Chapter Text
The room was cold, but sweat dripped down Natasha’s spine. She moved in perfect sync with the other girls, her limbs precise, her breathing steady. She didn’t dare falter.
"Front tendu!" Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Tendu side.” Tap. Tap. Tap.
The words were yelled across the training room. A long, thin stick in wrinkled hands, tapping against the hardwood floors in measured beats. Girls stood in rows. All shapes, sizes, and ages. They moved their limbs with precision. There was focus and determination on every single face. A hidden wariness of falling out of line kept them from making the slightest mistake. Their bodies moved and bent to the will of the woman standing before them. The sound of feet sliding to their correct positions could be heard as the tapping of the ruler kept them going. Its tapping served as a reminder. One wrong move could be their hands, legs, or behinds. The soreness would last until the following day, disallowing them to sit or feel anything but the pain of their mistakes.
“Tendu side. Tendu back.” Over and over again. The mirror stretched across the room, reflecting each girl as they stared straight ahead, unblinking. This was routine, ingrained in them after years of practice. Ballet wasn’t just about grace—it was control. Every movement was drilled into them for flexibility, precision, and discipline.
Madam B. walked through the small class with a heated expression. Her face was all hard lines and wrinkles. Her frown seemed to be permanently set. Her hair was pulled impossibly tight into a slick bun, leaving little room for tension and no hair out of place.
Natasha, short, thin, and less reserved than the others, stood proudly as she moved her feet. She was out of practice. Years of being away would do that to her. Her body ached with the use of muscles left untouched. Her knees buckled for a millisecond, but she fixed them. She squared her shoulders and breathed in through her nose and mouth. Her eyes never left the mirror in front of her. She was too focused.
A sharp crack of wood against the skin broke the rhythm. One of the girls flinched, her body folding in on itself for just a moment before she scrambled back into position.
Natasha didn’t flinch. She couldn’t.
From the corner of her eye, she saw you. You stood out of sync, your movements deliberate and slow, almost mocking.
Madam B’s stick struck twice against your thigh, then your shoulder. You didn’t react. Not really. A flicker of pain crossed your face before your lips curved into a slight, defiant smirk.
Natasha’s chest tightened. Trouble. That’s what you were.
"Yobanaya suka (fucking bitch)," you muttered to yourself from behind her. Natasha couldn’t help but wonder where you learned so many colorful words. She’s heard half a dozen since you chose your spot beside her almost an hour ago. She glanced in your direction, finding that you'd stepped out of position.
Madam B. tapped the ruler against the floor twice in a warning. You ignored it and continued stretching. Natasha didn’t miss the smirk that formed on your face.
You knew what you're doing.
She watched Madam B. walk over to you again, her movements quicker this time. She stood before you, her back rigid and her head held high. You looked up at her through fluttering lashes.
Madam B's lips curved into a thin, sharp smile as she stood before you, her voice cutting like a blade. "Dreykov’s prized little doll," she drawled, the mockery laced with venom. "So delicate, yet he lets you pretend you're special."
Your hand twitched at your side, a brief betrayal of the calm exterior you wore. As Madam B did, Natasha noticed, her eyes narrowing with satisfaction.
Her voice sliced through the air, dripping with derision. “Dreykov’s shining star. Always so perfect, aren’t you? Though we both know perfection comes cheap when you’re his favorite.”
You didn’t flinch. Your hand stilled at your side, and your face hardened into something unshakable, unreadable. Without missing a beat, you slid effortlessly into the next movement, your lines precise.
Madam B hovered momentarily, waiting for a crack, a tell. When none came, her sneer deepened. “Impressive,” she muttered, though her tone made it sound like a curse. She turned on her heel, the sharp click of her boots fading as she moved on, leaving you untouched but more closely watched.
Class today was boring for you. It was the same old things and the same old people. The same fifteen girls since you were four years old. Natasha has just been transferred into your age group and is a year or so younger than you. You didn’t know her that well. Only things you’d heard whispered about her from within the halls of the Red Room. Natalia Romanova is a spitfire. She’s quick-witted, fearless, and disciplined. Looking at her, you’re not convinced of any of those things. Though, you’d be a fool to think otherwise. People could be surprising.
You studied Natasha for a while. With each extension, each plié, she navigated the dance floor effortlessly, her every movement purposeful and controlled. There was an air of mystery surrounding her, and you couldn’t help but be intrigued.
But the more you looked, the more you found her boring.
Everything about her screamed perfectionist. She seemed to have it all together and knew what she was doing. You, on the other hand, were bored.
Determined to uncover the enigma that was Natasha, you made it a mission to learn more about her. She was your competition, after all. Dreykov whispered about her when he thought you weren’t listening. He praised her every chance he got. You needed to stay ahead.
*******
The halls were buzzing during the transition, though no one dared raise their voice above a whisper. Natasha had always imagined this was what middle school must’ve felt like—girls moving in packs, their identical uniforms blending into a single, faceless entity. White poplin shirts were pressed to perfection, black skirts were grazing their knees, and knee-high socks were pulled taut. No strand of hair was out of place; every ponytail was slicked back tight enough to ache. No individuality. No room for it.
Natasha lingered near the edge of the group, blending in but feeling distinctly apart. That was when you appeared at her side, your voice low, almost a murmur.
“Come with me,” you said, your hand brushing hers before locking onto her wrist. The touch was light, fleeting, but it made Natasha stiffen.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, pulling back slightly, though you didn’t let go.
“I’ve got a place,” you said, not bothering to explain more. “We can skip the next class.”
Natasha stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “We can’t just—”
“We can.” Your voice was steady, certain. “Unless you’d rather spend another hour listening to Madam B tear into us.” You tugged her gently, your steps deliberate as you weaved through the flow of girls. “Trust me.”
Natasha hesitated, but her curiosity—her reluctance to stand out in the hall—won out. She followed.
You didn’t stop until you reached a side corridor, the girls thinning around you—a clearing. Ahead, a door with the sign “RESTRICTED” leading to a narrow staircase stretched upward. You glanced over your shoulder.
“Keep up,” you said, already slipping through the door. Natasha followed reluctantly, trailing you up the steps, her grip tightening on the railing.
“There are cameras,” Natasha said, her voice low and disbelieving.
“Not for another thirty seconds,” you replied, already moving toward the top of the staircase. You didn’t look back at her. “The cameras will swing back this way soon, so if you’re staying, stay. Otherwise, go back now.”
Natasha froze, indecision rooting her to the spot. She could feel the seconds ticking away, each heavier than the last.
“Your call,” you said over your shoulder, not waiting for her answer.
Natasha exhaled sharply, her feet carrying her forward before she could stop herself. The cool air hit her first, causing a shiver up her spine as she watched you. Maybe this was a trap. Maybe she shouldn’t have trusted you.
"Don't you love being outside?" You twirled effortlessly, the movement precise, like muscle memory. When you stopped, you glanced back, catching Natasha’s wary eyes darting across the rooftop.
"This is a bad idea," she said, her voice flat, her shoulders stiff. She didn’t move from the doorway.
You laughed softly, leaning against the edge of the low wall. The wind caught your hair, tugging at the strands you sliced back. You didn’t care. “Maybe. But it’s better than listening to Madam B drone on about posture, right?”
Natasha didn’t answer, her eyes still scanning, her arms folded tightly.
“You ever do something just because you wanted to?” you asked, tilting your head as you studied her.
She finally looked at you, her brow furrowing slightly. “No,” she said, blunt and quiet. “Widows follow the rules.”
You smiled, a little sharper now, but your voice stayed light. “Rules are boring. You should try breaking one sometime.” You pushed off the wall and took a step closer to her. She didn’t flinch, but you could feel the tension radiating off her. She was too careful, too rigid.
“Aren’t you afraid?” she whispered after a beat, her voice so low you almost missed it.
You grinned, shrugging one shoulder. “Of what? Getting caught? Been there, done that.” You glanced at the rooftop around you, then at the open sky. “Up here, though? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The wind brushed against your face as you stepped onto the ledge of the rooftop wall, your arms outstretched for balance. You moved effortlessly as if you had done it a hundred times—because you have. “Relax,” you called over your shoulder, the corners of your lips quirking. “I’ve been up here dozens of times. It’s fine.”
Natasha stood frozen by the doorway, her arms crossed tightly. Her eyes tracked every step you took. “You fall, I’ll get in trouble,” she warned, her tone clipped.
You glanced back at her, unbothered, and twirled on your heel like a circus performer. “Nah, I won’t fall. And even if I did, what are they gonna do? Ground me?”
“Maybe not,” Natasha said, her voice dropping, “but you’re Dreykov’s star student.”
That stopped you. Your smile faded, and you hopped down from the wall with practiced ease, landing softly. You crossed your legs on the ground and began picking at the frayed knee of your tights, pretending not to care. “So what?” you muttered, your fingers moving restlessly. “You look like you needed this,” you said, changing the subject.
Natasha didn’t move at first. She watched you, unsure, her arms still crossed as she shivered against the chill. Finally, she took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she was close enough to sit beside you. You felt the warmth of her body as she edged closer, but you didn’t shift away, even though you could feel her gaze studying you.
“I know you,” Natasha said quietly, her voice laced with suspicion. “You’re always with him. He seems to like you a lot.” She glanced at your tights, your pointe shoes, then back up to your face. “Is that where you got the key to get up here?”
“Yes,” you said simply. Then, after a beat, you added, “Not like I had a choice.” Your voice was even, but the weight of your words lingers in the air. You tapped your fingers rhythmically against your legs, your eyes flitting to the open sky.
“Why does he like you so much?” Natasha pressed, her tone more curious than accusing now.
You looked at her, then back down at your knees. “As long as he doesn’t like you, it doesn’t matter,” you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. Natasha flinched, her shoulders shrinking inward. Regret crept in, and you sighed. “Sorry,” you mumbled, your gaze drifting back to the sky.
For a moment, it was quiet. Then you spoke again, your voice softer then. “When Dreykov takes a special interest in someone, it’s not good. You don’t want that. Trust me.” Your fingers kept tugging at the hole in your tights. “But I’ve learned how to use it. It gets me things—keys, a little freedom, a little breathing room. I can mouth off sometimes, and he lets it slide. Usually.”
You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. “He’s got his eye on you, though. You're all he talks about since you came back from Ohio.”
Natasha frowned, confusion flashing across her face. “Why? I’ve barely done anything.”
You shrugged, looking back up at the sky. “Maybe that’s why. Or maybe he sees something in you. Either way, you should be careful. You don’t want to end up like me.”
She didn’t reply, but you caught the flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or doubt."I think it's because you're a good girl. A rule-follower. Someone who knows how to distract others. I'm not. He wants you to be his best soldier."
"He wants to mold us into the perfect killers." Natasha frowned.
"That's why they make us dance," You said, "To teach us the grace and balance we'll need."
"Men like pretty girls who can do damage," You muttered. "You seem like the type."
"Oh," Natasha nodded. She's not sure what any of that means. She looked at your feet and then her own. "How old are you?"
"I think fourteen?" You tried to remember. "I'm not sure. I just had a birthday, so..."
You leaned forward, stretching your limbs until you could touch your toes. You peeked between your fallen curls to look at Natasha. She followed your every move. You sat up again to look at her.
"Do you like it here?" You asked her.
"It's the only home I know," She said, "And it's all I'm good at. Do you?"
"No," You said with a frown, "I despise this place.”
"I think we can be friends, Natalia." You held out your hand for her to take.
“Friends?” She repeated the word as if it was foreign to her. She looked down at your hand. This could only mean bad things. But she shook it anyway.
As you and Natasha released hands, footsteps approached from the shadows beyond the roof door. You barely have time to process the sound before a figure appeared—a tall, older soldier, maybe eighteen at most, with a roughness that spoke of years hardened by the Red Room. He had a scar that ran along his jawline, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing as it landed on the two of you. Instinctively, you straightened, keeping your face blank and ready for whatever he might demand.
“What are you two doing here?” His voice was gravelly, making you wonder what he’s been through to end this way. He crossed his arms, looking between you and Natasha with a disapproval that seemed all too familiar.
“I asked a question,” he repeats in English this time, his eyes narrowing. “This is a restricted area.” He stepped closer, and you felt Natasha’s shoulders tense beside you. You saw her instinctively brace herself, her fists tightening at her sides, but you placed a subtle hand on her arm, urging her to let you handle it.
“Just clearing our heads,” you answered calmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Training has been… intense.”
He gave a harsh, humorless chuckle, his eyes flicking down to your ballet slippers and then back up. “You think any of us get to clear our heads? Or take little strolls without a consequence?” He sneered. "Dreykov lets you off the leash, and this is what you do with it?”
You could see the threat in his stance, his arms bulging, muscles straining as he clenched his fists. It's the stance of a man who knows how to cause pain.
"I should bring you to him and tell him you've been causing trouble. He'd like that."
"And maybe we should tell him you're a bully," You didn’t back down.
"You think you're immune because he f-"
You spit on his shoe. He didn’t need to finish that sentence.
"Disrespectful little brat," He growled, reaching for you. Natasha moves before you do. However, she paused when you spoke.
"You touch either of us, and Dreykov will have your head," You promised him.
The man paused and glared. "You little-"
"I will give him the honor," You told him, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be taking my leave."
"You have to go back to class anyway." He reminded you.
"Not if I don't want to," You shrugged.
He scoffed. "I'd like to see that,"
"You will," You promised, turning your back on him. You grabbed Natasha's hand and tugged her toward the door. You walked off, and Natasha was the first to speak.
"I don't like him,"
"No one does," You told her.
"Why did he call you...that? Say that Dreykov likes..."
"I'm his favorite," You told her. You didn’t say it smugly or with pride. It’s simply a fact. You couldn’t lie. She already knew. It was a secret, but it was not. Everyone knew.
"That's why they treat you differently." Natasha nodded to herself.
"They treat you differently, too,"
"Yeah, but not like they do to you," Natasha suggested.
"You have no idea," You mumbled. "Anyway, are we cool Natasha?"
"We're cool," She nodded.
"Good, now go get dressed. You can't wear your ballet outfit to the infirmary."
"Right," She nods her head. "The infirmary? Why?
"We’re going to be getting excuses from my favorite nurse,” You grinned.
The last thing she expected when she arrived back at the Red Room was to make a friend. As Natasha headed toward the dorms, she couldn't help but look back at you, her new friend, in this cold, barren place. There’s a flicker of warmth, the briefest feeling of connection she hadn’t known she needed. Even though she’s been trained to rely on no one but herself, knowing someone understands makes the isolation a little more bearable.