Clint felt out of place in the palatial foyer of the theatre, he was the farm urchin, turned classless carnie and amateur criminal, turned noviciate agent.
Socialites, bureaucrats and decorated military officials all attended, the pungent smell of perfumes and cologne clouded around them like a fog in their dinner jackets and evening gowns; and the floral scents intermingling with the potent masculine aftershave was starting to give Clint a headache: he was breathing in more scent-sprays that air.
He tried to force his gel-less hair into a presentable style, slicking it back with his sweat-slick palm, dressed in his barely presentable trouser suit.
"Hey, guy!" Clint called obnoxiously at a waiter, clicking his fingers above the mingling masses. A tray-ferrying server turned his head; the exasperation was written across his face and he barely concealed an eye roll at the extravagance of the young, poorly dressed boy with his crooked bow-tie. "Yeah, you!" The man slipped carefully through the crowds and behind the bar that Clint was perched at. "Get me a martini, shaken not stirred!" He demanded, with a suave smirk, raising an eyebrow like Roger Moore. "But hold the alcohol!" He flapped a hand.
The waiter blinked, stunned. "Sir?" He asked with a rich English accent, polished like his shining eyes, out of place in the nattering of foreign tongues. His eyes were moss green, with earthy flecks of brown, captivatingly lively. Like faceted gems, they glinted under the glare of the bar lights.
"I just wanted to say the line... Sorry," he chuckled apologetically, a blush high on his cheekbones. "You couldn't get me water in a cocktail glass, could you?" The man nodded. "Make it look like a martini? With the olives and stuff?" Clint still had an aversion to alcohol, unsure of the adverse effects it might have on him; it would've been irrespectable and irresponsible to be drunken and brawl at the ballet.
The man turned to the cold water tap with an affirming smile - condensation in dewy beads dripping off the polished brass handle - and plucked a martini glass off the shelf; filling it after an ostentatious twirl with the stalk of the cocktail glass. 'Charles Anthem' his glossy black name tag read.
The theatre foyer was an open space, with a biblical Renaissance scene painted onto the roof in dulcet tones that had faded over the years; what was once perhaps Titian reds of togas, royal blues of dresses, and the dark swathes of brush strokes that once made up seas of dark hair had all become variations of beige, and dust coated, peeling in places.
Staircases curved around the edges of the atrium to cordoned off doors to the upper circles, with staff posted loyally at posts to redirect ardent visitors and surveyors of the show.
Balconies were made of marble, carved into columns, imitations of Roman ionic ones, curled tongues at the tip and base, and egg-and-dart patterns threaded around the sides.
Red curtains fringed with gold trim hung around arched lead-crossed window, red carpets stretched across the floors, red sofas stationed around, it was a building fit for a king, and the red a reflection of the blood spilled pulling the Soviet empire together.
But it was the red haired beauty that really caught his eye, lingering at the peripheries of the room, avoiding conversation and arts connoisseurs.
Clint played with his lips, watching as the man artfully whirled the glass, and then piped up again. "Actually do you know what?"
The waiter with his dark curled hair looked up, trying not to bite out the words. "What, sir?" He gave him a strained smile, more bitter than the bottles of gin on the shelf.
"Stuff the olives." He flapped a hand.
A look of dismay passed over the man's face as he threaded the olives onto a cocktail stick. "The olives come stuffed-"
"No I mean, forget them," he said despondently, disgruntled. "I hate olives." His lips shrivelled into a pout as if he'd sucked on a sour lemon.
Having handled the olives, he tossed them into the bin under the bar. He braced his hands on the wooden bar and looked his prissy and picky customer in the eye. "So you want a plain water in a martini glass?" He oozed condescension. His voice was like the crack of a whip, authoritative, commanding; the type you'd imagine would belong to a university lecturer.
"Yeah!" Clint chimed, slumping against the bar. "Perfect, buddy!" He complimented.
The man's lips drew into a smug smirk, putting the glass of water down on the bar as Clint scoped out his target, a perfect match to his sultry gaze. "Local, are you?" He asked.
"Do I sound local to you?" Clint mumbled back, attention rather occupied with Miss Romanova.
The barman chuckled in baritone. "No, but I was wondering what drew an American across the Atlantic in times such as these..." His pupils drew into pinpricks, calculating, cognitive. There was a smug superiority about him.
"What's it to you, English?" Clint asked, getting a little flustered, twiddling with his askew bow-tie.
Polishing an empty champagne flute, the waiter quirked an eyebrow with an air of sovereignty which he carried in poise of his posture, and the articulation of his voice also. "Consider me a friend behind enemy lines," he said, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and leaning forwards against the bar, trying to look as tantalising as possible, snapping him a wink.
Clint was losing sight of her amongst the guests that were milling about in the foyer, and tilted his head to get a better view.
Then caught on. "Dude, I'm sorry, I don't swing that way..." He said with a wince.
The Englishman rolled his eyes and huffed. "Suit yourself..." He grumbled.
"Forget the water..!" Clint said suddenly, shoving the glass away and spilling it down the waiter's front. He leapt to his feet. "I've got somewhere to be."
The waiter gave a huff as he shook out a towel and started mopping up the water down his front, his white shirt now translucent. "Barton's a bloody idiot," the Englishman hissed, putting a finger to his earpiece. "Yes, I tried. He hasn't got a fucking clue."
The call was being made for people attending Swan Lake to enter the theatre, and he could see Romanova at the front of the swarm of people like the leader of a pack of wolves; and the aristocratic classes - heirs to fortunes, monopolizers of industries, commanders of entire armies - were hungry for the performance.
Clint made his way to the upper tier of the theatre, a drab boy among dapper fellows; he saw better from a distance after all.
The curtains scooped in low sweeping bunches around the balcony, casting a shadow across the lowly lit boxes, where row upon row of ruby red seats were situated, if blood were to be spilled on the stage of espionage tonight, then it would only matched the decor and draperies; and Clint would take great pleasure in executing an execution that would paint the hall like the scene on the ceiling of the atrium.
In the orchestra pit the instruments warmed up. There was the low hum of bows traipsing tremolo over nylon strings, the pizzicato twang of violins as the strings were taught into four taut lines, the toot of brass as the mouthpieces were fitted, the somber sound of woodwind threaded through the cacophony, and beneath that, the tuneless thump of the percussion as the skins of the timpani were tested. It felt like a chaotic prelude to juxtapose out the beauty of what was to follow.
The orchestra fell silent, and the crowd followed suit, the burbling and bumbling dying down to a low murmur comprised mostly of hushing hisses. Down in the front block of creaking chairs, was Natasha. As the lights dropped, she became a shadow of her former self, disguised as just another bourgeoisie.
With a burst of sound, the flurry of a curtain reeling up, and a flood of light and colour, the stage came to life.
In the white spotlight, like a searchlight on a battlefield, one angelic looking blonde was poised in first position, a white tutu that gave her an eerie resemblance to the Virgin Mary in the stained glass windows of church. Her skin was milky white, unspoiled, fertile; and her cheeks were rosy under hot lights.
As the motif of the clarinet danced through the silence, she began to move. Her arms and legs were willowy, extending with airy poise; centre stage. She was a lone figure pirouetting at the centre of the stage. Somewhere, at the back of Natasha's mind, she was reminded of the jewellery box that Ivan gave her for Christmas, and how the porcelain figure had faultlessly twirled without end; mechanically engineered to perfection -- what one of the girls was about to become.
As the other instruments joined in, and the music built to a crescendo, deafening, the sound reaching the high slanting roof and building like a wall of sound, and burst to life as the rest of the ballerinas pranced on with perfect synchronisation.
There was an ache in Natasha's gut. The ballet had been her best and worst years; so small and vulnerable, but as free as the make-believe swans flying about the stage. Part of her longed to repeat it, the applauds, the red roses, the white ruffles and bows. Now all she knew was the claps of gunfire, the blossom of blood on the stage of war, and the white wrinkled skin of corpses.
And it was her job to play the black swan and lure the most beautiful of the troop away and turn her into a monster.
Natasha forced herself to watch with analytical eyes, to relish the comfort of the score that felt like returning home, and not let her emotions get in the way of her duty. Her lacquered nails tapped out the rhythm on the arm of her chair with a white knuckled grip, she remembered it being struck into her with a bamboo cane once upon a time. 'One, two, three! One, two, three!' The lines across her back in a tally of the beat; she remembered the rhythm after that particular performance.
In the interval, Natasha rushed to the bar, ordering herself a double vodka, trying to douse the feelings that burned deep in her gut. Telling her that what she was doing was wrong. But sooner or later, Aleksander's threat came back to her and reminded her of her duty.
But no! Her duty was to stop girls suffering as she had! Proselyted, prostituted, pained!
"Another vodka double..!" She gasped to 'Charles' after downing the first in a flurry, who attended with ardency. Tonight would be the night she bypass her miracle metabolism, or she'd be damned.
She knew sitting back in her seat after the interval that there was one clear contender for the Red Room. She couldn't take her eyes off the pure and perfect white swan, and how that clean ledger would become bloody.
She was going to be the one to condemn the bright blue eyed girl, who had no doubt worked all her life to get to where she was, and snatch that all from her.
She could only imagine the girl as she was now, artfully curled up on the stage in an imitation of death, theatrically writhing, convulsing, and twitching in her last moments before the curtains came to a close.
A thunderous applause rained from the entire hall, people on their feet, handkerchiefs being waved as white flags, tears trickling down cheeks.
Natasha remained sitting, stony-faced, and Clint watched her with curiosity as she turned away, repulsed, and dabbed a superstitious droplet from one corner of her eye. She departed as she curtain drew up again, turning her back on the glorious shower of roses; with their red heads and thorns lurking beneath.
"She won't look," Clint whispered into his collar. "She's turning her back on them..!" He said with dismay, having gleaned a newfound respect for the girls in tutus.
"On who, Barton?" Coulson's voice was barely audible under the symphony of appreciation.
"The ballerinas." Her people. Her past.
A/N - I know Sunday is update day - and I haven't updated in a while on that day, apologies! - but it's a new year, how about a new chapter? Happy New Year to all, and a belated Merry Christmas (if you celebrate it)! I hope that the holidays have been restful and full of cheer!
Dedication goes to my nerd of a friend who demanded that he vaguely cameos in the chapter.
Any guesses who the Englishman is? What he's doing? And why?