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When Laura asks her to pick up Lila after her ballet class, Natasha's gut reaction is to decline. She shifts her weight, averting her eyes. "I don't know."
"Please," Laura insists, scrambling for her keys. She drops her phone to the tile with a clatter, which Natasha scoops up for her before she can react. "I don't know how long this meeting with Cooper's teacher will go, and Lila can't wait there by herself. They're closing the building early today, and I can't rely on Alice for the third time this week."
"Alice?"
"Lila's friend's mom."
"Right."
"She has to rush across town to pick up her youngest—Benny, plays baseball, sweet kid—and I'd feel terrible if I had to ask her again," Laura rambles, half muffled while she shuffles through the coat closet. "You can take the spare truck. The tank should be full, unless my knuckle-headed husband forgot to fill it up again."
"Good to know."
"With Clint off in who-knows-where, I really, really can't ask anyone else."
She sighs. "Laura..."
"Please, Nat."
"Fine," Natasha concedes, her throat suddenly tight. "Fine. Okay."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"No, really." The front door drifts ajar, leaving space for a breeze to roll through that chills her to the bone. Laura pauses just long enough to take Natasha's hands in hers. "Thank you. I know what I'm asking, and I wouldn't do it if I had any other choice."
They've argued the subject multiple times ever since Lila caught wind of her Aunt's penchant for dancing. At first, Lila whined over and over for Natasha to teach her, but her answer had always been a firm, "No."
Laura signing her up for a ballet class despite initial reservations had been a particularly strong point of contention between them, but Lila was her child, and Natasha was just her husband's work friend—a broken, trauma-ridden outsider who helped out on the farm once in a while.
An outsider who fell in love with this little family and wanted the best for them.
For Natasha, ballet had always been about control. Control over one's body. Control for the sole purpose of being controlled.
Natasha was raised to be a tiny cog in a much larger machine of violence. She was created, shaped, and sharpened into a weapon, wielded against anyone who threatened to overturn the powers that be.
She never had the privilege of choosing her own avenue of control, so the thought of Lila dancing to someone else's tune stokes a righteous fury in her chest, broiling and threatening to burst and burn everything in its path.
But the moment she pushes through the pair of glass doors into the studio, silent and unnoticed like a shadow, just in time to witness the tail-end of a routine, the atmosphere gives her pause.
"That's enough for today. Good job, girls." A teacher at the front of the room praises her class with a smile, brunette curls pulled back into a messy bun.
Imperfect. Sloppy.
She isn't white-knuckling the handle of a whip.
"Don't strain yourselves," the woman continues, a look of pride crossing her face as her attention jumps from student to student. "Rest is just as important as practice, especially the night before a big day."
"Yes, Ms. Valdez," the class echoes in unison.
The contradiction is startling. Natasha isn't one to flinch—not anymore, she's been trained better—but this version of reality is difficult to wrap her mind around.
There isn't a single injury in sight. No one passed out in the corner from exhaustion.
There's no threat of punishment. No bleeding feet.
Instead, about a third of the class have slumped to the floor at this point in their teacher's parting remarks, half stretching and half listening. Two girls in the back row whisper and giggle to themselves without being disciplined.
So, maybe Natasha finds herself a little envious, but things are exactly the way they should be.
"Off you go," Ms. Valdez dismisses them before turning her back to gather her things.
"Auntie Nat." Lila appears at her side, tugging on her arm. The rest of her classmates filter into a waiting crowd. All of them are tired and worn, but their laughter still resonates through the space. "Are you coming to my recital tomorrow?"
Natasha's gaze softens with a genuine smile. "Of course, sweetie."