Would You Like to Dance?
May 26th, 1941.
The following day, there was no sign of Bucky. Steve woke up early to make them coffee before Bucky got up, but Bucky wasn’t there. The couch cushions were back on the couch, the bloody clothes that Steve had hung to dry by the window were gone, and if not for the previous day's events being so salient, Steve could’ve been convinced Bucky had not been there at all.
Lonely morning stretched out in front of Steve in an unwelcome way. Though the previous day had been chaotic, it had been electrifying to have Bucky by his side, and, alone again, Steve could not help but feel his life lacked color when Bucky was not in it. The dull beige walls and painfully dim lighting of his apartment, where no one moved through it but himself, seemed to drive that home. He drank his coffee alone.
It was so unbearably like Bucky to have just slipped out sometime in the night, likely not thinking of and definitely not knowing how Steve would wake and feel dejected. Steve figured that if the roles had been reversed and he had been the one to leave in the night, Bucky wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Bucky had the authoritative confidence to be suddenly alone and wholly comfortable in that. It made Steve feel inadequate as a friend, maybe even as a man, to feel upset that Bucky had gone off without saying goodbye. The day continued because time had no other option, and Steve eventually shook off the feeling.
May 31st, 1941.
Unemployment was stressing Steve out. He’d spent every day of the last week traveling on foot to different areas of the city, looking for help-wanted signs in store windows, but he had little luck. Meanwhile, and in cosmic opposition to Steve’s plight, life was rallying around the start of summer; hot days became a consistent mark on the calendar, people sat out on their fire escapes, nightlife hours extended, schools were out, and free-range children ran and played outside. There was an air of excitement that offered a hand to anyone in the city, except, perhaps, the unemployed. Steve? He didn’t feel excited; he just felt sweaty, and the joints of his feet and knees ached at the ends of long, humbling days.
The late-day light that managed to cut through the shadows of surrounding buildings landed perfectly to frame the note sticking out from under Steve’s front door. It was a sliver of cream-colored paper, creased at its middle, and tucked in the little space between the bottom of the ill-fitting-in-its-frame door, and the ground. Steve, returning from yet another unsuccessful day of job-hunting, sucked in a soft but sharp breath at the sight of it. He thought of bills and eviction notices and anything it could be.
Maybe his sink had leaked again, and his downstairs neighbors, the Kelly family, had finally written demanding money for wall repairs. They’d been kind the first time, but Steve knew kindness never stretched on forever. Maybe it was that upstairs neighbor, John, the old man who’d habitually scribbled ‘ No Irish! ’ on whatever scrap paper he found. Steve Rogers, a man with an English surname, had no clue how the old man had found out his ma had been Irish. Perhaps it was an unfortunate fact of life that the bigots had the best radar for it. Steve then figured it could be the kids from a couple of units over setting him up for a practical joke. Those damn devils had a mean streak a mile wide.
What Steve did not consider was that the note could be positive. Neutral would be a blessing, but, after all, who leaves a neutral note? It had to be something bad. His heart beat quickly, and he ignored the strain in his legs. He squatted, pulled the note free, and read it.
Steve,
Bucky had a funny way of writing. Steve had long thought Bucky wrote like the rules of the English language were mere suggestions, something to break and bend where he saw fit. When he wrote in print, letters and words were capitalized at random, for emphasis, or just because they made more sense to Bucky that way. Steve’s anxiety dissipated as his eyes skimmed over the peculiar writing. It was from Bucky; it had to be.
I was so stumped by Drink (I am SORRY about that) that I can’t remember if I Thanked you for letting me crash here last Weekend. So, at the risk of Thanking you twice, Thank you. Since I owe you now, I thought we could go to the Dance hall tonight. I’ll even find a girl for you. It's a tall task, I know. I’m Joking. Meet me there at seven. I Promise I won’t get sauced this time. SORRY again about your nose.
YOURS,
Bucky.
Any girl in Brooklyn would swoon at receiving a letter from Bucky Barnes that ended with a term of endearment. ‘Yours.’ The simple word could’ve been the entire message. It stood on the page dressed in black ink, each letter printed, fully capitalized, and just as bold as the person who wrote it.
Steve pocketed the note and rose, unable to avoid smiling. ‘ YOURS, ’ He turned the word over and over in his head, feeling like if he thought about it enough, he could provide it dimension. With a square of sun at his back, he retrieved his keys from his left pants pocket and let himself inside.
It had been a hard day, and Steve was tired. He’d spent the last half mile of his trek promising himself that when he got home, he would finally sit down and call it a day. But he couldn’t say no to Bucky; he’d go to the dance hall.
By the time Steve set out, the light on his landing had run again, ditching its post as the sun tucked further behind the large buildings that dwarfed his apartment block. Though it wasn’t quite dark, the world felt gray and cool, and at once, Steve realized that when he was to walk home, it would already be night. Lately, with the aid of unemployment twisting his perception, he’d been acutely aware of the procession of hours that made up a day.
The current of his unemployment-addled thoughts hardened into one salient truth—he wanted to see Bucky in the sun. He’d always quietly cared about seeing Bucky before the sun went down. He’d broken the quiet once and told Bucky, but Bucky, who usually understood anything Steve shared, didn’t seem to get it.
Steve had said it years ago; they’d been out on Bucky’s fire escape, trying to beat the summer sweat and bask in the fleeting blue hour that followed sunset. It had been a remarkably good day; they’d both been off work and had enough energy to pilgrimage to the beach at Coney Island. They’d swam, and Bucky had ridden the Cyclone. In a sappy moment of reflection, Steve looked at Bucky, lounging on the fire escape, skin still dotted with sand, and like his mouth did not belong to himself, Steve told Bucky how he liked watching him move under the sunlight. Bucky had smiled and turned to look at Steve, who instantly looked away, regretting potentially exposing inner vulnerability with the sentiment. He didn’t say things like that to other men. Steve knew male friendship could be a landscape pockmarked with landmines once feelings were expressed, but he didn’t usually need to consider that because he didn’t think that way about other men. Fortunately, and of course, Bucky was kind and simply asked Steve what he meant. Steve hadn’t known what to say.
Under that deepening blue sky, with night dulling his vision, Steve looked back at Bucky, still smiling, and felt as if the sharp lines of Bucky’s body had begun to blur. Impossible blue not only around but within. Like a picture dipped in water, Steve had thought, like ink running from a page. It was the exact reason Steve valued seeing Bucky in full sun; he wanted an unfiltered, untouched image. What best fit Steve’s perception of his friend was not something true; instead, it was a desperate, odd belief that Bucky could not be touched by shadow. But Steve’s heart raced when he thought about explaining that to Bucky, so he’d just shrugged. Bucky laughed, then made a stupid joke that Steve, for the life of him, could not remember the punchline to now. The last detail of that night Steve could remember was Bucky calling him an enigma.
Now, with a gulf of time between that conversation and this moment, Steve walked, not fast or slow, and thought about night. He preferred day.
The music from the dance hall was loud enough that Steve could hear it from down the road. Dozens of couples loitered outside, so many that a few spilled over the sidewalk and trampled the tiny bit of landscaping surrounding the building. Steve hadn’t worn a watch, but the sun was teetering on the horizon, so he figured he must’ve been a bit late for the seven o’clock invite.
Steve liked this dance hall, though he found it impossible to draw. The lights, strung high in the rafters, were simple bulbs that made the place shine bright enough to give anything below a golden coat. Bucky had whispered crude little jokes about those lights before, more than once telling Steve the dance hall wasn’t a good place to pick up girls because anyone, and he meant anyone, could look good under those lights. Steve always gave Bucky a customary laugh at that joke, even though he’d never taken a girl home from there.
Besides the dim lights and stage, the combination of the dance floor and mural-painted walls made Steve associate the place with a gymnasium, even borrowing the distinct gymnasium smell: polished wood flooring mixed with the musk of near-ancient dust. No matter how many people moved through the hall, there were areas that went untouched by human hands, or feather dusters, for that matter.
Steve could translate the light and structure of the place into graphite. He could recreate the stripes of paint on the brick walls and polka-dot the ceiling with lights. He could highlight the floor's shine and smudge the surfaces that may harbor dust. It was the spirit of the hall he’d yet to capture: the music, the chatter, and the movement of the patrons that seemed baked into the painted brick walls. The hall held history, and that was what Steve felt incapable of drawing.
“Steve,” Steve was idling by the entrance when he heard someone shout his name. He blinked to bring himself back to Earth and turned his head. It was Bucky, smiling and sporting a black eye. “You came!”
In the short time he’d been in the overwhelmingly alive dance hall, Steve had unconsciously pulled his arms tight across his chest and hunched inward. He didn’t notice he’d adopted the anti-social posture until Bucky was by his side, mumbling about needing to straighten up and proving his point by pressing the heel of his hand into Steve's lower back. Steve dropped his arms and took a breath as he unwound the coil that was his body.
Steve stretched and looked at Bucky. Bucky looked good, of course, with his face drawn into a smirk. Steve knew the smile to be the one Bucky pulled when he knew he was looking good. It almost came off as a rehearsed attempt to dampen his charm, like he was intentionally avoiding a full grin. Regardless of motive, it was a contagious smile, and Steve matched it.
“So, your eye still looks like shit, huh?” Steve asked, raising his voice to be heard over the band. He dodged an impulse to press a thumb into the bruised skin under Bucky’s eye.
Bucky let out a little laugh and rocked on his feet a bit, still keeping one hand on the small of Steve’s back. With the aid of his hand, he held all of Steve’s attention. He shrugged, “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
The cut in Bucky’s eyebrow had scabbed over, and under the low golden light of the dance hall, it almost blended in with the dark hair surrounding it. His shiner was what stood out; the thin skin surrounding his eye had gone a dark shade of purple, almost black in some spots, and the thicker peripheral skin had taken on a sickly yellow hue. But as Bucky smiled, blue irises shining amidst the dark surrounding bruise, Steve couldn’t help but think the black eye complimented Bucky in some bizarre way. Maybe it was just those damn lights making him look good.
“I’m just messing with you,” Steve explained. He spoke in that weird, rushed way people seem to fall into at loud parties or events. Bucky quirked an eyebrow, and Steve continued, “It ain’t too bad.”
“Well, thanks. I don’t believe you, but I’ll take it.” Bucky’s hand dropped from Steve’s back, a motion Steve found himself keenly aware of. Bucky brought his hand up to his face and, using his pointer and middle fingers, absently traced the outline of his shiner.
The movement reminded Steve that Bucky could be insecure about wearing the wound, that it wasn’t a result of a noble or thoughtful fight, and he felt a soft pang of guilt for bringing it up. He played off the feeling, “Honestly, you pull it off, Buck.”
“Uh-huh,” Bucky’s voice was sarcastic, but his smile widened with amusement. “You mean that?”
In a split second, the tempo of the song playing had changed; the music was faster, and the drums were louder. Steve couldn’t hear Bucky. “What?”
Bucky’s mouth opened to repeat what he had said, but instead of speaking, he hesitated, took a quick breath, and decided to lean in close. Steve could feel the change in the air around his ear when Bucky spoke, their bodies briefly pressing together. The following words felt weighty, almost as if something was slinking around behind them. He said, “I asked if you mean it. Do I pull it off?”
“Oh.” Bucky moved back again, giving Steve an expectant look. Steve did mean it. Bucky easily pulled off the black eye, but Steve couldn’t get himself to say it honestly. In an insecure move, a small defense, his voice slipped into sarcasm: “Definitely.”
“Alright,” Bucky’s smile stayed as he shook his head. Steve felt he’d answered incorrectly, but Bucky ultimately seemed to take the sarcastic tone as ribbing and nothing more. “Well, come on. You’ve gotta meet your date.”
Music had drowned out Bucky’s words. “Huh?”
“I said,” Bucky leaned in again and practically shouted to be heard over the band, “You’ve gotta meet your date.”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Yeah,” Bucky laughed a little as he pulled away again. His hand returned to Steve’s back. “And man, after that, we’re getting your hearing checked.”
“What?”
Bucky laughed, “ Jesus .”
“That was a joke,” Steve grinned, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Connie.”
“Connie,” Steve parroted. Bucky pushed Steve forward, moving deeper into the crowd surrounding the dance floor. “What'd ya tell her about me?”
Bucky smiled, “Only the good things.”
Connie showed just as much interest in Steve as a carnivore would show interest in a head of lettuce. They’d stopped by the drink station across the floor; this dance hall only sold soda, so that’s what they got, and they grabbed one for each girl. But even after a glowing introduction from Bucky, Steve could not seem to distract Connie from looking at his friend. That was a tale as old as time. They’d been in grade school when Steve first noticed that Bucky’s female friends had begun to act differently around him. In Bucky’s presence, girls just stood differently, like they’d been called to attention by a drill sergeant. They ticked with nervous energy and touched their hair and their faces. They giggled. If Bucky was around, Steve was invisible.
Bucky was casually chatting with his date, Bonnie, and Steve watched her and Connie as they hung onto every word. He could read out of a telephone book, and they’d listen. But if Bucky was aware of how captivated the girls were, he didn’t show it. He made that clear when the band broke into a swing song, and instead of finishing whatever banal story he was spinning, he cut himself off with a clap and took off toward the dance floor. Bonnie followed.
Near the stage, the music was skull-poundingly loud. Even from the soda-sipping sidelines, Steve could feel the bass rattling around in the bones of his chest, leaving him feeling as if his heart had begun to sync with the rhythm. He ignored the feeling and kept his eyes on Bucky, which wasn’t difficult. Bucky commanded the space around him, grinning a hundred-megawatt smile as he swung his date around the floor. Dancing swing took more energy than grace, but Bucky supplied both. He was a lithe dancer, an early adopter of the style, a natural. When he moved, he made it look as easy as breathing. Steve crossed his arms but let his shoulders roll back. He bit on his thumbnail and watched Bucky, and when Bucky spun, Steve could barely contain his smile.
“That Bucky sure can cut a rug, huh?” Connie’s sing-songy voice cut through the trance Steve had been in. He looked at her. She was craning her neck to scan through the crowd for glimpses of Bucky.
The song played on. “He really can, can’t he?” Steve let his focus return to Bucky, who had just pulled his date in close at a perfectly timed dramatic beat.
“Hm?” Connie mumbled, distracted. Steve barely heard her.
“I said yeah, he can,” Steve spoke up.
“Oh, right, yes, he can.” The conversation paused as they both looked out on the dance floor. Suddenly, Connie reached out and grabbed Steve's arm. “Steve?”
“Yes?” Steve turned his head to look at her. Her brown eyes were big and round, and she was smiling. Maybe she was going to propose that they dance.
“See, I’ve been meaning to ask, why does everyone call Bucky ‘Bucky’?”
Steve should’ve known better than to think the question could’ve been anything different. He answered, “It’s because his middle name is Buchanan. James Buchanan, like the President.”
“It’s so cute,” Connie replied, voice all distant and dreamy. She dropped Steve’s arm and looked back at Bucky. “Bucky Barnes." It’s like something out of a book!”
“I guess.”
After a few more songs, the band announced that they would be taking a short break. The audience of dancers erupted into cheers and then, like lemmings, shifted to swamp the refreshment station. Bucky sauntered over to Steve and Connie with a smile and a starry-eyed Bonnie holding to his hand.
“I didn’t see you dance,” Bucky said to Steve. Bucky had stripped off his button-up shirt and swung it over his shoulder during the last song, leaving him in only his tight white undershirt. He looked strong.
“That’s because we didn’t dance,” Connie was eager to speak, “Not even once!”
“You didn’t dance?” Bonnie asked, disbelieving. She seemed out of breath from keeping up with Bucky’s pace. Connie, wide-eyed, shook her head no.
“We were too busy watching the two of you,” Steve replied to Bucky. Bucky smiled.
“Is that so?” Bucky asked, not waiting for an answer, “Then it seems like you’ve forgotten the point of dance halls, Steve. Dancing ain’t a spectator sport.”
Steve dug his hands into his pants pockets and shrugged. Connie chimed in, “That’s what I was thinking, Bucky.”
It drove Steve mad how nice, smart girls lost their senses around Bucky. Bucky didn’t seem to notice that Connie had said anything and kept his eyes pinned to Steve.
“Dancing ain’t for me, Buck.”
Bucky smiled at Steve with the kind of smile that told him Bucky had something more to say, but it wasn’t the time to say it. He ended up matching Steve’s shrug instead of a reply.
“Well, Connie,” Bucky exhaled and shifted the spotlight that was his attention. “Is dancing for you?”
“I do like to dance,” Connie replied, suddenly meek in the face of the man she’d tried to quietly woo for the entire evening. She batted her eyelashes at him, and Steve suddenly imagined them as a flock of birds displaying colorful wings at one another. He’d have to draw that.
“See?” Bucky looked back at Steve. “The girl wants to dance, Steve.”
“Well, Bucky,” Steve said, ready to play wingman. He could hear a distant clattering; the band was returning to the stage. “Would you like to ask her to dance?”
“I think I would,” Bucky grinned. The music started with a bang, and startled people took off in a frenzy toward the floor. Bucky didn’t flinch as the music kicked to life, “Connie, would you like to dance?”
Bonnie smiled and nodded to Connie, who in turn nodded at Bucky.
Bucky offered her a hand, “Thank you, sweetheart.” Ostensibly, the words were meant for Connie, but he shot a lightning-fast wink to Steve as he spoke.
Steve felt his cheeks go red hot. He brought his soda to his mouth and took a swig, hiding the blush he now wore on his cheeks. Bucky’s grin curved imperceptibly, adding a mischievous glint to his look.
“Wait,” They’d only walked a few steps when Bucky turned on his heel and pulled his over shirt from the shoulder it hung on. He stretched his arm toward Steve, “Can you hold this for me, Steve?”
Steve, still red in the face, collected himself. He chewed at his lower lip as he smiled and held out his hand. “Sure.”
“Thanks, punk,” Bucky beamed, tossing the shirt a short distance. Steve reached forward and caught it as Bucky and Connie resumed their journey to the dance floor. He slung the shirt over his shoulder and took a deep breath. He could smell the cigarette smoke sewn into the fabric's fibers, and the cologne Bucky wore. He watched Bucky dance, and although they were not dancing together, he felt as if the smell tethered them to one another.
Bonnie wanted to ‘keep the double date going’ after the dancing wrapped up. Steve couldn’t help but think it was hardly a double date, given everyone's unabashed interest in Bucky, but he didn’t mention it. But Bucky had shaken his head at Bonnie's offer, his once slicked-back hair now loose from sweat shaking too, and explained that he didn’t want to be out too late, that he was seeing his family early the next day.
They talked further: Bonnie, Connie, and Bucky. The girls asked questions about Bucky's family, and Bucky gave them answers. Steve didn’t listen in; he already knew all the answers. Instead, he stood and soaked in the night air. The dance hall was still open, and he could hear a dull, constant thumping of drums and the occasional cheer, even though they’d ventured outside. It was dark, and as Steve had predicted, the fall of night had changed the landscape.
A group of young men sat on the curb nearby, illuminated by a single overhead light. The men, who, like Steve and Bucky, were not much older than boys, laughed and smoked. Steve, far enough away not to be noticed by the men, watched the bright tips of their cigarettes as they bobbed up and down in the air, tracking each little movement of their hands and mouths. He thought he might find it an attractive habit if not for how the smoke made him cough or how much Bucky hated it. Distantly, as if memory had morphed into a waking dream, Steve smelled the wafting smoke and remembered the night on the fire escape he’d been thinking of earlier. Bucky would surely be upset if he knew how much Steve associated him with the smell of smoke, but still, he couldn’t help but think of the hazy blue light—Bucky’s sandy skin and the loose eggshell white shirt he’d worn. Unconsciously, more felt than thought of, he craved a quiet moment like that one. More presently, he heard drums kick through brick walls and watched as tendrils of smoke rose, briefly backlit, and then dissipated into nothing.
When Steve returned his focus to the conversation he had tangentially been a part of, he realized Bonnie and Connie were already saying their goodbyes. The girls took turns hugging Bucky, saying they’d have to do this again soon. Bucky smiled and agreed. Connie waved to Steve in place of a hug, and Steve could see Bucky raise his eyebrows in amusement out of the corner of his eye. The girls took off down the block.
“I probably should’ve offered ‘em a ride, huh?” Bucky asked. Bonnie and Connie had already disappeared into the night, and Steve suddenly became aware he had been looking off into space for some time.
“You drove?” Steve asked.
Bucky’s eyes had left Steve, and he looked down the empty street. He answered his own question instead of Steve’s, “Eh, Bonnie lives close. They’ll be fine.”
“Alright,” Steve replied, unsure what to say. He’d half expected, and already imagined, Bucky to have broken off into a sprint down the road, calling the girls back and jokingly offering his services as a chauffeur just as he sometimes proposed Steve work as a maid. Of course, the girls would’ve said yes to a ride and would’ve been back and giggling again in no time. But Bucky hadn’t taken off after them; instead, he simply rested his hands on his hips and looked at Steve.
“So,” Bucky shrugged, “Would’ya like to come back to mine?”
Steve smiled as their eyes met, and Bucky smiled, too. Steve pointed in the direction the girls had gone, “I think you meant to ask that to her, pal.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, “Punk. You want a ride home, then?”
“No,” Steve shook his head. “We can go to yours.”
Bucky didn’t have a car, but he did have a habit of borrowing his folk's car. They’d bought it in the late twenties, back when indulging in luxury was encouraged for solidly middle-class families like Bucky’s, and owning a car was not yet considered excessive. Bucky loved the damn thing. He’d parked the aging red Ford across the street from the dance hall, so they journeyed the short distance and climbed inside.
“You didn’t seem too keen on Connie,” The ignition chirped, clicking away but not turning over, and Bucky’s brow furrowed. He put a palm on the dash and drummed his fingers impatiently, “Ah, come on.”
“I don’t think she was too keen on me,” Steve replied, watching Bucky fiddle with the starter switch. “Is it not working?”
“Does it look like it’s working?”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Bucky inhaled quickly and exhaled hard. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and looked at Steve, “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m gonna be a minute.”
“What?” Steve started to ask, but Bucky was already out the door.
Bucky had to start the car manually. Steve turned and watched through the windows, feeling lame for not offering to help, as Bucky unlatched the trunk and retrieved a hand crank. It was a long, slender device. Although old, the crank was still polished and reflective enough to catch light from the nearby streetlight. Steve could faintly hear Bucky humming as he walked around the car, tossing the crank from hand to hand like it weighed nothing. When Bucky reached the car's hood, the tool caught stray light and reflected it perfectly into Steve’s eyes, blindly him briefly and pulling his hands to his face. When he opened his eyes again, Bucky smiled at him, and he mouthed an exaggerated, ‘Sorry.’
Steve had seen the process of manually starting a car before, though only once as a child. It had been exceedingly rare then for anyone, but specifically anyone in Steve’s part of town, to own a car. So the whole block was surprised when their neighbors, the Hall family, bought one. Everyone and their mother had gone to see it, but in a truly anti-climactic moment, Mr. Hall attempted to use a hand crank to start it. It took an astonishing five minutes to get it running, and by that time, most folks who’d gathered to see the car had left, muttering about how useless the technology was. Bucky, the annoyingly strong bastard, had it done in less than thirty seconds.
“You made short work of that,” Steve said, watching Bucky as he swung open the car door, smiling triumphantly.
“Ah, thanks. The ignition’s been screwy lately.”
“Screwy, how?”
“Dunno. Still gotta figure that part out.”
“Well, that was the fastest I’ve seen someone hand-crank a car.” To both feed Bucky’s ego and conceal the fact he’d hardly ever been around cars, Steve neglected to mention that it was only the second time he’d seen it be done.
“Just a bit of luck, that’s all,” There was that quiet humility again; Bucky always did manage to keep from crossing the line into cockiness. “My old man gets it done faster. He’s the one who taught me the trick to it.”
“Yeah?” Steve asked, smiling, “Well, what’s the trick?’
They began to roll off into the dark of night, leaving the dance hall, in all its musical glory, in the dust. Once on the road, Bucky absentmindedly tossed his hand onto the top of Steve’s seat. His fingertips brushed the base of Steve’s neck, and beside himself, Steve shivered. “Why?” He left the word out to dry for a second before continuing, “You plannin’ to hand crank a car any time soon?”
Bucky’s eyebrows were raised as he smiled and darted his eyes to Steve. Steve was smiling back at him. “No. I didn’t think it would be a secret, though. You’re the one that brought it up.”
“I know, I’m just messin’ with you,” Bucky looked back at the road, and Steve slipped into focusing on how the distorted reflections of street lights flickered in his eyes. “It’s easy. You gotta use your left hand; that’s the trick.”
Steve laughed as his concentration broke, “Some trick!”
“You’re right; it doesn’t sound like much. But you’re right-handed, though, aren’t ya, Steve?” Steve nodded and produced a little sound to constitute a yes. Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave the road, “See, I am, too. I used my right hand the first time I tried it, but the engine kicked back. It nearly broke my thumb.”
“Yeah? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, a little laughter on the edge of the word. His hand, his right hand, slid from the leather of Steve’s seat to rest on his shoulder. Steve suddenly felt intensely aware of his skin and the muscle and bone beneath it. He tried to stay still as Bucky pressed the pad of his thumb into the skin just above his collar. “Hear that? It still clicks a little when I move it.”
Even in the quiet car, Steve hadn’t heard the click. His attention was elsewhere. He nodded nonetheless, “Yeah. So that’s why you use your left?”
“Yeah,” Bucky exhaled, removing his hand from Steve’s neck. He returned it to the clutch. “You can do it better when you know it’s safe. Just good practice.”
“Yeah,” Steve inhaled. “Must be.”
Bucky’s apartment was Steve’s epitome of luxury. He lived in a large brownstone, a rare breed of housing that Steve thought looked old but never worn. It stood next to trees that leaned to touch the windows and swept streets. There were never leaks for the neighbors to complain about, and the air never smelled like garbage, even when Bucky left his windows open. It was far from the hovel Steve knew.
Bucky sometimes lamented about his apartment despite the luxury. On more than one occasion, he’d made a point to tell Steve about issues with his landlady or how the stairs up to his place were oddly steep and how, one time, he’d tripped over the top stair and spilled his grocery bags. And sure, if prompted, Bucky would admit the area was nice, but he always chalked up renting there to be luck and nothing more.
Steve loathed those moments. He loathed nodding along to Bucky’s lament, knowing he’d be going home to a place with water stains, tiny windows, and horrible garbage smell. And more than that, he could feel the unconscious thought behind Bucky’s words; he knew how, naively and without malicious intent, Bucky only talked down the apartment to make him feel better about living in comparative squalor. Steve braced for talk about the state of the place as they exited the car.
“I’ll warn you now, the house is a mess.” The street had been wide, and regardless of the tree canopy overhead, it had been lit by the moon. There had been sound held in the street: echoes of faraway conversations and rumblings of traffic. There’d been plenty of time to talk, but Bucky chose to whisper the words in the stairwell.
Absurd as it was, Steve even envied Bucky’s stairwell for the tiny bit of refuge it provided. The space briefly gave them that quiet moment Steve had craved, but before he could savor it, Bucky had turned and started up the stairs. Steve watched Bucky’s back, the structure of his white shirt moving as he took the stairs two by two. It looked like the rest of his body had already been swept into the darkness, and all that remained was his shirt draped over his shoulders. A simple point of contrast. Steve almost forgot to whisper a reply, “You always say that.”
“Well,” Bucky reached his floor and separated his house key from his keychain. Steve caught up as Bucky added, “That’s probably because it’s always messy.”
It was never messy in Bucky’s place; Steve guessed it was likely the tidiest apartment in the building. Bucky, like Steve, didn’t have much to be messy with anyway. He kept a potted plant in the window, his bookshelf was full, he had some records, and sometimes there was an odd coat hung on the coat rack, but no one, except for Bucky, could say the place looked messy .
“Hey!” Bucky hissed, holding up a hand to bar Steve from coming in further. “Your shoes.”
Steve stopped, “Whatta bout ‘em?”
“No shoes in the house.”
“Since when did you take your shoes off to come in?”
“Since I got my rug cleaned, alright? No shoes.”
“Fine.”
Steve peered into the dark, spotless apartment as they both crouched to untie their shoes. It struck him as both odd and comforting that Bucky’s apartment hadn’t visibly changed since he’d last been there, save for the recently cleaned rug. Bucky stood and whispered, “I still can’t believe you didn’t dance. I got you a girl and everything.”
“She didn’t like me.” Steve’s thoughts were abandoned as he looked up at Bucky, “I’m not gonna dance with a girl who doesn’t like me.”
“Mm.” Bucky waited for Steve to remove his shoes and stand before ushering him in. “Okay, on come in. Just no shoes, I mean it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky huffed a half-laugh and closed the door behind them. He spoke at normal volume, no longer worried about being heard: “Jeez, Steve, don’t call me that. Makes me think my dad’s around.”
“Sorry, sir.” Steve teased further, getting a kick out of watching Bucky squirm.
Bucky shook his head as he moved around the apartment, turning on lamps and throwing his keys onto the coffee table, “I’m serious, goddammit; quit that.”
“Alright,” Steve smiled as he followed Bucky into the house.
“What were we talking about? Before whatever that was, I mean.”
“I was saying I’m not gonna dance with a girl who doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, right.” Bucky stopped to slap at a pillow on the couch before walking deeper into the apartment. “Well, I’m thinkin’ maybe she’d like you more if you could dance.”
“I can dance ,” Steve retorted. He dropped onto the couch and ran his fingers along the hem of the matching cushions. “Everyone can dance. I’m just no good, that’s all.”
Bucky disappeared into the next room. He spoke loudly to be heard: “It sounds like you need lessons.”
Steve laughed, “No. God, no lessons. I’m just no good; dancing’s a talent, not a skill.”
“That ain’t true. You can get better at it.” Bucky came back into the living room, holding a kitchen knife. Steve’s brow furrowed at the sight of it. “You’ve been picking at your sleeve all night,” Bucky explained, “S’been driving me mad. Lemme cut the string.”
Steve looked down at his frayed jacket sleeve, “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You do it when you’re nervous.”
“Do I?”
“Mhm.” Bucky scraped his thumb over the knife's sharp edge and sat beside Steve. “Gimme your arm,” Steve offered it.
Bucky’s fingers wrapped around Steve’s wrist, and he wondered if Bucky could feel his pulse in that thin part of his body. “Can you pull it up?” Bucky asked. Steve pulled the string taut, and in a quick motion, Bucky trimmed it. “There. Don’t mess with it again.”
“Given that I didn’t notice the first time? No promises.”
Bucky went back to the kitchen to return the knife, leaving Steve to sit on the sofa. He sat back and looked out the window that led to Bucky’s fire escape; the black metal rails had been engulfed by night. They looked like shadows, and it felt impossible that he had ever sat on them or would sit on them again. But the colors were familiar, the deep, almost purple night and the thin black lines of the rails. He remembered school-age boxing bruises: Bucky’s worn knuckles and sore hands. He thought of Bucky’s black eye and the odd little impulse to press the skin. When Bucky hummed to announce his return to the living room, Steve couldn’t draw his attention away from the window.
“Does-” Steve began, eyes still outside. He cut himself off when he realized Bucky had also started to speak. He looked to Bucky, who stood on the edge of the room, face matching Steve’s expression of surprise.
“You first,” Bucky smiled around the words.
“I was going to ask if your eye hurts,” Steve felt silly for even thinking about it, “The bruise is still so dark.”
Bucky’s smile softened, “It doesn’t hurt anymore. The bark is worse than the bite.”
“That’s good.” Steve didn’t care to expand on how the colors of night and his warped memories of the fire escape had prompted him to ask. He felt some unfounded fear that Bucky might suggest they sit out there. “What were you going to ask?”
“I was gonna ask if you would like to dance.”
“Yeah?” Steve smiled, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I ain’t kidding,” Bucky shook his head. His smile had returned to a full grin as he walked over to the little portable phonograph he kept on a shelf. “Lessons, remember?”
“Buck,” Steve tossed his head back in played-up exasperation, “Not happening.”
“Happening!” Bucky muttered through his smile. He pulled a disc from the middle of the short stack beside the phonograph, “You like this one, yeah?”
“Miller?” Steve couldn’t help but smile as music filled the apartment.
Bucky moved to the rhythm of the opening song as he went to close the curtains on the windows. “Mhm. Is it still your favorite?”
“Uh-huh.”
“ Uh-huh ,” Bucky mocked; he’d pulled the curtains all closed and now stood in front of Steve, one hand outstretched, “Dance lessons. Come on.”
“You’re being silly, Buck.”
“So?” Bucky kept his smile, “You’ve gotta learn somehow. How else will you ever get Connie?”
“Okay, but what if I don’t wanna learn?” Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky and tried his best to keep from smiling.
“You’d be a total square. I’d have to stop inviting you out.”
“How would I survive that?”
“Oh, come on .”
“Fine,” Steve relented. He didn’t take Bucky’s hand, but he stood. “What do I do?”
“Thank you,” Bucky laughed; he grabbed Steve’s hand and pulled him in. “Okay. First? You’ve got to relax. Right now, you look like someone pulled a gun on you.”
Glenn Miller’s band blared from the phonograph, and Steve couldn't help but feel ridiculous as they stood, primed to dance, in the center of Bucky’s living room. “Pulling ‘dance lessons’ on someone is worse than a gun.”
“Oh, the drama. You’ll be fine, Steve.” Bucky took Steve’s other hand and shook out his arms, “Come on now. You’re too stiff. You’ve gotta move. Watch me.”
Bucky effortlessly led the dance, rocking back, stepping forward, and bouncing from side to side before returning to the next step. It was nothing like his fast-paced dance at the dance hall, but it was a start. Steve tentatively followed along, feeling an annoying kinship to a fawn taking its first steps.
“See? Look at that. You’re dancing.”
The song wound to a close, and they separated. Steve crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at Bucky, “I told you I can dance.”
“Well, now I know you can.”
“So, we’re done?” Steve started retreating to the couch, but Bucky smiled and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him closer.
“No. Not quite.”
The next song began, another high-energy tune.
Steve begrudgingly stepped forward, but he kept his arms crossed. The tips of his ears had gone red with embarrassment. “What now?”
“Well, if you’re in a dance hall, you gotta ask a dame to dance.” Bucky paused, letting the music fill in the silence. He radiated confidence as he grinned, “So, say I’m Connie. Ask me to dance.”
Steve felt his heart flutter in such a way that, under normal circumstances, would make him consider seeking out a doctor.
Bucky pointed to his shiner, “All bark. I don’t bite, sweetheart.”
“I ain’t no pansy-boy, Bucky.”
For a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, Bucky’s smile faltered. He stepped back and leaned against the wall behind him, creating a greater space between them. The movement looked casual, but Steve knew the words had kicked his confidence. “I didn’t say you were, Stevie. It’s only dancing.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. That was mean.”
“S’okay. We don’t have to do it.”
“No, I want to.”
“Really, Steve, we don’t have to-”
“James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “ Bucky, would you care to dance?”
Bucky’s eyebrows raised, “Is that an honest ask, punk?”
“It is.”
Bucky’s smile was back, “Well, in that case, I think I’m supposed to be Connie right now, Steven Grant Rogers.” Bucky squinted mischievously, “ Steve . Remember?”
“Oh, right, sorry,” Steve played along, and Bucky’s smile grew. Steve cleared his throat, “Um. Connie, last name unknown. Would you like to dance?”
“Steve, oh, Steve, I’m so sorry,” Bucky pitched his voice to imitate Connie. “It is Steve, right?”
Steve grinned and jokingly clutched his chest, “Ouch.”
“I’ve been waiting for that handsome Bucky fella to ask me to dance. I’ve heard he’s an engineer.”
“Have you?” Bucky, grinning like a fool now, nodded. Steve continued, “Connie, he does tell everyone that. But I’ve heard he works the assembly line at the auto factory.”
“Is that right? What a dope. In that case, I would love to dance.” Bucky stepped forward as Steve offered him a hand. “Left foot back, you’re leading,” Bucky whispered, stepping back with his right, “There you go.”
Steve’s eyes stayed glued to his feet as he moved through the steps, consciously considering every move. Bucky helped him to stay in the rhythm.
“Fun move now,” Bucky warned before dropping one of Steve’s hands, pulling the other up, and spinning under it.
“Isn’t that the girls' part?” Steve laughed, rejoining hands with Bucky, “You’re a little too good at it.”
“Hey, you gotta know how to spin a girl, Steve. If we’re doin’ lessons, you might as well learn it right.” Bucky smiled, feet falling back into the dance steps, “You know what? I think you also gotta know how to spin.”
“Is that good practice?”
“It is.”
“Then alright.”
Bucky’s arm crossed their bodies, pulling Steve into a spin. Steve followed, and when he turned, socks helping him slide, Bucky pulled him in close.
“Whoa,” Steve mumbled, voice barely a whisper. His chest had pressed to Bucky’s, and their arms had wrapped around each other. The music played on, but Steve’s attention had drifted. They didn’t resume the steps. A moment of utter stillness overtook them both, and Bucky’s eyes, blue as ever, were unreadable—and the song, forgotten, ended.
“Looks like you’re good at that part, too.” Bucky teased, voice soft.
“What’d I tell you?” Steve pulled away, and Bucky’s hands dropped. If the tips of his ears had been red before, his face surely matched them now, “I can dance. I’m just not talented at it.”
“I’d argue you got better.” Bucky smiled. He turned to the phonograph and took the stylus from the disc. The sound cut out. “I ain’t too bad a dance partner, am I?”
“No,” Steve had beelined it to the couch. He sunk into the cushions like they could offer protection from whatever awful thing had just stirred up inside him. “You’re a good dance partner.”
“Then why’re you runnin’ from me?”
“I’m not running,” Steve shrugged, aware that his face felt blisteringly hot in reaction to whatever odd and yet undeniable chemistry he had just felt flare between himself and Bucky. The room felt so quiet and the air so thick.“I’m sitting.”
“Funny,” Bucky replied. He sat on the ground in front of the couch and kicked at Steve’s foot. He didn't say anything for a minute of oppressive silence, then: “Is it okay that I made you dance?”
“You didn’t make me. I asked you, or you as Connie. Whatever.”
In the lamplight, Steve couldn’t tell if Bucky was blushing or not. “Okay, true. I didn’t make you dance. I’ll ask this: is it alright that we danced?”
Speaking into the quiet room felt like gathering the courage to jump off the high dive at a pool. “Yeah, Buck.” Steve couldn’t bear the silence that followed the words. “I don’t think you’re a good enough teacher for me to get the girl, but yeah.”
Bucky smiled as he playfully kicked Steve’s leg, earning a little ‘ow’ and kick back from Steve. “Maybe you’re just not a good enough student.”
“So you admit I’ve got no talent for dancing.”
“That’s not what I said. For the record, I think you could get Connie to like you if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah?”
“Is it what you want?”
Steve shrugged, “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter when you’re around.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means everyone looks at you. Hell, Connie asked me why you’re called Bucky while you and Bonnie were dancing. She said your middle name is ‘cute.’”
“It ain’t my fault my ma has good taste in middle names.”
“ Buchanan ? Sorry, but who thinks that’s cute?” Bucky leaned back onto his elbows and laughed. Steve continued, “Dames just like you, Bucky, everyone does. No one looks at me.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, “That ain’t true.”
“Who looks at me, then?” Steve faked a smile as his eyes fell back on the couch cushions. He picked at his sleeve. “Think about it. Do you honestly think those girls had any interest in dancing with me? They didn’t look at me. And I’m not trying to throw a pity party, Buck. It’s reality.”
“Hey,” Bucky said softly, “I look at you. I asked you to dance.”
“That’s different.”
“Hardly.”
“It’s different, Bucky. You’re my friend.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t look at you.” For a moment, the words seemed to fill the whole room. Bucky followed up the statement with a sigh as he laid back on the floor; he closed his eyes and said, “Anyway, it’s late. You wanna stay over? I won’t even charge you.”
“I don’t have clothes to sleep in.”
“I’ve got extra.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Course not,” Bucky kicked at Steve’s leg one more time before pushing himself up. “Get a blanket and take the couch. I’ll get you a shirt, dance partner.”