A/N: Trigger warning for slightly suicidal tendencies. But it's nothing graphic, more metaphorical.
Act 3- A Regency Ball
Mary, to be completely honest, wasn't entirely sure as to why Thor had to make sure everyone had their part to play for Jane's Ball. For some odd reason, she was to be an heiress and a ward to Emma, thus anyone who wanted to dance with her must ask Emma. Loki had a last minute request for a ballgown instead of a tailcoat and she would've obliged were it not for the fact she was running out of designs and fabric, and she promised to make it up some other time, but if Loki were to go in his female form, those eyes would look stunning against that emerald green chiffon… she should sketch that.
It certainly wasn't her first ball, but it may as well have been. Several of her societies at university had held Balls, she had a debutante ball. It should have felt routine…
But in a giant celebration before moving out of Avengers Tower, Stark demolished the entirety of his and Pepper's quarters, and granted scholarships to budding set and costume designers to design a ballroom in the Empirical style, but also to create clothing for every single guest (and the designers, for they were guests too). Thor sent out manuals for everyone to learn how to dance, the exact year the ball was to be set (1812, she could discuss Napoleon) and every person currently not in a relationship were given dance cards, he hoped he could fulfil all of Miss Austen's dreams somehow. Tony also told her, with a cheeky grin, that hiring students killed off two birds with one stone; he'd get the room done cheaper, with less fuss, with greater detail, love, passion and at a more efficient cost (he didn't mind it being too big), as well as providing these students with the Green Card of all previous work experience to put on their résumés.
So there she stood in a glittering ballroom, white walls with golden gilding and mirrors reflecting every single candle in a candelabra or in a chandelier, she was intermingling with scientists and the elite, given an opportunity to shine just once more before she confined herself to private study in the Compound. At the very least Mr Stark (well, technically he was a doctor) Doctor Banner, Doctor Ross and Doctor Foster-Thorson were all she could have asked for as teachers, but there was no Masters, just a stupid fucking bachelor's she thought was absolutely pointless. She'd yet to be offered a dance, but it was only early, she supposed and there was still plenty of Punch alà Romaine, so perhaps she had hope. They all looked so dashing in their costumes, many of the men in Military regalia and some in well-tailored tailcoats. She was proud to say hers held par, after all, she'd seen many people stare after both Hel and Harley.
"Been offered a dance yet, Natasha Rostova?" Emma teased, taking a sip of punch and smiling at Loki who was waving at Thor and Jane at the other side of the room.
"My dear wife, please stop making her feel bad, the memes she posts of Facebook are terrible enough." Loki rolled his eyes but smiled reassuringly at her "It cannot be as bad as my first ball,"
"But you're Tom Hiddleston's doppelgänger and he's married to Taylor Swift now…" Mary countered, fiddling with the mother-of-pearl button holding up her kidskin opera gloves. She wasn't sure why anyone had asked to dance with her yet, she knew she wasn't the prettiest, but damn it she looked hot in that white muslin and silk with the embroidery motifs and jewels studded into the train she did by hand. She wasn't going to let that go. By fucking hand. She also decorated the ballet slippers by hand, but never mind, it wasn't that important.
"Ah yes, but when your brother is Thor and custom dictates that women ask men to- or at least whichever gender you are attracted to- dance, it is a little difficult. Also I am terrible at Asgardian dances, waltzes are far more preferable." Loki explained with a grimace.
"What my husband means is that he can't do Regency dances," Emma explained with a shrug "That's fine though, I hear many men here can dance them,"
"Mhm, doesn't mean they'll want to dance with me." Mary muttered, adjusting the tiara sitting upon her head. She was also sure that Natasha Romanoff was actually royalty because she was 99.9999% sure the Kokoshnik she was wearing belonged to the royal family. "I'm starting to think the only reason men wanted to dance with me at Jenolan was because we had an infinity stone sitting in our hotel room,"
"Well, they haven't seen you dance yet," Emma quipped before motioning that she and Loki were going to see how the others were doing. Mary agreed and fanning herself with her lace fan, she began to make a slow turn about the room, observing the beautiful velvets that the older women were wearing and the small children in miniature period costume, the excited students babbling with each other in rapturous excitement as they recognised the famous faces enjoying their handiwork.
After what felt like eight turns about the room, she stood by Emma again, fiddling with her still empty dance card.
"Oh damn it all, she's not going to calm down until someone dances with her." Loki muttered to his wife, "Miss Reyes, are you occupied for the next dance?"
"I- uh, no." Mary admitted with a quick glance at the lack of names.
"Then you're going to dance with me. If I step on your toes, woe betide you." He gave the best reassuring, yet cheeky grin he could muster.
"Warning taken, Mr Laufeyson." Mary nodded.
Loki, the fucking liar- well not so much, was not that terrible of a dancer. Alright, so he messed up a couple of pas de basques and the timing was just a little off, but let it not be said he wasn't graceful. And he made brilliant conversation, teasing her about boys staring after her and threatening to chase after them if she didn't. There were passing comments about her, within earshot, commenting on her dancing or her hair or her dress. The nearby dancers wondered at her, whose daughter she was, whose mail-order bride, whose catfish. But she still she smiled, making her curtsies to Loki as he escorted her back to Emma.
The carriage clocks slowly ticked on, counting them. The child in her half-hoped that this would be a fairytale, magic ready to sweep her away at midnight lest her silk dress fade away to rags.
Oh it could be.
She could tell it as such:
Once upon a time there was a girl, hardly worth of note in her little village. She was of modest means, from a family that cared for her and gave her the shining brown eyes that radiated the warmth of the summer day in which she was born. She was clever above all else, that was all she knew, that was all she cared about. The boys were fond of her and the girls played with her and the teachers of the little village's school loved her. She would often run to the wildflower field beyond the farms and beyond the great mountain forest of the little village, to sit and dance and dream of what her life could be.
This little girl braided her hair every morning, tying the raven ends off with white ribbons. She would bid her parents goodbye and she would walk to school with her friends. She was never particularly tall, but she could dance well and that was an asset at the village dance. She grew older, anticipating the village ball that she could finally attend once she turned sixteen. She imagined it to be a glistening affair with the boys she was equally as fond of, the girls who were far too dear to her and conversations with the teachers who would help her grow up to a graceful and beautiful girl of sixteen.
Sixteen came for the little girl with all the abruptness of harsh summer storms. She was not beautiful, that title would be bestowed upon the other girls, the girls far too dear to her heart. Or at least they had been. Slowly the knitted seams of friendship began to fray as conflicts arose over the boys who were fond of her. They expected her to be the town whore with the numbers of boys she sat and debated and talked with. Yet those endearing boys began to notice the beautiful girls and she found herself left with but one source of company, the school teachers. After all, she was clever above all else, and that was all she cared about. She hid how she felt about the dashing, young literature tutor, smiling and teasing as a friend would. She confided in the motherly geometry teacher of all her fears and doubts. But it was the theatre-master who prepared her for the real world. From under his wing those long years, he shaped her into a woman of sharp wit with a fatherly twinkle in his youthful eyes. He fought with her parents, a woman of intelligence in this kingdom would never be allowed into the king's astronomy tower. No, such a thing were impossible, not even with her sharpness. He insisted that the girls' theatrical ability be put to use, let her be clever, let her dance and sing and laugh and simply live beneath that oak tree in that field of wildflowers.
It was not to be. So it was with tears in his eyes he comforted the young woman, her raven hair still braided in plaits ended with white ribbons. A midwife, she could prepare for such. An apothecary's assistant, her dear male friends would enjoy her company and advice. A wife? Well, he wasn't sure how to prepare her, being a not entirely too fussy man. But he assured the girl that she was kind and clever and held all the accomplishments that any man, perhaps even a lord would ask for. Indeed, it surpassed many of the girls. The dress she had sewn herself was far superior to any that the little village had seen before.
Yet that was what ruined her, that little dress. That brilliantly white gown of the latest fashion. The fabric was soft, from the very fibres of the most beautiful silkworms, toiled over a loom by hand and woven into a bolt of fabric. Indeed, it had lain in the old woman's market stall for years, always passed over for it intimidated many who saw it, unable to envision a masterpiece worthy of such fabric. Yet the young woman took the bolt without a second thought, only pausing to pick a red, red ribbon from the fripperies that her former friends had rummaged through in order to decorate new hats.
There was no faerie godmother for this young woman, as she prepared for the dance. It was not a ball, as her teachers would correct, balls were for those in the palace. Those with faerie godmothers were the beautiful girls, and they manifested in the form of wealthy tinkers and tailors and bootmakers. The girl only had her nimble fingers, embroidering the wildflower field she had loved to dance in so oft. Poppies of blood red formed at the hem of her gown, followed by dainty blue cornflowers that perfumed her turns and wild roses that adorned her hair as she imagined herself a queen, a goddess in a world far away. No one disturbed her in the wildflower field, it was too dangerous, mothers would warn, populated with black adders. But the young woman danced and sang and lay there anyway, sitting bare-legged, skirt hiked up as she read books and poetry, blushing as she would unintentionally read a phrase in that dashing literature tutor's voice.
The dance had not meant to ruin her. Yet it had. One by one she was left alone and dance partners did not find her. She still smiled charmingly, as she always had, sitting primly upon a bench, occasionally conversing with those who asked after her as warm brown eyes twinkled beneath garlands of golden lanterns and flowers so cruelly torn from her wildflower field. They were sewn with little expertise and with little kindness into strings of flowers, as if they were raining from the starry heavens themselves. But she could not care less, not even the lively music enough to stir her soul. They toyed with her heart that night, those boys who were once so fond of her. Thus it was with tears in her eyes and a serene face, she curtsied to the hosts, bidding farewell as she wandered from the crowded village square to the wildflower field. For if she were only to be happy there, she may as well stay there.
The path was one she was well-familiar with; the cobblestones would fade to the sandy gravel of farm paths before slowly turning green with the gentle leaf litter of the great forest. The forest would twist and turn in its dense lushness, her feet often skimming the calming trickle of the freshwater stream. But she did not skim, she did not romantically hum and sigh, tonight she ran hard, hair falling out of its curled and pinned up braids. The braids swung as they always had, against her shoulders and her breast in a rhythm. She had been kidding herself to think she was grown, to pin up her hair. But not even the curled braids lasted, untangling themselves and remaining threaded with delicate blossoms of whitest jasmine.
There was a figure in the wildflower field that night, an otherworldly woman with raven hair arguably darker than her own, and skin paler than the jasmine in her now loose hair. She was a witch, she learned, and she offered the young woman a choice. She could remain the wildflower field forever or she could continue onwards, past the field and beyond. Another world.
And the heartbroken girl, feeling a fool, agreed to the other world.
The other world was a lie, it was merely a larger town housing the King's palace. It was no different to her little village. Oh no, she was of little not, but she was clever, that was all she knew and all she cared about. She was just another young woman, signifying her ill-prepared state for marriage by still wearing her hair down. In plaits, they would jibe around the pub as they discussed the new oddity of the girl, like a little child. They would be well into their cups before they released a raucous laugh at the white ribbons that ended the plaits. But they all spoke of the white gown she wore. They whispered it was the work of faeries. The others believed it to be a gift of a faerie godmother who abandoned the girl once learning of her fallen nature. Others believed her to be dead, a ghost from another world visiting, still garbed in the flowers that covered her grave. They were so wholly ignorant.
The news of the young woman with her hair in plaits, ended with white ribbons eventually reached the ears of the king through his fiery spymaster. Wealthy and broken, the news floated upon the summer breeze with the sweetness of the nightingale's melody. It amused him, and he bade his witch bring the girl forth. The girl proved to be an amusement, working in his astronomy tower alongside his easily-angered advisor and his young protégée.
Yet years dwindled on and the king offered time and time again to replace the pristine gown with a far more expensive gifts, of fabric from the farthest flung continents of the planet. Yet every time the woman would refuse, insisting that it must remind her of her heartbreak. Of the betrayal she felt from all those who stated she was not destined for anything in the world. And she wore it with pride, expertly darning every little tear and adding every little bloom she could remember to the gown, reminding her of her former happiness in the little wildflower field. She cursed herself as she realised that no, she did not have a magical godmother as other girls did, but fate provided its' own in turn. The theatre-master had been a veritable faerie godmother and if she willed herself enough to believe, the dashing literature tutor who had been only a little older than she, was her own destined prince. But, she was not that naïve, she refused to be so again. So the cynicism replaced the sheen of romanticism, burying it deep within her as she noted the dwindling amount of pristine fabric left to embroider blooms upon.
That evening, as she had given up all hope, she was called for by the king. The king announced that his patriotic Captain and his marksman second-in-command had returned finally from the bloody war. The palace was aflutter with its usual cruel intrigues and harsh whispers, yet it was markedly sprinkled with the delight of two more men to ensnare for the game of husbandry.
She had decided that night to take it upon herself to use that bolt of shimmering silver the king had procured for her, gathering dust in her overflowing trunk as she refused to replace her masterpiece. Perhaps it was time for a change, the woman thought. So her fingers got to work, forming and shaping a gown that would hug her every curve in the latest fashion. It was alluring and beautiful and she would achieve it.
She had not thought that those at court would begrudge her the single night to be happy. Yet it was not to be so. As she awoke from a fitful dream, the dress was to be found unpicked and in tatters upon the stone floor, sewing box a scattered mess around the palace gardens, unable to be finished in time for the ball.
So the woman, reduced to feeling as if she were the girl she had been once a long time ago, hitched up the skirt of the floral gown as if it were a bouquet of comfort, and she ran, barefoot to the wildflower field of her happiness. She was uncaring of the laden village carts of her childhood friends, or the cooks who were once her playmates carrying their food. But she did stop for an instance, recognising the dashing literature tutor, now sporting a beautiful wife, the sort with a faerie godmother and a child or two hanging off his arms. She smiled, glad to see his face once so characteristically sad, now lit with contentment. So she once again composed herself and ran to the wildflower field, shouting for witch, for the stars and suns to hear.
She did not ask, she demanded. The very heat of her bitter soul unleashed to all the heavens.
So the stars returned her favour.
Her feet tangled in re-grown blooms, the stars themselves danced about her, asking her what she wanted. And she replied simply, with tears in her eyes and the smallest smile on her face. All hope lost to the east wing long ago.
She wanted to be supremely happy, even if it was just once.
The stars then asked if she would be willing to die if she once more stepped in her wildflower field.
The woman replied that she had been ready to die long ago.
So they agreed to her request and they bathed her in starlight and sunshine, forming a glistening golden dress around her cowering body. She was bathed in sunlight, the colour of sunshine the day she was born and of the strands of golden lanterns that had once tormented her, every step a harmonic composition of cheer and a swish of golden fabric unlike anything to be seen on the mortal plane. Her hair adorned with a crown of stars and the triumphant king of all flowers, white roses.
That notion of otherworldliness should have forewarned her, but she didn't care, she was clever and that was all she knew and that was all she cared about. Steely grey clouds lifted her to the palace's shimmering ballroom in a silent descent.
She danced to her heart's content, never tiring and her smile never failing, her heart full. She was greeted with kindness by the men who were once fond of her, the women who had played with her and the teachers who had loved her- but not only that, were proud. The theatre-master laughed, tears in his still youthful eyes, glad to see her among the king's astronomers, to see her grown into the woman the school teachers always knew she would be.
That night she gained the attention of the second-in-command. He was a charming man, broken but kind, blue eyes rivalling the blue of the cornflowers of her usual gown. He danced with her, whispering in her ear and calling her beautiful. She shook her star-adorned head with a laugh, entering his open embrace and asking if he preferred her to be clever instead. For that was all she knew. He called her a cheeky wit and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His heart already lost.
Her happiness could not be surpassed as she danced with the Sergeant, now promoted to his own branch. A captain, or so the whispers said, for his bravery. While the Captain was to be promoted to a colonel. She spun, her feet remembering steps she had long ago danced in the wildflower field, spinning and turning in the marble ballroom, trading the gentle brush of flowers and wild grasses for the swish of silk and taffeta against her ankles.
His cornflower blue eyes were the last thing her own warm brown ones saw. For the ballroom was now her wildflower field of happiness and the sergeant her oak tree that she sat beneath and dreamed. And stars always deliver upon their promises, for wishes must be paid with honesty.
The woman died happy, gently falling to the floor in the arms of the distraught sergeant, unable to understand why the men who were once fond of her and the girls who once played with her stood by, unable to watch and fled. The sergeant wept bitterly and shouting to the stars who had now abandoned her, holding in his arms the graceful body of a young woman, still ingrained in the minds of all as a woman in a dress of flowers, with plaits ended in white ribbons. Never remembering that she was clever, even though it was all she knew and all she cared about.
Mary stepped back a little in shock, taking into account a somewhat uncomfortable looking Bucky. She mused, wondering how long she had sat there in utter pity for herself, biding herself get over it.
"Countess Laufeyson, may I have the honour of dancing with Miss Reyes?" She tried to hide her laugh as Bucky somehow kept a semblance of severity in bowing and kissing her hand.
"You may," Emma smiled "Careful with her, Prince Bolkonsky,"
"No, my life is not War and Peace-" Mary began her protest before remembering that Thor had indeed asked them to be the opening couple for the waltz for some strange and unknown reason.
"Well, it's certainly not Anna Karenina." Bucky quipped "Look, I might have been a Soviet Assassin but we did have to undergo dance training, I'm not that terrible… okay, my sisters all did ballet, I got forced to dance with them at home,"
"Well, it's not as if we can get out of it," Mary brushed back a small curl from her forehead before curtseying deeply and placing a gloved hand atop of his outstretched hand. "Mr Barnes, I would be honoured to have this dance," She gave as brilliant a grin a she could, taking measured steps to the centre of the ballroom, feeling every single pair of eyes upon her.
Tony walked over to the orchestra pit, clapping his hands in the theatrical manner she had come to observe came package deal with Tony, he gathered the attention of the entire room, the talking stopping for the briefest of moments, every breath and every heartbeat audible as the atmosphere in the room electrified.
"Ladies and Gentlemen and everyone in between, the waltz while we consider it a boring piece of our dance repertoire in comparison to dropping it like it's hot on our dance floors," Tony nodded in recognition of the titter of laughs. "The waltz was the equivalent to groping and gyrating on the dancefloor to our Regency counterparts as… well… groping and gyrating on the dancefloor is now."
"Think you can do this, Reyes?" Bucky asked quietly, his right hand resting lightly upon the small of her back as her own right hand rested just below his shoulder.
"Just pretend it's a mission," Mary replied, calming herself despite the thudding of her heart in her corset, though Bucky's warmth seemed to be reassuring as was his smile.
"Don't look at them, just look at me." Bucky instructed her gently, Mary spent the moment admiring his well-coiffed and surprisingly voluminous hair and the glint of the gold fringing on his white officer's coat. Damn she was good at tailoring, she should go into business.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Mr Barnes and Miss Reyes opening the scandalous waltz." Tony announced and the violins began to play. For that single moment in time she could feel every single eye in the room focused on her, unrecognising but intrigued.
Mary exhaled a little gasp as Bucky and her feet carried her in the sweeping steps of the waltz she'd learned so long ago in her ballet classes, her arms and his moving instinctively in sync as they performed a complicated port de bras, her left arm moving to fifth as his own met hers there, twirling her as they moved around the room. The ballroom seemed like a gilded blur now of multi-coloured satins and sparkling jewels as the painted ceiling above seemed to spin endlessly, she was far too giddy, giggling with Bucky as they continued to spin around the room, noticing other dancers begin to join them in their delight.
Her skirt would swirl in the most magnificent manner as she occasionally left is embrace to extend an arm or as he would lead her through a pirouette once again, his face so seemingly carefree and for once genuinely happy. And she could sense that too, a mind filled entirely with bliss with laughs matching hers as she squealed, her voice unheard over the melodic orchestra and the gossiping chatter of the onlookers.
Was she dizzy? Had she drank too much alcohol? No, she was giddy with happiness, willing for the waltz to last for all of eternity as he held her, their eyes meeting constantly unless she moved to turn but they would always search for each other, refusing to move away.
Was she in love? Impossible.
They gradually fell out of the waltz, stilling as time did around her and his arms slowly loosened around hers, yet her eyes still focused upon the crystalline blue of his eyes. She knew them so well, always filled with pain, always filled with sadness. But today? She couldn't pin it down, his feelings lost to a tumultuous sea of her own confusion.
So she pulled away, a vision of silks and muslins fluidly dropping to the floor in a deep and sudden curtsey, the crystal tiara glittering upon her black curls as she straightened once again, moving away from him with as much politeness as she could. She needed to run away, she couldn't stay here, not feeling like this.
Mary weaved her way through the crowd, brushing chiffoned shoulders and perched on the toes of her slippers as she lightly navigated through the sheer mass of people there that night. Watching her. Judging her as they thought to themselves that there was yet another jilted lover abandoning the man who broke her heart. They must have seen her so naïve.
But the pale white and golden ballroom was far too much, her feet felt cold against the dead and lifeless marble floor.
"Mia-" She heard snippets of her name as Bucky tried calling her, following her. Emma tried grabbing her hand but she slipped away, discarding of her gloves in the process. "Mia, please-"
Why did he always sound so loving? It only hurt them more the more they kept pretending.
She kept pushing forward anyway, making her way to the empty entrance hall and into the emergency stairwell. The drab, grey cement and the frigid steps were a marked difference from the stifling heat of the ballroom.
It was only in there, left alone to the solitude of ringing silence and radiating heat from her body that she finally allowed the confused tears to fall in silvery trails, grief welling up in her chest as she resigned herself to the pain that gripped her heart in a tightening fist.
She loved him.