Chapter Text
aphasia
Of all the ballets in his repertoire, Bucky would have to say that Sechs Tänze is his favourite. The first time he saw it live, he laughed his ass off, not expecting how utterly ridiculous it is. From the powdered white wigs, to the expressions the dancers make, to just how much fun it is.
They’re opening the season with a triple bill; three ballets by Jiří Kylián in one night. He has minor roles in the first two, but for Sechs Tänze, he’s dancing one of the two male roles in the pas de quatre. Sam and Pepper are his partners; as well as Wanda, a corps dancer turned newly promoted soloist.
Last season, when the company put on Swan Lake, Wanda was one of four girls performing the dance of the cygnets. It’s one of the most difficult roles in all of Swan Lake, and requires both stamina and technical skill. She blew everyone away—including the critics—earning her promotion.
“Your elbows are too soft, Pepper, be more sharp with your fouettés,” Bruce says, clapping his hands. “Again.”
Pepper restarts her solo, legs kicking out further and harder as she spins. Sechs Tänze is fast and hectic, and looks a mess to the casual observer. But it fits Mozart's quirky music perfectly.
Bruce waves to Wanda, and she steps up in sync with Pepper. Her hair is a shocking red, just like Pepper’s. They make quite the pair.
Bucky’s pretty nervous about partnering with a dancer that green. Wanda is talented, but she lacks in experience. Ballerinas need to know how to centre their weight during a lift. That's not something that can be taught. It takes years of practice to get it right. Still, it isn't all on the ballerina. If their partner is to execute a perfect lift, they need the confidence to carry it through. Sam is as cool as a cucumber when he lifts Wanda. And no wonder, he shines his best when he’s partnered up. He’s a reassuring presence, and he knows how to roll with the punches. If a partner leans in the wrong direction, Sam easily adjusts himself so not to drop them. Bucky, on the other hand, can’t help a twinge of apprehension.
He leans against the piano, plucking at his sweaty tank.
“You’ll be fine,” Erik says from his seat at the piano, glasses slipping down his nose.
Erik Selvig is an older gentlemen, and a company pianist. He has a list of credentials a mile long, and once played for the Stockholm Philharmonic. He’s been with the company almost as long as Fury has, which is to say, since the stone age. While Fury is as mean as a twenty foot crocodile, Erik has the personality of an angel. Everyone loves him.
“Says you, Mr. Perfect.” Bucky taps out a rhythm on the top of the piano.
“No one is perfect.” Erik turns the page of his sheet music. “Not even your friend, Steven.”
Bucky laughs in disbelief. “Steve has never made a mistake in his life.”
“Then you’ve been watching him through rose-coloured glasses,” Erik says knowingly, and Bucky sputters. “I play for him when he learns choreography. He only seems perfect because of the time and energy he puts into his work.”
“Sure,” he says skeptically. Bucky puts even more time and energy into his dancing, but he is still only half as good as Steve. He doesn’t voice this. He doesn’t want to sound whiny.
“Mr. Barnes, you hike, don’t you?” Erik studies him from over his glasses, like he's a particularly interesting specimen.
“I do.”
Erik picks up a pencil, and makes a little note in the score. “A little over a decade ago I found myself lost in Big Sur. Turned down the wrong path, or two, or three, and spent the day sitting on a rock, staring up at the redwoods, wondering where I had gone wrong. The only reason I’m not still sitting on that rock is because a ranger just happened to stumble upon me.”
“I didn’t know you hiked.” He glances in apprehension at Erik’s wobbly knees.
Erik smiles like he knows exactly what Bucky's thinking. “Ever since that day, I’ve thoroughly planned a trip months in advance. There’s no getting lost for me, especially now that I’ve got my dog. Bella’s a good little pup.” He wiggles his whiskers. “You won’t get lost either, so long as you know what you are doing. And I have it on great authority that you know exactly what you're doing.”
“James!” Bruce calls. “Front and centre.”
Bucky gives Erik a grateful smile before running out onto the floor.
Bruce counts as Erik plays the piano. He’s so lost in the music and choreography, he doesn’t even notice another presence until Bruce asks Erik to stop. Setting Pepper on her feet, Bucky glances towards Bruce, and finds Peggy Carter looking right at him.
Steve used to have a postcard of her taped to his bedroom wall, imposing in her blood red Kitri costume. She was younger then, and so different from the waifish dancers that were popular in the heroin chic 90s. Oh, how he used to tease Steve about that postcard. Steve insisted he only admired her technical skills but Bucky caught him staring at it too many times to be kosher.
Her eyes crease at the corners now, and she’s hung up the leotard for designer pant suits, but she still has the same fiery spirit that made her Kitri so famous. She comes from a long line of top notch ballerinas. The daughter of a renowned prima, Peggy’s heritage can be traced back to when ballet first established itself in England. The Carters are ballet royalty, but Peggy’s anything but traditional.
The first ballet she ever choreographed was a commissioned piece for an Italian company. She was given a composer and complete creative freedom, and she took it to heart. The director wanted a ballet set in the Renaissance, and she give him that. Fontana was born; inspired by the life of the Italian painter Lavinia Fontana. Peggy scoured the globe for voluptuous ballerinas that embodied the Renaissance. With them as her leads, she shattered the stereotype that only slender girls could dance on pointe. It was slammed in some circles, praised in others. She was only thirty at the time.
“Barnes,” she says, brown eyes calculating. Then, turning to Erik, “I want to see him from point and shoot,” she indicates a moment on the score, so Erik knows exactly what he has to play.
“Pepper?” Bucky asks, but Peggy shakes her head.
“No, with Maximoff.”
Wanda, wide eyed and quivering, goes up to Bucky. He can’t blame her. Peggy’s an imposing figure, to say the least, and this has the possibility to make or break her career. Especially with this tricky scene, where so many things could go wrong.
Erik slams on the keys, and the scene begins. Bucky points at Wanda, and she falls in a dead faint. He twirls, and leaps over to her. There’s trust in her eyes as he picks her up by the back of the neck. He obviously hasn’t given her enough credit. She knows not to rely on his strength alone which would risk him hurting her unintentionally. She’s light as a whistle, because she uses her legs to power herself forward and up.
They dance until Peggy calls for them to stop. Wanda grins at Bucky, wide and ecstatic, and Bucky smiles back.
“Thank you, Maximoff,” Peggy says. Tears glisten in Wanda’s eyes. Bucky barely remembers being that young and eager to please.
Peggy makes a ‘come here’ gesture at him, and he goes with some trepidation.
“You studied under Alexander Pierce, didn’t you?” She asks, watching Bruce run the others through the next scene.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s a self-righteous twat isn’t he?”
Bucky’s eyebrows lift all the way to his hairline. He nearly smiles, but stops himself in time. “That’s putting it delicately.”
“I never could stand him. Fancies himself a choreographer when he doesn’t have a creative bone in his body. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a world class ballet master.” She looks at him, and he feels frozen with the intensity of her stare. “Must be why you turned out so good.”
“Thanks?”
“Tell me, Barnes. Is Béjart’s Bolero in your repertoire?”
Bucky shakes his head.
“Well…” She grins, teeth sharp like a lion. “Make sure you learn the principal role, we’re putting it on next season.”
Bucky’s jaw drops, and his heart just about stops in his chest.
“I recommend watching our 2009 production in the archives. And contact Maria with any questions you may have about the choreography.” She pats him on the shoulder, then walks right out of the studio. Pepper meets his eye from across the room, lifting a curious brow. Bucky gives her a stunned thumbs up.
That evening he does as Peggy suggested. He makes an appointment with Maria, and checks out the Bolero DVD. A few days later when the triple bill opens to a sold out audience, Bucky dances like it’s his last season as a soloist. For all he knows, it could be.
***
After a long day in the studio, Bucky comes home to a hungry cat. Tossing his keys on the counter, he runs fingers through Jupiter’s ginger coat, scratching the place below her ear that has her purring every time. He opens a tin for her, then walks down to the corner store.
During class one of the girls mentioned that Vanity Fair published an interview with Peggy, so he skims over the magazine rack. The owner, Mr. Sharma, asks after his day as he rings up his regular bag of ice.
“Danced until my feet went numb,” Bucky says, finding what he was looking for. Wow, they put Peggy on the cover. He grabs it, adding it to his purchase.
“A typical day, then?” Mr. Sharma says at the image of Peggy in a pant suit. She's standing on pointe, staring at the camera knowingly. “Someone you know?”
“A colleague.” Bucky grins, then nods to the picture of a chubby-faced kid taped to the cash register. “How is the little one?” Mr. Sharma loves his granddaughter something beautiful, and he lights up at any inquiries after her.
Mr. Sharma smiles fondly at the picture. “She just started ballet.”
“Oh?” Bucky says, interest piqued. “How does she like it?”
“It’s difficult, but she’s a determined little girl. Wants nothing more than to dance everywhere and anywhere.”
Bucky hums. He knows that feeling very well. “Has she ever been to the ballet?”
“We haven’t had the chance,” Mr. Sharma says sadly, “You know how it is.”
Yes, Bucky is all too familiar. His family didn’t have much money when he was a kid, but his neighbourhood had a good library system. He must have checked out every tape he could find on ballet, but didn’t see his first performance in the flesh until he was accepted into the academy. Ballet is expensive—to study, and to watch—but his parents believed in him, and they paid his way. Bucky couldn’t even get a job to help out. He didn't have the time. When he wasn’t in school, he had to be at the studio, or he would fall behind. Forget all the shit other teens were doing. While everyone else was getting underage drunk at parties, Bucky spent his nights in the studios dancing...
…and a one, and a two, and a three, and a four, volé to the front, coupé, volé to the back, assemblé at the back, and a one, and a two, and a three, and a four…
…until his ma would inevitably show up to drag him home for dinner.
At home he dumps the ice into a bucket and sets it in front of his TV. Grimacing, he slides his aching feet in. The clinking ice melts in the burning heat from his fevered skin. It’ll reduce swelling in his sore muscles, and help him get some sleep at night. Right now, though, it’s damn uncomfortable.
Jupiter hops onto the back of the couch, eyeing his microwave burrito with intent, ignoring his garden salad. If she’s good, Bucky will slip her a piece of chicken. He doesn’t cook, he doesn’t have time for it. He lives on pre-packaged meals, and well enough, he doesn’t have to do the math, the calories are right there on the packaging.
His phone rings, and Bucky has to dig it out of the mess of cushions before he can read the caller ID.
“Loki?” Bucky says when the call connects.
“You don’t sound pleased to hear from me,” Loki says, forever sardonic. Bucky can picture him sitting with his legs up on his desk. Office dark but for a banker’s lamp and a single smoking cigarette resting on a full ashtray. Just regular PI stuff.
“It’s not that. I’m sitting in a bucket of ice.” Bucky shifts uncomfortably. To Loki’s credit he doesn't ask why. “How’s the business treating you?”
“There is a surplus of cheating spouses in this town. It’s enough to keep growing boy hale and hearty,” Loki says slyly. “The Grandmaster and I saw your show last night. Your performance was subpar.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. Dick. “Call your sugar daddy The Grandmaster one more time, Loki.”
“Thank you, I will. But that’s not why I’ve called.”
“Course not.”
“My firm was commissioned to find information on your friend, Mr. Rogers.”
Bucky brows furrow. Immediately, he thinks of the one guy who might have it out for Steve. “By whom?”
“It isn’t Brock Rumlow, he’s obeying the restraining order. Well, except for Miss Carter’s funeral.” Loki says, and Bucky didn’t know he was keeping an eye out.
Loki has never met Steve, Bucky never introduced them. It’s not that he thinks Steve will judge him for the company he keeps. He just doesn’t want Steve asking how they met. It involves too many questionable decisions on Bucky's behalf.
“I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about this person. None of my employees know what they look like. Communication has been limited to emails.”
“It could be a joke.”
“The money they’ve wired isn’t.”
“You’ve accepted their money?” Bucky says with some indignation.
“Money is money,” Loki says with absolutely no shame. “And besides, we managed to trace the transfer to an offshore account held by a shell corporation before the trail went dead. You should thank me for all the billable hours I’ve spent on this, I should be charging you.”
“Thank you, Loki, I owe you my life, Loki,” Bucky says distractedly. Who the hell wants dirt on Steve? He’s the nicest person Bucky knows. The only reason Bucky and Sam haven’t laid Rumlow out to dry is because Steve begged them not to. Whomever this person is—and it surely isn’t Rumlow, he isn’t smart enough to outwit Loki—what do they want?
“We’ll send our client on a wild goose chase,” Loki says, “And if we discover their identity, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Loki. For Steve.”
“I’m not doing this for him. Prima donna Rogers isn’t my friend. You are, and you care about him. Do what you will with this information,” Loki says, and the line goes dead.
Bucky tosses his phone to the side with a tired sigh. It's not that Steve doesn’t have his share of intense fans. Usually they just hang outside the employee entrance after shows, waiting for a photo. This is the first time someone has gone this far. It might be a rival seeking blackmail material, but Steve could murder someone and the board would help him bury the body. They took Steve’s side over the whole matter with Rumlow. Steve didn’t even get a reprimand, while Rumlow lost his job. Steve brings in too much money, and everyone knows it.
Bucky trusts Loki to find their identity. Until then, there’s nothing he can do.
He presses play on the remote, and the DVD starts where he left off. He’s been watching it on repeat these past days, studying the dancer on the centre of the stage. The quality is shit, but it’s the best copy he could find in the company’s archives. Still, no recording could compare to seeing it live back in 09.
A spotlight focuses on a younger Steve as he slides his hand, snakelike, down his body to his hip. The first few notes of Ravel’s Bolero play; an endlessly repeating, monotonous rhythm. Steve dances the melody, hips keeping time. His eyes are lined with so much kohl, hair slicked back so he looks like a snake. Gradually the tension increases and increases, until Bucky’s grabbing his knees in anticipation. Steve jumps, he spins, he throws his arms in the air in pleading, or celebration, or ecstacy, or everything at once. Cymbals clash, trumpets blow, Bucky’s heart beats along with every note, Steve collapses, and the screen goes dark. The DVD shudders to a stop.
It’s no wonder they say Bolero made Ravel lose language, then drove him to an early grave. It’s a maddening piece, and the choreography was crafted specifically for it.
Bucky picks up his cold burrito, feeding Jupiter a piece as promised. He pulls his feet out of the bucket, and places another bag of ice over his knees. Recording the meal in his notebook, he presses replay.