Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam says nothing when Steve stays up half the night to purchase tickets as soon as they go on sale, because normal people do that all the time for everything else. He says nothing through the entire epic re-listen of the entire six album discography, even when Steve starts on the Howling Commando rock opera which Sam just hates . He just zips his lips shut and pretends that he's in Thailand, or somewhere equally beautiful where music makes sense. 

He says nothing when the special edition T-shirt and hoodie set emblazoned with the band's logo arrive except:

"You gonna wear that?"

 "No, man, you wear the older shirt, not the new merch." Steve responds hotly. This is the closest he's ever seen Steve "First-into-Battle" Rogers blush.  "You wear the oldest shirt you have." 

Flawless logic. Sam doesn't get it. "What about the ones you just spent, I don't know, twenty bucks on?"

"You wear them anytime else."

"That is just nuts." Sam says, throwing his hands up. He lets it go.

The breaking point is the radio/energy drink contest promotion. It involves not just front-row seats, but a meet and greet, backstage access and god knows what else, that is if you manage to buy enough of a giant energy drink that Sam suspects is made up mostly of cocaine and get roughly the same number of Facebook likes as the population of a small nation.

He opens the door to the fridge to see that Steve has basically replaced their weekly milk supply with HYDRA and loses it.  

"This isn't healthy, Steve!" He brandishes the extra-large aluminum can like he's about to spray its contents into Steve's face. "That's enough sugar for an elephant!"

Steve look up from his phone. He's glassy-eyed from tweeting non-stop, asking people to like his I wanna go to the concert status in exchange for commissions or shirtless pictures, Sam doesn't want to know.

Sam refrains, mightily, from making One Direction jokes.

Due to the magnificence of Steve's biceps, or sheer dumb luck, Steve actually wins the passes. He gives the tickets he already bought away to a couple of fans via Twitter and wins their undying devotion. When the passes arrive, laminated and neatly folded into a folder, complete with black and red wristbands and instructions, he asks Sam if he wants to come with, or what.

Sam folds his arms, narrowing his eyes at Steve. "Are you going to make like a sign, bake cookies or create embarrassing personal tokens?"

"No." Steve says, in a way that means, yes, quite, definitely and hey, look, squirrel.

*

Three days later, Sam kicks the Steve's bedroom door down. "Steve, I now have an intimate understanding of every single fucking song on your playlist --" He then stops and feels his jaw drop. Steve gawps at him. They gave him the room for the light (plus they wanted the space for the bigger bed), but the room is the dirtiest he's ever seen it. 

He wades in, clearing a path through coffee cups, napkins, take-out containers and about six weeks worth of laundry, right up to the easel and illustration boards set up near the window. The Wacom tablet is off and pushed to the side on its mechanical arm, and Sam hasn't seen Steve paint since -- well, since never, since he swapped to digital.

It takes him a second to figure out what he's seeing.

"You're making them paintings ."

"Well, small ones, but --" Steve doesn't have the grace, nor the subtlety to look ashamed.

" Paintings ." Sam resists the urge to throw up his hands, but Steve catches his grin and grins back, wicked. 

"Lower your goddamn volume or swap to headphones, because you are driving me bonkers."

*

That night, he meets up with Riley for their weekly sanity date away from nutty roommates (Sam) and bad English professors who think boring is the way to go when it comes to classic literature (Riley). The bar is one of their absolute favorites -- dirty enough to be edgy without the added spice of seedy and the best pulled pork sandwiches this side of DC.  

"I've just never seen him like something so much before." After a brief tussle, he steals a couple of fries from Riley's plate. "And I've never liked something so much before, you know?"

Riley raises an eyebrow at him and Sam can't help but steal a kiss too. "Really? Can't think of anything off the top of your head?"

"No, man." But Sam grins, knowing and enjoying that tone of voice.

"Not a single thing?"

Laughing, Sam shakes his head.

"May I remind you of certain basketball teams, and certain basketball players and your strange ability to recite statistics for every team, every player and every year, since the '80s?"

Sam pauses, fry halfway to his mouth and shrugs. "Okay, fine. But I'm never drawing Chris Paul a goddamn portrait."

"You can't draw, man."

 *

 On concert day, Steve appears at the doorway just as Sam is lacing his Converse shoes and says, "Wear boots."

 "What?" He frowns at his shoes. He loves these kicks.

 Steve shrugs. "It's just that, the crowd tends to get rough, not rough, but, well… wild. Your feet could get stomped on. Stuff."

Sam raises his eyebrow. He seems to be doing that a lot these days. "May I point out that we are extremely fine specimens of alpha male -- I'm serious about this -- and that anyone who wants to pick a fight would be stupid to do so?"

Steve shrugs again and his lips curve into the devilish smirk responsible for more than one bar fight. Sam shakes his head. People would be nuts to stomp on them. Steve is tattooed to the wrists on his arms, the band shirt hugs his shoulders and biceps and he looks like he could flatten you with a trash can lid. He completes the ensemble with a tattered brown leather jacket and a Mohawk like the edge of a particularly large blade. Even the small body fit backpack he wears looks vaguely threatening. 

"I hate boots." Sam declares, but he switches them out anyway.

Steve laughs all the way to the car. Sam grins at him, fond as ever. Steve's penchant for loud metal music is as much a part of him as the tattoos. So much so that when he turned squad leader the whole unit got the same one:  a white star surrounded by concentric circles of red, white and blue in some dive bar in Japan when they were stationed there for paratrooper training.

As they drive through the peaceful DC streets Sam thanks God (or whoever) that they all made it. He still dreams of walking the desert alone, rifle in hand, the sun leering over the horizon with no end in sight.

Going to a heavy metal concert, with his CO (former CO) is so much better, by a long shot. No damn contest. He steals a familiar red and white can from Steve's right hand as they turn into the parking lot.

" What did I tell you about drinking this crap? You don't let Hydra into you."

Chapter Text

The first thing Sam notices is that a disproportionate number of people are wearing masks. When the third guy walks by dressed in all black, goggles and a muzzle , Sam finally asks it out loud. "Is that actual Kevlar?”

"Probably not." Steve replies. He eyes the small merchandise stand by the entrance with the glee of a magpie.

He is already turning towards it when Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. "You just bought two shirts and a sweatshirt."

"I know but --"

"They could give you freebies."

Steve lights up. "Maybe."

“So what's with the bondage convention?” Sam asks again.

"Their bassist wears that." He points to the muzzle-goggle-leather dude. "Their keyboardist --" He points to an individual wearing a red and gold helmet. “Wears that fairly frequently, though he tends to change the helmet design.” Steve is big enough and handsome enough that the woman inside opens the faceplate to sneak him a quick wink.

"No one knows what they look like?"

"Just some of them, it's, it's a show."

"Metal's weird." Sam pronounces, gazing up at the stylized poster flanking the side of the stadium. It resembles a movie poster, with appropriate superhero dynamics, a blue background and lots of stylized orange flames. "Lots of theatrics, huh?"

Steve laughs so hard they come to a full stop in the middle of the walkway. They hustle to the stadium entrance and the guy at the gate takes a quick look at their wristbands and redirects them down a large ramp way. They're let through a massive entrance and enter a tiny corridor.

A door slides open and a dark-haired girl with pin-up girl half-sleeves and curves like highways walks out. She's wearing Doc Martens, a loose, sheer black shirt and studded jeans. She heads straight for them, beaming.

"You're the contest winners, amiright?" She asks. "I'm Darcy, marketing manager. I am so happy you both won the prize. Mostly for me, since I get to take you around. Last time I got stuck with a couple of emo boys who just couldn't stop moping, and I was the saddest . Sadder than them, even."

Sam grins, infected by her enthusiasm. “I'm Sam. This is Steve.” She sticks out a hand and they shake.

"Hello." Steve says warmly and despite the massive metalhead vibe, he manages to look about as harmless as a puppy. Harmless enough that Darcy swaps to his arm and pets Steve's bicep like it's alive.

Sam shoots him a challenging look. "Is that how it is?"

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. "That's how it is. Besides, I'm much better looking." They both laugh while Darcy beams.

Darcy takes them around backstage (and around the actual stage). She snaps a couple of photos standing next to the empty drum set. She tweets a photo of the three of them, captioning it as #hotdate and they exchange Instagram follows. They explore the photographer's pit, the bouncer's area and the guitar line-up, Darcy chatting happily the entire time. She even takes them to the parking lot, because , as she puts it, “all the backstage action is there.” Two enormous food trucks dominate the right side of the parking lot, dwarfing even the tour bus. She snags them a couple of burritos and forces them to eat.

Steve learns that his favorite band is also a foodie group, with a tendency to travel with four-star chefs. Sam learns that Darcy used to be Jane's assistant, before she became part of the traveling rock star circus. Jane is Thor's wife.

"Thor?" He has no idea who Thor is.

"Yeah, we had the same reaction, too." Darcy says, finishing up her nachos. "Let's go meet and greet!"

Steve practically vibrates with excitement as Darcy leads them to the band room. "I'll fetch you in a bit," she says.

A beautiful strawberry-blonde woman wearing the highest heels Sam has ever seen meets them by the door. She demonstrates a brutal efficiency by plucking Steve's phone out of his hand within two minutes and replacing it with a thick bundle of papers. She then expertly flicks through the photos and hands it over to a shorter, stocky man.

"Happy will see to it that you get this back, later." She hands them two pens. “Sign this please.”

"Nondisclosure agreements?" Sam quickly reads through the fine print. "Oh. Oh . Really? We get to meet them pre-show?”

Steve looks like his birthday came early. "For real?"

"For real." She says. "Congratulations! I'm Pepper Potts, by the way."

"Thank you, ma'am," Steve says and she looks slightly surprised, but then grins with real pleasure.

The band room is bigger than anything else Sam's ever seen. It's three times the size of their apartment in DC. An enormous white couch stands next to a wall, covered in huge pillows and cozy afghans. Plush carpeting the color of fog covers the floor.

The huge blond man standing next to a fully-loaded buffet table is too Nordic and too gigantic to be anyone else besides a Thor. He waves a pita at them in lieu of a greeting and gestures for them to come in.

Steve slides his backpack forward and opens it up.

Steve politely waits until Thor finishes what he's eating and then hands him the drawing. "I hope it's cool."

Sam rolls his eyes. The drawing is a stylized rendition of Thor shredding on an enormous guitar as a storm rages in the background. It looks like a Heavy Metal cover. Thor's eyes darken to a deeper blue with pleasure. "Take a look, Natasha!" He shouts, beckoning to someone they don't see

"Take a look at what?" A purring, Russian-accented voice says from behind them.

Sam does an admirable job of not-jumping as the tiny redhead dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra patiently waits for them to turn. She takes the drawing from Steve and studies it, her green eyes razor-sharp.

"SRogers?" She asks. "The Captain America series, right?" In the drawing, her eyes are hooded under a domino mask. Steve chose to paint her in sedate watercolors standing on the stage with a mike in one hand, looking down at a shadowy crowd.

Steve blushes. "Yes."

"I'm a fan. Natasha Romanov."

"So am I. Nice to meet you."

Sam can see the little hearts, or something. He coughs a little.

Natasha tucks the painting under one arm and turns to walk across the room. She knocks on an adjoining door and a sleepy, bespectacled man with graying hair opens it. Sandalwood incense and the faint sound of chimes follow him out. He looks annoyed and Sam doesn't quite catch what Natasha whispers to him, but it sounds like a threat.

Sam cannot believe that this is the man responsible for the frenzied, double-pedal drum solos the band is famous for. His print shows him playing the drums, a hulking shadow of a frenetic beast looming behind him. He grins at Steve and shakes his hand.

Then they meet Stark, who is suave even in bare feet and jeans and earnestly complaining about “Bruce's meditation mojo and how it ruins vibes” when he walks into the room. He has a large rock glass in one hand and the latest smart phone in the other.

He squints at Steve's drawing and then says. "I like this suit. If I have one made, will you sue me?" Steve laughs and Stark brings out his phone to take their picture. He puts his mask on to do it though. The drawings charm them, or Steve charms them, or something because within minutes they are fed (again), offered expensive liquor and Stark starts to hit on Steve with a single-mindedness that borders on ferocious.

"If I weren't married, I'd hit on you. Wait. I am hitting on you.” A sly grin. "I wouldn't know what to do with all of you, though."

As they chat, Sam makes a mental note to ask Steve why he likes this band. They seem, well, blissfully normal. Stark may be a borderline alcoholic, and this Sam deduces from the speed by which the booze in his tumbler disappears. He tries not to watch Natasha do a strange, flexible yoga move that involves a handstand and a split, because that would downright rude.

If Steve blushed any more he'd be anemic.

Then they start to suit up. They don't do it in front of them. They disappear in stages. Stark, for example, walks back in dressed in a black bodysuit designed to hide nothing, deliberately flirting with Steve. Natasha reappears once, wearing a leather catsuit. Thor breezes by, but Sam can't see anything but the cape.

For a few minutes, they are alone in the big, plush room. It's only then that Sam notices that Steve's clutching one more painting.

The final member of the band makes an appearance fifteen minutes before show time. He stalks into the room wearing black Kevlar armor (with some shiny glitter things that Sam guesses is for the stage). His combat boots are so well made they barely squeak.

There's something dangling from his neck (a mask?) and he's got a pair of goggles in one hand. That isn't what holds Sam's attention though. The man has a shoulder to fingertip tattoo -- a sleeve that gives him the illusion of a metal hand. Then he realizes, belatedly, that it isn't a tattoo. It's some sort of prosthetic, one that continually grinds and whirrs as he moves. His waist-length hair hides his face from view, even when he pours a cup of coffee and drinks it like a dying man.

He turns to them with a dispassionate expression and Sam is struck by how ridiculously handsome this dude is, despite the greasy hair and the stubble. His eyes are a dark, almost ice-blue. 

Steve goes silent and still, a warning Sam knows well. Sam reacts as quickly as he can by stepping into Steve's space, set to protect. It's been a couple of years since they were active and what is making Steve react this way . When he glances over, he sees that Steve is in shock, mouth agape, blue eyes cloudy.

"B-bucky?" He stutters.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The guy says coldly.

He reaches up and fixes the muzzle onto his face. He slaps the goggles on, salutes them and leaves the room.