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lilylilyloly · 4 months ago

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mini fic/character study about Gwen under the cut

The Spider Society kind of reminded Gwen of a ballet intensive.

Yes, she was aware that it sounded like a coping mechanism. But it was true. It was in the long hours, the demand for excellence, the discipline, the immersion—she ate, slept, and breathed Spider-Woman now. It was singular, the drive to perfect her craft as a hero. Intensive.

In another life, Jess would’ve been a great dance instructor. When Gwen had first traveled across the multiverse—a year ago, now, when she’d ended up in Miles’s dimension—she’d estimated herself as one of the best of the Spiders there. …Which sounded egotistical, but Gwen had been proud of it—she put a lot of work into Spider-Woman, okay, and usually she had nothing to show for it. But this was measurable. This was proof—she was good.

All of that seemed silly now. Naive. Gwen had thought she was seamless, but with Jess… all of her moves and habits as Spider-Woman were constantly poked and prodded and questioned and corrected to a degree Gwen had never considered. And Gwen couldn’t be offended by it, because Jess was usually right. All the tiny things added up. Like in ballet.

Back when she did her ballet intensives, Gwen always thought she was good at the beginning, until she went into class. Then the instructor would correct her posture or her foot position or her transitions, and there was that moment of—of fumbling, and losing herself—before she got with the program and took the correction and clung to it wholeheartedly. To become better. That was the good part—the rewarding part. It broke you. It shattered your perceptions, and then it built you back better, when you thought you couldn’t get any better than you were. It was a kind of rebirth—a renewal. There was a reason Gwen always ended up crying in private by the second week of her intensives, but it was cathartic, in a way she couldn’t explain to anyone else.

She’d cried in private a lot during her time at the Spider Society. It was sort of relieving. Familiar. She knew how to break and come back better. Each time, she felt her back straighten afterwards, felt the steel galvanize inside of her.

Anyway, that was probably why she was dreaming about ballet so much.

The dreams were different each time. Usually mundane. But vivid. She would be back in the studio, going through the motions at the barre, feeling the stretch in her legs with the plié and the attitude, the good stiff ache in her feet going over the box of her shoes. Or she would be breaking in a new pair of shoes, snapping them and crushing the toes a bit and stitching the ribbons on (with dental floss, always, because it was stronger). Or she'd be trying to figure out how to put her hair up properly with half her head shaved, like how she'd struggled with last year. Or (this was the worst one) she'd be in pas de deux class, a vague man's ghostlike hands on her waist, twirling her around.

Each time, she'd wake up with a heavy sinking hole in her chest, shaking and clammy, and it would take her a beat or two too long to realize she was. On the futon at Hobie's place. Or in her scant overnight room at the Society HQ.

She wasn’t sure why the dreams upset her so much. Maybe because she missed it. She knew she was most likely never going to see her old studio again, or her old instructors, or even a nice new pair of pointe shoes. She couldn’t even really dance here—sure, she had the pointe shoes she used with her Spider-Woman costume, but she hadn't customized those to be used for actual ballet. Her actual pointe shoes were back in her room at home, sitting buried somewhere in her dance bag, under the cardigan she'd worn to the studio the last time she'd gone. She remembered, vaguely, stuffing the cardigan in her bag when she'd gotten home and throwing it in the corner of her room. Thoughtlessly. Completely oblivious to the fact that she’d never see it again.

She wasn’t sure what she would have done, if she knew. She’d had a bag half-packed already, because she’d had the vague thought to stay at someone else’s house that night, but she couldn’t just carry a bag around with her as Spider-Woman. And she couldn’t have stayed home—not when it meant people would’ve died. But after… everything, she hadn’t had time to run back home and grab her things. After she'd gotten the full brief and welcome into the Spider Society—her dad could've made it home by then.

So she didn't go. She couldn't go. She didn't know what her dad had done to the place, whether he'd rigged the windows with some kind of alarm or whether there was a police detail stationed in and out.

She wasn't risking that.

She still wished she had some actual clothes, though.

Jess had gotten her some basics, but nothing with personality—just enough to tide her over until she was “ready to go back home.” Jess hadn't said that directly, but Gwen could tell the vibe—everybody in the Society expected her to go home after a while. After the initial heat died down, maybe. She avoided the topic so she didn't have to explain to them how she couldn't.

She didn't think they'd take it well.

Hobie loaned her some stuff, too, which was nicer, but a lot of his stuff was too long for her, or fit her weird, or wasn't her style. Besides, she didn't want to infringe on his hospitality too much. And anyway, it just wasn’t the same as having clothes that were her own.

She lasted about a month and a half—longer than her ballet intensives, by one week. A month and a half of secret crying, and intensive training, and no clothes and shoes that were actually her own before she snapped.

She was sitting on Hobie’s old futon, legs crossed over each other in a light stretch as she worked. The boat was empty except for her, London daylight filtering through the green-tinted plastic hanging over the windows. Her hands were shaky with restless energy, so she had to go slow on the stitching. If the stitches weren’t even, the shoes wouldn’t have the balance she wanted. That was fine; she could be patient. When she had to be.

She didn't look up when she heard the thud of boots on the metallic roof of the boat. When Hobie thudded down the steps into the "living room" area, she glanced up briefly, just to make sure he wasn't injured or anything like he sometimes was. He wasn't, so she looked back down at her work again, sliding the needle she'd borrowed from Hobie through the frayed blue satin of her shoe.

"...Alright, Gwendy?" Hobie said. "Whatcha doing?"

"I'm darning," Gwen said, not looking up. "Lots of ballet dancers darn the box of their pointe shoes. For balance."

He came closer, dropping his guitar against the wall and flopping down onto the futon next to her. "You've been wearing those without for a month." A question. Gwen blew out a short breath, closing her eyes in a quick grimace.

"Because I wasn't using them for dancing," she said. "It's impractical for Spider-Woman work."

Hobie swung his legs up and his body down, flipping to sit upside-down, with his head hanging down towards the floor. "So your Spider-Woman fit's just gonna be impractical now?"

Gwen pursed her lips, pushing the needle through the satin corner again, tugging out the thread on the other side. "I guess."

"Finally getting rebellious, innit?"

Gwen stopped, tilting her head back and blowing out a frustrated breath. The back of her throat was tight and sore, and her eyes stung with the warning of tears. "Please don't do that."

A beat. Hobie tilted his head up to examine her. She returned to her stitching, avoiding his gaze.

"Why are you doing it, then?"

She tugged the thread through, closing the next seam with a forceful zhwiiiiip. "I want to dance. I left my other pointe shoes at home."

Silence.

She wouldn’t have said it to Jess or Miguel—or anybody else at the Society, really. Aside from the fact that she didn’t think they’d understand how much she needed to dance (and she did, every time she woke up feeling like she was falling apart, drifting away from her own body with nothing to control her or ground her, nothing she could cling to)—Jess or Miguel would’ve told her to go get them, then.

Hobie never told her to go home.

"You'd rather wear the other ones," Hobie said.

She brushed her hair back out of her eyes, threading another stitch. "Sure. They're less worn out. These won't be that good."

Understatement. The ribbons were already close to breaking off, anyway, and the soles were clearly worn out. She'd get a few good ballet practices out of these, at most. If she'd been at home, she would've swapped them out for new ones already.

Another silence.

"I could go get them for you."

Gwen glanced over at him. His face (though upside-down) was serious.

"No," she said flatly, turning back to her shoes. "Don't go near my dad's place, Hobie, I'm serious."

She could feel the look he gave her. They’d had enough discussions about her dad at this point that she knew where he disagreed with her. It was annoying, more than anything, because she didn’t want to be put in the spot of defending him but now she had to.

"He wouldn't even see me," Hobie said. "I'd go stealth. In and out. Get you whatever you want from home."

Gwen slowed, pushing the needle through fabric.

Her first thought was of her clothes—the stuff she'd half-packed to go. If she could just wear her own clothes again... packed in her own bag... and if he got her her dance bag, on top of that, it'd be even more of a relief. She had her water bottle packed in her dance bag, even.

She would get to feel human again.

But her dad. And his gun. And if he'd ransacked her room, moved things from where she'd left them, and Hobie didn't give up and went rummaging, and... even if the door was closed, it was a flimsy piece of wood, and her dad had a gun.

She hated thinking of her dad that uncharitably, but she had to. If Hobie got hurt on her behalf it'd be her fault.

"You're not stealthy," she said instead, raising her eyebrows and making her voice teasing and dismissive.

"I could be," Hobie said. "I am when I want to be."

Gwen gave him a squinty-eyed doubtful look.

"I am!" he swung around to sit right-side-up again, indignant. "Look—c'mon, Gwendy, it’s nothing. I'll be in and out, you get your stuff, it's all good."

"No." Gwen stabbed the satin again.

Hobie slumped against her side dramatically. Gwen rolled her eyes and didn't sway with his weight. "You really think I can't handle one cop?"

Gwen hesitated.

She didn't really have a rebuttal to that. Of course she could say it only takes one slip-up. One bad moment. …But that was a risk they both took daily. He wouldn’t accept that as a reason.

"...I don't really want you to smash him with your guitar, either," she said half-heartedly. "He's not enhanced or anything."

"I wouldn't," Hobie said. "Even though he deserves it—I'd be in and out."

Gwen shot him a disapproving look, then looked back down at her shoes, frowning.

These shoes really wouldn't last. And she needed to dance with a physical ache inside of her—needed that sense of control, that burn in her muscles.

A long beat.

"...Fine."

She drilled him on it, of course. Reminding him of her address, describing the bags, where they would be sitting, over and over again, with meticulous detail. If they're not where I say they are, just leave. The idea of asking him to get her stuff from inside her bass drum flashed into her mind for half a second, but she didn't bring it up. The thought of adding in extra steps was way too stressful. At least the bags were just sitting there, all he had to do was pick them up—he'd have to unscrew the drum to pick up the stuff, and probably pack them in one of the bags so he could swing away hands-free, and... that was too much. This needed to be in and out.

Then he left through a swirling orange portal that illuminated the room for a good long moment. Then the light faded. And she was standing, alone, in the middle of Hobie’s living room.

This was a mistake, was her first thought.

If anything happened to Hobie she wouldn't have any way to explain it to Jess and Miguel—that she was so averse to going back home that she'd send Hobie to break in to her dad's apartment just for a quick errand. No way would they take that well.

She blew out a shaky breath, turning to pace the length of the room, rubbing her arms like it would comfort her.

It didn't-work tolerably enough for a minute or two, then it wasn't enough anymore, and she sat down on the floor to move through her stretches.

That was… enough. It didn't take her mind off the fact that she'd just made a terrible mistake, but it let her get out her nervous energy about it, pushing herself into the deepest stretches she could do. Feeling the burn. Deep breaths.

Within two minutes, a portal blossomed to life again, and she flailed, breaking position and thudding onto the floor awkwardly. She pushed herself up, eyes on the growing portal—is he—what if—

Two bags flew out of the portal first, slamming into her with overlapping fabric thumps. She caught them on instinct, looking down at them, then back up at the portal.

Hobie stepped out a beat later, hands in his pockets.

"You're alright?" she said, breathless for some reason.

"Keep your hair on, Gwendy, I'm aces," Hobie said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you don't trust me." He grinned at her, clearly unbothered.

Gwen rolled her eyes at him, relief rushing into her bones. "You're awful." She didn't trust him, but he already knew that. It wasn't personal—she didn't trust anybody.

"That how you talk to people who do you favors?" Hobie headed over to the corner where his guitar was sitting, picking it up and plopping down on the ground to start fiddling with the strings. Gwen gave him a flat look that he didn't see.

"...Thank you," she said. The words were only slightly uncomfortable in her mouth. She'd gotten used to accepting charity from Hobie, mostly. It helped that he didn't seem to have much of a sense of boundaries. What was his was hers.

"Don't mention it," Hobie said, not even looking up from his guitar.

She woke up slowly, dream clinging to her, sticky, like tangled webs. At first she was confused. She'd just been in the studio, lights bright, floors glossy, with the usual girls chattering around her while she went through her practice after class. She couldn't do fourth arabesque without shaking and almost falling over. She used to be able to do it better. Something had happened and she couldn't figure out what.

She blinked up at the shadowy ceiling. From outside, she heard the lapping of water against the side of the boat. In the other room, separated with a curtain, Hobie's breathing was even and deep.

She sucked in a shaky breath, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Abstract shapes danced behind her eyelids.

She blew her breath back out, taking her hands from her eyes. Okay.

She sat up.

In the dim light filtering in through the plastic, she pulled her dance bag closer towards her, extracting her legs from the knit blanket to fold them underneath her as she rummaged through her bag. She pulled out a hair tie first: swept the long side of her hair back neatly, pulling it up. Neat and slick was easy, because her hair was greasy anyway. The showers in the Spider Society sucked and she missed her old shampoo. She felt the ponytail—still not long enough for a bun. She tied it off as-is instead, cool air brushing against the clammy nape of her neck, and started rustling through her bag again.

She pulled out the shoes. Black satin shone softly in the dim light. She ran a hand down one of them, gently, feeling the stiffness, the rosin residue on the end of the box.

This was exactly what she needed.

She went through her stretches first. Meticulous. Breathing through the stretch, like her instructor had always reminded her to do.

Taping her toes, sliding on the shoes—it was like coming back to a reliable friend. She tied off the ribbons and took a moment to admire them, snug and secure and trustworthy.

She stood up and headed to the other side of the room—there was more space there, anyway, and she didn't want to wake Hobie up.

Deep breath.

Plié.

And then, just to remind herself she could, she moved through the positions, as if her instructor was watching her. First to fifth. Graceful, controlled.

She could barely see her own movements in the dark, but she could feel herself move, so it didn't matter. She slipped into the old routine easily, exactly the kind of thing she would do with her instructor before she left home. Her muscles slowly woke up, coming alive again, reminded of how they used to move. Rusty at first, then slowly becoming smooth.

She moved through snippets of her old routines, performances she'd had to learn once; anything she could remember, as quiet as she could. Her ponytail sometimes brushed the back of her neck when she bent one way or the other. Her breathing was harsh in the quiet, but her movements weren't.

After a while—she had no idea how long—her muscles started to burn, feet stiff and aching from being bent and arched unnaturally. They would probably start to cramp soon.

She kept going, almost calm for the first time in a month and a half. Almost under control.

This was the good part.

#SCREAMING #words cannot express how much i love this #gwen and ballet is my favorite kind of thing to read about #because i loved ballet as a child but could never do it #so i’m living vicariously through her #absolutely beautiful 🫶

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