scarlet shoes

Pepper is back at work within the week, though she abstains from wearing pointe shoes and instead rehearses in soft canvas shoes, still favoring her left ankle as she moves.

If Pepper were anyone else, Agnes would be on a war path to end her chances of getting cast in anything good for at least three to four months, but she's surprisingly understanding.

Or perhaps not so surprising.

Word of Pepper’s relationship with Tony Stark has circled the company twice over, whispers following her in the hallway, jealous looks and knowing smiles becoming her new normal.

Tony doesn’t help to quash the gossip mill; he arrives almost every day at eleven thirty to take Pepper to lunch, and occasionally picks her up at the end of a long day to whisk her off to some fancy restaurant or a night in at his gigantic pent house.

Pepper is glowing and Wanda is jealous.

Not because she has any interest in Tony Stark. He’s a good-looking man, anyone would have to admit that, but he looks just a little too much like a squirrel for Wanda’s taste, with his bright brown eyes and delicate features.

She’s jealous that Pepper has something in her life besides her job. She’s jealous that she has something to giggle about that isn’t a new costume or an updated cast list or someone’s new ridiculous diet routine.

“Eyes forward!” Suki, the tiny ballet mistress with a twisted back and chiffon skirt physically wrenches Wanda’s chin forward, patting her cheek gently as she releases her. “It’s a better line,” she explains as she continues down the line of dancers.

They’re rehearsing In G Major today, and Wanda stands between Monica and Natasha, their arms outstretched and overlapping, one on top of the other. They make a long line of six women and one man, Steve standing in the middle, sweat dripping down his back, his arms overlapping with Natasha to his right and Pepper to his left.

They have to move together as one being, precise and uniform, while the music melts around them. The pianist’s fingers twinkle along the keys as they begin at the top of the sequence again, Wanda’s arms aching from the effort of keeping them in place.

“And one, two, THREE!” Suki calls over the music. “Développé, Wanda! Pull your thigh up!”

Wanda bites the inside of her cheek and tries to match her foot to Monica’s height, the muscles shaking as she places the foot back to the floor and Steve pulls on Natasha and Pepper’s arms, running them in a weaving pattern across the floor.

She races after Natasha, her calf muscle twinging uncomfortably as she twists, attempting to rise onto a full pointe, but only manages to get to the ball of her foot. She grits her teeth against the burn in her right ankle, grasping Steve’s hand before letting it go gracefully, her fingers fluttering behind her.

The music dies and Suki eyes the clock. “Good,” she says. “Much better.” She fixes Wanda with a look. “The foot okay?”

Wanda sucks in air as she twists her right foot to the right and left. “Fine,” she says. The muscle twinges uncomfortably and she presses her lips together to keep her face neutral.

“All right,” Suki says, though she doesn’t look convinced. “Thank you all.”

Immediately, they relax, walking duck footed to dance bags, pulling sweats over leotards and tights. Wanda gratefully sinks to the floor, fisting her hands and pounding them along her thigh muscles, the knots relaxing as her fists strike.

“Going to the shoe room and then the café,” Natasha drops next to her gently, her baby pink leotard damp with sweat. “Want to join?”

“I’m going to see if Maria can slot me in,” Wanda rubs her calf gently, loosening the muscles.

Pity drops into Natasha’s eyes as she reaches a finger out to touch Wanda’s ankle gently. “You want some company?”

“No, no,” Wanda waves her away. “Get away from here for an hour, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Natasha stretches as she stands. “See you in class?”

“See you,” Wanda agrees, standing and sliding her feet into her sneakers gently, the callouses bumping the inner lining of her shoe, burning as they make contact.

Monica and Pepper follow Natasha out, waving at Wanda cheerfully as they vanish down the hallway. Steve is talking with Suki, and the other two dancers, Lily and a girl named Jasmin have left, linking arms and giggling.

Wanda leaves the studio with a backwards wave at Steve, her fingers wiggling, and walks down the hallway to the stairs, taking them to the first floor and to the right of the lobby, pushing open a clear glass door labeled Dr. Maria Hill, MD, the medicinal scent of antiseptic stinging her nose.

The physical therapy room is laid out like a tiny gym; to the right are two examination tables pressed up against the wall. In front of the door, a long mirror stands vertically, medicine balls and yoga mats lines up against it. To the left are two treadmills and a set of weights.

Wanda eyes the list of names on a clip board by the door. All dancers are required to sign up for physical therapy, and appointment slots fill up fast, but if you can catch Maria right after her lunch break, she can sometimes fit in a quick twenty-minute session.

Wanda’s counting on it, since the next appointment time available is the next Friday at ten AM.

She’s eyeing a medicine ball uncertainly when there is the sound of wheels on the tile floor and the face of Dr. Maria Hill peers around a door jam.

“Wanda!” Maria stands and brushes crumbs off her sweater. “What brings you in today?”

Maria Hill is tall and commanding, her dark hair twisted off her face with a clip, her face clear of makeup. She specializes in dance anatomy, and as a former dancer, understands all the insane injuries they can acquire over the years.

Wanda lifts her right foot in a silent explanation, her mouth twisting down.

Maria purses her lips. “Still a nuisance?” she asks.

“Only when I use it.”

Maria grins. “I’ve got thirty minutes before Julie,” she says. “Hop on up, let me see what I can do.”

Wanda climbs on one of the examination tables, the paper laid out across the surface crinkling loudly as she settles. She lies down fully and pulls her pants leg and tights up to her mid-calf.

Maria has sanitized her hands and stands at the end of the table, her fingers beginning to probe the skin gently. “What happened?” she asks conversationally as she rotates Wanda’s ankle to the right.

“Nothing spectacular,” Wanda admits. “I think it’s just tired.”

“It’s not the only one,” Maria’s fingers are pleasantly cool as they circle the ankle, pulling gently. “The seasons’ barely started and you’re already overworked.”

Wanda shrugs as best she can while lying down. “C’est la vie?” she offers.

Maria snorts, flexing the ankle backwards. “Are you done until the show tonight?”

“No,” Wanda says. “I have a master class with Vision Shade, then the show.”

Maria sighs. “You need a break. Oh,” her voice changes as Wanda winces slightly. “Did that hurt?”

“Not bad,” Wanda says, though her ankle smarts.

“Hmm,” Maria examines her foot closer, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but keep an eye on it,” she pats Wanda’s ankle as she releases it. “Let’s get you some electricity, and you’ll be good to head out.”

Wanda nods and lets Maria hook up an electric stimulator with sticky pads and wires to her ankle. She taps two buttons and Wanda begins to feel a pleasant tingle ripple across her skin.

“Good?” Maria asks. “It doesn’t need to be higher or lower?”

“It’s perfect,” Wanda assures her, closing her eyes.

The electrical hum is soothing and Wanda finds herself dozing on the examination table, her eyes closed and her lips parted gently. It’s not until the machine beeps and the current ceases that Wanda opens her eyes, blinking against the harsh fluorescents.

She sits up, her head spinning as the blood rushes through her body at the sudden movement.

The room is quiet, Maria is standing next to the medicine balls with Julie Tyler Tremble, helping her through a set of exercises as she balances on one foot.

Wanda tries to get off the examination table quietly, so as not to disturb Julie’s session, but the paper stretched across the surface crinkles and snaps as she moves.

She smiles apologetically at Julie and Maria as she waves and leaves.

The first floor is quiet, a couple of apprentices stretch in a corner, watching something on a phone and the air conditioning unit in the far corner sputters as it runs.

The clock tells Wanda that she has about twenty minutes before the master class with Vision Shade begins, so she decides to go to the studio early and warm up. Her muscles have cooled incredibly since her tiny nap on Maria’s table, and she doesn’t want to risk being late to Vision’s class.

The studio is empty and she pushes open the door, claiming a spot in a corner to begin her stretching, ignoring the filthy floor under her fingers as she pushes herself through an easy yoga routine.

At one point, as she’s basically upside down, her body bent into a pretzel shape, her right leg extended into the air, the door opens and Vision Shade enters.

He seems surprised to see her, his blue eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods and walks to the other corner, stripping off his pullover to reveal a simple white t-shirt, his arm muscles straining the fabric.

Wanda swallows and focuses her gaze down at the floor, determined to ignore the man in the corner.

She doesn’t do a very good job, sneaking looks at him as he moves gracefully through a barre, his brow furrowed in concentration, his body moving effortlessly through each movement.

At one point, his eyes fly up and meet hers and she jerks her gaze away from him, her cheeks flushing.

It’s an incredibly uncomfortable ten minutes until the door opens and Natasha and Monica spill in, laughing about something, coffee cups clutched in their hands.

“Wanda!” Natasha strips off her leggings and sits on the floor to begin lacing up her pointe shoes. “How was Maria?”

“A dream, as usual,” Wanda says. “How was the café?”

“Ooh!” Natasha claps her hands together. “You wouldn’t believe the flowers that just got delivered to the dressing room for Pepper!”

“Really?” Wanda listens with half an ear as Natasha babbles on about the flowers and sweet note Tony had sent, half of her attention still resting on Vision in the corner. She sees him stand up straight, cross the studio floor, plug in music, and begin to play it incredibly loud from the speakers.

Natasha pauses in her monologue to send him an annoyed look, but he ignores her, going back to his stretching, and since he’s made it impossible to talk without screaming, Natasha does the same.

The studio slowly fills up as more and more dancers arrive; no one wants to miss out on the master class. It’s a last hurrah before Vision ultimately chooses his cast and no wants to miss an opportunity to be seen.

Wanda is surprised to see a couple of S.A.B. students, including Peter, Agnes’s poor, overworked assistant, sneak into the studio at the last minute, their cheeks flushed and eyes anxious.

As the clock hits four, Vision clears his throat loudly and the room quiets instantly, eighty pairs of eyes on Vision expectantly.

He clears his throat again and reaches a hand up to ruffle his blond hair.

He’s nervous, Wanda realizes.

It’s that realization that allows her to relax, just a little.

“We’re going to warm up,” Vision says. “Then I’ll teach you some choreography. My style can be challenging to understand at first, so please pay attention.”

He then arranges them in five neat lines across the studio, spreading them out so they have room to extend their arms and legs.

“Right,” he says. “Follow along.”

What follows are some of the worst ninety minutes of Wanda’s life. Vision begins by leading them in a barre-less barre, having them do pliés and tendus without any support as he walks around correcting their form and placement.

Wanda is used to teachers physically moving her body into the correct position, it happens more often than not that a ballet master will pull her leg upwards or place a hand on her belly and back to straighten her spine. But she isn’t used to Vision Shade’s hands.

The first time he comes over to correct her, he places a hand under her extended right hand to pull it into a proper second position arm, the fingers curved and level with her elbow.

His hand is large and square, the fingers long and warm as they place the barest hint of pressure on the underside of her wrist. She feels an electrical current zip through her, not unlike the electric stimulator Maria had hooked to her ankle.

It takes all of her training not to jerk away from his fingers.

He doesn’t seem to feel it though, casually dropping his hand once he’s satisfied with the placement of her arm.

The second time he corrects her positioning, he places two fingers under her chin, turning it to the left.

Suki performed the same correction, but Suki’s fingers didn’t leave a trail of fire in their wake.

Wanda swallows hard and tries to concentrate as hard as she can on the steps and not on how good Vision Shade smells as he walks away from her.

Once they finish with the warm up, Vision begins to teach a combination. His style is different, just as he’d promised. Wanda is used to many different styles of dance, though she feels most secure in pure, classic, ballet, but this is completely out of her comfort zone.

As Vision begins modeling the first few steps, Wanda’s heart sinks. He’s using a strange mix of classical ballet, Fossé, and some kind of grounded, athletic dance that requires about all the stamina she’s got to get through each movement.

She’s never felt incredibly comfortable dancing with her feet parallel, instead of turned out, so of course that’s what Vision exclusively wants. She feels herself falling further and further behind as she watches the next set of steps, struggling not to cry.

Monica is excelling, her body loose and supple as she performs a tricky turn, her wide grin flashing as she lands it perfectly.

Vision gives her a nod of approval, his gaze dipping to Wanda. She swallows and attempts the turn, but immediately she knows she’s overshot it, wobbling too far to the right.

Vision has looked away by the time she’s completed the rotation, watching Julie Tyler Tremble perform the movement flawlessly.

Wanda wills her tears at bay for the last few minutes of the class until finally, mercifully, Vision is dismissing them.

She scoops her bag in record time, bolting from the class unnoticed, most of the dancers crowding around Vision to thank him for the class, hoping that the extra facetime or just general sucking up will get their name on a cast list.

She slows to remove her pointe shoes and pull her sweat shirt and leggings over her leotard and tights. She has about an hour before she has to be in the dressing room so she beelines to the café, hoping a bowl of soup will help her feel better.

The café is small and dark, but she feels a sense of relief as she wrenches open the door and steps inside.

There are four tables, all already taken, and a counter to order from, an array of chips and fruit cups assembled below the countertop. Wanda chews her lip, examining the display before reaching for the last cup of strawberries.

Her hand collides with another hand and she straightens, apologizing. “I’m so sorry-.”

A man in a crisp suit stands next to her, his neat brown hair combed off his face, a pair of ordinary grey eyes looking at her with concern. “No, I’m sorry,” the man says, his voice deep. “You were in line first.”

“But, if you want them-,” Wanda says, feeling uncomfortable.

The man waves her concern away. “Please, take them,” he says. “If you don’t, I’ll feel very unchivalrous.” His face is open and fresh, his eyes friendly.

“We can’t have that,” Wanda says, taking the cup. “Thank you.”

“You look very familiar,” the man says, tilting his head as he examines her. “Do I know you?”

“Probably not,” Wanda laughs a little self-consciously. “I don’t get out much.”

The man snaps his fingers. “Of course!” he says. “You’re a dancer! I’ve seen you onstage!”

Wanda turns around and looks at him full on. He’s a young man, no older than thirty, thin, and without a wedding ring. Not the usual demographic the ballet attracts. “Really?” she asks, her tone more disbelieving than she means it to be.

He laughs. “I know, I’m not really the type.”

“Not at all,” Wanda agrees.

“I love it,” he confesses. “And I remember you. You were in Jewels the other night.”

“I was,” Wanda admits.

“It’s a crime you’re in the corps,” he says. “You’re easily one of the best dancers up there.”

Wanda laughs self-consciously again. “Want to tell my boss that?”

“I will,” he says and he looks dead serious. “You’re too talented to be back there.”

Wanda feels her cheeks heat pleasantly. She’s unsure of what to say to such a declaration but thankfully a girl appears at the register and she orders a cup of the French onion soup and a black coffee, placing the strawberries on the counter to be rung up.

She goes to pay, but the man intercepts. “Let me,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.”

“The least you can do for what?” Wanda asks.

“Repaying you for the beauty you share,” he says.

Wanda snorts.

“Too much?” the man asks.

“Just a bit,” Wanda agrees, accepting her cup of soup in a brown paper bag and her coffee cup. “But appreciated.” She swaps the bag to her left hand, holding it under her coffee as she thrusts her hand in the man’s direction. “I’m Wanda Maximoff.”

“Nice to meet you, Wanda,” the man has a sturdy handshake, his hand slender and smooth in hers. “I’m Hank Pym.”