By rights, she should be on her way to the door, to the steps leading up to London's streets, to the tiny bedsit she calls home. She was up before the sun, she's had a full day of intensive classes... she hasn't had dinner, the vodka has sparked heat through her veins, she's sweating, it's heading for eleven, Jemma is somewhere, and the guy with the guitar is playing music that has the whole place stomping and swaying.

It's irresistible.

She steps back into the mass of dancing people, and feels her arms lift into the air almost of their own accord.

Her bones tingle, her muscles preparing to move them into ancient shapes in a deeply unconscious response to the music filling the room, despite coming from only one man. She can't possibly leave. She has to stay... she needs to be here, letting the music soothe a piece of her soul she hadn't known needed it.

Refusing to be constrained by a mere twisted loop of itself, her cloud of curls, heavy with sweat and the water from her hands springs free of its own containment, and bounces down around her ribs. It looks like it should tangle, but it never really does, and like some sort of quiet herald, it prefaces the change in her dance. No longer is she stomping and writhing, a frenzied leader of the crowd... no, there's something else in the music she's dancing to now - something delicate. Something... pleading? No... well, maybe...

A space starts to form around her, slight, but enough for her to close her eyes and let herself dance freely without fear of touching anyone - or being touched. She just wants to dance. With her eyes closed, she can almost let herself believe that this Orpheus and his guitar... it's been thousands of years. A little pretense is fine.