A WinterWidow Fling

Club

      Lights pulsated in strobing beats that made his teeth rattle. Bucky checked his gloves for the hundredth time; Natasha swatted his arm. "Stop it," she murmured into her glass, her eyes averted. "At least pretend you know what you're doing."

      "I don't even know what that entails," he protested. "Should I order another drink?" He doubted anyone could hear him over the ear-splitting din but he kept his voice low anyway.

      "How many have you had?"

      Steve's voice broke in. "Package delivered. Good job, everyone."

      Bucky felt a grin creep across his face. "I didn't do anything but drink."

      "Good job drinking then. You and Nat can stay if you want; Sam and I can take the package back to headquarters."

      "Oh sure," Natasha drawled. She twisted her straw in her drink and cast Bucky a skeptical look. "Mr-Tons-of-Fun probably doesn't even know how to dance."

      "I can dance."

      "If you haven't done it in the last hundred years it doesn't count."

      He grabbed at her waist as he stepped down from his stool. "I'll prove it then--"

      "Skip the trash talkin' and just get a room," Sam broke in; the sharp click that followed indicated his departure from the mission comm line.

      Natasha pursed her lips. "He's so disrespectful." She let Bucky pull her toward the dance floor, her body already surrendering to the beat.

      Bucky grinned down at her. "Well, he's the youngest."

      They lost themselves in the pounding rhythm. Bucky moved just enough to keep Natasha dancing; her bright hair kept brushing against his shoulders until he wanted to grab a fistful. She pivoted, her hip grazing his thigh. He caught his breath--barely--and smiled, tipped his head back to bathe it in the club lights. He felt her hands press flat against his chest just before her lips touched his and he lost all notion of time and space. His blood turned to fire and burned his ears, urged his hands into dangerous territory. He tangled his gloved fingers in her hair.

      "He wasn't wrong." She stepped back and captured his hands, her mouth still wet from his. Her green eyes seemed to glow in the club lights.

      He sidestepped to avoid another club patron, his chest vacant with her sudden withdrawal. "What? Who?" He knew he sounded like an idiot but he didn't care. He closed the distance between them again.

      "Sam. He said," she tilted her face up to his, a smile he'd never seen before playing across her lips. "That we should get a room."

      A low growl escaped him against his will. "Then get one."

      She worked his gloved hands free of her hair and tugged him toward the front desk.