That was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me "Stevie", and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find the right partner. That was the summer we went to S.H.I.E.L.D.
The Four Seasons are crooning through the radio, the windows are rolled down, the sun is shining, and Steve has his sketchbook open in his lap. Steve thinks, could life get any better than this? Oh yeah, it could—if they weren't 100 miles out of New York City, on the way to stay at some family resort. Bye-bye, Brooklyn.
He can see his sister Darcy combing her bangs through the rear-view mirror, chattering to his mom about… god knows what. Eyes flicking between the sketch in his lap and Darcy's profile, he can see that he didn't get her jaw just right. Turning the pencil and erasing half of her face, and just as he's about to put his pencil back to the page and try again, he hears his mom singsong, "We're here! Oh Darce, look at all the…"
Looking up, he sees they're pulling into the driveway of S.H.I.E.L.D Resort. Finally. There's people everywhere, milling about on the lawn, unpacking cars, carrying luggage. Through the open car window, Steve can hear the echo of a man speaking through a megaphone to the crowds of guests.
"Ping-Pong in the west arcade, softball in the east diamond. All you Sandy Koufaxes, get out there! Complimentary dance lessons in the gazebo!"
Darcy turns in her seat to face Steve and says with a wink, "Did'ja hear that Stevie? Dance lessons! Maybe you can learn the tango."
Rolling his eyes, Steve scowls, "That's just dandy, Darce, but you know I can't dance worth a dime. And there is no way I'm goin' to dancing class with either of ya, no way."
Ignoring Steve in favor of eyeing a fellow vacationers luggage, Darcy gasps, "Oh my God, Look at that! Mom, I should've brought the coral shoes. You said I was taking too much."
With a sympathetic smile, with only the slightest hint of exasperation, Sarah replies, "Well, sweetheart, you did bring ten pairs."
With a melodramatic sigh, Darcy murmurs, "But the coral shoes matched that dress. It's a tragedy."
With eyes practically in the back of skull, Steve snorts at his sister, "This is not a tragedy, Darcy. A tragedy is three men trapped in a mine or police dogs in Birmingham. Monks burning themselves in protest."
Slowly turning to look at him, with an eyebrow cocked, and pursed lips, she snaps, "Butt out, Stevie. You're too serious, sometimes, I swear."
"Okay, we got horseshoes on the south lawn in minutes! We've got splish-splash the water class down by the lake. We have the still life art class. We got volleyball and croquet. And for you older folks, we got sacks!"
As Steve, Darcy, and Sarah are looking out over the lawn, a deep voice called out "Doc!" Steve thought nothing of it until his mother turned around and called back, "Nick!"
"Nick" turned out to be an extremely large man. With an eye patch. Baffled, Steve looks to his sister, who's holding back a giggle, snorting when she catches his eye. Behind Nick Fury, Steve noticed, was a boy around his age, with a resort shirt on his back.
"Doc, after all these years I finally got you up on my mountain."
"So how's the blood pressure, Nick?" Sarah says with a knowing smile.
Turning to Steve and Darcy, Nick chuckles and says, "I want you kids to know…if it were not for this woman, I'd be standing here dead."
Unsure of what was happening, and moderately frightened of this one-eyed man, Steve forced out a chuckle.
Turning to the kid behind him, Nick snapped, "Barton, get the bags."
Clint replies, "Right away, Director" and hurries to the trunk to grab the luggage.
Trailing behind Clint, Steve helps him take the bags out of the trunk. Clint turns to him with a sly grin on his face and says, "Hey, thanks a lot! You wanna job here, Blondie?"
Ducking his chin to try and hide his blush at the attention, Steve shyly smiles at the ground. It's not everyday that handsome young men notice him when his sister's around. Steve decides, today is a good day.
While Steve is momentarily distracted by sandy brown hair, and surprisingly well-defined biceps, he faintly overhears Nick telling his mom and sister, "I saved the best cabin for you and your kids…"
Bending over to pick up the bags, Clint directs a smirk at Steve, and probes, "So Blondie, you got'a name or what, huh?"
"Uhh… yeah?" Steve stutters, distracted. Shit. Good first impression, dumbass, Steve thinks, cursing his slowness.
"Well are you gonna let me in on the secret, or am I gonna have to keep callin' you Blondie?"
Ears burning, Steve answers, "Steve. Or well, I guess everyone calls me Stevie…" instantly mourning his choice to refer to himself as Stevie. Geez, could he be any more of a heel? Cursing his perpetual awkwardness, he forces out a chuckle, in hopes that Clint will think he was joking.
Oblivious by Steve's inner conflict, Clint smiles, and replies, "Stevie… I like that. It suits you, shortstop," chuckling as he takes the bags, walking away.
I'm not that short. Hackles raised by the jab at his height, Steve returns to his family's side, tuning into the conversation.
He hears Nick midsentence, saying,"…there's a merengue class in the next few minutes, greatest teacher," and with a wink to Darcy, "used to be a Rockette!"
Laughing, Sarah replies, "It's my first real vacation in six years, Nick, take it easy!"
"Three weeks here, and it'll feel like a year, Sarah," the Director replies, with an air of confidence of someone who is always right.
This is mortifying.
Dragged there by Darcy, Steve finds himself at a gazebo. Learning the merengue.
The instructor, a gorgeous redhead, who introduced herself as Natasha, is at the front of the group leading the lesson.
"1-2-3-4, stomp those grapes and stomp some more, 1-2-3-4, listen to the music people!"
Completely and utterly lost, Steve is stumbling beside Darcy, tripping over his two left feet, knocking into innocent bystanders. Ankles catching, Steve staggers in the wrong direction, knocking into Darcy.
"1-2-3-4, move your caboose and shake it loose! 1-2-3-4, stomp those grapes!"
Righting himself and turning to his left, he comes face to face with a middle-aged man, much too close for comfort, and quickly turning the other way, he bumps hard into Darcy, causing her to stumble.
"Oh, c'mon Stevie, you heard the lady, stomp the grapes," laughing at his poor rendition of the merengue, Darcy twirls her skirt and jumps right back in with the rest of them.
"Now c'mon men, follow me into a round robin," Natasha calls out, "Ladies the inner circle!"
Kidnapped by the round robin, Steve finds himself prancing around in a circle with a group of elderly men. It's a dream come true.
In the middle of all the commotion, is Natasha, yelling out encouragement to her near-mediocre students: "C'mon ladies, god wouldn't have given you maracas if he didn't want you to shake 'em!" punctuated by the gleeful shake of her own maracas. Which is then punctuated by the shake of several pairs of maracas, all eye-level with Steve. Drily, Steve thinks, I lied before. This is my dream come true.
Natasha calls out, "Okay ladies, when I call stop, you're going to find the man of your dreams!"
"Stop!"
Aiming for Darcy, someone latches on to Steve's arm from behind and thrusts him into their arms. Looking down, Steve comes face-to-face with the oldest woman he has ever seen.
"Remember, he's the boss on the dance floor, if nowhere else!"
As that's said, his dance partner, pulls him closer than is strictly appropriate, and gives him a wink. Holding back a laugh, Steve winks back at his partner, giving the old girl a thrill. Well, at least someone likes him.
As the class moves into the next segment of the class, the salsa, Steve quietly slips away from Darcy and the rest of the class. Walking down the stairs of the gazebo, Steve wanders in search of a nice place to sit and just, relax for a second. He sees a dirt path that leads into the brush of the forest surrounding the resort and follows it. Walking through the underbrush, he comes out of the trees and onto the sandy shore of a lake, with a beaten up picnic table, right at the edge of the water.
Sighing, he takes a seat and stares out at the waves, watching the whitecaps curl and disappear. Eyes stinging, he curses and rubs at them with the backs of his knuckles, pressing down to stop any tears from falling. This shouldn't affect him so much, he should be used to this by now- no one ever notices him. He's not the man of anyone's dreams, who was he trying to kid?
Speaking out loud, to the sound of the tide brushing the shore, he mutters, "I don't know why I thought it would be any different here, than in Brooklyn. Still just skinny, scrappy, Steve Rogers.."
Why is it so wrong, or so hard for someone to want him? All he wanted this summer, was for someone to notice him, for a handsome stranger to woo him, to sweep him off of his feet. Just once in his life, that's all he's asking for here.
Swiping at his eyes, he lets out a self-deprecating laugh, "What a pity party, Rogers, geez."
He knows what his mom would say if she could hear his thoughts right about now. She'd tell him to stop feelin' sorry for himself, and go do something about it. Don't just sit around waiting for something to happen, but to make it happen. Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe, it's a bit harder than it sounds.
Looking up at the setting sun, he figures he should head back up to the cabin, it's just about dinner time, and Sarah will wring his neck if he's late.
Later that night, after the tragic merengue lessons and the self-indulgent pity party, after they'd settled in, Steve pops into the living area where his mom and Darcy were sitting, leafing through magazines.
"I'm going up to the main house to look around, Darce, you wanna join me?"
Looking up, Darcy smiles and declines, "Sorry Stevie, I think I'm gonna stay here with Mom and get a good nights sleep. There's waterskiing lessons tomorrow morning, and I ain't missing that for an extra hour of sleep."
After exchanging a few words, and agreeing not to be back too late, Steve's out the front door, and skipping down the cabin steps.
Walking around the balcony of the main house, Steve hears Director Fury's voice through a cracked open door. Not wanting to be seen, just in case, Steve peers through the small opening.
Nick is standing with the wait staff gathered around him, in what looks to be the dining area, "Now, there are two kinds of help here. You waiters are all college guys, and I went to Harvard and Yale to hire you. And why did I do that? Why? I shouldn't have to remind you this is a family place. Keep your fingers out of the water, hair out of the soap, and show the goddamn daughters a good time. All of the daughters. But not too good of a time, I hope. Schlepp 'em to the terrace, show 'em the stars, romance 'em any way you want-"
Nick's speech is interrupted by a deep voice, with a Brooklyn drawl, calling out "Ya' got that guys?"
Following the voice, in a pair of sunglasses, leather jacket thrown over his shoulder, is the most beautiful boy Steve has ever laid his eyes on.
Unable to tear his eyes away from the boy, he hears rather than sees Nick call out,
"Hey, hold it! Hold it," causing the boy to turn around, crossing his arms over his chest, as Nick scoffs, "Well, if it isn't the entertainment staff. Listen wiseass, you've got your own rules—dance with the daughters, teach 'em the mambo, the cha-cha, anything they pay for,"
Waving his finger in the boys face, he says, "That's it. That's where it ends. No funny business, no conversations, and HANDS OFF," and starts to walk away.
The guy standing beside the brown-haired boy turns to him and jokes in an English accent, "It's the same at all these places. Some tail in the woods, but no conversation," while wagging his fingers in a mock of Director Fury's earlier actions.
Steve, noting the jokers fine black hair and good looks, thinks, why are all of the staff here so goodlooking? This is ridiculous. Like seriously, what the hell?
Spinning around, Fury snaps, "Watch it, Laufeyson," and stalks out of the room. The guys all start to disperse, when one of the waiters turns to sunglasses and taunts him, while clearing the table.
"Can you keep that straight, Bucky? What you can't lay your hands on?"
Getting up into the guys face, Bucky retorts, "Just put your pickle on everybody's plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me."
For a brief second, Bucky's eyes flick to where Steve is peeking into the room. Breath catching in his throat, Steve spins away from the door, and presses his back against the wall. When no one comes looking for him, Steve lets out his breath, unaware that he was holding it.
Bucky. Thinking of the way that t-shirt clung to his arms and chest, Steve tips his head back against the wall, and curses.
Pushing off from the wall, Steve heads back through the grounds, back to his cabin. That night while he's sleeping, if he dreams of brown hair, tanned skin, and the way Bucky's shirt stretched across his chest… well, no one has to know.