Chapter Text
header by ewlyn | masterpost link | original art
technically perfect
His shoes dig into the dry earth, sending a cascade of stones rolling down the hill. There’s a big yucca just a few feet ahead, and Bucky slows to a stop beneath it. Squinting into the distance finds Steve far ahead, the morning light surrounding him in a halo.
Nearly thirty years of life on this earth, and Bucky’s still playing catch up.
Pulling up the bottom of his shirt, he wipes the sweat from his brow, trying to catch his breath.
“You okay?” Steve calls. Bucky gives him a wordless thumbs up, but Steve still climbs down. He drops a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, a stitch in your side?”
Shaking his head, he takes a long swing from his water bottle. Steve frowns, so Bucky throws a thumb down the hill. “It’s too hot, we should head back.”
They’re both wearing baseball caps, but Bucky's not one to underestimate the California sun. Pity the fool who does.
“Sure, but first...” Steve slides his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, holding up his phone in question. Bucky nods, tucking a few stray hairs behind his ear.
Framing the shot so the Hollywood sign can be seen in the distance, Steve snaps a selfie of the two of them. Bucky’s a frequent guest on Steve’s Instagram. He doesn’t have one of his own, and he always hides when the company’s social media guy shows up in studio with his DSLR. Steve’s flattering with his pictures. The social media guy is not. He always manages to catch Bucky at an embarrassing moment, like when he’s sweaty and red like a boiled lobster, or wearing the ridiculously neon leg warmers his sister gave him for his birthday.
“One like already,” Steve murmurs, showing off an artistically black and white image of the two of them smiling at the camera.
“Hmm, lemme see.” Bucky steals Steve’s phone, opening the camera.
“Hey!” Steve protests, just as Bucky snaps a picture, and then another. “Hey, stop that.” Steve makes a grab for the phone, but Bucky jumps out of his reach. A flick of his thumb, and he posts a frazzled image of Steve half laughing, half trying to cover his face. Of course he still looks gorgeous; he’s Steve. But, it would do well for some of his followers to see that he’s a regular person, just like them.
Bucky tosses the phone back. Steve catches it, radiating so much silent disapproval Bucky can only laugh. “Two likes.” He points out.
Steve looks at the screen, brows lifting. “I could help you set up your own account.”
Bucky scoffs. “No thanks. I’m not a glutton for attention.”
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, but can’t seem to hold back the sly grin slipping through. Banter has always been their thing, for as long as he can remember. “You calling me an attention whore, Buck?”
Bucky smirks. “I’m sorry, is that news?”
Rolling his eyes, Steve says, “Ass.”
Bucky pats his backside. “Thanks, I take great pride in it.”
Steve just shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips.
Together, they walk down the hill. They don’t run. That’s been hammered into their heads since they were kids scared shitless by diagrams of torn ACLs. Running ruins dancers’ knees.
Bucky swings the car out of the lot, and drives them down to the city. It’s the end of September in LA, and the rainy season is fast approaching. When the storms roll in, the Hollywood hills melt down into the city. Only then does the smog finally clear.
Bucky steals a glance at Steve. He’s wearing a pair of mirrored aviators, but Bucky can tell his eyes are closed. It’s the way his head is tipped back, his arm hanging casually from the car. The convertible is one of the biggest purchases Bucky’s ever made, but one can’t live in LA and not have a convertible. He's going to be paying it off for years, and he won’t be able to upgrade his shoebox Mid-City apartment anytime soon, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Especially with the way the wind blows through Steve’s hair.
“Why are you staring?” Steve asks, lifting his aviators, one eye cracked open, mouth curled in a tease of a smile.
“Someone forgot to put on sunblock,” Bucky says. Steve snorts and drops his glasses back down, kicking his knee against the dashboard. Immediately, Bucky swats it. “Vehicle safety, dumbass. I don’t wanna get pulled over because you have a giant’s sprawl.”
He can practically feel Steve roll his eyes, but he drops his leg. “Joke’s on you, I’m wearing SPF 100. I look like a vampire, but I can’t have Peggy yelling at me, again.”
“I thought you liked getting yelled at by strong women. Isn’t that a kink of yours?” Bucky laughs when Steve blushes red enough for it to show through the sunblock. Steve pokes him in retaliation. The car swerves, but Bucky rights it on a turn. “I’m driving, you entire asshole.”
“Entire .. . wow , and I’m the kinky one?” Steve says wryly.
“You’re the one who wore that little leather number at Pride,” Bucky reminds him.
Steve sticks his tongue out. “I’ll have you know that was a harness, and it served a legitimate purpose.”
“What?” Bucky snorts, signalling and taking a turn. “Hanging from someone’s sex dungeon?”
“Nope,” Steve pops the p. “Holding up the wings Tony lent me.”
Oh yeah, he remembers those. Rainbow sequins and gold appliqué, they were garish, massive, and bright enough to be seen from space. Bucky was visiting his family in Brooklyn when Steve posted the photo on Instagram. Becca had screamed bloody murder when she got the notification. Her crush on Steve is frankly ridiculous, considering he used to change her diapers. Teenagers, he’ll never understand them.
Bucky turns on his stereo, smirking when Barbie Girl pours quietly from the speakers. He cranks up the volume, yelling over the music, “Look, it’s your song!” Steve flicks his ear playfully, and Bucky laughs, wide and free. “Careful, someone might think you’re trying to do away with the competition.”
“Pull over, Buck,” Steve says with a beautifully maniacal grin.
“What,” Bucky glances at the road, then back to Steve as he’s inching closer, fingers wiggling. “C’mon, Steve,” he snorts, as Steve feathers a finger over his kneecap. Fuck, Bucky’s ticklish. “I’m gonna crash,” he threatens.
“Not if you pull over,” Steve says, adding more fingers to the mix. Bucky’s turning red from trying to hold back his laughter. “Pull over,” A finger dips under his knee, and Bucky gives in, pulling them off to the side of the road. That’s when Steve strikes, fingers merciless in their pursuit of Bucky’s laughter.
***
Bucky never cuts corners when he dances. His technique is perfect. Steve says it’s his greatest asset. Bucky thinks it’s his greatest flaw.
He’s a classically trained dancer trying to make it big in contemporary ballet. In the beginning he’d struggled with the more modern choreographic pieces. Trying to convey emotion through an absent plot, when he should have been doing it through the music. It’s been three years since he moved companies—he knows better now.
The company has been good to him, as they are good to all their dancers. The pay is good, they’re unionized, and even the health insurance is top notch. The people are friendly, and while competition is real, it isn’t terribly cutthroat.
There’s the principals. Natasha, and her tendency to forget English when it comes time to schmooze donors. Pepper, who was sweet enough to invite him to her wedding when he’d been with the company only a few months. Sam, with whom he gets along as well as can be expected, considering he’s the other man in Steve’s life. Then Steve, of course.
Their company employs just under a hundred dancers. From principals to apprentices, character artists to soloists, to the backbone of the ballet: the corps.
Peggy’s their resident choreographer, but artists come from all over the globe to create with them. Their company is well known for creating ballets, not just performing them. The senior ballet master, Coulson, and the artistic director, Fury, have been working towards that goal for decades. Making this company one of the biggest in America.
Fury plucked their choreologist, Maria, right out of school, long before any other company could get their claws into her. With Peggy creating a new ballet every other season, it all has to be documented somehow and Maria knows Benesh notation like the back of her hand. Fury even managed to convince one of the best répétiteurs in the world to return to the industry. Bruce could catch a sickled foot in the middle of a foggy night across the bay. Then, there’s Tony, who was recruited right off of broadway. He controls their costumes, sets, and props departments; literally anything that needs making, he can do.
Fury never fails to find good hires. Except, it seems, when it comes to Bucky. What else could explain his stalled career, other than Fury’s uncertainty in his abilities? He was a principal in his old company, but in this one he’s been stuck as a soloist for three years now.
To the naked eye there isn’t much difference between a soloist and a principal. They both dance solo roles that are technically difficult. In most classical ballets, minor solo roles are just as fulfilling as lead roles, since the casts are so large. But to Bucky it’s the greatest difference in the world.
It’s like being trapped in purgatory; waiting and hoping for a promotion that’s never coming.
There are level of seniority. A soloist won’t have a role when a principal is available to fill it. When the company runs out of principals to schedule, that’s when he comes in. He isn’t good enough to be promoted to principal, and he isn’t dancing every night, like when he was eighteen and in the corps.
He has too much free time on his hands, and too much free time so often leads to stagnation.
***
“Is something the matter, James?” Coulson asks, stopping beside his and Pepper’s barre. “Your relevés are too wide, you’ll injure yourself that way.”
Bucky curses his wandering thoughts, and shifts his legs closer together.
“That’s better.” Coulson moves on, warming up the company for the day.
It’s all well and good, but he makes them do battement after battement until Bucky feels like a can-can girl. Straining with the effort, sweat flows down his body in a flood. The pianist, Erik Selvig, stops playing at Coulson’s signal, and Bucky’s left panting in the centre of the studio. Lactic acid burns in his calves, but with nary a protest from the old fracture in his foot, he isn’t worried.
“It’s tragic isn’t it?” Pepper says, picking up her towel, tossing over Bucky’s as well.
“Thanks,” he says, wiping his face of sweat. “What’s tragic?”
“You didn’t hear?” She says, eyes wide, towel paused on the way her face. “Sharon Carter was in a car accident last night.”
“Peggy’s niece?” Bucky says, pulling his bag towards him. “Is she okay?”
“No.” Pepper says sadly. “She passed away.”
“Oh,” Bucky says, hands falling from the zipper.
Bucky never met Sharon in person. She was Steve's partner in the company long before Bucky’s arrival. She danced with Steve for three seasons before moving to San Francisco. The press used to hound them, printing tabloid after tabloid overreading a friendly hug, or a kiss on the cheek. In the end, the rumours were only rumours. They worked well together, and when artists of the opposite sex dance the way Steve and Sharon did, people always make assumptions.
“Life is so short,” Pepper says, “Do you ever think about how it could end just like that?” She snaps her fingers.
“Everyday,” Bucky says, his mind elsewhere. Steve didn’t show up for class this morning. Bucky figured he had a coaching session with Bruce, but now… especially with this news. He and Sharon were close, even after all these years.
The ancient pipes creak, and Bucky settles with his back against the endless mirror. Pepper pulls out a bottle of nail polish and fixes a darn in her stockings. Bucky digs around in his bag for a granola bar, and his notebook. They have apps for counting calories now, but Bucky’s been writing down everything he puts in his body since he was thirteen. Some habits are hard to break.
He records the granola bar, mechanically chewing the sticky almonds and oats. It tastes like cardboard in his mouth. Rubbing the raised scar on the back of his calf, he worries over too many things at once.
To get him to his optimum performance weight, he’ll need to lose half a pound a week. Consuming just under three thousand calories a day will meet all his energy requirements, and get him to that goal in two months. Any more, and he’ll put on weight. Any less, and his body will acidify as it breaks down muscle mass. It’s fat he doesn’t need, his muscles are heavy enough. A human leg is on average twenty-five pounds, if he can shave a pound off that, it’s a pound he doesn’t have to expend energy lifting. It’s the only way he knows to get an advantage over Steve.
Steve eats whatever and whenever he wants, and barely makes use of the company’s nutritionist. He lifts weights thrice a week, to Peggy’s consternation, and has the physicality of a swimmer, minus the tan.
And yet, when he dances he makes Bucky question the existence of gravity.
Bucky chews his lip. Fuck it. Grabbing his bag, he says a quick goodbye to Pepper. Bucky never cuts class early. He dances his best when he stays the entire two hours, but this is an emergency.
He finds Steve by the water fountains. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, head buried in his hands. His phone lies abandoned on the floor, he must have dropped it. Bucky scoops it up. Fuck, that’s Sharon’s smiling face on the cracked screen, right beside a picture of a burnt out husk of a sports car.
“Stevie?” Bucky says cautiously, crouching so he can wrap his hands around Steve’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. “Honey...”
“Buck,” Steve croaks, “She was so happy.” He looks up, eyes red and wet. “She wanted us to dance together again. But, Bucky, she’s gone .”
“I know,” Bucky says pulling Steve into a tight hug.
“She was so good, y’know, volunteered for anything and everything. Bucky, she was my first real partner. She had faith in my abilities well before I won the Prix.”
Bucky strokes a hand down the back of his head, letting Steve cry into his shoulder. Steve’s never had it easy with loss. When his ma died, the nurses had to carry him limp and sobbing from her hospital room. He can weather a lot, but losing people he loves is not one of those things.
“She's the one who signed us up for that USO tour in Afghanistan. The one where we danced for the troops?”
“I remember,” Bucky soothes, “You sent me the pictures.”
“I can't believe she's really gone,” Steve blubbers, his face an ugly mess of tears and snot. Bucky has an overwhelming urge to wrap him tight in his arms and never let go. “I don’t understand how this could happen.”
Bucky holds him until he finally stops crying, and then keeps holding him for good measure. He’s late for his coaching session, but Steve’s weak ‘thanks, Buck’ when he finally lets go is worth it and more.
***
“In this industry there’s a paper thin line between obsession, love, and hate,” Peggy says, “And my niece straddled that line in a perfect split. Ballet was her foil, but it was also her life. And what a life it was.” Peggy dashes away a tear. “You could say that runs in the family.”
A spattering of laughter rises from the audience, even Steve chuckles wetly.
“Sharon volunteered her time and talents to so many charities, I’ve lost count. She traveled to military bases all over the world, dancing for soldiers. She taught kids who couldn’t afford the academy. She spent her summers picking up garbage by the ocean, just because she could. She spread her love of dance far and wide.”
Bucky reaches over, squeezing Steve’s hand in comfort. Steve gives him a watery smile in return, enfolding their fingers in a vice-tight grip.
It’s a beautiful memorial service, held in a beautiful chapel in San Francisco, with beautiful people crying over how much they loved the beautiful Sharon Carter. By the podium there’s a picture of her, smiling ecstatically, a bouquet of flowers cradled in her arms. No doubt after a successful performance.
“America has lost one of her best daughters,” Peggy finishes, “Sharon will be dearly missed.”
After the service, Bucky waits by a droopy cycad while Steve speaks with Sharon’s girlfriend on the chapel steps. Bucky cranes his head, and oh boy, she’s crying. Steve’s hugging her, patting her back, but she’s full on sobbing. Bucky can’t blame her. From all Steve told him about her, Sharon was an amazing woman.
Someone coughs, and Bucky jumps nearly a foot in the air.
He whirls around, and his jaw drops. Up until now, he hasn’t seen Rumlow in at least two years. He was hoping he’d never have to see him again, to be perfectly honest.
“Barnes? I thought it was you—”
Bucky grabs Rumlow by the tie and yanks him behind the cycad’s sad branches, hiding them from the other attendees.
“What the fuck?” He hisses, shaking Rumlow by the tie at his stubbled throat. “You’re not supposed to come within a hundred feet of him. The fuck are you doing here?”
“Sharon, who else?” Rumlow says. To his credit, he doesn’t try to get away, he just lifts his palms in surrender. “She was my colleague too. Can you let go of me now? Please?”
“You didn’t even come to Pepper and Tony’s wedding because Steve was invited.” Bucky glares at him a few moments more, before dropping his hands.
Rumlow adjusts his tie, clearing his throat. “A wedding is not a funeral. Tony is a playboy, he can get married again. Sharon, on the other hand, can only die once.”
Bucky lifts his brows. “Wow.” For the millionth time Bucky wonders what the hell Steve saw in this guy.
“I didn’t know Steve was coming, I swear. I just saw him now, and he nearly gave me a heart attack. He looks good,” Rumlow says wistfully.
“Shut up,” Bucky spits. The bastard doesn’t have the right to think about Steve like that, not anymore.
“I’m off the smack. I swear.” Rumlow crosses an x over his heart, but Bucky's well aware that he doesn't have a genuine bone in his body.
Bucky scoffs, looking everywhere but at Rumlow. He really might punch him if he has to stare at his face for too long. “You mean the heroin? What about the coke, dickbag?”
“Okay, I deserve that, I admit,” Rumlow says. “But I’m clean. I checked myself into rehab. I’ve been going to meetings, talking to people who’ve been through what I’ve been through.” Rumlow reaches into his front pocket, and pulls out a chip. He holds it between his fingers like it's manna from God. “Four months sober.”
Bucky works his jaw. “Great,” he says sarcastically, “Good for you.” Don’t get him wrong, it’s good that Rumlow’s getting himself cleaned up. It’s better than how most people in his situation end up. It’s just unfair that Steve had to weather through his worst.
“I’m dancing again. Not ballet. Burlesque, in West Hollywood. It’s less stressful, on the mind and body. And the boss was willing to hire someone with an active order against them. So, bonus.”
“Wonderful,” Bucky says sarcastically.
“My sponsor thinks I need to square myself with Steve, apologize for everything.”
Bucky lets out a little disbelieving laugh, even though the situation isn’t funny in the slightest. “Do you not know the definition of a restraining order? It means you stay the hell away from him.”
“I was hoping you could get him to speak with me, as a personal favour?”
Bucky shakes his head vehemently. “No way. After what you did? Fuck no.”
Rumlow frowns, and for one second he looks exactly like the mean bastard Bucky remembers. Then he closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths. “Okay,” he says.
“Congratulations on your sobriety, but Steve doesn’t owe you anything.” Bucky folds his arms over his chest, unwilling to give an inch. “Now fuck off, before he sees you.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Barnes,” Rumlow says with a roll of his eyes. He turns around, and ambles over to the parking lot, waving over his shoulder.
Bucky, like the mature adult he is, flips him the bird.
He makes sure Rumlow’s well and driven away, before turning his attention back to Steve. Except, he’s not the only one looking.
A woman in a drab suit leans against the chapel siding, watching Steve. With a pair of wayfarers hiding her eyes, and arms crossed in front of her chest, she resembles the other mourners in only one way: she’s clothed from head to toe in black. Bucky stares at her curiously. She’s so out of place. Her lip is quirked with a hint of a smile, in sharp comparison to the sombre mood around them. He’s pretty sure she wasn’t at the service.
She adjusts the tie at her throat, then her head turns towards the cycad. To him. He drops his gaze, but when he looks up again, she’s gone.
Later in the evening as they fly back to LA, Steve drapes an arm over his shoulder, tugging him into a hug.
“What was that for?” Bucky asks, when Steve releases him.
“For always being there,” Steve says. “Thanks for coming with me. I couldn’t get my grief mixed up with Peggy’s, she has enough to deal with.” His eyes glow a deep purple in the pink sunset filtered through the window, lashes casting deep shadows on his cheekbones. Steve’s devastatingly handsome, a heart-breaker though and through. It’s not the first time Bucky thinks it, and it won’t be the last.
“I saw Rumlow,” Bucky admits.
“I know,” Steve says through a tight smile. “I saw him too, he was only a few pews in front of us.”
“He spoke with me after the service. Claimed he was sober.”
“Good for him,” Steve says firmly, nodding his head. He looks down at his lap, hands fidgeting.
“Hey,” Bucky says, getting his attention. Steve turns back to him, mouth downturned. “I’ve got your back, y’know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Steve smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Bucky forgets all about Rumlow, and the woman in the drab suit.