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When Bucky first woke up in the hospital and noticed that he was now missing a hand his first reaction was relief. From the looks of the bandage he still had most of his forearm which meant his Soul Mark was still there crawling up his arm. He drifted back to sleep with a smile, knowing he still had proof of his soul mate on his body.
When he woke the second time – he stayed awake longer than five minutes that time – he started thinking of everything that was gone. Cutting a steak was going to be difficult, and he wrote with his right hand, so that was going to be problematic. But of everything he was going to miss, it was dancing that he mourned the most. After all, he only took it up because of his soul mate.
His Soul Mark, “I’m sure we can manage a Balboa,” appeared on his arm two days before his tenth birthday, and he’d had no idea what a Balboa was.
In those dark days before Google, finding out had necessitated visits to more than one library. His school library had some information about Vasco Nunez de Balboa (Explorer, 1475-1519) but that was before the days of turning proper nouns into verbs, so there was no such thing as ‘doing a Balboa’. The Balboa Peninsula didn’t seem to fit either. Finally, after weeks of him and Stevie searching, his momma had the day off and took him to the Brooklyn Public Library. There the card catalog pointed him towards dancing and he found a book about swing dancing in the forties.
He’d shown his momma the picture of the man in uniform holding his gal close and said, “I need to learn to dance.”
When he'd turned up to his first lesson he'd shown Hallie, the dance teacher, his words and she set about making sure he knew all the nuances of swing. His favorite dance was the Lindy Hop since it let him show off by throwing his partner around. But the Balboa had a special place in his heart for the way his hand could splay across his partner's back and hold her close as their feet moved in harmony and the way he imagined ending a big night of dancing by holding his soul mate close.
Twelve years later he'd been teaching dance regularly and he and his partner were winning swing competitions around the country. Then two planes flew into the World Trade Center as he walked from home to the dance studio for an early morning practice. By the end of the week, Steve had joined the army and Bucky had followed him all the way to basic training. Steve, always the best guy in the room even before his late growth spurt, got tapped for officer's training, and Bucky got promoted up to Sergeant. They did tours of Iraq and Afghanistan and after so long Bucky thought they were going to be lucky enough to get through the war without any debilitating physical injuries. It was their final tour and he was going home in in under a month, but the IED had come out of nowhere and he'd seen how mangled his hand was; knew, even then, that there was no saving it.
Now he was never going to dance again.
Bucky wasn't ashamed to admit that he wallowed after he was released from hospital. He refused to move back in with his mom, even though she wanted him to. Instead he and Steve got a place together and Bucky sat on their couch watching ESPN and eating ice cream, since it was easy to eat one-handed.
He looked at his arm often. Once the bandages came off he could see that he had less arm than he'd first thought. The first word on his arm had been cut off and the second was stretched and contracted in strange ways by his stump and the scarring, so that it now read "e can manage a Balboa" with some strange, abstract art in front of it.
Bucky thought this was proof that he was not going to meet his soul mate; his Mark had been irrevocably altered and that was the same as losing it, wasn't it? And what woman - what dancer, for that was surely what she was - was going to want a man like him, who couldn't even manage tying his shoelaces, let alone lead her securely around the dance floor?
He thought about covering it up on occasion - if he got a full-sleeve tattoo, maybe something cool like machine parts, then the words wouldn't be there anymore and his soul mate need never know she was almost stuck with him. And as soon as he had the energy to get up off the couch he was going to do it.
Steve, the big sap, would hear nothing of it. He thought Bucky's soul mate would still come through and rescue him. Bucky asked what he was going to be rescued from - the couch? The boring losers at the V.A? They had the argument at least once a week - Steve would tell him off for calling his fellow vets losers, Bucky would feel guilty because Steve's disappointed face was the best guilt-inducer he knew, then he'd remember he lost his arm and he'd yell at Steve, grab another pint of Cherry Garcia from the freezer and turn on ESPN2 to that weird Australian game they called football.
No matter what Steve said next, whether it was 'you'll get fat eating nothing but Ben & Jerry's' or 'you're starting to smell' or 'your mother says she hasn't heard from you in a month', he'd point at the television and say, "No padding. Can you believe they tackle and jump on the other player's shoulders and wear no protection whatsoever?"
The only time he had said something different was when Steve said, "I think you should see a therapist."
That time Bucky stood, put his Cherry Garcia back in the freezer and took out a pint of Chocolate Therapy instead. "Happy now?" Steve only shook his head as he went out the door on his way to work.
It was his momma who got him out of his funk, as she had so many times before. In fact, she'd come in, pinched his ear between her fingers and dragged him towards the shower and when he'd refused to undress in front of her she threw him in there fully dressed and turned the water on cold. Then she'd thrown out all the ice cream, reminded him he was from Brooklyn, and by God, Brooklynites picked themselves up again when faced with adversity and told him that if he didn't go to all of his appointments this week she was going to make cabbage soup and serve it to him all week.
By God, Bucky loved his momma.
One year later Bucky was going to group regularly and had cut down to one pint of Chunky Monkey a week. He was even studying to help other vets himself. There was only one demon he had yet to face and that was the dance floor.
He studied himself in the mirror, the 1940s dress uniform pressed perfectly and the sleeve pinned neatly. He wasn't going to dance, had no intention of torturing himself like that, but Hallie was celebrating her sixtieth birthday and although he'd been avoiding her since he got back he couldn't ignore such a milestone.
Steve appeared over his shoulder, looking just as smart in a matching Captain's uniform, including the hat tucked under his arm. After a year out of the army Steve still stood at attention more often than not and right now he looked every inch the World War II soldier out for a night of dancing.
"Come on," Bucky said. "Let's get this over with."
The dance studio had hired a ballroom and it was packed with faces Bucky didn't know. He introduced Steve to a couple of people and Hallie matched Steve with some poor girl who might have liked the cute face but was going to be having bruised feet before too long. Then Hallie cornered him.
"You haven't visited me," Hallie said.
"It's too much for me to miss," he replied, and it was the most honest thing he'd said outside of group in a year.
"You dance with your feet, James Barnes, not your hands."
"You know as well as I do that hands come into it a lot, Hallie. How am I meant to do a lift? How do I do any hold except a basic? How do I lead?"
"You adapt, Bucky. You don't give up without trying." Hallie turned and motioned to someone and a woman stood up. The most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. Her dress was the same bright red as her lips and hugged curves that went on for days. Her hair was curled into victory rolls and dark glasses framed her eyes. He'd actually seen her dancing earlier, he thought, happily flying around the dance floor, her legs up above her partner's head. He couldn't dance with her.
"Hallie -"
"Shh," Hallie said just as the woman arrived at their side. "You're not to say a word until the end of this song. You will just get on the dance floor and dance with Darcy."
Bucky nodded and offered his left arm and it already felt so awkward when he always offered his right. He pulled her tighter than usual, compensating for his shorter right arm and worried that she was going to shy away from his stump, even when it was covered by his sleeve. But she just smiled and stepped into his arms, moving comfortably with him as Vera Lynn sang about meeting again.
She didn't say a word and neither did he. He concentrated hard for the first eight bars, almost back to counting under his breath, then his body remembered that he'd been doing this for longer than he'd been masturbating, and he wasn't going to forget. After that they moved easily around the floor, the song filling the silence and making sure it was never uncomfortable.
Too soon the song ended and the strains of Sing, Sing, Sing started. Bucky reluctantly pulled away.
"I'm sorry. I don't do the fast ones."
Her eyes widened before her lips curved into a smile.
"I'm sure we can manage a Balboa."
And they did.