Work Text:
The music dies on the small screen.
Gomez frowns. "That's not the pasodobles ." He glances to Morticia, his eternal mordant delight. She whispers to him, "Oui, ce n'est pas pasodobles." Her arms already moving to the motion of the music that suddenly plays. "C'est pasodobles."
Thing glissandos down the organ and slips into the Amparito Roca.
Gomez does a back flip of delight.
His feet stab the floor to the rhythm of her heart, just as his love for her stabs his heart. She turns away from him, his torment, his ever delight. He is the matador. He is the bull. She the cape. The flamenco dancer. He flings her. Swirls the floor with her, passing through his arms like a tempestuous eel. The music rises. His heart beats a quadruple time in the ever faster beat. They are one impassioned spinning creature.
Until that moment when she slips the sword that she took from the wall into him. For today, he smiles, he is the bull. Sweet pain fills the music's fall. "Cara mia," he whispers.
She brushes the side of his face and smiles.