till the end of the line

“We did,” Steve says.

He offers Bucky his hand, palm up and open (that’s how a gentleman is supposed to do it, his Ma taught him well), and Bucky takes it, reaches out with his sleek silver fingers and takes Steve’s hand in his – takes the warm flesh and the strong bones and the unspoken invitation that goes with them, the same as he always did anytime Steve reached for him: without a second thought.

It’s only when he’s standing up, pulled halfway into Steve’s space, that he hesitates.

“I don’t–” He swallows, his Adam’s apple moves with it. “Don’t think I know how, anymore.”

The sorrowful rasp of his voice slices right through Steve’s heart.

The sheer wealth of things that were taken from Bucky, both great and small, innate and inconsequential, makes up a tapestry vast enough to coat the room from wall to wall; and still Steve has to watch it grow and grow when a new patch is found, sewn in at the edges as a reminder of one more thing, one more loss, one more sliver cut away from the fabric of Bucky’s soul.

Much of what was stolen, Steve can never give back, and the truth of it is an ache sharp like glass in the marrow of his bones. But here sits his glimmer of hope: sometimes, more often than not, the foundations are still there, safe beneath the rubble, and they can be built upon.

“I can teach you,” he offers, thumb stroking over the steel-smooth valley between two of Bucky’s knuckles. Like you taught me, is the sweet aftertaste, clinging to the roof of his mouth. “If I learned, anyone can.”

Something suspiciously close to fondness flickers in Bucky’s eyes. They wrinkle at the corners – soft, soft. Lovely. Someday soon, he’ll have crow’s feet to show for it; they both will. How sweet a thought that is. How easily it settles in the cradle of Steve’s heart, as true today as it seemed impossible yesterday: they’ll have crow’s feet. Their skin will crinkle and soften, their hair will sport wisps of gray, and their joints will creak and pop a merry little song when they roll out of bed in the morning. They’ll grow old. They get to grow old. Together.

Emotion ripples through him – love, always love, warm and potent and self-fueling, coursing like blood in Steve’s veins and filling him flush from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. Some of it must show on his face, because Bucky finally acquiesces.

“Alright. Yeah,” he nods, soft-spoken. “Show me.”

It’s easy, is the thing: as easy as Steve remembered. Their bodies need no instructions at all.

Steve may guide them, but Bucky’s arm already knows to go ‘round his middle and pull him close. Steve’s hand skates up the strong rope of muscles lining Bucky’s shoulder, just to nestle on his nape, and have the softness of Bucky’s hair at his fingertips. Their joined hands, pinned together above Bucky’s heart. This is their place, same as the stylus slotting into the grooves of the vinyl and making smooth music out of it.

He runs the tip of his nose along Bucky’s nose, gentle, his eyelids falling closed with the motion.

“I’ll tell you what you told me back then,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky leans into him, breath and body and warmth, his forehead tucked against Steve’s forehead, his fingers splaying wide on the small of Steve’s back.

The music swells. It’s a love song.

“You don’ hafta do anything. Don’ hafta go anywhere.”

They sway, slow and intimate, like seafoam lapping its tongue over the shore’s golden sheen; four socked feet standing on the one tile, barely lifting off the floor.

“See? We’re staying right here. Nothin’ fancy about it. ‘S just you and me.”

Bucky presses him closer.

“Just you and me.”

They’re dancing.

Steve breathes in, breathes out. It’s all Bucky, all of it, all of him– curling deep into the maze of his lungs, filling up his chest, the lingering taste of him sweet as cream under Steve’s tongue.

The heart trembles inside him.

Nothing else moves him like this: like the kiss of Bucky’s eyelashes fluttering against his skin. Like the pounding of Bucky’s heartbeat under his hand, steady and thrilling. Like the cinch of Bucky’s arm around him, herding him in, bringing him in from the cold. Like the fit of Bucky’s body against his, ever-changing, ever-perfect. Nothing else could.

They’re dancing.