Work Text:
“Don’t go in there.”
“Why?”
“Uh… I can’t— really explain.”
“Steve—” Sam gives him a stern look, “This is my house. If there is something crazy going on in my house, I need to know.”
“Yeah I know— I’m sorry— I’m not— It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s that I simply don’t— have words. For what is happening. In there.”
Sam’s eyebrows knit closer together, “Steve.” He reaches for the doorknob again and Steve throws his shoulder against the door to keep it shut.
He’s whispering, glancing furtively at the door next to his head, “Sam, please don’t. I think everything’s fine—“
“You think?”
“I think we should just not go in right now. If you could trust me on this?”
“I trust you Steve. But your face has freaked out written all over it and it’s got me just a little scared,” Sam holds up two fingers pinched close together, “that my living room is just a crater behind this door.”
Steve shakes his head, opens his mouth to explain, but Sam continues, “I agree not to open the door if you tell me what is going on.”
Steve draws a heavy breath and tries, “He’s— dancing.”
“He’s dancing.”
“I think he’s dancing.”
“You think.”
“Yeah! Yes! I don’t know!” Steve throws his hands up, pushes off the door frame, and begins to pace, “He’s just listening to music and— moving?”
“That sounds like dancing.”
“But— it’s not—” Steve shakes his head, mouth hanging open helplessly.
In a flash, Sam pushes the door open and steps into the living room. Steve lunges after him but is too late. Much too late.
They’d found him just two weeks ago. Though truly, he found them. Just showed up, tangled hair, muddy clothes, and eyes that betrayed a weariness he did his best to hide.
He remembered almost nothing besides Steve’s name and face, but it didn’t matter. Steve revolved around him, making him food, telling him stories, buying him things that might jog his memory. It didn’t matter because he was back, and that was all Steve wanted.
There had been a flurry of concern when Steve and Sam had just taken him in. Put him up in the spare room and declined every security measure that Fury offered. Not in control, they thought he might lash out in anger or confusion, recovering from trauma. But Steve, of course, could not be stopped. He pushed the world away and gave Bucky the best medicine he knew: chicken noodle soup and too many blankets.
And it seems there was nothing to worry about, no violence anyway. Bucky sat on the couch in a mountain of blankets, listening to Steve talk for hours, quiet eyes under his unkempt hair. But he wouldn’t leave the house and said next to nothing. The days passed and Steve started to feel less and less at ease. Was there something wrong? Sam offered advice and encouragements— he just needs time man. But truthfully this wasn’t his area of expertise.
So Steve carried on and found new ways to reintroduce Bucky to the world. The internet seemed like a good place to start. Hey Buck, check this out.
Oh Steve. How you will rue the day you introduced Bucky to Youtube.
“He’s been watching Youtube videos for three days straight.”
Steve picks at the hem of his shirt.
“I’m not exaggerating. I don’t think he’s slept in three days.”
He’s sitting in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah I tried to take it away. But he just gave me this look—”
Staticky buzz of Natasha’s voice on the other end of the line.
“But that’s uh— that’s not why I’m calling.”
Silence on the phone.
“Okay so, let me start by saying I have no idea what is going on.”
Steve pauses to let her snap out a quick jab about how he never knows, but she’s unusually quiet. Maybe his tone betrays just how lost he feels right now.
“Well, yesterday— he started dancing? But it’s not— uh. It looks— strange.”
Natasha says nothing.
Steve sighs and tries to explain something he has no words for, “It’s— jerky. He moves like a machine, really stiff, and then he starts to wiggle around, really fluid. Then he— I don’t know— moves his hands like the people in Ancient Egyptian art? All elbows and weird angles. I don’t know— I don’t know Nat…”
Steve’s voice has fallen, confusion weighing heavy. He rests his head on his hand and listens to Natasha ask a question.
“Yeah, no,” voice suddenly confident, “No, it’s not a seizure. Yeah— yeah, I’m sure. Sam said it was dancing.”
Another long pause.
“I mean, it’s pretty— rhythmic so… Anyway, I could— use your help. If you guys are nearby.”
Steve is still as he listens to her response.
“Alright. Great. Thanks Nat.”
Steve and Sam are pouring water into glasses and setting the table for dinner. Bucky is still in the living room and when Steve surreptitiously pressed his ear to the door a few minutes ago, he could hear the tinny beat of music over his laptop’s speakers and—a sound that only Steve could hear—the shuffle of socked feet against the carpet.
“I mean— should be worried?”
“I don’t know, man. I’ll take dancing over murder any day.”
“Yeah…” Steve looks at the pot of stew in front of them, “Should we— uh, take some in for him?”
“No stick to routine. Just tell him dinner’s in the kitchen.”
Steve hesitates, “Do you think he can hear me from here?”
Sam’s eyes narrow. Why don’t you just go in there?
“Hey Buck!” Steve calls out, eyes still watching Sam’s, “Dinner’s ready!”
Silence. So much silence that Sam shrugs and turns back to the bowl of soup in front of him.
Then Steve’s heart lurches at the sound of the living room door opening. Sam’s eyes snap up to the doorway.
Three tense breaths later, Bucky appears around the corner— backward. He dances backward into the kitchen, socked feet slipping gracefully on the tile. As if his feet are moving forward and somehow propelling him backward.
Steve seizes the opportunity, “Hey Bucky. This bowl’s yours.” He lifts a full bowl.
Bucky does nothing to acknowledge him, but continues his backwards path closer to the table where Steve and Sam are waiting.
The silence is unbearable, just squick-squick-squick, socks approaching on the tile. Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Something is definitely wrong here.
Bucky reaches the table, turns on the ball of his foot, takes the bowl without a word, and backward-walk-dances back toward the hall.
Steve and Sam sit staring until he is out of sight again.
Sam turns to him with a small shrug and an unreadable smile, “He seems fine.”
Steve tries again at breakfast. When he calls Bucky in for a bowl of oatmeal, Bucky brings the laptop along. It’s playing a bass-heavy song full of electronic sounds and he’s bobbing his head to the beat.
Bucky accepts the bowl and sets the laptop on the counter.
Steve begins by clearing his throat and giving Bucky an encouraging look. Bucky meets his eyes but doesn’t respond.
“Hey Buck.”
Bucky eats another spoonful of oatmeal and sets down the bowl. Then he drops his whole body into the beat. All his joints loose, just swaying and throwing himself to the pulse from the speakers.
…okay.
“How— how are you feeling?”
Bucky stills his upper body. Knees bouncing easy, head bobbing. He holds Steve’s eyes. Is that— a nod? Or—?
Probably a nod. Continue like this is normal, “You seem like you’re feeling a lot more— energetic? That’s good.”
Steve nods and finds himself idiotically matching Bucky and nodding to the beat. He jolts to still his head.
“Okay, well.”
The song has been strangely mellow for a while and suddenly the beat drops in, hard and twice as fast. Bucky drops with it, slamming his head back and forth to the throbbing sound. Too fast, hair a tangled blur.
Steve stares. Speechless. He wills himself not flee the room with every ounce of conviction he has and soaks in the most exquisite embarrassment he has ever known.
Bucky hardly stops dancing. He gives up every movement he knew before and replaces it with a dance.
Even walking is replaced with a kind of amazing convulsion. One step forward, two steps back. Swing one leg behind the other for a little hitch step. He swings his arms and fakes a step forward only to skid out to the side.
For an alarming moment, Steve questions if he has actually forgotten how to walk normally. But, no— he was walking normally this morning when he was knitting his fingers together in impossible shapes. That’s right.
If Steve could see things clearly he’d notice that Bucky has given up days on the couch for days around the house. Dancing through the kitchen at each meal. Following Steve into the garage to slide around the concrete in socks while he works on his bike. Standing with Steve’s laptop cradled in his arm whenever Sam and Steve are having a conversation, rocking to the beat from the speakers, just loud enough, just close enough that they have to raise their voices to be heard above the sound.
Club mixes and dubstep drops are a constant soundtrack in the house. Steve has apologized to Sam so many times for the noise that now he just gives Sam a sorrowful look and Sam shakes his head to dismiss it. Nah man, I always wanted to live inside a dance club. Dream come true.
Until one afternoon, the house is strangely quiet. Steve had been reading in the living room when he noticed the silence. After days of non-stop sound it should have been a relief, but it was panic that flooded him instead.
Steve took off toward the stairs a little too quickly. His ears have jumped to alert and he realizes the house isn’t silent after all. There’s a dull, house-shaking thudding coming from upstairs. He hurdles up the steps three at time and bursts straight through Bucky’s bedroom door, “Bucky?!”
Bucky is in the middle of the floor. Jumping and kicking his legs hard to a steady beat. He spins as he kicks around in a circle and his arms pump back and forth to the same rhythm. He has enormous headphones over his ears, connected to a cable that is swinging wildly over his chest before disappearing into his pocket. He is facing the door like he was expecting an audience to coming barging in.
“Oh,” Steve just stares at him. Can he even hear me? “Sorry.”
Sam must’ve given him those. Can’t blame him.Steve could try asking but every attempt at a conversation thus far has been stonewalled. Headphones did make the growing barrier between Bucky and the outside world feel more tangible, though. And that feels like a step in the wrong direction, Steve thinks as he slowly closes the door.
What’s strange though, is that he really feels more normal like this. He’s always nearby. He moves through rooms without prompting. He even prepares snacks by himself on occasion. Then crunches too loudly on peanut butter crackers while dancing awkwardly close to where Steve is standing by the kitchen counter, reading the same sentence in the newspaper over and over again.
Twisting his body, moving in increasingly unnatural ways until Steve can’t resist, gives up on the newspaper, and stares. Like if he stares long enough this will feel okay. He won’t be panicking inside and giving Bucky a strained smile.
And Steve can almost get to that point. In fact, when Bucky’s not dancing bizarrely, unbelievably close, Steve can almost pretend that everything is fine. Just hanging out with Bucky. Easy closeness. No need to say anything because silence was always comfortable. Right? Everything’s okay, right Buck?
Four days in, Steve is starting to slip. There must be something wrong.
He and Sam are standing on opposite sides of the kitchen aisle, diligently trying to have a conversation while Bucky dances in the background. Music from the laptop speakers today.
“Hey Bucky, can you stop for a second?”
Bucky freezes instantly. Then moves just a bit a freezes again, followed by a rapid fire sequence of little freezes. Very funny, Steve thinks, but Sam is genuinely laughing.
“Aright, aright,” Sam says and extends a closed fist. Bucky bumps his fist against it with a tiny smile.
Hey, that’s a start. Steve jumps into the interaction, to ask a question so big and obvious he cringes the second it leaves his mouth, “Bucky, why are you dancing?”
“I like it.”
“What do you like about it?”
“You can just—” he slides his hands up and down in a fluid wave, “move with it.”
Sam’s smile had been growing wider and wider and now it cracks into laughter. He gives Bucky a thoroughly amused nod.
Steve is considerably less amused, “Yeah. I see that. Do you need to— move with it— all the time?”
“Yeah,” Bucky’s face is calm, if not downright serious.
Sam is laughing again and Steve can’t help himself. It’s all so strange; what else can he do? They laugh for a moment but Bucky doesn’t join in. He just continues his easy dance, watching one of them then the other as he moves.
Their laughter trickles to a close. Awkward faux-silence settles again, because the throb of a four-on-the-floor beat has replaced silence in this house. Steve should really just leave it. That was enough for one conversation. But the brief reprieve from desperately trying to ignore the dancing man that rarely leaves his side was too sweet.
Steve breaks in before really thinking of something to say, “You must be— burning a lot of— calories.”
Sam loses it. Uncontrollable laughter, hand on his stomach. He gasps a breath to laugh again, whole body shaking. Bucky doesn’t respond, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug. Just dances on.
Steve considers the situation. One friend doubled up against the fridge, choking with laughter, another friend moving in time to the songs that never stop, seemingly unaffected by everything. Steve considers his life and wonders if he too has lost his mind.
But Bucky really hits his stride when he starts breakdancing—a word Sam was kind enough to supply—in earnest. Full body movements, leaping, sliding, swinging his legs into the air. It’s exceptionally acrobatic and it seems to come effortlessly to him.
Steve watches him like a car crash. He knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help himself. Nothing draws the eye better than catastrophe. He has come to realize that Bucky isn’t just mimicking moves he’s seen in videos, he’s practicing them, refining them, and it would seem— adding his own nuance.
He has been focusing on dancing while laying on the floor—Steve sighs inwardly at his inability to describe even the tiniest shred of what is going on—but he seems to spend more time off the floor than on it. He’s always jumping, kicking, splitting his legs into angles that make Steve flinch. Steve’s working on lunch and Bucky is making his way back and forth in the hallway with little split jumps. He pushes back onto one hand and throws his legs wide, catching one knee in his other hand.
There’s a soft thud, like something hitting the wall.
“Hey Bucky?”
A louder thud with a scrape at the end.
“Buck— everything okay out there?”
A huge thud accompanied by the sound of plaster cracking and Steve is sprinting into the hall.
There’s a foot shaped hole in the wall and a distraught looking Bucky sprawled on the floor. His head snaps up when Steve walks in and his eyes send Steve’s heart plummeting. Wide with terror and a spark of desperation, like he’s sizing Steve up for a fight.
“Hey, hey— it’s okay. That’s okay. No problem,” Steve ought to be cautious but he has no restraint when Bucky looks like that. He’s falling to the floor, skidding on his knees to Bucky’s side. Steve wraps him in a hug and murmurs in his hair, “It’s fine. We can fix the wall. Don’t worry about it.”
Bucky calms instantly in his arms. It just takes a touch of tenderness to anchor him again. At least you still have that, Steve.
Steve cleans up the drywall dust on the floor and Bucky returns to dancing. He continues his hallway pacing, jumping on one hand past where Steve is huddled by the damaged wall. Steve’s sweeping the last of it into a dustbin when Sam gets home.
He looks up when Sam rounds the corner, expecting shock on his face, but nothing like the horror he sees there.
“Hey Sam— really sorry about the hole. I’ll fix it—”
Sam is looking over his head, “Yeah—” he says a little breathlessly, “I’m more concerned about the new paint job.”
Steve turns to see a a web of thin black boot scrapes coating the walls at head-height. And of course, Bucky at the end of the hall. Hopping on his hand, letting his left boot trail along the wall, leaving a new black stripe.
Steve offers a feeble, “I guess he does that— to balance,” and makes a wobbly motion with his hands.
“Yeah.”
They watch Bucky complete the length of the hall and spin on his hand to return.
“Could you get him— some shoes with,” Sam makes a hopeless gesture, “non-marking soles?”
“Yeah. Do you want me to help you—”
“No. Nope. If you could just go. With him. Take him somewhere. And I will fix this.”
“Okay, yeah— I’m so sorry, Sam.” Steve doesn’t know how to apologize for this kind of chaos. This is better than dragging him into another gunfight, right? Or is worse because this is his home and it never stops?
Bucky hasn’t left the house since he was ushered into it three weeks ago, but he doesn’t blink at Steve’s sudden suggestion to go shopping for new clothes. Dancing to the car. Dancing in the car. Dancing through the parking lot. Bucky seems completely at peace so Steve blushes deeply enough for the both of them. He stares straight ahead during the drive. Watches the pavement as they walk toward the mall entrance.
Bucky keeps right on dancing inside the mall. He tones down the movements only slightly to avoid elbowing fellow shoppers. He eases into a mellow rhythm to match the easy rock playing over the mall speakers. At least he’s okay with the crowd.
Steve stops for a moment to consult the map and that was a dreadful mistake. Bucky takes advantage of the pause to transition to the floor. He spins gracefully on his shoulders then jumps back to his feet to spring into a handstand and bend his body backward into an egg, with his feet resting on the backs of his arms.
It should go without saying that everyone around them is now staring, mouths agape.
Bucky tips his head through the gap and rolls out of it. He springs to his feet and there is a smattering of applause and nervous laughter. Bucky smiles and ducks in a little bow which prompts more confident applause and a few catcalls. As if a bow alone can differentiate a performer from a madman.
Steve can’t force his eyes away from the map but is too mortified to locate a store. He stares at the illuminated display for a few more agonizing seconds—come on Steve, act casual—before walking off with false purpose and hoping Bucky will follow.
Keep walking, keep walking. Even in the stores Steve keeps up an absurd pace. Don’t stop or he’ll wiggle around on the floor again.
“Hey Bucky what about these shirts?” Steve asks as he speed walks past them.
Bucky snags one as he sidewinds by. He unfolds it between two hands, twists it to see the back, and tosses it to Steve in one fluid motion. I guess we’re getting this.
Paying for the shirt (and the shorts that Bucky inexplicably took a liking to, and a few things that Steve just decided to buy for him when he realized Bucky wouldn’t turn down anything he offered) is incredibly difficult to do without pausing in front of the counter. Steve throws everything down at the wide-eyed cashier, “Can you ring these up?” his voice rises at the end of the question to be heard from ten feet away, as he has already walked briskly past the counter.
The cashier is caught between what the fuck and is that Captain America long enough for Steve to lead Bucky all the way around the perimeter of the store and back to the counter.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, so if you could—” and he’s out of reasonable earshot again. But the cashier jumps to attention and starts dazedly scanning price tags. Two more laps around the store (Steve tosses his entire wallet at the cashier— “Sorry, uh— just take out some cash. Thanks.”) and they’re out of there.
The embarrassment of running laps through clothing racks has broken Steve’s resolve. Bucky takes a sharp right turn into a cap store and Steve follows him. He stands brokenly by the door as Bucky entertains the staff with hat tricks.
Steve’s voice is misery and resignation, “Do you like that hat, Buck?”
Bucky flips it up into the air and catches the brim on the tip of his nose. Applause from the guys behind the counter.
“Nice color.”
Bucky slips the hat around with his hands and arms in beautiful illusions. Like the hat is moving on its own accord.
“Let’s get it.”
Bucky flips the hat into the air again and on its downward sweep, knocks it with his elbow to send it spinning toward Steve.
You didn’t think it could get worse, Steve, than that agonizing mall visit. How very wrong you were.
Clint and Natasha are sitting in the living room when they get home. Thank god. After a week taking care of something for Fury, they came back to D.C. as soon as they could. Steve breathes out the anxiety of being out in public with Bucky, wishing distantly that he could go take care of something that involved guns and a familiar kind of mayhem. Now he can finally get some unvarnished, level-headed opinions about what is going on.
“Hey! Where’s the dancing man?” Clint’s smile is the widest Steve has ever seen it.
Well, at least he’ll get some more opinions.
Bucky dances through the doorway immediately after Steve.
Clint and Natasha smile pleasantly and wait. Until they realize he isn’t going to stop. Smiles fade and their eyes return to Steve’s face.
“So— he just does this all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm. Will he respond when you talk to him?”
“Sometimes.”
“He’s like a very deadly, well-meaning, but otherwise-absorbed teenager,” Natasha smiles to herself.
“So you think— he’s— okay?”
“Well,” Natasha rests her chin on her index finger, “Yes. I don’t see anything wrong with that. He said he likes it, right? When was the last time he got to do anything he liked?”
Natasha cuts straight to the point— doesn’t he deserve to do whatever he wants, for as long as he wants?
Steve swallows thickly and wonders if he’s become yet another force in Bucky’s life trying to shape him into something he’s not. Maybe dancing like his life depends on it is the life he was meant for.
Steve stands still, looking at this shoes, stewing in guilt and confusion while Bucky bobs and rocks next to him. A short pause then Bucky does his stutter-step walk to the kitchen to find Steve’s laptop. The blasting music precedes him back into the room.
Clint starts to bob his head too. Then stands and steps away from the couch.
“Clint,” a warning tone from Natasha, but he’s already letting his body melt into an easy pulse. He gives her a winning smile and steps closer to Bucky. Clint begins to dance in ernest, kicking and swinging his feet with the confidence of someone who has done this many times before. Bucky takes a step back with an impressed smile and nod of respect.
Clint fits in a few turns and a couple tasteful hip thrusts before stepping back with a sweeping gesture toward Bucky. Bucky takes the cue and runs in a quick, sweeping arc to clear Clint and Steve out of his space.
Then he raises his hand above his head and starts a quick series of quick move-lock-move moments and a couple contortions. Natasha, Sam and Clint are all smiling, clapping when he hits a freeze.
But then Bucky backs up, takes two quick steps and leaps into the air. He lands hard on his shoulder and flings his legs out in a wide arc. He spins, throwing his legs in a wavy circle to build momentum, and pushes up onto his head. He spins faster and faster, pushing himself with his arms, until he lets go and extends his hands toward his toes. Spinning around and around like some perfectly engineered top.
Steve looks up to see three stunned faces looking back from the couch. He waits for their response, expecting recommendations for therapy— maybe he does need some help.
But Clint just shakes his head with, “Shit. He’s amazing.”
Natasha nods, but stills when she sees the look on Steve’s face.
A moment of clarity while Bucky spins next to him. Natasha holds his eyes when she says, “Be happy Steve. He’s home.”
She’s right. Steve thinks as he lays awake that night. He doesn’t need anyone else to remind him he should just be happy Bucky’s not murdering people. Because he was starting to wish that Bucky was murdering people, at least he would know how to deal with that— but that’s a horrible train of thought. Get it together, Rogers.
In the morning, Steve asks Bucky if he’ll help him pick out some speakers for the house. He bobs his head to this morning’s serenade and Steve takes it as a yes. Sam points them toward Best Buy and they’re on their way before Steve has time to think better of it.
Steve wanders back and forth in front of the speaker display while Bucky carefully tunes every display model to the same radio station. Steve reads the spec sheets but truthfully has no idea what they’re looking for.
“Hey Buck, do you know— what kind of speakers you want?”
Bucky has his ear next to the display, waiting for the next song to come on the radio.
“We’ll just mount them so don’t worry about— portability…”
Steve trails off as the song begins. It sounds a lot like the music Bucky’s always playing on his computer and Steve realizes, much too late, where this is going. Bucky moves quickly along the wall, cranking up the volume on every display set until it is a deafening wall of sound. The bass drops in and the entire display shakes violently with the force of it.
Bucky is lost in the sound. He’s standing in front of a subwoofer, body moving easy, and the bass is displacing enough air to make his hair defy gravity, rise in a wispy halo around his head.
Bucky drops into a floor sequence and Steve diligently turns his eyes back to the display plaques. He can feel a crowd gathering at the end of the aisle. They say Captain America doesn’t have a true super power but Steve personally thinks it’s his ability to survive uncomfortable situations. There are at least three Loki’s worth of discomfort in here and Steve is holding it down.
Steve even has willpower left over to wonder— Are his ears okay? Let’s pick up some earplugs. I wonder if I can convince him to wear earplugs when he has the headphones on too.
“Alright Buck, pick one.”
Bucky struts over to the display and points to the set with the largest subwoofer. Of course.
Steve grabs the set. A huge, heavy box that he really ought to need a cart to move. But embarrassment and super strength are an incredibly motivating combination. Bucky trails him to the front of the store.
Back at home and Bucky has just finished installing the speakers. He ran the wiring himself and drilled the mounts for the speakers in the kitchen and living room. Steve was going to help, or better yet, call an electrician, but Bucky started on it as soon as they got home. Standing still, not dancing, focused face, steady hands. Steve would have him replace all the walls with speakers if he could keep him like this.
He puts on a song to test the system and he and Steve share a tiny, fleeting smile. Pride a warm cloak around his heart.
Bucky disappears upstairs and Steve joins Sam in the kitchen. A muffled voice from upstairs, “Hey, where are all of my pants?”
“Oh, sorry Buck, I’m doing laundry. Just grab some from my drawer. Third from the top.”
Steve turns to Sam with a peaceful sigh. They share a look that says everything— isn’t this nice? How normal this is?
Steve opens his mouth to voice that hopeful feeling when the speakers blare to life. A quick intro, and a pounding beat kicks in.
Steve lets slip exactly what’s replaced his hopeful feeling, “Oh no.”
Just then, Bucky rounds the corner. He’s wearing a truly massive pair of sweatpants that Steve doesn’t recognize. He’s gliding like water, punching and sliding his feet. It looks like he’s not connected to the floor at all.
They stare until Sam starts clapping to the beat. Steve looks up to see him nodding and smiling, “Yeah!”
Steve shrinks a little further inside himself.
“Get it!”
Steve breathes out to see if he can get a bit smaller.
“Hey man, my neighbors called, they wanna know if they can come to the rave!”
Sam seems totally at home with Bucky like this. That definitely makes it worse. It leaves Steve not only questioning his sanity, but envying their easy exchanges. Fist bumps. Jokes. Shared smiles.
Why can’t I have that too?
At the table when Bucky’s in the living room. Music loud enough to drown out their voices, “But Sam, am I— enabling him? To live in this imaginary world?”
“What’s imaginary about it?”
“You can’t just dance non-stop.”
“Why not?”
“I mean you can, but— should you? You know what I mean?”
Sam furrows his brow and shakes his head, “I don’t know. ‘Should’ is tricky. Maybe this is just who he is now.”
“Yeah—” Steve takes a deep breath, “Maybe. It’s just so different than who he was.”
“But you said this isn’t the only thing that’s changed.”
“Yeah, but I mean— he used to double knot his shoes, now he just ties them once. He used to like okra, now he doesn’t. He used to not be able to snap his fingers, now he snaps them all the time,” Steve gives him a pleading look, “You see how those things are different from the dancing, right?”
Sam studies his face, “No.”
Steve waits for the ‘but’ that never comes. He rests his forehead flat on the table.
“Steve, look. You didn’t have music like this back then, right? Nobody was dancing like this. Maybe this stuff would’ve spoken to the Bucky you remember, too,” Sam pauses to rest his hand on Steve’s shoulder, “But, hey— you gotta let it go man. He’s been through hell. He’s a new person. Let’s give him some space.”
“I know,” Steve says unconvincingly to the table’s wood grain.
“I know you know,” Sam pats his shoulder and lets his hand fall. “And okra’s nasty anyway. So it sounds like he’s on the right track.”
Steve huffs a tiny laugh, “Thanks Sam. I just— feel like I can’t reach him. I just wonder— is he really in there? It’s almost like— he’s in a coma.”
“Steve, come on,” Sam pushes his shoulder, prompting him to sit up, “Steve,” Sam holds his eyes, “This is a happy ending. He came home. He’s not killing people. He’s healing. And if it’s always like this, isn’t this better than losing him?”
Sam’s words should snap him out of his misery but they feel like sap in his throat. Horrifying stickiness that he can’t swallow, can’t vomit out. Just stuck here, choking on these worries. You got him back. Just be happy. Why can’t you just be happy?
That familiar booming laugh over the line.
“Nick I could really use some advice.”
But Fury can’t stop laughing. He breathes deeply to calm himself, only to begin a word and collapse into laughter again.
“Nick,” Steve is practically pleading, “I don’t know what to do.”
Steve listens to the laughter for another twenty seconds before hanging up.
That afternoon he decides to try talking to Bucky again. Hey Buck— I won’t force you, but I’d like you to talk to someone. About— everything. That’s going on for you right now.
Steve steels himself for another one-sided conversation and goes in search of Bucky. Not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. Not in his bedroom. Or the garage. Steve eventually catches sight of him through the cracked bathroom door.
He’s standing in front of the mirror, practicing. Face easy with concentration. Steve stares for a minute, then kicks himself—maybe it’s me that needs to talk to someone—and walks away.
That afternoon he installs a brand new floor-to-ceiling mirror in Bucky’s room.
A couple days later, Steve finds Bucky in his room, practicing what Steve would describe as his creepy spider dance.
“Want to go grocery shopping?”
Bucky finds creative ways to get from the car to the store. Dodging between cars, slithering under a truck. Three running steps and he does a forward flip over the bike rack. Parkour. Steve knows the word because he’s started doing a little pre-emptive internet video watching on his own.
Bucky spider-crawls through the door. The shopping trip is uneventful. Steve asks for Bucky’s input 23 times and gets 4 responses. That’s progress.
Steve loads the groceries into the trunk and says nothing as Bucky tries some alarming gymnastics with the car door. He braces a hand on the door and a hand on the roof. He pulls all his weight up onto his arms and then lifts his body high above the car. A grey-haired woman with pink-rimmed glasses gives him an ovation from the passenger seat of a nearby Prius.
On the way home, they listen to music at top volume because Bucky turns it up when Steve turns it down. Steve keeps all the windows down to disperse some of the sound. He still doesn’t know how sensitive Bucky’s ears are (he tried asking but got some sort of head bobbing dance that was exactly between a nod and a shake. Sigh.)
They’re at a stoplight. Steve staring straight ahead, sunglasses on, even though it’s twilight, to avoid being recognized. A kid holding a skateboard yells along with lyrics as he passes the passenger side window, “Connected like Tetris!”
Bucky points at him and gives him a dramatic nod to the beat. Steve tries his luck at disappearing into the seat back.
Steve starts to avoid laughter. It’s the biggest reminder that something isn’t quite right. If he can keep the same concentrated look as Bucky, then they can just pretend that there is never any reason to laugh.
Because when someone laughs around Bucky it the worst social disconnect Steve has experienced. It brings the kind of silences that most people would trip over themselves to fill.
It’s like when you tell a joke, and the person you’re talking to doesn’t laugh. So you give a little nervous laugh to hint—hey that was a joke— and still they don’t laugh. And your laughter is too quiet to sustain the joke on its own. So you just stop. And flush. And fidget. Better to just never joke. Better to never laugh.
The worst of it is, everything is hilarious. Everything about this insanity that is their day-to-day life is hilarious. But Steve simply can’t laugh about it anymore.
Bucky starts taking trips alone. Steve won’t let him drive (not because he thinks Bucky can’t, he’s just worried about the consequences of dancing while driving) so he buys him an SmarTrip card with auto reload.
You really think that’s safer than driving? Sam had asked when he gave Bucky the card.
Steve worries the entire time Bucky’s gone, which is just a couple of hours, and intensifies his worrying when Bucky returns home carrying his cap upside down, full of loose change.
Steve has a nightmare where Bucky is dancing on the Metro. Nothing else happens. He’s just moving his body while his head is still.
He tells Sam in the morning.
“That’s it. That’s the whole dream? Just him dancing on the subway.”
“Yeah.”
Sam guffaws then loses it with laughter.
“Sam—” Steve starts, tired of waiting for his friends to stop laughing.
But Sam shakes his head and the laughter bubbles up again. Could you give Bucky some of that laughter?
Bucky amasses a ridiculous volume of loose change in his laundry hamper. One day, he carries it out to the car, vise grip around the metal-filled bin with his metal hand, and asks Steve to drive him to the grocery store.
They spend over an hour standing in front of the CoinStar machine, feeding the coins in in batches. Bucky takes the machine’s paper slip to a cashier to exchange it for bills. His dancing calms to a subtle head bob in moments like this.
They wander back to the electronics section and Bucky picks out a portable stereo. He pays for it himself with the CoinStar cash and an alarmingly thick roll of bills from his back pocket. Steve bites his tongue to stop himself from asking where the money came from.
This is the most normal thing they’ve done yet. Don’t spoil it.
When they get home, Bucky sets the stereo in the front yard and practices in the grass. Steve watches him through the front windows as he finds the limits of his body’s strength and balance. He’s swinging his legs over the ground like a clock, lifting his arms out of their path. After a few rotations, he pivots and lets his legs float behind him up into the air, supporting himself with just one arm.
It looks unreal, like gravity has simply given up on him.
Bucky’s chugging a glass of orange juice. He already has his shoes on so Steve knows he’ll be heading out soon.
“Hey Bucky, where do you go?”
Bucky turns to face him with a hint of surprise. Then a sly smile that shoots straight to Steve’s gut, “Want to come?”
Feeling a bit breathless, Steve replies, “Yeah.”
So they go. It’s a little corner park downtown. Bucky sets up his stereo and sits on the edge of it. He motions for Steve to come sit too. They wait to the sound of a song that Steve now knows by heart. Bucky bobs with it and makes graceful little gestures with his hands, little flicks with his head and shoulders, as if he’s mentally rehearsing a routine.
After about ten minutes, a few young guys walk up. Bucky nods at them as they approach and exchanges fist bumps when they stop in front of the stereo.
Bucky points to Steve and simply says, “Steve.” The guys nod at Steve and he nods back.
Bucky points to each man from left to right, “Grippy, Chainsaw, Flops, and The Viper.”
Steve nods again and immediately forgets their names, he asks, “Do you have— a name? Like that?”
Bucky gives him a complicated smile that is somehow everything at once: a joke, an apology, an invitation, and blissful acceptance of the world as it is.
Chainsaw answers for him, “You kidding me? He’s The Winter Soldier.”
Flops nods approvingly, “Fuckin’ badass name.”
A few more guys and a couple of girls arrive. All wearing the same style clothes that Bucky has on. Loose but fitted cotton pants, tight shirts, and jackets, caps, and shoes that share a few colors. An effortless coordination. When everyone has arrived they spread into an arc. Steve dutifully anchors the stereo with his body weight.
The dancing starts slowly. Lots of pacing and talking. Hand waving and joking. They all seem comfortable with each other and Bucky blends right in. After a few minutes, they settle into a rotation. One of them dances and the others clap, point, or encourage the gathering crowd to throw money in the dancer’s upturned cap.
Bucky’s turn comes and Steve realizes he’s holding his breath. Bucky claims the center of the circle with his now familiar strutting walk. Then he freezes and lets his left arm jut out. His upper arm is stiff and his lower arm hangs, like it’s swinging on a peg through his elbow. He does a few more mechanical moves with his metal arm, which gets the crowd laughing and applauding. It’s a pretty clever use of a metal arm, Steve has to admit.
Bucky drops the stiff movements and picks up the pace. To Steve’s dismay, much of his act seems to be built on testing his body’s ability to endure pain. It’s like he leaps into the air with no thought of coming down again. Landing hard on his shoulders and back to transition to the floor, stopping incredible momentum with his left hand. At one point, he leaps backwards onto his head three times in a row and Steve—along with the rest of the crowd—gasps.
He starts to spin on his bare left hand. Steve’s mouth falls open. He transitions to his elbow and pushes into a faster rotation with his feet and right hand. A shower of sparks where metal meets concrete as he spins and spins. The crowd is cheering wildly and one of the guys toward the front of the arc is encouraging them to turn that amazement into cash in Bucky’s hat.
Steve notes the gloves and elbow pads on some of the other dancers and makes a mental note to buy Bucky a truckload of them.
Bucky wraps up with a few acrobatic bows and scoops up the thrown bills and change that didn’t quite fit in his overflowing cap. He gives the crowd a bright, cocky smile and falls back into the arc again.
The next dancer takes over. Bucky dumps the cash in a pile at Steve’s feet without a word and returns to a supporting role. Pointing, pantomiming, and bobbing to the beat with the rest of them.
Seeing Bucky around other dancers, seeing him in front of a crowd, shakes Steve up. He’s amazing. Even to Steve’s uneducated eyes, he’s unquestionably the best dancer here, and the incredible crowd response—they were roaring for him—proved it. Steve watches Bucky’s muscular form and blinks back a flood of emotion—pride, awe, and something low and sparking in his gut, something he’s become excellent at hiding—things he wasn’t expecting to feel today.
Oh Steve, there’s something about this that’s got your heart jumping.
Maybe it’s lust for danger that got you here in the first place. If you hadn’t gone to war— If you hadn’t taken the serum— Maybe that’s why you’ve been chasing him all along. Is it those agile fingers, that cut torso that has his heart pounding, or is the knowledge that Bucky could kill every person here in under a minute? Is there something about the aggression in his shoulders that has Steve remembering all the times Bucky bloodied his knuckles to end a fight? Or is it just the heady rush of free-falling?
After a few hours, when shirts are soaked with sweat and pockets are full of rumpled bills, Bucky’s friends (acquaintances? fellow dancers? Sigh.) start to pack up and wander off. When Bucky switches off the stereo, he’s talking with Chainsaw and Grippy.
“Hey man you gonna get a pair of those twenty-nines? Right colors, you know.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky’s voice is lower, quieter than the others.
A younger man, maybe in his late teens, walks up and extends a fist toward Bucky, which he bumps. The young guy says, wide-eyed, “Sick moves bro. Totally sick.”
Bucky thanks him and answers a few questions with words that are entirely new to Steve. Grippy turns to Steve—uh oh—and says, “Hey you probably get this all the time, but you look a lot like Captain America.”
“Oh uh, yeah. Well— yeah, I am. I mean, I am— Captain America.”
Chainsaw’s face hardens, “Are you serious?”
“Uh. Yes.”
Chainsaw takes a threatening step closer, and lowers his voice, “My brother lost his government job thanks to you.” The way his chin is tucking in, eyebrows falling, makes Steve lean in a little, anger rising hot on the back of his neck.
He clenches his jaw to bite back his snarky response—there was a probably a good reason for that.
He forgets where he is, why he’s there and thinks, incredulous and cold, you really want to pick a fight with Captain America? Try me buddy.
They’re both silent, eyes cutting, standing too close with muscles tensing.
Is Bucky friends with the brother of a Hydra operative? Steve looks down his nose at the guy, daring him to raise his fists— then I’ll do him a favor and put this guy in his place.
Chainsaw is right in Steve’s face now, sneering, and Steve is seriously considering taking the first shot.
Suddenly, Bucky’s arms are between them. One hand on either chest, easy but unyielding pressure to force them apart.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Bucky’s voice urgent but calm in his ear.
Chainsaw jerks away and Bucky steps between them, his back brushing against Steve’s chest. He’s unfazed, searching out Chainsaw’s eyes and shaking his head, “He’s cool, man. He’s cool.”
Steve buys Bucky a backpack to carry each day’s earnings. They visit CoinStar nearly every evening. Bucky keeps his cash in shoe boxes in his closet.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you Captain America?”
Steve is already headed for the door, cursing himself for thinking this would be a good idea.
“No, don’t go! Hey! Hang on!” The instructor’s voice chases him back out the doors, past the sign that drew him in— Breakdancing Classes.
Bucky shows up at breakfast with new pants that don’t fit very well—or fit excellently, Steve muses. They’re tight around his legs and settled low on his hips. So low in fact that they sit about half-way down the curve of Bucky’s ass. When Bucky crouches to find a skillet in the lower cabinets, Steve’s staring at nothing but thin black underwear over muscle.
Bucky stands again and Steve watches the fabric move with his hips. The hem is his shirt is caught in the band of his underwear and Steve’s mind is guiding his hands along that stripe, to the skin just above it, and under it—
Steve forces his eyes away and blushes at the swirl of want in his stomach. Not now. Let’s sort this dancing thing out first.
Steve stays up late for a week to embroider a leather and canvas jacket with The Winter Soldier and a five-pointed red star. He carefully folds it in tissue paper and leaves it outside Bucky’s door.
Bucky comes down to breakfast the next day wearing it. He extends a fist to Steve and he bumps his fist against it. Bucky smiles and nods to this morning’s soundtrack. Steve soaks in the warmth in his chest. I guess this is recovery.
But for every single step toward normalcy there are a couple of frightening lurches away from it.
Sam at the stove and Steve at the table. Bucky comes down for breakfast in his typical style. The speakers in the kitchen crackle to life. Then the music fades in as Bucky makes his dramatic entrance, sliding on one knee on the tiled floor.
The good news, Steve, is that today is the day you reach the pinnacle of awkwardness. It’s small comfort, but try to remember it’s all downhill from here.
Bucky springs to his feet and plants them wide. Steve is watching him because he’s given up on trying to avert his eyes. Oh, Steve, what you would give to be staring innocently at your oatmeal in this moment.
Bucky locks eyes with Steve and stretches his body into a slow roll, from his head to his toes. Then he sets into bent knees and begins thrusting his hips to the beat. Steve jolts fiercely and whips his head away.
Bucky takes a couple of steps closer so his gyrating hips are barely a foot from Steve’s shoulder. Steve is paralyzed with mortification, save for the slow lean away from Bucky’s body that he can’t control, every molecule of his body trying to flee.
Just look at him. Don’t make this weird.
Steve turns to gasp out a good morning and accidentally looks right at Bucky’s crotch. He jerks away, entire body revolting with how unbelievably awkward this is. Steve looks straight out the window, Bucky at his back, and forces out, “Good Morning, Buck.”
There is, of course, no reply but the sound of Sam’s muffled laughter over the music.
The second time Steve comes to watch Bucky perform, he brings Sam along. In part because he is proud of Bucky’s talent, and in part so he feels a bit less out of place.
The group is only a little different than last time, but Steve remembers only one name. He sends Sam’s eyebrows shooting up when he murmurs with a discrete point, “Watch out for Chainsaw over there.”
The first dancers draw a crowd and warm them up with illusions, slapstick, and one-off tricks. They start to work their way around the arc, but when Bucky’s turn comes up, he’s nowhere to be seen.
Someone cuts the music and confused murmurs fill the silence. The dancers turn to each other with exaggerated shrugs. Suddenly, the music cuts back in, cacophonous and threatening, and Bucky appears at the back of the crowd.
Steve’s heart stops. Frozen in his tracks and staring. He swallows and bids his sanity goodbye. It is the Winter Soldier. Black jacket that Steve made him, black bandana over his nose, hiding his face, black pants, black shoes. A long stick in his hands that he’s carrying like a rifle.
He storms through the crowd and skids to his knees into the clearing. He stops dead in the center to a burst of applause from the crowd. Someone with a megaphone announces dramatically, “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Winter Soldier!!”
Bucky draws his stick up and braces it against his shoulder. He closes one eye and levels the other end of his wooden weapon at the crowd. He scans the group, glaring and aiming at smiling faces.
Steve turns to Sam and they share an open-mouthed stare. There really is nothing to say.
Then Bucky drops the stick to his side and slips into an easy body roll. The crowd’s roar is deafening. They are here for him. To be threatened and laugh in the face of a fake gun. To imagine themselves so close to the monster the world came to know through grainy cellphone footage on the news. If only they knew.
Steve swallows the panic in his chest and wills himself to watch.
Bucky is just as stunning. He keeps a pace that no one can match and pulls moves that have people in the crowd shouting, “again! do it again!”
He’s more of a showman now, too. He crawls up to kids that are sitting cross-legged at the edge of the crowd and uses his arms to push his body slowly up into the air. He watches them beam in amazement with a calm face, like this is effortless.
He’s worked in more musical cues and more dramatic stops. He spins faster and faster on his head before stopping on a dime. The dancers around him hoot and point.
Half-way through, Bucky strips off his jacket suggestively and gives the women closest to the front a smoldering look (that Steve realizes, to his horror, Bucky was practicing on him his morning). They duck glowing, embarrassed smiles behind their hands and make eyes back at him.
The music is punctuated with gun cocking sounds and Bucky switch kicks his legs back and forth to the clicks. Irony is a haze in Steve’s mind. He could laugh but, as usual, there is no one to laugh with him.
He holds his head and jumps forward in a graceful arc, catches himself and leaps backward again, like playing a tape in reverse. None of it looks possible.
When he’s slowing down, wrapping up, he does some simple tricks with audience members. Stunts with hats and glasses, quick dance offs with little kids. He strips off his shirt to a chorus of catcalls. The black triangle of his mask stops just above his bare chest. Exposed and disguised at once, he rolls his hips and Steve watches him with unguarded eyes. He’s won over every single person in the crowd.
Bucky makes a comedic exit, bouncing back and forth on his hands until he reaches the arc of waiting dancers. Then he stands, drops the act, and wraps his metal hand around another dancer’s neck.
The crowd cheers wildly as Bucky gives the man in his grip a cold stare. His victim pretends to panic and choke, tugging at the metal fingers around his neck.
Steve’s already lost his grip on sanity and now time flutters away, too. He stares and his heart folds in on itself. Why does it look so familiar, Steve? Shouldn’t you only remember this dance with Bucky’s hand around your neck? But that’s right, that dance was captured by someone too. Some smudgy phone video through a car window. Broadcast over and over on TV and online, alongside the same videos that would teach that man a new way to move.
Bucky replays it now for his audience with flesh and blood, more true to life than they’ll ever know. Maybe he just wants to make them smile; what’s wrong with that?
Bucky releases his grip and clasps the man’s hand. He tugs down his mask and smiles at the audience. Bucky shirt disappears into the crowd but he doesn’t seem to mind. He fades back into the dancer’s arc. Bobbing to the beat with his abs on display. His pants sit just below the band of his underwear, held up by a determined leather belt.
When they are winding down for the day, someone puts on a song and announces, “This gonna be a sing-along!”
The vocals come in and Bucky sings along with the other dancers and much of the crowd.
Crush a bit, little bit, roll it up, take a hit
Feelin’ lit, feelin’ light, 2am summer night
I don't care, hand on the wheel, drivin' drunk, I'm doin’ my thing
Steve understands maybe half of the words they’re saying. He takes the wide-eyed look of surprise on Sam’s face as some indication of their meaning.
Rollin the midwest side and out, livin’ my life, getting’ out dreams
I'ma do just what I want lookin’ ahead no turnin’ back
People told me slow my roll I'm screaming out, fuck that
Bucky is bobbing to the beat, smiling around the words and nodding at the people singing along with him. Steve follows the next part just fine.
I’m screaming out fuck that
I’m screaming out fuck that
Fuck that
Fuck that
Fuck that
Fuck that
Steve goes for a long drive. His mind is too scattered to take the bike.
He drives until he doesn’t recognize the streets. When he can’t take the white noise highway hum anymore, he switches on the stereo. It’s playing a CD that Bucky made for the car, the same song he was singing today.
Steve listens to it on repeat until he catches the line,
Tell me what you know about dreamin’ dreamin’
You don't really know about nothin’ nothin’
Tell me what you know about them night terrors every night
5 am, cold sweats wakin’ up, to the sky
Steve slams on the breaks and turns the car around.
I'm on the pursuit of happiness and I know
Everything that shine ain't always gonna be gold
Hey, I'll be fine once I get it
Oh Steve. This is why you are worthy of a nation’s hope on your shoulders, of its stars and stripes across your chest. Because chaos reared its ugly head and you won’t give up. The only man alive who could understand you has become someone else. He shed your shared past and built a new identity that you can never truly understand. There is an ocean between you now. And no one sees that all your questions about him, your worry and your concern, they aren’t really for him. Clearly, he’s fine. You’re the one that’s drowning.
Turn the car around and embrace this life. He’s a little unhinged but so are you. Tell him what you know about the night terrors. The pursuit of happiness leads you home again.
Steve opens the door in a rush. Tumult of emotions in his chest and he’s searching for Bucky but it’s Sam he finds in the kitchen.
“Hey, where’s Bucky?”
“Hey. Oh— uh, I don’t know. He took off when he heard the car pulling up. Left his toast here,” Sam points to a half-eaten slice on a plate.
“Oh,” Steve studies the tile a moment. His heart is pounding and he guesses that the flush shows on his face.
Sam is graceful enough to ignore it though, he continues, “Yeah I think he was waiting for you. You know he doesn’t dance when you leave. He’s just been sitting in here staring out the window.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I meant to tell you that before. I mean, he’s practically always right next to you, so it’s only happened a couple of times,” Sam shrugs.
Steve pads back to the hall and hears the speakers in the living room crackle to life. He heads into the room to see Bucky crouched in front of the stereo controls.
“Hey Buck.”
As usual, Bucky says nothing and Steve barely pauses before asking, “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Bucky selects a song and waits for it to begin. He turns to face Steve and holds his eyes while he nods to the beat.
Why the hell not— let’s have a soundtrack.
Steve opens his mouth to begin. The rush of apologies and explanations and questions and promises and dreams tumbles around in his head. How to begin? He blinks at Bucky and thinks— fuck it.
“Will you teach me how to dance?”
“Sure,” Bucky replies immediately, a little smile curling in the corner of his lips. He stands and walks over to Steve. He stops a little too late and they’re close enough for Steve’s head to rush. Bucky takes his wrist and pulls him to the center of the room.
I guess we’re doing this right now.
“Start with your knees. Keep them bent and loose,” Bucky puts a hand on Steve’s hip and pushes down until Steve eases into bent knees. This is already twice as long as their longest conversation and Steve is feeling lightheaded at the sound of his voice.
“Alright, good,” Bucky’s lips twist and he’s holding back a bigger smile, probably at Steve’s clumsiness, “Now let your chest go.” Bucky puts a hand flat on his sternum, “Try pushing this forward, not that much, okay good, keep doing that. And let your shoulders rock back. Good.”
Bucky watches him for a moment. They’re dancing close enough for Steve to get distracted by the stubble on Bucky’s chin and jump when Bucky suddenly meets his eyes.
“Now,” Bucky’s smile grows, “try moving your head and arms. Just let them go, move to the beat,” Steve is feeling loose now and for some reason completely shameless. He lets his head bob easy on his neck and his arms drift up.
Bucky’s eyes drift down Steve’s body and up again. His voice has hint of gravel when he says, “You’re a natural,” Bucky steps closer, one knee sliding between Steve’s legs, “Now,” Bucky’s hands grip either side of Steve’s hips, “let your hips—” he suddenly pulls Steve close, so they’re pressed together. Fingers digging into his skin, he moves his hips to move Steve’s and doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.
Arousal flushes hot over Steve’s skin. He’s already let go of the reins so he just lets Bucky move him and sends up a thousand prayers that Sam doesn’t walk in. Then Bucky lets slip a low hum of approval that shoots straight to Steve’s cock. Steve meets Bucky’s eyes to find them dark and shadowed.
Steve murmurs into the air between their faces, “Do you dance for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I like the way you watch me.”
Want forces Steve’s lungs to contract, a huff of air from a hungry mouth. His hands twitch and he’s already weaving his fingers into Bucky’s hair. Watching his eyes flicker closed as he pulls him in and kisses him. And Steve, you should have known that was the end of it. As soon as his lips touched yours and you slipped into the ecstasy of moving with him, touching him, kissing him. Perfectly synchronized.
But you didn’t know. Not yet. Not even when Bucky ran the tip of his tongue over your bottom lip, when he drew it into his mouth and pulled out that moan you’d been fighting to swallow. Not even when he tightened his grip on your hips and slid a hand into your back pocket to pull you even closer. Not when your kisses became sloppy and hungry. Not even when you felt his swollen cock pressed to your hip, felt his lips growling wordless desire in your ear.
It wasn’t until the next song came on and he shoved you to the couch, turned up the stereo volume so loud it shook the floor. Until he flicked out the lights, just the dim glow of the hallway light reflecting into the room. Until you heard the robotic vocals kick in, teach me how to shuffle. That was when you knew it was all over.
I think he’s going to teach you more than that, Steve. This sure got away from you quickly.
Bucky strips off his shirt and Steve welcomes embarrassment back like an old friend. Bucky slides a flat-brim cap over his hair, pulls it low to shadow his eyes. Steve’s perched on the edge of the cushion, leaning back on his hands, blushing furiously. It was easier when they were hot and pushed together, pulling at each other. The distance reminds Steve that this show is just for him.
Of course. Why just kiss when you pick me apart with your dancing?
Bucky puts his arms behind his head and rolls his body, same smoldering look he’s perfected on sidewalk audiences. Steve blushes appreciatively. He drops into the beat with expertly controlled hip thrusts. He lets his arms drop and flexes his abdomen. His partially hidden face is dark with desire but composed, like he’s done this hundreds of times. Steve wonders if that’s just his natural confidence, or—
Steve’s all-consuming arousal makes his thoughts sluggish. Distantly, he wonders if Bucky could have learned this from the internet as well. Oh Steve, you have no idea.
Then Bucky steps closer, he straddles Steve’s lap and rolls his hips in a tantalizingly slow circle. His cock is hard and straining against the front of his trousers, inches from Steve’s face. Steve can’t stop his hands from slipping around the back of Bucky’s knees, sliding up the backs of his legs. Bucky runs a hand flat down his own chest, over his stomach, down and down until he tucks a thumb into the waistband of his pants and pulls down. A fresh triangle of tender skin, a suggestion of something more. The gesture sends a shock of lust through Steve’s body, straight from his gut down the backs of his legs. Fuck, he looks good.
Steve tears his eyes away from Bucky’s crotch to meet his gaze. He’s looking down with lidded eyes. Just a spark of aggression under the lust. He puts a hand behind Steve’s head and pulls him forward with a bit more force than necessary.
Steve groans, loose lips, and takes the lead. He inhales the intoxicating smell of Bucky’s skin and parts his lips. Presses his tongue to Bucky’s stomach and licks hot and wet up to his navel, never breaking eye contact. Then slips the other way, tip of his tongue searching down and down until it finds fabric, then pushing just inside. Bucky makes a surprised, overwhelmed sound and his hips jerk forward.
Steve is panting, sliding his hands all the way up to Bucky’s ass. Bucky’s rocking and pulsing hasn’t stopped and feeling his muscles tense and sway under his hands and tongue has Steve too turned on to think straight. Steve pulls him even closer and presses his tongue flat against Bucky’s skin. Wet heat pushing deep until the tip of his tongue finds the base of Bucky’s cock.
Steve’s eyes fly shut and he feels Bucky’s shaky moan through his skin. Steve could come just like this.
But it’s Bucky who pulls back. Shaky hands unzip his fly and push open the fabric around his hips. He shoves Steve’s chest to push him back to the couch and kneels over him, straddling Steve’s legs. Bucky braces both hands on the back of the couch and rolls his hips just above Steve’s lap. Steve just watches him helplessly, panting and huffing little sounds he can’t hold back. His hands have a mind of their own and he’s sliding hungry fingers up Bucky’s bare chest, slipping around his ribs to feel the easy contraction of his body in motion. Steve’s eyes crawl over the shadows where his trousers gap away from his body and he slips a hand inside, exploring the top curve of Bucky’s ass, the same stretch of barely covered skin he had stared at in the kitchen.
Bucky circles lower and lower until his hips are just brushing Steve’s aching cock through his pants. Reflexively, Steve reaches for Bucky’s hips and pushes down. Bucky obliges, grinding into him, a shock of pleasure that makes them both gasp.
Bucky’s eyes are blown to black and he gives Steve a wicked smile and catches his jaw in his hand. Then kisses him, tongue searching deep, promising something filthy, while he grinds into him again.
Steve moans into his mouth and wraps one arm around Bucky’s hips, the other arm pushing off the cap so when Bucky releases him he can see his face to say, “Buck—” Bucky smiles at his lust-wrecked voice, “I want you. However you are. Whoever you want to be.”
Steve is panting around the words, face and chest flushed. It’s amazing he can find these words now, “I just want you to be happy.”
Bucky is breathing in the scent of his neck and murmurs into his skin, “I know.” He sits back to find Steve’s eyes and add, “You should want that for you, too.” Then gives him another crooked, breath-taking grin, “I’ll teach you if you want.”
Steve, who prides himself on his quick wit, really should have had a quip ready in reply. But he is much too far gone for that. He just drinks in Bucky’s face and manages, “—please.”
Bucky hums in his ear and draws the lobe between his teeth. His fingers ruck up Steve’s shirt and he pushes him sideways, so he’s flat on his back on the couch. Bucky stretches out over him, legs tangling together, and rests his weight on Steve’s body. Steve’s steadily losing it to the rhythm of Bucky’s chest heaving against his.
There’s more to this story, a night of pounding bass and heavy breathing, but our narrator can’t find the words with Bucky’s tongue in his ear, so let’s just let the music play us out.