Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Because late at night I get incoherent Bucky feels, and, well...this happens. A sort of sequel'y ficlet to 'i'll always think of you that way'. The version of the titular song - also referenced in the fic - that I've used is by Bing Crosby and the Les Paul Trio, although I do like the version by the Harry James band, with Kitty Kallen. Anyway.
I regret nothing.
it's been a long, long time
Steve wakes in the middle of night; roused by the sound of wartime music that creeps into his dreams and shapes them into distorted memories, before waking him. For a sleep-befuddled moment he doesn't know when he is, and reality hits bittersweet and hard. It takes a second to orient himself. He scrambles out of bed, pulling on a singlet as he goes, and finds Bucky's room empty despite the fact that Steve locks his door at night. His breath catches in his chest. The lock doesn't appear to have been forced. "Jarvis?" he asks the air, voice thick with worry and sleep. Urgent. "Where's Bucky?"
"Mr Barnes is in the living area, listening to music, Captain Rogers."
"Why didn't you alert me? How did he get out?"
"He asked me, Captain. And I was only told to alert you should he behave in an unusual or potentially dangerous manner; he has merely been listening to music for the past seventeen minutes."
Steve swears under his breath, and hurries into the living area, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Bucky lying on the couch. His eyes are shut, and there is a little half-smile on his lips. He wears a tee shirt and sweatpants, and his feet are bare; his metal arm hangs off the edge of the couch, fingers dragging idly on the floor. Steve edges quietly into the dimly lit room, soaking up the way the smile looks on Bucky's face; softening the brittle, hard angles.
"J-James?" It sounds wrong to call his friend that; it doesn't fit the man lying on the couch.
"I want to dance," Bucky says quietly as the strands of familiar-yet-not music wind through the air, a haunting little melody that sounds like home. He gets up in one smoothly elegant motion, his eyes fixing on Steve. "With you." There is a defiant jut to his chin as he stares up at Steve, waiting with fear buried in his eyes, but not hidden deep enough that Steve can't see it. Bucky's jaw is tight, and his metal fingers flex and slide together, making susurrations beneath the crackly-record sound of the music. "I know you wanted to dance with Agent Carter. I - I remember that. But, well - she's not here, and I..."
Am, Steve finishes in his head as Bucky falls silent, chin lifting further like he's trying to hide his nerves, and Steve's chest constricts because what exactly does Bucky mean by that? A dance? There had always an easy, intimate physical camaraderie between them - the ability to horse around with each other in the way brothers did. But there had also been...something more than just camaraderie, Steve thinks.
"You...want to dance with me?" Steve manages to keep his voice even and light, but he feels anything but on the inside. Bucky's decisions don't always make sense now; his reasoning is sometimes complex and sometimes strangely childish. Around a fortnight ago Bucky had spent over an hour making Natasha's hair into a waterfall of tiny, clumsy plaits with a strangely peaceful expression on his face. Steve had been surprised Natasha had let the Winter Soldier sit at her back; her shoulders had remained stiff the entire time, but she had allowed it. And then just three days later Bucky had tried to stab Tony in the eye with a pen for reasons they still hadn't deciphered, before slipping into a catatonic state that had lasted several hours once they wrenched him off Tony. Once Tony had stopped shaking at the terror of nearly being "Fury'ed", as he'd put it, he'd reacted with remarkable aplomb, which Steve is learning is typical of the billionaire.
Anyway, the point is: Bucky might be getting better, but he is still broken. Steve knows that.
"Fellas can dance together now, can't they?" Bucky's tone thickens, that defensively cocky Brooklyn boy seeping through the cracks of the mended pieces that make up James Buchanan Barnes now. For a moment Steve is nearly dizzy with the overlay of tracery between then and now - matching up nearly perfect in places but all wrong in others. It's disconcerting. Bucky's staring at Steve desperately, that pouty mouth of his nervously shifting and changing shape with his expressions. He gnaws at his lower lip before he speaks again. "Steve?"
And Steve wonders just how much Bucky knows about what it's okay for fellas to do together now, and if that's what he's getting at. Steve can still hardly believe what's changed himself; sure it isn't perfect - nowhere close in fact - but they came a hell of a long way while he was sleeping in the ice. Sometimes he thinks of how different things could have been between him and Bucky if it hadn't been a shameful horror back then...but then he had never been truly sure how Bucky felt, anyway. Too afraid to find out. And then Peggy had come along, and he'd loved her in a way that was entirely different but no less or more. Still does love her, to be truthful.
Sometimes, before Bucky had been called up to ship out, Steve had thought that after a few drinks, or when Steve was sick,Bucky had looked at him how he'd look at a dame he was sweet on. Maybe. Those dark blue eyes intent on him, something unknown sparking up in their depths as he stared at Steve with a fierce kind of love that might not be entirely brotherly. The possibility of what that meant had scared the whey out of Steve, and made him feel dirty and wrong and all kinds of aroused at once. Bucky looking at him like Steve was the only person in the world. But then the moment would ghost away, and Bucky would laugh and clap Steve on the shoulder, or ruffle his hair with a casual affection that Steve drank up greedily. And with that they were just buddies again, and Steve was left trying to convince himself he'd imagined the look in Bucky's eyes.
The music plays on through the small suite on the 91st floor of Avengers Tower, as Tony likes to call it with a self-deprecating grin. Bucky's flesh and bone hand reaches out from his side just a little, and those shadowed blue eyes are vulnerable and uncertain on Steve's. His fingers twitch towards Steve, strong and so unsure, and Steve wants to reach out and slide his fingers through Bucky's so badly that he has to conciously restrain himself. But he has to ask himself whether Bucky's of sound enough mind to be making these kind of choices. Even little ones - because when it comes to things of this nature, little ones can lead awful fast to big ones if one isn't careful. Steve isn't sure that Bucky realises what he seems to be implying, and even if he does... Hell, Steve's not sure he's ready to openly acknowledge the possible implications of it.
"Buck..." he begins reluctantly, hating himself as he sees the hurt bloom in Bucky's bruised blue eyes, hating that he's denying himself what he wants more than nearly anything else right now. "It's not that I want to...turn you down," Steve starts and wishes he could smack himself, because doesn't that just sound way too serious. So much for playing the whole thing off as no big deal. "But you - we - you don't know...I can't...wouldn't be right," he stammers awkward, dodging a narrow path between truth and lies. He can't say too much - can't come right out and admit that he can't take advantage of Bucky because then Bucky would know how he feels - but he can't say too little either. He's flailing and he knows it, unlike Natasha who would have all the right words dripping off her tongue like honey.
"It's just a damn dance, Steve," Bucky says huffily, trying to be flippant, but his voice wobbles just a little bit and betrays him. Because if it ever was just a dance, it's not now, thanks to Steve and his big, dumb mouth. Bucky's nervous; pulling his hand back and twining it with his metal one, hands twisting round and round each other. Fidgeting. His eyes are fixed on the floor and shoulders stiffly hunched. Steve ducks his head to catch a glimpse of Bucky's face, and relief soaks through him when he sees the emotion on Bucky's features; he still regresses back into the mechanical blankness of the Winter Soldier's persona at times. But he's just plain old hurt instead; eyes all vivid blue, rimmed with the shadows of sleepless nights, and brimming with rejection that he tries to hide with a stubborn little set to his jaw, and crinkle between those dark brows.
"Never mind," Bucky mumbles and shifts back a pace, and Steve can't stand knowing he's the one who's etching that hurt on Bucky's face. Screw it.
"Come on then." He holds out his hand and forces a strange, unnatural feeling smile to his lips. Because this will be an exercise in self-control, and because he has no idea if Bucky actually wants to do this, or whether he thinks he should for some mixed up reason. Maybe he's seen the way Steve can't help looking at him some days - when Bucky is damp from the shower still, hair in wet straggles pushed back off his face, cheeks flushed from the water, and eyes bright - and he thinks he owes Steve something. That thought makes Steve feel ill. Or maybe Bucky just thinks dancing would be fun, as he had thought braiding Natasha's hair would be, with an odd, solemn childishness. But if Bucky wants to...and Steve thinks maybe he does.
"I can never say no to you, Buck." He sounds too fond, too tender, and winces at his clumsiness. There's a moment of gut-wrenching awkwardness as Steve's hand hovers untaken in the air between them, because yes, this is much more than just a dance, and they both know it now. It can't be played off as a laugh. They can't pretend that they don't feel the undercurrents of tension, on Steve's part at least. Bucky might not be who he once was - he might be fragmented and broken - but he isn't stupid. And Steve, like an idiot, has made it pretty damn clear how he feels.
Bucky still won't meet his eyes, but his hand slides warm over Steve's, his fingers curling tightly around Steve's, his lips parting and breath coming shallow and short. The heat radiates off Bucky's body, seeping through his thin tee shirt as they come together - standing far too close for Steve's comfort. He holds Bucky's hand in his and skims his other hand lightly up to press against the bottom of Bucky's shoulderblade. It feels awkward and yet so damn right at the same time. He tells himself to pull it together, but his heart is beating too fast, and he feels like a jerk for having such a reaction toward Bucky, when Bucky isn't mentally...well.
Bucky's metal hand is cool against Steve's skin through the thin cotton singlet; heel of his hand pressing at Steve's side, fingers reaching out to shape with a slow deliberateness against his back. It's shockingly intimate, and made moreso by the way Bucky shifts in even closer - he is just the right height for his breath to flutter hot at Steve's jaw, raising goosebumps in its wake. His eyes have stayed downcast, and Steve is caught between relief in avoiding an awkward gaze, and yet wanting to see the look on the other man's face.
Bucky leads, and somehow that seems right. Not that they dance with any flair or form; Steve has never been good at dancing, and their dance is more of a slow shuffle. Step, sway, step, shift, sway; they make a slow round in the middle of the dim-lit room, feet slotting neatly between each others'. Bucky's breath still puffs hot against Steve's jaw, and their fingers slowly slip apart as they find a rhythm. Bucky's hand gently grips Steve's shoulder, warm and strong, and Steve follows suit. Letting Bucky lead them.
The song is a slow one - 'you'll never know how many dreams I dreamed about you' a man croons, and it is real music, not the awful modern stuff Steve that doesn't understand. He leans into Bucky just a little, wanting, craving, and ducks his head; his 5 o'clock shadow rasps against Bucky's stubbled cheek. Bucky makes a soft sigh that sounds like contentment and his fingers tighten on Steve, and he smells like toothpaste and soap, and something indefinable that takes Steve over seventy years back in a flash.
It is heady, swaying together in the soft glow of the lights, the music winding around them, singing of kisses and dreams and too much time gone by. It is more than Steve could have ever expected - this illusion of what could have been, in a dream - and he is grateful just for this, if this one dance is all he ever gets. And does it make him a terrible person that he's taking so much pleasure in it? It feels wrong, when Bucky is...like this. Brainwashed and wounded, pulled apart so many times he might never be put together again.
Bucky's mouth catches his then, and the slant of his hot mouth over Steve's chases the guilt away. Shock first; a muffled sound of surprise and feet freezing to the floor, stalling their dance. Bucky's lips are soft and warm, and a little chapped, and he presses them to Steve's with a terrified kind of courage - firm and determined. Steve can't help kissing back; clumsy and hard, and then Bucky's hand is gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down and holding him there, and their lips are pushing and catching and parting, hot and damp and with the weight of years of wanting behind it all. And it is so damn strange, kissing another man, but so good. But then - cursing himself - Steve pulls back before he loses the sense to do so, gripping Bucky's shoulders in both hands and staring into his eyes.
"Buck..." you don't have to do this, he thinks but doesn't say, because Bucky overrides him, lips swollen and reddened and pupils blown in glazed eyes, shoulders rising and falling under Steve's hands as he pants for air.
"Shut up," Bucky says harsh and needy, and his hand - the metal one - tightens around Steve's neck again, jerking him back down. His mouth brushes lightly against Steve's, teasing with breaths and faint touches, but he refuses to make the first move this time; waiting for Steve to break. And break he does.
"God...Buck..." The words groan out of Steve, and then his hands are cupping Bucky's face, one sliding up to fist in Bucky's hair as his mouth crushes to Bucky's. He is desperate and greedy, all his dreams coming true, and when Bucky's lips part willingly under his, Steve moans at the sheer pleasure of it. Bucky's tongue flicks at Steve's, taunting and tormenting, and Steve is hard as a rock, and it's pretty damn clear from the way they're pressing together that Bucky is too. And knowing that - feeling Bucky hard against him - just makes Steve hotter.
"I...don't want to stop...but we shouldn't - mmphh -" Steve loses his train of thought entirely, because Bucky's tongue, Jesus Christ... He captures it and sucks delicately on the tip, and is rewarded when Bucky shudders beneath his hands and moans shaky and rough. Steve does it again, and then dances his tongue over Bucky's mouth, barely-there and wickedly teasing, and Bucky nearly comes apart in his arms with a choked little sound, his human fingers digging bruises into Steve's shoulder. Steve combs his fingers soothing through Bucky's hair and sucks on his bottom lip, presses light kisses at the corners of his mouth.
"Please," Bucky gasps, all aching need as he presses hard against Steve; so much raw want that it almost hurts to hear. "Please." And Steve wonders then just how long it has been since Bucky was touched in a way that wasn't either entirely impersonal, or designed to cause pain. He suddenly feels sick. He draws away just a little, fingers still edging and twining through Bucky's hair, other hand shaping to Bucky's cheek, thumb stroking along the high edge of his cheekbone.
"Buck. We can't. I can't...can't take advantage..."
"Fuck you!" Raw rage in Bucky's voice, and he shoves at Steve, but there's no power behind it; Steve just rocks on his feet and steadies himself. He pulls Bucky in closer, mouth to his ear as Bucky struggles, purposely ineffective, metal hand still curled loosely around Steve's neck, even. He murmurs in Bucky's ear, and feels the tension run out of the other man's body as he speaks.
"I want to. Oh hell yes, I want to. A lot. But I won't, Buck. Not right now. Not like this." There is a long moment of sullen, uncertain silence after that.
"I know what I want," Bucky says, all sulky resentment but with less hurt there, his hand flexing on Steve's neck. "I'm not... I know what I want, Steve."
"Then you'll still want it tomorrow," Steve says gently. "And so will I. There's no hurry. We can...be slow." By which Steve actually means 'glacial' - and there will be no kissing tomorrow either, but there's no need to tell Bucky that. And Bucky agrees with a short nod, those kiss-swollen lips drawn into an insecure little frown. It eases when Steve tugs Bucky over to the couch and settles them lying along it together; Bucky sprawled between Steve's legs, his own hanging off the end of the couch, his head pillowed on Steve's stomach as Steve soothes his fingers through Bucky's hair. It is oddly comfortable, no awkwardness between them at all.
And what traces are left of Bucky's frown vanish altogether once Bucky drifts into sleep, heavy on Steve, his metal arm draped limply over Steve's thigh. A song plays that Steve remembers from a scratchy record in a smoky bar, while on leave in London. He remembers Bucky dancing with a pretty young woman, and the way his eyes had drifted over to Steve from time to time. Steve falls asleep to the music, the sound of Bucky's slow, steady breathing underpinning it.
Thanks for reading :D I crave reviews like I crave marmalade on toast right now; omfg so much :3