Chapter 3
Vision is going to murder Darcy Lewis.
It’s a surprising realization; he likes to think he’s a rational sort of man.
He doesn’t like to raise his voice, he’s never made anyone cry, and he’s excellent with animals and small children.
He tries his upmost to be gentle, kind, and courteous, even to those who don’t deserve it.
Which is why he finds the impulse to strangle Darcy Lewis completely out of left field.
Her request hadn’t been unreasonable when he had arrived at her apartment that afternoon, jet lagged, dusty, and ready for a nap.
“Vision!” Darcy had squealed when she opened her apartment door at his knock. She’d thrown her arms around his neck and he’d rocked backwards at the force of her hug.
He and Darcy had been friends since her first year as a lighting assistant at the Royal Ballet in London. Vision had been in the corps de ballet and eating lunch by himself when a loud, dark haired girl had plunked herself at his table and talked his ear off for half an hour.
It had been Darcy that had suggested his name to the New York City Ballet as a visiting choreographer, and while he was grateful for her influence in his life, especially when his bank account began a slow plunge, he was finding it difficult to muster up any kind of excitement for the new job.
Because the real truth of the matter is that Vision hates dancers.
It’s a bit of an inconvenience when he’s built his career around spending long hours with the very people he can’t stand, but he loves the art.
He loves that in the moments he’s dancing, he feels like he’s weightless and flying.
Every problem vanishes, every issue that plagues his brain, every social anxiety or faux pas disappears.
So, he suffers through because it’s worth those few precious moments he gets to fly.
He’d dropped by Darcy’s apartment, intent on saying a quick hello before hailing a cab to his hotel and collapsing for the next twelve to fifteen hours.
Unfortunately, Darcy had other plans.
“Please?” she had said, her eyes two huge pools of blue behind her glasses. “I really want you to see the lights for my new show. Besides, it’ll give you a nice preview of the company before tomorrow.”
And because he is an idiot when he hasn’t slept for twenty-four hours, Vision agrees.
It’s his own fault, really, he decides as he sits in the red seats just slightly too small for a man of his stature. He hadn’t asked what the show was before arriving.
But really, Darcy should know better than tricking him into seeing a production of Swan Lake.
It’s not that he hates Swan Lake. The music is undeniably beautiful, and the story isn’t awful, he just finds it tired.
He finds it boring. The worst thing a piece of art can be.
Granted, Vision admits that he’s probably a little biased as he can confidently say he’s seen over two hundred productions of Swan Lake and he’s probably performed in about fifty of them.
But every Swan Lake is the same. Classical ballet to a T. It’s beautiful and mysterious and completely boring.
Vision stifles his yawn behind his hand as the swans come running out for the tenth time in ten minutes, their feet moving under them in tiny fast pricks.
The music crescendos as the prince runs after Odette, his hands desperately grabbing for her as she twirls from his fingers.
A woman next to him sniffles, bringing a tissue up to her eyes.
Vision wills the expresso he’d shot right before intermission to carry him through the last few minutes, his eyes drooping as the swans rise on their toes.
His attention is caught by a grouping of corps de ballet girls clustered together near stage right, their eyes swept down at their crossed hands, their mouths twitching.
Were they talking?
Vision squints his eyes, wishing he’d brought his binoculars.
Yes, they were undeniably talking. Impressively barely moving their mouths, but he sees a red headed girl smirk before she can catch herself.
Interesting.
Vision follows the red headed girl as she runs offstage, noting that the skin on her arms is flushed from the exertion, her feet stretching under the long tulle skirt.
He hates that her tiny smirk was the most interesting thing he’d seen the whole evening.
The swans rush onstage yet again, but this time, Vision catches his eyes on the red head, and watches her solely, willing her to entertain him again.
Her hair shines bright under the lights, illuminating her even in the lineup of twenty other women. He wishes he were closer to the stage so he could see her face. As it was, all he could see her red mouth and two dark slashes of eyebrows.
Mist rolls onto the stage and he sees her duck into it, and he imagines that she’s enjoying the cool, opaque air across her cheeks.
He knows that’s what he would be doing after dancing for two straight hours.
He’s so intent on watching the red head, that the thick velvet curtain falls before he can register that the ballet is over.
The woman next to him jumps to her feet before the curtain has even risen again, her applause deafened by the uproar around him.
Vision sees the red head curtsy with the rest of the girls and she runs offstage, her arms held gracefully above her shoulders, her face completely smooth.
He sits through the ten curtain calls for the principle dancers, his head beginning to pound as he wishes he was at the end of the row and could duck away.
Finally, the house lights rise, finally the woman next to him gathers her purse, her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she shoots a very large smile to the man next to her. Finally, Vision slides out of the row of seats and inserts himself into the enormous crush of people exiting the theater.
“Did you see Maggie?” he hears someone say in front of him.
A large man wearing a blue sports coat is tugged away by a small girl with a long pink dress and Vision is able to see the speaker.
She’s got her brown hair fashioned into a perfect bun and as she walks, her feet turn out at the hips. Everything about her body, from the bun to her ramrod straight back, to the way her hands flutter around her thighs as she walks, screams dancer.
Vision knows it’s protocol for most dancers who are just starting in a company to watch the performances they aren’t in. He himself had once sat in the nosebleeds of the theater and watched every production, wishing he were anywhere but there.
“She could barely get through that last movement,” the brown-haired girl is snorting as he studies her back.
A second girl, her hair in a neat French twist, turns her head to her friend and smiles mischievously. “It’s all that pizza.”
The brown-haired girl grins. “Did you see Patrick? He could barely lift her!”
They giggle and Vision pushes his way past them, feeling sick.
This was why he hated dancers; they were all so ugly to each other in the face of someone else’s success.
He elbows his way through the crowd in the lobby when a loud voice calls: “Vision Shade!”
A woman with dark hair fashioned in a twist so tight that her eyebrows are pulled upwards, is striding towards him purposefully. She’s wearing a silky blouse and a pair of dark trousers, and as she moves, he sees a practiced grace in the way she holds her neck.
“Agatha Harkness,” she holds out her hand. “Director of the New York City Ballet.”
He doesn’t tell her that he’s well aware of who she is. Her no nonsense, cut throat methods are legendary across the dance world. He just extends his hand, shaking hers firmly. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Harkness,” he says.
“Please, call me Agnes,” she says. “I didn’t realize you would be here this evening.”
“Neither did I,” Vision catches sight of Darcy across the lobby, an enormous black sweatshirt falling to her thighs, a dark hat covering her hair. He waves and she beams before seeing who he’s talking to, her eyes widening. “Darcy convinced me to come see the show.”
Darcy bounds to his side, a bright smile across her face. “Hello Agnes,” she says.
“Darcy,” Agnes nods.
“It was a lovely performance,” Vision says, only feeling the slightest pinch of guilt at the lie. “And your lights,” he turns to Darcy, feeling an actual smile creep across his face. “Magnificent.”
“Will we see you tomorrow, Mr. Shade?” Agnes asks him.
“I was planning to drop by,” Vision admits. “But only to sign my contract.”
“Oh,” Agnes deflates slightly. “We can’t tempt you to stay and watch some rehearsals?”
“Not tomorrow,” Vision tries to sound firm.
Darcy dimples next to him, placing a hand on his arm. “He’s going to be much nicer to your staff if you let him sleep off some of the jet lag, Agnes.”
“Oh!” Agnes looks surprised, like she’d never considered the possibility of time zones before. “Oh, of course. I hadn’t even thought about the jet lag, you look so awake,” she smiles at him.
“Then I must be a fantastic actor,” Vision says honestly, feeling his body sway. “But since it’s been brought up, I think I need to get to my hotel before I collapse.”
“I’ll call you a cab!” Agnes says.
Something about her overeager need to make him comfortable is causing his skin to crawl.
“I’ll get him situated, Agnes,” Darcy promises.
“Right,” Agnes looks disappointed for a split second before her mouth slides back into a smile. “Have a good night, Mr. Shade.”
“You too,” Vision says over his shoulder as Darcy leads him away.
They cross the lobby to the enormous glass doors that lead out onto the plaza space of Lincoln Center before Vision relaxes. “Is she always like that?” he asks warily.
Darcy’s jaw is clenched, her chin protruding. “I wish I could say no,” she says honestly.
“Great,” he sighs.
“She’s harmless, really,” Darcy tries to comfort him. “She’s just… she’s a magpie. She enjoys the new shiny, sparkly toy.”
“And that’s me,” Vision confirms.
“For this week,” Darcy says.
“Great,” Vision repeats, looking out at the gigantic fountain in the center of the Lincoln Center plaza, large spurts of water dancing in the air.
Darcy sighs gently. “I have to get backstage to help Jimmy with the clean-up,” she tells him. “Are you good to get yourself home?”
Vision nods. “I’m good,” he steps away from her, moving to push open one of the glass doors. “Oh,” he turns back to her, pointing a finger in her face. “Don’t think you’re off the hook for tricking me into watching Swan Lake.”
Darcy dimples again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He wrinkles his nose at her and she sticks out her tongue.
“See you tomorrow?” she says.
“Tomorrow?” he tilts his head. “Are you going to be at the studios tomorrow?”
“No,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about my party tomorrow night.”
He had. “No,” he answers.
She raises an eyebrow. “See you there?”
“See you there,” he agrees.
She blows him a kiss and twists on her toes, disappearing into the dwindling crowd of the lobby.
Vision pushes out of the building, stepping onto the pavement, the warm, fall air pleasant against his skin after the industrial air-conditioned theater.
A small girl poses for a photo on top of the rim of the fountain, her tiny arms stretched above her head.
Vision pulls out his phone, intent on getting an uber to his hotel, but when he types in his address, the app informs him that it will cost close to one hundred dollars to get him downtown.
“No fucking way,” he groans quietly to himself, the exhaustion of his evening enveloping him.
He just wants to be tucked into his nice, big bed in his hotel room. Not standing next to an enormous fountain and tiny girls in little tulle skirts.
“Excuse me,” he sighs, asking a wayward man in a blue button down, holding a program from the ballet. “Do you know where the nearest subway entrance is?”
The man wordlessly points across the cobblestones and Vision can just barely see a green globe shining in the distance.
“Thanks so much,” Vision says, beelining for the subway.
The air is musty and dirty and he holds his breath as he smells the sharp odor of urine. He buys a metro card quickly, only putting a couple of dollars on it, and manages to swipe through after a couple of false tries.
Google maps informs him he needs to be on the downtown track, going towards Christopher Street, but when he faces the large sign that hangs above the edge of the tracks, all he sees is: 1 train to 242nd Street.
That sounds like the wrong way, but his brain is fuzzed with exhaustion and he’d rather not spend the whole night riding the train up and down the tracks, so he makes a beeline towards a small figure on a bench, the only person currently on the platform.
As he gets closer, he can see that the figure is a woman and she’s brushing her red hair with a small pink hair brush, the strands lighting up even in the dank dimness of the subway fluorescents.
He sits down a couple of seats away, hoping she’ll turn her head.
She doesn’t, the brush disappearing into her long red hair again.
“Uh,” Vision coughs to get her attention, hoping he doesn’t look too frazzled.
She turns and he feels like a bit of wind has been forcibly removed from his lungs.
She has the greenest eyes he’s ever seen.
Her face is a soft oval, with a small, freckled nose, and delicately arched eyebrows. There is a swipe of dark makeup below both of her eyes, and while it should have made her look messy, it only enhances the bright green of her eyes.
“Yes?” the woman says. Her voice cracks and she looks uncomfortable.
Vision hopes he’s not making her uneasy. “Do you know if this train goes to Christopher Street?”
“Um,” she says, her attention seemed caught somewhere around his forehead. “Um,” she repeats, before he sees her sit up straight, like she’s been electrocuted. “No,” she says. “No, I’m sorry. You need to be on the other side of the tracks.”
Vision feels exhaustion roll over his shoulders. “Great,” he mutters. “Just my luck.”
The woman looks like she’s about to say something, but before she can, the 1 train decides to roll into the station, its shrieking stop causing him to wince.
“Um,” the woman says again, hopping to her feet and grabbing her bag. “Good luck.”
He barely hears her though, because he’s honed in on her bag that was tucked against her right side, out of sight. The bag reads: NEW YORK CITY BALLET, and he can see pink ribbons of a pair of pointe shoes visibly poking out.
She’s a dancer.
Of all the rotten luck.
He stands quickly, not wanting to prolong the encounter now that he knows who she really is. “Yeah,” he says and walks away.
He crosses over to the other platform, arriving just as the red headed woman’s train pulls out of the station, and he catches sight of her pale face, framed in the filthy window of the train.
He stutters out a half gasp, because he recognizes her. From this distance, he’s not sure why he didn’t see it sooner, but she’s the smirking swan.
And now, as his train screeches into the station, he’s feeling just the tiniest amount of guilt.
Because he thinks he can accurately say that she was the best part of his evening.
***
Vision wakes the next morning to a horrible pounding noise on his hotel door.
He sits up straight when the racket begins, his head spinning in protest as the blood rushes from his skull. He thinks whoever they are might go away if he’s quiet, but the pounding begins anew, and this time, its accompanied by a voice.
“Rise and shine!”
Vision groans because he knows that voice.
He stands and pulls on the fluffy white robe provided by the hotel, covering up his navy-blue boxers and bare chest as he crosses to the door and wrenches it open. “What?”
“’What’ he says,” a megawatt grin fills the doorway. “Like he doesn’t know what.”
Tony Stark, rich, famous, and incredibly handsome, ruffles Vision’s already impressive bedhead, stepping around him to enter the hotel room.
Vision has known Tony for almost eight years, after Darcy invited him to lunch one sunny afternoon when Vision was still dancing with the Royal Ballet, and Darcy was still a lighting intern.
Tony is brash and rude, and has more money than he knows what to do with, but Vision can confidently say he’s one of his best friends.
“What are you doing here?” Vision asks, letting the door swing shut.
“I love room service breakfast,” Tony plops in the one chair in the room, its puce colored upholstery washing out his complexion.
Vision yawns. “Get your own room, then.”
“You’re testy in the morning,” Tony lifts the room service menu between a thumb and forefinger.
“Yeah, well, I was rudely awakened,” Vision yawns again. “What time is it?”
“Ten thirty!” Tony says cheerfully.
“What?” Vision feels his eyes widen and he dives to the curtains, the same awful puce color as the chair, and wrenches them open.
Sunlight snakes into the hotel room, and Vision has to blink against the bright assault.
The city stretches out below him, the buildings sprawling out in a neat pattern of rooftops and window panes. Right below his window, he sees an elderly woman being helped out of a dark car, and a man walks by with three large dogs.
“I’ve never slept this late,” Vision marvels.
“Did you sleep at all on the flight over?” Tony asks him.
“Maybe an hour,” Vision has his forehead placed to the glass of the window, mesmerized by the city. “Not enough.”
“Coffee?” Tony has the menu open in front of him.
Vision suddenly freezes. “Wait,” he says. “What time is it?”
“Ten thirty,” Tony says.
“Oh god!” Vision bolts away from the window. “I’m supposed to be at the studios in thirty minutes.”
He flings himself into the marble bathroom, grabbing at his suit case for clothes, any kind of clothes. He washes his face fiercely, shaking water across the countertop.
“Will you relax?” Tony calls over the sound of the sink. “I’ll give you a ride up there.”
“I’ll still be late,” Vision sticks his head out of the bathroom door, his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.
“So?” Tony studies his fingernails. “You’re a big shot choreographer now, not some scared dancer in the back of the class.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to be late!” Vision buttons up a pale blue shirt, shoving his feet into a pair of jeans.
“So, tell them you had a meeting with me,” Tony grins at him as Vision comes hopping out of the bathroom, yanking a sock up his foot.
“I’m not an asshole,” Vision says. “I’m not going to namedrop because I overslept.”
“Your funeral,” Tony shrugs.
Vision throws a book and his wallet into his briefcase, smoothing his fingers through his hair one last time before wrenching open the hotel room. “Coming?” he asks Tony.
“Your fly’s unzipped,” Tony comments as he passes.
***
Tony’s driver Sid manages to get them to the theater in fifteen minutes, which means Vision is only five minutes late, though he’s pretty sure he saw his life flash before his eyes at least eight times on the journey from his hotel in the West Village, to Lincoln Center at 66th street.
He slides out of the car; his feet smacking the pavement and turns to give Tony a goodbye nod.
“You’re coming to Darcy’s tonight, right?” Tony asks him.
“Oh,” Vision had forgotten Darcy’s party in the rush of the morning. “I don’t know, Tony.”
“Let me rephrase,” Tony says. “I’ll be by to pick you up at nine.”
Vision sighs and lets the car door swing shut. Behind him, he hears Sid’s tires squeal as the car takes off down the street, two taxies honking angrily.
The sun is higher in the sky, its unforgiving light beaming down on his cheeks as Vision crosses the now abandoned plaza as quickly as he can, beelining for the underground entrance to the stage door.
Inside, the air is pleasantly cool and he blinks away spots from his eyes as they adjust to the dim interior of the building.
“Hello, can I help you?” a man of middling height with military haircut and a lanyard on his neck, pokes his head around a corner.
“Hi,” Vision shifts his weight nervously. “I’m Vision Shade, I’m here to sign some paperwork-.”
“Oh,” the man’s voice has changed and he steps fully around the corner. “You’re Vision?” He takes a couple of steps forward, his hand extended. “I’m Jimmy Woo, Darcy’s told me a lot about you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Vision shakes his hand. “Um, sorry, what do you do here?”
“Stage manager,” Jimmy says.
“Ah,” Vision says. “So, you do everything.”
Jimmy laughs. “Pretty much.”
Vision shoves his hands in his pockets. “I-um,” he says. “I’m trying to sign some paperwork for Agnes, do you know how I can find her?”
“Her office is two floors up,” Jimmy says. “Take a right and just walk straight down the hall.”
“Right,” Vision nods. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Jimmy steps out of his way so he can make his way to a dingy little elevator labeled: SERVICE ELEVATOR.
It arrives quickly and putters upwards as Vision runs through Jimmy’s directions in his head.
The doors ding open and Vision is dumped into a hallway lined with beautiful photographs of dancers. Leaping, turning, lifting, every movement is caught at every different angle. Vision peers closer at a woman with dark hair, her body caught mid leap, the skirt of her costume streaming behind her.
Her eyes are closed and her face is a serene smile, as though she were doing nothing more strenuous than getting up off the couch.
“Ms. Harkness,” a voice next to his elbow says and Vision jerks. A petite man is standing next to him, his light brown hair ruffled gently, his shoulders pressed back as he gestures at the picture. “That’s Ms. Harkness,” he says.
“She was lovely,” Vision murmurs.
“One of the best dancers the company has ever seen,” the petite man turns to him. “Peter Parker, I’m Ms. Harkness’s secretary.” he extends his hand.
“Vision Shade,” Vision shakes his hand.
Peter’s eyes grow enormous, his mouth opening. “You’re the guest choreographer this season, aren’t you?”
Vision ducks his head. “I am,” he admits.
“Oh!” Peter looks like he might do a little wiggle with his body, but catches himself just in time. “Ms. Harkness will be very excited you’ve arrived.” He moves away from Vision, and Vision notes that he’s a graceful man, his hands moving with nimble dexterity.
“Are you a dancer?” Vision asks him.
Peter twists his head, a sheepish smile on his face. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to a trained eye,” Vision says.
Peter picks up a clip board, running his finger down the list. “I’m a senior at S.A.B,” he admits. “I pick up shifts as Agnes’s assistant on days when I don’t have school.”
Vision crinkles his eyebrows. “S.A.B.?” he asks.
“School of American Ballet,” Peter explains. “You can’t join the company unless you’ve trained there.”
Vision nods absently. “The Royal Ballet does something like that too.”
“Oh,” Peter looks up from the clipboard. “Ms. Harkness just left to run a rehearsal. If you’d like to go watch, she’s in Studio B.”
Vision contemplates his options. “How do I get to Studio B?”
“Straight down this hallway, then down one floor, to the right,” Peter points.
“Thank you,” Vision steps away, telling himself that it’s probably a good thing he gets to observe a rehearsal.
The hallway is long and white, the walls clean and reflective. The photos dwindle the further he gets from Agnes’s office, until the hallway opens into a large waiting room, the sides lined with chairs. Against the far wall is a set of stairs running up and down, but right in front of him is an elevator, its sleek metal doors reflecting his body.
Choosing to take the elevator, Vision clicks the button gently.
Nothing happens.
He clicks it again, but the button doesn’t light up, the elevator doesn’t whirr.
He clicks it one more time, feeling his face screw up with frustration.
“It’s out of order,” he hears behind him.
He turns and catches sight of a now familiar red headed woman. She must have passed him as he leaned over the elevator button, because she stands on the steps, her body outlined by a tendril of sunlight. She wears a blue leotard with pink tights hiked over the pale fabric. She has pointe shoes on her feet and her red hair is twisted into a bun on the top of her head, though whisps of hair are escaping the confines of her hair pins.
She stumbles on the steps and he sees recognition cover her face. “It’s you.”
The minute the words leave her mouth, she flushes red, the color sweeping across her cheeks. Vision isn’t sure how to respond without apologizing for his behavior the night before. “Do you know where I can find Studio B?”
Something flashes across her face but it’s gone before he can identify it.
“One floor down,” she says. “Second door on your right.”
Her eyes catch on something behind him and she curses loudly, twirling on her toes and sprinting up the stairs, her pointe shoes clomping on the wooden steps.
He looks at the wall behind him and sees a large clock that reads eleven thirty in big, bold numbers.
Downstairs, he locates Studio B, but instead of Agnes, he sees a girl with long brown hair whirling around to music, her eyes closed.
Before he can scoot away from the window, the girl catches sight of him and stops, rushing over to pause the music. She fixes him with enormous brown eyes, so he pushes open the door slightly to stick his head inside.
The studio smells like sweat, perfume, and rosin, and he breathes in the familiar odor greedily.
“Um, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” the girl answers.
“I’m looking for Agnes, I was told she’d be down here.”
The girl smiles. “No, sorry,” she says. “She rushed off to cover a rehearsal.”
“Oh,” Vision says.
“She’ll be back down,” the girl promises. “You can stay with me until then.”
Something about the way she’s looking at him makes Vision feel extremely uncomfortable. “Uh, that’s okay,” he says. “I’ll wait for her upstairs.”
The girl looks disappointed, but she shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says.
Vision lets the door shut behind him, not sure where to go.
Clearly, Agnes is busy, and there’s no way he’s spending any extra time with the girl in that studio, but he’s unsure of what to do.
He wanders back towards the stairs when he spies a small studio tucked into a corner. It’s empty and dark, and he steps inside, pulling the door closed and flicking on the lights.
Here’s where he belongs. He feels it deep in his bones.
There is nothing more satisfying to him than an empty studio.
He kicks off his shoes and drops his air pods in his ears, not wanting to worry about trying to figure out the sound system, and starts to move.
He’s not warm at all, so his muscles aren’t ready to do the leaps and turns that he’s been dying to do since he stepped onto the plane the day before, but he allows himself to push and pull, allows his body to carry him until he feels ready to begin throwing himself higher and higher.
He’s not sure how long he’s danced until the song in his ears fades and he comes to a stop in the middle of the space, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his back.
Applause breaks out behind him and he yanks his earbuds out of his ears as he turns.
Agnes leans against the door jam, her hair yanked back in a twist, and a deep purple sweater hanging from her torso. “Impressive,” she says. “They weren’t lying about you.”
“Thank you?” Vision isn’t sure if it’s a compliment.
“Are you sure you won’t consider coming out of retirement?” Agnes only looks like she’s half joking.
Vision shakes his head. “Sorry.”
She sighs. “Oh well,” the left side of her mouth twists up. “I assume you’re here for your contract?”
“Yes,” Vision slides his feet back into his shoes. “I’m sorry I was late this morning.”
Agnes waves away his apology. “It’s nothing,” she says, leading him out of the studio.
They walk back upstairs to her office, Agnes staying silent as they move, and Vision is thankful.
He’s feeling particularly dreamy as they walk, as though part of his brain is still weightless in the studio.
Agnes leads him to a sunny office on the second floor, gesturing for him to sit in the chair opposite the desk. Peter comes scurrying in and Vision asks him for a cup of water, giving the small man a smile as he settles further into the chair.
Agnes opens his contract and begins the process of walking through each clause. Vision appreciates her thoroughness, but he’s been over the contract about a hundred times.
“…And there’s the matter of the ballet you’ll choreograph,” Agnes’s voice clunks him out of his stupor.
Vision shakes himself. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks.
“The ballet you’ll choreograph,” Agnes says gently.
“I thought I would just be choreographing pieces for the nights in between the story ballets,” Vision says.
“We considered that,” Agnes nods. “But someone with your talent, we’d like to have you reimagine one of our old classics.”
Vision fights the urge to wrinkle his nose. “I don’t think I’ll be here long enough,” he says desperately.
“Oh, we aren’t having you stage a whole ballet,” Agnes waves the concern away. “That would be impossible. No, we’re thinking about setting a small section of a ballet for a gala coming up in November.”
“What’s the piece from?” Vision is almost scared to ask.
“The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet,” Agnes says proudly, like she’s expecting him to squeal.
“I-,” Vision hates Romeo and Juliet.
He might hate it more than Swan Lake.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Agnes assures him. “Just something to think about as you’re watching classes and rehearsals the next couple of days.”
“Okay,” Vision nods, though he’s feeling a bit of that sinking sensation he felt the night before, squashed in a too small seat, watching a ballet he can’t stand.
Agnes stands and extends her hand. “Welcome to New York City Ballet, Mr. Shade.”
Vision shakes her hand, feeling trepidation creep up his spine. “Thank you.”
***
That evening, Tony Stark does indeed arrive at his hotel at nine that evening.
Vision has managed to hoist himself into a grey sweater and a nicer pair of jeans, though he smooths both down with anxious fingers as he stands in the elevator down to the lobby.
Tony is in a button down with the sleeves rolled up, a grin on his face as he claps Vision on the shoulder. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Vision responds morosely.
“Oh, calm down,” Tony says. “It’s a party. We drink a little, flirt a little, and you’re home by midnight to sleep, grandpa.”
Sid drives calmer than that morning, the city lights melting past the windows of the sleek black car.
“How was the day?” Tony breaks the silence.
“They want me to choreograph Romeo and Juliet,” Vision mutters.
Tony guffaws so loudly, Vision can see Sid wince.
“You don’t have to take that much pleasure in my pain,” Vision mutters.
“Sorry,” Tony wipes under his eyes. “I’m so sorry, it’s not really that funny, but seriously, you? Choreographing Romeo and Juliet?”
“It’s not the whole ballet,” Vision feels compelled to point out. “Just the balcony scene.”
Tony only laughs harder. “Even better,” he wheezes out.
Vision turns his face to the window again, not amused.
“I’m sorry,” Tony manages to calm down.
Vision deflates slightly. “At least I still get to do some of my original stuff.”
“True,” they pull up in front of Darcy’s apartment building and Tony pushes open the car door, sliding out. “Thanks, Sid,” he says.
Vision follows Tony as he confidently walks up and buzzes Darcy’s apartment. The door clicks and they both slide into the impossibly narrow hallway.
Vision can hear the party before he sees it, pounding music sliding out from under Darcy’s door. Vision knocks and Darcy throws open the door, a grin on her face.
“Hi!” she gives him a huge hug, her glasses slightly askew as she pulls away.
“Hi,” he smiles at her.
“And where’s my hello?” Tony asks from behind him, nudging him out of the way.
“Tony Stark!” Darcy squeals, throwing her arms around his neck.
Vision lingers awkwardly next to them, his eyes lighting on the bar. “Going to make a drink, Darc,” he says and she waves him away, chattering a mile a minute with her arms still caught around Tony.
Vision pours a generous amount of whisky into a cup and adds a couple of ice cubes before allowing his eyes to wander across the party.
There is a dance floor set up where couples are bobbing and weaving around each other. A man with a dancer’s posture stands next to the speakers, clearly in change of the music. Vision settles into Darcy’s couch, pushed out of the way to make room for dancing and he sips his drink, content to people watch.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a red headed woman making a beeline towards him. She’s wrapped in a blue dress that shows off the muscles in her legs and arms, and the party lights bounce off her skin ethereally.
“Hello,” she says as she gets closer.
He looks up at her.
“We, um, met,” the woman says. “At 66th Street? And at the elevator?”
As if he could forget her. As she sits, he catches a whiff of something floral and citrusy, and her skirt slides upwards as she shifts. He sips his drink, terrified she’ll see how she’s affecting him.
“Oh yes,” he says, stupidly. “You were running late.”
The woman blinks. “Yes,” she says. “I was. You were trying to get into a broken elevator.”
Her tone isn’t entirely mocking, but Vision can feel his hackles rise. “There wasn’t an out of order sign.”
“How many times do you have to press an elevator button to realize it’s not coming?” the woman shoots back.
Vision feels something akin to anger grabbing at his gut and he twists to look at her fully. “Who are you?” he asks, rudely.
“Wanda Maximoff,” the woman says, sticking out her hand.
Vision just looks at her hand without any intention of moving.
He knows he’s being horribly rude. But he’s not sure how to stop it.
“Who are you?” the woman asks.
“No one important,” he says.
“Yet you’re friends with a multimillionaire.”
“Oh,” Vision can feel something drop into place. She’s interested in Tony. Of course. “You’ve heard of Tony.”
“The entire world has heard of Tony,” Wanda snaps.
“Is that why you’re over here then?” he asks. “Already picking out your Save the Dates?”
He wishes someone would stop his mouth from moving.
Wanda’s jaw hits her chest. “Absolutely not,” she gasps. “Why would you think that?”
He doesn’t, but there’s something about this woman that irks him. Something about her that he can’t compartmentalize.
He hates it.
“You’re a dancer,” he says. “Sooner or later you all want something.”
Wanda stands, fury radiating off her face. “Excuse me,” she says and stomps away before he can say anything else.
He watches as she’s swept away into the crowd, and she soon begins to dance, moving her body with an elegance that makes him want to watch her more.
It’s exactly like the night before: something about her catches his eye and holds it.
Vision sees Tony dancing with a beautiful blond a few minutes later and he settles deeper into the couch, content to stay in that place for the rest of the night.
Tony has other plans, he arrives sweaty and tipsy, dragging Vision out on to the balcony for some fresh air while his blond friend goes to the bathroom.
Vision leans against the railing of Darcy’s balcony, letting his wrists dangle.
“Having a good time?” Tony asks
“Not particularly,” Vision admits, though unable to admit why.
“There are a lot of dancers here,” Tony continues.
“I know,” Vision says.
“A lot of pretty dancers here,” Tony emphasizes.
Vision resists the urge to roll his eyes as he fixes his gaze to the cloudy sky. “I don’t know why you need me to tag along with you to these things,” he says. “You seem to do all right on your own.”
“What about you?” Tony asks.
Vision freezes. “What about me?”
“I saw you talking to the red head a while ago,” Tony says. “How was that?”
An image of impossibly green eyes flash in front of his eyes.
“She’s a dancer,” Vision says, every frustration seeping out in his tone. “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,” Vision snorts.
Liar, his brain hisses.
Tony looks like he’s about to say something else, but from behind them a husky voice says: “Hello, Tony.”
Tony’s blond dancer has emerged from the bathroom, her golden hair curling around her face enchantingly.
Tony smacks Vision on his shoulder. “Cheers,” he says.
He and the blond step back into the party, the blond pulling him back to the dance floor.
Vision stays on the balcony for a few extra minutes, allowing himself to enjoy the relative quiet before he joins the party again.
As he enters the apartment, he slams into someone, the air releasing from his stomach with a quiet: “oof”.
“Oops!” a voice says. “I’m sorry!”
He looks down and meets impossibly green eyes, because of course it would be her he ran into.
He watches her expression harden “Excuse me,” she says, stiffly. Her voice is dripping with disdain, and Vision wants to wince away from it.
But, instead, he acts like an ass.
“It’s fine. Just look where you’re walking next time.”
Wanda closes her eyes for a long moment. “You’re right,” she says finally, her voice falsely sweet. “I would hate anyone to be injured by a dancer.”
Something cold runs down his back because the way she says the word dancer, tells him that she heard every word he told Tony Stark.
Every word.
He wants to apologize, but she turns on her heel and walks away, clearly done with him.
Well, he thinks. At least I’ll have plenty of opportunities to apologize.
But as the door slams shut behind her, he wonders if it’s even worth it.