Peggy Carter signed on to manage the Commandos before they had their Howl. "They were playing mostly terrible covers of Radiohead and Springsteen in clubs they weren't even old enough to get into yet. This was before Natasha. I have no idea how they managed to do it." Carter shrugs. "There were a few, the original songs--those were where it was. Bucky could barely remember how to play a G chord, but the songs they wrote were magic. They were a sure thing."
Steve was bored before Bucky'd even managed to form calluses. They'd spent so long fumbling their way through Karma Police that Bucky's fingertips were raw, but Steve was an artist--Steve was the real deal, in every single way--and he was never going to be happy copying someone else's work.
Bucky laughed, unsurprised. He shook out his fingers like that would make them better at shaping chords, just wiggle the batteries, blow in the Nintendo. He didn't have to agree, because there wasn't a question.
There was never a place Steve wanted to go, or a thing he wanted to do, that Bucky didn't want to be by his side for. Besides. No one ever made it big by being a fucking cover band. It was just logical.
"What'd you have in mind?" Bucky asked instead, because Steve has never come to the table empty handed.
"Look," Steve said, looking down, his bass next to him so he could pull everything out of his backpack and onto Bucky's--mostly--clean floor. Algebra 2 book, pencil box, Catcher in the Rye. "We should call it a night--I mean, we've got to get those essays written." History book, sketchpad, folder of sheet music.
"Steve," Bucky said, frowning, as Steve pulled out a plain white notebook, barely bigger than his palm. "What the fuck. We should try it."
Steve laughed, ran his thumb across the edges of the pages. "Yeah, we can try, probably. For a little while longer."
Bucky kicked his foot, and worried about the day that Steve did like his mom kept threatening and grew into his feet. They'd need higher ceilings. "We can do it, you know."
"What makes you so sure?" Steve asked, his eyes narrowed. He didn't fight for it when Bucky stole the notebook though and started flipping through it.
There were poems, poetry. Lines from other songs that were crossed out. A line of notes he'd been hearing Steve hum for days. The word they'd pulled out of the dictionary at random, the time they played Scrabble against Steve's parents. It was beautiful, even at random.
Bucky kicked him again. "Don't be an idiot, Steve," he said, putting the book down to try and play the chords, suddenly in need of a distraction for his fingers. "We can do anything."
your body told me in a dream it's never been afraid of anything
Steve was bored before Bucky'd even managed to form calluses. They'd spent so long fumbling their way through Karma Police that Bucky's fingertips were raw, but Steve was an artist--Steve was the real deal, in every single way--and he was never going to be happy copying someone else's work.
Bucky laughed, unsurprised. He shook out his fingers like that would make them better at shaping chords, just wiggle the batteries, blow in the Nintendo. He didn't have to agree, because there wasn't a question.
There was never a place Steve wanted to go, or a thing he wanted to do, that Bucky didn't want to be by his side for. Besides. No one ever made it big by being a fucking cover band. It was just logical.
"What'd you have in mind?" Bucky asked instead, because Steve has never come to the table empty handed.
"Look," Steve said, looking down, his bass next to him so he could pull everything out of his backpack and onto Bucky's--mostly--clean floor. Algebra 2 book, pencil box, Catcher in the Rye. "We should call it a night--I mean, we've got to get those essays written." History book, sketchpad, folder of sheet music.
"Steve," Bucky said, frowning, as Steve pulled out a plain white notebook, barely bigger than his palm. "What the fuck. We should try it."
Steve laughed, ran his thumb across the edges of the pages. "Yeah, we can try, probably. For a little while longer."
Bucky kicked his foot, and worried about the day that Steve did like his mom kept threatening and grew into his feet. They'd need higher ceilings. "We can do it, you know."
"What makes you so sure?" Steve asked, his eyes narrowed. He didn't fight for it when Bucky stole the notebook though and started flipping through it.
There were poems, poetry. Lines from other songs that were crossed out. A line of notes he'd been hearing Steve hum for days. The word they'd pulled out of the dictionary at random, the time they played Scrabble against Steve's parents. It was beautiful, even at random.
Bucky kicked him again. "Don't be an idiot, Steve," he said, putting the book down to try and play the chords, suddenly in need of a distraction for his fingers. "We can do anything."