@maybepeace said: 💃 alice/bucky 💃
It starts with a vintage radio at a rummage sale. It is at least fifty years old, and Alice knows—and says—it doesn't work before he forks over the $10. But maybe it's no surprise that Bucky is determined to repair something broken.
For a week or so, it's a pet project. He wipes off dust and grime and buffs out marks. He straightens the antenna. He tightens screws. It's missing a dial; Alice hauls him to the library makerspace to 3d print a new one. The librarian, who falls on the younger side of millennial, looks just as confused by the radio as Alice is. He has to fiddle with the antenna some more.
It's nice to see him working on something for him, not just whatever the landlord hasn't bothered to get to for their neighbors up and down the complex.
And then they have a working radio. She hasn't heard one of those since she drove her dad's car to school.
On a clear evening, she follows him up to the roof. The moon hangs waning in a still-blue summer sky. The sofa looks a little less like he dragged it out of a dumpster, which he did, with the addition of fairy lights strung around the rooftop. She perches on the arm and swings her legs, watching him turn one silver knob and one two-toned purple-blue knob, courtesy of the Chicago Public Library system.
I'll never smile again Until I smile at you I'll never laugh again What good would it do
She's swaying with the beat, slow as it is, but it doesn't occur to her to take it seriously when he says, "Dance with me?"
Alice laughs. "Change the station and maybe I will."
It's just a subtle tightening of his face that tells her (her own eyes widening, smile dropping) that he actually meant it. Her hands go still mid-playing idly with the skirt of her dress, along the place where a seam skips over the sunflower print.
You know we couldn't have danced in the '40s, she doesn't say. She's never felt self-conscious before that she can't be nostalgic with him—she just takes him as he is, and doesn't worry about the rest. He'll tell her if it matters to who he wants to be.
Maybe this matters.
Because there's his face again. His irises appear very pale blue in the light. His eyes being so steady is nothing strange. He hasn't broken his staring habit yet, maybe never will. But he's not looking at the radio; he's looking at her.
And she doesn't believe it's just nostalgia. Not really.
"I guess I've got no beef with Sinatra."
She pushes herself off the arm of the sofa, shaking out the full-length skirt, then giving it an experimental swish. Glancing up at him then, her heart jumps into her throat.
Scarab is suspiciously silent about her pulse rabbiting off.
Within my heart I know I will never start To smile again Until I smile at you
Alice lifts her hands, and then flinches back. Like a hot stove, or that game where you try to pull your hands away before your partner slaps them—just as her fingertips touch his.
"I don't know what I'm doing."