Chapter Text
Sam Wilson loves music. Ever since he was a child, he's always found a beat in everything he did. Stomping his feet on the ground to a song in his head, dancing to his Ma's humming as she prepared his lunch, Sam loved it all. Always has, always will. His love for music, dance, singing, had always been nurtured and supported by his parents, who were sure that one day Sam was going to make it big with his voice. And Sam believed them. Sang his heart out until he couldn't sing anymore, kept his favorite artists on a loop with his collecting oc cassette tapes. But that didn't last in highschool.
If Sam is being honest, his love for music, his creative freedom, it all died in his freshman year of highschool. Teenage judgement is more daunting than it seems. Hell, it's debilitating. Sam remembers those first months, remembers how everyone looked at him like he was something . . . unnatural. It made him feel sick. Twisted his stomach into knots that he couldn't undo. It— Well, Sam does like to talk about it now, but it really did make him want to die. Maybe he should have predicted it, being a black kid in the 90s. And even worse, being a black kid who didn't fit the stereotype of what a black man should be. But even if he had predicted the judgment, the guilt, the shame of it all, Sam wouldn't have been anymore prepared to handle it.
And then Sam met his best friend. Riley. Riley was everything to Sam. His only friend, the only person in that school who saw Sam as a human being. Sam loved Riley. For a long time, Sam didn't know what that meant. What was love between a boy and his best friend? Sam doesn’t think he ever really got an answer to that. Not one that he can understand, anyways. He remembers the day Riley kissed him. Sam was 16, Riley was 17. It was the day before Sam's birthday, Riley wouldn't be able to visit him then, and decided to gift Sam something unforgettable.
Riley tasted like oranges. It's strange that Sam remembers that, of all things, but he does. He smelled like the grass outside, like the trees, the dirt, the leaves. Everything about it was so . . Riley. Riley had cupped Sam's face, brushed his thumbs over Sam's cheekbones and smiled. Riley had been so warm. Like something safe, something Sam could trust. Sam remembers how Riley had mumbled against his lips ‘You'll get another one later.’ And Sam did.
When Sam lost Riley, it felt like he lost a part of his world. A fundamental part of his person, torn away from him without so much as a heads up. That year was a blur. Sam doesn't even remember turning 19. He doesn’t remember living. Maybe because a part of him died with Riley, that day. Was buried in the same casket Riley was. Sam never saw his face at the funeral. Maybe that was for the best. Sam prefers to have Riley's smiling face as the last thing Sam saw of him. It's the only thing that kept him going the day of the funeral.
As backwards as it sounds, Riley's death did end up being the main thing that reconnected Sam back with music. It proved to be an outlet for the plethora of emotions running through Sam's mind at any given moment. He could relax, could let his racing thoughts take a backseat as he lazily played out a song on his father's old guitar. He fell back in love with music, and fell ten times as hard. Music became his life again, something he could fall back on, something that distracted him from the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind whenever he thought about Riley too much. Sam even began writing songs. Some better than others, he'll admit. His reconnection with music motivated Sam to look into college, maybe find some music related degree.
His mother had been ecstatic when Sam had told her. Said she'd been waiting for him to find his passion for music again. She spent days with Sam in the kitchen, going over possible schools for Sam to attend. ‘Money don't matter, boy! Pick the one that speaks to you.” Of course, Sam still tried to be mindful of the cost. He knew his parents weren't rich. He eventually settled on a music school in North Carolina, and his mother had practically shrieked with joy, pulled him into a hug and danced with him all throughout the kitchen.
Sam hadn't planned to stay in North Carolina has long as he had, though, because he's been living here since he was 20, and now he's 26. He's long graduated, two years out with a degree in music education, and now he's a TA at the very college he attended. He lucked out with the job, frankly. One of his teachers had taken a vested interest in his musical endeavors. Mr. Bradley, or Isaiah, as he insists Sam call him now. Isaiah is a master in blues music, Sam is in constant awe of his ability to capture the sadness, the history, the beauty of it all. It's like he's being transported back to when the blues were created whenever Isaiah sings, strums along on his guitar and hums the rest.
Sam had learned a lot during his time in college, found out where his skills lie, and found his voice. His actual voice, because not to hype himself up too much, but goddamn can he sing. Sure, he knew he wasn't half bad from a young age, but being able to grow, hone his voice in an environment where he's supported? Yeah, safe to say he's been killing it in that department. Being a TA hasn't been bad either, being able to help others his age grow and improve in the skills that make him the most happy.
It was around this time that Sam realized something. Maybe it was a ridiculous idea, maybe it was just Sam riding off on the high of finally being happy. But shit. Sam wants to start a band.
When Sam walks into the record store, he immediately feels a sense of familiarity. A smile rests on his face as he steps inside, the bell above his head ringing as he pushes the door open. He scans the walls, lined with a variety of posters, vinyls, and other decorations that picture a plethora of different artists. Sam hums, raising a brow when he hears a struggle from the back room.
“Ah— shoot,” A voice sounds out, sounding particularly troubled as the sound of something falling follows. “Be right there!”
Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “Just me, Steve.”
“Oh— Sam?? Oh! Hold on, I’m coming!”
As Steve fumbles with— Whatever he's dealing with in the back, Sam mulls over the various vinyls set up for browsing. Isaiah had recently recommended a list of blues artists for Sam to listen to, and he's been meaning to seek out their music. He technically doesn't have to buy records of them, sure, but he's always had an affinity for them. He's started a collection now. His apartment has a closet basically dedicated to them, just until Sam can find out how he wants to set them up.
Sam glances up as a blonde haired man rushes out from the back room— Steve. Sam had met Steve during his second year of college, having found the store after finally deciding he should explore the town more. Steve is a sweetheart, always has been since Sam met him. Formerly in the military, apparently, he's taken a vastly different walk of life since. Steve's love for music is almost as strong as Sam's and it's something they bonded over immediately.
Steve grins at Sam, holding a box of what looks like CD's. “Hey! I didn’t know you were coming in today. Thought Mr. Bradley had you all to himself.”
Sam rolls his eyes, walking over to help Steve by taking the box into his own arms. “Naw, Isaiah’s off too busy yelling at his favorites.” He shrugs. “Y'know how he is.”
“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “Here, come on. I gotta restock on CD’s over here.” Sam nods, following Steve to a particular table where CD’s are set up. Steve plucks a few out, setting them up behind their respective genres. “That begs the question of what you're actually doing here? Not that I mind the company, always happy to see you.”
“You too, man.” Sam smiles. He then glances off to the side, biting the inside of his cheek as he ponders how he's going to explain this. “. . Well, I've been thinking lately. I've been all about music since I was a kid.”
Steve nods, eyes attentive even as he's restocking.
“And, well. . .” Sam trails off, and then kisses his teeth, deciding to just rip off the bandaid. “I want to start a band.” He says. “Part of the appeal of music to me is sharin’ it, being able to spread it to people and show how much it's affected my life. And . . I've always wanted to start one. Since I was young, singin’ in choir made me realize I want to do that. Create music with other people.’
Sam isn't sure why he half expects judgement, especially from Steve, of all people. The man wouldn't judge a convicted criminal. He grins at Sam. “Seriously? That sounds awesome!”
“Yeah,” Sam laughs a little dryly. “I just— don't know how I would get that ball rolling. Thought I could . . . Come to you for help, maybe?” Sam shrugs again, this time with just a shoulder. “You seem like you would know a lot of people who are into music. Maybe people who are looking for a bandmate . . .?”
Steve pauses, thinking and sucking in a slow breath. “Hm . . Maybe? I've definitely seen band types come through here, never people who are actively asking, though.”
Aw, damn. Well, maybe Sam should have been more prepared to hit a dead end there. His disappointment apparently shows on his face, because Steve scrambles to continue, moving to grab the now empty box out of Sam's arms and set it on the floor.
“But— Why ask other people when I'm right here?”
Sam pauses, blinks, opens his mouth, and pauses again. “. . You?”
Steve snorts. “Try not to look so surprised, eh? I play the bass! I have one at home, it's been collecting crazy dust, though.”
“You?” Sam repeats. “I didn't know you played.”
“Yeah! Definitely rusty, but I'm more than happy to scrub that rust off! This sounds big, Sam. Even if you don't know it yet.” Steve grabs onto Sam's biceps, practically beaming. “Come on! Let's start a band.”
Sam takes a moment, thinks it over, and then grins back, nodding. “Yeah. Let's start a band.”
So, apparently starting a band is hard as fuck.
Steve must have just been a stroke of luck, because trying to find any other bandmates has been hell on earth. Steve suggested holding auditions at the store, try to scope out the scene. Sam wishes he had done no scoping. He could have picked up two random people off the street, and they would be less pretentious than the people who have applied and tried out.
Sam groans as he crosses off yet another game off the list. “I don't know how many more of these I got left in me.” He mumbles, head falling forward onto the folding table.
Steve laughs, exasperated. “Ha . . I mean, that second girl was talented.”
“She also thought we were dating. And had some real strong choice words about that.”
“. . Yeah.” Steve looks over the list. “What about the blonde?”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “The racist?”
“Was he racist?” Steve looks genuinely shocked, sounds it too.
“Yeah, man. Pretty sure ‘nigga’ was sitting on his tongue.”
Steve sputters. “Sam!” Sam shrugs, and Steve sighs and hastily scratches the guy's name out. “So he's off the list.”
Sam sits up, leans back in his chair as he looks over the list again. “That’s . . almost everyone. God. We've been at this for what, weeks?”
“Just two.”
“Feels like five.”
“Yeah. .” Steve nods. “You'd think there would be at least one who— I dunno, isn't racist, homophobic, all of the above . .”
Sam hums in agreement, and then glances at the clock. “Here, how about I get some lunch? We can eat before the next guy comes in, think we got about an hour.”
“Oh, yeah. Get me my usual.” Steve digs into his pocket. “What is it, 12 dollars?”
“I keep tellin’ you not to worry about the money.” Sam waves him off, standing up. “You want a drink with it?”
Steve pauses, holding his wallet before he sighs, shoving it back into his jean pocket. “I'll pay you back one of these days. Just get me a coke.”
Sam winks, grinning. “Gotcha, golden boy.”
The trip to the nearby deli is a short one, the employees there basically know him by name, and they have his order done in about ten minutes. It's the walk back that's more interesting, because on the way, he hears something. He pauses, eyebrows furrowing as the sound of someone playing guitar meets his ears. He turns, searching for the source of the sound when he's met with a man sitting outside of what looks to be a car mechanic shop. He's sitting outside of the open garage, lazily plucking away and somehow sounding fucking heavenly. Sam's eyes go wide, and he stays frozen in place for a moment. There's no way he's this damn lucky.
Sam approaches the man slowly, a bit tentative before he calls out. “Hey!” The man plays a particularly impressive set of notes that makes Sam pause again, mainly in awe. “Jesus, nice cords.”
The man glances up, raising a brow before a smile curls up at the corner of his lips. “Thanks. Didn't know I had an audience.” He gives Sam a once over. “Not that I'm complaining.”
The back of Sam's neck prickles a bit. Maybe out of embarrassment, maybe something else. “Ha, thanks, man.” He hesitates, flexing his hand before he sticks it out. “Sam. Sam Wilson.”
“Tony.” Tony stops playing and sits up properly to shake Sam’s hand. “Tony stark.”
Sam freezes. “Stark? Like—”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like my shitbag dad and his car company.”
“Ouch.” Sam crosses his arms, holding Steve's drink carefully as he tilts his head. “Not a fan?”
“Far from it.” Tony leans back, beginning to play again with a set expression.
Sam watches him for a moment, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. “. . You play often?”
“When I can.” Tony answers easily. “I like hooking up the speaker on a slow day. Let the neighborhood be blessed by my music.”
“Can't say I've had the pleasure of hearing it ‘till now. You're good, Stark.”
“Appreciate it, Wilson.”
Sam glances around, inhales slowly, and looks back at Tony. “Look, I know this is— Random, but. .” He pauses, shakes his head and steps forward. “I got a band. Or, I'm trying to start one. Been having auditions all week, and I haven't seen anyone as good as you yet. And— . . Uh, well, I was wondering if you wanted to come in and audition?”
Tony stops playing, tilts his head up to look up at Sam. His expression doesn't give away much, not until he smiles, clearly amused. “A band?” He says, considering. “Mm . . Dunno, got my hands full with the garage.”
Sam has half a mind to get on his knees and beg this man in broad daylight. “It's nothing permanent! Me and my friend are just scoping out the talent, seeing who meshes the best with us. At least consider?”
"Hm . .” Tony taps the edge of his guitar, tilting his head. “Y'know what? Give me your number.” He nods towards his phone sitting atop the speaker. “It's unlocked. Give me a couple days, I'll think about it and text you. Sound good?”
Sam nods much more excitedly than he wants to admit to. He practically trips over himself to hastily type his number into Tony's phone, thanks the man about three times before he's bounding down the sidewalk. By the time he gets back to the store, he's practically skipping, grinning as he explains to a confused looming Steve why he looks like he just won the lottery.
Tony texts him two days later, and the message practically makes Sam click his heels together.
T: Set me up for a date, Wilson.
“I don't like him.” Steve says.
Sam sputters, looking between Tony and Steve. “Okay, great way to start.” He blinks rapidly.
Tony doesn’t seem particularly deterred, only meeting Steve’s glare with a grin. “Really? I was just gonna say I'm loving your . . Big loyal dog energy. Says a lot about you.”
Steve's eyes narrow. “And what's that supposed to mean?”
Sam clears his throat, leaning forward as he taps his pen against the plastic tabletop. “Well, Tony, you're good. Hell, really good. Super skilled. Right, Steve?”
Steve is still glaring at Tony.
“Steve.” Sam nudges Steve. “Right?”
Steve clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Skilled.”
Tony bows theatrically. “Thank you, thank you.”
Sam leans back, gnawing gently on the end of his pen. “Only thing is scheduling. . I don't have anything set now, but I was thinking maybe once a week? Twice if we really need it. Would that cut into your time?”
Tony hums. “Hmm. It shouldn't. Just as long as I know what day, or days.”
“Is scheduling really the only problem?”
Sam breathes in. “Steve,”
“What other problem would there be, pretty boy?” Tony feigns an innocent look.
“Your attitude, for one. You're just—”
“Self-assured? Confident?”
“Egotistical.”
Tony shrugs. “That works too.”
Steve rolls his eyes. Sam thinks he can feel his grey hairs coming in. “Okay! Okay, how about this. Me and Steve will talk about this one on one, Tony, you've been awesome, man. Thanks for coming in.”
“My pleasure. Can't wait to see you guys at our first practice.” He grins, blows a kiss towards the duo before he's grabbing his guitar bag and heading out. Steve watches him leave, and then crosses his arms.
“I don't like him.” Steve repeats.
“So you've said.” Sam mumbles.
“He's just so— Cocky! Do we really want that kind of person in our band?”
“I would rather a guy have an ego than a hatred for black people.” Sam deadpans.
“Okay, that can't be where the bar is,”
“C’mon, man! Tony is crazy good. You saw the man play; You don't want a guy like that playin' for us??”
Steve frowns— No, not frowns. Pouts. “. . He's good.” He admits. “Really good. But—” He sighs and shrugs weakly. “I dunno. What if his ego gets the best of him.”
Sam puts a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Hey, if it doesn't work out, we aren't obligated to keep the guy on. This is our band. We make the rules.”
“. . .” Steve presses his lips together, and after a moment, looks at Sam and nods. “Yeah. You're right.” He sighs. “Let's give the guy a chance.”
Sam cheers, clapping his hands together. “Hell yeah, man!” He grins. “Now all we need is a drummer for now, I think. That's the basic four.” Sam deflates a bit, because that means more interviews.
Steve seems to read his mind, because he clasps his hands together. “Well . . I was thinking. I have a friend. He’s a bit of a music guy too. And he happens to be a drummer.”
Sam stares at Steve. “You serious?”
“Yeah! He's— . . Well, he was in the military just like me. Got into a real bad accident, though. So he was medically discharged about a year before I go out.”
“Accident?”
Steve hesitates, then waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, not my story to tell. But he’s killer with drums.”
Sam claps his hands together again. “Hell, that's awesome! Think you can convince him?”
“Yeah!” Steve nods. “He's just . . A little rough around the edges. I'm sure I can convince him.”
“Hell no.”
Steve blinks, standing from the couch as he frowns at his friend. “What? Come on, Bucky.”
“I have a job.”
“So? We all have jobs. Plus, you don't do anything besides work and sleep.”
Bucky rolls his eyes from where he's lounging across his own couch, staring at Steve with an unimpressed expression. “Okay.” He replies with a dead tone. “And? Let me work and sleep in peace.”
“Seriously, Buck? You've been rotting away here for months. When's the last time you've gone outside to do something fun? I've only seen you leave your place for work and groceries.”
“Don't like going outside in the heat.”
“What's your excuse for winter?”
“. . Don't like the cold.”
Steve rolls his eyes, sighing as he puts a hand on his hip. “Look, Bucky, I know you're not big on helping other people—”
“Not in the slightest.”
“But this is my friend. He's really passionate about this. You should've seen his face when I told him about you.”
Bucky's eyebrows furrow. “You told your friend about me.”
“A little bit. I just said play drums, and that you like music.”
“Played, and liked.”
“Oh my god, Bucky, work with me here!”
Bucky shrugs. “Dunno what you want from me, Stevie.”
“To try. To get up off your ass, go outside and do something besides stand over a hot grill all day.”
“Tough ask.”
“Bucky.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes dramatically and sits up. “You’re being fucking stubborn.”
“Yeah. Wonder who I learned it from.” Steve arches an eyebrow. The two stare each other down for a good minute, until Bucky groans, flopping back on the couch.
“Fuck! Fine, sign me up for the stupid drummer shit. But don't expect me to stick around. This is just to get you off my back.”
Steve smiles, nodding. When it comes to Steve and Bucky, Steve is always going to outweigh the stubbornness of his best friend. He sits back down on the couch. “Thank you, Bucky. Sam's great. You'll like him.”
“Mm. . Sure I will.” Bucky tilts his head, reaching for the remote.
Steve pulls out his phone, firing a quick text to Sam.
ST: Friend is in. When are we starting this up?