Work Text:
1938
It’s the third time this week that Bucky’s dragged him out to the hall, dragged him out to the hall to dance but really to sit on the sidelines, because of course they cannot dance together. Steve is here to sit by the bar and try to communicate with just his posture that he’s available, to pretend like anyone might like to dance with him. To chase away anyone desperate enough to cast an eye his way with an ill timed coughing fit or a need for the bathroom.
He still tries, though. Asks one dame, probably the only one in the whole place shorter than him. “Sorry, soldier,” she says as her friends harmonize with giggles. Steve remembers he got a yes once, although he never got to the actual dancing part. Thanks to some tough guy who showed up and turned out to be the girl’s fella. That was a night he ended up eating sidewalk. He uses that story to remind himself that rejection is not always the worst outcome, bows his head, and leaves this dame alone.
No, he will probably never dance, as much as he wishes he could. So what he really does here is watch. All the dancers here are amazing, or at least better than he surely is. There are the talented ones who move so fast he can practically feel an asthma attack coming on at the thought. There are the ones with bright grins, who maybe aren’t very talented dancers but give the impression of impressive skill with their sheer exuberance. There are the slow dancers, who lean into each other while swaying back and forth and disappear quickly together. There are the dancers that are Bucky.
Steve spends a lot of his time on the sidelines watching Bucky swing. He leads a different girl each time they attend, in it for all of the fun and none of the commitment. Steve has watched Bucky dance enough that he can see his characteristic style in his own mind.
Sometimes Bucky goes to the hall without Steve, who is sick or tired or who simply doesn’t have the pocket change for the door today, and leaves their dim apartment empty. “We’ll get you dancing one of these days, Stevie!” he might call when he leaves.
Sometimes Steve stands with his eyes closed and arms out, after watching Bucky traipse down the street though a dirty little window. He stands there in their empty apartment imagining what it would be like to have Bucky’s arms around him. His mind easily supplies Bucky’s beautiful moves, but he doesn’t know what to do with his own body. When he watches Bucky he has no mind for what the girl is doing. So he simply stands and sways against his imaginary partner.
Sometimes he wonders about asking Bucky to dance with him. He tells himself he’s just desperate for a partner, and someone he already knows is an easy way out. He tells himself that’s all it is and that he doesn’t need Bucky at all.
He wonders if Bucky would say yes.
1940
He likes to draw Bucky. He likes to draw, period, but he draws Bucky the most of all. His mind isn’t big enough for all the wonderful images of Bucky dancing, so they flow easily out onto paper under his hand. His old sketchbooks, detailed drawings stretching back over a decade, are full of Bucky. (Half of the books are presents from the grand jerk himself, given throughout the years.) Hell, there’s so much Bucky content in each of them that he’s not sure anyone else in New York has such a detailed visual record of their life. Probably even counting snotty kids wandering around with kodaks and parents with the dough for limitless film.
Still, he finds that his pencil captures Bucky best in his still moments - peering at the morning news, in the moments before he wakes. Bucky himself tells Steve over and over again “- those lindy drawings are just fine, Stevie, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about -” but he just can’t capture the life of Bucky in motion on one page.
It hits him in the middle of Snow White that he could draw Bucky in motion. He imagines drawing Bucky’s suit jacket swirling about like this girlchild’s skirts do on the big screen and suddenly he can’t catch his breath. Unfortunately, he doesn’t make it to the end of the movie. Bucky pulls him out the back exit while he struggles to breathe and then holds his shoulders as steady as he can. He finds himself a little closer to okay, minutes later when his face is is pressed to Bucky’s chest close enough to count the threads in his shirt.
1943
He normally wouldn’t draw in public, let alone at the dance hall - he feels so out of place - but Bucky’s shipping out next week and this might very well be his last chance to draw Bucky in motion. He smiles - he's an animator. How cool is that?
He’s sitting hidden away at a corner table at the hall with a good view of Bucky and a flipbook made special for animating when some guy who’s had too much to drink totters over and bumps into his table, shaking it.
“Drawin’ some pretties, kid?” he slurs at Steve.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. The guy reaches to grab the flipbook and Steve pulls it in close to him and covers as much of it as he can with his forearms.
“Some real pretties, apparently,” says the guy with a smirk and an eyebrow raised. “Ha! Jeez, they’ll let any prude draw an eight paper these days!”
Steve reddens. “I - I’m not-”
The guy just guffaws. “Yeah, sure thing, kid. You're not drawin' nothin'. Right.” He’s laughing to himself as he wanders away.
Steve looks back at his work, letting the pages whiz under his thumb. Bucky dances across them, as close to real life as anything will ever get.
Looking around, Steve stuffs the book roughly into his jacket.
2012
He’s sitting next to Natasha at the bar of some event when he declines the third request to dance he’s received this evening. He orders another of - whatever Natasha is having, please - because these events always make him feel like he needs a drink.
“You might want to think about saying yes to some of them,” Natasha says. She’s not looking at him.
Steve shrugs. The bartender passes him a translucent drink filled with ice, and he busies himself with the first sip instead of replying. It’s about strong as a drink can be. He’s relieved.
“You mean a lot to the people here,” Natasha tries again.
He sighs. “They don’t care about Steve Rogers. They just want to schmooze with Captain America.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“You give them hope.”
He swirls the ice around in his drink. “The stars and stripes give them hope, Natasha, not the guy underneath ‘em.”
“It didn’t take long for most of the avengers have realize that Steve and the Captain are really the same guy. When will you?”
She swallows the rest of her drink and directs a question at the bartender about the ladies’ powder room. Answer in hand, she directs a last look at Steve and excuses herself.
2014
He tells no one that he sees Bucky sometimes. At the grocery store, Bucky picks out something green, drops it into his basket, startling him. Whispers “don’t forget your vegetables, Stevie,” into his ear and sticks around just long enough for Steve to drop his basket in surprise and see him disappear around a corner.
He tells no one that Bucky is here now, at Stark’s big party. It’s May. Is this Tony’s birthday party? He holds too many gatherings. Steve and Bucky stand across from each other.
Bucky's question makes Steve purse his lips and tuck his chin in like he does.
“What were we?”
2015
Steve grips Bucky close to him. Bucky holds himself up as straight as he can, metal hand gracing Steve’s shoulder. They step back and forth, step-touch, step-touch, Steve leading them in a small circle in the shadows in the corner of the floor. He can hear Bucky’s breath, slow and even, calm as can be. He never thought he would be the one to lead.
He thinks about Bucky’s metal arm upon his shoulder but gazes at their intertwined hands outstretched, flesh on flesh. Follows the limb up with the eyes, inspecting Bucky through his suit sleeve like he has x-ray vision until he finds himself in eye contact, staring his partner in the face. He blinks.
And Bucky just smiles, almost slight enough to miss. Doesn’t let them stop stepping when he leans forward, pulling Steve’s shoulder down with his metal arm so they are level. Whispers in his ear, all breath and no voice: spin me.
Steve must ask the question with his face, somehow, because Bucky is spinning himself, lifting up their entwined lead hands and letting go of Steve’s shoulder and leaving Steve’s embrace behind. Curling up and gliding under the arch of their arms. When their fingers twist up Steve can’t help but let go and Bucky glides to a stop just out of his reach. Almost worried that this is the end, Steve takes a step forward.
He’s stopped by a proffered hand, Bucky’s right reaching over to Steve's own right side. They make the connection and Bucky turns back and forth in front of Steve. A couple seconds to each side in front of Steve before spinning like a music box figure on display. He turns all the way around, faces forward and their hands reunite. Bucky steps back and forth again, spins in front of Steve again. Spins for Steve again and again until one time Steve catches his hands differently and they’re holding each other again, waist and shoulder held close on one side and two flesh hands clasped out to Bucky’s right. Back to side stepping and holding each other close.
Steve pushes back on their outstretched arms and Bucky steps backward. Steve steps into the place where Bucky’s foot was, getting as close as he can. When he steps back, Bucky can’t help but follow after. Steve lets Bucky come forward and get up in his space. Forward and back, over and over again until Steve accidentally takes a step too wide and finds them pressed closer than they've ever been and their stepping ceases. Their chests are touching and he can feel Bucky’s heartbeat through their clothes. Their noses bump and then stay touching; he can feel the air move with Bucky’s breathing. The music is slowing to a stop, but Steve refuses to see this end just yet. He slides his right arm down Bucky’s side until it rests lower on his hip. His other hand follows suit, and Bucky tangles his fingers behind Steve’s neck.
Steve presses his face into Bucky’s hair and they sway in the dark long into the night.