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Natasha fought the urge to crack her knuckles and settled on grinding her shoes into the rosin box for the umpteenth time. She was struggling to block out the yelling going on between the crew on stage as they set up the transition into the waltz of the snowflakes.
“The warm spots,” the lighting director hollered towards the gods from the centre of the stage. “Scene 9! To the left!”
This had been going on all morning. It was their first day of tech rehearsals in the theatre and never in her decade long career had she experienced such incompetence. At class that morning the company had been told to expect delays as the crew were a couple of members short due to some early flu cases, however it was beginning to feel like being one more crew member short might have actually improved things.
Natasha shook her head and refocused her mind. She closed her eyes, conjured the music and began to run the dance in her head. This was old hat to her. She had danced the role of Sugar Plum for the last seven years and had been preparing it for it even longer. She had first memorised the choreography as a little girl. It was the first ballet she had ever seen. For some reason, from her family’s pile of VHS tapes the Royal Ballet’s 1984 Nutcracker had called to her as a small child and she had quickly become obsessed, wearing the tape so badly that by now the battle with the Mouse King was unwatchable. It was from that tape that she had studied the Sugar Pump Fairy, watching the fouettés, and with years of ballet instruction, finally mastering them. Her mind took her through the opening of the grand pas and she nodded her head along as she ground herself in the rhythm and flow of the music.
She was interrupted with a curt, “Excuse me,” as the stage manager touched her shoulder to pass through her wing onto stage.
“This is unbelievable,” the lighting director appealed to the stage manager as he walked out, “We’re already running behind. We’re losing time. We still have the fog cue to set up for this and we haven’t even touched Sugar Plum. This is ridiculous!”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Steve, the mild mannered stage manager tried to reassure. “Look, I’ll get him a headset. We can make this work.”
“Urgh,” one of the snowflakes came to share Natasha’s rosin box. “This is taking so long my shoes are losing their tack.”
Natasha took a steadying breath.
“Who even is this guy that’s holding it all up?” A second snowflake whispered back.
“I don’t think it’s any of our business.”
“It’s our business if we don’t get onto the dress rehearsal tomorrow,” the second bit back. “We’ve been working for months, and what? This guy can’t refocus a few lights?”
“They’ll figure it out,” Natasha dismissed, turning from the wing and seeking out the fire escape she had found on their first day in the theatre. Wrapped in her padded winter coat and armed with a half-empty packet of cigarettes she pushed her way out into the cold New York City air.
>>>—————>
“Thanks Clint,” Tony’s voice relayed through the headset that Steve had delivered him. “That looks great. That’s exactly what we need. Mark these positions up, then take 10 while we figure out the smoke machine effect, ok?”
“Thanks man,” Clint replied with an easy going tone to his voice that he did not feel in a single bone in his body. It had been a morning of fuck-ups. Fuck-ups directly attributed to the fact that he couldn’t hear a damn thing being said on stage from the lighting rig. Even with his hearing aid, he he forgot how much he relied on lip reading and facial cues while communicating, both of which were impossible 30 feet above the person he was trying to listen to.
He needed a cigarette.
He climbed down from the lighting rig and burst through the fire exit. He closed his eyes and inhaled the icy city air deeply. It burned his throat a touch. When he opened his eyes he noticed one of the ballerinas, apparently the only ballerina not involved in the snow sequence leaning against the wall to the left of the door. He offered a curt nod and she replied by simply staring back. Clint tried not to shiver. Turning to the right of the door he patted down his work trousers, retrieving his lighter and continuing to search for his stash only to remember he hadn’t transferred his cigarettes over from his jeans last night. Fuck.
“I’ll trade you a cigarette for a light.”
Clint jumped and looked up, surprised to find himself face to face with the dancer wrapped in a padded black coat, her bejewelled tutu sticking out at odd angles.
“Uh,” Clint fumbled some more, finally landing on one of his lighters in the third pocket he tried.
The ballerina laughed as he held it up triumphantly. It might have been the first time he had seen any of them smile.
She held out a cigarette and was surprised when he lit it for her rather than taking it.
“And you,” she passed him the packet.
“Thanks,” he took one out and lit it up himself. He felt the adrenaline begin to leech out of him after the first drag.
“Rough day?” The ballerina was still there, her eyes boring into him.
He pressed his lips together. “I’ve had better.”
“Tech rehearsal is the worst of all,” she made it sound ominous and reassuring at the same time.
“Where you from?” He asked suddenly.
“Moscow,” as she said it he heard the shortened vowels and maybe she did have a little accent after all.
“Your English is great,” he took another drag and flicked some ash.
“I grew up in Ohio,” she answered.
“Iowa,” he blurted out.
“I’m sorry?” The woman’s blue eyes looked uncertain.
“I… I grew up in Iowa… That’s also in the Midwest.”
“That is also in the Midwest,” Clint cursed internally. She looked weirded out.
“Well, thanks for the light…”
“Clint,” he offered. “But they call me Barton here.”
“Barton,” she settled on.
“And thanks for the cigarette…” he tried her own move.
“Natasha.”
“Natasha,” he smiled. She didn’t.
>>>—————>
“Natasha Romanoff?” Kate jutted her neck forward, eyes wide at his question over breakfast the next morning. “Uh… yeah. You could say she’s a pretty big deal.”
Clint shrugged and took another slug of his coffee.
“She’s like…” Kate gazed into space as she tried to put it into words. “She’s flawless when she dances, and completely… I don’t know,” Kate gave herself a little shake. “She’s a big name in ballet at the moment. I think she trained in Russia and then she had a principal role in Mayerling at the Royal when she was crazy young and I guess now she’s in your Nutcracker. But I didn’t know she was with ABT.”
“It’s not my Nutcracker,” Clint rolled his eyes.
“Well, can you get me and my mom tickets?”
“Maybe,” Clint shrugged. “You know the comp seats aren’t even that good.”
Kate shrugged and then intoned seriously, “Mrs Bishop would be eternally grateful. Especially with all the rent short-falls of late. It might garner some goodwill towards her least favourite tenant.”
“Fine,” Clint groaned. “If I can get comps, I’ll send them your way.”
Kate squealed, “Thank you!”
>>>—————>
The more he learned about Natasha Romanoff, the more intrigued he became. During the dress rehearsal he found himself assigned to follow spot duty. It was an easy gig, perhaps a demotion from his usual position, but he was happy to be away from Tony for the day, plus from up here he got to take in the show in all its Christmas glory. He gripped the handles either side of the light and he trained it on her as she gracefully wove her way around the stage. From up in the gods, he could really appreciate how the lights reflected off the jewels on her costume. She shimmered as she moved, her pirouettes becoming their own blur of light. From his vantage point it was captivating.
He could see it wasn’t just him either. The stage right wing, the only one he could see from this vantage point, was full as members of the company crowded to watch. She really was remarkable, like Kate said, a once in a generation talent.
The company and crew gathered for notes following the show and after that the company dismissed and crew assigned a few final jobs before they could leave. Clint was sent to paint the stage for the next day. Ballet was notoriously tough on it. The dancers’ shoes lifted the paint, leaving casting marks all over it that didn’t exactly blend in with the aesthetic of the show. He gathered the paint, roller and tray and made his way to the stage.
The few assistant stage managers lingered by the props tables having joking conversations, but the theatre was otherwise quiet. The house lights were up and the stage lights off. He tilted his head, surprised to see a lithe figure marking it’s way across the stage. He knew it was Natasha even from a distance. She was marking out the same steps he had watched her dance about 15 times over in the tech rehearsal and then flawlessly in that day’s dress rehearsal.
She stopped when she spotted him. “Sorry,” she shook her head. “You need to work here?”
“Uh, yeah,” he shrugged. “Sorry, you look amazing though, I mean- your dancing, your dancing looks amazing.”
Natasha’s face remained impassive and she breathed in sharply. She rested her hands on her hips and paced the stage.
Clint tried not to stare, he figured it must be a pretty big deal to know you’re going to be up on this stage in front of 3,000 people the very next night. He set down the painting tray and began to assemble the long-armed roller. Once he had poured the paint and gotten a nice even coating of black on his roller, she was still there, gazing out into the auditorium.
“Do you mind if I get a start?” He asked hesitantly.
“Go ahead,” she nodded.
“I was talking to my roommate,” he tried a lighthearted tact. “She’s really excited to come see the show. She had no idea you were in it.”
“Hmm,” Natasha nodded and gave a little smile. “It’s surprising.”
“She said you mostly work in Europe.”
“Until now,” Natasha shrugged. “I’ve gone freelance.”
“That’s cool,” Clint nodded as he began to paint in sweeping strokes upstage, giving Natasha a chance to gather her belongings. “Do you like being freelance?”
“So far,” Natasha shrugged. “It’s hard sometimes…” she trailed off, looking away.
When she looked back, Clint was there with a smile on his face, waiting patiently.
“I guess when most dancers work in companies and are used to the structure, it can be a little unsettling for them to have guest artists join. I think a few of the girls had their sights set on Sugar Plum,” she admitted. “To put it politely, I’ve ruffled a few feathers. And when you do that, you really have to prove yourself.”
“Well, I don’t know much about ballet, but it’s like that music was made for you,” he painted in broad even strokes across the stage and she watched him curiously.
“Thanks,” she said lightly and slung her holdall onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”
“Break a leg,” Clint saluted as she exited the stage.
>>>—————>
Opening night and the couple of performances that followed were a blur or rosin dust and sequins.
“Ooh, you’ve got a review,” Kate announced enthusiastically over breakfast.
“A review?” Clint asked around a mouthful of toast. “We haven’t had press night yet.”
“It’s The Post,” Kate said with contempt.
“Well, what does it say?”
“Hmm,” Kate paused and quietly scrolled her phone, her lips twitching. “Well they don’t criticise anything technical, so bravo you,” she nods in his direction. “Praise for Tony Starks’ lighting design and reimagining of the sets…less enthusiastic about Natasha than most… questioning debuting a freelance artist at such a crucial point in the calendar, well, I guess they have got a point there.”
“But she’s been wonderful?”
“These people will always find something to rubbish, and sometimes it’s simply change they don’t like.” Kate cast the article away and put her phone down in favour of another cup of coffee.
>>>—————>
It seemed that the people at The Post were not the only ones thrilled with the change. The review had been seen by everyone at the theatre and by the time the company had convened on stage for their class and rehearsal that afternoon the air was thick with tension.
Sometimes Natasha thought the most important thing she had learned in her five years at Vaganova had been the ability to keep a straight face under any pressure. She employed that today. At barre, she ignored the whispers that she couldn’t quite make out and when they transitioned to centre and one of the corps cast as a flower actually made a reference to it, she simply pretended not to hear and then had to fight to keep as straight face as she thought of that poor crew member trapped up on the lighting rig, Barton?
Still, the first drag of her cigarette between calls was a relief. She had to make it to actual press night she told herself. If those review were dog shit too, she would fall on her sword and call the whole thing an American experiment.
She was searching her old place in London to check how much the rent had increased by when the fire exit door swung open and Barton emerged, looking a lot less disheveled that the last time they had met here.
“Need a light?” He asked cheerily.
“I’m good,” she actually smiled. “Need a smoke?”
“I’m good,” he held up a crushed box of cigarettes.
He lit himself up and took a drag, coming to stand by her.
“You know that review doesn’t mean shit, right?”
She closed her eyes and sank in on herself.
“Like sure, it’s the first one out there-”
“Not helping,” Natasha shook her head vehemently.
“I’m saying, that it’s the first one, sure, but nobody reads The Post and you’re already nearly a sell-out. Plus that stuff they said about you, was just fear of change.”
“Plenty of people here agree with them,” Natasha sighed. “That’s the hard part. Now they can feel like they’re right.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Clint waved a hand. “It’s not about you as a dancer, is it? I mean, come on. You’re exceptional.”
She didn’t know why receiving praise always seemed to cause physical pain, worse physical pain than crushing her entire body’s weight onto the box of her pointe shoes. Criticism she could deal with, criticism could help her improve. She had been trained from four years old to take the criticism and use it. But for some reason, and maybe it was because she knew that this guy in his stage blacks and steel-capped boots knew absolutely nothing about ballet, his words made her feel a little warm inside.
She cracked a small smile at his over-egged defence of her because his wide eyes looked like that’s what he was hoping for. He grinned back and that made her laugh a little.
“You know, they’ve got me on follow spot,” he told her casually. “Can’t fuck up as much, but I’ve watched every performance from up there and you are without a doubt the best dancer on that stage. They would be crazy to have cast anyone else as the fairy.”
“Sugar Plum,” she corrected.
“Sugar Plum,” he repeated. “Well, I’ve seen every show and I’m still looking forward to the rest.”
“Does that make you my biggest fan?” She teased, making his blush, as they heard the bell for the half ring from inside the theatre.
The next words fall from his mouth before he even really has time to think them through.
“Do you wanna get a drink after the show tonight?”
Fuck Clint. Fuck. He cursed himself. After work? He was already exhausted. Out for a drink? Where?
“Uh,” The small smile was gone, “Sure,” Natasha shrugged. “I haven’t been out yet since I got here.”
“Uh cool,” Clint replied, his mind still reeling as he tried to think of somewhere suitable to take Natasha after 11pm on a weeknight. “I’ll, I guess I could meet you…” Clint trailed off, he wanted to suggest here, but it wasn’t very convenient.
“My dressing room? Give me 30 minutes after the show.”
“No problem,” Clint agreed. “I got to paint the floor anyways.”
>>>—————>
It’s not the best paint job that the stage has ever had, but it’s black and he’ll paint it again tomorrow anyway, so with the job done to a satisfactory standard, he bolted to Natasha’s dressing room door.
It was only when she opened the door and he did a double take that he realised he had never seen her with her hair out of it’s tight ballet bun. Red curls brushed the shoulders of her black leather jacket and damn it, why did she look so good coming straight off a show and he was here in his stage blacks and clunky boots.
“Uh,” Clint paused momentarily. “Your hair,” he commented dumbly.
Natasha frowned at him.
“It’s-” he fumbled. “I haven’t seen it out of the bun,” he gestured and then realised how dumb he must sound. “Or without the crown,” he added with a cheeky grin.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Yeah, the diamanté crown is not my every day look.”
“It suits you,” Clint shrugged, shoving his hands into one of his many sets of pockets.
“So, where are we going?” Natasha asked, slinging her ballet bag over a shoulder.
>>>—————>
Clint had agonised through the show that night about where to take her and had settled on one of the crew’s regular haunts. It was a couple of blocks from the theatre and Steve’s husband worked there so they got cheap drinks the nights he was working, thought tonight Steve had mentioned he and Bucky had plans to catch a midnight movie and that would hopefully mean the bar would be devoid of anyone that might recognise the pair. Plus, he knew she was new to town and didn’t know where she was living so didn’t want to drag her to the wrong side of the city.
He didn’t want to linger on the review and she seemed open to distractions, so he regaled her instead with tales of his days in the circus and he was amazed when he actually got a belly laugh out of her.
“There’s no way,” Natasha struggled to say between laughter.
“I’m telling you,” Clint nodded imploringly, his eyes dancing with laughter too.
“Your jokes belong in the circus,” she took a swig from her drink. “That’s for sure.”
“Have you ever been to the circus?”
“Maybe as a kid?” She shrugged. “Have you ever been to the ballet? And not one you’re working on.”
“No,” he admitted honestly. “What would you recommend?”
“Well, there’s this Christmas tradition,” she began. “You can find a production in just about every town in the US…”
“Oh yeah?” Clint played along.
“It’s Russian though,” Natasha told him. “Even though Russians stopped celebrating Christmas during the soviet era, they never did stop performing Nutcracker.”
“Huh? Really?” Clint dropped the stupid act and showed genuine interest.
“Yeah, the bolsheviks banned religious holidays, but just about every tradition associated with Christmas, minus the baby Jesus, became part of the New Year celebrations, so in Russia when Clara gets the Nutcracker it’s on New Year’s Eve.”
“And the giant Christmas tree?”
“The yolka,” Natasha elaborated. “It’s for New Year. Even the communists knew you couldn’t make it a year without the Nutcracker.”
“And how many years have you danced in the Nutcracker?”
“Every year since I was 7.”
Clint choked on the next sip of his drink.
“I told you, there’s a production in every town.”
“And how many times have you been Sugar Plum?”
“This is my eighth.”
“And your favourite role you have ever danced?”
Natasha got thoughtful at that one. “I used to dance Persephone a lot, I like it as a character piece.”
Clint nodded along cluelessly.
“But my dream role would be Juliet in Matthew Bourne’s production.”
“What’s special about that production?”
“It’s set in an asylum. I think the whole star-crossed lover thing makes a bit more sense if they are both insane.”
“You think love at first sight is insane?”
Clint’s blue eyes twinkled and she found it hard both to hold his gaze and to let her eyes leave it. “Killing yourself over it is the insane part,” she settled on.
He nodded in agreement.
“So, that’s enough about me. Tell me, do you have a dream production to work on?” Natasha settled back into her seat, folding her arms over her chest.
“Eh, this is kind of a stop gap for me. You might be able to tell, I’m not great at this job.”
Natasha laughed again and his heart warmed at the sound. The icy demeanour she seemed to keep up at the theatre could not be further from the woman he was sharing drinks with now. “They did relegate you to follow spot.”
“Yeah, I guess, my dream?” He pondered. “I’d like a dog.”
“God,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “You sound like my sister.”
“Does she dance?”
“No,” Natasha shook her head. “She’s a scientist. Works on vaccines.” She gave a little shrug. “Our parents are very proud.”
“And are they proud of you?”
“Insufferably so.”
“Are they coming to see the show?”
“Try to stop them,” Natasha laughed. “They grew up in soviet Moscow, so for them, Nutcracker is an institution. They’re coming on closing night. Do your parents come to see the show?”
“Dead,” he shook his head. “Remember? Circus orphan.”
“Ah, sorry,” Natasha winced.
“Don’t worry about it,” he shook his head. “My roommate and her mom will come see it.”
“Your roommate?”
“Kate, oh she’s great, she actually works Front of House sometimes, but she’s got deadlines coming up over the winter break. She’s a PhD candidate.”
Natasha nodded, listening very carefully.
“We met at an archery class.”
“An archery class?” Natasha raised an eyebrow.
“What else did you think I was doing in the circus?”
“Archery?” She repeated.
“Yeah, they called me The Amazing Hawkeye, and I did some tricks with a bow and arrow.”
“Can you still do ‘em?”
He shrugged modestly.
“Show me?” She challenged.
>>>—————>
And that is how they ended up on the roof of the theatre at 2am. Short of a bow or arrow, Clint had swiped some darts from the bar. He’d return them via Steve and had treated Natasha to a display of his marksmanship.
She had to admit, he was pretty good.
“Good enough for the circus,” she had quipped, earning herself a side eye.
“How are you feeling about press night tomorrow?” He asked as he gathered in the darts that were within his reach.
“You mean tonight,” Natasha flashed her phone at him to show the display time.
“Oh shit,” he exclaimed. “Damn, we better get some sleep. Hope I didn’t bore you stupid with these,” he gestured at the darts.
She shook her head. “No, thank you Clint, it’s been, it’s been a really fun night.”
She stepped into his personal space and he felt himself straighten up. He stood more than a head taller than her, but she reached up on her tip toes and her gloved hand gently cupped his cheek as she pulled him towards her.
He met her half way.
Her lips were soft and glossy, with a faint taste of something sweet. He took her head in his hands and kissed her more deeply, breathing in the sweet fruity smell of her perfume. There was a quiet intensity to her kiss.
He gazed into her eyes as they broke apart, keeping her face clasped in his hands, studying her for a reaction. Her lips glistened and he couldn’t help but lean back in. She welcomed him and god, they needed to get some sleep before tomorrow, but up here kissing her on this rooftop, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to stop.