Shared Stitches and Steps
“Have you seen that blue car before?” Bucky asked the second you opened your door to leave. You blinked at him. It had been a slow morning, and you were still struggling to wake up. It didn’t help that Bucky had been incessantly knocking on your door since 8:00 on the dot.
“What blue car?” you asked, looking down the hallway as though you would see the car in question.
“It left the parking garage earlier, a cobalt blue Kia.”
“I think that’s my neighbor’s car. He leaves at, like, 7 am every morning. What time did you even get here?”
“I’ve been scoping out the area since six.” You raised your eyebrows at him, knowing he likely wasn’t joking.
“Find anything suspicious?” You were half-teasing. The other half of you was incredibly interested.
“I’m pretty sure this building violates every safety code that has ever existed or will ever exist,” Bucky declared, motioning for you to walk ahead of him. You both began the walk down the soullessly generic, dim-lit hallway to the stairs.
You didn’t even need to guess that Bucky wasn’t an elevator guy.
(._.)
“Who’s the guy? New boyfriend?” Kaylie asked, slipping into a relaxed stretch next to you. Kaylie was one of the dancers you talked to the most, and was always a reliable place for gossip.
“New bodyguard,” you responded with a good-natured eye roll. You both looked Bucky’s way, watching him give everyone a death glare.
“Why is the Winter Soldier here?” another dancer asked, eyeing Bucky distastefully. You blinked in surprise. So that ’s where you knew his face from. You must have seen it a few times on social media when the case was blowing up. He looked so different now, clean shaven with shorter hair. He looked more like a CEO than an assassin.
“He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore,” a different dancer chimed in. You were attracting a small crowd now. You caught Bucky’s eye, and he gave you a look. You could only assume he was scolding you for talking about him, until you saw how closely he was watching the group.
He couldn’t honestly think you were in any danger here , could he? The only danger you were in was the danger of your very dead pointe shoes. Which reminded you that you needed to stop and get some new ones after rehearsal. The dancers were absolutely harmless unless you got in the way of an impromptu partnering test or turn sequence.
You were in between shows at the moment, so you had a nice lunch break. You showed Bucky your favorite lunch place nearby–a cute deli that made the best coffee–and patiently waited while he surveyed the danger level.
“So, how often do you come here?” he asked. Anyone else, it would have been small talk. With Bucky, this was a continuation of the half hour long conversation you had begun this morning. He had requested that you give him every detail of your routine depending on the day. Which was much harder than it sounded, considering you had a sporadic, go-where-the-wind-blows kind of personality when it came to eating or roaming the city.
“When I’m willing to spend the money and I have a long enough lunch break.” You shrugged.
He glowered at you from where he sat, rigidly drinking his black coffee. What a little weirdo , you had teased him when he ordered it. He had simply reminded you that he was taller than you. “That’s really not helpful,” he pointed out.
“Aren’t you supposed to be shadowing my every move, anyways?”
His silence told you he conceded the point, and you smiled into your cup.
(._.)
“What are you doing ?” Bucky asked in horror as he entered the living room later that night. He had walked in expecting an attack, judging from the thudding sounds that had echoed through the small apartment and into the kitchenette. He hated your apartment. There was a solid wall separating the living room from the kitchen, but the front door had full access to everything. Not to mention how terribly built and cramped the stairs and hallways were. From a defensive perspective, it was a nightmare.
“I’m breaking in my pointe shoes?” you asked, somewhat incredulously. Bucky didn’t see why you should be the confused one. You were sitting surrounded by shoes, glue, and sharp things. And you were hitting the shoe on the ground .
“You’re…” Bucky let his eyes trail over the mess, trying to figure out what on Earth you were doing. The context clues were lacking.
You sighed, as if he was the one who was acting weird. “Pointe shoes are all made the same way, but not every dancer has the same feet. So we have to break them in to make sure they fit right and we can actually dance in them. Which sometimes means smacking on the floor.”
“Smacking them on the floor–” Bucky echoed, eyebrows tugging together. He forced his heart rate to calm and sat on the couch. “So you’re all good?”
“Yep, except for the fact that I've nicked myself like three times. Did I scare you with my floor hitting, Barnes?” You looked up at him with a slight smirk. He pursed his lips, not wanting to admit how panicked he’d been at the thought of an attack this soon.
“How do you make yours?” he asked instead. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees in order to watch as you began your explanation. Your animated voice was undercut by the occasional thud, exclamation of pain, or annoyed clicks of your tongue. Bucky couldn’t understand a word you were saying, but he appreciated the masterful way you cut the shoes apart and pieced them back together, sewing the ribbons on with practiced ease. And when you cut yourself again, he was ready with a bandage and a few light-hearted jabs.