"So, what are the plans for the evening?"
The words tumbled from Natasha Romanov's cherry kissed lips in a way that made Clint smile in disbelief that he was dating such a gorgeous woman. Knowing how amazing she was in combat and knowing that she refused to take any nonsense from anyone, he found it incredible that she could still retain her elegance, even while sipping a glass of champagne. The gentle glass between those fingers and knowing what she did with them baffled him immensely, but he found it all the more alluring.
"Well, the Bolshoi Ballet Company is on their US tour performing Swan Lake. They just so happen to be down the block from here."
Watching him through her drink, a little curve of a smile formed. Natasha knew he had had something planned from the start when he suggested they'd dine at a rather luxurious restaurant in New York. What it was, she didn't know, and while she wasn't one for surprises, she allowed Clint to perform them. He was a straight shooter and didn't beat around the bush, something she often admired in the suit clad man across from her. He was direct, just like she was, but Clint knew what buttons to press to make her laugh or smile.
Ballet was something Clint knew Natasha was close to and often enjoyed. Sometimes he would stumble in on her doing something and humming the Dance of the Swans from Swan Lake. It was soft and smooth, with a touch of mysticism Clint admired. While he would never admit he was a fan of classical music to the others, he knew that he could enjoy it with someone who liked it.
Tony liked some classical music, though Clint swore that he had heard him mock singing some sort of operatic tune in the shower once. Never before had he admitted it and often laughed to himself when that memory resurfaced. Bruce did enjoy some soft, woodwind and string pieces finding the brass pieces too abrupt for his liking; he especially detested Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mt. Too sharp and dark for his taste, yet cellos could easily calm him on a good day. Thor was a lost cause for symphonic works, the deity was more of a rocker, but did not shy away from music of his home. The ballads of war, the drinking tunes, the melodic songs that no one on Earth knew, but him which made him gush with pride for Asgard. Steve liked classical music too, but preferred his old records from the 50s (if not older) and some rock.
After paying for the meal, they decided to walk to the theater. Hand in hand, they watched the neon signs approach them with tempting welcomes to visit their businesses, but like any passerby, they brushed their invites away. Times Square was a bustling outdoor club which held a glimpse of Stark Tower (now Avengers Tower) in the distance, not too far from the heart of the city, which encouraged everyone to go out and have some fun. Natasha smiled at the mere idea of having a ladies' day with Pepper as she had done in the past. The two would frequent the city's shops and buy outfits because they knew how confident they were, what they needed for their lines of work, and how properly fitted garments could stun men. Natasha knew Clint was one of those men, he always found her more beautiful than the many times before.
Pulling out the tickets for the ballet, Clint and Natasha neared the Lunt-Fontanne theatre. Open mahogany doors welcomed the two spies delved into the building that was as old as time. The architecture recalled an era of opulence and Broadway royalty, owned by the most popular performers to grace the stage many years ago. Natasha couldn't remember those wonder years or any years from her past; they were all drowned in the red she had spilled on streets and in many rooms. Clint knew of her erasure and how her identity had been changed so many times, not even she knew who she really was. Yet despite this flaw, he loved her dearly and connected with her all the same.
Taking their seats, the lights overhead softly flashed three times to alert the audience that the production was about to begin. Feet shuffled, murmurs finished conversations, and throngs of people found their way to their seats with the aid of ushers clad in tuxedos. From the corner of his eye, Clint watched Natasha as she looked through the play bill. Her eyes studied every word and squinted in confusion, her mind racked from the first name featured in the booklet.
Bolshoi Ballet Director: Madam Rasmi Arashimov.
It rang like a bell in her head, a cry to something long ago. Searching her mind for clues, she didn't recall seeing that name recently, and yet it sounded so familiar, like a friend she never met. Reading the woman's name over and over, she tried to connect the letters with a memory or at least a fragment of something from her past in her head.
"Psst," Clint whispered.
"Are you okay?"
Snapping Natasha out of her thoughts, she quickly looked at Clint.
"This name," she spoke softly as the lights began to dim.
"It sounds so familiar, but I don't know where I've heard it before."
Pointing to the name, Clint squinted at the words through the darkness. Only hearing the name just recently in a commercial advertising this event, he couldn't think of any other time he had heard it. He wondered how Natasha had heard this name before and could only come to the conclusion that she had probably heard it the same way he did.
"I've only heard it in an ad talking about this show. Other than that, it doesn't ring a bell," he whispered as the stage lights and applause silenced their conversation.
From the side a slender, older man clad in a suit with salt and pepper hair walked to the orchestra pit. The audience praised him as he took his position and nodded to the musicians before him through his half rimmed glasses. Flipping to the first page of the first act, they waited for their master to give the command. Raising a thin, ivory wand from the podium he quieted the crowds' praise and made the musicians prepare their instruments. Within moments, the orchestra crooned its first few notes, causing the crimson curtains to part and the performance to unravel.
Natasha's eyes intently analyzed every dancer's move, watching the curve of their calves during leaps and spins, tracking their next foot placement, and taking in their conveyed expressions. The lavish sets awed her greatly, it was though someone had ripped the pages out of a giant fairy tale book, and placed them on the stage. Each costume was more intricate than the last as her brain's cogs endlessly turned, questioning why this had all seemed so familiar. None of the dancers' faces seemed to trigger anything and Natasha had known the music for years. Every note was just as fresh as the first time she heard it. Where she had heard it, now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember. She would sometimes listen to the music at her own leisure, but she could have sworn she had heard it before. Where though, her mind searched relentlessly for answers and found nothing.
Engrossed by the show in hopes that it would lead to any answer, Natasha silently cursed as she watched the curtain fall, and the lights blink on. Stretching, Clint tilted his head to both sides and watched Natasha, wondering what exactly was going through her head. Sitting beside her once more, he leaned in and placed a kiss on her cheek to reassure her of his presence and was more than willing to help her solve this mystery. From the corner of her eye she saw Clint and felt her heart be eased for a moment. The cogs were still spinning like ballerinas, refusing to stop.
"You're positive you never heard her name before?"
"Yep."
Sighing to herself, Natasha's brain was overcome by the enchanting performance and the thousands of questions that tore through her mind. She could feel herself slipping into defeat, to surrender the need for truth, and to just enjoy the production with no questions asked. Yet she knew in her heart of hearts she couldn't bring herself to do so, but it would be impossible to meet with the director herself, the one person who could possibly answer those questions. In most concerts and performances (that Natasha had seen), the director never met with anyone after a show because they were celebrating with their cast or being interviewed by the press. It wouldn't have surprised her if Rasmi Arashimov would be the doing the same actions. Feeling the cogs slow in her head and anger at herself swell, Natasha tried to find some sort of solution before the wheels stopped spinning.
"Want to get some air? Maybe it'll help," Clint asked as he watched people walk about the aisles, stretching their legs from the completion of the first two acts. Others flocked to the open doors, wanting to temporarily relieve themselves from the confinement of theatre seats.
"Sure," following Clint to the doors, she could feel the wheels trying to start themselves up again with the motivation of needing the truth as one needed air.
The intermission seemed to fly by with her brain trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in her head, each fragment less useful than the last. Clint did nothing, but watch her offering his help at times, knowing how strategically her brain worked. But with every offer she declined. The sound of crowds chattering did not bother Natasha in the slightest; she was accustomed to this from her past. Even the rising smell of cigarette smoke did not once deter her from searching for the answers in her head.
At one point, she managed to see something through the red; a figure clad in a dark dance suit shakily balancing en pointe. She could have been no more than a young adult, attempting to master the painful elegance that was dancing en pointe. A tall woman dressed in black stared at her, words in a foreign language tumbling from her tongue, as though encouraging this strange adolescent. The figure shook at first, but recaptured her balance, straightening out, and holding her head high like a phoenix. The crimson began to clear in her head and yet she still couldn't make out the faces of the older woman or the teenager. Yet she persisted, focusing harder than she ever had before on such a memory. The foreign words turned to Russian phrases she seemed to barely recognize, the tall woman now grinning in her head at the young adult holding her balance with en pointe, and praising her. The syllables rang in Natasha's ears understanding every word – before the lights began to flicker once more, marking the end of intermission.
Crowds filed back into the theatre as Natasha began to lose her grip on the memory. Gritting her teeth in frustration, a man hurriedly bumped into her as though racing to get back to his seat.
"Hey!"
Murmuring an empty apology the man took off into the theatre, leaving Natasha with slipping memories that drowned in a sea of red. The tall woman, her Russian words, and the adolescent now reaching the bottom of a dark red abyss Natasha knew would be hard to think through.
"Damnit!"
"What? Are you okay," Clint worriedly asked her.
"I was so close to remembering. I could see it, Clint. I know I did," Natasha's defeated tones immediately urged Clint to pull her into a hug and hold her beneath the flashing lights. Kissing her cheek, Natasha saw the dark crimson of her mind as she held Clint close to her.
Knowing she was constantly at war with herself to remember who she was, Clint could only imagine the pain of loss that stung her brain and body at how close she was to victory. He imagined how badly it struck her heart and how she would probably attempt to locate this woman's name and history tonight when they went back to the Avengers Tower. He knew how sophisticated Jarvis was in aiding people's searches as well as the overall technology Tony Stark had. Clint knew that Natasha wasn't afraid to use any of it to her disposal; especially when attempting to remember her real identity.
"Come on," Clint spoke softly.
"The third act is about to begin."
Nodding against his chest, she leaned up and kissed him gently on the lips. Leading her back to their seats, Natasha resolved her questions with the quiet intent that she would run an identity search on Jarvis and trace any history of Rasmi Arashimov. While she allowed the gorgeous scenery and meticulous dancers to weave their way into her mind, she refused to let such a memory slip from her grasp. She was so close to seeing the past unravel behind her eyes and she was damned if she'd let it escape so easily.
The final act closed with the swan slaves mourning the death of their friend Odette who had thrown herself into the lake. Prince Siegfried, refusing to let her leave his life so tragically and simply, dove after her without hesitation. Angering the slaves, they turned on their master, Von Rothbart, who died powerless to their fury. In their small second of depressing victory, they turned to face the shadowy lake that that had swallowed the lovers, Siegfried and Odette. Among the backdrop the dancers and audience watched as a bubbly set piece carried the lovers into a watery haven, where no evil could touch them, and they could happily dwell in the afterlife. As the curtain fell and everyone took their bows, the crowd roared with applause and praise for the wondrous performance. Lights filtered down from the chandeliers and ceiling as people rose for a standing ovation or to leave a few moments early, just to beat the after show rush.
Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Clint escorted Natasha to the curb where he raised his arm for a cab. Throwing him off guard, she leaned in and kissed his cheek as he kissed her crown in return. Behind them, a narrow alley way filled with darkness was briefly lit by the opening of the theatre's side door. Stepping down from the threshold and leaning against the wall, an elderly woman in loose, but formal clothing took a deep breath. Tonight's performance had been a success as she expected and directed as she slowly, but casually walked to the edge of the alley. Looking out through the crowds that left the theatre, she noticed a woman with scarlet hair and her beloved sharing a conversation while waiting for a cab. While she couldn't hear their words, she smiled at them both and quietly praised them for being so young and so deeply in love.
Yet something seemed oddly familiar about the scarlet haired woman.
Squinting through the passerbys and strangers, she noted how her eyes shimmered with determination. Many ballerinas had passed through the elderly woman's lessons and while most of them had motivated eyes, this woman's eyes seemed so familiar; as though she had seen them a long time ago, in another time and another place. In her mind, old puzzle pieces surfaced as though being trapped at the bottom of a lake, and slowly began to slide into place. Staring intently at this woman, she knew she had seen her somewhere before. Brushing a strand of grey hair from her crow's feet green eyes, she tried to get a better look at her by slowly pushing herself from the edge of the alley to the wall of the theatre behind her. At last, the picture was completed in her mind – a young ballerina with scarlet hair tied in a bun, stretching on a beam in a black dance suit with confident eyes, and a graceful figure.
"It can't be….," she murmured to herself, the shock of the situation hitting her like a train and rattling her mind. Doubt erased itself from her very being as she knew who this woman was.
"Natasha!" The old woman's voice carried on the wind, only to be met with the slamming of a taxi door.
Running as fast as she could towards the vehicle, she cried out the same name again and again as the cab sped off into the darkness. Standing on the curb, she watched the yellow car fade into the distance of blinding city lights, cattle crowded cars, and clogged street corners. Knowing there was no way she could catch up to the cab that held Natasha, she pulled out a classy, leather wallet. Humming the Dance of the Swans to herself, she unraveled a secret flap that held a picture of a younger woman with scarlet hair and determined eyes. The young adult was clad in a black dance suit, balancing en pointe with her head held eye in determination. Stroking the teenager's pictured face, she smiled with nostalgia and tears in her eyes – Natasha had definitely grown, but she was still beautiful after all these years.