Ballet

Hi everyone! So this is my first fanfic, please review. I'm not very good at this yet, so please criticise this piece. I know it's rather short, but I may continue it.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Marvel, or any of the characters. I just like to borrow them once in a while.

Clint ran down the halls, tearing past agents with one goal in mind. Panting, he knocked on Natasha's door.

Natasha opened the door a crack, just allowing her to see who it was. "Barton," she grumbled, "what do you want?"

"Why do you always assume I want something, Tasha?" he complained.

"Because you usually do," retaliated Natasha, "seriously, what is it that's so important that you had to interrupt me when I just got back from a mission?"

Clint's eyes glinted, "SHIELD's holding a ballet. Swan Lake," he asked hopefully, he knew that she could dance, and loved it, but he wasn't sure if she was ready to. It might bring back some memories about the red room.

Natasha sighed, "you want me to audition for Odette." It wasn't a question.

"Yup," he confirmed, "and I already told everyone you can dance, so if you don't show up, they'll think you're a coward."

"I hate you," Natasha grumbled.

"Come on, besides if you score a lead role, you'll be off duty all the way until the final performance!"

"On?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"July."

"That's in seven months."

"Well, they need a few weeks to hold the auditions, and six months to rehearse."

"Fury's not going to like losing his best asset for half a year."

"Excuse me? Have you forgotten about me?"

Natasha smirked, "fine, I'll do it. You're lucky I still have my pointe shoes."

"Yes! Okay, I'll sign you up."

"No, I'll sign myself up. One more thing."

"What?"

"You'll have to audition for Siegfried."

"Fine."

"What are you going to perform for the audition?"

"It's a surprise."

"No fair. I'll find out."

"Try. Let's go. Lead the way, Barton."

Clint huffed, clearly annoyed, then dragged Nat to the sign up board, which was already teaming with people. He barged his way to the front, then took a pen and handed it to Natasha. She accepted, then wrote her name in neat cursive under Odette, and Clint didn't fail to notice that there were a lot of names already. He knew that Nat would probably get the role though. He signed his name and they left.

"So, when's the audition?"

"Tomorrow for the lead roles," Clint answered casually.

"Tomorrow?!" Nat exclaimed.

Clint chuckled, this was the closest he'd ever seen Natasha freak out.

"Bye, I need to practice," she said, shaking her head as she went, tomorrow?

Natasha collapsed on her couch, reached underneath and pulled out her pointe shoes. They weren't in the best condition, but they'll have to do. She laced them on, the pale satin ribbon soft under her touch. Natasha tied a bow after lacing it on and promptly moved on to the next shoe. Once they were on, she took a few tentative steps, then went to her phone and started playing music. The soft, delicate notes of the piano came in, and Natasha began to dance. It was Swan Lake, Odile's solo. What she was performing for the audition. Closing her eyes, she willed her body to go through the movements, like a second nature. She bowed and spun with the music, dancing as if she did this everyday. The notes fizzled out, and Natasha gracefully exited the dance. She'd done it flawlessly. Sitting down on the couch, she contemplated the situation. She was good, no, she was brilliant, and she knew if she auditioned, she would definitely get the part. But did she want it? Sighing, she got up and exited the room.

Unbeknownst to her, Clint was lying in one of the air ducts and had seen the whole thing.

The next day

Natasha sat on the velvet seat, wringing her hands nervously. Besides her sat Clint, who looked arrogantly confident. They were in the New York Theatre, which SHIELD had somehow managed to book for two days for auditions. She supposed it was because the director, Todd Bryan, a senior SHIELD agent, had a few connections. Rumour was that he'd pulled a few strings to get a team of stylists and a seamstress for the costumes and a pianist for the big night. They would be performing here, for just one night. One night.

She looked down, and saw that Maria, Coulson and Fury had arrived. They were eagerly discussing something with Todd. They were the judges. Natasha felt her stomach twist. She had never been this before, ever. The very thought that she'll be dancing in front of Fury, in front of all the agents of SHIELD was horrifying. What if she embarrassed herself?

Almost as if reading her mind, Clint grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it reassuringly, "it'll be alright," he comforted.

Then he was called down.

"And our first male auditionee, Clint Barton," Fury declared, his eyebrows furrowed, confused at what he was doing, auditioning.

Clint just flashed a smile before walking onto the stage. He did decent enough, she noted, and stumbled twice, but did well overall. Clint grinned one more time, before he stepped off the stage.

After two hours, Natasha heard her name.

"And our last auditionee for today, Natasha Romanoff," Maria announced, surprised.

She slipped her mask on, her face now perfectly calm, and walked onto the stage. She'd noticed no one else before she wore pointe shoes. If she didn't mess up, she was guaranteed the part.

Natasha walked onto the stage, poised and ready, then asked the pianist, "can you play Odile's solo instead?"

He nodded, but the crowd started whispering, the audience wondering what on earth she was doing, and why she wasn't going to perform the choreographed piece. Fury stood up, shushed everyone, then nodded to Natasha, "begin."

Natasha searched the crowd, then her eyes rested on Clint, who grinned and gave her a thumbs up. She felt her confidence return, then settled into her pose. The music began.

Natasha started dancing, and everyone fell into silence. She danced gorgeously, moving with the music, letting it carry her, her movements appearing graceful and effortless. All eyes were on her. The Russian

assassin, not to be trusted, Clint's little stray. Yet the way she danced enraptured them. Finally, the final piano notes drifted off, and she settled back into the ending position.

One by one, the audience stood up, clapping, Clint first, hands clapping and bearing a wide grin that rivaled the Cheshire Cat's. Then Coulson, then Maria, Fury, with a rare smile on his face, and one by one every single person stood up, clapping. A standing ovation. For her. Natasha curtsied, trying to hide her smile, but her efforts were fruitless, so she settled on a shy, small smile. It was the first time everyone, excluding Phil and Clint had ever seen the supposedly heartless Russian assassin show any type of emotion on her face. Natasha promptly left the stage, then left as calmly as she could to the toilets.

There, she took off her pointe shoes, fingers trembling as she undid the ribbons. Slipped her feet into her black combat boots, threw on her SHIELD issued jacket and slung her pointe shoes over her shoulder, stepping out of the stall.

When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised at her appearance. Gone was the miserable girl who hid in the shadows, Natasha was positively glowing, radiating happiness. Her emerald eyes had a new light shining in them and she was smiling. With her free hand, she fingered the arrow necklace Clint had given to her in honour of her one year anniversary at SHIELD, and she was off.

Natasha went to the side of the sidewalk, then hailed a ca b to SHIELD headquarters. She supposed she was a queer sight, the petite Russian assassin with her trademark fiery red hair pulled up in a bun, a few tendrils escaping, and a leotard, tights and the image complete with a black wrap around dress, SHIELD jacket draped over her, with a pair of pointe shoes slung across her back. But the most noticeable difference was that, despite her not smiling, she still radiated that warm glow.

As she walked down the hall, Natasha noticed that instead of everyone trying to ignore her, there were open stares, and even a few tentative smiles and congrats. Who would've thought that this was Clint's little stray?