Dancing, dancin', dancin...

Posted on Mon Nov 24th, 2025 @ 8:26pm by Commander Dean House & Lieutenant Commander Bonnie "Bon-Bon" Durnell

3,347 words; about a 17 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: Earth - Washington DC
Timeline: Pre-Lost in Space

The second Bonnie stepped through the doorway at Dean’s side, the place hit her like a tidal wave. Heat, sound, light—everything turned up to eleven. The wooden floor stretched wide, polished to a shine by boots that had stomped a thousand rhythms. Neon signs hummed lazily above the bar, throwing reds and blues and purples across walls already cluttered with faded rodeo posters. The air was thick with a strange cocktail: perfume and sweat, beer and sawdust, fryer grease and the faint sweetness of cheap cologne.

The music thumped in her chest, a country tune with a tempo just fast enough to demand movement. People laughed in sharp bursts, boots clicked, spurs jingled, and somewhere behind her someone broke into a howl that could have been either joy or pain. It all blurred together. The alcohol fuzzing her edges didn’t dull her senses—it magnified them. Every sound was sharper, every color brighter, every smell both delightful and overwhelming.

She clung to Dean’s arm more than she meant to, trying to ground herself. Her body felt too light, as if the floor were rolling like a ship deck. Her cheeks burned hot, not from embarrassment this time, but from the drink; she knew her freckles were glowing like beacons. There was a giddiness inside her, bubbling like champagne, and under it the nervous hum of panic she couldn’t quite banish.

Everyone seemed taller, louder, more sure of themselves than she could ever be. Bonnie felt like a mess of loose wires trying to hold together long enough not to spark. And yet, there was a thrill too. Line dancing. Her, Bonnie Durnell, who tripped over her own boots when she wasn’t tipsy, now about to hurl herself into synchronized chaos. She could already imagine the disaster, and part of her wanted to laugh at it, drunk giggles caught in her throat.

She swore under her breath in Gaelic, more a reflex than an insult, and leaned closer to Dean. He radiated calm, broad-shouldered confidence, and that steadiness was the only thing keeping her from bolting back to the car. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, though, was the tiniest spark of rebellion—the part of her that thought, to hell with it. If I’m going to fall, I’ll fall in rhythm.

It wasn't completely his thing but..being from Dallas, it sorta was. Particularly learning how to, not to mention going with his mother when he was younger to line-dancing clubs when they were having 'classes.'

So it wasn't really bugging him in the least. Bonnie did want to do something else before they went home, why not go out with a bang. Dean actually gave her a reassuring kiss to the top of her head since she was that close at the moment. Altering their path for two reasons.

To the left gave them both a clear view of the establishment and past the dance floor, but it also took them to the shop. There were all kinds of country western things in there, not just boots, or...her spurs. Clothing, hats, belts, belt buckles, even whips, knives, century accurate firearms, and trinkets.

Dean gave a nod of his head at the shop, "Go wild." Though he actually was going to stick next to her until he was sure that she could walk a little better on her own. He wasn't going to baby her, just make sure if he had to, he could catch her. Didn't need her pretty face bloodied..or..well..having to pay for stuff that she didn't actually want. Gave him a thought though also, maybe sometime he'd make sure she got to see what happens when he actually gets drunk.

Bonnie’s eyes lit up the moment the shelves came into view, her earlier reluctance to face the dance floor instantly forgotten. She half-stumbled, half-floated toward the display, fingertips brushing over leather belts and gleaming buckles as if she’d stumbled into some kind of frontier museum. “Spurs,” she muttered with a breathless laugh, spotting a pair that jingled faintly when she lifted them. “I told you I’d get some, didn’t I? Imagine me, clink, clink, clink, down the corridors of the Sunfire.” Her grin was wide, tipsy, and threaded with tears of laughter she didn’t bother hiding.

She turned a revolver over in her hands, marveling at the weight, then set it back carefully as though she were back in the Smithsonian on one of her childhood pilgrimages. Every item seemed to demand attention, cowhide hats, embroidered shirts, even the ridiculous whips and knives. “This is, oh stars, half treasure hoard, half history class,” she gushed, leaning close to squint at an engraved buckle as if it were an artifact behind glass. The fact that she was supposed to be dancing had entirely vanished from her mind; for now, she was blissfully lost in the scent of leather and old wood, and the sparkle of things she didn’t need but couldn’t stop touching.

Next, she made a beeline for the hats. Wide-brimmed dusters, curled brims with feathers, even a ten-gallon monstrosity that could have doubled as a bird bath—she tried them all, one after another, pivoting toward Dean each time with a mock-serious pose. “Too outlaw?” she asked, tipping a black hat low over her eyes. “Too sheriff?” she countered, straightening into a stiff pose with a star-shaped belt buckle in hand. When she plopped the oversized one on her head and it immediately slipped down over her nose, she added with a muffled laugh, “This one says ‘here lies Bonnie, eaten by her own hat.’”

The tightness of her dress made bending and twisting a ridiculous ordeal, so after a few attempts to fasten one of the spurs on the back of her heel, she gave up with a groan and turned her attention to the clothing racks. “Something dance-worthy before I split this thing down the seams,” she muttered, fingering through fringe and plaid with a kind of reverence. She settled on a soft cotton dress that promised movement rather than suffocation, holding it against herself as if trying to imagine being free in it.

Through it all, Dean hovered like an amused chaperone, close enough to catch her if her unsteady steps betrayed her but giving her the space to revel. She kept sneaking glances at him, half waiting for him to laugh, half hoping he wouldn’t—because even through the pain of the night, this small corner of absurdity was exactly what she needed.

Dean reveled in the enjoyment that Bonnie was having. That was most of the purpose. They'd come here for something tragic and she needed something to counter balance that. "I'd go with the hip gun belt, 1941 colt .44 caliber revolver. Also.."

There was a pause as he looked through the hats and found something out of what she played with. A brown fedora. Fixing it on her head after working with her hair. "Now...we do have one thing. Oh, the bonnet dress is fetching; If I'm going to get a duster, so are you."

Bonnie froze mid-preen, the fedora now perched slightly askew thanks to Dean’s careful placement. Her gaze slid down to the gleaming revolver, then back up at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion that dissolved quickly into a lopsided grin. “Uh-huh. Give me five minutes with that thing and I’ll shoot off my own foot, or yours. And don’t think the universe wouldn’t let me, because you know my luck.” She wobbled a bit as she shifted her weight, half from the drink still humming in her veins, half from the absurdity of imagining herself with a sidearm.

She gave the gun belt a dramatic flourish, strapping it around her waist but leaving the holster conspicuously empty. “See? Looks dangerous enough without me actually having the means to blow holes in the furniture.” Then, with a cheeky tilt of her head, she tugged at the fedora brim. “Besides, fedora-and-duster me is more likely to trip over a tumbleweed than take down an outlaw.” A beat later, with a conspiratorial grin: “Though I’ll allow the duster, on one condition. If I fall flat on my face, you’re catching me before I shoot myself in the hip.”

Dean grinned, not only that she actually referenced a tumbleweed but just the whole display. Tilting his head to the side a little, "Hey..I always catch you when you fall." She knew just as well as he did, he meant when he was around, not the other times.

Bonnie paused mid-laugh, the sound catching somewhere between amusement and something softer. The fedora dipped low as she looked up at him from under the brim, her cheeks flushed from more than the whiskey. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice slurred just enough to blur the edges of her words, “you do, don’t you?” There was gratitude buried there, tangled up with the liquor and the ache she’d been trying to drown.

Then she straightened, swaying a little, one hand on her hip like she meant business—though the stance was wobblier than she’d admit. “But we didn’t come all this way just to play dress-up and tempt fate with firearms, cowboy.” Her lips curled into a teasing grin. “You said there’d be dancing.”

She glanced toward the floor where boots were already thudding in rhythm, the glow of neon catching in her eyes. “So…” She reached for his hand, half-invitation, half-dare. “Catch me out there, too?”

Dean gave his own turn about so she could see what he looked like in the get up. Stopping to directly face her. "Yes, I do, and I did say there would be dancing. I will always catch you out there or else where, whenever you really need it." Taking her hand.

Bonnie’s fingers tightened around his as she tugged him toward the dance floor, her heels clicking out of sync with the music like a faulty metronome. “Alright,” she declared, squinting at the dancers as if running diagnostics. “So it’s… one-two, spin, step, heel tap, maybe a twirl? No, too much torque—someone’s gonna eat the floor with that move.” She swayed slightly, hiccupping through her analysis, then laughed. “Yeah, alright, I got this. Easy math. Dancing is just physics with prettier variables.”

Once among the crowd, she tried to copy the couple beside her—right foot, left foot, clap, something resembling a pivot—but her coordination was about a beat and a half behind. When she spun, it was with the chaotic grace of a shuttle out of alignment, bumping shoulders and apologizing between bursts of laughter. “Okay, okay, wait! I’ve almost got it! I think I’m… no, nope, that was definitely his foot.”

Dean waited a little bit to the side for a moment, waiting for her to start in. Then he started in with her. Smiles all around as she was having fun, regardless. No one there bothered to get angry that she was trying to get the hang of it. They knew, newcomers. They usually were easy going folk. Jumping in after the first two bars. "That was a foot," chuckling a little bit. Of course he made it look easy, but he'd done this when he was little.

Her hair stuck to her cheek, her fedora long gone to the mercy of the crowd, but she was grinning—wide, reckless, unguarded. For all her clumsy math and misplaced steps, she was alive in that chaos, riding the rhythm like an engine that somehow still ran despite every warning light flashing red.

Thankfully the fedora that was supposedly long gone, had actually been grabbed out of the air, and put on top of his. That did however make him misstep into Bonnie. Not enough to throw her off but it was....close to her, intimately close for a split second. Switching back over in his lane. Not saying a word because he knew she needed this.

Bonnie blinked up at him, the world tilting in that slow, honeyed way that only came with good whiskey and bad timing. The fedora was crooked between them, brim brushing her forehead where his hand had caught her. For a heartbeat, her laughter caught in her throat, not from embarrassment, but from how close they suddenly were. Too close for words, too close for thoughts to stay clean.

Then she smirked, half breath, half dare. “Careful, cowboy,” she said softly, stepping back just enough to find the rhythm again. “You keep catchin’ me like that and people’ll think you planned it.” Her balance returned on the next beat, barely. She gave him a sidelong glance, eyes still bright from the stumble. “Besides,” she added, a sly grin curling, “if you wanted me this close, you could’ve just asked.”

A far cry from their earlier conversation, call it fun, call it booze. And then she spun, clumsy, wild, but somehow still landing right on time with the music, as if the dance itself had forgiven her for falling.

They were particularly close, there was nothing wrong with that. At least not to him. Dean wasn't trying to purposely do anything but them just having fun to unwind. No having to think about anything serious, or having to fight evil entities or save worlds.

"Now why would I plan anything like that?" Smiling back to her, gently letting go so she could continue, they could. "I'll keep that in mind then. He remembered their discussion before, this was different because how bad he'd feel if she got hurt because of the alcohol. The smile was still there on his face, genuinely happy she was letting loose and everything go, particularly the stress.

---

The night eased into a warm blur, music folding into laughter, laughter into the rhythmic shuffle of tired feet. The band slowed, then picked up again, caught in that endless sway between lively and languid that only came after too many encores and too few inhibitions. Glasses clinked somewhere behind them, a scatter of applause rising for no reason at all.

Bonnie’s curls had loosened, her dress no longer fighting her, just flowing with her as she moved. Dean’s jacket was long gone, his sleeves rolled and collar undone. The crowd had thinned to those who didn’t care how they looked anymore, the joyful, the tipsy, the souls too stubborn to leave while there was still music left to dance to.

Somewhere between the third song and the last, they’d stopped counting. Sweat and starlight clung to their skin in equal measure, the kind of exhaustion that didn’t feel like defeat, but release. When the tempo softened at last, neither of them spoke, they didn’t have to. The night had done what words could not: worn down the edges, leaving only warmth, rhythm, and the quiet comfort of company.

Bonnie leaned against him as the last notes of the evening faded, her breath warm with laughter and synthale. “Alright, Casanova,” she murmured, voice dipped in amusement and exhaustion. “Fun’s fun, but if we don’t grab at least four hours of unconsciousness, we’re gonna be drooling on the console before the transport window even opens.”

She squinted toward the door like it was a distant mountain. “And you know what happens when I’m tired? I start rewiring things that shouldn’t be rewired. Like gravity plates. Or people’s replicator preferences.” A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she pushed off him with a wobble.

“C’mon, cowboy,” she added, tipping her fedora his way, “let’s get outta here before I start dancing with the floor.”

"You mean bad things happen cause your head is in the clouds?" Teasing her a bit. At least there was that last slow dance of the night first before they really did need to go. All of this was a nice escape, except for of course the original reason for being there. "Off to the house then," letting her lean or helping her outside to the car if she needed it. If not she was a big girl.

Bonnie’s knees wobbled like they were trying to remember gravity’s instructions, her nose and cheeks flushed a tipsy pink. “I believe the ancestors said it best when they spoke these immortal words… ‘Uh duhurrr!’” She leaned into Dean with theatrical solemnity, one arm cinched around his waist as though he were the last stable structure in the quadrant.

Then she flung her free hand skyward in triumph. “To the batcave!” she declared, a giggle bubbling up behind the battle cry, half-drunk bravado wrapped in warmth and wobble. The night felt loose around them, ready to be steered wherever her unsteady orbit drifted next.

Dean chuckled and shook his head a little bit. She definitely needed to lose her inhibitions more often, or something along those lines. Doesn't have to be via alcohol. "Yes, the Batcave." Which once Bonnie was gravitated into the car seat and strapped in, he got in himself.

He was actually inebriated a bit. Not enough to impair his ability to drive safely but it was close. Glances were given to her here and there as he drove them back to the house. Stopping up by the front porch and getting out to help her out should she need it. Once they both were standing in front of each other, Dean glanced up at the moon. "Where do we go from here..." Looking back down to her and locking eyes. "We still have time," that was a definite innuendo.

Bonnie swayed forward on her heels, just enough to show she’d heard him, just enough to make the porch light catch in her eyes. The alcohol softened the edges of her exhaustion, but not the truth sitting quietly underneath it. He was so handsome in his persistence.

She lifted a hand and pressed two fingers to his chest, not pushing him back, just… setting a boundary with a bit of wobble and warmth. “You’re sweet,” she murmured, voice low but steady enough. “And dangerous when you talk like that.”

She let her hand slide up his chest, stopping at his collarbone, thumb absently tracing the edge of it. A soft hum escaped her, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Her hand stayed there a beat longer, then slipped away as she exhaled.

“But tonight?” She tilted her head, a rueful, fond little smile forming. “Tonight my body’s cashing checks my heart didn’t even write. And if I keep following that innuendo of yours…” She gave a soft laugh, tired and honest. “…I’ll fall asleep mid-sentence and drool on your shirt. Which would be tragic, because you seem very attached to that shirt.”

She reached past him to unlock the door, brushing lightly against his arm, not accidental, not an invitation, just a recognition of closeness that didn’t need to go further.

“You take the couch,” she decided gently. “I take the bed. We get five hours of sleep so we don’t beam back to the Sunfire smelling like whiskey and bad decisions.” She stepped inside, pausing just long enough to glance back over her shoulder, voice dropping to something soft and companionable.

“And Dean? Flirt with me again when I’m sober. Then I’ll know which parts were real.” The door clicked softly behind her, leaving the night open for whatever tomorrow chose to unfold. The porch light buzzed overhead, soft and golden, as they disappeared inside together.

"I will keep that in mind." Smiling softly, following her in. Flopping on the couch to bed down. Pushing the fedora over his face a little bit to block out any residual light. Dean gave a lasting yawn. "Good night John boy!" He grinned, not sure if she'd get the reference or not.

TBC

 

RSS Feed