Scenes from a Marriage: Then and Now

Steve opened his eyes in the darkness and listened, because it must have been the old pipes banging that had woken him up. He only heard the gentle hissing of steam, though, and a moment later, he realized that the covers on the other side of the bed had been thrown back, and Bucky wasn’t there. The faint glow in the room wasn’t from the streetlight (the curtains were drawn) but from the door. Steve got up.

Bucky was sitting—slouching, really—at their kitchen table, his hands cupped around a glass of something. He looked like he’d been staring out into space, though his eyes immediately moved to Steve when he came in. Bucky’s face had settled into familiar exhausted lines, dark shadows everywhere. It made Steve’s gut twist. He’d hoped they were past this. He went into the kitchen and took a glass out of the cabinet, then looked around for the bottle of whatever Bucky was drinking, for solidarity. He didn’t see it. Then he realized that Bucky had his hands wrapped around a mug. Bucky was drinking...tea.

Well that was something.

“Water’s still hot,” Bucky scraped out, then coughed to clear the frog from his throat. Steve glanced at the kettle—he’d probably been woken by its whistle—and silently switched his glass out for a mug, setting a teabag to steep. Then he turned back to Bucky and began to knead his shoulders. He had decades of experience in knowing which of Bucky’s muscles knotted when he was upset, and the metal arm hadn’t changed that as much as you'd've thought. He squeezed and dug in with his thumbs, and Bucky let out a low pleased moan and pressed back against his hands.

Finally, when he thought his tea had steeped enough, Steve doctored it up as he liked and pulled out a chair. “I thought the nightmares had stopped,” he said softly, because it had been a long time since Bucky’d been kept up at night by bad memories and troubled thoughts.  As far as he knew Bucky’d been sleeping well for ages now, here in this home that he’d made for them, this safe haven. Beyond that, he’d dared hope that Bucky’s ride on the Captain America float had helped with wounds that time, an active program of atonement, and the best lawyer in America had yet failed to heal. “When did they start up again?” 

But Bucky shook his head. “I didn’t have—” he began, and then: “It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a dream. I dreamed of my mother. ” His eyes filled with tears, and he covered them with his arm.

“Now just you wait." Freddie flipped her cigarette onto the side of the ashtray, then put a firm hand on Bucky's shoulder as she stood, signaling for him to keep to his chair while she went to the sideboard. "Let me just pack up some of this sausage casserole for Steve. And maybe a jar of applesauce," she mused, going into the pantry. "Does Steve like applesauce?"

Bucky, having finished his coffee, took a drag of his own cigarette and tilted his head back to talk to her. "Ma, have you seen Steve? He don't eat all that much."

Freddie came back, tsking, carrying a large jar of the stuff. "Why, yes, in fact, I have seen Steve," she said, setting it down on the sideboard, "and I think he needs to eat more. Besides,” she added, cutting a generous slice of casserole and wrapping it, “the girls should be slimming. Which reminds me—" and Bucky had no intention of going any distance up this road. He waved the hand holding the cigarette, leaving white trails in the air.

“It’s got nothing to do with me, Ma,” he said. “It is absolutely and positively none of my beeswax,” but Freddie just went on like he hadn’t said anything.

“Do me a favor and talk to your sister. She’ll listen to you. Tell her that Donny's crazy for her, and if she’s even half as crazy about him—“

“I don’t know that she's one-tenth crazy.  I don't know that’s she’s crazy about him at all ,” and then Bucky bit his tongue, because this was how he got into trouble; this was how he always got into trouble. It was none of his beeswax. Think no evil, speak no evil.

“Well she should be crazy about him, because he’s a nice boy from a good family. Of course, we’re nothing to sneeze at,” Freddie added with an arch of her perfectly-shaped eyebrow. Bucky turned his head so that she wouldn’t see him smile and quickly lifted his empty coffee cup to his lips: he loved his ma, but she wasn’t half funny when she was putting on airs. 

Bucky knew that his mother—Winifred Eleanor Barnes, née Buchanan—thought that she was personally responsible for bringing a touch of class to the Barnes family, and she was maybe even right. Because without the melodious speaking voice she'd cultivated during her year at Smith, without her penchant for fur collars and the fancy way she held her cigarettes, would George Barnes have done as well as he did? Would they have not only a house but own one of the only motor cars in the neighborhood?  You had to give her credit: Freddie Buchanan had made George Barnes seem like a success before he even was.

“The thing to understand is: time is precious and there's no point wasting it. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Freddie added wryly, “I know it’s different for men, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, but believe me, dear: even men come to realize that nobody does it alone. Life's much easier when you're two. Just look at your father and me,” as if he hadn’t , as if their example of what to do and how to do it hadn’t dominated his entire life. “How I came to have such picky children, I don’t know,” Freddie declared theatrically, before chiding, “You could be a little less picky yourself, you know. There’s playing the field and then there’s whatever you’re doing, sweetheart.”

This, at least, was a serve he knew how to return. “Aw, but Ma ,” Bucky said, getting up and taking the brown paper bag she'd packed up for him. “It ain't a thing to be taken lightly. It’s a big responsibility, being the eldest son and all that. Besides, what can I tell you? After you, how can I not have high standards?” He kissed Freddie’s cheek, and she practically glowed.

Bucky's mother. Jesus. Steve hadn’t thought about Freddie Barnes in ages, though he could instantly picture her, standing there in a Garbo slouch and a long coat with a fox collar. She was a good-looking woman—well, she was Bucky’s ma, hadda be—and he’d often thought about drawing her: her silhouette, certainly.  Freddie Barnes was about as different from Steve's own mother as two women of about the same age could be. Freddie was always made up, her lipstick perfect and her hair coiffed, as well-dressed as an escapee from a Noel Coward play. Sarah Rogers was beautiful, too—blonde and fine-featured—but Steve only had to think of her strong, practical hands, reddened and rough with work, to know how different she was than the glamorous Mrs. Barnes.  Mrs. Barnes had a vanity table fronted by a huge round mirror and littered with cosmetics, colorful little jars and silver tubes and perfume bottles and big, fluffy powder puffs. Sarah Rogers washed her face with soap and water and hardly even bothered with a dash of powder or a bit of Vaseline on her lips when she went out. 

Sarah and Freddie met rarely, but, surprisingly, they’d gotten on. Despite being so long ago—ages, now—Steve could vividly remember the day when Sarah, wanting to know more about this "Bucky" who’d somehow become the center of her son's world ("Bucky this, Bucky that") , had tied her long blond hair back with a ribbon, put on her plain cloth coat, and, firmly taking Steve by the hand, marched him the six blocks to the Barnes house. Steve must have been seven or eight.  Together they'd climbed the steps to the front door, which was a double door, two tall and narrow wooden doors. Sarah had knocked, and Freddie Barnes had opened it, and—well, Steve didn't remember the conversation, because his heart had been pounding in abject terror. What if Sarah didn't approve of Bucky and his family, or vice versa?  All Steve remembered was that Mrs. Barnes had turned and called into the house, and Bucky had come to the door, looking as wide-eyed and worried as Steve felt.  Mrs. Barnes had invited Sarah in, and Bucky had come out, and they'd sat on the stoop together discussing contingencies. Steve's gut twisted at the idea of lying to his mother, and so he prayed that he wouldn't have to do it. But if it was Mrs. Barnes who objected to him—which, face it, was lots more likely—he thought he could lie to her all right. They could meet after school at—

The door opened, and Bucky's sister Ellie came out and singsonged, "Ma wants to know if you want cake."  Steve and Bucky had looked at each other, because—who didn't want cake? They went inside, and to their surprise found Sarah and Freddie together at the dining table. They seemed to have already done some justice to a coffee cake, as they each had a plate of crumbs and an empty china tea cup in front of them, and they seemed to have moved on to—well, something frankly illegal. Freddie Barnes was tipping a nondescript bottle over Sarah's glass and saying, "Oh, honestly—just a splash. It's medicinal.  And hardly a thimbleful. "

Sarah Rogers took a sniff and her lips curved in a smile. "Oh, you are a terrible woman and I like you very much," she said, and Steve felt relief all the way down to his toes, because that was all right, then. Mrs. Barnes moved to pour herself a splash of amber liquid, then cut slices of cake for him and Bucky.  Then she settled back in her chair, lit a cigarette, and looked at him.

"Master Steven," Mrs. Barnes said gravely, and Steve jumped, nearly dropping his cake. "I'm very pleased to meet you, and you should know that any friend of Bucky's will be welcome in this house. That said, I hope you're a boy who knows when to speak and when to stay silent."   

Steve wasn't at all sure what to say to that, and so he kept silent and just nodded enthusiastic agreement. But his mother smiled and shot him a fond look, then said: "Oh, Steven isn't confused between what's good and what's legal, " — which was pretty much when Bucky fell in love with her, Steve reckoned. The memory made him grin helplessly, and he propped his elbow on their million dollar table and hid his mouth behind his hand for a moment.  Then he said:

"Buck, you remember that day—the first day my mother went over to your house?" and Bucky dropped his arm, rapidly blinking away tears, and said, "Sure I remember.  Your ma came on like she was storming the Bastille, and my ma, being herself, served her fucking illegal whiskey from the family storehouse, which I was sure was going to land us in jail, but—" 

He stopped, then burst out with something that was half laughter and half sobs. "Holy Christ, we were innocent. Can you imagine? We thought that was a bad thing. Violating prohibition. Being queer." 

"I never thought that," Steve said, because Sarah'd been right: he'd never been confused like that.

But Bucky didn't seem to hear him; he'd gone back to staring blankly into the past.  "I just can hardly believe I was ever that person," he mused.  "But I was, I guess."

"You were," Steve said, and reached for his tea.  "I can vouch for it, because I was there."

Now Bucky looked at him, almost wonderingly. "Yeah, you were. That's crazy. But you were."

Steve was there, wringing and hanging some washing on the line they’d strung up over their tub, when Bucky walked in. He was in undershirt and suspenders, only half-dressed, and his hair had fallen into his eyes. He flung it back in a practiced move and smiled. 

“Coffee’s still hot,” Steve said by way of a greeting, and then asked, “How is everybody?”  

“Oh fine, fine,” Bucky put down his parcel, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on the hook. “Lady Bracknell’s sent you some cucumber sandwiches,” and that got Steve’s interest right away: he reached for a tea towel, dried his hands, and dug in. “Sausage casserole and applesauce,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee out of the saucepan. “Pretty good, too.”

Steve didn’t need the hard sell; he’d already torn open the paper to use as a plate and was reaching for knife and fork. “Your ma is the best,” he said. “Thank her for—actually, no, you know, I’ll do it. I’ll stop by your house one evening and thank her myself.”

“Smart move,” Bucky said. He pulled out a chair and lit up a cigarette, settling in to watch Steve eat. “She’ll probably give you more food. She also told me to tell you that Uncle Jimmy told her that there’s probably work for you at his shop if you want it,” and Steve, mouth full, brightened even further and nodded vehemently: oh, he wanted it all right. The job would count as apprenticeship hours toward joining the union. And once he was in, he’d be more likely to book the kind of steady work he wanted: painting and lettering, stuff like that. Bucky went on, mainly to give Steve a chance to chew before he spoke so he wouldn’t choke himself. “They’re doing both Saks and Macy’s this year, and they’re nowhere near finished, so it’s all hands on deck. To be honest with you," he suddenly heard himself saying, "I wish I could do it myself," —and this was how he got into trouble: this was exactly how he always got into such goddamned trouble.

Steve finished chewing and, finally, swallowed. “No you don’t…do you?” and the little punk was maybe the only person in the world who would take him at his word, who was interested in who he really was…underneath. Bucky loved him for it, and kinda hated him for it, too. “I mean, your job, upstairs: it always sounds interesting enough," Steve went on. "You keep on like you’re going, you could end up running the whole place!” and that was Freddie talking, right there: Freddie who’d helped her talented but naive husband negotiate the politics of the plant until he was crew leader, then foreman, then supervisor of operations reporting directly to the V.P. Freddie had even bigger ambitions for Bucky, and insisted that George arrange to have him taken on upstairs, where decisions were made and the fellas wore suits. Bucky wondered if Freddie realized that she’d had her husband promoted out of the part of the job that he loved: being one of the grease-streaked guys who kept the big machines running. The only good thing about it was that the old man worked out his frustrations by spending every weekend in his workshop with his tools, tinkering and building and teaching Bucky everything he knew. Not that Bucky'd ever have the chance to use it.

“Sure, it’s fascinating being a man of business," Bucky said dryly. "Learning how to squeeze guys dry and bust up unions," and he'd said it to be offensive, kinda, but to his surprise, Steve just laughed and got up to get himself more coffee. 

"Sure, right," Steve said, with a smirk. "You would never," and Bucky felt a flash of red-hot anger, because how dare Steve be so sure of him when he wasn't at all sure of himself. Steve had no idea of what he was capable of, the dumb cluck. Look at what he'd already done—what he was, in fact, still doing—to Steve, who was the best goddamned friend anyone had ever had. He was keeping Steve too close and queering his chances at any kind of normal life out of pure, goddamned selfishness, and Steve wouldn't—or couldn't, or just refused to—understand.

It made him want to smack Steve out of his complacency.  "Don't be too sure. Their whole program's designed to knock the decency out of you. They move you from division to division, spin you around so many times that you don't know which way is up. Then they send you out to the regional offices for a couple of years, make sure you're thoroughly discombobulated. By time you get back, you'd gut your own mother for a 2% increase in annual profits—" 

But now Steve looked worried. "What'd'ya mean, regional offices? What regional offices?" and Bucky's heart started pounding, because this—this was a door, wasn't it. This could be a way out, a way for him to do the right thing by Steve with a minimum of fuss and heartbreak. 

"The regional offices," Bucky repeated, trying to sound casual. "You know: Hartford, Baltimore, Atlanta. Though they'll probably send me out to Chicago; that's their midwest headquarters."

"Oh," Steve said, after a moment, and then he forked another bit of casserole into his mouth and went on doggedly chewing.

Steve drank his tea, mulling over what it could mean that Bucky was dreaming about his ma. His intuition told him it was good, because Freddie had been such an agreeable person, full of high spirits and gaiety. She’d given them cake when they were younger and booze when they were older, and Steve remembered oh so many nights playing cards at the Barnes house, their table wreathed in smoke. Sometimes they’d pull back the rug and dance to the radio—or rather, Bucky’s parents would, and Ellie and Don and whoever else was around, and Bucky would dance with all of his sisters’ friends (they were crazy for him, and he flirted shamelessly with them) or with his ma, spinning her and dipping her suddenly so she shrieked with laughter.

When they were kids, he and Bucky stayed up late, romping and joshing around and then frantically shushing each other in the dark living room, sprawled in bunks made from the couch cushions. Freddie would come to the door, a looming shadow, to chide them—but even then they knew she wasn’t really mad or anything: she was just playing policeman, which made everything more exciting. Freddie was always organizing some kind of fun, and Steve's ma didn't have much time for fun. Oh, Sarah did what she could for them, spending her tiny bits of spare cash on treats: bottles of beer or bags of nuts, dried fruit, pretzels with mustard, but she came home from the hospital exhausted most nights. Steve knew that the best way to show her he loved her was to have his own affairs in order, to keep himself as well as he could and to have done any bit of housekeeping or shopping he could do. Then he would either sit quietly, sketching or reading, or absent himself from their tiny flat so she could sleep. He did have fond memories, though, of sitting companionably with Sarah listening to concerts or plays, or doing the washing up while she did the mending. He'd never danced with Sarah the way Bucky danced with Freddie—only maybe once or twice when he was a very small child, standing on her shoes.

"I only ever danced on her shoes," Steve said aloud, then realized that, to Bucky, that comment had come out of nowhere. "I was just thinking about how you used to dance with Freddie," he explained. "I never danced with my ma, and then I lost the chance. Your ma was so kind to me, after," and Steve remembered how pale-faced and shocked Freddie had been when Sarah died, and how unnatural grief had looked on her. But she'd really stood by him when he needed her, bringing over food and quietly making certain, impossible-to-pay bills disappear, and then she'd given him Bucky to take home with him, which was the best thing she had to give. "I mean, I'll never forget what she did for me, afterwards," Steve said. "And letting you move in—"

Bucky cracked a smile. "I think she thought I needed a place to bring girls back to," he said.   "But yeah, she was a good egg, Freddie. As solid as they come," and Steve suddenly wondered how Freddie Barnes had taken the news of the death of her golden boy all those years ago. Somehow it had never occurred to him to think about it. There'd been so many things to think about since he'd come out of the ice. "Do you have any idea what—" Steve began, and then instantly regretted it as he saw a panicked expression flutter across Bucky's pale face. 

"No," Bucky ground out. "No. I never—I have no idea what—" and Steve quickly interrupted, pushing back in his chair and saying, "You know what? —it's late.  It's late, Buck, and we've got work in the morning, so come on, come back to bed." He tugged at Bucky's arm, and Bucky let himself be tugged, coming to his feet—because he maybe knew what Steve knew: that if they could get back to bed, Steve could offer him the familiar, animal comfort of his body. The warmth of touch, of arms around him, warm skin to bury his face in, hands carding through his hair. 

Steve gave him his head for most of the evening, but when they were getting ready for bed, he skimmed off his suspenders, trousers and underpants and stood there in only his sleeveless shirt, bare legged and bare assed, his cock dangling just beneath the hem. Bucky didn’t, wasn’t going to look, except he couldn’t not see the glow of all that creamy pale skin, the narrow hip bones where he could rest his thumbs and…

Except they weren’t young anymore, and this wasn’t a game, kids fooling around. Everyone knew that a guy had to build up a head of steam to marry, and even Lotharios of the kind he pretended to be made a point of cooling it when they were ready to get serious. Bucky didn’t think he’d ever be able to do it himself—he’d reluctantly concluded that he just wasn’t wired that way—but he was pretty sure Steve could. Bucky’d seen Steve’s face flush up all pink and pretty when a girl talked to him, and maybe it wasn’t obvious to everyone yet that Steve was a catch, but in his experience girls weren’t dumb. They’d figure it out. And once Steve got his union card, he’d be a lot more stable, and he wasn’t likely to be sent to fight if he got drafted at all, which was its own kind of stability. The girl who landed Steve would be likely to hold on to him.

It was all perfect except for how Steve was looking at him with a heavy-lidded expression that undid him. And Steve’s —(cock, he wasn't looking; of course he was looking)— Steve's cock was filling, now bobbing up and nudging the hem of his t-shirt. And there was only one bed, which would have been normal enough if only he'd been normal enough, except he wasn't quite.  Though to be fair, Steve wasn't helping any. Steve had that flash in his eyes that he got when he was about to do something incredibly stupid, like getting between a guy's fists or intervening in a situation where he had no business being except for how that lady was crying or that kid was cowering. Steve was giving him that look he had that said, "C'mon. Come here. I'll let you," and Jesus Christ, what was a guy supposed to do about that ? 

In a more playful mood, they might have wrestled or tussled and things would have gone however they'd gone. They might've ended up on the bed or collapsed on top of each other in their battered old wingback chair, laughing and gasping and maybe a little come-streaked—but what was a little come between friends? It was a joke, really, what they did together: a bit of fun in a world where fun was hard to come by.  Or maybe the joke was that in any real struggle between them, Steve would win and they both knew it, though nobody else would have guessed. Whatever the joke was, they were both in on it, which made it okay: a secret bond between them. All a joke, really—or it had been. 

No joke now. There was no laughter in Steve's eyes: just desire, a flush beneath his pale skin and a big dose of that familiar, goddamned stubbornness in the set of his narrow shoulders. It was a dare, really, and he would have to strike back or knuckle under—and god knows he'd done plenty of both over the years. But striking back was always awful: he had sickening, scarring memories of raising his fists to Steve, and Steve had always taken him down anyway. Now, Steve turned away (a flash of slim hips, and the pale slope of his backside; I'll let you) and switched off their bedside lamp, vanishing into the sudden darkness. There was a creak of springs as Steve got into the bed and scooched over to his side, against the wall. Bucky stood there for a long moment (strike back or knuckle under? run!) before letting out a long, deliberate breath and getting in, too, like everything was normal, or like he was. He tugged at the covers, punched his pillow a couple of times before tucking it behind his neck, and settled back like his heart wasn't pounding. He lay there, trying to calm himself, trying to breathe— (In. Out. In.) —and he was just starting to fear that actually nothing was going to happen when Steve touched him.

Something fragile inside of him shattered immediately. 

"Shhh," Steve murmured, suddenly close, very close, nearly on top of him, "Shhh, it's all right." Long fingers, artist's hands, skittered over his cheek, palm covering his mouth, because he was gasping softly, nearly sobbing.  Then Steve really was on top of him, sliding his hand away and replacing it with his mouth—which was the impossible thing.  Hopeless, unworkable, out of the goddamned question, except for how the maddening little punk did it anyway, kissed his mouth all trembling. And that unlocked all of it, everything, and Bucky tangled his fingers in Steve's too-long, golden hair and kissed back roughly, licking into his mouth. He pushed himself against Steve's hard, smooth body, everywhere, then rolled Steve over onto his back to feel more of him and Steve let him, relaxing into it absolutely. Steve let him do anything, touch him anywhere, not even objecting when Bucky, half out of his mind with wanting it, flipped him over and, roughly shoving his own underwear down, dragged his aching cock up over the backs of Steve's thighs and his buttocks and came helplessly, unexpectedly, on the small of his back. For a moment, Bucky lost touch with everything except the fireworks going off behind his eyelids, and when he came back to himself, Steve's strong hand had seized his wrist and was firmly pulling Bucky's hand to his cock, which—Christ, yes, absolutely, and he snugged up close behind Steve and jerked him off with slow, expert intentionality until Steve was the one rocking and groaning aloud and Bucky had to muffle Steve's mouth with his palm til he came. 

They fell back against the pillows, gasping and twisted awkwardly together, sweating and sticky.

Steve said, a little breathlessly, "I really don't think you're gonna like the winters in Chicago."

"Just shut up," Bucky said.

"I mean, are you really going to root for the Cubs?"

"Just shut up. Please, for the love of God," but he was smiling stupidly in the dark.

Steve woke up with a lot of warm heavy Bucky curled around him. The covers were pulled up around Bucky's ears, with only a flop of dark hair showing. Bucky was sprawled across him, face tucked into his armpit. The curtain hadn't been properly closed, and a narrow slice of cold, winter morning cut across their bed. Steve slid his hand into Bucky's hair and closed his eyes again, unwilling to move yet—because how on earth could he? He rubbed his thumb lightly, affectionately, against Bucky's scalp. Bucky'd always been there for him when he needed him, and God knows he'd needed Bucky desperately and often. But that was only the half of it: the obvious half. The thing that nobody understood was that Bucky needed him, too —even back then, when he was small and sickly; when nobody needed Steven Grant Rogers for any damn thing. He remembered so vividly, like it was yesterday, how people had looked at him: either pityingly (whispered words: weakling, runt, invalid) , or with hostility (hissed: parasite) . 

Not Bucky, though. Right from the first, Bucky'd seen something in him that nobody else had—not even the people from Project Rebirth, who'd chosen him at least partly because he was so obviously expendable. But, incredibly, Bucky had wanted him, and maybe even more incredibly, Bucky (smart, handsome, tall, strong, healthy, well-off Bucky) had needed him, had come to him again and again for—well, for everything, really: advice, solace, affection, attention, companionship. Bucky Barnes had wanted his help. Bucky Barnes wanted to know what he thought. It had been the most precious thing, because it was the rarest thing, for him: to love someone by helping them, by being strong for them. It had been the making of him. It had saved him. It had let him be a person when everything and everybody had told him he wasn't. Steve had never wanted much, but he’d wanted that, and it was Bucky Barnes who had given it to him. 

Finally, he pulled his hand out of Bucky's hair and murmured, "You want coffee? Lemme up, I'll make coffee," and Bucky let out a half-asleep grunt but rolled off him, obligingly, when Steve nudged him, disappearing almost entirely beneath the blanket. Steve got dressed, shoved his feet into sneakers, and went out into the main room, where their tea cups were still sitting out. Freddie Barnes, he thought, carrying them to the sink. Steve thought about her as he set up the percolator and put together a breakfast for them of boiled eggs and buttered toast. He was still thinking about her when he went down into the garage to let the dogs out. It had to be good for Bucky to be thinking about Freddie—she was one of the good things in his life before the war.  And if there was sadness in the memory, it would be the universal, human sadness of losing a parent, not the very strange, very particular agonies that Bucky had suffered since 1945. 

Remembering Freddie would likely make Bucky feel—normal. Which was interesting, because thinking about his mother didn't make Steve feel normal at all.  In fact, it made him feel—

Steve startled as the garage phone rang just as he was about to head back upstairs.  He looked at his watch—except he wasn't wearing a watch—and then at the carelessly hung wall clock. It was early. They weren't open. Still, Steve turned back toward the rough wooden counter where the phone sat and lifted the receiver.  "Coney Island Design and Construction," he said, jerking back as Shop Cat sprang up onto the counter beside him and strutted back and forth, tail high.  

The voice on the other end was just that bit short of hysterical. "Oh, thank God. You're there ," and then she went on in a rush:  "This is Emma Roseman, you did my bathroom a couple of years ago. I live around the block from you, on East 7th. Look, please, there's water—I don't know where it's coming from, but it's over the powerstrips, and I don't want to get electrocuted—" Steve blindly grabbed a pencil, and wrote down ROSEMAN, EAST 7TH, FLOOD. "—and just, if you could come right now, please —" and Steve had to interrupt her to ask for the exact street address, which she gave him. "All right, I'll be right there," he said, and hung up, and then he stared straight ahead for five agonized seconds debating whether to go up and wake Bucky or just deal with it on his own—but it was only a couple of blocks away, and he could always call for backup if he needed it. He grabbed his coat from the hook and made a beeline for the white van, which had a full toolkit and an array of basic supplies in the back.

Steve'd gotten the water turned off, and a wet/dry vac set up when the phone rang.  He wormed it out of his pocket.  "Some nice fairy left me hot coffee and breakfast on the table," Bucky said. 

"Who you calling a fairy?" Steve shot back, and then, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm, "Look, I got a situation here, let me call you back." 

"Yeah, I know—Roseman, East 7th, flooding," Bucky said. "You need help?" 

"I'm all right for now—and stay put because Ludlow's supposed to come, he's bringing the stained glass for Marlborough. Make sure it looks right and nothing's broken, all right?"

"All right," Bucky said, and then:  "do I pay him or have you paid him?"

"You can pay him if it looks right, but check it against what I ordered—two doors, stairwells, and a bunch of front window pieces. Cash in the box, I told him I'd pay cash. I'll call you in a bit and check in, I might need help with the electrical here, depending on what it looks like." 

"Will do," Bucky said, and hung up. 

The next morning, over boiled eggs and toast, Steve snatched Bucky’s cigarette out of the ash tray and took a quick drag for courage. The smoke burned in his lungs. His head swam.

“Look,” Steve declared finally. “Lay it out straight if you’ve got a beef with me or something.”

Bucky plucked the cigarette back, looking surprised. “A beef? No. What makes you say that?"

"Well, just, you seem mad sometimes," Steve told him.

Bucky groaned and slid down in his chair, letting his head tip back. "Nah, I ain't mad at you. You're wonderful," he said, and then, twisting it to be wry, "You're a peach. No, the truth is that when I'm mad, it's mostly me I'm mad at." He took a drag and blew a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling; an irritated dragon. "I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself, to be honest with you."

Steve braced his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Why?"  

Bucky gave him a narrow, sideways glance.  "Don't be a dumbass," he said. 

"No, I mean it.  This is our house, right?" Steve demanded. 

"Your house," Bucky corrected. "I just moved in here after your mother—"

"Fine, sure, my house. Better yet—so don't I set the rules? What we do here, in our house—

"Your house," Bucky repeated stubbornly.

"—in the privacy of— You know, you do live here," Steve said, interrupting himself. "If you haven't noticed. If that somehow flew past your keen eye and razor sharp—"

"I'm not gonna argue with you. Ain't nobody ever got anything but a headache, arguing with you—"

"I'm just saying, we live here. This is our place, and we can do what we want, that's all." Steve sat back and crossed his arms.

"Hallelujah, and God bless America," Bucky concluded wearily, and then, changing the subject with a speed that gave Steve whiplash. "You know, my mother wants me to talk to Eleanor," and before Steve could ask, "What about?" Bucky told him. "She thinks Ellie should marry Don sooner rather than later," Bucky explained.  "Get started making a bunch of little Barneses—or I guess they'll be little Lawsons," he mused. "I'm the only one who can make little Barneses." 

"Oh," Steve said, suddenly getting the whole picture: this wasn't a change of subject at all.

Now Bucky looked mad, so he was probably just mad at himself. "Don't say 'oh' to me like that,"  he warned.

"Okay, but—" Steve said, and then raised his hands placatingly, because oh boy.  

And then Bucky went totally off the rails. "Why the hell don't you marry Ellie? She's a nice-looking girl even if she is my sister," and it was all Steve could do to pick his jaw up off the floor.

"Uh, because…she doesn't like me? And because I'm kind of tied-up with you?" 

"You're not tied up, Houdini," Bucky shot back, and then he waved his hand: "Voila! You're free!"

"I'm going to murder you with a brick,"  Steve said, low and deadly.

Bucky tsked.  "I don't like your chances."

"I'll do it when you're asleep," Steve pushed back from the table and stood. "You'll never see it coming."

"You know, I wish you would," and Steve had been planning to storm out, to head off to work on a cloud of drama, or at least huff —except there was something raw and awful in Bucky's voice, and so he turned back and affectionately gripped Bucky's too-tense shoulders with his hands.

"Look, if Ellie wants to marry Don, she should marry him," Steve said, digging his thumbs in. "It's nothing to do with you."

"Yeah," and then Bucky looked around and said, softly, "I don't think she likes him that much."

"Well, then she shouldn't," Steve said.

But that only made it worse when, ten days later, Don Lawson was among the first guys called up for the draft. An announcement of his engagement to Eleanor Barnes appeared in the next morning's paper.

Steve flung open their apartment door. “All hail the conquering— oh, hi, Clint,” because Clint Barton was sitting on a chair pulled out from the million dollar table. He had an ice pack pressed to his head. Bucky was pulled up in a chair beside him knee to knee and fussing with a pile of first aid supplies; he seemed to be in the process of bandaging a cut on Clint’s arm.

Bucky glanced over at him and then visibly recoiled. "Wow, you smell terrible.”

"It's true, I've been in the sewer,” Steve agreed, shutting the door. “You didn’t beat him up, Bucky, did you?” he asked. Clint cracked a smile.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I did not beat him up, no,” he replied.

“So what happened to him?" Steve asked.

“Well, that's an interesting story,” Bucky replied, sitting back. “I think basically I can say that I’ve found someone with less grace than you. Or I don’t know, maybe grace ain’t the word,” he said, now directing his attention to Clint. “I’ve fought with you,” he told Clint. “You’ve got grace when you fight, and Exhibit A over here,” he said, jerking his head toward Steve, “is like a ballet dancer or an ice skater, triple lutzing and jeté-ing so long as it’s for punching a Nazi. Meanwhile ask him to do a simple fox trot and he trips over the ottoman and knocks Chinese food all over the—”

“That only happened one time,” Steve said, and then, remembering a time that Bucky’d tried teaching him to dance in their old apartment with similarly disastrous consequences. “Twice at most.” And then of course there’s been those dance lessons they’d made him do before the first USO tour. They hadn’t gone well.

“See?” Clint declared, triumphantly, to Bucky. “It’s not so simple.”

“Steve is not who you want to be using as your example here,” Bucky shot back. “Other people can do it.”

“Other people in 1940 could do it,” Clint said. “This is now , Barnes. Ballroom dancing’s a thing of the past!”

“You shoot a goddamn bow and arrow!" Bucky pointed out, and then he turned to Steve and said, “Would you please go shower before I pass out? Also we’ve got company, such as he is.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, as Bucky turned back to cutting gauze, “but hang on. If you’re helping Clint brush up on his steps—”

“Brushing up is not what I would call that,” Bucky said darkly.

“—does that mean you and Natasha have set a date?” and as he watched, Clint Barton’s face, which usually wore a beleaguered, weathered, seen-it-all expression, brightened with pleasure.

“We’re not calling it that—she's not calling it that—but yeah, I think so!” Clint said, and rapped his knuckles hard on the million dollar table a bunch of times. "What she's saying is that we should host the holiday party this year, somewhere nice. Black tie, live music and dancing, close friends only—and that doesn't sound like a wedding to me, does that sound like a wedding to you?"

"Not at all," Steve agreed, grinning. "Not a bit."

"Right. We host a holiday party, drinks and dancing, somewhere nice, and maybe get married first. Possibly on the way there. Honestly, I'm waiting to be told. Whatever it is, I'll show up."

"That's the spirit," Steve said. 

"But I think I should be ready and able to dance with her," Clint said, and then, turning to Bucky:  "Otherwise, she'll be dancing every dance with you."

"Don't worry, I'll let you cut in," Bucky said; he'd neatly tied up the last bit of gauze. "Believe me, it doesn't mean anything, other than it's a pleasure dancing with someone who can do it. I love Steve, but…"  He looked over at Steve, standing near the bathroom door, and didn't finish the thought. "Anyway, even in the old days, I used to dance with my sisters or my ma, and more competitively at the dance hall with this dark-haired girl whose name I can't even—"

"It was Josephine," Steve said.

Bucky's eyebrows flew up. "Was her name Josephine ?" 

"It was," Steve said. 

"You have an uncanny sense of recollection," Bucky said.

"For some things, yeah," Steve agreed.

"Meanwhile, Clint, I hate to tell you, but you're going to have to see a professional," Bucky said. He sat back and Clint looked worriedly at his gauze-wrapped arm. 

"It's not that bad, is it? You think I need a doctor?"

"No, I mean a professional dance instructor," Bucky said. "You've got no time to lose," and Steve laughed and went into the bathroom to shower.

The Barnes house was a whirl of activity when Bucky got there. His dad was outside, loading boxes into the car to take over to the Knights of Columbus hall. Ellie was standing on a chair in the parlor while old Mrs. Litman knelt on the floor before her, mouth full of pins. The armchair was piled with dresses: Grace and Becky were trying to decide of them which to wear while Freddie carefully, judiciously, allotted lace and baubles. The best stuff was to go to Ellie of course, but the other girls were also to get velvet ribbons and rhinestone shoe clips. 

Freddie glanced over at him and said, “I hope you have everything you need for tonight, do you?” and what would he need, what the hell could he need? Freddie must have read the look off his face because she prompted, “All pressed and shined?” and he rolled his eyes because yes, of course. “What about Steve?” she asked and oh, well, Steve. “Steve‘ll wear whatever he’s got,” Bucky said, “unless you want me to tell him there’s a dress code and uninvite him.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Freddie said, pursing her lips, “but can’t you loan him something?”

“He’s nothing near my size,” Bucky replied, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “Believe you me, Ma, life would be a helluva lot easier if me and Steve could wear each other’s clothes.”

“Well I suppose it can’t be helped,” Freddie sighed, and returned to rummaging through her box of notions.

Bucky went over to where Ellie was perched; was it him or did she look pale and anxious? “You got a minute to talk to your favorite brother?”

“You’re my only brother,” she said, like she always did, but the reply was missing her familiar friendly savagery. “And I’m a little tied up at the moment,” she said, raising her arms, and Bucky couldn’t deny the truth of it, she was being held together with pins and bits of wire. 

“Well that’s just what I wanted to…” Bucky began, and he shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Freddie was now considering jewelry, and Becky and Grace were arguing because the dresses they’d each decided on didn’t coordinate. Mrs. Litman was right there, of course, silently working away, but he wasn’t worried about her. “Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “this all happened pretty fast, and don’t get me wrong—I like Don fine—but you shouldn’t feel like you have to marry him just because his number’s up. You don’t have to marry him now, anyway. I always got the sense that you weren’t 100 percent sold on Don, so if you want…I’ll take the heat, make a scene, cause a fight, throw a punch, or maybe just get them to make it an engagement party. We’ll take a nice picture, you’re engaged, huzzah , and then we’ll see where we are next year.” But even as said it, he saw the anxiety melting off Ellie’s face. She flushed pink, smiling.

“You really are my favorite brother," Ellie said fondly. "No, it's all right really. I do want to marry Don. This was just—well, sometimes you need events to give you a little push, that's all."

"Well, all right," Bucky said. "If you say."

The mass was held at St. Agnes. Afterwards, the wedding party was photographed on the church steps before trooping en masse around the corner to the hall, which was festooned with white crepe and hydrangeas. There were canapes and finger sandwiches spread out on the table, lobster and chicken salad, frosted cake and a champagne punch. Freddie'd hired the three-piece band that usually played McAllister's to perform in one corner, and eventually folks started dancing. Bucky danced first with one girl and then another and then another, and Freddie beamed and praised him for his good manners and thoughtfulness in not bringing a date himself, but instead offering himself as a partner for all the unmarried girls, spinsters, and maiden aunts. Steve stood by the wall, watching the dancing and eating sandwiches. 

But at some point during the evening, Bucky looked over and Steve was gone.  He peered through clouds of cigarette smoke and between dancers for narrow shoulders and blond hair. Not there. He excused himself from his partner and left to see if Steve was in the hall, or if he'd gone out for some air; Steve's lungs were easily overwhelmed by heat and smoke. He found Steve in a dark, empty foyer on the side of the building, standing so still just inside the glass doors that Bucky might have missed him if he hadn't been looking so hard. Steve heard him and turned, finger pressed to his lips. Bucky nodded and silently slid closer, keeping to the shadows. 

"Something's going on," Steve murmured, "but I don't know what." He pointed, and Bucky saw the building across the way, windows glowing with warm light, and in the alley behind—a box? Full of—wood? Sticks? "Some guys pulled up in a car," Steve said, squinting into the darkness, "while I was standing here watching, and they unloaded that box real quick," and suddenly Bucky knew what he was looking at. Not sticks. Bats. Baseball bats, and maybe some lead pipes, and—

"That's the Prospect Hall across the way," Bucky said in a low voice, "and they're having a thing tonight, the fucking German—what the hell do they call themselves? The Friends of Germany?” 

Steve turned to him, his mouth falling open. "What, you mean the Nazis ? Are you shitting me?"

"They call themselves the Bund now, but it's the same shit as the Friends of New Germany or whatever they used to call themselves," Bucky said. "I only know about it because at the gym—all the champion boxers, they're Jewish boys, and sure, they win trophies and stuff, but I think they're really training to go out there and protest these meetings, and—"  He got a sudden sinking feeling, and saw it mirrored on Steve's face, because somebody'd just hidden a box of baseball bats and lead pipes in the alley behind Prospect Hall. 

"We oughta call the cops," Bucky said. 

"Yeah, there'll probably be a phone in the main office," Steve said. "Meanwhile, I'm gonna see if I can hide those—" and Bucky grabbed his arm, hard, and said, "Oh, no, you don't!" 

"Buck, someone's planning for violence. We've got to stop it!" Steve said.

"Yeah, someone's planning for violence, and I'm not going to have you waltzing right into the middle of it!" 

"Okay, look—first, let's hide those weapons, and then we'll come in and call the cops.  All right?" and it wasn't all right, it was absolutely in no way all right, but Steve was pushing through the door and moving down the metal and concrete steps.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bucky muttered, and quickly followed.

Steve was nearly done with December's invoices. It had been a good month, work-wise: they'd ended up redoing the whole drainage system at the Roseman house, and then she'd hired them to fix everything the flood had damaged. Bucky'd done all the wiring, and Steve had carefully framed the room with custom baseboards and new, built-in shelving. It looked pretty good when they were done. They'd also gotten the Peterson place finished before Christmas, installing stained glass in the transom windows over the doors and in the stairwells, and adding the occasional colorful grace-note of stained glass to the house's black metal casement windows.  

It was work to be proud of, and it had made them enough money that they could take the rest of the month off, maybe even a couple of weeks in January—and then Steve laughed out loud, because they always said that, every year: that they'd take a couple of weeks, that they wouldn't do work that wasn't interesting. But then someone would call and...well, you couldn't always tell at first what was going to be interesting.  Everything in a house was connected, especially in the old Victorians and row houses that lined the blocks on either side of Coney Island Avenue. Besides, how could you tell someone their problem wasn't interesting enough for you to fix? Steve thought about Mrs. Roseman's sewers and shuddered, but he'd enjoyed the woodworking that had come after. A bad job could lead to a better one. And Mrs. Roseman had left an almost ecstatic review on their Yelp page.

He was still chuckling as he folded the invoices and slid them into their envelopes.  Their apartment door opened and Bucky practically fell in, carrying a bunch of parcels and bags, which he dumped on and around the million dollar table. "What's so funny?" Bucky asked, disentangling himself. 

"We are," Steve said, and sat back.

"Well, I knew that." Bucky looked down at the bags with a shake of his head, then turned, impulsively, to Steve and kissed him—really kissed him, practically bending him over the back of the chair to do it. 

"What was that about?" Steve asked him, a little breathlessly. "Not that I'm complaining."

"It's our house, ain't it?" Bucky asked.

Steve smiled. "Your house," he said, and crossed his arms a little puckishly. "You just invited me to live here because you knew how much I hated D.C."

"Is that what happened?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah, something like that," Steve said.

"Well, fine then—my house, my rules.  Meanwhile, your tuxedo's airing out on the back of the door," he said, turning back to his packages, "and I got us a couple of fresh shirts for tonight—"

Steve stood, frowning. "I have a tuxedo?"

Bucky rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, it's black? And I've seen you wearing it, in pictures, galas and—who the hell used to dress you before I came back?"

"Tony, I guess," Steve said helplessly.  "I just wear whatever anyone sets out for me."

"That explains so much," Bucky said. "Anyway, the invite was very specific: black tie, at some private club with no name, just an address—in Clinton Hill, can you believe it? She's gone full-out Brooklyn, has Natasha. Ten years, she'll probably move the United Nations to Fulton Street. Oh, and wait, here—c'mere, try this on," he said, dragging over another large bag. "I don't know if it'll fit you, but it fit me, so I figured take a chance," he said. "Here, happy early Christmas," Bucky said, and pulled—something, a large black fabric something, out of the bag: a coat. It was a black wool winter coat. 

"It's great," Steve said, taking it; it was heavy, really nice, "but I have a coat."

"No, you have a jacket, this is a coat, a winter coat, more formal than anything you've got," Bucky said as Steve pulled it on. It fit fine, but Bucky was frowning, tugging at the lapels, adjusting the shoulders, evaluating it in ways beyond Steve's comprehension. "It'll do," Bucky said finally, a little grudgingly. "I got a slightly different one for myself—I had my mother's voice in my head. She used to say that you could judge a man by his coat and his shoes." 

"Yeah, that's not what my ma used to say," Steve replied, and Bucky burst out laughing.

"Well, that's right —and that's why you're you and I'm me.  I loved her, you know—your mother," Bucky said with sudden vehemence. "She was an incredible person, like nobody else."

"It's the truth," Steve said, "but I appreciated your ma too, Buck, believe me. Freddie was a lot of fun even if she was always trying to clean me up and make me better than I was."

"Yeah—and in that spirit, get moving, time's a-wasting," Bucky said, quick-clapping his hands. "Shower, shave, put yourself together. Meanwhile, what are we supposed to bring to this wedding that isn't a wedding?" he demanded. "A holiday party, she says, but it's catered, so we can't even bring food or wine or anything. Cake? Flowers? I'm sure there's gonna be cake and flowers."

"We could make her something," Steve said slowly. "Something custom, that she'd like."

"Not in two hours, we can't," Bucky said, and then he laughed: "Give her an IOU, a credit slip—what do they call it, now: a gift certificate. Good for one custom item or upgrade of your choice, signed Coney Island Design & Construction. Or—" Bucky was suddenly serious, "you know what you should do: you should paint her. I bet she'd like that, she's—you know, she acts all tough, but she's very sentimental, underneath. She's got a lot of feeling, Natasha."

"Yeah, I know," Steve said quietly. "It's a good thought." 

"You could just paint her all abstract," Bucky said, grinning and breaking the mood. "Black and red, triangles everywhere," he said, waving his hands in the air to illustrate.

"Yeah, you stick to fashion, let me do the painting," Steve said, and headed for the bathroom.

He was nearly there when Bucky called after him, "You know, you do live here. In my house, with me. If you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed," Steve replied, then impulsively peeled his t-shirt up, over his head, and dropped it on the floor, just to tease.

Steve finished tying his tie and, dropping his hands, stepped back to take in the final effect in the mirror.  Bucky would be pleased, he thought. Bucky would possibly be too pleased—Steve would have to make sure that the tuxedo stayed unwrinkled and unstained, whatever happened. 

But when he went out into the living room, Bucky wasn't there. Steve crossed to the apartment door and yelled Buck's name down into the garage—and just then, Bucky's phone rang, the distinctive ring that Steve knew was reserved for Natasha. He turned and saw Bucky's phone sitting on the end table, plugged into its charger.  "Bucky, your phone's ringing!" Steve called down once more, and then he went over, picked it up, and answered it.

He was immediately greeted with a torrent of Russian. "Mozhesh' li vypolnit' moyu pros'bu dorogoy?"—Dearest, do me a favor?— and immediately interrupted with, "Steve—Nat, this is Steve."

Natasha immediately switched into English. "Steve, where's Barnes—I need him."

"What's going on?" Steve asked, because this was the head of SHIELD he was talking to. 

"Clint sent out an alert," Natasha said crisply, "and now he's not answering. It could be a joke but—I don't think so. He's closer to you, Brooklyn waterfront, so I sent the location to Barnes—"

"I'm on my way," Steve said. 

"Steve," Natasha said softly, "you don't work for SHIELD anymore."

Steve was already racing down the steep wooden steps. "I'm on my way," and then he shoved Bucky's phone into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and kicked up the stand of his motorcycle. Forty seconds later he was roaring up Coney Island Avenue toward the park.

The box was heavier than it looked—well hadda be, it was full of lead pipes and really solid goddamned baseball bats, and Bucky grabbed an armful of them and ran back up the stairs, shoving them into the Knights of Columbus's foyer and out of sight. Meanwhile Steve was hauling a couple of bats off in another direction, maybe planning to stuff them into the trashcans at the side of the alley. Bucky'd just loaded up with a second armful when someone yelled, "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" He looked up to see three big guys walking toward him.

Bucky straightened up, still and unblinking. He suddenly felt like he could see everything. They were wearing workmen's clothes, windbreakers with tiny American flag pins on one side—and swastikas on the other.  True Americanism , they called it. What a load of shit. 

"Just clearing these out of the way," Bucky said evenly. "Are they yours?" 

"Yeah," one of them said. "Now that you mention it."  

"Well, you better put 'em away before someone gets hurt," Bucky said.

The one closest to him, the head man, Bucky supposed, was raising big, meaty fists. "Oh, someone's gonna get hurt, all right,"—except Bucky was the one holding an armful of lead pipes. He dropped them, clanging noisily, back into the box at his feet—all except one, which he hefted meaningfully, raising his eyebrows.  

"You wanna try it? Come try it," Bucky said. 

There was a flash of hesitation on the head man's face, but the guy behind him crowed, "Oh, believe me, we're coming for you, asshole—" but then he suddenly screamed in pain and pitched forward, because Steve had blurred out of the darkness, swinging the bat at the guy's legs like he was Dolph Camilli straining for a triple. Bucky didn't hesitate: he charged forward, swinging, and took the head man down with a single, swift blow followed by a kick to take the guy's legs from under him. The third man turned to charge, furiously, at Steve, and so Bucky swung again, hard, hearing the crack of the guy's broken collarbone and then kicking him in the nuts when he turned, shrieking. He went down, too—but now there were more shapes massing at the end of the alley.  Steve turned toward them, arms shaking a little as he lifted the bat, but brave and ready for action—except Bucky, still feeling like all his senses were on high alert, suddenly recognized the biceps and enormous shoulder muscles of Ira Cohen, two time middleweight champion and, reputedly, muscle for the Jewish mob in his spare time.

“Ira!” Bucky yelled; he didn’t let go of the pipe but spread his arms wide, to lessen the threat. 

Ira peered down the alley at them. “Is that—Barnes, is that you?”

“Yeah!" Bucky called back, "and this is my friend Steve, he's okay.  We were just—" and he honestly wasn't sure how to explain what the hell was going on.  My sister just got married.  Steve Rogers has a nose for trouble that a goddamned bloodhound would envy. In the end, he just went with: "These guys had bats." 

Ira and the other guys rushed down the alley, took in the three men moaning and writhing on the ground, and then quickly snatched up the pipes and bats, arming themselves. "Goddamned Nazis," Ira muttered. "Come on: let's hurry. There's gonna be more of them."

"I can't, my sister—" Bucky began.

"I bet they're gonna attack the League for Democracy—"

"It's her wedding , see—it's going on right now," Bucky tried to explain.

" —who are picketing across the street from the hall," Ira went on. "Who have lawfully assembled in a goddamned peaceful protest of this Nazi shit," and Bucky was himself trying to make a peaceful protest— but what was the use? The pack was already moving, and Steve was going with them, and he was giving Ira Cohen a starry-eyed look that Bucky liked not one bit.

Architecturally, the Navy Yard wasn't that different from the way it had been, back in their day—the red brick warehouses and steel-beamed machine shops were still there, though the shanties of wood and tar paper had been replaced by modern concrete and glass buildings. In other ways, though, it was strikingly different—the place was practically empty, for one thing, where once it had been the site of frenetic, round-the-clock activity: 10,000 men working to build battleships and aircraft carriers. Now it was mostly boutique manufacturing and fancy shops—a world away from the real blue-collar industries of contractors, plumbers, and builders located on industrial strips like Coney Island Avenue or under the highway or the El—but there was still a drydock for shipbuilding and warehouses looming behind chain-linked fences. 

Clint's signal was coming from the east side of the Yard—north of Clinton Hill, where the re-development effort hadn't quite reached.  Here there was more graffiti and fewer craft breweries and gourmet bakeries. Steve drove until he found an open gate, then turned in and followed the signal until he reached a large, multi-storied brick building. It loomed over the waterfront: Building 54. It was dark, and it looked to be locked-up tight—except, there was something that looked like an antenna sticking out from the top. Steve craned his neck. An arrow, he thought, which only made sense. Clint had no doubt entered the building from above. 

That wasn't an option for him, though. Steve parked his bike, slid off, and circled the building, looking for a way in. The metal door was locked, but Steve was able to break off the handle with a single hard, twisting pull and draw the bolt back. A dark warren of a hallway, leading to equally dark rooms, but this was just the first floor. He debated flipping Bucky's phone out of his pocket and putting on its flashlight, but then he'd lose the element of surprise, presuming he needed it. Gifted with supersoldier vision, he could see pretty well in the dark. 

But the little girl couldn't see well, and in his black tuxedo, he was probably close to invisible in the dark. She flew down the stairs and ran straight into him, screaming in shock as they connected and then kicking and lashing out every which way.  Something hard, hurtful, hit him, and then he realized: she had a metal handcuff dangling from one wrist. He bent and grabbed hold of her just to still her, to steady her, and said, “It’s all right. I’m here to help.” She stared into his face and took a couple of gulping breaths before managing: “Hurry! They’ll kill him!”

“Where?” he asked, and she turned, pointing at the metal stairs she’d come down. “All the way at the top.”

“Okay,” he said. “You, get out, stay by my motorcycle, hide if you see anybody but me come out of this building,” and when she nodded, he pointed her in the direction he had come from, and she ran off. He took off himself, then, ascending the stairs swiftly and silently, because the only reasonable “him” he could think of who’d be in danger was Clint. At the top of the stairs, there was a slice of light visible (a door, ajar, at the end of the hall)—but also the familiar sounds of a scuffle (meaty thuds and grunts, the sudden sharp scrape of furniture) — and then a gunshot. Someone screamed and Steve, without thinking, abandoned stealth and hurled himself down down the corridor and smashed open the door to find a huge room and a fight well in progress. 

Clint was bleeding from the temple and wrestling a big guy for a gun, and four girls were screaming and clawing at some other guy, one leaping on his back and hanging off him like she was riding a bronco. The room was lined with metal cots, half of which had cowering girls still handcuffed to them, and—two other thugs launched themselves at him just as another gunshot went off, wild, and smashed through the skylight. It sent glass raining down—and okay, this was bullshit, because even though Clint was outnumbered, it was obvious that these guys were amateurs. Steve took out the two coming at him with a quick one-two punch, then plowed through three more, kicking one into the wall and knocking the other two unconscious by smashing their heads together. Clint knocked the gun out of the hand of the guy he was fighting and sent it skittering across the room, and Steve turned his attention to the remaining—

"You! Stop! Or I'll shoot"—and Steve saw that on the far side of the room, there was a round metal staircase spiraling up to the roof. A woman had climbed halfway up, and she was aiming a gun at him. Steve grabbed one of the empty metal cots and hurled it across the room at her with great force. She screamed and leapt back, but the cot hit the metal staircase with an almighty clang, yanking out the bolts that anchored the stairs to the wall and sending the whole structure twisting, the metal shrieking and groaning as it listed to one side. The woman on the staircase flailed and slid, the gun falling out of her hand as she struggled to hang on.  Steve turned to take out the others and saw that they were staring at him in disbelief: a moment later two of them fled, practically knocking into each other in their eagerness to get away. The remaining assailants seemed to steel themselves and made for Steve just as Clint let out a satisfied grunt: he’d finally managed to knock out the guy he’d been struggling with. Clint smiled out of a bloody mouth and let the body fall with a thud to the ground, then bent to snatch up a ring of keys. He moved up the line of cots, hastily unlocking the remaining girls, leaving it to Steve to take care of the remaining guards. 

Steve had just grabbed the last one when the door banged open, hard enough to slam against the opposite wall. Steve, expecting trouble, turned quickly, using the guy’s body as a shield—and instead saw Natasha standing there, looking furious and gorgeous in a sheath made of cream-colored sequins. She really looked like she wanted to hit somebody, so Steve pushed the guy he was holding in her direction, and let her punch him a couple of times and then kick him in the solar plexus. He went down, and when she drew back her foot to kick him again, Steve saw she was wearing open-toed cream satin pumps.

Clint had by now finished freeing the girls, and he turned ruefully to Natasha and said, pleading and a little defensive, “It’s not my fault! All right, it was maybe my fault for checking out the view from the roof, but when I saw what I saw, I had to—” There was an ear-splitting crash as the metal staircase finally collapsed, and when they turned they saw Iron Man levitating by the door to the roof where the stairs should have been but weren’t. Tony flipped up his helmet and said, “So is this where the party is? Because your invite said Clinton Hill,” and then they all turned again to see Bucky grimly dragging back the unconscious bodies of the two goons who’d tried to get away, one in each hand. He dumped them unceremoniously on top of the guy Natasha’d been pummeling and exclaimed, “I’m so sick of this shit!”

It wasn’t too bad, Bucky thought, squinting at himself in the men’s room mirror. He had a little cut on his forehead and a shiny bruise on his cheekbone and a split lip, but the bleeding had already mostly stopped and his fat lip gave his mouth kind of a sexy, pouting look. Not to mention that the other guys all looked much, much worse, and were most of them in the process of being arrested by New York’s Finest.

Besides…Steve was fussing over him with a handkerchief drenched in cold water, carefully daubing at his cuts and washing the sweat and grime off the rest of his face. He didn’t really need to do that but it was nice; Bucky didn’t mind. Kid had taken one or two punches himself, but nothing bad: his worst injury was to the knee of his good trousers, which had ripped when Steve had taken a fall to the concrete. But Steve had mostly been a cagey fighter, staying low and on the periphery, organizing the men to form a buffer between the brawlers and the picketers of the League for Democracy, some of whom were women and old people. Steve also had a knack for sensing when one of their people was in trouble, and he’d kneecap the other guy or hit him with something, a trash can lid or an apple box or a rock. He had a great eye for when in a fight to throw an object, did Steve.

“You sure you’re all right?” Steve asked, pulling back to get a good look at him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Bucky replied…and didn’t Rogers lean in then to softly kiss his battered, bleeding mouth, right there in the men’s room of the goddamned Knights of Columbus hall with his whole goddamned family so close that Bucky could still hear the music they were dancing to? And worse yet, didn’t that gentle soft kiss send desire shooting through him like an electric shock, gripping him with such urgency that it was all he could do not to muscle him back into one of the stalls and fuck him right there? Which he couldn’t, he—could not—but all the same he couldn’t help but grip Steve’s narrow shoulders and kiss him back intently, aroused even by the tingle of pain as his lip split again, at the taste of blood between them. He pulled himself back with an effort, aware that everything was on the verge of careening out of control, worse out of control than it normally even was. Steve Rogers was looking at him with want in eyes and blood on his mouth, and Bucky was hard enough to be noticeably tenting out his worsted wool pants.

“I gotta,” he said; it was hard to breathe. “Honestly, we oughta…” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the music, and Steve’s mouth opened like he was maybe going to protest, but then he closed it and didn’t.

“Yeah,” Steve said reluctantly. “You’re right,” and just as Bucky was about to say, “Hey, can I get that framed?” when the restroom door opened and Bucky’s uncle Jimmy walked in. He gave them a nodding glance, then did a double-take.

“Did you win?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, you bet,” Bucky replied.

“Well…you oughta go tell your Ma straight away. You don’t want to be sneaking up on Freddie with a face like that.”

“I didn’t think it was too bad!” Bucky said, turning again to peer into the mirror over the sink. 

“Depends on what round the K.O. was in,” Jimmy said, and went to take a piss.

Bucky took a breath before going back into the party and made a beeline for the bar: Freddie could always be found dancing and laughing close to the bar. A wake of sudden silences and awkward glances trailed him as he crossed the room. He ran into his dad before he ran into his mother; George Barnes was in the middle of telling some crazy story to his mates when he caught sight of Bucky and the grin slid off his face. 

“Aw, Buck,” he said, face twisting in sympathy.

“I’m fine. Dad—you should see the other guy,” Bucky said, and his dad slung an arm around his neck, dragged him close, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Good luck telling your mother,” his dad said wryly and Bucky laughed and said, “Thanks, I’ll need it.”

“At least we already took pictures,” George Barnes said—but Bucky’d spotted his mother and strode off toward her, wanting to get it over with. She turned as he neared, perhaps sensing his approach—and then her welcoming smile turned abruptly to shock. 

"Now, Ma,” Bucky began, raising his hands placatingly, “it ain’t as bad as it looks—“ but then Steve materialized at his elbow and said, “Freddie, he took a bunch of blows meant for me, fighting Nazis outside the Prospect Hall. He was standing up for democracy, Freddie,” and like a Greek chorus, practically in unison, a group of his sisters’ friends let out squeals of sympathy and flirtatious little sighs. Bucky, surprised, turned to look and saw one of his sister’s friends—Camille, was it?—furiously batting her eyelashes at him; beside her, another looked like she was planning to butter him and eat him on a roll. 

Freddie’s eyes had cut sideways—she’d noticed the girls’ reaction, too—and then Steve, who could never keep his damn mouth shut, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “If I was you, Buck, I’d charge ten cents a dance, proceeds to go to the League of Democracy.” Camille laughed, grabbing him by the hand, and with a cry of, “Me first!”, tugged him off toward the band. Behind him, Steve turned back to his Ma and said, “It was my fault; honestly, it’s always my fault. I don’t go looking for trouble, but somehow it finds me, and it’s only ever Bucky who gets me out.”

Natasha would normally have delegated a mess like this to her subordinates; she was well aware that every few months, some group of morons of greater or lesser sincerity tried to rekindle Nazism or restart HYDRA or reinvent the Super Serum. But it had been a while since someone tried to reinvent the Red Room, and Natasha was determined to stick around and personally attend to all the arrangements where the girls were concerned. Meanwhile Clint gave a formal statement to the SHIELD agents who'd arrived to document, photograph, and dismantle the scene. Being Hawkeye, he'd gone up to the roof of the building where they were holding the party, intending merely to check out the view. Instead, he'd seen a light flashing erratically from the roof of the warehouse, and it had started to look a lot like a signal. Curious, he'd gone to investigate, and when he'd gotten there, he'd found a little girl—

"Oh, shit!" Steve muttered, and raced for the stairs.  

It was fully dark now, and the twinkling white lights of the buildings up the east river and the colorful spinning lights of the various emergency vehicles somehow only made everything around them seem darker. Steve wandered around and between them, looking in the shadows for the first little girl he'd encountered, running down the stairs. He checked with the ranking SHIELD agent on the scene, but no dice: they'd taken eleven little girls away to safety, but there'd been twelve cots upstairs, and nobody remembered collecting up a little girl waiting outside. They dispatched some agents to search the larger Navy Yard, and Steve finally went to sit on his parked motorcycle, hoping that the little girl would materialize out of the shadows.

Which…was just what she did. 

Steve blinked, and the little girl appeared, shivering, between one blink and the next. Steve moved quickly, swooping her up his arms and carrying her to the back of an ambulance, where the EMTs wrapped her in a blanket and checked her over. She was fine, if a little blue-lipped, and Steve promptly carried her back inside the doors of Building 54, where it was warmer.

“You said not to go with anybody who wasn’t you,” she said, a little reprovingly.

“That’s right,” Steve admitted. “That’s absolutely what I said.” He turned as Bucky came down the stairs and frowned, looking from the little girl to Steve. 

“What, you found another one?” Bucky asked. "How many more of them are there?"

“This is Bucky, he’s with me, he’s okay,” Steve assured the little girl, “and them too,” because Natasha, Clint, and Tony were now coming down the stairs. “These guys, they’re my friends.”

“Uh, they’re the Avengers ?” the girl explained in a tone that suggested he was well-meaning but kind of stupid, and then Clint caught sight of her and called out, “Vita!” The little girl turned toward his voice and wriggled happily, and so Steve set her down and watched as she ran to Clint, who swung her around before setting her down on her feet again.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay,” Clint said, smiling, and then he looked at the others and said, “This is Vita, she was the girl on the roof, the one who sent the signal.”

“They cuffed me wrong and I was able to get free,” Vita explained, raising her wrist to show the empty handcuff dangling. Clint quickly unlocked it, but there was already a reddish scar on the inside of the girl’s slim arm. “I knew they were downstairs so I went up, instead, and tried to get somebody’s attention. I didn’t think I’d get the Avengers, though.”

“Still, it was good thinking,” Natasha said approvingly, “and very clever of you.”

“You’re Natasha Romanov,” the little girl said, star-struck. “They told us about you. They said that they were going to help us grow up to be just like you.” She frowned, seeming to think that over. “But I think they just were a bunch of lying bastards.” 

Tony laughed out loud, and Bucky looked scandalized, but Clint Barton didn’t miss a beat. “They definitely are a bunch of lying bastards,” he told Vita, stabbing a finger for emphasis, “but believe me, darlin’—they weren’t lying about how great Natasha is. We're on our way to get married,” but then Clint frowned and looked at his watch. “Or we were... I guess it’s too late now. Though,” he said, and abruptly turned to Tony, “you’re a billionaire, right? You must have enough clout to get someone to come out with the right paperwork to marry us.”  

Tony coughed, slung an avuncular arm over Barton’s shoulders, and leaned in close. “Not to break it to you, sport, but the wife-to-be has got the most clout of anybody in the room at the moment, being as she’s the head of a supra-national government agency. She can get you guys married at any time by the laws of practically any nation in the world, if she wants to,” and Clint looked at Natasha, who was flushed pink and looking a little self-conscious, but smiling.

“And I…do want to, Clint,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll have someone sent over to the party, and we’ll get married between the hors d'oeuvres and the first course.” Clint, beaming, threw his arms around her and kissed her theatrically, even bending her backwards in a dip.

"Excellent,” Tony said; he clapped his hands, and the Iron Man suit retracted into his jewelry, leaving him clad in an impeccably-tailored tuxedo. “We’ll make an entrance, fashionably and fantastically late. If the booze is already flowing freely, it’ll all seem like part of the plan.”

“I’ll stay back and make sure that Vita’s taken care of,” Steve murmured. “And then I’ll come right over.”

But Natasha looked at Vita curiously and shook her head. “No, you know what?—Bring her. It’s Christmas. Besides,” she added, lips curving, “I think she might be lucky for us.”

At some point in the evening, everything went blurry and beautiful. Bucky didn't remember how they got back to their building, but here they were. Steve somehow managed to wrestle him up the stairs—Steve was the perfect height to lean on—and then they stumbled together up the hall to their door. Steve parked him up against the wall outside the apartment while he searched his pockets for keys. It seemed to be taking more of Steve's concentration than it usually did to fit the key into the lock. Steve had probably had more than a couple of drinks himself, come to think. His hair had fallen into his eyes. A bit of pink tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. Steve's tie had been loosened and jerked to one side, and his collarbone peeked out of the gap of his shirt. Bucky hummed happily—he wanted to stick his finger in there, touch that smooth, pale skin—but somehow he was having trouble controlling his hand. 

The door flew open and Steve practically fell into the apartment. Bucky decided to play it safe, and so braced himself on the door frame and stepped carefully in. Steve was braced over their kitchen table, flushed and laughing at nothing. The door now seemed very far away. Bucky focused hard, then bravely took two steps into thin air toward the doorknob. He caught it, then slammed the door shut— ta-da!  "Oh my God," Steve said, laughing and Bucky could hear music—wait, he was the music. He wasn't humming, he was singing. The humming had words.

"Ten cents a dance," Bucky was singing, "That's what they pay me. Gosh how they weigh me down…"  His feet were carrying him to the old armchair. He collapsed into it and let himself sprawl back. Aw, bliss. " Ten cents a dance, pansies and rough guys. Tough guys who— C'mere," he said; his blood was buzzing through his veins. He opened his arms wide to Steve. "C’mere,” he said again, and then, with raw honesty, “I want to fuck you stupid. Right now. Yesterday.”

Steve’s head jerked up, and then he pushed up from the table; interested, but there was a challenge there too. “You can barely stand,” Steve pointed out.

“I don't need to stand. C'mere, I'm going to unwrap you like a toffee,” and Steve weaved his way over with a few careful, deliberate steps. Bucky’s breath quickened as Steve hesitated for a second, then kneed his way up onto Bucky’s lap, legs spread wide to grip Bucky’s hips. Bucky was immediately hard and clutched at Steve’s thighs in their threadbare pants. He dragged Steve down hard as he thrust up against him, pleasure sparking behind his eyes. 

Steve teetered a little, then steadied himself by digging his fingers into Bucky’s shoulders. “If this was a dare, Buck, I’m calling you on it.”

“No dare,” Bucky gasped, and then he was shoving Steve’s jacket off his shoulders and unbuttoning Steve’s shirt. His fingers moved clumsily over the buttons, then he dragged the stiff white fabric down over Steve’s arms, catching one of Steve’s hands in the still-buttoned cuff. Bucky then dragged Steve’s undershirt up and, lopsidedly, over his head—and leaned in to nose and nuzzle the pale skin of his collarbone. Steve groaned and rubbed against Bucky’s cock, gasping as Bucky let his hands drift up over Steve’s body, fingers trailing along the indentations of Steve’s ribs, one hand moving up Steve’s breastbone, to his throat. Then Bucky cupped Steve’s neck and drew him in, close, kissing him until they were both breathless. 

Steve moaned into his mouth; he was trying to undo his trousers one-handed, his other still caught in the inside out sleeve. He was trapped, and Bucky pressed hard sucking kisses to his neck, his throat, his chest, then ducking to tease and lick his nipple. Steve was gripping his own cock through his pants, his hips rocking helplessly, and Bucky knocked his hand away and unbuttoned and unzipped him, roughly dragging his pants and underwear down his legs. 

And then he had Steve’s dick in his hand—and the thing was, he and Steve’s dick were old friends, because boys were boys and what was a hand job or two between friends? And if they’d kept it to that, it would have been one thing. Or if they’d left it in middle school, it would have been fine. But everyone knew that there were things you could do with your friend’s dick and things you couldn’t, just like everyone knew that it was the kissing that made you queer. And the problem was that Bucky wanted the things you couldn’t do, just like it had been him who'd wanted the kissing. But knowing you couldn't didn't stop you wanting to, and so Bucky slipped his hands under Steve and twisted them around in a single, swift movement—dumping Steve against the back of the old chair and sliding down to kneel between his legs.

Steve gasped, "Bucky, don't," and stretched out his hands—because Steve knew the rules as well as anybody; better even, as a small, scrappy kid in a hard world. Which was why Steve usually insisted on doing the queer things when they did them. Out there among the bullies and the pigs, Steve would fight for his masculinity tooth and nail, but in here with Bucky, he gave it on a silver platter. A true act of love and they both knew it. But Bucky bent over him, his bruised mouth sliding over Steve's cock, loving it with his lips and his tongue. Steve gasped and slid his hands over Bucky's head, into his hair, caressing, thumbs tracing his face—but with just enough pressure to say you can stop; stop whenever you want; it's all right if you stop. But Bucky didn't want to stop; in fact, he was lost in it, blind with needing this—and whatever plans he’d made were lost in the urgency of this moment. He reached down to unzip himself, because Steve—because he—Bucky had to tightly grab himself because otherwise he’d—Christ, Steve was moaning and bucking like a horse, hands turned to fists in his hair. And two more strokes would—two strokes and he was spilling over his hand, and Steve was flooding his mouth, coming in his mouth and trying to push him away, but good luck there, boyo; he wasn’t going.

They rocked together, their urgency easing, slowing, soothing each other with tender hands until they had some command of themselves. Bucky gently pulled off Steve’s cock and swiped the back of his hand across his lips before surging up to kiss Steve's mouth, feeling terrified, feeling grateful. He tasted salt and wet and pulled back, surprised. Steve had tears in his eyes.

He felt it like a blow to the chest. “I’m sorry, did you hate it?” he asked, barely able to get the words out. The world was swimming again, encroaching, impossible. What the hell was he doing? What the hell had he done? But Steve was shaking his head no and leaning in to kiss him emphatically—so that was all right. For now, at least, it was all right.

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Buck,” Steve said finally, his voice low and thick; choked up. “It’s you.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” Bucky said, happily adrift on a cloud of booze and sex. “I’m fine. Great, in fact,” because there was no point feeling bad about it—in fact, from now on he was going to cherish every sinful, stolen moment of joy. Give in to every whim, carpe every diem, fuck Steve every way Steve would let him do it. He wasn’t going to waste any more time worrying about how to end it; he didn’t have to. This thing would end naturally, of its own accord.

Because the war was coming, and if they were already drafting soldiers, it wouldn’t be long. Bucky’s number would come up, but even if it didn’t, he’d enlist—everyone would expect him to enlist, even Steve would expect him to enlist; maybe even especially Steve. And the army would take him, but they wouldn’t take Steve; not with his long history of ailments. And so that would be that: he’d go fight the Germans and Steve Rogers would be left in New York with a union job, three million lonely, eligible women, and practically no competition. He’d be sure to find someone—some nice girl to start a family with. It was all so clear, like he could see the future.

Bucky smiled, and Steve smiled back, grabbed his tie, tugged—Christ, he really loved Steve, the more fool him. Sometimes I think I've found my hero/ But it's a queer romance... It was all going to work out fine, Bucky thought, leaning in to be kissed again. The war was coming, and the war would change everything. All you need is a ticket/ come on, big boy: ten cents a dance.

"Were you really an Avenger?" Vita asked curiously.

The white tablecloth was scattered with crumbs and empty cocktail glasses and plates of half-eaten dessert, but the party showed no signs of slowing, let alone stopping. Practically everyone was on the dance floor, swinging to the excellent six-piece band that was playing. Steve was sitting with his chin on his hand, watching Vita pick at a piece of Russian honey cake. It had sent Bucky over the moon, but Vita didn't seem to be enjoying it much.

"Yeah, I was," Steve said. "About a million years ago. I was the first Avenger, actually." 

"Oh," Vita said, brightening. "You mean you're the guy in the balloon?"

Steve helped himself to Bucky's abandoned vodka tonic. "Yep, I'm the guy in the balloon."

"My balloon's cooler," Tony Stark said, suddenly appearing behind him. "It's red and gold, and flames shoot out of the feet, and the band underneath—"

"They're balloon flames," Steve told Vita. "They're not that cool."

"—the band plays my theme song and—Jesus Christ, I had no idea you were such a petty person," Tony said, and broke up laughing. "Calling me out on my balloon flames! You wanna go that route? Do you? Well, your theme song sucks. My theme song is awesome."

"I was not given a theme song," Thor said, coming over, "or a balloon. Who do I ask about that?"

"Natasha," Steve and Tony said, at once, and then Tony went on: "She's absolutely in charge of the Department of Theme Songs and Balloons, a slightly lesser-known division of SHIELD. Meanwhile," he added, turning to Vita, "Morgan didn't like the cake either—she said it was 'too grown-up tasting’ which I guess means it tasted of grown-up, ew— but she's got a vat of ice cream and she’s willing to cut you in, for a price.” 

Vita heard "ice cream" and took off.  “Good talk,” Tony said. 

The band broke into another, slower number, and Steve smiled, anticipating the metal hand on his shoulder before he felt it land. “C’mon, you old lug. Dance with me," and Steve tilted his head up to Bucky and said, “Yeah, I think I will.” He got up and followed Bucky to the dance floor, which was dimly and romantically lit, the better to show off to advantage the lights of the enormous and gorgeously decorated Christmas tree.

“You lead,” Steve said, stepping into Bucky’s arms, and Bucky smiled and drew him in close, so that they were dancing cheek to cheek. 

Clint and Natasha slid by; they had eyes only for each other and looked blissfully happy. “Our little girl’s all grown up,” Bucky said, and Steve laughed and replied, “Don’t make me hit you.”

“Yeah, still don’t like your chances,” Bucky said, and then: “Do you remember Ellie’s wedding?”

“With the fucking Nazis outside the Prospect Hall? I mean—yeah, sure, it was lovely,” Steve said. “The finger sandwiches were delicious.”

Bucky grinned but otherwise ignored this. “I guess I’ve been thinking about it, having Ma on the brain. I realize that when I picture her in my head, it’s Ell’s wedding I’m thinking of. She was so happy that night, seeing one of her kids settled.” He guided Steve through a turn, to give him a different view of the room, and then went on. “He made it back from the war, you know, Donnie Lawson—did I tell you that? That was a piece of luck. He and Ellie had a whole bunch of kids after: three, I don't know, maybe even four.”  He flashed a smile at Maria Hill, who was dancing with Sam—Bucky’d spent a lot of the evening dancing with Maria who, while no Natasha Romanov, had been taught to dance fairly expertly as part of her spy training—and then went on, almost absently: “Ellie’s got a granddaughter—or a great-granddaughter?—who lives here in town,” and Steve stopped dancing and stared at him. “She’s a doctor at Columbia Presbyterian,” Bucky explained. “They say it’s a very fine hospital.”

“When did you—“ Steve sputtered. “When the hell were you going to tell me that?”

“I did, I just told you,” Bucky muttered, and then he moved in and took Steve’s hand—and Steve sighed and let him. "She reached out during my ordeal a couple of years ago. Sent a letter care of Bernie’s office. But I was in no mood to—I was in no mood,” and then, with a plea in his voice: “I mean, I don’t know this kid.  And—she doesn’t know me, either, Steve. Who I am, what I am. I’m just some guy in a book.”

“Well, I’m a balloon,” Steve said wryly. “At least you’re not a balloon,” and Bucky laughed and agreed, “No, I’m not a balloon,” while idly rubbing the ridge of his eye socket like he sometimes did when he was getting a headache. Now it was Steve who grasped his hand and steered them back into the dance. It only took Bucky a moment to recover and take the lead again.

“I only ever wanted to dance with you, you know," Bucky said tightly, looking away.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said. The song ended on the sweet, mellow sound of horns.

They drifted over to the bar, where Bucky ordered another couple of vodka tonics. Vita and Morgan Stark ran by laughing, engaged in some sort of game. “Brave kid, that Vita,” Bucky commented, tracking her across the room. “She fought back and won.”

“Yeah…” Steve agreed, and then: “You know, when my Ma worked at the hospital,” and Bucky went still, listening, “guys would come in—belligerent, some of them, or drunk—guys three or four times her size—and she would just handle them, you know? She was fearless—no, that’s not true,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “She was scared, I think, really scared a lot of the time, but she did it anyway. And so it was clear to me straight off that—you know, size was no excuse. You had to stand up and do the right thing anyway , whenever you could. That’s what Sarah believed, and what she expected. And so when I think of her, Buck, I wonder what she’d think of me giving up the shield,” Steve said heavily. “Taking weekends off. Painting in the studio. I know there’s more good I could be doing out there, but do I have an obligation to be doing it 24/7? Maybe I do; to whom much is given, much is expected, right? But before you came and got me, Buck, I was starting to feel like there wasn't a lot of me left.  And this life we’ve made—it’s everything I ever wanted. But what would my Ma say, tell me that." 

The look on Bucky’s face was almost unbearably fond. “Pal, I was there —I knew your Ma, and I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt what she’d say: she’d say, good job, son, I’m proud of you: now get some rest. Your Ma—believe me, your Ma wanted you to be happy more than anything in the world, and she more or less deputized me to see to it. And if it matters, I can also tell you for a fact just what my Ma would say.”

Steve thought about this for a moment. “Have another drink?” he ventured, smiling, and Bucky slung an arm around Steve’s shoulder, yanked him in close, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, near the temple.  

“Absolutely," Bucky said.