Retrograde▸bucky barnes

8. I Don't Dance

It was a late Sunday afternoon where the city was lazy with expectation of the coming week, as if it slowed down enough, Monday would never come. Lena was lying on her bed staring at the ceiling and the constellations she had painted there. The mural was unfinished, despite having started it months ago in a moment of hyperfixation, but she liked it anyway.

She was waiting to hear the sound of Bucky's motorcycle on the street below and wishing she had a cigarette. She had long ago given up smoking regularly for it left a haunting scent that she could not stand on other people, let alone herself, but the idea of being a normal human being who could develop a nicotine addiction was far more tantalizing; her body metabolized everything far too fast to notice nicotine or caffeine, only submitting to alcohol when consumed in substantial quantities.

Eventually she heard the roar of the motorcycle below and she checked reflection once more before meeting Bucky, smiling fondly at the red leather jacket that had long been a part of her wardrobe.

"Where are we going today?" she asked as he handed her a helmet.

"It's a surprise," he replied, his voice slightly muffled by his own helmet.

"Why is it always a surprise?" Lena laughed, swinging her leg over the bike and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Because it adds to the suspense," he said, his voice now raised to accommodate the sound of the bike as they sped down the road.

"I didn't know it needed to be suspenseful," she shouted back.

He did not reply but she could feel him chuckle, the laugh reverberating through his body. As they rode through the city Lena could not help but feel that she was living a dream that had for so long evaded her, one of haphazard adventures that left her full of breathless laughter.

It was not far to their destination, of course it never felt far with Bucky's reckless driving. They parked outside a large white building, cranes of the Brooklyn Naval Yard barely visible from this vantage point a couple streets over.

"The shipyard?" Lena asked as she shook out her hair, the blonde catching the light just right that it momentarily gleamed a strawberry red.

Bucky took the helmet from her, securing it to the bike alongside his own, slipping the keys into well black fitting jeans, "Not exactly. But we could go if you want...I know some people."

"Of course you do."

They entered the white building which announced itself as the "Brooklyn Grange." Again Lena noticed the discreet avoidance of regular security that everyone else was subject to, the entrance employees greeting Bucky as "Mr. Buchanan" and nodding as he passed.

"Mr. Buchanan," she said in a mocking tone as they neared an elevator, "why is it that everyone always knows you?"

"I'm a war hero remember, coffee shop girl?" he said as they stepped into the lift.

"I really don't think that everyone is aware of our novella we have going here."

"Then I don't have a better explanation for you," he said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

Lena did not respond but was not satisfied with this answer. It lingered on suspicious, but he had given her no other reason to be untrusting. Nothing in her gut screamed danger, in fact quite the opposite, everything about him exuded quiet calm. The elevator lurched to a stop at the top of the building, sunlight flooding their vision.

An expanse of green gardens stretched beyond them, covering the rooftop. Between immaculately cared for rows of plants and vegetables, couples lingered, a slow chatter of voices hidden behind the street noise below. However, the street noise was muted, enough removed by the height of the building that a benevolent calm covered the rooftop.