Chapter 16
Once, when Wanda was a child, she ran off the edge of a pier.
It was early March and she'd been chasing a butterfly, its wings stretching towards the sky in a vain attempt to steal some warmth from the sun overhead.
Wanda’s hands had been reaching for it, her focus fully caught above her and not on the wooden planks below. Suddenly, her feet were flying through the air, scrambling for solid ground as she left the pier behind, landing in the water with a crash.
There was a thin film of ice that her body broke through easily, and the second her skin hit the water, she’d gone into full shock, gasping for breath, unable to move her limbs in any direction, unsure of how to even escape.
The butterfly had left her behind, its pale wings soaring above the water as it continued its journey to the sun, leaving Wanda behind in the cold, darkness of the lake below.
She’d never thought she’d be that cold again.
I got promoted!
I got promoted!
I got promoted!
Natasha’s arms wrap around her but all she can feel is a freezing cold curling around her limbs, frozen to her spot, unsure of how to escape.
I got promoted!
Natasha pulls away from her, and her enormous grin shakes Wanda enough to give her a smile.
At least, Wanda hopes it’s a smile, she can’t feel the muscles in her face.
There is a pause and Wanda realizes she’s expected to say something. “Oh!” she says, her voice sounding foreign and far too cheerful. “Wow, Nat! Wow, congratulations! That’s-,” she clears her throat. “Wow!”
“Thank you!” Natasha’s eyes are sparkling and her body is practically vibrating. “I can’t believe it, I thought she was going to fire me and then I sat down and she gave me that really intense stare and told me she’s really proud at how hard I’ve been working lately and- Clint!” Natasha spies Clint Barton walking towards his own dressing room through the door Wanda hadn’t closed. “Clint! Guess what?” she shoots out the door, swinging it shut behind her.
There is absolute silence in the dressing room.
“Congratulations,” Monica says after a long moment, looking at Wanda. “I saw the casting.”
“Thank you,” Wanda says, her lips numb.
She lifts her bag from where she dropped it and places it on a chair next to her spot in the dressing room, slowly removing her pointe shoes and clumping them, one by one on the dressing room counter.
Pepper is painting her face, sweeping eyeliner across each lid. “Did you see it might snow on Wednesday?” she asks.
“Why the fuck was she promoted?” Wanda explodes.
There is a long pause.
“I mean,” Wanda begins to slam her makeup on the counter. “It’s not like,” bang! “She’s actually,” bang! “Been working as hard as she should be,” bang!
“You know that’s not fair,” Monica speaks up from where she’s dropped to her yoga mat. “Nat’s been really committed lately. She’s been going to principle rehearsals she doesn’t have to be at and learning the choreography. She’s been staying late to work on corrections she gets in class, and you know she helps out with the children’s auditions for Nutcracker every year.”
Wanda bites her lip, feeling properly chastised. “But we all work that hard,” she says sullenly.
Pepper squeezes her shoulder. “Everyone has a different trajectory,” she says soothingly, though it sounds like she might be trying to convince herself. “Some people move slower than others. We’re all where we should be right now.”
“Besides,” Monica looks at Wanda from where she’s balanced on her forearms, completely upside down. “You’re going to be opening the gala as Juliet, I’d say you’re well on your way to a promotion.”
The dressing room is too stuffy, the air closing around Wanda’s throat, suffocating her. “I’ll be back,” she says before running out the door and down the hall to the stairs.
The roof is never Wanda’s first choice of sanctuary. It’s usually packed with smokers, the dancers preferring the inconspicuous nature of the height, away from the street below, but it’s the only place she can think Natasha won’t be today.
It’s empty, a bucket filled with rainwater and old cigarette butts the only sign that anyone uses the space.
Wanda approaches the railing, the cold October night piercing through her thin sweater, the air stale as she leans against the chilly metal and sucks in oxygen greedily. She tilts her head back, but the city lights make it impossible to see any stars above her head, though a somewhat dusty looking moon is peering from behind the nearest skyscraper, a toenail sliver hanging in the sky. There are horns wailing from the street and the buzz of Manhattan that never fades, no matter the time of day. Dimly, she can hear a busker near the fountain in the Lincoln Center Plaza, a thin violin mournfully singing an unfamiliar melody.
She takes a few steps back, reveling in the chilly wind and the empty space in front of her as she piqué turns in a small circle around the filthy bucket. Below, she can hear the violinist soften, the notes sweeter and less doleful. Wanda bourrées with the music, landing in fourth position, her right foot forward, propelling herself into a pirouette, spinning once, twice, and landing gracefully. She balancés backwards, a three-count step where she places her right foot behind the left, stepping up to the ball of the foot and lifting the left completely off the ground.
As the violinist picks up speed, Wanda jetés towards the edge of the roof catching the railing with her fingertips before chaînéing away, a turn that keeps both her feet on the ground as she spins. The violin reaches the end of the piece as Wanda pirouettes, pulling her right leg through passé to gracefully land in a kneeling position with her knee on the cold, rough rooftop, her head bowed.
Applause breaks out behind her and she snaps up, whirling around to see Vision Shade framed in the doorway, the light from the stairwell illuminating his hair from behind in a gold halo around his head.
“How long have you been there?” Wanda asks him, her heart racing.
“Not long,” he says. “Just from the balancé.” His eyes show sympathy and a curious spark of heat as they travel across her body, coming to rest on her own eyes, the edges of his mouth quirked in a smile.
Embarrassment floods her cheeks as Wanda straightens her sweater. “I need to head downstairs.”
She attempts to step around him, but he grabs her arm before she can. “Wait,” he says.
She stops, the warmth of his hand causing goosebumps to erupt all over her body. He drops her arm and she mourns the loss of his heat. “What?” she asks.
His mouth twists. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” he says. “I realize I might have been a little insensitive.”
She sighs. “It’s not your fault.”
“But I feel responsible for not realizing what was happening sooner,” he says.
“It’s not your job to keep tabs on me, Vision,” Wanda says. “Contrary to what Agnes might tell you, I am capable of making my own decisions.”
He presses his lips together. “I know.”
“Is that why you cast me?” she wonders.
His head snaps up. “No!” he exclaims. “God, no, of course not. I cast you because you’re a good dancer.”
“And because you want to show Agnes that she doesn’t own you,” Wanda guesses. He cuts his eyes away from her without speaking and she nods. “I thought so.”
He catches her hand as she starts down the stairs and she swallows at the feeling of his wide, square palm dwarfing her hand. “Wanda,” he says in a low voice. “Whatever you think I’ve done, whatever you believe, please know you were my first and only choice as Juliet.”
With that, he releases her hand and walks to the railing of the roof.
She can’t move her legs, her mouth is slightly agape as she stares at the smooth lines of his back, lit by the city around him.
“You better go,” his voice drifts over the honking horns and the muted, mournful violin below. “You’re on in twenty.”
She looks at the time and with a curse, spins away, carrying his words with her for the rest of the evening.
***
Vision approaches the next week of Romeo and Juliet rehearsals with some trepidation.
He doesn’t quite know what Wanda Maximoff makes him feel and he’s not really sure how much of it he wants to unpack.
He knows he feels a sense of relief that she’s finally the only Juliet in the room, and he knows he feels a sense of excitement to be able to help her become the success he knows she can be with just a little bit of poking and prodding.
But he really doesn’t like to watch Steve kiss her.
Or touch her.
Or honestly do anything with her.
The first instinct to murder Steve came quite unexpectedly to Vision.
It is halfway through the first solo rehearsal with Steve and Wanda, and Vision tells Steve to improvise at least one extra kiss within the choreography.
“I know,” Vision says, as Steve’s face screws up. “But you’re supposed to be madly in love. You’d want to kiss her every chance you’d get.”
Steve sighs but nods and they reset for the top of the piece.
They get about halfway through, right after the first of the trickier lifts as Wanda drapes her body across Steve’s back and he deadlifts her while she holds her legs gracefully off the floor. When Steve places her safely back on the ground, he turns and gives her a quick kiss before exploding into a jeté combination.
The simplicity of the kiss and Wanda’s rather dazed face afterwards sends a spiral of unexpected and white-hot anger down Vision’s spine.
He clears his throat and shifts, ignoring the tiny voice in his head ordering him to shove Steve into the mirrors. “Good,” he says aloud. “Let’s continue.”
And it’s not just the urge to punch Steve in the throat for touching her at his own command that’s conflicting Vision’s emotions.
He’s begun to notice that while Wanda is eating more than she has been in the past, he still sees her squirreling full granola bars away in her bag or only finishing half of her banana. He knows the spirals associated with weight can take years to heal from and often require therapy, something he’s almost positive Wanda is not using as she’s still living in the studio or racing to Pilates or yoga.
He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about her.
And on top of all of his unwelcome feelings, there is a horrible and familiar energy among the corps women that Vision is all too familiar with. Agnes has promoted Natasha Romanov to soloist and every corps woman is taking the news about as well as he would have expected.
He sees Monica returning from the gym before rehearsals with taped knuckles and a set jaw. He sees Jessica, a tiny corps member gorging on Cheetos and diet coke by the fountain. And Pepper is distancing herself from all her relationships to practice late into the night.
Vision knows this because two nights after Natasha is promoted, Tony arrives at his hotel room with a bottle of whiskey and a face full of lines.
Vision does his best to continue forward, ignoring the insanity around him as best he can, finding solace in his time with Wanda and Steve, cleaning and fine tuning each tiny moment.
Two days before the gala, he’s called down to the costume shop, a cavernous space under the theater that is draped with scarves and tulle until it resembles more of a cave for a mythical creature than a shop.
Carol Danvers, the head costumer for the New York City ballet is waiting for him anxiously, a pin cushion around her wrist and a measuring tape around her neck.
“Thank goodness,” she grabs his arm. “We need your input.”
“Uh,” Vision manages to get out before she drags him deeper into the shop, passing two other women standing next to Julie Tyler Tremble as she models a bedazzled tutu.
Julie waves at Vision, but Carol doesn’t stop and Vision flashes Julie an apologetic smile as he flies by.
“Okay,” Carol pulls him into a small area, a long rack of mice costumes for Nutcracker on one side, a modesty screen on the other. Barely visible above the screen, Vision sees red hair poking out.
“Hello, Wanda,” he says cheerfully.
“Hi, Vision,” her voice answers.
Carol huffs impatiently and Vision turns his attention back to her. “I need your opinion because we have several Juliet outfits. Do you want the one from the ball or the one that she wears almost exclusively in Act 2?”
“What’s the difference?” Vision asks.
“Well,” Carol motions to the screen. “I’m glad you asked. Come on out, Wanda. This one is the bedroom pas de deux costume, and its far thinner than the other costume…”
Carol continues to talk, but Vision’s focus narrows as Wanda steps around the modesty screen, her fingers plucking the skirt of her dress anxiously.
The costume is white and sheer, the skirt made of the thinnest silk. The bodice is constructed of overlapping pieces of cloth held onto the dancer’s torso by two thin straps draped over her shoulders. Every tiny movement Wanda makes causes the fabric to cling to each curve of her body. The light behind Wanda shines through the skirt teasingly, and Vision is able to see the full outline of her legs.
He swallows. “Um,” his voice cracks. Carol looks at him and he realizes he’s interrupted her. Heat sweeps over his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Please continue.”
Carol accepts his apology with a tilt of her head, reaching out with a hand to turn Wanda around. “This is made to look like a nightgown,” she says. “Hence why it’s used from the bedroom pas de deux onward.”
“Right,” Vision clears his throat trying to get the image of “bedroom” and “Wanda” out of his head. “Right.”
Carol raises her eyebrow. “Well?” she asks.
“Well,” Vision’s attention is caught by the silk barely covering Wanda’s smooth back, the muscles shifting enticingly under the fragile fabric.
Carol clears his throat and he’s snapped from his study. “God, sorry,” he says. “My mind is wandering. Uh, what’s the other costume?”
Carol shuffles Wanda behind the screen. “The ballgown,” she says over shoulder. “It’s the one she wears when she meets Romeo for the first time. It’s- yes over your head please,” she instructs Wanda. “It’s red with a hint of violet underneath, and surprisingly durable for such delicate fabric.”
Vision chews on the inside of his cheek as Wanda steps out from behind the screen again, a short red gown hanging off her torso, the skirts stopping right below her knees. Carol motions for Wanda to turn slowly and she twists neatly around. The skirts are heavier than the previous dress, though still gossamer light, lifting with every puff of air. The bodice is short, with long, tight sleeves, the neckline dipping low, showing Wanda’s clavicle and emphasizing her collar bones.
As she turns, he sees the tiniest bit of lavender in the underskirt, the color catching the light mysteriously.
“I like this one better,” he says, nodding. “The red is lovely on her. And I know, for Steve, we were thinking a white shirt and blue tights, but perhaps if he could have a blue waistcoat?”
Carol nods, jotting down some notes. “Blue waistcoat,” she says thoughtfully. “I’m sure we have something that could work. Do you know what you want to do with her hair?”
Vision lets his eyes sweep over Wanda’s head and neck thoughtfully. Her hair is currently pulled into her standard bun, the whisps of red threatening to explode from her pins any minute.
“Normally, for the ballgown, she would have her hair up,” Carol explains. “But it would be more casual for the balcony if her hair were down.”
Wanda wordlessly pulls the pins from her hair and lets the whole mass of curls and waves fall around her shoulders. The sweat from her day causes the hair to stand away from her face, framing the pale oval with whisps and tendrils. She looks vulnerable and young, her eyes enormous.
Vision swallows, his eyes trailing over her small nose and delicate eyebrows, her neck held at a graceful angle, allowing him to scrutinize her form. “Down,” he says and his voice sounds strangled. “Definitely down.”
With one last nod to Carol, he leaves the costume shop, his hands trembling in an effort not to push Wanda’s curls off her shoulders and kiss a trail along her collarbone.
***
Wanda watches Vision walk away, the memory of his heated blue eyes warming her in the deepest recesses of her belly.
“Well,” Carol tuts, unhooking Wanda from the bodice. “I suppose that answers that question.”
“What question?” Wanda asks, a little dreamily as she pulls her arms from the long sleeves of the gown.
“That man is head over heels for you,” Carol answers dryly.
Wanda snaps her head to Carol, hoping the woman will crack a smile, but her face is smooth and serious. “What?” she says.
“Topsy-turvy, far-gone, warm for your form,” Carol takes the dress delicately from Wanda’s limp wrist.
“You’re imagining things,” Wanda tells her.
Carol shrugs. “It you say so,” she says. “But if someone was looking at me like that, I wouldn’t be standing down here.”
Wanda sighs, a large gust of air escaping her lungs. “We’re barely even friends,” she says. “And he’s my boss.”
Carol snorts. “Like we have a functioning HR department."
Wanda just rolls her eyes, shoving her limbs into her sweats. “I’m leaving,” she announces.
“See you at the wedding!” Carol calls back, a cheeky grin across her face.
Wanda shoots her a rude gesture and leaves the shop, Carol’s chuckles following her as she makes her way back to the first floor.
But the memory of Vision’s hot, dark eyes as he gazed at her in Juliet’s nightgown is causing a tickling sensation somewhere in the vicinity of Wanda’s colon, so she decides to get out of the studios for a few minutes, maybe find Monica at the gym and hit some punching bags until its time for her Romeo and Juliet rehearsal.
She’s almost out of the building when she hears the candy cane music from Nutcracker pouring from one of the bigger studios to the left of the lobby.
There is a group of girls standing around the studio door watching which leads Wanda to believe Steve must be rehearsing.
Sure enough, as she peeks around two small apprentices, she sees Steve leaping over a red and white striped hula hoop deftly, the energetic music pouring from the speakers.
Suki is running the rehearsal, but she’s sitting back and enjoying the show, a half-smile on her face as she watches Steve effortlessly perform a triple pirouette.
Wanda loves the music from candy canes, and she lingers to watch the end of the dance, knowing Steve could perform this dance backwards and with his eyes closed, his nimble jumps and graceful, deft movements are enviable, as though gravity has let him loose.
The music builds, the cymbals crashing and the strings flying and Wanda absently twirls a piece of hair around and around her finger as she watches Steve vault higher and higher.
It happens in an instant.
Steve’s foot catches on the end of his hula hoop and Wanda can see him try to compensate for the mistake, but he’s already leapt. Gravity finally catches up to him as he lands hard on his left foot.
There is a horrible pop that echoes around the room and Steve collapses to the floor.