A Kiss to Build a Dream On
Story by @rachelladytietjens
Warnings: Darkness and flirting.
Relationships: Steve/Bucky
Characters: Steve, Bucky, Nat, Clint.
Song I wrote to: Louis Armstrong’s A Kiss to Build a Dream On
Bucky tries to teach Steve to dance...mostly.
Steve broke into a trot, trying to keep up with his best friend as they headed for the elevator. Bucky was not happy, calling Steve a disaster and a national disgrace, and growling that he was “going to fix this even if it fucking kills me”
It’s not as if Buck hadn’t already tried to teach Steve to dance, back in their poky pre-war flat in Brooklyn. Steve had struggled to walk the fine line between being so inept that Bucky gave up, and the horror that would have been getting good enough to actually go out dancing.
Because Steve hadn’t cared about getting to dance with some swish dames. That wasn’t the point of agreeing to dance lessons at all.
The point was being close to Bucky. Young, strapping, handsome Bucky with his shirtsleeves rolled up and suspenders loose. The sheer animal warmth of him seeping into Steve’s bones with every touch. Watching the muscles in his arms and shoulders flex, his hands so sure and confident. The healthy strong scent of him invading Steve’s senses and making his head spin. It had been miraculous that Steve had learned anything at all, he was that distract-
Steve inadvertently body-checks Bucky, all but bouncing off a solid wall of muscle. Bucky gives Steve a worried side-eye because they’re in the elevator, and most normal people tend to at least slow down when that happens. Steve pretends to be fascinated by the ceiling until Bucky rolls his eyes and presses the button for Nat and Clint’s floor.
Even given war and ice and death and seventy-fucking-five years, when it comes to Bucky not a damn thing’s changed.
Clint opens the door, rumpled as ever, but with only two visible band-aids. “Hey, you’re here.” Clint leads them down a short corridor and opens a door. “She must really like you. Even I don’t get to go in here.”
The room is an airy well-lit space with mirrored walls, a barre, and a sprung floor. A full-size dance studio.
Clint leans on the doorframe and grins at Steve. “Though she probably considers it a public service, keeping those poor women out of Medical. Maria is still furious with you for breaking her toes AGAIN, by the way.”
Steve winces at the reminder. “I did apologise. And I told Tony that weekly mandatory classes with professional dance tutors was teambuilding overkill.”
Clint huffs agreement. “I know, right? I wanted a Wii Deathmatch tournament, but when is Tony ever not sucking up to Pepper?”
Bucky snorts impatiently, beckoning Steve into the middle of the room and glaring at Clint until he rolls his eyes and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Steve turns to Bucky, who says “Preset One”, and the room goes dark.
It’s more than the lights going off; the windows are totally opaque and there are no stray reflections from the mirrors. The darkness is so complete that Steve suddenly feels unbalanced. He throws his arms out to steady himself, and the half-step he takes to widen his stance doesn’t make as much noise as it should, as if the darkness has muffled all his senses.
It takes a conscious effort not to drop into a defensive crouch and prepare for an attack.
Bucky’s breath is hot on his ear as he whispers, “Steve.”
“Guh.” Steve almost swallows his tongue. “Um, Buck-”
“No, Steve, no talking. You’re here to listen.” Bucky’s voice is quiet in the darkness. “I’m going to teach you how to dance even if it kills us.”
Steve sucks in a breath to protest, but Bucky steamrollers right over him.
“And before you tell me you’ve always had two left feet, that’s just bullshit. I’ve seen you parkour like a mountain goat, learn a new fighting style in hours, and do flips while you fling that damn shield around like a boomerang. So just shut up and pay attention.”
There’s warmth and a presence at his back, then Bucky’s hands land on his waist, dropping a little so that his fingers are wrapping around Steve’s hip bones.
“You live in your head too much, punk.” Bucky’s voice rumbles in his chest and wafts across the back of Steve’s neck. “You can’t think your way into dancing. You have to feel it. Put your hands on top of mine.”
Bucky’s hands were firm and sure under Steve’s. The metal of his prosthetic was warmer than Steve expected, the metal plates feeling almost seamless. It was strangely intimate. Steve and Bucky had plenty of physical contact, what with friendly shoulder bumps and sparring and their traditional post-mission I-know-you’re-not-fine-so-just-hold-still injury pat-down.
But this was different. If eyes were the windows to the soul, hands were its expression in the world. They held weapons and checked for injuries; they grated cheese and sketched people in the park; they clasped in entreaty to a God Steve found more confusing every day and indulged in private pleasures still far too solitary.
Bucky’s fingers were spreading, inviting Steve to interlace his. When he did, Bucky’s fingers tightened slightly, just a gentle squeeze that made sure he wasn’t going to pull away.
With one small step forward Bucky makes Steve’s mental needle skip. Hips pressed up against him. Thighs taunting him with hints of warmth and power. God, his chest against Steve’s back, arms alongside each other, hands still entwined.
Steve can feel Bucky’s body with their every breath, every shift of weight, every tiny movement. This is so much better than learning to dance before the war. So much better and so much worse, all at the same time.
Drowning under the cascades of sensation and sheer need pouring through him, Steve stumbles forward, breaking contact, and Steve can hear Bucky’s displeased huff.
“Don’t step away, you need to feel this. Just stay with me, as smoothly as you can.”
And with that Bucky steps into him again and Steve stiffens.
“That’s it, stay with the tension.” Bucky pushes with his shoulders, chest pressing Steve’s back, and they lean forward. “Leading from your shoulders will overbalance you both, and you’ll run right over her.”
Bucky moves back to where he was, waits for Steve to straighten, then pushes his right foot forward, bumping Steve’s ankle on the way past. “Lead from your feet, and you start breaking toes.” Steve gives an unhappy huff as Bucky sniggers.
“Lead from your hips...” Bucky says, and then full-out fucking grinds on him.
Steve’s world shrinks, his focus on the fingers pulling him back as Bucky presses himself against Steve’s ass. All of himself, because Bucky’s at full salute. Steve short circuits at the possibility that he...that they both...that maybe...
Bucky had continued talking, saying...something...important?...maybe. Fuck’s sake, Steve, pull yourself together.
Steve licks his lips, and has to clear his throat before admitting, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
Bucky’s chuckle rumbles through Steve’s chest, raising goosebumps as the sound of it shoves Steve’s mind back into the gutter.
“I said that they’ll get knocked off balance and the wrong idea. You’re trying to dance, not rub one off on them.”
“Yeah, of course,” Steve says with another cough, glad of the darkness hiding the heat rising in his face and the tightness in his slacks.
“You lead with your body, your feet following after.” Bucky presses forward; chest, torso, and hips all moving as one. Once past a certain point Steve has no choice but to take a step, and he can feel Bucky’s thigh flex as he moves too. The step is small, slow, but something about it feels inevitable. Easy.
Another press, another step. And another. And another.
“That’s it, Stevie. You don’t need fancy footwork or music. You just need to know where you’re going.”
And of course Steve’s traitorous mind takes that statement in a completely different direction.
In the dark there was no sense of time, but, eventually, between one step and the next it clicks in Steve’s head. Steve can almost feel Bucky’s smile when he starts responding rather than being pushed through the movements.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Bucky says, the praise flushing heat up Steve’s spine.
Hands still clasped, Bucky lifts their arms and, fingers loose, spins him. Steve doesn’t falter, and he lets Bucky twirl him out and then back, ending with them facing each other.
Without pause Bucky shifts into a gentle waltz, still leading, and they’re moving together smoothly, like it’s always been like this. Steve laughs at how easy it is.
“That’s it, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs as he lets go. Steve is only bereft for a moment; Bucky pulls Steve’s left hand off his shoulder, clasping it loosely. Bucky’s metal hand is now a warm weight on Steve’s right shoulder. “Now, you lead.”
Steve stops, mind and feet frozen.
“C’mon sweetheart, you’ve started thinking again. Knock that shit off.” Bucky hip-checks Steve. “You were doing so well, following instinct, just letting it happen.”
Steve falters again, mind tripping on the the thought of ‘following instinct’ and ‘just letting it happen’. Bucky must know how that sounds. Or am I just so desperate, I’m hearing confirmation in innocent phrases. Steve’s feet turn to concrete, and he stumbles to a halt.
Bucky stops. “Okay, this is my fault. I didn’t cover how to use your arms. You lead with your body, but it’s transmitted through your arms. Pretend...um... Okay, I don’t have a good metaphor. Gimme a minute.”
Steve tries to relax. He’d been making progress; with the dancing, and maybe something else too, if he wasn’t deluding himself.
“Let’s try this. Put your hands on my chest. Yeah, both of them, that’s it, and I’ll do the same.”
Bucky’s heartbeat is strong under Steve’s hands, the power of it reassuring and frankly a fucking miracle given all that they’ve been through.
Steve’s little finger brushes the edge of the metal arm, and Bucky’s sudden stillness is as good as a flinch. Steve flexes his hand so that the pads of his two outer fingers are firmly on the prosthesis, overlapping the scarred seam between Bucky’s flesh and the arm he still despises.
The tension bleeds out of Bucky, and he returns to the task at hand. “See if you can feel the difference in my arms when I push and when I hold the tension.”
Steve resists the rigidity of the push and moves fluidly when led, easily able to differentiate between the two. Without being prompted Steve takes the lead. Bucky’s response is to shift his hands back to dance position, and Steve follows suit, keeping the lead and slowly becoming more confident.
“Better, better. Smaller steps, punk. When you dance with a stranger, especially a woman, you gotta remember she’s relying on you to keep her safe. Her legs are shorter than yours, she’s on tiptoe, and she’s going backwards. Too big a step will unbalance her and she’ll end up under those clodhoppers of yours. Best to start small and then open up a little once you’ve gained her confidence.
“Or you can keep them close.” Bucky’s voice drops. “Dancing is intimacy; it’s like kissing. You tug to encourage them to step closer. You tilt to angle them against your body and mouth. You press to guide them towards a couch or a wall or a bed. Your breath sets the pace, your arms define the space, you use their responses to guide yours, until finally, finally, your lips brush against theirs...”
Bucky can’t have missed the way Steve’s hands flex, or the shivered ‘fuck’ that escapes him as little more than a breath.
“Language, Stevie, language,” Bucky quietly chides.
His next words are whispered against Steve’s ear. “Besides, that’s a lesson for later. Let’s finish this one first.”
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