Warning: nothing is pictured "on screen" but this chapter contains references to past dubious consent/coercion

What If...Natasha Continued on Her Path as a Ballerina?

"Would you stop playing that stupid song?" Natasha rolled her eyes as Yelena's pre-show hype song entered the fifth of its eight-minute length. "You don't even know what it means." All the lyrics were in English, so Natasha didn't understand a word except for "American."

"No. It's bad luck if I don't finish it."

"Remember last time she stopped the song in the middle? That was the show where Evalina sprained her ankle," Fyodor reminded her.

"Fine," Natasha returned to touching up her eyeshadow and ripped her attention away from the inane song. She could use some good luck right about now. That morning, she'd woken up sick. Natasha would've put it off to pre-show jitters, except she didn't get pre-show jitters. That, and it was the fourth morning in a row she awoke and headed straight for the bathroom.

The first time it happened, she panicked. Her understudy for Nutcracker was the daughter of the company's director, and a pure-blooded suka because of it. She wouldn't put it past her to poison Natasha's drink or bash in her kneecaps just to secure the performance. But, she felt back to normal by the afternoon, in plenty of time for warm-up and showtime, and Dreykov's daughter was no nastier than usual, so she put if off as a fluke.

Now, going on day four, Natasha knew she either had a crazy stomach virus that stayed dormant most of the day and night, or something much, much worse. She pushed all thoughts of it to the back of her mind and focused on show mode. Rumor had it some very influential people would be in attendance tonight. Every show had to be perfect, but this one had to be perfect. Natasha shivered imagining how Dreykov might react if something went wrong tonight.

"Hey, you okay?" Fyodor asked her quietly. According to Dreykov's rules, the male dancers weren't even supposed to approach the women's dressing rooms, much less hang out in them, but Fyodor was good at sneaking around. The rule existed to prevent "unprofessional" relationships from developing between members of the company, but one, Fyodor already had a boyfriend, and two, he was more at risk of "unprofessional" behavior surrounded by semi-naked men than by semi-naked women. Besides, nobody followed Dreykov's rules unless he was actively prowling about backstage.

"Yeah," Natasha replied.

"You seem tired."

"It's been a long week."

"It's only Tuesday."

He was right. They'd been doing eight shows a week since the beginning of December, and the fatigue didn't usually set in until after the second show on Friday. Sundays they had off, and that refresh typically lasted her well into the week.

Natasha confessed, "I might be a tad sick."

"'I'm worried about sneezing on stage' sick, or 'I'm worried about passing out on stage' sick?"

"The former." She'd danced through much worse and avoided passing out. As a teenager, she'd finished the last minute of a piece on a broken ankle one time. She'd had to cut her pointe shoe off because her foot was so swollen by the time she got off stage. This was nothing. "Just a little nauseous."

"You don't want to give Antonia the satisfaction?"

Natasha tilted her chin defiantly. "Nope."

Fyodor patted her on the shoulder. "Good girl."

As soon as he turned back to Yelena and the others, Natasha let her head drop for a few seconds before snapping back to proper posture. She finished off her make-up and adjusted her costume as they neared thirty minutes to show time. Finally, the infernal song ended, and Yelena considered them all satisfactorily blessed with good luck. Fyodor dashed back to the men's dressing room as Dreykov made his usual pre-show rounds.

"All set?" he asked, poking his head through the door. His gaze lingered extra long on Natasha as he scanned the room.

"Yes," they replied in sync.

"Excellent. I trust tonight you will put in more than your best effort?"

"Yes."

As soon as he closed the door behind him, all the girls immediately turned to each other, parroted, "Eyes up, bellies in, turn out," and burst out laughing. Those three things had been drilled into their heads from age two or three. In the last twenty minutes before showtime, Natasha and Yelena helped each other stretch while all the other dancers who weren't in the opening scenes paired off to do the same. The sugar plum fairy didn't come in until Act II, so Natasha settled in for a long wait. Yelena, as dewdrop fairy, had even longer before her scene. Together, they watched the hustle and bustle of backstage as party guests young and old, dolls, mice, soldiers, and snowflakes hurried on and off stage as the show progressed. Natasha knew all the music by heart at this point, and at any given moment she knew how many minutes remained before she loaded stage left for her piece.

"Good luck," Yelena told her when the time came.

"Thanks. You too."

Natasha took a deep breath and made her way to the wings. She stood there for the reopening of the curtain after intermission and the angel scene before making her entrance. The moves came naturally with the sound of the music, she'd rehearsed and performed them so many times. Other dancers lined the stage, standing impossibly still and watching as she flitted about. Natasha nailed every single turn. She only started to feel nauseous at the very end, during the big circle of pique turns, but she fought through it and completed the loop without a single bobble. As she bowed to the sounds of rhythmic applause from the audience, she internally heaved a sigh of relief. Dreykov would be pleased.

"Great job," Yelena told her when she returned backstage.

"Thanks."

Now that she'd completed her solo, the nausea abated. But the nervous anticipation remained. She had no signs of fever, so this didn't feel like a true illness. It felt exactly like how her mother described a certain period of her life that Natasha should not be entering right now. If her suspicions were correct, her time here was limited.

That trepidation followed her all the way through final bows and on the way home that night. She stopped at a pharmacy. The person behind the counter smiled at her, probably assuming this stemmed from a committed relationship and not a one-night stand that was all but required of her if she wanted any chance at keeping her job. Everyone in Dreykov's company knew that the girls who didn't last longer than a year all had one thing in common. Yelena had done it only a few weeks before Natasha and assured her it wasn't even that bad.

"A small price to pay to dance on such a big stage," she'd said.

Well, Natasha listened to that advice, and now she was at risk of losing her job anyway. If her math was correct, she had weeks at most. Maybe less. Dreykov was very in tune to the slightest change in the physicality of his dancers. Natasha hadn't noticed anything but the nausea yet, but it was only a matter of time. She opened the front door to her apartment and took a long, hot shower before she dared open the box from the pharmacy.

As a child, the most nerve-wracking wait had been the cast list of her studio's recital every year. After that, it was waiting for audition results from various companies across the country. All of those paled in comparison to this one. Natasha could barely bring herself to look, but she knew if she waited too long it wouldn't be accurate. What she saw confirmed her worst fears.

She was pregnant.

I couldn't resist throwing American Pie in there. And yes, the song is really eight minutes long. As for the rest of it…I don't know how it ended up going that dark. Dreykov's a scumbag, end of story.