scarlet shoes

Vision can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s been almost two months since he last spoke to her and yet he can still hear her voice, see her dance, feel her body under his fingertips. He only has to close his eyes and he’s falling into the memory of her lips on his, his arms banded around her waist, cupping her ass, itching to wrap around her breasts.

He’s never lost himself in a person before.

He didn’t think he would have been capable of allowing that kind of vulnerability in. The kind of vulnerability that shakes you to your core. The kind of vulnerability that has you forgetting everything you stand for in a moment of weakness.

He wants to get her out of his system, and the only way to do that is time and distance.

So, in hindsight, attending the opening night of Nutcracker was probably a poor choice. He knew logically that there would be a fifty percent chance he would see her, but he’d assumed that the stage lights would shield him and that she would remain blissfully unaware that he was in the audience.

He hadn’t expected to be so close to the front of the stage, and he hadn’t been expecting her gaze to cut across him, her veneered smile wobbling, her eyes widening.

He’d high tailed it to the back of the theater where he could hide in the darkness, leaning against the cool railings of the standing room, watching the last of the ballet with regretful eyes.

Luckily, the preparation for his school has picked up and he throws himself into the planning and coordinating. He locates contractors and negotiates with donors and in the back of his head, knows he’s overworking himself, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s left alone with his thoughts.

Plus, he finds that if he works himself to the bone during the day, he’s too exhausted to dream at night.

Tony and Darcy manage to drag him out of his work induced hole to drink some champagne on New Year’s Eve, both tactfully avoiding any conversations about New York City Ballet, instead discussing Vision’s new apartment, located in Brooklyn, much to Tony’s horror.

But the days march on into January, the cold and darkness of winter setting in with a vengeance.

“You hear anything from her?”

It’s the middle of January and Vision is taking a rare break from his account books and contractor meetings to get a beer with Tony on the lower east side. Tony’s chosen a tiny bar with low lights and soft music, and there are four people in the bar, including themselves.

Vision chokes on his beer, placing the glass down more forcefully than he means to. “What?” he asks.

“You’ve got foam,” Tony gestures to his upper lip and Vision wipes his hand along his mouth.

“Better?” he asks.

Tony nods.

“Great,” Vision places a hand on the bar and swivels on his stool to face his friend fully. “What the hell?”

“It’s an easy enough question to answer,” Tony says innocently, turning his glass around in his hand.

“It’s an intrusive question,” Vision mutters.

“It’s a yes or no,” Tony sighs.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Tony says. “I don’t know why you’re getting so bristly about it.”

“Would you prefer if I ask you about Pepper?” Vision snips.

To his credit, Tony barely flinches. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you heard anything from her?”

“Of course not,” Tony answers. “I broke up with her, remember?”

Vision takes another gulp of his beer. “Unfortunately.”

“So, have you heard anything from her?” Tony asks again.

Vision sighs. “No.”

Tony swigs some of his old fashioned, the ice clinking against the glass. “Have you tried to reach out to her?”

“No,” Vision answers. “I doubt she wants anything to do with me.”

“She never said anything? After you gave her the letter?”

Vision huffs. “Why would she?”  

“Because you took the time to write her an explanation?”

“After I insulted her!”

“I just think she should say something to somebody. Even if it’s Darcy.”

“It’s fine, Tony,” Vision waves his hands. “Honestly, I don’t care.”

“But you’re dying over here,” Tony answers matter-of-factly. “And don’t say you’re not, this is the first time I’ve seen you away from your work in two weeks.”

“The school is my first priority,” Vision traces the circle of condensation left by his beer glass. “If I’m going to be ready to open by the end of the month, I have to put in the hours.”

“Hmph,” Tony mutters into his glass, gesturing to the bartender for another round. “I still think you should reach out to her. You’ll feel better.”

“I will if you will,” Vision answers, taking a new beer from the bartender with a nod of thanks.

A look of fear passes over Tony’s face. “You drive a hard bargain,” he says, tapping his glass to Vision’s.

***

The end of Nutcracker can’t arrive soon enough, Wanda muses as she enters the theater for the second to last performance.

She’s honestly surprised she can even still walk, her feet are covered in blisters, bruises, and scrapes, and she’s lost half of her big toenail on her right foot.

Christmas day had arrived as the only day off in the six-week run and Wanda had stayed in bed, emerging only to take a bath, and eat some oatmeal before crawling back into bed.

It’s quiet backstage, as though the exhaustion has draped itself over everyone like a limp, damp blanket. The children are silent, no shrieks or running feet. Jimmy is yawning as he directs a stagehand with a broom and he gives Wanda a half-hearted wave as she walks by.

The dressing room is empty when she pushes open the door, the mirror lights off, the tiny twinkle lights that Pepper hung in a vain attempt to generate some holiday cheer all burnt out. Wanda sits among the mess scattered along the counter: bobby pins, bottles of hairspray, dirty makeup sponges, bits of thread and ribbons, and begins to meticulously unpack her bag, wanting to be out of the dressing room before Natasha arrives.

She thinks her friendship with Natasha might be over, neither one of them has said a single word to each other since the night of the party. Instead, Natasha has been loudly proclaiming to Pepper and Monica (and by extension Wanda who’s stuck in the dressing room until her makeup is done) about the glory that is Hank Pym. How wonderful Hank is, what a good dancer he is, how Natasha managed to get a meeting between he and Agnes and how Agnes might let him audition for the company.

“Agnes says that she’s not sure she has any space, but if a company member decides to take a leave of absence or gets injured, he might get a spot!” Natasha had gushed.

And the horrible thing is that Wanda can’t blame her.

She’s still smarting from the awful things that Natasha had flung her way and she feels as though she has a right to be angry, but logically she knows Hank’s charm is infectious and fast acting.

He’s a manipulative little shit, she wants to say. Can’t you see what he’s doing to you?

But she holds her tongue because she warned Natasha and that had gotten her absolutely nowhere.

A part of her wants to write Natasha a letter, like the one she’s hidden under her pillow in her apartment, the paper worn to a fabric-y softness, the words forever burned in her brain. But she knows that even with a letter, there’s a good chance it won’t repair the, what she’s coming to realize is, irreparable damage done to hers and Natasha’s friendship.

“It was only a matter of time,” she tells Monica and Pepper the first time they confront her about the icy tension hovering between her and Natasha. “You know we’ve always been pitted against each other. At some point the other shoe had to drop.”

The door slides open and Monica pokes her head into the dressing room, huge circles under her eyes. “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “Happy second to last show.”

“Thank god,” Wanda says reverently.

“What are you going to do when we’re free?” Monica unrolls her yoga mat.

“Sleep,” Wanda answers. “Buy a new pair of feet. Sleep.”

Monica snorts.

“What about you?” Wanda flicks on the mirror lights.

“I want to go on a trip,” Monica grins.

“Like, out of the country?” Wanda asks.

“Ha,” Monica laughs. “Like I could afford that. No, I mean like a day trip to Montauk or Poughkeepsie, or hell, even Brooklyn.”

“That sounds nice,” Wanda says wistfully. “It would be nice to not see the same ten city blocks for a change.”

“We should go!” Monica sounds excited. “Not right away, but maybe after a couple of days when we’ve recovered enough to actually look like real people.”

“Okay,” Wanda says, her smile growing. “Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do what?” Natasha has shouldered open the dressing room door and Wanda feels her smile freeze in place.

There is a long moment of silence.

“Wanda and I are thinking about going on a day trip somewhere once Nutcracker is over,” Monica finally answers, her eyes on Wanda.

“Oh,” Natasha plops down in her chair next to Wanda and pulls out her makeup. “Sounds fun. Hank is taking me upstate for a weekend.”

Wanda has to physically bite her tongue, finishing her hair and makeup as fast as she can before leaving the dressing room without looking back.

***

Vision is finding it harder and harder to sleep the closer the opening gets.

He’s up pacing in the middle of the night, waking from nightmares of forgetting to hire teachers, forgetting to pay the contractors, forgetting to request a roof be built. He thinks ninety percent of his apartment is sticky notes with reminders and to-do lists.

There is nothing to quell his anxiety as the date approaches faster and faster, the builders taking longer than he expected, the hiring taking longer than he expected, and the promotional media taking longer than he expected.

Really, all he’s learned is that if he’s ever dumb enough to head a project this large again, he should make a better schedule.

There are already one hundred students who have signed up for classes and another fifty who need to be auditioned for the more advanced classes and Vision is alone at the top, the hiring process for a personal assistant taking longer than he expected.

There is a knock on his apartment door at eight-thirty in the morning and he answers it without checking his appearance.

“Jesus,” Darcy’s hand jumps to cover her eyes. “As lovely as I think you are, V, maybe you should put on some pants?”

Vision looks down in a daze, realizing he’s only wearing boxer shorts, his chest bare. “Sorry, Darc,” he says sheepishly, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from his pile of clean clothes on his couch, waiting to be folded and put away. “I’m decent.”

She removes her hand from her eyes and gives him a bright smile. “I brought breakfast!” she says brightly, stepping into his apartment and closing her door with a snap.

“Thanks,” Vision sinks to the couch and begins shuffling through some paperwork. “But I’m not hungry.”

“Nope, nope, nope,” Darcy wiggles her index finger at him. “I’m refusing to let you wallow like this. Tony might let you get away with it, but it’s not going to fly with me. Besides,” she steps into the kitchen and delicately moves a large stack of empty takeout containers off the counter. “I brought bagels.” She opens her backpack and removes a large, white paper bag.

“I’m not hungry,” Vision repeats, though his voice wobbles.

“Uh huh,” Darcy responds, digging in his cabinets for his tea. “Sure.”

“I’m not!” he protests, watching her fill his electric tea kettle and switch it on.

“Well, I am,” she says. “And I’m going to eat yours if you don’t want it. I got blueberry.”

“Blueberry?” Vision can’t help it; his stomach gives a gurgle.

To her credit, Darcy only smirks, handing him a foil-wrapped circle, the warmth of the bagel inside heating his fingers pleasantly. She pours him a cup of black tea and places it on his coffee table, sitting on the floor and opening her own bagel, her legs crossed in a basket.

“So,” she says, her mouth full. “What are we doing today?”

“I’ve got to make some phone calls to a couple of new donors,” Vision answers automatically, his brain rehashing his schedule for the fifth time that morning. “And I have about forty different emails I have to send, reminding everyone about the auditions next Saturday. And I have to go down to the studio today to make sure the Marley dance floors have arrived and are being rolled out properly. And I have to double check that the accountant I just hired has all of the bank statements up until this point and-,” Vision is starting to feel overwhelmed, his throat is closing and his eyes are feeling uncomfortably gritty.

“Great,” Darcy answers, taking a huge bite of bagel. “I’ll make sure the emails are sent and I’ll double check with the accountant and the donors.”

Vision is staring at her, the words coming out of her mouth foreign and nonsensical. “What?” he says.

“I’ll make sure the emails are sent,” Darcy repeats, licking a bit of cream cheese off her thumb. “And I’ll make the phone calls.”

“Why?” Vision asks.

She rolls her eyes. “Because you need help?” she answers. “And I refuse to let you live in your serial killer lair anymore.”

“It’s not a serial killer lair!” Vision protests.

Darcy looks pointedly at the wall behind his couch that is covered with half a dozen headshots of potential hires, notes about their strengths and weaknesses stuck on sticky notes around their photos.

“Okay,” Vision amends. “Maybe it has gotten a little out of control in here.”

“A little?” Darcy asks. “V, you’re killing yourself with this work. I know you think you can do it all by yourself, and honestly, I think you could too. But why would you when I’m volunteering to help?”

Vision squirms uncomfortably. “I can’t pay you,” he admits. “I’m over budget as it is.”

“I don’t care about that,” Darcy waves her hand dismissively. “I’m a friend helping you out, no strings attached.”

“But what about your job?” Vision asks.

“We’re on break until the twenty-third,” Darcy dimples. “Face it, Shade, you can’t get rid of me so you might as well put me to work.”

And Vision has to admit, as he places Darcy in front of his computer, it might not be such a bad idea to have her helping out.

Maybe he’ll even have time to take a shower.

***

Despite Wanda’s misgivings, Nutcracker closes without much fanfare as the whole company slinks away as soon as the final curtain falls. They’re given two weeks off to go out of town and to recover from the grueling schedule before heading back into the rehearsal room for the beginning of the winter season.

Wanda spends the first two days after Nutcracker closes, luxuriating in bed. She reads four new books, finally catches up on The Crown, and only leaves her spot to pee.

The third day, she wakes up with the horrible jitteriness of cabin fever that only grows stronger as the day continues. The fourth day, she gives up and goes to a dance class at Steps on Broadway.

The fifth day, she spends three hours in the gym.

The sixth day, she calls Monica.

“So, how about that day trip?”

She hears Monica snort. “You’re losing your mind, aren’t you?”

“Affirmative,” Wanda nods. “I went running, Mon. On a treadmill.”

She hears Monica gasp dramatically. “The horror!”

“Leave me alone,” Wanda grumbles.

Monica chuckles. “We don’t really have time to go anywhere fancy today,” she admits. “But apparently there’s a new brewery in Dumbo that Clint’s been dying to try.”

“Great,” Wanda nods. “Anything, Mon, I’ll do anything, just get me out of this house.”

Monica snorts. “You’re lucky I’m a nice person who won’t exploit your desperation.”

“Where should we meet?” Wanda asks, ignoring her.

She can practically hear Monica’s eyes rolling. “F train station in Dumbo? I’ll text Clint and maybe Pepper? See if they want to join us.”

“Perfect,” Wanda turns to the mess of her apartment with her hands on her hips. “I’ll see you there in an hour.”

“An hour?” Monica asks.

“Desperate,” Wanda reminds her before hanging up and diving for her closet, excitement pricking her fingertips for the first time in almost two months.

Almost exactly an hour later, Wanda exits the York Street F train subway stop in Brooklyn, a long black coat buttoned up to her neck, her red beret perched on her hair.

Brooklyn is quieter than Manhattan, though the pace of Dumbo, the area tucked snugly underneath the huge steel beams of the Manhattan Bridge, feels similar to the neighborhood around Lincoln Center.

There are delivery men zipping by on bikes, their faces tucked snuggly into thick scarves, and children hopping by with nannies, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

Wanda leans against the exterior of the subway entrance and buries her fingers in the depth of her pockets, hoping Monica isn’t too far away.

She hears her name being called, the sound caught in a gust of wind, and she turns to see Monica and Clint walking down the street towards her, Monica’s hand held above her head in a wave.

“Hi!” Wanda calls when they’re close enough to speak without shrieking over pedestrians. “Why are you coming from that direction?”

“Because someone,” Monica cuts her eyes to Clint. “Thought it would be faster if we took the A/C train to High Street, Brooklyn Bridge.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?” Clint holds up his hands.

“Barely,” Monica mutters.

“Anyway,” Clint says. “I saw on Google maps that there’s a café that way,” he points behind him. “And thought we should start with lunch.”

“As long as it’s warm, I don’t care,” Wanda remarks, huddling further into her coat.

Monica links arms with Wanda and they stroll down the street, dodging people as they clip along, Clint behind them.

“Where’s Pepper?” Wanda asks as they walk.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Monica asks. “Apparently she got called into an emergency rehearsal for Coppélia. Agnes wanted to do some kind of choreography rehearsal with specific people.”

“Huh,” Wanda feels an all too familiar pinprick of hurt and jealousy at not have been asked to work on new choreography. Coppélia is a ballet the company performs every three years or so, but this year, Agnes will be choreographing the whole thing.

“It’s just a workshop,” Clint assures her. “No one’s been cast yet or anything, I think Agnes just wanted to get a jump start on some choreography ideas.”

“Huh,” Wanda repeats, not feeling much better.

“Honestly,” Monica pipes up. “I’d rather be here. It’s been forever since I’ve gone anywhere.”

Wanda manages a sheepish smile. "Me too." She's embarrassed to realize the truth of the statement. It really has been almost ten months since she traveled further than the studios back to her apartment.

They come to a crossroads and Monica chews her lower lip. “Is it this way?” she asks Clint.

“No, I think it’s this way,” Clint points to the right with confidence, so Wanda and Monica shrug and follow him down the street, the sidewalks becoming more residential the further they walk.

After a couple of minutes, Wanda is thoroughly lost, and she’s pretty sure Clint is too.

“Are we sure this is the right way?” Wanda asks, studying the brownstone buildings they’re passing.

“No,” Monica mutters and Clint shoots her a nasty look.

“I could have sworn this was the best way,” he fumbles with his phone, studying the map. “I mean I think I-,” he cuts off. “Darcy?”

Wanda jumps, her focus snapping to the sidewalk in front of them.

Sure enough, Darcy Lewis is leaning against a fence outside of one of the brownstones, directing a group of men dragging what looks to be a roll of Marley dance floor up the outside steps.

Darcy sees them at the same time they see her and she squeals. “Hi!” she manages to cut around the men, leaping onto the sidewalk and skittering to a stop in front of them, her dark hair in two braids, a blue beanie on her head.

“What are you doing here?” Monica asks her.

“Helping Vision,” Darcy waves behind her and Wanda focuses on the brownstone for the first time.

The exterior is a warm cocoa colored stone, the sharp edges of the building worn away from years of rain and wind. All of the trim is a pearly white, freshly painted and shining in the weak January sun. There are empty flower boxes on each of the front windows and Wanda can see bags of potting soil piled in the shadow of the building. The steps leading to the front door are steep, the concrete worn and cracked, but the front door is painted a cheerful blue, a shiny doorknocker drilled into the wood.

Above the front door, printed in neat letters, is a sign that says: BROOKLYN DANCE ACADEMY.

Wanda feels a tug of emotion in her lower belly as she studies the building, pride and sorrow warring in her gut.

“Is this his school?” Monica is staring at the building with awe in her expression. “I heard he was opening soon, but I didn’t realize how soon!”

Darcy gives a half smile. “He’s running himself into the ground,” she admits. “But he’s determined to open by the end of the month.”

“That’s insane,” Wanda is surprised by the heat in her words. “Is he purposefully making his life hell?”

Darcy looks at her full on. “Yes.”

There’s something about the way she speaks that causes Wanda to squirm uncomfortably, cutting her eyes away quickly.

“Would you like a tour?” Darcy asks cheerfully, the intensity in her expression vanishing.

“Can we?” Monica looks worried. “I don’t want to be in anyone’s way-.”

“Don’t be silly,” Darcy snorts. “They’ve been dealing with me all morning; they’ll appreciate me being distracted.” She gestures for them to follow her up the concrete steps, but Wanda's feet stay glued to the sidewalk, flutters of panic whisking up her spine. 

“Will, ah-,” Wanda’s voice cracks and she clears her throat. “Is Vision here?”

Darcy’s lips pull up in a sad little smile. “Not right now, he’s been in a meeting with the contractor since ten-thirty.”

Wanda hates the relief her cowardly little heart feels. “Okay.”

Darcy leads them up the stairs and through the beautiful blue front door into a white front room, a large sign that reads: BROOKLYN DANCE ACADEMY, already hanging on the far wall.

“This is the lobby,” Darcy explains. “It will act as a waiting room for parents who are coming to pick up their kids from class, as well as a reception area for people wanting to sign up for classes. There are going to be chairs,” she gestures to the perimeter of the room. “All around the sides, and a desk over here.”

“Is Vision planning on only offering children’s dance classes?” Monica asks.

“To start,” Darcy nods, leading them to a hallway. “He wants to build this school for children who can’t afford to drop hundreds of dollars a year to dance, and he wants to be able to help older kids get into companies. Once that programing is established, I think he’ll start opening classes for adults.”

Monica is nodding and even Clint is looking intrigued, but the further they move into the building, the more overwhelmed Wanda is feeling.

“Most of the rest of the space is studios,” Darcy admits, pointing into room after room, some already fully set up with ballet barres bolted to the walls and Marley floors rolled over the hardwood.

“This is amazing,” Monica is grinning. “Does he need teachers? Because I’d happily make the commute out here to work in a place like this, look at all the sunlight!”

“As a matter of fact,” Darcy grins. “Vision is looking to hire; I can get you the forms if you’d like.”

“Please,” Monica says excitedly.

“Let me show you the upstairs,” Darcy says, retracing their steps back to the lobby area.

“Actually,” Wanda says. “I need the bathroom, is there a working one in here, Darc?”

“Second door on the right,” Darcy points. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, no,” Wanda gives a thin smile. “You go ahead, I think I’ll wait outside.”

Identical looks of pity spread across Monica, Clint, and Darcy’s faces and Wanda can only turn and walk away, trying to run as fast as she can, her skin feeling oddly prickly.

The bathroom is quiet and clean, the plumbing working easily and the lemon scented hand soap next to the sink calms Wanda’s erratic nerves.

She spends a little longer in the bathroom than she normally would, splashing cold water on her flushed cheeks and giving herself the tiniest pep talk in the mirror.

When she exits, she can hear Darcy’s footsteps above her head, but it seems like all the contracted workers have left for lunch, the downstairs is eerily quiet.

Wanda follows the hallway back to the lobby, but the door to the nearest studio is ajar and she feels curiosity pulling at her.

She pokes her head into the bright room, the white walls and pristine mirrors reflecting the sunlight pouring in from two large windows, the room feeling luminescent and huge. It’s empty, the Marley floor laid out and taped, the ballet barre sanded and glossy. The whole space smells like sawdust and paint and a rubbery clean scent radiating off the Marley floor. Wanda feels drawn to the space, looking right and left like a cartoonish burglar, before stepping inside.

She kicks off her sneakers and shrugs out of her long coat and hat, laying them gently on the hardwood floors, and crosses the empty room to the barre, running her fingers along the silky-smooth wood.

Her reflection in the mirror is warped by a protective plastic sheet, covering the mirror’s shiny surface, but she can just make out her soft green sweater and her dark-wash jeans.

There’s no place to plug in music, and she’s not sure she would be brave enough to try, but she feels her body sway, moving her sock feet on the floor in long, clean rond de jambes, humming a nonsensical tune under her breath.

The air feels clean in the studio. Unmarred by crushing expectations and unrealistic competitions. It’s just Wanda and her sock feet, allowed to dance without perfection.

She remembers her headphones in her coat pockets and removes them, selecting a soft piano concerto, the music barely skimming above an audible volume.

She sweeps her right foot up her left leg into a développé, extending her leg to the front, mindful of the fact that she’s barely warm, and pulls the leg back into a fifth position.

The music picks up and Wanda allows her body to move around the space with a soft focus, only aware of where the walls are as she spins. She promenades around her right foot, her left extended in arabesque, rising onto relevé and sweeping her feet into a pas de bourrée.

She slides into an attitude turn, spinning twice and landing in another pas de bourrée, her feet picking up speed as the music whirls in her ears.  

She can sense the end of the piece, the piano gaining momentum as she performs a grand jeté, her legs caught in a perfect split, before she lands and bourrées to the end of the music, coming to rest in the center of the studio, her chest bellowing from the effort, her heart light.

But as she stands, catching her breath, enjoying the play of the afternoon sun across her face, she hears a noise behind her.

“Wanda?”