Chapter 16: Dance Dance Revelation
As a kid, Steve had been a bit of a menace at the arcade. Not intentionally, of course; he wasn't trying to exploit the machines or anything. It was just that, by some miracle, his hand-eye coordination was some level of spectacular. He was, as Bucky had breathlessly declared the first day they went together and after watching him seize the high score, a "pinball wizard."
Thus, Bucky had dragged Steve back to that same arcade time and again. Unlike Steve, Bucky was more than willing to bend the rules a bit in the name of more prize tickets. And also unlike Steve, Bucky properly excelled at any and all of the physical games. Skee ball, hoops, throwing a ball to knock down things on shelves—he nailed them all. Between him and Steve, they could easily blow tens of dollars in a couple hours, collect an obscene number of tickets, and laugh all the way home over their cheap plastic prizes.
Sam, Tony, and Natasha aren't quite the forces of nature that Steve and Bucky had been. Sam is decent at just about everything, but decent doesn't take the top prize. Tony is a fiend at any game of probability where a bit of math lets him manipulate the odds, but those games aren't exactly fun for anyone else, and even manipulated odds aren't always a guarantee. And though Natasha is properly terrifying with the axe throw and anything involving pinpoint reactions, she's quick to point out how forcing her to play those games for tickets is basically making her work, and at that point, she'd prefer her compensation in cash.
Watching her and Sam bicker about whether Dance Dance Revolution should count as work in front of the large machine, Steve leans against a nearby game cabinet and sighs.
"Missing your boyfriend?" Tony asks with a knowing grin. He's wearing their accumulated tickets like a scarf. Steve rolls his eyes.
"He's not my boyfriend, and I'm not missing him. He's right next door." Their group of four had originally been a group of six, but Clint and Bucky had split off to patronize the indoor archery range one building over. God, why oh why had Bucky needed to beat Clint at a game of darts?
"That look on your face makes me think you don't think he's got a chance."
"The only reason Clint isn't in the Olympics is because he doesn't like the rigid structure to that kind of shooting," Steve says flatly.
"I didn't hear you warning your boyfriend about that."
Choosing not to correct Tony this time because he can see the impish grin the man is failing to hide, Steve runs a hand through his hair to collect a few rogue strands. "Bucky can make his own mistakes."
"So you always say. Well, I look forward to Clint returning with his honor restored. Does Bucky even know archery?"
"Unless he did some kind of training I don't know about, no. And before you ask why he accepted the challenge, just…don't."
"Ask?" Tony snorts. "I don't need to do that. I already know the answer." Steve raises an eyebrow in silent question. "What man hasn't dreamed of dominating a competition in something he's never done before?"
"Clint is going to kick his ass."
"Maybe. But imagine if he doesn't. The bragging rights alone! And if he loses? No skin off his nose—he's never done it before, or he's not a professional like Clint, and so on and so forth. Low risk, high reward. You'd be a fool not to do it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Steve says dryly. Then, purely to change the subject: "Any news on that dishwasher of yours?"
Tony huffs. "Work talk in an arcade? You should be ashamed. I'm still waiting on the replacement to get shipped in, so your boyfriend"—he steadfastly ignores Steve's glower—"will probably get tomorrow off if they don't invent teleportation in time. You, however, still owe me posters for the bash."
"I'm almost done."
"Monday almost, or next week almost?"
"Tuesday at the latest if you respond to my email about those revisions."
"You emailed?"
"Twice."
"Damn." He pulls out his phone and fires off a text to Pepper. "She'll get that sorted out."
I'm sure she will, thinks Steve.
Movement catches his eye: Sam and Natasha assuming positions on the DDR stages. Exchanging a look, Steve and Tony drift closer.
"What's this? You're actually accepting a challenge?" asks Tony. Natasha finishes tying up her hair in a ponytail.
"One must occasionally remind her inferiors of the state of things," she replies airily.
"Right up until that state of things gets tossed on its head," counters Sam. "Let's get this on, hardest difficulty."
Steve leans his forearms on the guardrail behind Sam's stage while Natasha queues up the song. "You sure about this?"
"Yeah, man, you've seen me practicing."
"I've seen you drunk and falling all over the mat from 2007 Tony dug out of storage."
"Terrifying," Natasha puts in. Sam ignores her.
"Practice is practice. You'll see."
The song starts and Steve backs up to give Sam space to work.
"Odds?" Tony asks.
"I'm not betting against my friend."
"Spoilsport. I'm texting Clint."
That text takes only a second, at which point Tony switches to taking video just in time for the first arrows to flow down from the top of Sam and Natasha's respective screens. They've got slightly different dance routines, it seems, but they're both absurdly demanding. Steve gets dizzy just looking at all the arrows coming down and neither Nat nor Sam have even started moving yet.
When they do start moving, it's an explosion of motion that leaves their respective stages shaking from the force. Steve expects them both to stay more or less vertical, but both Sam and Natasha swiftly start using their hands and anything else to hit the right tile while maintaining the flow between stances.
"Breakdancing," Tony notes, stepping back so he can get more on video. "Very nice."
Steve can't help staring at Sam, who's busting out moves Steve's never seen before at a speed and with a precision he's only ever demonstrated with the parkour skills picked up when he was a teenager that he occasionally shows off. "He wasn't that coordinated when he was drunk."
"Obviously!" Sam grunts while using the bar to haul himself up for the next wave of arrows. For her part, Natasha isn't wasting breath or focus on Steve and Tony's antics. Her arrows get hit with pinpoint precision that's shooting her score up into the stratosphere. A glance confirms to Steve what he suspected from the start: Sam, though putting up a fight, can't keep up.
Steve feels tired just watching those two fly around their stages, and the song goes on for almost four grueling minutes. He tries to cheer for them both, he does, but he's a champion of the underdog at heart so Sam gets most of his attention. When the song ends, though, the result is undeniable: Natasha sets a new high score on the machine, beating her previous high score, and Sam is flat on his back and gasping for breath.
"Good fight," Nat tells him.
"Ugh," he replies. "Steve, avenge me. I'm still weighed down from brunch."
"I was at the same brunch," Steve points out, "and I don't dance."
"Set to easy mode, man, even you can handle that. Please. For my honor."
"Right, your honor"—he reaches out a hand, waits for Sam to clasp his arm, and then hauls Sam to his feet—"isn't coming back, I think."
"Et tu?"
"I think you should give it a shot," Tony says.
"Scared of a little competition, Rogers?" Nat prods.
"You're the one who usually doesn't want to do this," he protests. "We all know how this ends."
Tony crosses his arms. "I, for one, favor the scientific method. My hypothesis is that Natasha will win. It must be tested."
Steve caves with an explosive sigh. "Fine." He eyes Sam. "My honor is going to end up in the same state as yours."
"Probably worse," Sam says cheerfully, clapping him on the back. "Have at it."
Things start off badly when Natasha has to walk him through setting the difficulty and they don't get better from there. Even at the easiest difficulty, when there are never more than four arrows on screen to consider at a time, Steve finds his coordination woefully inadequate. It was bad when he was a kid and shooting up in size as an adult did nothing to help. His hand-eye coordination, his hand dexterity, those are excellent thanks to hours upon hours of practicing his craft. Everything else?
"Wrong foot!" Sam calls.
Not so much.
Halfway through the song, a new voice joins Sam and Tony's. "Keep it up, Steve!"
"Bucky?" He nearly trips over himself trying to look over his shoulder, and only a last second grab of the bar keeps him from taking a tumble. Meanwhile, Natasha executes a perfect three-step that has Sam whooping in appreciation.
Laughing, Bucky gestures him back toward the machine. "Focus, man, you're almost done!"
But the damage is done, and Steve's already-shaky routine falls to pieces no matter how much—or because of how much—Bucky cheers him on.
Clint whistles when the song ends. "Ouch."
Steve doesn't look at his score or Natasha's. He knows what it'll look like and he would like to maintain the scraps of his dignity, if not his honor. Him being sweaty and no doubt blushing like mad isn't helping his dignity, though.
Bucky is uncaring of the sweat when he pounds Steve on the back in congratulations. "Well done not falling over, I really thought you were gonna a few times."
"I've gotten a little better," Steve says defensively.
"Falling to almost falling is a very big improvement. I'm proud of you."
"Did I mention I once offered to teach him how to dance?" Natasha leans on the support railing of her stage. Steve takes a little comfort from seeing that she's shiny with sweat and breathing hard. "It's true," she continues. "He turned me down, though. Claimed he would break my feet by accident."
"He stepped on mine all the time when we were kids," Bucky says. "With those stompers he's got now, I wouldn't be surprised if he came close."
"Anyway," Steve cuts in before his awful dance skills can dominate the conversation, "how'd the archery go? I thought you'd be gone for longer."
Bucky winces and rubs at his shoulder. "I, uh."
"He lost!" Clint crows.
"I hit the target!"
"Barely. And you broke two bows!"
"It's not my fault they're so easy to crush!"
"Easy? Easy?"
"Anyway," Bucky says, and Steve can't help his grin when Bucky copies his intonation exactly, "we called it when Tony texted that Natalia was dancing. Apparently that's rare for her."
"It's going to get rarer if you keep making a big deal out of it," Natasha notes. "Now, can I get off this stage, or are you satisfied? Tony?"
The man raises his hands in surrender.
"Nope, I know when to leave the queen alone."
"Are you sure?"
"Very. Clint, you go. She's tired now, you have a chance."
"What? No. She'd kick my ass and I only just got it un-kicked."
"We can play darts again," Bucky offers.
"No, you can't." Steve shoves Bucky toward the dance floor. "Because it's your turn."
"Hey!"
"Cute, but I need a break," declares Natasha. "Sam, you're up again."
"Hell yeah. I need to beat someone."
Bucky's protests die in his throat and a fire ignites in his eyes as Sam steps up onto the dance floor next to his own. "Hey, who do you think you're gonna be walking all over, exactly? I'll dance circles around you."
"Put your feet where your mouth is and prove it."
Natasha sidles up to Steve while Sam and Bucky bicker. "They get along well," she notes.
"Sam gets along with everyone."
She ticks an eyebrow. "Do you naturally see the best in people, or is that something you have to practice?"
"Bit of both."
"Charming." They watch as the two bicker their way into agreeing on a song and—naturally—they both select the highest difficulty. "Can he dance?"
"He's better than me, at least. He just seems to know things, too. Did you know he's a mechanic?"
"I guessed. He came in smelling like S100 a couple of times and I've seen his motorcycle. There are parts that aren't stock on it and he didn't ask any of us—or you—for help finding a local shop."
"Do you naturally pick up on that stuff, or is that something you practice?"
She smiles at him and doesn't answer.
In some part of his mind, Bucky had been hoping Alpine's purring would be some kind of miracle cure for the soreness forever lurking in and around his shoulder. Alas, Alpine's only cured his habit of sleeping in, and her purring—while lovely—doesn't seem to have any magical properties. A full three days after his archery contest with Clint and subsequent dance showdown with Sam, and every muscle in Bucky's back feels as though its strands could be plucked like guitar strings.
The archery contest? A mistake, but now he knows better. If he could just get Clint to stop beaming every time they see each other, that would be great, because Bucky's eyes are starting to hurt from being rolled so often.
The dancing? Less of a mistake, he just should've known better than to attempt any moves that put most of his weight on his left arm after straining it so much. At least Sam is a bit less of a sore winner after because he was so thoroughly humbled by Natalia.
And, one major perk: going back with Steve that night meant Steve offered a massage, and turns out, Steve is really good with his hands. Even if the pain still found Bucky eventually, the memory of being sprawled out on Steve's bed with Steve digging his palms into the worst of the knots takes the edge off it.
That memory's got him smiling now as he wipes his damp hands on his pants—he always thinks he can get away with just one paper towel and he's always wrong—and strolls past the Halloween bash posters Tony's put up along the hallway leading to the restrooms. There are more along the back wall and on the front entrance, all of them designed by Steve. They look nice, appropriately spooky, and though there's a tragic lack of artistic renditions of a dude vomiting, they've got that little bit of Steve's magic touch to draw the eye.
What holds the eye is the promise of half-price drinks for everyone in costume, "in costume" defined at the staff's discretion. Everyone's gonna be dressed up and Bucky's not about to be the one schmuck who isn't. What to dress as, though?
He pauses. Idiot. There's only one answer.
"He does the bash every year, right?" Bucky asks when he rejoins Natalia at the bar.
"Every year," she confirms. "Can you take some orders? There's a bit of a backup."
"Did he—"
"Yep."
Bucky sighs. Naturally Tony offers up a round while Bucky's in the bathroom, leaving only Natalia to deal with the surge. He works his way up and down the bar as fast as he reasonably can and then ends up at the POS terminal, tapping away at the touch screen to put everything into the system.
"Odd," Natalia mutters when she next walks by him.
"What?"
"The band's still playing."
Bucky glances at the stage, then at the clock. "Their set ended five minutes ago, didn't it?"
"It should've."
Bucky shifts his gaze to the spot next to the stage where a displeased group of guys is standing, most of them with their arms crossed and scowls on their faces. "Next band isn't happy about the delay. Does this happen a lot?"
"Delays? Yes. A band deliberately playing over time? No. We don't do encores outside of special performances. Tony's probably going to—"
Rather abruptly, the band's mics cut out and their song stumbles to a stop in confusion.
"—cut their mics," Natalia finishes. "And there he is."
Tony hops up on the stage with a mic of his own. "Sorry to interrupt your playing, gentlemen, but I do have a schedule to keep. Everyone, that was Bedazzled Jacket!"
Applause goes up around the place but Bucky's eyes stay on the stage. The scowls are still there and it looks like a couple of them are having words with the band on stage. Natalia is stuck mixing drinks, but he sees agreement in her eyes, so he puts the order entry on pause and swiftly heads from the bar to the stage.
One of the irritated band members steps up onto the stage. Bucky catches someone telling that guy to get fucked, which doesn't go over well.
Bucky breaks out into a jog but he's still got a few tables between himself and the stage when that guy tips over part of the other band's drum kit. The cymbals clatter horribly when they hit the floor and Tony winces, about to intervene, but words aren't going to stop what Bucky can see brewing in the drummer's eyes.
He gets there just in time to catch the thrown punch. The drummer's fist smacks into Bucky's outstretched left hand and Bucky makes no effort to soften the impact. The guy recoils, cradling his hand and staring in disbelief.
"He tipped my drums, dude!"
Unimpressed, Bucky lets his hand fall. Catching that punch had made his whole back clench and it had taken everything in him not to squeeze his hands into fists on reflex, which would've crushed the guy's fingers like so many matchsticks. Unable to stifle the pain completely, he lets his right hand tense up until the pain ebbs.
Tony claps him on his shoulder—gently, Bucky's thankful to feel—and turns a disapproving stare on the two bands.
"Big difference between tipping instruments and assaulting someone. I get that being delayed is annoying, but really? Property damage?"
There's much shuffling of feet and refusal to make eye contact. Eventually, though, Tony pries out some of the story: the bands, both of which consist of high schoolers or recent high school graduates, know each other, and there's been bad blood for a while. Tony's expression gets more and more annoyed with each word of explanation he hears.
"Okay," he interrupts, "that's enough. All of you, pack your gear and get out."
"What?" demands the nearest guy. "But we—"
"I don't care. Really, I don't. Six month bans all around, and trust me, I have an excellent memory. Go play at Hammer's club if you're so eager to offer cheap entertainment. Go on, start packing."
"You can't just—"
Tony's expression hardens and his tone turns decidedly dangerous. "Oh, but I can."
Behind him, Bucky pointedly crosses his arms and glares.
They swallow their protests and set to packing, keeping their hissed insults to each other low enough that Tony doesn't bother taking action again.
"What's the plan now?" asks Bucky.
"I'll play."
"You play?"
"My band will play," Tony amends while he pulls out his phone. He keeps going, forestalling Bucky's follow up question about his band. "I'll be singing, and doing a damn good job of it. Fortunately, Happy, Rhodey, and Pepper are already here tonight, and I keep spare gear in the back for exactly this situation."
"That's…" expensive, Bucky finishes mentally. Aloud, he opts for, "well thought out."
"I try. I saw you used your left hand earlier."
"I wanted it to hurt." Too bad it also hurt him, but he'll get over it.
"Can I look at it?"
"Still no."
"Spoilsport."
"Don't you have a band to get together?"
"Everything okay?"
Bucky glances over to see Steve stepping onto the stage, his eye lingering on the two bands that are almost done packing up their gear. Steve's wearing a bomber jacket that fits his shoulders perfectly and a t-shirt he's gotta know is a size too small. "Better now."
By the set of Steve's jaw as he watches the bands slink out the back door, Bucky can guess that his response would've gone a little farther than just catching the punch. There would've been a lecture in there somewhere, namely toward the bullies. Bucky can't imagine Steve faulting the targeted band for fighting back.
Tony gets Steve up to speed, adding in: "They've both played here a couple times and Nat picked up on the tension, but this was a new and unwelcome escalation."
"Did you have to kick them both out?" asks Steve.
Sighing, Tony shrugs. "Maybe not. But frankly it's not my job to referee teenagers or play judge to their disputes. I don't get paid enough for that."
Bucky cocks his head. "Do you get paid?"
"Go back to the bar or my check is coming out of yours. My band is here."
Steeve walks with Bucky most of the way. "Nice job catching that punch."
"Cool enough for you?"
"Maybe. Shoulder okay?"
"Didn't like it, but I'll survive. Especially if you offer another massage."
"I can give you one at the end of your shift."
"Say less."
Tony's band is decent enough. This is clearly something they all do as a side hobby, especially Happy, the drummer. His kit's pretty basic—which is fine, a skilled drummer can do a lot with a little—but he's not getting creative with it. Bucky keeps his criticisms to himself, though, because there's an idea starting to form in his brain.
While doing his end-of-shift duties, he delays his massage and leaves Steve by the bar so he can track down Tony in the back.
He raps on the doorframe. "Hey, Tony."
Tony glances up from his tablet. "James. Here to give me another heartfelt apology?"
"Sorry, you only get the one."
"I heard Scott got two."
"I like Scott more than you."
"Well, now that you've buttered me up: what do you need?"
He steps fully inside the office and closes the door. "I've got an idea for the Bash, but I'm gonna need your help. And there's one catch: you can't tell Steve."