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“So, uh, thanks for coming by tonight. We’re, uh, The Howling Commandos.”
Steve clears his throat one more time and blushes before adjusting his guitar strap and strumming the first few chords to the song before Dum Dum kicks in with the drums and the slow rhythm begins anew. He hums along with the beat until he steps up to the mike, belting out lyrics he wrote when he was high on Novocain, bobbing his head along with music he doesn’t believe in unless he’s drunk, and pretending to feel emotions he hasn’t felt since he was seventeen and in love with pretty Peggy Carter.
Yeah, Steve’s definitely a lot more cynical.
They make it through their set at their usual bar, Fury’s ever watchful eye tracing their behavior, lingering on Morita because he always has a few too many before climbing onto the stage and shaking his ass like he hasn’t a care in the world.
Steve doesn’t blame him; if he wasn’t the singer, the driver, and the leader he would too.
Their original set finishes and Steve looks to the audience, which is surprisingly large for this side of town. Hordes of people sway together, couples giving each other gooey eyes that almost make Steve barf out the beer he conned Nat into giving him on the house.
Well, it’s mostly couples. That guy is here again, with his leather jacket and broad shoulders and stubble, and Jesus, Steve’s glad he had his sexual crisis before his twenties because he would’ve been so freaked out.
But no, he’s used to this guy, and used to his stupid eyes watching Steve the whole time as he takes a languid gulp of his stupid vodka and smiles that stupid sappy smile when Steve’s a little out of breath after a song.
Steve sniffs and taps the mike before asking, “Any requests from the audience tonight?”
It’s the usual set of ‘do that one One Direction song’ or ‘something cliché and romantic from the eighties’ or that one song from that movie soundtrack that came out last month or, if they’re feeling particularly original, can you do that Bastille cover? Never mind looking up the original artist, let’s just skip to the popular ‘edgy’ band. Right, cynicism. Steve’s got to keep a check on that.
He’s about to say yes to a Cage The Elephant tune when long, dark, and handsome himself calls out, “How ‘bout Love Letters In the Sand?” with a tiny smile.
And, before Steve even realizes he’s doing it, he’s smiling back and standing on his tip toes to reach the mike. “Yeah, let’s do that one.”
He tunes his guitar down a bit, before turning to Dum Dum and nodding his head. He grins back before raising his drum sticks high and tapping them against the snare slowly. One… Two… Three… Four.
Steve starts with a slide, because he can, and grins when the audience whistles and cheers. He gives a laugh and slides back down before taking C position, careful to keep time with the slow twang of Morita’s bass, keeping an eye on Jones as he languidly does the filler notes between chords and nodding his head in time.
Then, he steps up to the mike and giggles a bit when he tries his deepest voice, “On a day like today we pass the time away,” and smiles when the crowd cheers because his voice doesn’t crack once. The guy with his leathers and looks just gives him a thumbs up before raising his hands and clapping high above his head in time with Dum Dum’s slow beat.
Steve sings, and sings, and sings, swaying in front of the audience and actually feeling it for once. It’s sort of like getting the feeling back in a dead limb, shaking it free of the tingling pain and carrying on like it wasn’t there. That’s how Steve feels right now, without the aid of the alcohol or the drugs or anything.
“You made a vow that you would ever be true, but somehow that vow meant nothing to you,” he shouts, grinning from ear to ear at the guy leaning against the wall and eyeing Steve with something like appreciation. “Now my broken heart aches with every wave that breaks over love letters in the sand.”
They slow down, quieting their instruments until the barest sound of breathing and feet shifting over hardwood floors fill the room. And then, it’s like everyone voted to clap and applaud at once, screaming for another, another, another. Steve smiles and says they have time for two more, but that’s it.
The requests are for songs he can appreciate, but not as much as the one leather guy requested. So they play Jailhouse Rock and Roll Over Beethoven before telling the audience that they’ve been great and closing their set.
Steve watches as the crowd’s cheers slowly die down, then they disperse altogether to get drinks at the bar, to leave, to walk up to the stage and ask for pictures with them. Steve smiles whenever a girl comments on his short stature, though he wants to tell them to mind their own damn business. He kisses a kid’s forehead, because his mom wanted him too, then kisses the mom’s cheek because she asked for a ‘good’ picture when he just stared at the camera and smiled.
All in all, it’s a good night in terms of profits. After splitting their cuts, Steve still manages a good three-hundred dollars from tips alone, and another fifty from Fury’s business. Natasha just laughs when he tells her he could use a drink and gets him his usual strawberry Smirnoff with a little umbrella because Steve’s the kind of guy who, “deserves an umbrella when he gets a drink.”
Whatever, it’s a free drink; who’s he to refuse?
He finishes, gives her a twenty in tips, and is just about to go grab his guitar and bail out, a hand on his shoulder stops him. Steve spins, already pulling on a fake smile, “I’m sorry, dude, picture time is over-”
And damn, if Steve wasn’t wrong about leather guy.
Like, he knew that he was hot as hell but he didn’t really know how hot. It’s sort of like seeing a celebrity in a magazine; this one time, Steve saw Johnny Depp walking the strip up through DUMBO and he looked at least fifty times better than he’d ever looked in a magazine. Steve thinks it’s because he’s got a thing for grungy, low-hygiene guys, but really he just has a thing for cheekbones and stubble.
And this guy is the champion of that, with his stupid dark almost-beard and fucking awesome cheekbones and long brown hair tied up in a loose bun (a bun!). Under his leathers he’s wearing an Adventure Time t-shirt, with Marshall Lee posed to kiss Gumball’s nose.
Steve thinks he’s in love.
“You played a great show, dude,” the guy says, giving a shy little smile and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Steve kicks at the floor, blushing and ducking his head so this guy doesn’t think he’s the colossal dweeb that he is. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“’m glad you liked it,” he murmurs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Uh, if you want to see us again, we’re playing the Stark Lounge tomorrow night. If you don’t, well, I think Metric’s going to be there.” Please want to go, please want to go, please want to go.
“I’d love to go.” Yes!
Steve smiles and looks up at him from under his eyelashes. Nat always calls him bashful, and Steve knows he isn’t but he definitely comes off as such. He rubs the back of his neck and taps his toes again before giving another giggle and asking, “Well, you can come backstage if you, um, want to. Dum Dum’s always bringing people to the shows and, well, I’ve never really, uh, done… that.”
He looks back at the bar, at Natasha who’s doing a terrible job of not laughing at how bad he is at this, then back at the dude, whose cheeks have taken on a pinkish tinge. “Yeah?” he asks, tilting his head and twirling an errant strand of hair.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “And, uh, Cap’s a stage name.” He makes sure to hold his hand out to the guy, but it’s a little stiff. “I’m Steve,” he says, in way of introduction.
The guy’s hand is warm when he pressed it into Steve’s. Bigger than his and calloused from rough work. “I’m Bucky,” he replies.
“Bucky,” Steve says.
“Steve,” Bucky echoes.
Then, they giggle, and that’s when Natasha snorts. Steve glances back at the same time as Bucky does, and Natasha’s the absolute picture of amusement. When Steve raises his eyebrows in question, she just sighs and gives an impressive eye roll before pulling two champagne flutes from beneath the bar and setting them down, before retrieving the bottle of Bollinger Fury’s been warning Steve against ever touching.
He’ll make sure to laugh about that when he’s sure Fury’s eye’s not watching him.
She pours the champagne and he makes a grab for the glass, sipping it and… it’s vaguely disappointing. He grins though, and looks over at Bucky and feels it soften into a smaller, sweeter thing. Bucky smiles right back, but he blushes when Natasha snorts again.
“If I leave you two alone, you better not make out on my bar,” she says, examining her nails.
Steve blushes, and tells her that he would never. Bucky blushes too, but says he’ll make no promises.
One of them keeps his promise. It isn’t Steve, he’s happy to admit.