scarlet shoes

There is a quiet, delirious sort of calm that settles over the beginning of the new season.

The Winter Season is meant to function as a detox from Nutcracker. After almost two months of glitter and sugar and tiny girls in tutus, the Winter Season is meant to showcase a more serious side of the company. A more rigorous, trained side of the company.

For her part, Wanda doesn’t feel like she’s rested at all, the combination of impatience, emotional turmoil, and the casual disappearance of one of her best friends hasn’t exactly added up to a tranquil vacation.

But there’s no time to be tired because they leap straight into rehearsals for the first show of the season, a night of pure classical ballet. 

To everyone's complete shock, Natasha isn’t fired.

From what she’s told Pepper and Monica, Wanda learns that Natasha is on probation, a generous reaction from Agnes, considering the circumstances.

Agnes gives Natasha a wide berth in the studios and Wanda observes many members of the company watching Natasha warily as she moves from rehearsal to rehearsal, but she stays, with only a slap on the wrist, and Wanda has no idea why.

“Agnes likes Natasha,” Monica says one day at lunch, when Wanda brings up her suspicions. “That’s why she promoted her.”

“But she tried to intentionally hurt another dancer,” Wanda says. “And one of Agnes’s favorite dancers too.”

Monica shrugs, cupping a cappuccino in her hands like a life line. “She got lucky.”

“Insanely lucky,” Wanda mutters, a peppermint tea growing cold in front of her.

“Who can really understand the inner-workings of Agnes’s brain?” Monica drains the last of her coffee and casts a look at the clock on the Café’s wall. “Shit, we better go before we’re late.”

The good news, or maybe awful news depending on how Wanda looks at it, is that the first week of the Winter Season doesn’t have any shows. She’s out of the studios by five every day, with time to enjoy the evening.  

The problem is that it gives her entirely too much time to think.

To the point that by Wednesday of the first week back, Wanda finds herself camped out in the studio, the sweat and the aching muscles far better companions than her rebellious thoughts.

Her social life might be going to hell, but at least she can wrestle her professional life back on track.

She plugs in her music and flips to the Coppélia waltz, the bouncy and effervescent music a balm to her raw insides.

This waltz might be the only waltz in ballet history that uses petit allegro, or tiny jumps. Agnes has choreographed it to be sharp and fast, everything that Wanda struggles with.

She cabrioles, jumping into the air with her left leg raised and using the muscles in her right leg to bring it up to meet her left in midair. It’s not as sharp as she would like so she starts the music again.

And again.

And again.

Frustrated, she stops, wiping sweat out of her eyes and moves onto a different step, an entrechat, where she leaps from fifth position and both legs beat in the air.

The beat isn’t nearly as clean as she would like it to be, her legs burning as she realigns her body, grimacing at herself in the mirror.

She feels large and ungainly, her body throwing itself against gravity as she pushes off from the ground again, attempting to beat her legs in fast succession before landing again. She growls when she only manages one beat before her feet hit the ground, performing the leap again almost immediately.  

This jump is worse than the last and she overshoots, stumbling on the landing and pinwheeling her arms to recover her balance.

The music has become too bright and bouncy, the orchestra is scraping her ears and the sweetness of the piece is causing her teeth to ache.  

She sinks back into a fifth position plié and sucks in a huge breath before pushing off from the floor, her muscles protesting.

She barely makes one beat before she stumbles.

Frustrated and defeated, she sinks to the floor with a groan, wrenching off her right pointe shoe and flinging it at the opposite wall, the muted thud of the shoe against the drywall, unsatisfactory.

What she needs is a good scream. A good, loud, primal scream, but unfortunately, living in New York, there’s never a place where you can howl at the sky and people won’t rush to see what the commotion is about.

She flops to her back.

“Wanda?” the tentative voice at the door causes Wanda to sit up straight, her hair falling out of its bun, tendrils sticking to her sweaty temples.

Darcy Lewis is leaning around the doorframe, her brows pulled together in a concerned scrunch. “I heard a thump,” she says. “Are you okay?”

Wanda lets out a bitter chuckle. “Sure.”

“Uh huh,” Darcy’s eyes dart to the pointe shoe lying innocently across the room. “I guess the wall just had it coming.”

“It was looking at me funny,” Wanda’s voice is muffled from the arm she’s slung dramatically across her face.

Darcy sighs and Wanda feels her hands grasping at her sweaty arm. “Come on, you,” she says.

“What?” Wanda growls.

“We’re getting a drink,” Darcy answers, not deterred by Wanda’s snappish tone. “You need a break and I need some wine.”

“I don’t need a break,” Wanda says. “I’m fine.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to wallow in a studio tomorrow night,” Darcy pulls Wanda forcefully to a sitting position. “Tonight, I’m buying you a drink.”

Wanda groans, but removes her other pointe shoe and covers her navy leotard with a grey sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans.

To her credit, Darcy doesn’t gloat at the victory, she just links arms with Wanda and pulls her out of the studios and two blocks north to a tiny bar with cozy lighting and Frank Sinatra crooning across the small, sticky tables.

It isn’t until they’ve both got their drinks in front of them, red wine for Darcy and a vodka soda for Wanda, that Darcy turns to her and asks. “So, how are you doing?”

Wanda smirks. “I’m amazed by your restraint.”

Darcy shrugs. “I figured this conversation would be easier with alcohol,” she takes a sip of her wine. “Besides, I haven’t seen you since Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Wanda twirls the straw in her drink. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” Darcy asks. “Because you don’t have to be fine, you know. You’ve dealt with a lot in the last couple of days.”

Wanda takes a sip of her drink, focusing on the burn of the alcohol and not her wayward thoughts. “I know,” she says carefully.

Darcy fiddles with her fingers, linking them together until they’re tangled in a heap on the tabletop, her black nail polish reflecting a tiny lamp hanging from the low ceiling. “I’m going to ask you a question and I’d really like you to be honest, even if you think I won’t like the answer.”

“Okay,” Wanda says, blinking.

“Have you been avoiding me?” Darcy asks in a small voice.

Wanda presses her lips together. “Not recently,” she answers honestly.

Darcy tilts her head, hurt in her eyes. “Why?”

“God, Darc,” Wanda leans back in her chair, tension stretched across her shoulders. “Because I knew I couldn’t talk to you without first apologizing and I didn’t know how to come up with an adequate apology in the middle of Nutcracker and all the Nat shit starting… it just felt easier to leave it all alone.”

Darcy rears back, her eyes flashing. “What the hell do you have to be sorry about?”

Wanda blinks at the harsh tone. “Um, everything,” she answers. “For encouraging him, for letting him stick around the theater, for believing him, I just- god.”

“None of that was your fault,” Darcy says. “You weren’t told anything.”

“No, but after Vision's letter, I didn’t do anything either,” Wanda swallows hard. “I mean, I tried to warn Nat away from him, but I didn’t tell him off, I didn’t tell anyone what I knew about him, I didn’t kick him in the balls-,” she breaks off because Darcy is suddenly looking murderous.

“You told Nat about Hank?” she says.

Wanda feels her stomach drop. “Oh god,” she says hastily. “No! I mean, I did, but I didn’t mention you or anything like that. I just told her that he wasn’t a good person and-.”

Darcy flings herself across the table and wraps her arms around Wanda, squeezing her shoulders.

“Uh,” Wanda returns the hug gingerly, surprised by Darcy’s affection.

“I cannot believe,” Darcy straightens. “That you warned Natasha and she still did what she did.”

“He’s very manipulative,” Wanda says.

“And she’s clearly not making good decisions,” Darcy returns to her wine. “You’re a good person, Wanda Maximoff.”

Wanda fidgets under the praise. “I-.”

“Take the compliment,” Darcy grins at her knowingly over her glass.

“Thank you,” Wanda answers sheepishly.

They sit in silence as Fly Me to the Moon floats from the bar’s speakers. Wanda slurps more of her vodka, her brain fuzzing quickly.

“How is he?” she asks unexpectedly.

Darcy pulls her focus from the window. She doesn’t pretend to not understand. “He’s…” she searches for the right word. “Persevering.”

Wanda chews on her lower lip.

“They open in a couple of days,” Darcy continues. “He hasn’t been able to focus on much else.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Wanda blurts.

Darcy gives her a sympathetic smile. “I think so.”

“Good,” Wanda swallows. “I- good.”

A few days later, Wanda is in the dressing room, stepping into her Scotch Symphony costume: a long white tulle skirt, black bodice with lacing up the front, and a romantic off the shoulder sleeve. Her hair is already up, eyes darkened and her lips red.

She’s feeling serene, a product of her conversation with Darcy, and she sprays her hair liberally with hair spray, humming a tuneless song as she smooths the flyaway hairs gently with her fingertips.

There is a commotion outside the dressing room door as she finishes up tying her pointe shoes, her feet already protesting their satin confines. Wanda straightens and as she does, she hears Monica say: “I’m just saying you should tell her.”

“That’s a horrible idea,” Natasha insists as she pushes open the door. “She doesn’t need to know that Vision-,” Natasha stops dead when she sees Wanda in the dressing room. “Oh,” she and Monica both have coats draped over their Scotch Symphony costumes, Natasha’s smelling like smoke.

“Hi Wanda,” Monica says pointedly, stripping off her coat and sitting on the floor to pull on her pointe shoes.

“That Vision what?” Wanda asks Natasha. It’s the first thing she’s said directly to her in over a month.

“Nothing,” Natasha takes off her own coat, draping on the back of her chair. “It’s nothing, Wanda.”

“That Vision what?” Wanda asks stubbornly. Natasha ignores her so she looks at Monica. “That Vision what?”

But Monica shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Why the fuck-,” Wanda throws her hands up in the air. “For once, can’t we all just talk to each other like real adults?”

Natasha snorts. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Wanda snarls at her. “I have quite a lot I’d like to say to you.”

“Then say it,” Natasha challenges. “And maybe then I’ll tell you what Vision did. Though honestly, if you’re so horny for communication, you should ask him yourself.”

Wanda feels her eyes flash and she takes a menacing step towards Natasha.

“Woah!” Monica steps between them. 

“Places,” Jimmy’s pleasant voice echoes through the speakers. “Places for Scotch Symphony.”

Natasha leaves the dressing room wordlessly, her pointe shoes in her fist and Wanda is left staring at the door, her cheeks an angry red.

“Come on,” Monica murmurs to her. “Let’s get to places.”

The problem with Scotch Symphony is that there’s too much time for the corps de ballet to stand around, watching the leads dancing. Wanda is always bored in these moments, holding her muscles as still as she can while maintaining a pleasant expression.

Tonight, she is stuck with Monica on her right and Natasha on her left and a full four-minute movement with nothing to do but watch Julie Tyler Tremble hop around with Steve.

“What did Vision do?” she hisses at Natasha from out of the corner of her mouth.

Natasha just blinks, her eyes remaining forward, her red stained smile stretched joylessly across her face.

The music changes and Wanda has to turn towards Monica for three counts of eight.

“What did Vision do?” she asks Monica.

Monica looks caught, shame in her eyes battling her pasted pleasant smile.

Wanda feels a niggling of guilt as she bourrées around Monica and lands back in her previous position. “Please, Nat,” she tries. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

But Natasha stays focused forward, though Wanda thinks she sees the very corner of her mouth wobble.

Okay, she thinks heatedly. If it’s communication she wants, its communication she’ll get.

“Fine,” she hisses. “I’m so fucking pissed at you,” Wanda takes a shaky breath. “You hurt me that night when you chose him over me. I could have gotten over you getting promoted, I was already moving on, but you had to ruin it. And I’m so-,” her voice breaks. “Mad at you.”

Now she knows Natasha’s mouth is wobbling, her gilded smile cracking, but the music changes again and they both has to run across the stage.

When they settle in their new formation, Wanda hears Natasha take a deep breath next to her. “Vision is the one that found us.”

Wanda only just keeps herself from moving, swallowing hard.

It’s as if a dam has broken, words are spilling out of Natasha so quickly, Wanda has to rush to keep up. “He came storming into the cabin and yelled at both of us, said we were being irresponsible idiots, I thought he was going to punch Hank in the face. Then Tony arrived and calmed everything down.”

“Shit,” Wanda breathes. “How did he find you?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha bourrées around her.

“What happened after that?”

“Everyone else showed up,” Natasha crosses her raised left arm with Wanda’s right and they stand face to face.

“What happened to Hank?” Wanda whispers.

“Oh,” Natasha steps closer, releasing Wanda’s arm to move around her fluidly. “That’s the only happy ending. He’s going to be in the Royal Ballet.”

Now Wanda does stumble and it takes all of her core strength not to fall over. “What?”

“Vision got him a corps contract; he starts next week.”

“But-how? Why?”

Natasha manages to shrug. “I’m sure through one of his many, many connections. If you ask me, he should have done it years ago.”

Wanda can’t focus, she can’t breathe, her costume pressing against her rib cage and Natasha’s words hitting her like tiny volts of electricity. “Hank’s going to the corps de ballet of the Royal Ballet?”

Natasha sighs. “Yes.”

The music begins to speed up and Wanda has to whirl away from Natasha, spinning in neat piqué turns to her new position, far away from both Natasha and Monica.

But honestly, she doesn’t care, her brain is somersaulting.

God, Vision, she thinks as she blindly finishes the performance. What have you done?

***

It’s about nine o’clock at night when Vision emerges from his pile of emails and stacks of bills in search of something to eat. Unfortunately, as he shakes out his tingling legs and makes his way to his small kitchen, he remembers that all he has in his refrigerator is a bottle of mustard and two apples. His cabinets are equally bare, some garlic salt and a quarter cup of uncooked oatmeal all he has left from his last grocery trip, two weeks ago.

Resigned to his fate of either ordering in or trapsing to the store, he reaches for his coat, figuring the store will be the cheaper option, when there’s a knock on the door.

He blinks, abandoning his coat and peeking through the tiny peephole in his door.

Darcy stands outside his door, shifting her feet impatiently, a bright yellow beanie on her head.

Vision opens the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that anyway to speak to a lady with food?” Darcy lifts a bag that smells deliciously like curry and steps around Vision to kick off her shoes.

Vision feels his stomach snarl and Darcy grins impishly. “I’ll get the bowls,” he says.

It’s not until they’re both on the couch, curry in hand that Vision asks again. “What are you doing here?”

“Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?” Darcy tears off a chunk of naan and pops it in her mouth.

“You live in Manhattan,” Vision answers.

Darcy swallows and shrugs. “Fair enough,” she says. “I guess I figured you wouldn’t be taking care of yourself and that you might need some food.”

“Risky gamble,” Vision says, forking up a large piece of chicken. “What if I’d already eaten?”

“More curry for me,” Darcy answers. “Besides, I was already out.”

“Oh?” Vision asks, more because he’s certain she wants him to and not because he’s particularly interested in whatever strange ballet types she drank with this evening.

“Mhmm,” Darcy says. “It was lovely to catch up with Wanda.”

Vision chokes on his rice. “Wanda?” he answers when he can speak again.

“Yep,” Darcy looks at him thoughtfully. “And, you know, it’s funny, V, but I don’t think she knows what you’ve done for her.”

“I haven’t done anything for her,” Vision waves his hand.

“Really?” Darcy places her bowl onto the coffee table and raises her right hand in a fist. “Finding Natasha,” she raises her index finger. “Getting Hank out of the picture,” middle finger. “Making a deal with Agnes so Natasha can keep her job, pushing Tony to talk to Pepper again, and staying away because you think that’s what she wants,” all five of Darcy’s fingers are raised and she’s looking at Vision with such a look of pity that he leans away from her focusing on getting a piece of naan.

“I just did what anyone would have done,” he says lowly. “Especially since it was my fault the Hank thing even happened in the first place.”

Darcy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know where you and Wanda managed to get it in your head that you’re responsible for another man’s actions.”

“If I had just told someone-.”

“What?” Darcy challenges, putting her hands on her hips. “What would you have told them? Nothing, V, that’s what. And you want to know why?” she takes a shaky breath. “Because you’re too busy trying to protect my feelings. I mean, god!” she throws her hands up. “In the midst of everyone taking blame for Hank Pym and his idiocy, no one has let me apologize for my piece.”

Vision just stares at her, stunned. “What the hell do you have to apologize for?”

“I allowed you to coddle me,” Darcy says. “I allowed you to think protecting me was more important than warning everyone against him.”  

“No,” Vision surges across the couch and pulls her into his arms. “You will have many things that you’ll have to apologize for in your life, Darcy Lewis, but this is absolutely not one of those things.”

Darcy grumbles, but accepts his hug. "I just can't believe you got him a contract with the Royal Ballet." 

"It got him off this continent, didn't it?" Vision places his chin on the crown of her head. “Besides, I’ve got the director of the Royal Ballet drawing up a special contract for Hank. If he misses one class or one rehearsal, he’s kicked out of the company permanently.”

Darcy gives a watery chuckle. “He’s not going to make it one day.”  

Vision sits back, letting his arms drop from her shoulders. “Are we good?”

Darcy wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Will you let me punch him if he comes back to America?”

“Are you kidding?” Vision picks up his bowl of curry and shoots her an exhausted grin. “I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, you fight your own battles.”

Darcy sticks out her hand, pinky raised. “Promise?”

Vision links his pinky with hers. “Promise.”