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March, 1937
Monday
Steve Rogers did not dance.
It was a fact, indisputable and concrete, that for him dancing was as much an impossibility as flying. For one thing, the time to practice and to go out was scarce and hard-won. For another, between his flat feet, crooked back, and shoddy lungs, there wasn’t much to move around a dancefloor. The largest obstacle, however, was the unwavering truth that no girl on God’s green earth would be willing to dance with Steve Rogers.
It had been a rough week. Winter clung on like a small dog with its teeth sunk into the ankle of spring. Steve sat at the table, worrying the label on a can of beans. His stomach growled and he pretended not to hear it, listening instead to the familiar, hurried footsteps clunking up to his door. Bucky turned the key in the lock and let himself in. Steve’s tiny apartment as much like home as his own.
“Freezing out there.” He said, throwing his hat onto the table and shrugging out of his coat.
“That’s why I stayed in.” Steve said. It wasn’t entirely true. Bucky caught the lie in his eyes.
“You didn’t go?”
“Nah,” Steve said, staring hard at the wall behind Bucky’s shoulder. “They probably hired somebody else already.”
“Well they sure as hell will hire somebody else now that you didn’t even bother to go to the damn interview.” Bucky said. “You can’t expect to make it painting signs. You’re meant for more than that.”
“What are you? My ma, or somethin’?” Steve asked, standing up and walking to the ice box. He didn’t bother to open it. It was empty anyway.
“Steve. What’s wrong, buddy? Why didn’t you go? You were walking on air when you got that interview lined up. Said they were a legitimate magazine and everything.” Bucky leaned on the table, fixed intently on Steve. Steve looked down. He rubbed the callus on the middle finger of his right hand, a habit formed from years of drawing and thinking and lying. He shook his head.
“I couldn’t do it, Buck.” He said.
“Of course you could, you putz.” Bucky said, smiling just enough to soften the words.
“Not when I got nothin’ to wear. I can’t show up at the office of a fancy magazine looking like this.” Steve gestured to the suit that draped off of him. Second hand, if that. He wore it like a child wears their parents clothes in a game of dress up, except that these clothes had seen better days ten or fifteen years prior. His shoes were scuffed to pieces, the uppers lifting away from the soles.
Bucky had long since learned to see past these things. Indeed, Bucky lived in clothing that was just on the other side of fine. It had been a long time since either of them had found their way to buying something new just because it suited them. Steve’s stomach gave another growl and Bucky slid the can of beans toward him.
“Eat something.” He said. “Anyway, I got an idea about getting us some extra cash.” Any cash, was the unspoken phrase in Bucky’s half-hearted smile.
“What’s that?” Steve asked. His expression darkened with suspicion. “Bucky, you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?”
“Course not.” Bucky said, his tone just a bit too casual. Bucky reached into the pocket of his discarded coat and retrieved a folded paper. He smoothed out the creases and passed it across the table for Steve to see. When he made out the advertisement, Steve groaned.
“A dance marathon? That is definitely your kind of stupid, Bucky.” Steve said, shaking his head.
Thursday
“Give me one good reason why you won’t do it, Steve.” Bucky said as he speared a piece of wilting lettuce on his fork. Two days had passed without discussion of the dance marathon. They were two days closer to Saturday, and Steve had not agreed, but he had not put his foot down on the matter, either. When Steve said no for good, Bucky knew not to push it. There was still enough warmth Steve’s expression whenever the topic came up that Bucky knew he had room to wiggle.
“Well, for one, how do you know they’re gonna let a couple’a fellas enter? What makes you think they aren’t going to take one look at the pair of us and laugh us out onto the street?” Steve asked.
“There’s nothing in the rules about needing a lady. I checked.” Bucky said.
“Fine.” Steve said.” You already know I don’t know how to dance.”
“I do.” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. “I’m a damn good dancer, and anybody’ll tell you, all you need to know how to do is follow if you’ve got a good partner, see? It’ll be easy.” Bucky took a sip of his cola. “’Sides, we don’t even have to do much dancing. Rules say, it’s a last-man-standing event. If we’re the last two on our feet and moving by the end, we’re the winners.”
“I just don’t think—“
“One hundred dollars, Stevie.” Buckie cut him off. “One hundred smackers. A C-note for the pair of us. You know how much we could do with that?” Of course Steve knew what a hundred dollars could do for them. Besides getting the rent paid and food on the table, Bucky could afford to go out and have some real fun. He could find someone pretty to go dancing with, in a nice new pair of shoes. Steve couldn’t deny Bucky a shot at something that grand.
“Yeah, Buck.”
“Yeah, Buck, what?” Bucky fixed him with an unblinking stare from under his brows. “You saying yes?” He asked. His thoughts turned back to that prize money. To the safety of buying Steve’s medicine before he needed it for a change, to finally getting him a decent coat, to putting a little away for the next time Steve found himself in a scrape with a bully who got in a few good licks before Bucky stepped in.
“Yeah, jerk. I’m saying yes. Go ahead and make a fool of me.” Steve said, shaking his head and smiling. He reached across the table for Bucky’s glass, taking a long drink. Bucky watched Steve swallow and allowed himself to consider, only for a moment, that perhaps he had not talked Steve into this competition solely for the prize money.
Friday
Bucky pounded on Steve’s door bringing Steve back to harsh reality from the slumber to which he had drifted, a pencil still gripped loosely in his hand. His head jerked up, the paper falling from his lap.
“Wha?” He said to himself.
“Steve!” Bucky called from the other side of the door. “Let me in, pal.” Steve traipsed over to the door. A distinct annoyance rising up in him.
“Let yourself in.” He said, cracking the door. Bucky raised a paper bag in one hand and a case of records in the other. “Couldn’t.” He said. “Had my hands full.”
Steve stood aside to let his friend in. Bucky set the case by the Gramophone and pulled the bottle from the paper bag.
“Get us a couple of glasses, won’t you?” Bucky asked.
“Where’d you get that, Bucky?” Steve asked, glancing askance at the bottle and its deep amber contents.
“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” Bucky said. “Not every day we see Rogers on the floor—I mean, a dance floor—seen you knocked on your ass a fair few times.”
“You already been drinking?” Steve asked.
“I would never!” Bucky said, bringing his hands to his chest in imitation shock. “And get started without my best girl? What kind of man would I be?” Bucky asked.
“Let’s get this straight,” Steve said, picking out a record at random and putting it on, Louis Armstrong’s horn, upbeat and fast paced, came blaring out of the speakers. “I am not your girl, Barnes.” Steve said. Bucky crossed the room and placed his arms around Steve, one supporting him high on his back, the other solidly in Steve’s hand.
“I know you’re not, Steve. There’s more man in you than there is in most of Brooklyn put together. Don’t doubt for a second I know that.” Bucky smiled, a certain light reflected in his face with no equal source in the room. Steve tried not to stare at the way Bucky’s eyes softened, crinkled around the edges with the raw happiness of the music as the stepped into the rhythm. Instead, he watched his feet and stumbled.
“No.” Bucky said, shaking his head. He placed two fingers under Steve’s chin and raised it up to look at him. “Watch me. You’re feet are gonna take care of themselves, okay?” He brought both hands between them, holding Steve’s there, and showed him simple steps.
The song ended, and Steve felt no nearer to understanding Bucky’s words or movements than suddenly speaking fluent Yiddish. He dropped Bucky’s hands and ran his own through his hair.
“I dunno, Buck. I don’t think this is such a hot idea.”
“That’s because you’re not properly lubricated.” Bucky said, turning on the spot and gathering up the glasses and bottle. “If you want to dance, you gotta be loosened up a little first. Have a drink with me Rogers.” He sat on the floor and poured a generous amount into each glass. “Sit.” He patted the floor next to him and raised his glass.
“To Steve Rogers dancing.” Bucky said. Steve lifted his glass.
“To Bucky Barnes winning his contest.” They drank, the sharp, acidic taste flooding their mouths.
“Got any ice?” Bucky said, fighting back the spluttering cough that he wanted to give into.
“Will that make it taste better?” Steve asked, grimacing.
“Probably not.” Bucky said, and took another drink. Steve followed suit, watching Bucky out of one eye, draining his glass and slamming it down on the floor before Bucky had finished his sip. “Wow. Slow down, buddy.”
“Nope.” Steve poured himself another glass. “This was your bad idea, and I intend to take full advantage of it.” He said. Bucky shrugged and finished his glass, watching Steve fight back against the wrinkled-up nose that tried so hard to betray his disgust. Bucky knew this side of Steve. He was determined to drink and he was going to like it, or be damned. This was something, at least, that he could do better than Bucky.
“That should just about do it, I think.” Bucky cleared their place, sweeping away with the bottle and the glasses, and put another album on. The scratch of the needle ripped the silence apart and Bucky helped Steve to his feet. “This time, don’t think so hard, dummy.” He laughed.
The music rang out, Cole Porter’s high, reedy voice singing his happy little tune. You’re the top. Bucky twirled Steve around and spun him around the room.
“Don’t hang onto my hand so tight, okay?” He said. “I’m not going to drop you, got it?”
“Got it.” Steve said, loosening the death grip on Bucky’s hand the next time he twirled. It was easier. Steve fell back into Bucky’s arms, laughing. The room spun around them while they stood still. The music blasted through the apartment.
You’re romance/You’re the steppes of Russia/ You’re the pants, on a Roxy usher/ I’m a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop/ But if baby, I’m the bottom, you’re the top!
Steve ignored Bucky’s instructions and glanced down at his feet to verify what he suspected. They were not moving anymore, and neither were Bucky’s. They stood perfectly still as the song came to a close, arms draped around each other in a move that seemed stuck in time.
Steve watched Bucky’s lips, aware that this was where so many dames must have stood before him, and perhaps there was something to this dancing business after all, and perhaps he should never dance again. The thoughts slipped from his mind as quickly as they entered it as Bucky’s face tilted to the side, just so, just enough. Steve felt himself drawn as if by an electric force. Bucky licked his lips and laughed lightly.
“Think we’re done for the night, then?” He asked, dropping his arms from around his waist and stepping back. Steve’s arms fell away, too. He felt the unwelcome rush of cold air sweep in around him.
“No. It’s fine.” Steve lied. “The drink just went to my head, is all. Let’s keep going.”
“Maybe a slow one.” Bucky said, ducking away for a moment to change the record. Fred Astaire’s voice, familiar and comforting, sang through the haze in their minds. Bucky pulled Steve closer to him, swaying back and forth with the music, their feet hardly lifting off the ground. It wasn’t really dancing, the movement resembled an elongated hug in time with the music, but Steve wasn’t complaining. He allowed his head to fall onto Bucky’s shoulder as they tilted and twirled around the room in a slow, lazy way. Bucky hummed along with the song, the vibrations from the sound passing directly from his chest and into Steve’s.
I get no kick from champagne/mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all./So tell me why should it be true/that I get a kick out of you?
Steve laughed, lightly, just a chuckle. Bucky leaned away just enough to look down at him. There it was again, that feeling rising up in Steve’s chest that something was happening here beyond the drinking and the dancing. He felt it down to his toes, which hardly felt like they were touching the ground at all. This was special.
Steve watched Bucky’s eyes for a sign and saw himself reflected there. He was skinny, but not dainty. Nothing about him was graceful or sweet, he was hardly even pleasant. If beauty was, indeed, in the eye of the beholder, then even in Bucky’s eyes, Steve was still a scrubby, scrappy, feral cat. He shook his head and laughed again. It was enough to be here, in Bucky’s arms. He didn’t need to push for more than he had.
Saturday
They stood in line with the rest of the crowd, waiting to register for the marathon. By the time they got inside, with their numbers pinned to their backs, the sun was hanging low in the sky. Steve watched the band set up, considering the musicians. He wondered if they would play all night. He shook his head. Of course not, there would be somebody else waiting in the wings to take over when they got tired. Maybe he and Bucky could stick around for that, even after they lost.
Because that was the crux of the whole affair: they had already lost. Bucky lost by picking Steve to be his partner, and Steve lost by being his own terrible, sick self, and they both lost together the minute they showed up. They didn’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell. Bucky tapped Steve on the shoulder.
“You think we oughta stretch?” Bucky asked, jerking his head toward a pair of dancers sitting next to each other on the floor, bent in half over themselves stretching out their backs and legs. Steve tilted his head to the side and considered.
“I doubt how much dancing I’d be able to do after I got into that position.” Steve said. Bucky nodded.
“I’m going to get us some water.” He said.
“But we haven’t done any sweating yet.” Steve said.
“Not the point, Stevie.” Bucky replied, glancing conspicuously around them at the other dancers. “Want to check out the competition.”
“Oh.” Steve said. He knew this was his cue to can it. If things went the way they always did, Bucky would return in five minutes with a gorgeous blonde hanging off each arm and a million-watt smile for both of them. Steve was a good sport. There was no other way to be about it. Steve sang along to the song stuck in his head as he watched Bucky survey the crowd in the auditorium.
“I get a kick every time I see you standing there before me./ I get a kick though it’s clear to see you obviously don’t adore me.”
Bucky returned with two cups of water.
“Why the long face?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” Steve said, accepting the water and taking a drink so that he did not have to elaborate.
“Okay, well.” Bucky said, putting an arm around Steve’s shoulder and directing his attention toward a couple standing by the stage. “See them? They’re professionals. Those two do Dance Marathons all over the country. They’re good.” Bucky turned them again toward a pair of extremely athletic looking dancers in the corner. They seemed to radiate vibrancy and health. “And them? They’re choreographers for Broadway shows. Who would’a thought? Huh?” Bucky went on. Steve felt his hopes diminish even more. He had not been aware that he was still harboring hopes of winning this contest.
“You seem awfully happy about this.” Steve observed.
“Well. How often do you get to dance with people who have been on Broadway, right?” Bucky asked.
“I don’t know about you. I do it all the time.” Steve said.
“Oh, have a good laugh.” Bucky said, brushing him off.
The band took their places while a thin, balding man spoke into the microphone to scattered applause. Already, Steve could feel his palms getting clammy and slick with sweat.
“Bucky.” He whispered.
“Not now, Stevie.” Bucky said in a hushed voice. “The gentleman’s tellin’ us the rules.”
“You already read the rules. I don’t think we oughta try this.”
“Stevie. It was ten cents apiece to register.”
“Buck!” Steve jabbed him hard in the ribs. “You didn’t tell me that part.”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t say yes if I did. Now shut up. The man’s talking.” Bucky said. Steve tried to concentrate on the man’s words and not focus on the twenty cents that Bucky had sent down the drain on his account. He knew he didn’t really stand a chance against dance marathon pros and Broadway stars, but maybe if Steve weren’t here to slow him down, he could be in the running. It ate at Steve like acid.
“Good luck!” The announcer roared. The band picked up their instruments while the dancers shuffled onto the floor, taking their places.
The music picked up, loud and fast. Around them, the couples moved with varying levels of skill and confidence, but each seemed infinitely more competent on their feet than Steve felt, that was, until Bucky’s hand clasped around his. Without the benefit of Bucky’s gift of alcohol, it was harder to allow his body to take the risks and fall into step, but he listened hard and made his feet move.
“You’re fine, Steve.” Bucky laughed into his ear.
“What, don’t I look fine?” He asked.
Bucky spun him and caught him again. “Remember last month, when I dragged you out with me on that double date and Mildred held your hand? Your face looks like that right now.”
“Oh.” Steve said. This was nothing like that. He let himself relax into it. Bucky’s hand, large and calloused, warmer than Steve’s although not as sweaty, still held his own as they danced in their place on the floor.
“See?” Bucky said. “That’s better.”
A few feet away, Steve’s eyes landed on a petite redhead, tearing up the floor with a man who looked as if he had been doing it all his life. They had a method, like everybody else—they were keeping their movements controlled and on the slow side. They wouldn’t wear themselves out in the first dance. Despite this, Steve could see the expertise in the minutia. It was always the little things that gave it away.
The man pulled the tiny woman close and his hand drifted lower on her back. They spun, and Steve could see that, although he was laughing, her expression had dropped from that previous state of carefree delight to a hard, determined line.
“Johnny.” She said, just loud enough for Steve to hear as they whirled past. “I said no to all that. After—“ and then they were gone. Out of earshot.
“Hey Bucky.” Steve said. His lips pressed into a tight line, the one Bucky knew signaled trouble, brows furrowed as if he was putting together a puzzle. Steve took the lead for a moment and swung them around so that Bucky could face the redhead and her handsy parner.
“It’s not our business.” Bucky said, in that warning tone they both knew so well.
“That’s a coward’s excuse and you know it.” The couple whirled by again.
“Johnny, I mean it—“ The woman’s voice was crisp and clear this time.
“C’mon, Steve. The first song isn’t even over.” Bucky said as the trumpet sounded its final note. It was almost punctuation, Steve thought, raising an eyebrow at Bucky.
“It is now.” He said.
“Okay.” Bucky said. He might as well try to control the weather.
“’Scuse me.” Steve said, pulling Bucky across the floor to dance closer to the couple’s space. “I couldn’t help but hear the lady’s objections. You mind keeping your hands to yourself?” He asked in a pleasant, conversational tone.
Johnny started, and looked at him with an expression of surprise that Steve recognized. It often settled on the faces of men who were not used to having their behavior questioned by others, especially by other men a whole head shorter than themselves. Steve relished that expression. Sometimes, it was all that got him through the day. Johnny’s look hardened almost instantly.
“Mind your own business.” Johnny grunted. Steve turned his attention to the dame. A light sheen of sweat already made her freckles sparkle in the lights of the hall.
“Are you alright, Miss?” Steve asked, watching her carefully.
“Mhmm.” She squeaked out the sound, nodding without smiling.
“You holler if you need us.” He said, his eyes fixed on Johnny. He listened hard as they twirled away, closer to their spot.
“Ignore them, Anne. They’re just a couple of fairies trying to stir up trouble.” Johnny said.
There may have been a time when the words might have stung. Sure, he felt them, they hit and for a moment he felt branded by them, sure that they stuck there on his back in bold red paint for the rest of the world to see, but as he straightened the best he could and fell back into the rhythm of the music, he felt the words roll off. He looked into Bucky’s eyes, steady, cool, and ready for the inevitable, and felt comforted. Maybe there was some truth to Johnny’s words about him. The point was, it didn’t matter. He was going to come back and keep swinging.
The next song played, uninterrupted, and the next. As if by some miracle of music and physical endurance, they made it through the first hour. The break was a beautiful thing. Steve’s feet tingled as he sat down, the sheer ecstasy of relief a delight. Bucky returned with water for them again, settling down for the seven minutes they had left and heaved out a big sigh.
“I know what you’re thinking, Stevie.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever, you bum. I’m tellin’ you, I don’t wanna end up in a fight in the alley out back the minute this is over.” Bucky said.
“That’s fine.” Steve said, watching for Anne through the swirling mass of the crowd. Between her bright blue dress and her flaming hair, she was easy to spot. “You can be lookout, then.” Steve said.
“That guy’s gonna cream you.” Bucky said.
“Maybe so. Anne’s gonna get home safe though. You get her a cab while it’s happening, okay?” Steve said.
A silence fell upon them, filled instead by the deafening pulse of the crowd. Being in the auditorium was like living in the belly of some monster, a living organism in itself. Steve wished there were a way to capture the feeling, wished he could draw it. He glanced at Bucky, wondering if he saw it the same way. Bucky was not looking at the crowd, or watching for Johnny and Anne. His eyes were fixed on Steve, content and solid. He looked as if he could keep them there forever and never look away for anything else.
Johnny did them a favor. In the last minutes of the break, he found them. Steve and Bucky meandered through the crowd, returning to their spot, when Steve felt an unfamiliar, unfriendly hand on his shoulder. He turned on his heel, brushing it off.
“Can I help you?” He asked, looking up into that spiteful mug with all the seething superiority he could muster.
“Yeah. Quit looking at my woman.” Johnny said. “Find your own.”
“That’s gotta be real tough.” Steve said, shaking his head. He chuckled low in his throat. “Worrying about losing your gal to a couple of guys you just called fairies. You really that concerned, pal? Must be, you really don’t know how to behave around a woman. Clearly, your hands don’t.”
The punch came like clockwork. Steve had a knack for telling how to scrape away at people to get socked right in the kisser, and this guy was easy to fray like rope. The windup was too short in the compact space of the crowd and the impact landed soft on Steve’s cheek. He hardly felt it. Still, it was enough for the crowd around them to part like the Red Sea. The gasps and oh mys and shouts from around them were as much music to Steve as the songs provided by the band.
“Johnny!” He heard Anne’s voice again, outraged. Steve barreled into Johnny’s torso, doing little to harm him, but pushing him back, away from Anne and Bucky and the rest of the bystanders. Johnny’s elbow came down hard on his back.
“Uph!” Steve let out a puff of air. He felt another set of hands, Bucky’s, of course, pull him away while Johnny was wrestled off of him by two large men. From the direction of the stage, they heard the announcer’s cheerful voice.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! We’ve had our first brawl of the evening. 704 and 616, you have been disqualified!” There was a confused reaction of boos and cheers from the audience.
They spotted Anne on their way out. Steve heard Bucky’s quick, urgent muttering right next to him through the din as they made for the exit.
“Not that it’s any of our business, but can you get home safely without that jerk?” Bucky asked her. She nodded again, her response too quiet to hear, lost in the chaos. “You might want to head out, then.” Bucky said. “He’s bad now, but the night’s only going downhill from here.”
“Don’t I know it.” Anne said, no trace of humor in her voice. “You boys take care.” She said, stepping up her pace and weaving through the crowd ahead of them.
Outside was a different world. The noise of the street was comparative silence next to the echoing cacophony that was the dance marathon. Steve and Bucky breathed in unison, leaned against the brick wall behind them, and watched traffic, pedestrians and cars alike, as they caught their breath.
“Well, Buck.” Steve said, scuffing his foot along the ground.
“What’s that, Steve?”
“We made it a whole hour.”
“That’s an hour longer than we would have made it if we hadn’t tried.” Bucky said.
“Always the goddamn optimist.” Steve said, smiling, just a little. It was a reserved smile, more for himself than for Bucky. He pushed his weight to the side, swinging his shoulder against Bucky’s in a friendly tap. Bucky returned it. Steve fought back, gaining momentum. They erupted into laughter exactly as the doors of the hall opened again and a man was ejected bodily from them. Johnny kept to his feet, but stumbled to maintain his balance and his dignity at the rejection.
“Alright. Alright. I’m goin’.” He called over his shoulder as the doors were pulled closed behind him. “Didn’t want your stupid, lousy prize anyway.” He said to himself. “And Anne? What does she know?” He brushed the front of his suit off before his eyes fell on Bucky and Steve.
“’Bout time.” Steve said. “You get lost?”
“Steve, I’m sure this nice fellow is going on his way without a fuss now. Isn’t that right, Johnny.”
“Fuck you.” Johnny said, stepping right up to Steve’s face. From this distance, Steve could smell proof of his suspicions. The biting scent of alcohol was rank on Johnny’s breath. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ a couple of queer sickos ruin my night.” He went on.
“Did you hear that Stevie?” Bucky asked, as if Johnny had simply commented on the weather. “It looks like we’re the ones who ruined this guy’s night. Not like he went on trying to cop a feel on that poor dame he was dancing with or nothin’.”
“Yeah. I heard that, Bucky. Also heard we’re queer. And sickos. Did you know that? That’s news to me.” Steve replied.
“You know, I didn’t know that. You learn something new every day, they say.”
“Well, you and I do. This asshole here, I’m not so sure abou—“ The second punch of the evening hit harder than the first, although Steve had been expecting it. After what amounted to more or less a professional career of getting the snot beat out of him, Steve knew the anticipatory signs before the wind-up. He tasted blood. It trickled down from his nose, not broken but certainly bleeding to his lips. It had been a good punch. Steve couldn’t help but smile.
They launched at each other, dragging themselves into the alley and tearing into the fight for all it was worth. Bucky did as Steve asked and stood at the mouth of the Alley, keeping an eye out for cops or nosey passers-by. Johnny was bigger than Steve, undoubtedly, and knew his way around a punch, but Steve was quick on his feet. Years of scraps behind schools, in and out of the alleys he knew like the back of his hand, had taught him how to wear an assailant out.
Every once in a while, Steve found himself in over his head, the blood rushing in his ears, fists sweaty and tight, and never once thinking about the consequences of his actions while he taunted men twice his size. That’s when Bucky came in handy. He waited in the wings until he was needed. No matter how much bigger the other guy was, two-on-one was an unfair fight, and Steve would never stand for that.
Johnny tilted his head to the side and popped his jaw, loud enough for Steve to hear. It might have been an intimidating gesture, but to Steve, all he could hear was the sound of another good, hard punch. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet while he waited for Johnny to come barreling at him again.
A well placed uppercut caught Steve along the eyebrow. Steve fell back against the wall, and slid along it to the ground. He felt the blood trickle down his face, warm and sticky. It felt good, the way that the first strokes of paint on a fresh canvas felt. He liked messing things up.
Bucky stepped in. Steve watched the scene as if he were at the pictures, watching actors beat each other up to slapstick sound effects. It hardly seemed real. Bucky was ferocious in a way that Steve had never seen before, each of his strikes landing true and hard. Johnny, so confident when punching down on the little guy, looked stricken with panic. He turned tail and ran, looking over his shoulder with a certain desperation that pulled a low chuckle from Steve.
When Johnny was out of sight, Bucky dropped to his knees next to Steve to examine the damage. His hands were cool against his skin, brushing lightly against his cheek and neck.
“Stevie. You look bad.” Bucky said.
“Takes one to know one, jerk.” Steve said through gritted teeth, putting one arm around Bucky’s shoulders to stand.
“That’s right, punk.” Bucky said, supporting Steve’s weight. “Take it easy. Can you walk?”
“He punched my face, not my legs.”
“I’m serious, now, Steve.” Bucky said.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Steve said, brushing Bucky off and ducking out from under his arm. The world swooped and spun around him as he did, bringing him suddenly, mercifully, back into Bucky’s grasp.
“Nope.” Bucky said as he caught Steve around the middle again and righted him, keeping one arm firmly around him as they walked. “He got you good, Steve.”
“You should get me good.” Steve said. He smiled the way he so often did when he made in irrefutable point, something Bucky could not contend. Bucky could only stare down at him in confusion.
“What was that, pal?”
“Humor.” Steve said.
They reached Steve’s apartment after what felt like days of walking. Bucky deposited Steve on the bed while he put a kettle on.
“Buck.” Steve said.
“Yeah?”
“You left your records here.”
“I know that.” Bucky said, lighting the stove.
“Put one on.”
“Jesus, your neighbors must hate you.” Bucky said, as he crossed the tiny room and flipped through the stack of records. “You got anything in mind?”
“I get a kick out of you.”
“Really?” Bucky asked, glad that Steve’s eyes were closed and he could not see the faint pink flush creeping into his cheeks. “That one’s so cheesy.”
“Yeah.” Steve yawned. “’s’why I like it.” The slow, drippy melody began. Steve’s breathing slowed and evened out almost instantly.
“Oh no no no.” Bucky said, crossing the room in three footsteps and shaking Steve awake. “You can’t go to sleep. Not after you got your coconut hit like that. Gotta stay awake for a while, buddy, just like last time, remember?”
After enough back alley brawls, they became their own doctors. No need to request house calls, wake up the neighbors, and spend what little they had when they knew just what the doctor would say. He needs rest. Make him drink water. Don’t let him fall asleep.
“Yeah, I remember.” Steve said, nodding and wincing. “I’m just …tired.”
“Then I guess I gotta keep you awake.” Bucky said. He sang along with Fred Astaire. “So tell me why should it be true, that I get a kick out of you?”
“Bucky.” Steve said, curled up into his side.
“Yeah, Steve?” Bucky answered back, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re a terrible singer.”