The first thing I've ever written for a Be Compromised Prompathon, for the prompt: "Natasha and ballet." I'm not exactly good with romance, but I tried to add teeny bits of it here and there.
Disclaimer: As per usual, I don't own Marvel, Black Widow, Hawkeye, or all and any associated characters/figures/whatnot.
Swan Lake
The first thing she does as a new SHIELD agent, when she has a day off, is go to the ballet.
Her seat is in the middle of the orchestra section – messy for quick getaways, but preferable to having the stage cut off at a wide angle, and close enough to see the dancers' facial expressions. This is no provincial touring company, and she wants the dancers to prove it. Sitting alone, she watches people whispering to one another, filling in the rows. She surprises herself when she realizes that she feels lonely, surrounded by normal people with normal lives and friends. The seat on her left is still empty when her phone vibrates, and she frowns.
Barton [6:42 PM]: Aren't you just a walking stereotype?
Someone stands in front of the empty seat next to her and she glances up from her phone to see… Barton. Clint, he told her to call him.
He smiles cautiously. "You drink vodka, you watch ballet, you read those giant Russian novels… You're the most Russian person I know." A pause. "If you want to be alone, I can leave."
Her brow furrows thoughtfully. Surprised she might be, but she doesn't feel upset at knowing that he followed her, strangely enough; she knows that he's trying to look out for her, even though she doesn't need it. It's nice to be cared for. And he asked, anyways, giving her a way out if she wants to be alone. It's different, having options for once. But she does enjoy his company.
She pats the seat. "Sit down, or you'll be in the way."
So he sits down, the curtains open, and they're swept away in a swirl of music and dancing, lost in a story about a princess turned into a swan who falls in love with a prince who makes the wrong decision, tricked by an evil sorcerer who dies because he underestimates his enemies.
It should be the same story that she's seen dozens of times in Russia, in Moscow and St. Petersburg and Yekaterinburg, but she learns in the second act that it isn't. All the steps are familiar, but there's mine, honest to God, old-fashioned ballet mime to explain the story to people who don't understand mime; and again in the fourth act, when instead of the prince killing the sorcerer so that he and the princess can live happily ever after, the princess throws herself into the lake, followed by the prince, and the power of their true, true love kills the sorcerer as they, together in the afterlife, live happily ever after.
Surprisingly, Mother Russia's never-ending deception doesn't unnerve her entirely. Neither does the arm draped companionably around her shoulder.
It's nice to have someone who will jump (and has jumped) into a lake after her.
The Sleeping Beauty
After New York, she goes to ballet again. It's something of a ritual, when she wants to relax and enjoy dressing up without the connotation of seducing a mark, wear pretty and practical heels, sit in a cushioned seat, and escape in a whirlwind of music.
She doesn't do it in secret, this time; she has nothing to hide from him, not after all these years. She just slides the tickets across the table towards Clint in their apartment; he raises an eyebrow and asks, "Do I have to dress up?"
It's only a shadow of his usual humor, but she appreciates the attempt. She responds with a look that says "Don't ask me when you already know the answer." So they sit there in their 400-dollar seats (ballet is one of the few things she's willing to spend that much money on), waiting for the curtain to rise.
Unlike the first time they saw a ballet together (Swan Lake in Los Angeles, she remembers), they're much more comfortable together – his arm is again wrapped warmly around her shoulders, and she snuggles into it without hesitation.
Not immediately, no, because he's still shaken. Understandably, so she stays patient and waits for him, holds his hand and reminds him that he is his own master. No one else is in control but him, and he and the masses of people around him have nothing to fear.
They give each other comfort, reassuring each other that they both are alive, and more importantly that he truly is himself. She could sprout words of comfort, of philosophers (Kierkegaard and Sartre, Camus and Dostoevsky), but they've been to hell and back together so many times, she knows that he doesn't need that right now.
He needs a world where curses can be broken, where the good guys wear purple and pink and the bad guys wear black, both sides with their own theme music and everything happy and clear-cut, until he can process what's happened to him.
Happily ever afters have never really been "their thing", but the smile he gives her once the curtain falls makes it all worth it.
The Nutcracker
She hasn't felt this nervous in a long time. Not about the mark, but about the performance. She stands in the wings with a partner who isn't Clint, wearing pointe shoes and a puffy pink pancake tutu (ballet was an integral part of Red Room training to teach little girl spies not to complain, to show them that pain meant beauty), watching her husband - her husband - standing off to the side, looking entirely comfortable with their three-year-old Tatiana in his arms amongst the bustle of dancers scurrying off stage, skirts swirling around them.
And she hears it - the harp opening of the grand pas de deux - and she's out of the wings and under the bright stage lights. The faux powdered wig itches, but then the music really starts and she's focusing entirely on her role. She moves effortlessly from an attitude, to endless bourrées and then partnered pirouettes, repeating the section before the music crescendos and she and her partner move into somewhat tame lifts. As it reaches its climax, she steps quickly and gracefully across the stage, jumping up into the air and lands in his arms, her face all smiles.
The adagio ends in a supported arabesque, and she chances a glance over at Clint and Tatiana. He's smiling, big and perfect because she can see the sheer joy in his eyes, and her heart melts as he takes Tatiana's hand in his to wave at her.
The mark is enchanted as she runs off stage, but that doesn't matter to her - she's already hidden away from him and the rest of the audience as Clint moves forward to deposit little Tanechka in her arms. She bounces her daughter gently, all smiles that have never left her face since she first went on stage, but now the smiles are more genuine. And then the moment is over, she's back on stage for her own solo variation, but the smile stays genuine.
At the end of the night, her feet are sore and bloodied, the pointe shoes now incapable of holding her (or anyone's) weight, and she doesn't have her own fairy tale prince, but she doesn't need that.
She has Clint, and the way he murmurs her name before he kisses her is more than she could ever wish for, even in her wildest dreams.
It's 3AM and I don't really know what I'm writing anymore, but I didn't want to put this off anymore because I kept on having ideas in my head, but I wouldn't write it. So whoops.