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Chapter Text

Come Monday Nathalie stood outside the rehearsal studio with her bag slung over her shoulder, running her finger over the table of dancers’ schedules. It was a familiar routine before morning warm-up, but one she hadn’t practiced in four entire years. 

Ah, there was hers. Morning class; rehearsal; break; rehearsal; break; work with the other lead roles: Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Papillon, played by the enigmatic choreographer. She and Gabriel were barely more than passing acquaintances, but information in the company was never hard to obtain. According to those who had worked with him before, he was detail-oriented, driven, and tough to please, and his tendency for sharpness had gotten worse after his wife’s death. And now Nathalie was dancing his wife’s role in his ballet. She couldn’t deny the thought made her a little bit nervous.

Why had she accepted? When she had left she had never intended to return and settled into her role as a teacher. And she was good at it. She loved her students under her strict instructor’s mask, and they loved her back. 

But part of her watched their progress and was reminded of herself: a young dancer enchanted with the glamour of ballet, with a fierce desire to rise to the top. She shouldn’t have taken this role. But the idea of performing again was too thrilling to refuse. 

The sound of footsteps caught her attention. A girl with a blonde bob wearing sunglasses and a trendy black-and-white coat strode towards the board to check her own schedule. Nathalie couldn’t recall who she was, but she didn’t look pleased. She pushed up her shades and twirled her keys in her fingers as she scanned the paper, glancing sideways at Nathalie as she went to head into class. 

Glanced, then looked again and stared. Hard. Nathalie blinked, confused, as hot red swelled in the girl’s cheeks and her eyes narrowed.

“ You,” she seethed. 

“...I’m sorry? I don’t think we’ve met,” Nathalie offered. The girl’s mouth tightened as she looked back to the board and found what she was looking for. She ripped off the casting list and shoved it in Nathalie’s face. At the very top, it read: 

Paon:

Nathalie Sancoeur

(Understudy: Audrey Bourgeois)

Nathalie guessed the unfamiliar name went with the unfamiliar--and very angry--face. 

“There’s a rumor going around that Monsieur Agreste pulled you out of retirement because nobody who auditioned was good enough for him.” Her voice was tight. “ I was supposed to get that role. I flew halfway across the world so I could get that role!” Nathalie wasn’t sure what to say. Audrey’s hand dropped to her side, and she leaned in close to Nathalie’s face, the paper crinkling in her fist. “From now on, you and I are sworn enemies, ” she spat. “And when you fail, I’m coming for MY spot.” 

Nathalie shrugged coolly. “Sure. See you at rehearsal, I guess.” She turned and opened the studio door to Audrey’s furious gasp, leaving her trembling with rage in the middle of the hallway. 

Competition wasn’t new. Nor was intimidation. Dancers needed thick skin because someone was always vying to fill your spot. Nathalie was a seasoned professional and knew how to wear the mask of cool indifference. However, she couldn’t deny that Audrey’s insistence she would fail made something prickle hot and indignant inside. Who did this green little twentysomething think she was? 

She chose a corner to sit in and started removing her outerwear. It was a chilly early spring, so layers helped keep her muscles as warm as possible on her walk to work. She flexed her feet, rolling through her toes to point them and noting how her body felt as she started her stretch routine, taking particular care with her right side like always.

Dancers filtered in ones and twos in coats and scarves. Nathalie was an early bird even of early birds, and on Day One it meant she garnered attention. She heard the younger dancers’ mindless chatter and tried to shut it out, determined to ignore the whispers she knew were there.  

“...but I just wanna know, why did he cast Mme. Sancoeur? Like, everybody knows what happened. Well, most people.” 

“Yeah, people don’t just bounce back from something like that.” 

Nathalie breathed in a pike stretch*. Let it go. It will be fine, she thought, and let herself fall into the comfortable, mindless rhythm of her exercises. 

Soon, a sulking Audrey entered the room followed by Gabriel Agreste himself, wearing dance sneakers and fitted track pants. Rehearsal was starting. Nathalie breathed again as she stood up to quell the feeling of deja vu from inhabiting the studio again as a dancer, not a teacher.  

To her immense relief, she danced excellently. You can take the woman out of ballet, but you can’t take the ballet out of the woman. 

“Ugh. I’m so sore from yesterday.” 

“Tell me about it! Look at this massive blister. ‘Means I need to break in a new pair of shoes. These are practically dead.” 

“Yeah, my knee hasn’t stopped clicking since last season. I need to set up a PT appointment. I hope it’s nothing serious. But I’d dance on it anyway. Because, you know, gotta eat!”  

The three ballerinas laughed in their circle. Ballet is pain, Nathalie thought from the barre, stretching her own aching muscles. 

“Oh, hi, you’re Audrey from New York, right?” 

Nathalie half-listened as Audrey joined the conversation. She didn’t mean to but rationalized it by saying she wanted to keep tabs on Audrey. Something about the girl’s intense reaction to losing the lead role was worrying. 

It made Nathalie feel lonely because there they were warming up together, sitting on each other’s feet, sharing foam rollers and pointe shoe hacks, while she was over here by herself. She supposed, as she descended into a gentle grand plie*, that it could be the age difference. They were probably somewhere around seven or eight years her junior, having joined the company either after she’d started solo work, or after she had left. 

One of them she recognized, though. The redhead; the one with the clicking knee. What was her name? Caline. She had been new to the corps when Nathalie was a principal, so they had danced together before. The girl fiddled with a necklace as she laughed, a pair of minuscule ballet slippers on a delicate chain. She would have to remove it every day so as not to hurt anyone, so it must be special if she bothered to put it on before rehearsal.

The door banged open and Gabriel strode in alongside the current Ballet Master*, and class began. 

They started with group warmup, followed by choreography work. Nathalie felt every muscle in her body working in tandem, from her toes to the tips of her fingers. Dance was pain, but it was a good kind of pain because it meant you were doing what you loved. 

Gabriel’s choreography was tough. It mixed classical technique and unconventional modern* forms with Balanchine’s athleticism, making for a set Nathalie could imagine would look incredible on stage. But they had to learn it first. Today was halfway through day two, and she was already tired. She stood, watching Gabriel’s movements, and copied them, reviewed them, practiced them. She became so wrapped up in her own head that it startled her when she stumbled. 

She stepped out of it awkwardly, on her right side. Alarm screamed in her head, eclipsing a few snickers. This was not the good pain. Breathing hard, she turned and limped to the side of the studio, away from a gaggle of ballerinas led by Audrey who were doubtless whispering that she was too old for this. She thought she caught a flash of concern in Caline’s eyes, but the redhead hastily looked away. 

Past injuries were a bitch. Post recovery, her body built a hyperawareness to anything skirting too close to that experience, and in ballet, that potential was everywhere. 

Nathalie’s heart rate would accelerate; her stomach would rise into her throat. Her body remembered what she wanted to forget. 

Nathalie grasped the barre at the side of the room and massaged her right hip with the heel of her hand. The momentary twinge had faded. Good. She loosely swung her leg a few times to help it relax. One, two, three, four. Breathe in. Out. 

Rehearsal continued on around her. Dancers worked individually or in groups on the choreography, helping and critiquing one another. Nathalie grabbed her water bottle and sat against the wall, legs stretched out and hand resting on her hip. She wouldn’t be missed for one minute. She closed her eyes. 

Breathe in. Out. 

“Are you all, right, Mme. Sancoeur?” Gabriel’s voice came from somewhere above her, and she snapped to attention. 

“I’m fine, sir.” She cleared her throat. His brow showed the barest glimmer of concern, yet it was more than she’d previously witnessed as he ran his dancers ragged with his difficult steps. 

“All right, then.” He straightened, any softness hidden under strict professionalism. “Up you go, and let's run it again. One, two!” He turned to the rest of the room and clapped his hands together. He didn’t reach to help her up. She could do that herself. 

They would have three weeks to rehearse before Miraculous opened. Such a quick turnaround meant ten- and twelve-hour days weren’t unusual, but it helped that many of the company already knew their roles from the past three springs. It would be harder on Nathalie since she had never danced hers, but she had done such feats before in her career, many times over. She could do it again.  

She was amazed at how many habits were easy to reshoulder as a comfortable jacket. Health had to be a priority in a profession where one’s entire workday depended on the body’s ability to perform, so she stocked up on her vitamins. She made sure to train flexibility on her right. Every morning, she clumsily threw her protesting body into a bathtub of hot water and Epsom salt. Every evening, she rolled out her muscles. She kept a watch on the ever-present checklist of pain: what hurt, where, how bad, what was new. Mostly in her feet, her lower back, and her right hip. 

There was also the routine of customizing her pointe shoes. Breaking the shank*, sewing on the ribbons correctly, adding an elastic for extra security. Her hands did everything automatically. With the increased amount of dancing, each pair would only last her three days before they could no longer support her feet and the cycle started again. 

The routine of mentally steeling herself was another quick to return. As a teacher, she doled out firm, gentle feedback to her students every day, but she was no longer accustomed to receiving it. Luckily, Gabriel was direct, but not brutal. The real problem was Audrey and her posse and the nasty things they would say about her. Except Caline, who seemed to waver at the edges and not join in. Nathalie had gotten to her teaching studio early one day that week to find “old hag” written on every single mirror in red lipstick. She laughed, but it still stung. She was barely thirty-three. The kids didn’t need to see that, though, so she got to work with a tissue and glass cleaner and by the time the first student crossed the threshold, the mirror was swiped as sparkling clean as the face she presented to the world. 

Tolerating pain and letting things roll off her back was something Nathalie Sanceour was good at. Which was why she wouldn’t be letting Gabriel Agreste down.

Rehearsal had let out early for her today, so she decided to head to the gym to help rebuild her stamina. She thought back over her career as she walked. Student at a small but excellent ballet school in southern France; admitted to the Paris Opera Ballet corps at eighteen; worked her way from quadrille* all the way to danseuse étoile in a shockingly short four years. Retired at twenty-nine. And now she’s back when she really shouldn’t be. 

What an occupation she had chosen. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and bent her head against the wind. 

She was so lost in thought she didn’t register the yipping of a small dog and the jangling of a leash, which was too suddenly ensnaring her ankles, and she yelped as she felt herself pitch forward. 

A yank and a man’s voice and the excited barking of the dog and she was no longer falling because his hand was gripping her upper arm. The leash was still around her ankles, so it took both of them a minute while sorting through the chaos of the treacherous restraint to realize that they already knew each other. 

Gabriel stood up from where he had squatted down to untangle Nathalie’s legs, taking the dog with him, and half-smiled. He was wearing glasses, she noticed. Perhaps that’s why she had overlooked him.

“Madame Sancoeur. My apologies; I didn’t recognize you with your layers. Duusu, hush ,” he implored to the yapping ball of fury that was tucked under his arm. It was one of those dogs without much hair on its fuzzy grey body save for some white fluffy ears and an untameable tail. It wore a tiny blue sweater. Nathalie reached out hesitantly to pet it on the head, and it stopped barking and quivered at her touch.

She smiled. “It’s all right. Is she yours?” 

Gabriel let out a long and tortured sigh. “No, I’m pet-sitting for a friend. I wouldn’t normally, but they’re a very good friend. It’s just their dog is so...strange.” 

“I think she’s cute.” 

“You and only you, apparently.” He rolled his eyes. “Her name is Duusu, but I said to Germain, what kind of a name is that?” The dog licked Nathalie’s fingers, and she smiled and retracted her hand to replace it in her warm coat pocket. Duusu started struggling again, upset with the lack of petting. 

Gabriel shushed her and adjusted her sweater. “Anyway, where are you headed? I suppose now that I’ve interrupted your stroll I might as well escort you to your destination.” 

Nathalie paused. She didn’t know Gabriel Agreste, not really. But he seemed more relaxed outside the rehearsal studio. The glasses softened the hard edges in his face. 

“To the gym up the block, actually,” she said, evenly. His face set, and she recognized the shift to professionalism. 

“What for? I ask as your choreographer,” he stated at Nathalie’s raised eyebrow.

“Strength training. I haven’t exactly been doing this level of exercise for the past four years.” 

He nodded, satisfied. “I’ll walk you there, then,” Duusu whined in protest as he set her down. “ Mon Dieu, you terrible creature. Make up your mind,” he groused, but it was a lighthearted one, a marked return to informality. She could tell despite appearances he was begrudgingly fond of the dog.

They walked in awkward silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the city’s ambient noise and Duusu’s skittering paws. Nathalie still thought the dog was cute.

“So...what’s wrong with her? What annoys you, I mean.” 

“Besides looking like a rat with a mullet? Well, they get allergies. And they need sunscreen for their skin.” He scoffed. “I can’t begin to tell you my reaction when my friend told me I’d have to put sunscreen on his dog before I took her for a walk. I mean, it’s winter, and cloudy.” Nathalie stifled a snort. 

Their conversation stalled again as they neared their destination until Nathalie turned to him.

“Thank you for walking with me, Monsieur Agreste.” 

He looked mildly pained. “Please...just call me Gabriel, outside the studio.”

She nodded. “Then it’s Nathalie, to you.” 

He nodded. “See you at rehearsal, Nathalie.” He turned and walked away with his ridiculous dog that wasn’t actually his trotting beside him, and as Nathalie watched his form recede--his legs looked especially long in jeans, she mused--she realized she had never seen Gabriel Agreste act like anything other than a cold, logical assessor of his choreography. Until now. 

She found she liked it. 

However, when Gabriel arrived for rehearsal the next day it was as if nothing had changed. He certainly knew how to make an entrance, Nathalie thought drily as he flung open the door. It helped that he was very tall and shockingly blonde, and as significantly muscular as his profession required. But the company was full of young, beautiful people. This wouldn’t be cause for anything at all. She wondered if she would ever get to see the personable side of him again. 

Today’s was a solo rehearsal, meaning it would be just them. Them, and Audrey Bourgeois. Nathalie had internally groaned when the girl arrived some minutes after herself, determinedly ignoring Nathalie as she set her bag down with a pouting frown. She wouldn’t be able to keep that up forever, Nathalie thought as she stretched her splits. As the understudy, Audrey still had to work with her to learn the role.

And work they did, side by side facing the long mirror with some distance and Gabriel in between, talking and moving and demonstrating. Bodies strained and sweat and bent panting in the precious moments in between.

“Think of the sun on your skin. The water. Hands like this,” he said, demonstrating with his own. “Now, with the music. One, two.” Nathalie did the step and did it again. It wasn’t quite right. She heard Audrey snort from a few feet away, throwing her a side-eye and muttering something about her battements.* She prickled. 

Gabriel pursed his lips. “You need to keep your hips square.” 

That did it. She stepped out of relevé * and crossed her arms. “Don’t you think I know that? I teach for a world-renowned ballet company, for heaven’s sake.” 

“Right.” He ran his fingers through his hair, slightly unseated. 

“Sorry. I had a rough morning.” 

“I can see that. Mademoiselle Bourgeois, keep your comments to yourself,” he said to Audrey’s opening mouth, which she promptly shut. 

Rehearsal continued, and he backed off. Which was fine. She wasn’t one of the timid eighteen-year-olds he was used to dealing with.

She watched Audrey in the mirror. The girl was good. She had power in her jumps and electricity in her turns, and her extensions were arguably better than Nathalie’s. But she knew she had more experience.

After that, she had company rehearsal with the rest of the cast. Nathalie’s energy slowly drained as she put every ounce of effort she had into her dancing, and by the time the clock struck nine PM her hip was bothering her again. She could feel Gabriel’s eyes on her as she limped over to where she had deposited her things to don her layers.

“Monsieur Agreste! Monsieur!” She heard Audrey’s voice calling over the hubbub of dancers leaving for home. “May I say, Monsieur, I love the pas de deux you wrote for Act 2, scene three?” 

Ah, so she was trying flattery. Nathalie allowed herself a peek as she tied her scarf. Audrey was leaning close and looking up at Gabriel with batting eyelashes, and he looked visibly uncomfortable. 

“I suppose you may, Mademoiselle Bourgeois, since you already have. If you’ll please excuse me.” 

Nathalie chuckled to herself as she shouldered her bag to leave. As she reached the door, a long-fingered hand pushed it open for her. 

“Monsieur Agreste. I trust everything is satisfactory?” She turned to him as they stepped out into the hall.

He sighed. “Would you...be offended if I offered to drive you home? I need my étoile in top condition, and, well…” The peppering of informality from their chance meeting was back.

So he had noticed her change in gait. It seemed a thin excuse, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he also desired an excuse to escape the Blonde Bitch. Speaking of her, it appeared steam was ready to plume from her ears at the sight of them talking. 

“I guess that would be nice.” Her hand ghosted her hip. If she wasn’t so exhausted, she would have refused.

They spent the ride in not-entirely-uncomfortable silence, and he walked her to her door. This first time, she didn’t invite him in.