Natasha hates balle.
The way the girls spin across the stage, light and perfect, colored skirts swaying up and down. The way the prima ballerina smiles as the spotlight hits her face.
It makes her want to throw up.
Which is why she's doing it.
It wasn't hard to find a studio in Manhattan, and renting the whole place for a day was only a question of which account number of Tony's she wanted to give the owner.
She won't mention the scratch on the mirror closest to her, or the dents and stains on the wood floors, but it will do just fine anyways. So she tightens her ribbons around her legs, puts on the worn balle shoes she swore she's never wear again, and begins dancing to Tchaikovsky.
It only lasts for so long.
Her feet don't stop in time with the violins, and she keeps spinning. Spinning, spinning, spinning.
And although she is not dizzy, she falls anyways.
Bucky is not there to catch her, and she ends up on the floor. Eventually her cheeks are wet. She is happy no one is there to see.
She stumbles to her feet, when she gets the strength, and leaves, not bothering to change.
Her shoes are soiled and undone by the time she reaches the subway. A man sitting three seats away gives her a dazed look of lust. She would strangle him with her ribbons if she was strong enough–or cared.
Natasha leaves a trail of mud through the Tower lobby, gets her skirt trapped in the elevator, and nearly slips on the tile in her bathroom.
She goes to sleep with a ribbon tied around her leg, dreaming of blood under her fingernails and an empire built of death.
Paranoia is close behind when her eyes open, but it's okay.
