Chapter 2
Wanda’s tiny apartment on West 81st street is 250 square feet of dingy floorboards, outdated appliances, and crooked cabinets. There is enough room for her bed, a couch, two kitchen chairs, and a clawfoot bathtub.
She can barely afford the space, but it’s worth every penny to live on her own and to not have to deal with any roommates. She doesn’t have to explain her schedule to anyone, doesn’t have to worry that anyone will throw a party before a fourteen-hour work day, and best of all, she can luxuriate in the tub as long as she wants without anyone banging on the bathroom door.
She’s hung pictures of her family on the walls, fixed gauzy white curtains to the one window in the entire apartment, rolled out a tiny runner rug next to the kitchen, and stacked every available surface with ridiculous romance novels that Natasha is forever teasing her about.
She’s never been prouder of her home, enjoying it even in the moments when she stubs her toe on a kitchen chair getting out of bed, or shoving ninety percent of her clothes under her bed because the single closet can hold about two coats and a dress.
Home is where she feels comfortable, its where she can roll out sore muscles, ice aching limbs, and cry about ridiculous things.
And home is where she wants to stay after dancing for eight hours.
So, when there is a loud knock on the apartment door at eight PM, Wanda is regretting her choices.
Especially when she cracks open the door to see Natasha, her bobbed hair ruffled, a black jumpsuit hugging her arms lovingly, and a mischievous smile on her face. Tucked under her arms is a bag full of makeup and a full bottle of tequila.
“I’m under orders to make sure you don’t look like a dancer tonight,” Natasha says, eyes wandering down Wanda’s body. “So that includes the bun,” she flicks the top of Wanda’s hair as she walks in.
“No!” Wanda places her hand on the top of her head protectively.
“Yes, sorry,” Natasha grins, not looking remotely sorry. “Hand over the bobby pins.”
Wanda reluctantly removes the two bobby pins holding her mass of red hair off her face and lets it all collapse around her neck.
“Better already,” Natasha snickers.
“Great,” Wanda mutters. “What else do I need to do?”
“You don’t have to sound like I’m putting you on the rack,” Natasha says.
“Sorry,” Wanda plasters a smile across her face. “What else do I need to do?” she asks in a falsely cheerful tone.
“Now you look like Pennywise, stop,” Natasha shudders.
Wanda laughs for real and grudgingly subjects herself to half an hour of makeup and wardrobe from Natasha.
The real fight begins when Natasha surfaces a pair of heels in the back of her closet that she’s worn exactly twice since she moved to the city.
“Absolutely not,” Wanda says.
“Come on! They’ll make your legs look great!”
“No!”
“They’re what that dress needs to be complete!”
“I don’t care, the dress can deal!”
“I can’t!” Natasha says.
“Too bad!” Wanda says. “My feet already hurt from pointe, I’m not about to force them into a pair of heels.”
“Please?” Natasha asks.
“Nat, I already have five new blisters from today alone,” Wanda says. “I’m going out on my one night off. Don’t push it.”
She sighs. “Fine. Wear the Mary Janes and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Thank you,” Wanda slides her feet into a beat-up pair of platform Mary Janes and faces herself in the mirror.
She has to admit that Natasha did a good job. The pale blue dress she picked out makes her skin glow and the cut shows off her biceps and every muscle in her back. Her hair hangs around her shoulders in a fiery curtain and Natasha tosses her a leather jacket to wrap around her arms.
“Tequila before we go?” Natasha asks.
Wanda groans. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“God, you’re such an old lady,” Natasha enters Wanda’s tiny kitchen and begins rooting around in the cabinets. “I know you have shot glasses in here somewhere.”
“How do you know that?” Wanda asks, seating herself on the edge of her bed.
“Because I gave you two for your birthday last year with Dolly Parton on them,” Natasha’s voice is muffled as she shoves her head into the cabinet under the sink. “Ah ha!” she crows victoriously, emerging with two small glasses clutched in her fist. “Found them!”
Wanda exhales and heaves herself off the bed, accepting the glass from Natasha. “I don’t have any limes,” she admits.
“Oh, I don’t care,” Natasha says, clinking their glasses together. “To the night!”
Wanda privately thinks that she does care, taking a tequila shot with nothing to chase it sounds almost as unappealing as leaving the house, but she taps her glass and throws the alcohol back, the burn trickling down her throat unpleasantly. “Gah!” she says.
“Come on,” Natasha says. “I told Clint and Mon we’d meet them at Darcy’s.”
***
Darcy Lewis lives in an upscale part of the Upper West Side, about three blocks from Lincoln Center. She doesn’t have a doorman, the entrance to her building smells like a wet gym locker, and the stairs of her building are barely wide enough to fit one person, but as they approach her door, Wanda can hear music pouring out of the apartment.
Natasha knocks.
Darcy opens the door, music blasting from the apartment behind her. “Oh, thank god!” she says. “Finally, some real people!” she gives them each a quick hug. “You wouldn’t believe the stiffs who showed up tonight.”
Darcy’s dark hair is pulled back into two cute space buns, tendrils of hair dancing against her jaw line. She’s wearing a short skirt and silver crop top, and she shoves her glasses up as she pulls away from her hug with Wanda, a grin on her face.
“The bar is fully stocked,” Darcy waves around the room. “There are snacks, but I won’t be insulted if you don’t partake,” she winks at them. “And if you want to DJ, you’ll have to tackle Steve, he’s been over there since eight.”
Someone knocks on the door, and Darcy gives them both a quick wave as she darts away.
“Drink?” Natasha asks Wanda.
“Please,” Wanda follows her to the bar.
Darcy’s apartment is cozy, Wanda can see that even in the low lighting and packed with people. The living room furniture has been pushed against two of the three walls to make room for dancing, and best of all, Wanda can see a tiny balcony, stung with Christmas lights.
“Right,” Natasha is surveying the alcohol choices. “What can I get you?”
Wanda pulls her focus from the blinking lights. “Oh, um,” she scans the bar. “I guess a vodka soda.”
She doesn’t really like vodka soda, the tasteless burn hurts her throat, but she’s determined to be good about excess calories, especially if the rumors are true and promotions are being considered.
She can’t slack off for a second.
“Here,” Natasha drops a lemon wedge into the drink and hands it to Wanda with a flourish. “Now go mingle, I hear Darcy’s got some famous friends. Who knows who’s really here!”
Wanda rolls her eyes, but wanders over to where Steve is arguing with Clint over the aux cord for the music.
Both are dressed in casual button up shirts and jeans, Steve’s shirt unbuttoned far enough that Wanda can see his pectoral muscles cutting under the thin fabric.
“Give it to me!” Clint is wailing like a five-year-old as she approaches. “You’ve had it for almost an hour!”
“That’s because my music taste is impeccable,” Steve says snootily.
“You’re not even taking requests!”
“That’s because my music taste is impeccable,” Steve repeats. “Oh, hi, Wanda.”
“Boys,” Wanda nods.
Clint twists his head and whistles low in his throat. “Look at you.”
Wanda performs a half twirl, the skirt of her dress fanning out around her legs. “Yeah, well,” she slurps down some of her drink. “Natasha broke into my house with a makeup brush.”
“Any requests, Wanda?” Steve throws her a flirtatious wink.
“Oh, you’ll take her requests but not mine?” Clint asks.
Steve shrugs. “She’s got a nicer-.”
Wanda holds up her hand. “I will listen to anything you play as long as you don’t finish that sentence.”
Steve snorts and the Spice Girls begin rolling out of the speakers.
The second the song comes on, a cheer wells from the partygoers and at least five people start jumping on the dance floor.
Steve smirks at Clint. “Impeccable. Taste,” he says.
Clint just rolls his eyes and grabs Wanda’s hand, dragging her out on the dance floor, spinning her in time to the music even as she shrieks the lyrics in his ear.
Wanda sees Pepper out of the corner of her eye, bobbing her head in time with the music, her pale pink dress reflecting the lights ethereally, so Wanda twirls out of Clint’s arms to grab Pepper around the waist and haul her in to the dance.
Pepper laughs, startled and Wanda loses herself in the song.
It feels so good to move and not have to worry about perfection.
Not have to worry if anyone is watching her, or try to focus on her flaws.
She gives Pepper a huge grin and spins her under her arm.
“Oh my god!” Natasha arrives in their dance and grabs Wanda by the arm, her nails digging into the skin. “Did you hear?”
“Did I hear what?” Wanda asks.
“Tony fucking Stark is coming tonight!”
“What?” Wanda says, just as Pepper says: “Who?”
“You’ve never heard of Tony Stark?” Natasha’s mouth drops open and Pepper’s cheeks flush pink. “He’s a billionaire!”
“Not quite a billionaire,” Wanda says. “But he’s close.”
“He’s also young and elusive and apparently incredibly hot,” Natasha winks at them.
“Not interested,” Wanda says.
“Of course, you’re not,” Natasha rolls her eyes.
“Nat, don’t get me started on the wealth gap in this country!” Wanda says hotly.
“Can you please put away the soap box for one night?” Natasha grumbles.
“Why is Tony Stark coming to this party?” Pepper breaks in.
“He’s a big donor for the ballet,” Natasha says. “Well, for the entirety of Lincoln Center, but I guess he and Darcy are friends.”
Wanda opens her mouth to respond, but suddenly she hears Darcy squeal, loud enough to carry over the music, “Tony Stark!”
We would look comedic to an outsider, Wanda muses as she, Clint, Natasha, and Pepper’s heads jerk to the door at the same time.
Darcy is hugging a dark-haired man enthusiastically, her face split in a huge grin.
But Wanda hones in on the blond man standing awkwardly next to them, his gaze shifting around uncomfortably. He’s in a soft grey sweater, his hand fidgeting at his sides, as if they’re dying to dive into the pockets of his jeans.
“Nat,” she hisses, catching Natasha’s hand. “Who’s that? Next to Tony Stark?”
Natasha whistles. “No idea, but damn.”
Privately, Wanda agrees, her gaze floating over the blond man’s delectable shape, then his head turns and she gasps low in her throat.
She knows him.
It’s Subway Man.
Elevator Man.
Perfect Jaw Line Man.
She’s distracted by Natasha grabbing her arm. “Come on!” she squeals.
“Where are we going?” Wanda asks.
“To meet a billionaire!” Natasha says gleefully.
Wanda reaches out and grabs Pepper’s hand behind her, refusing to be pulled away without some sane backup.
Natasha drags them through the party goers, which seemed to have doubled in numbers since Wanda arrived, and parks them in front of Darcy.
The blond man has vanished, but Tony Stark has stayed at Darcy’s side, his dark hair gleaming under the party lights.
Natasha gives Darcy a mischievous smile and Darcy mirrors it.
“Tony!” Darcy says. “I need to introduce you. This is Natasha, Wanda, and Pepper, three dancers with the New York City Ballet.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tony’s eyes are impossibly dark, like deep pools. He has a face almost too delicate for his voice, a sweetly curved nose and a gently sloping cheek.
His smirk however, speaks volumes, and Wanda decides that she’d like to stay on his good side.
He’s not looking at her, though.
The only person he has eyes for is golden Pepper.
Wanda resists the urge to snort.
Pepper’s eyes sweep up, her lashes catching the low lights and even Wanda has to admit she looks enchanting.
“Want to dance?” Tony asks her.
“Sure,” Pepper’s cheeks are pink as she accepts his outstretched hand, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.
She shoots a look over her shoulder at Wanda and Natasha and Wanda gives her a subtle thumbs up.
“Typical,” Natasha mutters. “Pepper better know she’ll be supporting us in our old age.”
Wanda chuckles.
“I’m getting another drink,” Natasha says. “You want anything, babe?”
“I’m good,” Wanda says. “My drink’s next to Steve.”
Natasha nods and elbows her way back to the bar while Wanda pushes herself back to Steve.
He’s standing next to her half-filled glass and he winks at her as she takes it. “Safe and sound,” he tells her.
She takes it and sips at it, her eyes darting across the dancing couples and the crowded apartment until she sees the blond man in the corner, nursing what looks to be straight whiskey on the rocks.
She’s only half a vodka soda in, but she meanders over to him, feeling bold. “Hello,” she says as she gets closer.
He looks up without recognition.
“We, um, met,” Wanda says, wondering why he’s not saying anything. “At 66th Street? And at the elevator?”
“Oh yes,” the man takes a sip of his drink. “You were running late.”
Wanda blinks. His tone isn’t necessarily frosty, but it’s definitely not welcoming either. “Yes,” she says. “I was. You were trying to get into a broken elevator.”
“There wasn’t an out of order sign,” the man says.
“How many times do you have to press an elevator button to realize it’s not coming?” Wanda shoots back.
The man’s blue eyes flash in the dim light and he twists to look at her fully. “Who are you?” he asks.
“Wanda Maximoff,” Wanda says, sticking out her hand.
He looks at it without any intention of moving and Wanda lowers her hand, bristling. “Who are you?”
“No one important,” he says.
“Yet you’re friends with a multimillionaire.”
“Oh,” he sneers, actually sneers. “You’ve heard of Tony.”
“The entire world has heard of Tony,” Wanda tells him coolly.
“Is that why you’re over here then?” the blond man asks. “Already picking out your Save the Dates?”
Wanda’s mouth drops open. “Absolutely not,” she gasps. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re a dancer,” the blond man says darkly. “Sooner or later you all want something.”
Wanda stands, about ninety percent ready to punch this impossible man in the throat. “Excuse me,” she says.
She pushes back through the crowd of people, allowing Clint to pull her into a spin and she forgets her anger.
It’s not until an hour or so later, as she’s tucking herself into a corner with Monica, nursing a drink, that she hears a low conversation on the balcony.
She cranes her head to one side, making out the profiles of Tony Stark and his obnoxious blond friend, their wrists dangling off the balcony railing, their faces tilted to the cloudy sky.
“Having a good time?” she hears Tony ask the blond man.
“Not particularly,” the blond man admits.
“What are you looking at?” Monica hisses next to Wanda and she shushes her.
“There are a lot of dancers here,” Tony continues.
“I know,” the blond man says clipped.
“A lot of pretty dancers here,” Tony emphasizes.
“I don’t know why you need me to tag along with you to these things,” the blond man says moodily. “You seem to do all right on your own.”
“What about you?” Tony asks.
“What about me?”
“I saw you talking to the red head a while ago,” Tony says. “How was that?”
“She’s a dancer,” the blond man spits, his tone dripping with disdain. “You know I don’t date dancers.”
“Not even one’s who look like that?” Tony asks.
“She’s certainly not pretty enough to make me break that rule,” the blond man snorts.
“Move!” Monica hisses in Wanda’s ear just in time.
Wanda barely manages to snap her head back before Pepper sweeps by, her gold hair curling around her face enchantingly. “Hello, Tony,” she says, her voice husky.
There is a clapping sound as Tony slaps his blond friend on the shoulder. “Cheers,” Tony says.
He and Pepper step back into the party, Pepper pulling him back onto the dance floor.
Monica touches Wanda’s arm hesitantly. “Wand? You okay?”
“Yeah,” Wanda snaps her focus to Monica, trying to push the blond man’s noxious words from her skull. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Monica says loyally.
Wanda smirks at her. “I’m fine, Mon, really. Besides, you know what they say about eavesdroppers.”
Monica snorts and takes a sip of her drink. “I think I’m going to head out,” she confesses. “We’ve got an early morning.”
Wanda sighs and drains the last of her cup. “I’ll find Nat and follow you.”
They stand on shaky legs and part with a smile. Wanda tries to push her way to Darcy to thank her for the nice night when she slams into a warm body.
“Oops!” she says. “I’m sorry!”
Green eyes meet blue and Wanda can feel her expression harden. “Excuse me,” she says.
The blond man nods curtly to her. “It’s fine. Just look where you’re walking next time.”
Wanda counts to ten in her head. “You’re right,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I would hate for anyone to be injured by a dancer.”
He opens his mouth but she turns on her heel and walks away, giving Darcy a hug as she leaves.
***
She doesn’t realize she never actually learned the blond man’s name until the next morning.
It’s company class and she’s at the barre, her bag tucked against the studio wall and her pointe shoes halfway on her feet.
She’s not as hungover as she expected she’d be, her head only mildly hurts, and her face isn't as bloodless as she expected. Still, she sips on a huge bottle of water, eating a banana slowly, as the room fills up.
Natasha and Monica arrive, both yawning hugely, the former complaining about a horrible headache.
Pepper slinks in, a secret smile on her face and huge dark circles under her eyes.
Wanda waggles her eyebrows at her and Pepper turns a dramatic red, the color sweeping up her throat.
“She so got some last night,” Natasha hisses in Wanda’s ear.
Wanda giggles and slides into a split, stretching out her hamstrings when Agnes arrives, a huge grin on her face.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the room changes; people sit up straighter and stand up taller, smoothing down their hair and leotards.
Wanda stays in her stretch, but sits up, her eyes on Agnes expectantly.
Agnes claps her hands and the conversation in the room dies. Even Lottie Harboard, the oldest dancer with the company stops her conversation with the pianist to look.
“Dancers,” Agnes says proudly. “I would like to present to you our guest choreographer for the season, Vision Shade!”
Instantly the room breaks into applause, but Wanda doesn’t move her hands, she thinks she might have gone into shock.
Because behind Agnes, walking into the studio with a chiseled face and a self-conscious wave is the blond man from the night before.