Chapter Text
Returning from his third tour in Afghanistan had been brutal for Steve. He had so adapted to spending countless hours in the desert, sleeping on the ground and never quiet feeling safe, that sometimes he wondered if he really ever came home at all; some part of him was still caught in the warzone he had supposedly left a world away. Therapy had some Steve some good, sure, but his recovery had been halting at best until Sam, his best friend from the VA, had suggested he find a hobby. Sam had then slapped a pamphlet of community center courses into Steve’s chest before going off to snag one of Wanda’s brownies – they always went fast at the group therapy sessions. Utterly unamused, Steve had almost thrown the pamphlet away. But something about it, about Sam’s suggestion, had niggled at the blond until, with a sigh, he had started reading through the options.
And oh, how his buddies from Afghanistan would have laughed if they had seen what Steve had selected.
The first day he had shown up for the floral arrangement class, the teacher, Janet, had given him a bewildered smile and asked if he was lost. When he had explained that he was signed up for the class, she and the other ladies had welcomed him with open arms. They had learned about the different arrangement traditions, how different flowers paired together, and even some common conceptions about what flowers meant. Steve loved all of it. Growing up, he had wanted to be an artist. Signing up for the army had been a way to pay for his degree, though he had never quiet gotten around to finishing it. Floral arrangement came naturally to Steve if only because he had an artist’s eye. Janet would exclaim over his use of color and texture, marvel at his understanding of depth and line. Somehow, Steve ended up taking the full course of floral arrangement classes offered at the community center. And then all the ones offered at the local university. And even some online courses, just because he loved it so much.
One day, Janet had patted Steve on the shoulder and told him, “If you love it so much, you should quit working at the hardware store and sell flowers instead. Heaven knows Eagle’s Nest could do with a florist. We’ve not had one since Lyra moved to Palmyra.”
The idea sat with Steve and kept sitting heavy on his mind as he suddenly started taking business classes at the local university too. It wasn’t until he had graduated with a degree in business management with a minor in flower arrangement that Steve even realized he was serious about becoming a florist. He had waited until one of the shops on Main Street went for lease – no point in having a shop that would get no traffic – and began to renovate the space himself. And that spring he opened Forget Me Not, named after his mother’s favorite flower.
It had taken nearly thirteen months for business to steady, but then Steve had done the floral arrangements for Scott and Hope’s wedding. (Janet had been ever so helpful in making that happen, since Hope had originally wanted a florist from New York City to do her wedding.) Suddenly Steve’s roster was full of weddings and baby showers and, unfortunately, funerals. Forget Me Nots soon became a staple in Eagle’s Nest, just as much as Dr. Banner’s office on the corner and Tony’s mechanics shop a few blocks down. Years passed peacefully in Eagle’s Nest, and Steve soon settled into a rhythm that was almost normal. He even began to sleep through the night in his bed rather than tossing and turning on the floor.
And then the Russians came to town.
At least, that was what most of Eagle’s Nest referred to them as. They had been granted the nickname because Natasha Romanova and her two roommates, James Barnes and Clint Barton, had once danced with the Bolshoi Ballet. For whatever reason, the trio had decided to retire to Eagle’s Nest, maybe chasing the same peace that had driven Steve away from Brooklyn and the hustle of big city life. Natasha had bought – bought – the building across from Steve’s shop, transforming it into the Romanova Studio for Dance and Ballet. Most everyone in town just called it the Red Shoes, though, since Natasha only ever seemed to wear red flats and pointe shoes when dancing. Catching onto the nickname, Natasha soon commissioned a logo featuring a pair of red dance shoes, and soon all of the ballerinas in the studio sported the unique color of shoe.
Steve loved having the dance studio across the street. He could easily see through their windows and watch their classes while he worked. Sometimes the beautiful lines their bodies created inspired his arrangements: all long, elegant lines and delicate shapes in the softest hues he could find. Even though the advanced classes, all taught by Natasha herself, were stunning, they were not Steve’s favorite to watch. No, that went entirely to what was known around town as the baby ballet class. It was comprised of little girls four to six years old – sweet babies who were only just starting out on their journey. They would always come running into the studio, probably screaming their heads off and giggling wildly, and would cavort around with reckless abandon until their teacher showed up. But once he showed up, the little girls would fall into line and, mostly, do their lessons with rapt attention.
A flush broke out over Steve’s cheeks at the mere thought of their teacher.
James “Just call me Bucky” Barnes.
If ever there was a man sent to test Steve, that man was it. Steve had first noticed him when he had been trying to help Mrs. Storm select the perfect flowers for taking to her mother when Bucky had started his first class. Pulling out a blush pink peony, the blond had begun to explain how the flowers represented good health and prosperity when the chaos across the street had distracted him. He had watched with a faint smile as a gaggle of ten little girls, all sporting ridiculously fluffy tutus and tight buns, had stumbled through a sequence of steps. His gaze had then drifted to the instructor, expecting Natasha’s bright red hair and lithe figure. Instead, Steve was left to gape at the thick muscle shown off all too well by the skin-tight black outfit of the brunet man leading the class. He was crouching down and helping a little ballerina put her feet in the right position when Steve decided that, yep, that was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Mrs. Storm had giggled at Steve’s obvious distraction. “That’s Mr. James Barnes,” she had confided. “Used to dance with Miss Romanova in the Russian ballet. He handles the beginning classes and the accounting, I believe I heard.” Which meant she, like many of the other women, had specifically gone snooping to learn about the newcomers.
“He looks like a very good teacher,” Steve had said, trying to recover what little dignity he had left. “If you like the peonies, I can also mix in some roses and alstroemeria? Maybe some olive branches or willow, for some extra drama?” The subject, thankfully, returned to the flowers, leaving Steve to stew in his embarrassment within the privacy of his own head.
Things did not get better from there. Every Wednesday at 3:30 Steve would somehow always find himself working at the front of the shop, either watering or fussing with the bushels of flowers. Which was, of course, an elaborate cover for watching the baby ballerina class and their handsome teacher. It became so common that his friends, particularly Sam, would sometimes walk by the flower shop during the class just so they could spook Steve. They would wait until he was staring across the street and then jump into view, often yelling or waving their arms. Steve may have lots several pots to their shenanigans, but he would never admit it.
Fall bled into winter, and still Steve was fascinated by the dancer across the street. He often thought about going and talking to him – something more than just a passing greeting at the coffee shop or nodding to one another as they crossed paths in town. But Steve, somewhere deep down inside of him, still saw himself as the sickly, scrawny kid nobody would even give a glance fifteen years before. He figured the beautiful dancer probably already had a special someone, like Natasha, or would never be interested in plain old Steve. So, he relegated himself to merely watching and admiring from inside the safety of his shop.
Frost had etched itself across the windows and a steady snowfall had blanketed the town by the time Steve had finished the last arrangements for the church’s Christmas service. Everything would be ready to be delivered the next day, and the place would look like pure magic by the time midnight rolled around. Steve would go, of course, even though it wasn’t his particular brand of church going; everyone in town went, if only to feel like part of something special. He immediately squashed the thought of asking Bucky to go with him – for the hundredth time. Instead, Steve worked on closing up the shop and counting out the register. After checking the temperature and locking the door, he stepped out into the evening air. It was a perfect night, one right out of those Hallmark movies Scott loved so much. Snow was still falling in thick, heavy flakes, and Main Street twinkled with all the lights that seemed to line every window and every lamppost. There were even lights strung across the street, making the snow shimmer in the soft amber glow. It was late – far later than Steve usually stayed at the shop – which meant that the streets were all but empty. Everyone was tucked safely at home with their loved ones, eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve. Well, almost everyone. Across the street, Steve could see a light on in the front studio at Red Shoes.
Like a moth drawn to the flame, Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way across the street. It was probably just Natasha practicing her solo for the Christmas recital or the janitor cleaning up. And yet… Steve still felt compelled to see for himself.
Standing just outside the light spilling through the window, Steve stared inside the room he had almost memorized. There was a full wall of mirrors, stretching all the way up to the ceiling, and a ballet barre set on the southern wall, which was also covered in mirrors. The floor was a light wood, birch by Steve’s guess, that had been polished to perfection. But what Steve did not expect to see was Bucky, dressed in his usual black tights and a fitted black t-shirt. He was missing his usual sweatshirt and legwarmers, though, which allowed Steve to get a very good idea of just how powerfully built the other man was. Steve shifted almost uncomfortably in the snow as he realized what he was seeing. Bucky … was dancing.
In all the times Steve had watched through the windows, he had never seen Bucky dance. When the studio did its recitals, Bucky would often act as the greeter at the door and MC for the program. Clint and Natasha would perform, as would the students from the different classes. But never Bucky. Steve never knew why.
Watching Bucky dance, Steve began to get an idea why the man kept off the stage. As he moved, one of his arms seemed to be always half a beat or more behind. Bucky would leap through the air, throwing up one arm and then, a moment later, the other would rise to join it. He would spin, and his balance would be thrown as the sluggish arm failed to hit position in time. And Steve could see it: the frustration so clear on Bucky’s handsome face.
When the ballet dancers had first come to Eagle’s Nest, Steve had heard that they had retired early because of an accident. A ballet dancer’s career depended on their body’s ability to function perfectly, and any kind of injury could threaten that. Steve had thought it was more minor injuries, like a hurt knee or bum shoulder. Bucky, it seemed, had something far worse happen to him. It was as this realization dawned on Steve that the brunet stopped his attempts to dance, running a hand through his messy hair angrily. He stomped over to the sound system and pulled up a different playlist on his phone. Then, his hair was pulled into a tight bun (which of course made Steve swoon a little). And then the man reached underneath his shirt, seemingly adjusting something on his shoulder. Maybe a medicated patch, Steve supposed.
And then Bucky pulled his arm off.
Steve’s eyes nearly fell out of his head they went so wide. He watched, in almost morbid fascination, as Bucky seemed to mutter curses at the arm and carry it over to his bag. The arm – a prosthetic? – was dropped onto the bag before Bucky stretched the uncovered stump of an arm, swinging it back and forth to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. Seemingly satisfied, the brunet stomped his way back to the center of the room and closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. That was when he began to dance .
No, that was not a fair assumption. It was more as though Bucky became emotion given physical form as he burst into motion. He erupted into a whirl, head tossed back and arm flung wide. One of his feet drug along the ground, making the motion seem almost agonized. Just as quickly, he whipped in the other direction. A flex of muscle was the only warning before he was suddenly leaping towards the ceiling, the stump of his missing arm stretched upwards. The brunet landed in a whirl, kicking his leg out and leaning towards the floor. Steve’s breath caught as the man seemed moments from falling, but instead twisted his body in a fluid motion to sink onto his back. His arm swept almost restlessly across the floor in an arch, stretching above his head. Gathering his feet under him, Bucky then pushed up, rolling his entire body over his amputated shoulder and fully upright. Once standing, the brunet then began to spin and leap around the studio as though possessed by a frenetic energy.
Steve could not help but watch in awe as the man danced with a passion and focus like he had never seen before. Why, he wondered, had Bucky never performed at the showcase? He was clearly talented, and it seemed his love for dance was fully intact. And yet, on the lines of Bucky’s face was writ a frustration, a dissatisfaction, that seemed to burn from the very core of his soul. Whatever Steve might think of the performance, Bucky was not in agreement. That much was evident by the way Bucky suddenly stopped, gripping his hair with one hand and folding inwards. He seemed utterly defeated, though by what the blond had no idea. Stepping closer to the glass, Steve placed a hand on the window – desperately wishing he could comfort the other man. But he had no right. He didn’t even have the right to intrude on what was clearly a private moment for the dancer. Feeling somewhat ashamed, Steve let his hand fall from the glass and turned to shamble homewards, head ducked low and shoulders slumped. How had he never realized how much pain Bucky was in?
The next morning, Steve was up early - even by his own standards. Nervous energy juttered through his body as though ricocheting in the very marrow of his bones. He always felt anxious when a big job was due, but somehow the feelings had compounded. Jamming a hand through his hair, the blond shuffled into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He drained it in a single gulp before moving to stand at his living room window. Snow fell, light and airy, making certain the town was decorated in a fresh coat on Christmas Eve. It was picturesque - like right out of a holiday movie - and yet Steve could not focus on any of it. His mind was caught on the night before: on Bucky’s dancing. He wanted nothing more than to wrap the other man in a tight hug and tell him how beautiful his dancing was. But that would be weird, right? The strange florist from across the street who was clearly in too deep just smothering a poor man in affection. That would be just like Steve - getting too invested too fast in someone who would never return his feelings.
“You’re pathetic, Rogers,” he grumbled at himself, shambling off to the bedroom to get dressed for the day.
Bundled up in several layers, Steve arrived at the shop just as the church bells signaled six in the morning. For once the blond had not walked, instead driving his faithful candy apple red 1952 Chevy truck to the shop. (She was a staple of all the town parades, and Steve was more than happy to show her off, as he’d restored the truck himself.) While he could just carry all of the flowers to the church, as it was just down the road, it would be tedious and require more trips that Steve really had time for. So, the truck it was. Besides, there was something special about driving in the predawn with his headlights catching the snow. It made it feel like he was navigating through the stars or something.
Pulling up in front of the shop, Steve turned off the truck with a sigh and spent a moment working up the will to move. He wished he had slept better, but there was nothing for it. Besides, the work of putting up the decorations would help give him energy - he thrived on physical activity. With a push on the door, he slid out of the truck and opened the shop. The decorations for the church had been placed right up front, to make it easier to load them in the morning, so Steve began to quickly load them into the back. He was bent down to grab some of the evergreen garlands when a voice from the door asked, “Want some help?”
Cerulean eyes wide, Steve looked up to find Bucky - hair hidden under a beanie and wearing a thick black jacket - leaning against the jamb. “Uh.” Steve’s brain took a moment to reboot; it always did in close proximity to the brunet. “Sure. If you’re offering.”
A tiny smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips. “Nah, I thought I’d offer and then just leave you hanging,” he said, a bit of a laugh dogging his words. Stepping fully into the shop, he cast his grey gaze over the assorted flowers and plants. “Y’know, I’ve never been in here? It’s nice.”
Steve did in fact know that Bucky had never been in his shop, but it seemed strange to point that out. So, instead, Steve settled for a simple, “Thanks. I like it.”
That actually got Bucky to laugh. “Yeah? Well, I sure hope so.” Pulling his hands from his pockets, he sauntered over to Steve. “Alright, so what we doing?”
“I’m loading up the decorations for the church’s midnight services. Figured if I can get ‘em into my truck, it’s easier to just drive them over.” Steve pointed to spray of evergreens and berries. “If you can grab that, I’d appreciate it. I think I can only fit a few more of ‘em into the truck before I’ll have to go drop the load. And then I get to deal with the mini trees and poinsettia.” He gave his eyes a playful roll (poinsettia were something the preacher had insisted on) before grabbing the rest of the garlands.
As they carried the flora out to the truck, Bucky hummed under his breath. “So is this what it’s like, being a florist? Whip everything up in your shop and then haul it to the event?”
“Mostly.” Steve shrugged before carefully arranging his burden in the truck bed. “Sometimes I have to do some rearrangement or construction on the site. It depends on what I’m doing. Like at the LeBeau wedding last year I had to bring in all the trees, cover the floor with fake turf, and then hang all the lights. It took me two days to get that set up.” A tiny smile found its way onto Steve’s lips. “But it did turn out really nice. So guess I can’t complain too much.”
“Guess not,” Bucky quipped. He watched Steve close the front door of the shop, Bucky’s hands yet again disappearing into his pockets. “Say, did you need help? Unloading, I mean.” He shrugged. “I’m free, if you could use the help.”
Steve blinked at him. “Are you sure? It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”
Bucky ducked his head a little, but his pale eyes remained on Steve. “Nah. I was just out for a morning walk, trying to clear my head. Nat and Clint ran off for a romantic vacation, anyway, so I didn’t really have any plans today. Aside from Skyping with my family later, but that’s not until like … seven. So I think I’m good.”
“Well,” Steve murmured, a flush having nothing to do with the cold rising on his cheeks, “if you’re offering, who’m I to turn you down?” Going to the passenger side of the truck, he opened the door. “Your carriage awaits.”
A delighted laugh fell from Bucky’s lips before he gave Steve a playful bow. “Thank you, my good sir.” Then, floating up to the truck like some sort of lady of consequence, the brunet slid up onto the bench seat. Steve slammed the door shut and ran around the truck, quickly hopping in.
They drove up to the church in relative quiet, the crunch of the snow under the tires and their breathing the only soundtrack for the ride. When they pulled up, the preacher came out to meet them with a bright smile on his face. “Steven, thank you again for your help. I hate to make anyone work on Christmas Eve, but your decorations truly bring the church to life.” The preacher then caught Steve in a tight hug before noticing Bucky. “James! Are you helping Steven today?”
“Yes, sir,” Bucky murmured, fiddling with the pull on his jacket. “Figured it might be a bit mean to let him do it all himself.”
“Well, I will unlock the doors for you, so you can go in and out. And do let me know if you gentlemen need anything. I will just be in my office working on my sermon.” The man gave them both a warm smile before hustling off to do as he had said.
Steve shook his head. “Always throws me when he calls me Steven,” he admitted in an undertone.
Bucky snorted. “Tell me about it. The only person who calls me James is my grandma. I almost forget to respond to it.”
The pair shared a smile before turning to the truck. “Well, let’s get this in. I figure we can sort of get everything into the general area it belongs in. Then I just need to haul the second load over.”
“And then you make Christmas magic?” Bucky guessed.
“Yeah, something like that.” Steve hesitated. “If.. you wanted to keep helping, I’d be happy to buy you lunch after. As payment.”
With a hum, the brunet seemed to consider the offer. “I suppose that’s fair,” he finally said. “Though… if you’re not sick of my company by then - “ Bucky hesitated. “Well, maybe we can go to the service together? I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it is the Thing to Do on Christmas Eve around here.”
Shuffling his weight from foot to foot, Steve barely bit back a blinding grin. “I would like that, Buck. I’d like that a lot. Maybe you’re done calling your family, we could go to the Winter Festival in the park? They’ll have ice skating and hot chocolate and stuff all leading up to the service. I usually don’t go, because it’s not fun alone, but maybe if we went together…”
Reaching over, Bucky squeezed Steve’s forearm. “Sounds perfect.” The two grinned adoringly at each other before a snowflake tried to fly up Bucky’s nostril. With a snort, the man drew back and gave his head a shake. “On that note, we should probably start unloading. Sooner we finish, the sooner we get to the good stuff, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Steve sighed dopily, still grinning at Bucky. “The good stuff.”