Break a leg (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

1: Registration

"Name?"

I hold the clipboard close to my chest, fingertips wrapped around the pen as I twirl it between my fingers. My eyes are glued to the paper, scanning the black ink carefully as I wait for a reply.

"Romanoff."

I still. Eyes tick over the multiple letters, flicking through sheet after sheet. The light is dim, I struggle to find her name amongst hundreds others. A frown etches between my brows, gulping down the lump in my throat from embarrassment that it is taking this lengthy expanse of time to find her name.

She takes pity on me and speaks again, voice smoother this time. "Natasha Romanoff."

"Right," I whisper under my breath, more to myself than to her. Blinking and then squinting as the lights seem to dim even more, darkness cascading around me like a blanket.

I dip my head up to glance at her nervously as if to apologise for taking so long. My palms start to sweat. She has a leather jacket hung over her shoulders, folded into place by the way her arms cross over her chest. My eyes trail back up to her face and stop at her eyes; green, bright and curious. I notice how they shine underneath the lights now whizzing around the auditorium and tare my gaze away just after I catch a glimpse of the bone-chilling smirk twisting her lips. Oh my.

I gulp again, quickly scanning the pages at lightning speed. I find her name in the middle of the register and mark it with a tick before glancing back up and offering her a nervous, tight-lip smile. "You're good to go."

"Where's my room?"

"Hm?" I hum absentmindedly, a frown etching across my face before I let the clipboard hang by my side and pocket the pen.

"My room? Aren't you supposed to show me to my dressing room?" Her eyebrows are furrowed, gaze lazily tracing over my face to gauge a type of expression. I quickly pick up on the sound of her voice; soft, soothing, quiet and sometimes raspy and the discovery makes me want to hear it again.

Clearly embarrassed, I apologise under my breath, brushing the strands of hair away from my face out of habit. "This way," I tell her, nudging open the door with my foot. She follows me out of the auditorium and into the ghost-towned hallway where I walk a few paces before stopping when met with another door. This time, I scan the card attached to my lanyard.

"Isn't there a quicker way?" She asks, without the intent of being impatient - I presume from the lack of malice to her voice.

"Probably," I tell her honestly, speech peaking just above a mutter. My cheeks flush with the heat twinging at every inch of my body, my voice barely audible. "I haven't been to this theatre before," I clarify as if I owed her an explanation (I didn't), "I was supposed to have a few minutes to figure the place out but..." trailing off, my hands move around subtly. It's a lie, obviously. Scott owns the theatre, but usually, I'm stuck in the lighting booth with him.

In my defence she is early. Like extremely early. So early, to an extent that I only showed up ten minutes before she did and even I'm supposed to be here over an hour before the performers. I wonder how she found me. How she knew I'm the one she had to see to get registered. The backstage door is locked, I know that, I locked it after being the last staff member to enter. So are the foyer doors on standard protocol.

She doesn't reply, only watches me carefully, trying to scope out what was going through my mind. I continue to walk past the different dressing room doors, the performer following close behind. The hallway is cold and dark, lights flickering on as it senses the motion of the two of us wandering down it. The walls are painted white, modern and fresh, doors slotted evenly along them baring various numbers. I glance down at the clipboard yet again, finding her name much quicker this time to note her allocated room.