driftfleet | [mostly closed/Windrose pseudomingle!]

Mal is not exactly thrilled about this. No: she's actually quite peeved. But Natasha was clear: these are the terms for learning to fight. Learning to dance comes first. The logic still doesn't quite make sense to her, but she made a promise, and she wants to protect people, so this is what she needs to do.

She steps into the cargo bay, almost tentatively for her, her eyes focused on Natasha on the floor.

She doesn't really do this sort of thing very often. A few tricks shared here and there, but not very many and not very often. She isn't a soldier, a warrior, a teacher. She's a lot of other things in a very complicated way, but none of those. Ask her exactly why she thinks this might be a good idea, and any reason she gives you is likely to be a lie. But she thinks there's something in Mal she recognizes, and that she might benefit from learning the way she did. Starting a little older, sure, but the methods are the same. And it's got the added bonus of not looking like exactly what it is: training a potential ally. With that not-Steve out here who-knows-where doing who-knows-what, she could use a hand.

"You're late." Only a little true; they hadn't exactly set a time. Pretty impressive that she knows exactly who it is stepping into the cargo hold with her face nearly touching the floor, though.

"No, I'm not," Mal says without missing a beat, walking with light steps over to Natasha and wondering idly if she has some kind of superhuman senses that went undetected earlier. "I arrived exactly when I wanted to. You're early."

Cocking her head down at the other woman, she tries to figure out if she could do a split. Probably not. Best not to try it. At least she's wearing nice comfortable clothing now, thank you, casino vacation.

There's nothing supernatural about it, really; just years of practice and training and a healthy sense of paranoia. Her sense of timing may border on the supernatural, though. Glancing up at Mal, she shifts her hips, switching the split to face the other direction and leaning back down.

"Not early, just prepared. You nervous?" She maybe should be, just a little. It's hard to get a bead on exactly what Natasha wants from this whole thing.

"No," she says again, and crouches down on the floor a few feet away from Natasha. Not stretching, just observing. "I'm not afraid of dancing."

So maybe she should be, but she's not. She's faced scarier things. The transition, for one. This has got to be cake comparatively, right?

She should be stretching. This is going to be painful either way, but stretching might make it a little less painful. "Maybe not, but you're scared of not being good at something. May as well just admit it so we can get that out of the way." It's not a hard thing to miss, with the way Mal tends to rely so heavily upon attitude and her inherent strengths. Maybe she has missed the mark, but Natasha's pretty sure she hasn't.

Bringing her legs back together with an easy shift, Natasha stands in a fluid motion, cracking her neck easily. "I take it you haven't warmed up yet." She'll try to start her off gently, at least.

Mal doesn't know the first thing about stretching. Her muscles have supernatural give, and Natasha is right: she relies on her natural gifts overmuch. But she's not about to admit to that, nor to being afraid of anything. She just gives a lazy, dismissive smile and shakes her head.

"Not yet." Quizzically: "Is that something commonly done?"

"Generally speaking, yes. I take it you've never had the pleasure." Natasha eyes her, unimpressed by the lazy smile, and gives the slightest shrug. "You think you can manage without it? Your muscles might regret it later."

"If it's something you think I should do . . . "

She's generally willing to take criticism. From some people. From Natasha specifically. Almost no one else, actually.

She sits cross-legged on the floor and stretches one leg out in front of her, reaching to touch the tip of her toes.

"It seems like this takes up a lot of time."

Natasha's criticism is usually earned criticism, or given for a reason. She doesn't want someone who mindlessly follows orders, she wants a student who listens, thinks critically. If student is even the right word. She obviously sees something in Mal, given that she's even doing this. Natasha isn't exactly a model educator.

But once she commits to a thing, she tends to fully commit, and that's the case now. As Mal reaches for her toes, Natasha leans a hand on her upper back, pressing Mal further into the stretch. "It isn't a stretch unless you feel like your muscles are going to snap," she says conversationally. "And yes. It does, at first. Once it's routine, it gets faster. Once your body's used to it. Muscle memory."

Mal doesn't often feel strained. Her muscles have more give than a human's, and as such she's vastly more flexible, quicker, more dynamic in her motions. But she does push herself forward obediently until she can feel the strain, and closes her eyes into the stretch with the ghost of a wince.

"One of those necessary things," she says under her breath, her diaphragm crushed by the way her body is positioned. "Like dancing."

What Mal has thanks to genetics, or what passes for them, Natasha has earned through decades of hard work. And she will not see anyone under her instruction do any less. It's not just about the flexibility gained by stretching, it's what it does deep within your bones. That innate knowledge of your body's outermost limits, and knowing just how far you can push before it breaks. It's saved her life. It might save Mal's.

"Like dancing. Like breathing. You have to know it so well it doesn't require thought. And there's only one way to do that."

Only one way.

"By pushing," she acknowledges, and leans further into the stretch, feeling it in her thighs and the bottom of her back. "I understand."

And just maybe she's beginning to understand the principle of this exercise, the point.

Edited 2015-07-02 18:35 (UTC)

The point. She hadn't particularly seen the point herself, in the beginning. Before the training had really begun, back when it was only love of dancing itself that had driven her. But she had been obedient, and eventually movement didn't even require thought. She wished, and her body was there. Arabesque, grande jeté, entrechat, total command over every muscle in her body. It hadn't taken much adjustment, when she'd moved on to the Red Room. More orders, endless drilling, the competition. All that was different was the lack of applause.

"By pushing," she agrees, and even if her eyes are a little distant, she doesn't miss anything, guiding Mal through a series of stretches, correcting everything from the angle of her toes to the exact position of her hands. It isn't until a good while later that she finally seems satisfied, easily unbending from demonstrating a proper stretch of the quadricep and not even a little out of breath.

"That should be a good start."

It's only been a half hour or so, Mal's still ready to go, right?

Mal isn't out of breath, either, but that's only because she cheats; if she were perfectly human, she would already be exhausted. She can feel her muscles aching, and is curious about it. It's a sensation she's only occasionally felt before.

When Natasha allows it, she straightens up and smiles, feeling - satisfied. It's rare that she actually does hard work, but when it happens, she's always inevitably satisfied with herself.

"What next?" she asks, eagerness showing in the slight jump in her voice. Not only does she want to do this, now she wants to do it well.

It's a good feeling, when you push hard enough to make your muscles ache. Natasha has always enjoyed it, at least; pushing her limits, knowing there's always more. It gives her a finite sign that she's doing something right, that she's moving the right ways. A sense of accomplishment, even. Judging from the smile on Mal's face, she gets that a little bit too, and Natasha is glad for it. Knowing that maybe this isn't a bad idea, that she's right and this is the sort of thing Mal needs. Maybe she needs it a little, too.

"Now, we start with the basics," she answers, shrugging her shoulders to finish loosening them, tucking curls back behind one ear. "Footwork. The most important part." It's true in combat, too; without solid footwork, you lack stability and poise. If you can't move, you can't fight. She demonstrates as she cycles through all five, moving with precision and grace. "First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth." Heels together, toes turned outward to form a perfect line. Feet spread about a foot apart. One heel in front of the arch of the other foot. One foot forward, forward heel aligned with back toe. Feet touching, heels to toes. "We'll start with your turnout. Try first position." She faces Mal, demonstrating again.

She can, at least, appreciate the connection here. Wazzer was always getting tangled up in her own feet. It was one reason (of very many) that she made a bad soldier. She knows, too, that on the run from the mob, you have to be sure on your feet or you lose very quickly.

So she copies slowly, first position, heels together, toes out. Not the epitome of grace, not yet, but accurate, at least.

"Doesn't quite feel natural," she comments, more curiously than anything.

It's not the best she's ever seen, but it's good for a beginner. Good enough to start, and Natasha starts by circling Mal, pointing out the little things she'll need to think about now, but hopefully not for long.

"It's not going to. Not yet. Here: turnout starts at the hips. Don't turn with your knees, or your ankles. Keep your hips tucked. Shoulders straight. Chest relaxed."

And so it goes, one adjustment after another and another, fractions of an inch this way and that, until Nat finally stops to face her, head tilted to one side. "You feel all that? Remember it."

It feels a bit like being picked apart, and not in a totally comfortable way. Natasha is very good at observing in the sharpest way possible, and Mal is still getting used to it. But she allows the changes and corrections, sharpening her movements as she's told to do.

When Natasha stops in front of her, Mal takes a moment and just - breathes. Memorizes what she's feeling, how she's standing, what her body thinks about it. Then she nods fractionally and exhales.

"A lot of work for one step." But she doesn't mind it so much, not anymore.

It's not meant to be comfortable, either the pose or the observation. It's meant to feel wrong, to feel exposed, to make one edgy and self-aware. The more conscious Mal is of all these things, all these little things, the better she'll remember each one of them. They'll repeat the same process for the next step, and the next, and so on until she doesn't even have to think about breathing from her diaphragm or imagining a string running from the ceiling to the top of her head and down her spine. She'll just know Correct from Incorrect, and it'll be easier than thought. It's the way she was taught, first ballet and then the rest. The rest was, in fact, nearly easy after the discipline demanded by Mme. Bolishinko. She'd do the same for Mal.

"It is. It's a lot of work for every step. But perfection takes a lot of work." Natasha ends up facing Mal, easily stepping into first position herself. "Second is an easy transition. Just step out, like this. Feet about a foot apart. Keep your turnout, and your core tight."

Once she gets through these, they'll start on arm positions, then drills. Mal should enjoy those.

Her lips quirk up at that. Perfection. She is used to being effortlessly perfect, and Natasha is right: it makes her sloppy. Her dependence on her natural gifts will let her down one day (as it has already, more than once, although every time she thinks she can get away with it one last time). It will put those around her in danger. She'd never forgive herself if she hurt them.

And anyway, she's beginning to get the hang of this, she thinks. Not the steps, because of course she doesn't know all of them yet, but the spirit of the thing, the point, the purpose, the feel of dance. As she shifts into second position, feeling the tightness in her core, she stares straight forward, attentive in every muscle and tendon of her body.

"Do you believe you've achieved perfection, Natasha?" she asks, almost lazily, her lips quirking at the burn of underused muscles.

No such thing as effortlessly perfect, Natasha thinks. Effortlessly close enough, maybe, or effortlessly almost-right. Perfection is something one has to be willing to work for, not something you're born to--no matter your natural talents. She's put a lot into her self, and perfect still isn't a word she'd use.

She shifts, and it's a reasonably good start, but Natasha can't tell her that, of course; she has to correct. Has to make sure Mal doesn't stop thinking about it, doesn't start relaxing. "I get closer every day," is her easy answer, an answer spoken on the slow exhale of breath as she settles into the careful familiarity of the position. It's true. She works for it.

"Shoulders back. Don't let your toes slide. Hips turned out, tailbone tucked."

Mal takes in every correction and makes it with precision, her muscles beginning to acquiesce to her new use of them, the things she's requesting of them now that she never has before. It's rewarding to have her body under this control, which is so different from her normal control; she has to think about this.

"I used to think I was perfect," she says, quite casual. "And then I met you."

The words make her smile, a quick quirk of her lips as she holds position, shifting her feet carefully into the next position: left foot held steady, right foot brought back towards it and the heel placed firmly in the hollow arch of her left.

"Flattery won't get you out of warm-ups or practice. Third position. Move your right foot towards your left, smoothly. No sudden motion, no lurching. Just one smooth sweep." She demonstrates again, sliding from third to second and back to third. Perfect. Not quite, but she's getting closer all the time. And Mal...well, maybe Mal can get something out of that, too.

"It's not flattery," she corrects, tipping her chin up. "I don't flatter."

But she'll let it drop if Natasha would rather. Anyway, she's got something else to focus on now. She draws her right foot in, frowns at the staccato motion of her leg. It's harder than it looks, and she tries again and again, slowly but surely achieving smoothness.

"Just state the facts?" Her voice is still amused as she slides once more into second position, her arms raised to either side. Hands will come later. For now, she slowly completes the motion and undoes it again, walking Mal through each tiny flexing muscle, each inch of the movement.

"Shift your weight onto your supporting leg. Smoothly, centered in the pit of your stomach. Shift, and as you shift, draw your leg in, then re-center." It's hard, harder still to do without that sudden start-and-stop, but balance is the key to everything, and this will help.

"Yes." She nods, watching Natasha like a hawk, her focus intent and leaning towards predatory. "With you, anyway. I embellish the truth with those less likely to pick up on it."

She never claimed to be a good person, or an honest person, or an open person. Sometimes she just barely manages to be a person at all. But she's satisfied with it, what she has become and is continuing to become, what she is becoming even now.

Shifting her weight as Natasha instructs, she feels the weight of her limbs in her stomach. It's odd to be so conscious of this; movement comes so easily to her normally. It feels as though she's suddenly grown a million new nerves and is trying to figure out how to control them. It's fascinating.

"So you don't lie to me, because I'm good enough to catch you?" The words have a faint thread of amusement running through them, under her controlled breathing. Funny, because Mal doesn't really know her well enough for that, not yet, but she already seems to have gotten the right impression. Fury had yet to make a lie detector that could beat the Black Widow. She was always one step ahead.

She's still one step ahead, but this time she's got someone doggedly following her. It's a somewhat new experience. Makes her think harder about every motion, every muscle, as she focuses on her own body but watches Mal's. Watches her reform her own methods of moving, copying Natasha as perfectly as she can. Not doing too badly, for a beginner. Not badly at all.

Once she's got third position more or less down, Natasha slides her foot again, this time forward instead of to the side. "Fourth position. Same placement at third, starting with the heel of your lead foot at the arch of your supporting foot, then move your foot forward. It's a slide, not a drag. You should barely brush the floor. Foot still turned outward, strong supporting leg." If she does it all right, after a good practice session she'll have blisters.

[mostly closed/Windrose pseudomingle!]

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