XMFC Ficlet
Sep. 23rd, 2011 10:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amaliakFor Erin's comment fic post:
She was surprised to find the space within the mansion, a decent piece of marley floor along the far side of the gym/training room. She did her best to dust it off with a dry mop, smiling to herself as she stretched her muscles.
There was no barre here, and she her pointe shoes were tucked neatly away in a bag in her closet at home, so she went barefoot, moving her feet into fifth position for a set of pilés, closing her eyes as she lifted her arms into the correct port de bras.
The memory in her muscles moved her along slowly, all suspension and tight control. If there was had been a mirror along the wall, she might have caught sight of the angle of her wrists, the fluid line of her legs as she moved for a balancé into a pas de valse. She hear the music rise in her mind, Rachmoninov’s Paganini rhapsody kept her movements fluid and her mind relaxed.
There was a time when she’d had dreams of being someone else, where her truest joys could be expressed on the stage with soft music and a spotlight. But life had other plans and she wasn’t the same after the car accident.
Life as a CIA agent was more fulfilling than she’s imagined, full of danger and intrigue and she was ridiculously proud of being able to serve her country in this way. Even now, she was about to be able to save so many from the unspeakable.
Her feelings were muddled, though, more so than they ever had been before, and it was all because of him.
She worked up to a temp developpé, remembering her mistress’ voice echoing about keeping her neck elongated even as she brought all her weight on one leg and lifted the other behind her. The balance was precarious and it crossed her mind to compare the strain in her body to the moment in time she was living in. Precise control was required to stay in balance.
Her instincts told her she wasn’t alone and she dropped her stance, turning to face the door.
Erik was leaning against the door job, watching her, his face frustratingly unreadable.
She was panting slightly, but wouldn’t be the first to break the silence. They stood there, a stand off (didn’t it always come down to this between the two of them?) for a few minutes. Finally, he broke her gaze and walked into the room, bending down to pick up the towel she’d left on a chair and handing it to her. She looked at the white cloth for what it was: a truce. She narrowed her gaze and tried not to think of the screaming match that they’d had just this morning and accepted his offering with a small smile.
“How long did you dance?” he asked, his voice quiet and curious.
“Since I was three,” she explained, patting her face with the towel before throwing it over her shoulder.
“You seem to enjoy it,” Erik went on, speaking few words that said so much. She wondered at this man, the one who had seemed ready to kill her with his bare hands earlier (only if she didn’t manage to do it first), who now had such sincere interest for her in his pale blue eyes. “Why did you stop?”
She swallowed thickly. “I had to. When I was twelve, I was in a car accident. I had broken my neck and...” she stopped there, not sure she wanted to go on, looking out the window towards the courtyard so he wouldn’t catch the tears that had sprang up in her eyes. “My father had died,” she found herself telling him quietly. “Nothing seemed to matter much after that.”
There was silence between them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she drew up the courage to look at him, and his eyes found her immediately.
“I understand,” he said.
Something tightened in her chest. “I know.”
She was surprised to find the space within the mansion, a decent piece of marley floor along the far side of the gym/training room. She did her best to dust it off with a dry mop, smiling to herself as she stretched her muscles.
There was no barre here, and she her pointe shoes were tucked neatly away in a bag in her closet at home, so she went barefoot, moving her feet into fifth position for a set of pilés, closing her eyes as she lifted her arms into the correct port de bras.
The memory in her muscles moved her along slowly, all suspension and tight control. If there was had been a mirror along the wall, she might have caught sight of the angle of her wrists, the fluid line of her legs as she moved for a balancé into a pas de valse. She hear the music rise in her mind, Rachmoninov’s Paganini rhapsody kept her movements fluid and her mind relaxed.
There was a time when she’d had dreams of being someone else, where her truest joys could be expressed on the stage with soft music and a spotlight. But life had other plans and she wasn’t the same after the car accident.
Life as a CIA agent was more fulfilling than she’s imagined, full of danger and intrigue and she was ridiculously proud of being able to serve her country in this way. Even now, she was about to be able to save so many from the unspeakable.
Her feelings were muddled, though, more so than they ever had been before, and it was all because of him.
She worked up to a temp developpé, remembering her mistress’ voice echoing about keeping her neck elongated even as she brought all her weight on one leg and lifted the other behind her. The balance was precarious and it crossed her mind to compare the strain in her body to the moment in time she was living in. Precise control was required to stay in balance.
Her instincts told her she wasn’t alone and she dropped her stance, turning to face the door.
Erik was leaning against the door job, watching her, his face frustratingly unreadable.
She was panting slightly, but wouldn’t be the first to break the silence. They stood there, a stand off (didn’t it always come down to this between the two of them?) for a few minutes. Finally, he broke her gaze and walked into the room, bending down to pick up the towel she’d left on a chair and handing it to her. She looked at the white cloth for what it was: a truce. She narrowed her gaze and tried not to think of the screaming match that they’d had just this morning and accepted his offering with a small smile.
“How long did you dance?” he asked, his voice quiet and curious.
“Since I was three,” she explained, patting her face with the towel before throwing it over her shoulder.
“You seem to enjoy it,” Erik went on, speaking few words that said so much. She wondered at this man, the one who had seemed ready to kill her with his bare hands earlier (only if she didn’t manage to do it first), who now had such sincere interest for her in his pale blue eyes. “Why did you stop?”
She swallowed thickly. “I had to. When I was twelve, I was in a car accident. I had broken my neck and...” she stopped there, not sure she wanted to go on, looking out the window towards the courtyard so he wouldn’t catch the tears that had sprang up in her eyes. “My father had died,” she found herself telling him quietly. “Nothing seemed to matter much after that.”
There was silence between them for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she drew up the courage to look at him, and his eyes found her immediately.
“I understand,” he said.
Something tightened in her chest. “I know.”
