrise? Blowjob in the bathroom? Your place or mine?
Dance was a matter of balance and bearing, and with C-Tec’s Foetal pouring from the speakers, Spock moved like a fox-demon, incarante — indifferent, quick, and violent. He’d heard his style referred to as a variant of the ‘Industrial Killing People Dance’, but he preferred kicking to the classic stomping. His motions were smooth and clean, elbow and wrist popping into place at the same time, balance steady as one leg crossed his hips, the wrist, on that side, leading in the opposite direction. The other wrist popped, hand turned upward, and, for a split second, he looked like a statue of Shiva, before the outstretched leg arced back across, dropping heel-first to the ground as his weight shifted and he drew himself gracefully back up from a mere inch above the floor.
Few people would get close to Spock, outside. In the club, they were fewer still, and he took no special care to allow them into his space.
Uhura danced as though she were serving coffee in a room full of spiders. The song was Kiss Them for Me, by Siouxsie, and she swirled like the Brownian motion of cream in stirred coffee, before she took the first step. Toes pointed, knee high, at the apex of the motion, she minced about the floor in swift, sharp movements. Her arms traced delicate patterns in the air, and at times, one hand would twist, reaching out, as if offering something, in time with her forward step, only to draw it back, seconds later, as she stepped away. Here’s your coffee, the movement said, No, wait, I’m taking it back.
She smiled teasingly at anything in range, unable to really make out faces, amid the flashing lights, until she reached out, again, and Spock’s heel dropped into her palm. His eyes softened, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips, as he cocked his head, and she had to wonder if he hadn’t planned it, just so. They stood, nearly smirking at each other for a long moment, before she stepped back, twisting her hand away, and he drew his foot back, to rest it at his knee, before gliding dangerously into motion, again.
Jim’s pattern was easy to follow, as anyone who’d known him for more than a week could tell you. Stomp, kick, stomp, kick, punch, punch, look at my crotch, column of light, column of light, look at my crotch. Snog’s Corporate Slave pounded out of the speakers, and he was up on a block, daring the world to stare — inviting them to observe the awesome that is James T. Motherfucking Kirk. Stomping and kicking, caressing the beams from the ellipsoidals, he broke pattern occasionally, to run a hand down his thigh, bending down to cock a sly look at a pretty girl.
Uhura danced below him, offering him her imaginary coffee. He bent down — way down — bending his knees and sliding his hands over the tops of his standard-issue leather boots. This time, he kissed her palm, then stood, fluidly, with the beat, pretending he’d done nothing at all. Sometimes, he was smooth.
Nobody ever played what Bones liked to dance to, unless he requested it, which was a pain in his ass, but he did it, every week. One fast, hard song that the stompy crowd wouldn’t be too annoyed by, and that he could find one or two people to join him for, in a round of proper slamdancing. Not that moshing shit the kids did in the early 21st century, people actually got hurt doing that. Slamdancing, the slightly bruising writhe of an overcrowded club.
His wrists stretched up above his head as TV Party, by Black Flag started, and within seconds, Riley and Rand were with him, dragging some of their young friends into the tightly packed corner of the floor. Turning, his hips rocking to the beat, wrists tapping together, rhythmically, he slammed into no less than six people, and they pushed back — a hip here, an elbow there. It wasn’t so much that he liked people, or even people touching him, it was just the need to be surrounded by breathing, living bodies that weren’t in actual danger.
He crashed into Chapel, suddenly, unexpectedly, and a glance over his shoulder revealed Jim, elbows tucked in, bouncing and slamming his hips out in random directions, like an off-balance washing machine. As the end of the song came up, Bones flinched slightly as Jim’s forehead crashed gently into his own, and Jim belted out the last line, staring, amusedly, straight into his eyes. "Noooo TV party to-niiiight!"
Stomp, tap, tap, step, stomp, tap, tap, step. The kids in the bar called it the Gothic Riverdance, but damned if Monty Scott didn’t know a reel when he heard one, even if it was dark and dirtied up. His feet moved on their own, his shins lifting the edges of his kilt as he fancied up the step for the blacklight crowd. "…Praying for an end to our deception…"
The song broke right where he knew it would — right where it always did, and he reached out and hooked Bones, elbow in elbow, and swung the doctor around.
"I hate The Cruxshadows," Bones insisted, loudly, staggering to the beat, as Scotty spun him through figures.
"Och, yeh do not. Yeh liked Rogue’s socks just fine." Scotty retorted, slinging Bones about the floor, some more.
Heads turned as the slow music rolled across the dance floor, and Chekov began to shimmy, slinking across the floor to where Riley danced with Chapel. Why don’t you do right, like some other men do? Chekov turned back to back with Riley and leaned past him, reaching up to turn the man’s head toward him, with one finger, while Chapel snickered. Standing, Chekov grinned over his shoulder at Chapel and bumped Riley with his backside before strutting over to his next victim. The guys were mildly discomfited, but the girls thought it was the funniest thing they’d seen all week.
Finally, he walked up and wrapped a leg around Scotty’s hip, smiling coquettishly, as the Scotsman stuttered in half-hearted protest.
"Rasputina, you know, they were inwented in Russia." Chekov joked.
Soctty considered mentioning that they were actually from New York, but he just shook his head and let it slide. As the final line poured across them, like syrup, Chekov leaned back, arching to touch the floor with his fingertips.
Anyone who had ever seen Sulu fight would be unsurprised to see him dance, and those who had seen him dance would be unsurprised, but dazzled to see him fight. He moved like mercury, to the wending liquid beat of Daisy Chain 4 Satan wielding a pair of folding fans with the same dexterous grace with which he handled his sword. Observers frequently wondered at the possibility of being decapitated with high-velocity paper, as the fans snapped in his fingers, folding and unfolding aerodynamically, with the beat. I’m the white rabbit— The fans cracked open to the sides, Hikaru’s arms stretched wide, as he dropped into a crouch, looking just as appealingly deadly as he ever did with a sword in his hand.
He rose, lightning fast, leaning forward, and took Chekov under the chin with the tip of a folded fan. "Fan dancing…"
"… was not inwented in Russia. Da." Chekov grinned at the joke.
Spock – C-tec, Foetal
Uhura – Siouxsie, Kiss Them For Me
Kirk – Snog, Corporate Slave
Bones – Black Flag, TV Party
Scotty – The Cruxshadows, Deception
Chekov – Rasputina, Why Don’t You Do Right?
Sulu – My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult, Daisy Chain 4 Satan