fic: one step forward, two steps back (pg-13, natasha-centric)
title: one step forward, two steps back
ship: natasha romanoff (the avengers)
warnings: mentions of Red Room and therefore child abuse and violence
word count: 1,400+
notes: written for this prompt at the be-compromised prompt-a-thon, I’m saying fuck the canon that retconned Natasha’s ballet dancing past, mostly because this is fic and I can.
Natasha wasn’t taught to dance with the typical arabesques and pliés, she was taught with knives between her fingers and blades strapped to her thighs. She spent hours learning how to chassé with deadly grace, sliding in and out of identities with the same ease as a dancer lacing up her slippers.
She did not volunteer to dance, did not slip into the costume of her own volition, but they taught her about things that were worse than aching muscles and blistered feet. So she pulled on the persona and practised until they could find no flaw in her technique. They didn’t stop - they never stopped - but ballet taught her how to endure pain and still look graceful and serene. It taught her how to structure her face into a mask that revealed nothing. It taught her how to survive.
She was instructed not to waste her energy with superfluous movements, so she learned to spin with her arms pulling in to cross over her chest, giving her more and more speed until she was a whirl of death. She had been taught that speed was always a desirable factor, but not required if the routine called for something with more finesse. She learned the hard way not to join the players on the stage without gaining something from it, because it didn’t matter if you executed the most beautiful grand jete - congratulations were not given to those who returned with empty hands. Often, it was better not to return at all.
Every performance was unique and every routine retired afterwards. If she cared, she might think it a shame that the few who witnessed her skills would be unable to repeat the tale of her dance after the final curtain call. Instead, she collected their blood as her own personal version of the roses she knew were tossed on stage to honour real dancers.
She grew up and she stopped practicing the dance that was beautiful in its cruelty, graceful in its violence. She started living the dance and her final lesson before leaving was one of retribution. She had been taught that failure was not an option and did not understand why their rules only ever applied to herself and the other girls. It was a bitterly cold night when she returned and punished all of the men who had failed her but she only felt the burning heat of satisfaction.
The cold would seep back into her bones when she realised that being free meant being alone. Being untethered by their leash meant having no choreography to follow and for the first time since she was a young girl, Natasha’s steps faltered.
---
She continued to dance after everything that had happened, the positions too ingrained in her muscle memory to be erased. She became one with the shadows and scenery when necessary, took her place under the spotlight when it was called for. She glided across the globe until the fluid back and forth motion in the music became so integral it influenced the way she breathed.
She understood the rewards that could be gained by moving two spaces back if it got her one step forward. Her favoured move was the pas de bourrée because it consisted of three quick steps, allowing her to dart behind, to the side, and back to the front with ease. It was always to her advantage to never be where she was expected.
A spy needs to be quick on their feet, always aware of the exits. They’ve got to have backup plans for backup plans. An assassin needs to be silent and invisible, leaving no trace of their existence. There is no rest. If you stop for a break, chances are you won’t get back up again. Natasha is neither, Natasha is a dancer and a dancer needs to perform using prescribed or improvised steps and gestures to accomplish her goal.
Natasha was always at her best when performing for an audience, it allowed her to keep who she really was a closely guarded secret. She keeps what is most important to her locked away but teases others with glimpses of what lies beneath the layers. When luring in the larger prey to extract information, she broke herself down into pieces, giving them out as if they were nothing, generous with them until her enemies were weighed down with her, blinded by her smooth verbal fouettés and fascinated to distraction by her broken edges. Once they were trapped underneath her, she would strike, taking what she needed. Pausing just long enough to pick up only the pieces of herself that were necessary.
They were getting fewer and fewer every day.
---
When they met she heard him coming, even through the drug-induced haze and it burned to know that he’d never have been able to sneak up behind her if she’d been in prime condition. She liked when others underestimated her, but this man had the air of respect about him and for a moment it felt like he knew how lucky he’d gotten.
He watched her but he didn’t try to pick her apart or pry at the cracks she displayed as bait. Instead, he simply stood before her and gave up everything he had before she even had a chance to break herself down. It disrupted the flow and she felt her entire body shudder once, like a pendulum that had been disturbed. He changed the routine mid-performance and she didn’t know how to react.
She marveled at this man that offered up himself so freely without seemingly getting anything in return. He wasn’t conniving enough to using her own play against her - the one that had informants spilling all their secrets and show all their tells before they even realize how much they are letting slip - but it had the same effect since it pushed her off-kilter just enough that she paused, cautious. It was the first time she had stopped dancing for nearly six years and her limbs felt awkward without the support of form and structure.
He moved back and rested there as if he was content where he was, as though he wasn’t a threat.
Natasha felt anything but rested and felt as though she were back at the bar as a child, watching young girls fall hard onto the unforgiving wood floor. Only this time it was her. She’s the small girl curled around a twisted ankle and the adult version of herself is yelling at her to get up, to keep dancing - but she’s slipped, she’s fallen and everything hurts. Nothing is more powerful than this pain, not even survival.
He stood with open arms and she wanted to curve them, mould them until they were held out in proper invitation, the position of a dance partner beckoning to her to finally relent and perform a pas de deux. An invitation to fall and trust that she would be caught.
Instead she stayed where she was and watched how his strong arms were bent and scared and the extent to which his legs were bowed. His turnout would be horrible and she would be better off remembering that. Trust was a lie and believing that there existed no ulterior motives behind his seemingly open and honest face would be the first step towards her swan song. Natasha wasn’t ready to retire just yet.
---
He introduced her to redemption, a confusing dance with too many revisions and unexpected twists and twirls that turn her world upside-down She is a master at improvisation, but she never gets the knack of this routine, never settles into the role as she dons her costume every morning. She hopes that one day pretending to be a hero will become so natural that she will become a real one some day, but she has worn so many different disguises that it’s hard to keep that hope alive since it’s never happened before.
He becomes her partner in name a year before she accepts him as a partner she can trust. Their unsteady alliance has grown into a strong friendship. She is willing to fling herself into the air knowing he would catch her, that he would hold her up and he would never let her fall. She gives him this trust freely in the field and it’s at night when she’s staring at the ceiling if giving him that power outside of the missions would even be possible.
By the way he moves, she can tell he’s never been a gambler, always sure of his footing and confident in his aim and she doesn’t think he’s ever seen a debtor’s ledger, that he won’t ever be able to understand the amount of red that covers her pages, her skin, her bones.
At least he understands why she keeps one, or at least indulges her enough not to ask about it or let her know that he believes her debts paid long ago. Still, he’ll never feel that same burden, the one that crunches her up inside at the thought of owing something to someone. He can accept help, asks for it when he needs it. He can acknowledge his weakness and thank his saviour in the same breath and some days she hates him for that.
She never considers opening an opposing account book listing all the lives that owe their continued existence to her. That’s not how this works, it will never be how she works.
---
(What she didn’t know the night he walked purposefully slow toward her is that it was merely her life’s intermission and that the second act would be more fulfilling than the first. Whether the change has something to do with finding her perfect dance partner is something she will never admit.)
Like what you see? Watch the comm!
ship: natasha romanoff (the avengers)
warnings: mentions of Red Room and therefore child abuse and violence
word count: 1,400+
notes: written for this prompt at the be-compromised prompt-a-thon, I’m saying fuck the canon that retconned Natasha’s ballet dancing past, mostly because this is fic and I can.
Natasha wasn’t taught to dance with the typical arabesques and pliés, she was taught with knives between her fingers and blades strapped to her thighs. She spent hours learning how to chassé with deadly grace, sliding in and out of identities with the same ease as a dancer lacing up her slippers.
She did not volunteer to dance, did not slip into the costume of her own volition, but they taught her about things that were worse than aching muscles and blistered feet. So she pulled on the persona and practised until they could find no flaw in her technique. They didn’t stop - they never stopped - but ballet taught her how to endure pain and still look graceful and serene. It taught her how to structure her face into a mask that revealed nothing. It taught her how to survive.
She was instructed not to waste her energy with superfluous movements, so she learned to spin with her arms pulling in to cross over her chest, giving her more and more speed until she was a whirl of death. She had been taught that speed was always a desirable factor, but not required if the routine called for something with more finesse. She learned the hard way not to join the players on the stage without gaining something from it, because it didn’t matter if you executed the most beautiful grand jete - congratulations were not given to those who returned with empty hands. Often, it was better not to return at all.
Every performance was unique and every routine retired afterwards. If she cared, she might think it a shame that the few who witnessed her skills would be unable to repeat the tale of her dance after the final curtain call. Instead, she collected their blood as her own personal version of the roses she knew were tossed on stage to honour real dancers.
She grew up and she stopped practicing the dance that was beautiful in its cruelty, graceful in its violence. She started living the dance and her final lesson before leaving was one of retribution. She had been taught that failure was not an option and did not understand why their rules only ever applied to herself and the other girls. It was a bitterly cold night when she returned and punished all of the men who had failed her but she only felt the burning heat of satisfaction.
The cold would seep back into her bones when she realised that being free meant being alone. Being untethered by their leash meant having no choreography to follow and for the first time since she was a young girl, Natasha’s steps faltered.
---
She continued to dance after everything that had happened, the positions too ingrained in her muscle memory to be erased. She became one with the shadows and scenery when necessary, took her place under the spotlight when it was called for. She glided across the globe until the fluid back and forth motion in the music became so integral it influenced the way she breathed.
She understood the rewards that could be gained by moving two spaces back if it got her one step forward. Her favoured move was the pas de bourrée because it consisted of three quick steps, allowing her to dart behind, to the side, and back to the front with ease. It was always to her advantage to never be where she was expected.
A spy needs to be quick on their feet, always aware of the exits. They’ve got to have backup plans for backup plans. An assassin needs to be silent and invisible, leaving no trace of their existence. There is no rest. If you stop for a break, chances are you won’t get back up again. Natasha is neither, Natasha is a dancer and a dancer needs to perform using prescribed or improvised steps and gestures to accomplish her goal.
Natasha was always at her best when performing for an audience, it allowed her to keep who she really was a closely guarded secret. She keeps what is most important to her locked away but teases others with glimpses of what lies beneath the layers. When luring in the larger prey to extract information, she broke herself down into pieces, giving them out as if they were nothing, generous with them until her enemies were weighed down with her, blinded by her smooth verbal fouettés and fascinated to distraction by her broken edges. Once they were trapped underneath her, she would strike, taking what she needed. Pausing just long enough to pick up only the pieces of herself that were necessary.
They were getting fewer and fewer every day.
---
When they met she heard him coming, even through the drug-induced haze and it burned to know that he’d never have been able to sneak up behind her if she’d been in prime condition. She liked when others underestimated her, but this man had the air of respect about him and for a moment it felt like he knew how lucky he’d gotten.
He watched her but he didn’t try to pick her apart or pry at the cracks she displayed as bait. Instead, he simply stood before her and gave up everything he had before she even had a chance to break herself down. It disrupted the flow and she felt her entire body shudder once, like a pendulum that had been disturbed. He changed the routine mid-performance and she didn’t know how to react.
She marveled at this man that offered up himself so freely without seemingly getting anything in return. He wasn’t conniving enough to using her own play against her - the one that had informants spilling all their secrets and show all their tells before they even realize how much they are letting slip - but it had the same effect since it pushed her off-kilter just enough that she paused, cautious. It was the first time she had stopped dancing for nearly six years and her limbs felt awkward without the support of form and structure.
He moved back and rested there as if he was content where he was, as though he wasn’t a threat.
Natasha felt anything but rested and felt as though she were back at the bar as a child, watching young girls fall hard onto the unforgiving wood floor. Only this time it was her. She’s the small girl curled around a twisted ankle and the adult version of herself is yelling at her to get up, to keep dancing - but she’s slipped, she’s fallen and everything hurts. Nothing is more powerful than this pain, not even survival.
He stood with open arms and she wanted to curve them, mould them until they were held out in proper invitation, the position of a dance partner beckoning to her to finally relent and perform a pas de deux. An invitation to fall and trust that she would be caught.
Instead she stayed where she was and watched how his strong arms were bent and scared and the extent to which his legs were bowed. His turnout would be horrible and she would be better off remembering that. Trust was a lie and believing that there existed no ulterior motives behind his seemingly open and honest face would be the first step towards her swan song. Natasha wasn’t ready to retire just yet.
---
He introduced her to redemption, a confusing dance with too many revisions and unexpected twists and twirls that turn her world upside-down She is a master at improvisation, but she never gets the knack of this routine, never settles into the role as she dons her costume every morning. She hopes that one day pretending to be a hero will become so natural that she will become a real one some day, but she has worn so many different disguises that it’s hard to keep that hope alive since it’s never happened before.
He becomes her partner in name a year before she accepts him as a partner she can trust. Their unsteady alliance has grown into a strong friendship. She is willing to fling herself into the air knowing he would catch her, that he would hold her up and he would never let her fall. She gives him this trust freely in the field and it’s at night when she’s staring at the ceiling if giving him that power outside of the missions would even be possible.
By the way he moves, she can tell he’s never been a gambler, always sure of his footing and confident in his aim and she doesn’t think he’s ever seen a debtor’s ledger, that he won’t ever be able to understand the amount of red that covers her pages, her skin, her bones.
At least he understands why she keeps one, or at least indulges her enough not to ask about it or let her know that he believes her debts paid long ago. Still, he’ll never feel that same burden, the one that crunches her up inside at the thought of owing something to someone. He can accept help, asks for it when he needs it. He can acknowledge his weakness and thank his saviour in the same breath and some days she hates him for that.
She never considers opening an opposing account book listing all the lives that owe their continued existence to her. That’s not how this works, it will never be how she works.
---
(What she didn’t know the night he walked purposefully slow toward her is that it was merely her life’s intermission and that the second act would be more fulfilling than the first. Whether the change has something to do with finding her perfect dance partner is something she will never admit.)
Like what you see? Watch the comm!