Chapter 7
Someone once said that there is nothing scarier than a blank canvas.
Vision’s not a visual artist but he thinks he might understand the feeling as he eyes the blank document on his laptop in front of him, the blinking curser set to the right of the words: CAST LIST.
The sun beams down on him as he settles back in a metal chair, the seat pleasantly warm against his khaki covered thighs. He’s chosen to sit at a tiny round table across the plaza from the theater, a coffee from Starbucks on one side of his laptop, placed gently on the tabletop.
He gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he studies the computer screen, his eyes unseeing as his brain whirs.
It’s not that he doesn’t already have an excellent idea of who he wants for his ballet. If he didn’t already know, the master class the day before had solidified in his brain who would excel and show off his choreography to the greatest advantage and who would fail spectacularly.
Monica Rambeau had been the wild card, he had watched her in classes and rehearsals, impressed by her tender and gentle awareness of her body. What he hadn’t realized was how athletic she could truly be; the fearless way she throws herself into every jump and turn without hesitation is what he’s looking for.
He sucks in his cheeks and types: RAMBEAU, M.
He needs eight dancers, four men and four women, but once he writes Monica’s name, his brain goes blank again, the gears spinning unsuccessfully.
Agnes is expecting a tentative cast list by four that afternoon for both his ballet and Romeo and Juliet and he’s got one name.
He knows what it is, the block in his brain. She sits on his laptop keyboard, laughing up at him as she tosses her red hair.
Wanda Maximoff.
Honestly, he knows she shouldn’t even be in the consideration. She struggled through his entire class, barely able to land even the simplest of movements, and yet something about her fascinates him.
She can dance, he’s seen it with his own eyes. He saw it last night when he snuck backstage again to watch the top of the show. He watched as she crunched rosin under her pointe shoes, the graceful curve of her neck, her delicate fingers as they smoothed the short skirt of her pink and white striped bodice, looking like a Degas painting come to life.
He watched as she lifted each limb with exquisite precision, he caught the quick grin she shot at Steve Rogers as she twisted under his arm smoothly, and he watched as she basked in the glow of applause at the end of the piece.
She intrigued him and it was infuriating.
He’d already choreographed eighty-five percent of the ballet; he couldn’t change course now.
Why isn’t she better at this? He growls in the back of his head. Why can’t she just dance the damn steps the way I showed her?
If she were just a little better, then he could cast her in his piece and maybe get rid of this damn attraction once and for all.
There is a solution though, it teases the back of his brain gently as he glares at the theater entrance. But he knows that entertaining the thought would result in extensive facetime with Wanda Maximoff.
And he can deal with her being one of eight in a line up, an occasional look here, a touch there; but he’s only just now recovering from the feeling of her chin underneath his fingers, the soft, thin skin pulsing with heat, and he’s fairly certain that if he spends more than twenty minutes with her, he’ll explode.
And whether it’s from her ability to get under his skin or because he wants to find out if her red hair is really as silky as it looks, he doesn’t know.
He slams the laptop shut and angrily stares out across the plaza, the fountain bubbling merrily.
A family of tourists stand in the middle of the cobblestones, the adults studying a large map while two small children lean into fountain, giggling as the water sprays into their faces.
Forget her, he admonishes himself, opening his laptop back up, feeling chagrinned. She’s not worth it.
He takes a fortifying sip of his coffee. It’s horrible, he’s never been a fan of coffee, but he was up half the night fretting about casting and the other half seeing swirling red hair behind his lids. He needs serious caffeine.
He faces the document again.
Julie Tyler Tremble wasn’t amazing, but her technique is flawless, and even in the week that Vision’s been at the company, he knows she’s Agnes’s golden child. Plus, as a principle, she’ll bring in more audience from promotional materials.
He types TREMBLE, J.T. under RAMBEAU, M.
The clock ticks closer and closer to four as he continues to narrow the list down to seven dancers. He’s still struggling to figure out who will be his last male dancer, when his phone dings to tell him he has ten minutes to get to Agnes’s office.
He packs up his laptop, tucking it into a messenger bag slung casually across the back of his chair as he tries to ignore the fact that he hasn’t even begun to cast Romeo and Juliet.
He tosses the last of his coffee in a nearby trash can, and crosses the plaza, pausing for a moment to watch the water splash up at a small girl with tiny pigtails. The sunshine feels warm on his face and he reluctantly walks into the theater, easily finding Agnes’s office after a week of avoiding it at all costs.
Peter Parker is camped out in the hallway, his brow crinkled as he chews on the end of a pencil, a book opened in his lap.
Vision coughs and Peter looks up. “Oh,” he says, a smile on his face. “Hello, Mr. Shade.”
“Vision, please,” Vision sits next to him. “What are you working on?”
“Calc homework,” Peter makes a face. “Don’t suppose you’re a secret mathematician?”
Vision chuckles. “If I could do math, do you think I’d be a dancer?”
Peter sniggers. “Are you here to see Ms. Harkness?”
“I am,” Vision nods.
“She’s in her office, if you want to go on in,” Peter says, closing his book. “I’ll bring in some tea in a moment.”
“Thank you,” Vision stands.
“Oh,” Peter turns to him. “I wanted to thank you for letting me join your class yesterday, I had a lot of fun.”
Vision blinks, because he’d forgotten that Peter had been in the class. His jumps had been weightless, as though gravity had given up on keeping Peter to the ground. “No problem,” he says eventually. “You’re a very good dancer.”
Peter flushes. “Thank you,” he says.
Vision is eyeing him closer now, taking in his general build, analyzing the way Peter holds his body. He’d be a funny dynamic next to Steve, Peter is much slighter and shorter, but he’d be a good partner for Maggie, a tiny, dark-haired principle who had danced Odette the week before.
Vision purses his lips as he walks down the short hallway to Agnes’s office, knocking on the door gently.
“Come in,” he hears Agnes say so he pushes open the door. “Ah,” Agnes is seated behind her desk, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, a file folder in her hands. “Mr. Shade, so good to see you.”
“Hi, Agnes,” Vision says, feeling a little uncomfortable.
“Please, sit!” Agnes waves at the chair in front of her desk gracefully. “Would you like tea?”
Vision nods. “Peter said he would grab some.”
“Good,” Agnes sits back in her chair and eyes Vision. “How has your first week gone?”
“Fine,” Vision admits. “Nothing too spectacular.”
“I trust you’ve found everyone pleasant and accommodating?”
“Oh yes,” Vision promises. “Everyone’s been quite welcoming.”
Peter knocks on the door and pushes it open, a tray clutched steadily in his hands. A tea pot, two cups, a tiny saucer of milk, and a bowl of sugar balanced on the surface of the tray. Peter places it on Agnes’s desk and steps back, waiting to be dismissed.
“Thank you, Peter,” Agnes says as she pours tea into the two cups delicately.
Peter nods and leaves, swinging the door almost shut behind him.
Agnes smiles fondly after him. “Wonderful boy,” she says, extending a cup of tea to Vision. “And a great dancer. He’s headed for an apprentice contract if he keeps up the hard work. How do you take your tea?”
"Just milk, no sugar," Vision watches as she gracefully pours in the milk and hands him his cup. There are tiny rabbits painted delicately on each cup, and Vision touches one softly as he settles deeper into the chair.
“Have you thought anymore about who you want in your piece?” Agnes asks as she stirs milk into her cup.
“Yes,” Vision blows on his steaming tea. “My style is very specific, as you know, there are only a few of your dancers I think would execute it well.”
Agnes smirks a little, her chin lifting. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Julie Tyler Tremble,” Vision says immediately and he sees Agnes’s smirk grow. “Maggie, Jessica, Clint, Jackson, Steve, and Monica.”
“That’s an uneven number,” Agnes says as she writes down names. “Do you have another man in mind?”
“Uh,” Vision takes a deep breath. “Actually, I’d like Peter.”
“Peter?” Agnes’s eyebrows come together; her eyes confused for only a split second. “Peter like my assistant Peter?”
“Yes,” Vision nods.
“He’s a student.”
“You said yourself he’s headed for an apprenticeship,” Vision points out. “Why not have him get some experience?”
“Because he’s a child,” Agnes argues.
“I think it will be a good thing for him,” Vision says. “A reward for all the hard work he’s done for you.”
Agnes chews on her pen, an uncharacteristically ungraceful movement. “Fine,” she says after a long moment. “It’s your reputation.”
“Thank you,” Vision takes another long sip of tea.
“What about Romeo and Juliet?” Agnes asks him.
Vision resists the urge to grimace, because here is where he begins to improvise. “Well,” he swallows. “I was thinking Steve for Romeo?” He hadn’t been, but Steve was solid and dependable and would make the old ladies in the audience swoon.
“Good choice,” Agnes nods, writing down Steve’s name. “And Juliet?”
“Well, I-,” the niggling solution in the back of his brain burrows its way forward and exits his mouth before he can think of the consequences. “I was thinking Wanda?”
Agnes blinks.
Vision coughs.
“Wanda Maximoff?” Agnes repeats after a long pause.
“Yes,” Vision makes eye contact with her.
Agnes eyes him for a long moment before she gets up and circles her desk. Vision watches her warily, but she just closes the door of her office and crosses back to her seat slowly. “Wanda,” she says as she sits. “Is not the best choice.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not the most reliable,” Agnes explains.
Vision’s eyebrows crease. “From what I’ve seen in the week I’ve been here, she’s one of your most dedicated dancers. And she’s certainly talented.”
“She has a charm,” Agnes agrees. “But-,” she breaks off, chewing her lip.
“But?” Vision asks.
Agnes takes a deep breath. “Look,” she says, dropping her professional façade and looking at Vision straight on. “I don’t like gossiping, especially about my employees, but Wanda Maximoff is a little too driven by her emotions to be a successful dancer.”
“What do you mean?” Vision still feels lost.
Agnes seems to consider him. “Two years ago,” she begins. “Wanda was one of my most promising students. Hard worker, driven dancer, incredibly talented and well liked. I was well on my way to promoting her to soloist.”
“So, what happened?” Vision sips his lukewarm tea.
“Her parents died,” Agnes says bluntly and Vision sputters.
“What?” he asks, when he recovers.
“Her parents were in an accident, the car somehow got completely wrapped around a tree.”
“Oh my god,” Vision says.
“Indeed,” Agnes nods. “As you can imagine, it was incredibly upsetting.”
“Of course,” Vision says.
“That’s not the end of it though,” Agnes confides. “Her twin brother, I think his name was Pietro? He moved to New York a few months after, to live with Wanda. But he was hit by a drunk driver while crossing the street about six months after he’d moved to the city.”
Vision’s hand lifted to press against his mouth as his insides roll unpleasantly.
Agnes interprets his expression correctly. “It’s horrible,” she agrees. “But Wanda refused to take time off to grieve, even after I begged her to take a couple of months. She was distracted, and that’s a breeding ground for injuries. And I was right,” Agnes stirs a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “She landed a turn wrong during a show and tore two ligaments in her right ankle. You might have noticed her occasionally favoring one side, that’s why.”
“Jesus,” Vision stands up to pace. “But she’s still dancing.”
“She’s stubborn,” Agnes admits. “Even I can acknowledge that. But there’s no telling what can set her off, Vision. And I don’t want you to put all that faith in her, only to have it thrown back in your face.”
Vision chews on the inside of his cheek. “The circumstances were extraneous-,” he begins.
“Of course, they were,” Agnes says quickly. “But she refuses to take advice and puts herself at risk. Pick whoever you want as your Juliet, Mr. Shade,” she stands to meet his gaze. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
***
Vision skips the show that night.
As it’s Swan Lake again, he doesn’t feel incredibly guilty for not at least making an appearance backstage. But he’s submitted his cast list, and just wants a beer, so he calls Tony and meets him at a bar near 66th street.
He’d prefer to go anywhere else in Manhattan, but Tony is planning on picking Pepper up after the show and Vision doesn’t have a good enough reason to pick a bar further than a few blocks from the theater.
They pass the time quietly; a baseball game is on a TV in the bar and Tony gets into a good-natured fight with one of the other patrons about the Yankees.
It’s nearing ten o’clock when Tony’s phone buzzes with a text from Pepper.
“Go time,” Tony signals to the bartender to close their tab.
The theater is still lit up, patrons filling the plaza as they move to the train station or climb into cars. Tony crosses the plaza confidently, cutting through the crowds to the stage door, ruffling his hair as he walks.
As the people move out of his way, Vision sees a small group chatting outside the stage door, laughter ringing off the side of the buildings.
Red hair catches his eye and he slows when he recognizes Wanda Maximoff’s delicate profile, her head tilted gracefully back as she laughs.
Vision lets his eyes trail across her cheek, her slim shoulders caught in another one of her enormous sweatshirts, down to her right ankle, tucked safely inside a worn converse sneaker.
She turns her face towards him as Tony approaches Pepper and wraps his arms around her from behind. Vision see’s Pepper flush pink and lean back against Tony, though she makes no move to return his embrace.
Vision catches Wanda’s gaze and she smirks slightly at him as if to say can you believe our friends?
Vision gives her a tiny smile in return and her smirk grows. She hasn’t totally removed her stage makeup, and her hair is half falling out of its pins, tendrils sweeping her collarbone.
It should have made her look like a mess, but Vision is too caught up in her smile directed at him.
But that’s when the house of cards collapses as Natasha Romanov comes walking out of the stage door, her arm slung casually through a man’s elbow, her short hair bobbing around her shoulders.
“Wanda!” she says happily. “I found your friend!”
Wanda breaks eye contract with Vision as she turns to look at the pair exiting the theater. Her body relaxes and Vision watches a genuine smile cut across her face as she sees the man approaching. “Hank!” she calls. “What are you doing here?”
“Making biscuits,” a horribly familiar voice says good naturedly. “What do you think I was doing?”
Pepper has turned in Tony’s arms to beam up at him. “You should meet Hank,” she says. “I think you two would get along.”
Vision has just enough time to watch the horror spread across Tony Stark’s face before he raises his eyes to meet familiar grey irises.
Hank Pym, tall and thin, stands beside Wanda, his pose territorial, an arm slung casually over her shoulders.
As Vision meets his eyes full on, Hank raises one eyebrow as if to say what are the odds, right? and a spark of amusement flashes in his eyes as he tightens his arm imperceptivity around Wanda’s shoulders.
It’s that tiny move that causes nausea to rise in Vision’s throat, a ringing in his ears that has nothing to do with the city noises around him and all to do with the smug man in front of him.
He turns around and walks away, cutting back through the crowd the way he came.