1.

A familiar hum fills the rehearsal studio. It grows as if it were a living mass - some kind of swarm - all jostling to find that precise note, as dictated by a plastic tuner perched on the lead oboe's stand. Bucky's palms tingle, toes curl. Experienced fingers fiddle with tuning pegs, just a fraction sharp, now an inch flat. Now perfect.

The buzz gradually dies down only to be replaced by anticipatory chatter as old friends reconnect after nearly a month long break and as new partners get aquatinted with each other. In an orchestra like this first impressions count and once you've got your seat there's no swapping out just because your neighbour's a dickhead. The seat next to Bucky is currently empty which might be a little weird if it wasn't the principle's chair - empty since Wade left at the end of last term.

The place has practically got Bucky's name written on it and, if it wasn't the kind of thing a presumptuous asshole would do, he would've claimed it when he walked in the door. As it is they haven't officially announced him as principle yet and until they do he'll have to sit tight as co. He jiggles his foot impatiently on the floor while watching the door for a sign of the new conductor, and in turn the all important declaration he's waited five long years since transferring from the Moscow Philharmonic for.

Behind him Danvers and Parker are groaning at a certain passage in Rachmaninoff's second which Bucky - having gotten the music last week - had spent yesterday evening looking over with Natasha, the orchestra's lead oboe and fellow transferee from The Moscow. Natasha'd been the one who'd proposed the idea of him moving in the first place. She'd jumped ship after meeting now-husband Clint Barton (The one; The only, loud as can be, partially deaf percussionist who never watches the conductor but plays with unnerving accuracy anyway) when the NYSO was on tour in Budapest and he'd mentioned their permanent need for "an actually decent wind section with special feature of an oboist who knows what an A sounds like". Six months later a hallowed seat in the first violins had opened up and, after some coaxing and a frankly terrifying audition, Bucky'd found himself placed seventh desk, inside player, in the New York State Symphony Orchestra. And that was that. He's come along way in five years - moved up six desks, made, lost and remade friends, played nearly 20 symphonies he hadn't previously, more concertos than he cares to count, and premiered 12 new works. And now he's looking at the principle's chair which, in a few minutes, should be his.

It's only a read through today, just to get a flavour of the music they'll play this term. Next week is when the real work starts. It should be interesting, playing under a new conductor. Fury had been great, fucking scary, but great, and he'd brought new life to the orchestra which hadn't seen this kind of success since the 40s when the infamous Peggy Carter was principle and Howard Stark had still been composing for them. The new guy, Phil Coulson, isn't exactly new but rather "filling a position which was always meant to be his" as Fury had put it when he'd announced he was stepping down in the autumn. He'd —
Bucky's pulled out of his distracted musings by a sharp prod on his shoulder and turns, only to come face to face with Parker's bow. Useful things, bows.

"Hey Bucky, you know who's leading this year?" Parker asks, gesturing at the uninhabited chair. Bucky just shrugs, bitting down on the smile that's tugging at his lips.

"C'mon you must know something?"

"Nope. Nothin' I know's been confirmed yet."

"Well, who'd'ya think it might be?" Bucky's fumbling around in his head, trying to work out how to answer without giving everything away, when he's saved by Coulson entering through the wide double doors over by the coffee machine. It's time.

He's not an imposing man, Coulson, nothing like Fury was, and the room goes quite out of curiosity and respect, rather than by the compulsion to obey that Nick Fury's presence used to create. From just meeting him you wouldn't guess Phil Coulson had it in him to conduct one of the best state orchestras in America. It's only when you get him in front of an orchestra, actively directing, that Coulson's astonishing ability to shape 90 plus random strangers into one cohesive art form is actually apparent.

Not everyone's looking at Coulson, however, and it takes Bucky a moment to clock why. Behind their conductor trails a blondish man, definitely over six foot, clearly built like a brick shit-house (well, under the grandpa cardigan and button down), and carrying - here's the confusing part - a violin. Bucky twists around, but, as he already knew, there's no spare seats in the firsts, or, after a quick scan of heads, in the seconds either. But that means, that means… he must be… Oh. Wait, no, if Bucky moves to principle then there will be a spare seat in the firsts so maybe… but even as he thinks it Bucky know's he's grasping at loose threads of hope. This guy's going to be taking the leaders chair and Bucky'll be staying co for another year and Coulson's saying something, introducing the guy, but Bucky can't really hear him anymore.

It's a bit like being underwater suddenly, swimming - or maybe drowning - in the ever intoxicating cocktail of disappointment and embarrassment - even if he'd not actually told anyone, he'd been so sure about it all. Looking at this guy while the orchestra applauded him, though, it's clear Bucky wasn't actually going to make it as principle, not when there's people like him out there. Why the fuck are they applauding, he's not even fucking done anything yet. He might be shit for all they know. (The words taste strange and bitter in Bucky's head and he wishes he hadn't thought them.) He won't be shit. People who look like that and have an instrument like that never are.

The guy offers out his hand for Bucky to shake, which he does, despite an uncomfortably acidic churning in his stomach. It seems like all eyes are on him, knowing exactly why Bucky's head's pounding so much and why the back of his neck is suddenly cold. As it is everyone's listening to Coulson and first impressions count so Bucky smiles back though his teeth before turning away.

It turns out second impressions count as well. They're half way though the second hour and Coulson's just announced a ten minute pause. Everyone's up out of their seats with the usual "Jesus my back kills already, I need coffee" groan in record time. Well, everyone apart from Adonis who seems to want to engage with Bucky in conversation while marking fingerings into his part. Of course he would do.

"…2,3,4, open, shift to 3rd… hey, I never caught your name?"

"James Barnes."

"Nice to meet you James. 4,2, open… How long you been in the Orchestra for?"

"Five years." Longer than you. "I was at the Moscow Philharmonic before that." People are normally impressed by that, after all Bucky's in his 20s still.

"I've heard good things about them. They won something a few years back, didn't they?"

"We got a CCA the summer before I joined here."

"Shit, that's serious stuff… 1,3, shift down… you're not from Russia though, right?"

"I went to study with Alexander Pierce and got offered a place in The Moscow after that." Pierce was an cunt if ever Bucky knew one, but the name normally gets a few wows if he brings it up - and he is out to impress. Something at the back of his head tells him he needs to stop being a childish arsehole and talk to the guy properly, but he squishes it down and continues. "Anyway, there's some guy's I've not seen in a while and I'd like to talk before we get started again." And with that he strides away, oversized boots clumping on laminate flooring. "Liar, you went out for a drink with them yesterday after practice." The voice in his head tells him. "Shut up" He mutters to it, pirouetting 90 degrees from where he'd been marching in the wrong direction and heading over to the coffee machine where a gaggle has formed.

"We must not complain however, since it is the second violins who have multiple pages of the same four bars…" Thor (Laugh all you like but Bucky's never heard him called anything else) is saying when Bucky get's to the group of coffee hounds.

"Nah, as long as they count they'll be fine."

"James! It is good to see you again after so long!" Thor exclaims, clapping him heavily on the back. He hadn't come with them last night, and Clint quickly pulls him up on it.

"C'mon man, it's only been, like, two weeks? 'Course if you'd come out last night…"

"I know and I'm truly sorry Clint, but I had promised Jane we'd see the new film regarding dragons before it stops being in the cinemas."

Bucky doesn't really go to the cinema often, well, at all, so the only film he can think Thor might be referring to is How to Train your Dragon, which Natasha had been telling Bruce about the other day. Thinking about it, though, he can't quite picture the orchestra's second percussionist (who's even taller and more built than Bucky's new stand partner) and his astrophysicist girlfriend watching a movie about animated dragons and their viking friends. Actually, wait, yes he can.

When he focuses back on the conversation they're already discussing something else and Natasha's giving him a strange look over Banner's head. If he didn't know her better he'd say it might be concern. Before he can query it, however, Bruce is turned asking him what he thinks of the leader.

Bucky shrugs. "He's good, I guess."

"He seemed like it, good eye contact and stuff…" Bruce Banner leads the cello section and has a particular fondness for good communication - well, since an experience with Wade, a tricky passage, and an ill-timed non-glance, at least. Bucky can't blame him, it had been a disaster and Wade and Bruce had both nearly lost their jobs. "What's he like as a person, though?"

"Alright. We, uh, didn't talk much."

"Oh, well, I guess Coulson was working you pretty hard, for a read through."

Then Clint's tapping on Bruce's shoulder, demanding the attention to be drawn back to him again, and Nat's stepping around Bruce to pull Bucky to the side by his belt.

"Hey, hey, what ar-"

"Shut up Buck. Are you alright?" Okay, maybe that look was concern. And Natasha almost never calls him Bucky, let alone Buck.

"What do— I'm fine."

"James?"

"Nat honesty, I'm —" Natasha's doing her death 'I know you're lying so just stop" stare. "Okay, maybe I'm havin' an off day…"

"It's Rogers isn't it." It's not a question and Bucky doesn't even need to answer. "Jesus Bucky, I'm sorry."

"So that's his name."

"Yeah, that's his name." A beat of silence passes.

Bucky ventures a response. "I'm not that fussed, actually…" He is and she knows it. Suddenly Bucky's arms are pinned to his side while a redheaded Russian performs something conventionally known as a hug. Despite ten years of friendship Bucky can probably count on one hand the number of times this has happened, the last being the morning of Natasha's wedding and before that, well, God only knows.

"Sure you're not." She mumbles into his shoulder before pulling back just as fast as she'd wrapped herself around him in the first place. "Listen —"

"— Nat, c'mon you recognise him don't you?" Clint's broken off Nat's impeding speech (well, as much of a speech that Nat would ever give, which is, let's be honest, not much.), tugging on her sleeve. Bucky doesn't know whether he wants to punch him or hug him. Actually Bucky just want's to curl up in bed and pretend today isn't happening, Clint and everyone else be damned.

"Recognise who?"

"The leader. Bruce says he doesn't know but then Bruce lives in a hole when he's not working so he wouldn't know anyway, anyway, Thor and I recognise him from somewhere and he said you'd know."

"Steve? Not from anything recent, I don't."

"But from times past perhaps?" Thor interjects

Nat shrugs. "Maybe."

"What about you James? Might you recognise our new leader?"

Oh joy. This day keeps getting better. "Nope."

The thing is Bucky does recognise him.

The rest of the rehearsal goes without a hitch though, well, if you don't count getting hit repeatedly by Parker's bow whenever he turns a page (bless the kid, he's even younger than Bucky was when he joined, and damn good, but God does he need to learn how to control his instrument), knocking the music off the stand (twice), missing the beat because Nat was being a professional and pulling faces at him during her rests and playing (really loudly) in the general pause. Oh, and adamantly mumbling only yes no answers to the fucking greek god on his right whenever Rogers asks him a question - which is pretty much anytime he gets a chance because this guy's apparently really personable too it turns out. Basically, he's everything Bucky's not, and then some.

But, by the end, he can feel the familiar fizz between his eyes that means he's actually worked pretty hard, and the music does seem to be seeping it's way back through well worn tracts into his bones. Coulson calls time for the day and Bucky can finally lean back, crack his knuckles together as he stretches out (he sees Steve flinch at that out of the corner of his eye. Good.) and head over to the where Clint and Thor have been waving doughnuts at them from behind the Glocks for a good hour now. Fuckin' percussionists, no discipline, they're meant to be the professionals here. Bucky tells them as much, mouth already closing around the last jam doughnut. He only realises Natasha's behind him when she coughs, every so slightly. The speed with which Bucky ducks behind the nearest Timpani is probably world record speed, at least. No-once comes between Natasha and the doughnuts if they want to live. Unless you're Bucky Barnes, apparently.

Eventually he makes it out alive, with no less than three death threats and a whack on the ankles from her empty case. Course, the huge boots took the blunt of Nat's killer case karate but still, Bucky's hobbling on a partially dead leg when he grabs the bus home ten minutes later.

When he gets home Bucky promptly flops straight onto his bed, flicks the switch on his tape deck (shut up) and falls asleep, vaguely aware of Doug Yule crooning to something probably played by Lou Reed. It's rocking, like a lullaby, and the next thing Bucky's aware of is vague static telling him the tape's finished and, he realises, the sound of keys in his door. Sitting up he whacks his head on a shelf, swears, and notes Nat's presence by the bundle of socks flying his way.

"Do you really never clean in here?"

"S'just me an' you see it, hun. S'no need."

Nat tugs open his curtains, which apparently he'd left closed that morning. Or was it the morning before?

The first thing Bucky'd done when he'd moved into his box of an apartment was get a second set of keys cut for Natasha. Somedays he regrets it, but, then again, where would he be without his friendly neighbourhood Russian telling him to move his damn mugs before mould grows in them. He guesses if he did ever bring anyone home he'd probably be grateful for her efforts at cleaning up his life. Right now? He wants to go back to sleep.

"Did you really fall asleep at four in the afternoon?" She asks, but without too much surprise. Bucky's kinda known for keeping unusual hours.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just reaches over to switch the cassette machine off and gets off the bed. Jesus, he hadn't even taken his jeans off.

"It was a long day. What time is it?"

"6:30. It's not over yet either, Stark's invited us to that event at the waterside club tonight. I'm here to make sure you're wearing something other than those." She raises her eyebrows at the offending jeans.

"Hey! They're fine it's not that fancy —"

"Firstly; you've worn them everyday the last two weeks—"

"I washed them on Tuesday—"

"Secondly; yes, it is. Stark? Waterside? Either of those two words ringing any bells?"

"Wait, is that the one that just opened—"

"Uh-huh."

Bucky groans. "Do I have to go?"

It takes another hour for Bucky to be showered, dressed, re-dressed under Natasha's instruction, and presentable to attend what promises to be an evening of vain chatter and Stark once again proving he really is the richest man this side of St. Louis.

Eventually though, he's stepping out into the sleek, modern interior of Manhattan's most exclusive Steakhouse-Come-Strip-Club - entrance by invitation only. He smooths down the dinner Jacket that could, realistically, pay his years rent three times over, and tries not to knock any of the imitation greek statues over.

"What am I doing here again?" He mumbles to Nat, who's absolutely mesmerising in a vermilion dress which shows just enough skin to be utterly suggestive, without losing an inch of the class she always carries. Bucky's pretty sure if he wasn't strictly into guys, Clint would have some serious competition tonight. Not that Nat doesn't always look gorgeous no matter what (Bucky should know, he's the one that goes running with her twice a week) but he's almost certain this dress is the best he's seen in a long while.

"Stark likes to show off. And you're his poster boy for success." Huh.

"How come no-one else has to show?"

"Clint and Thor are coming later." They side step a platter of salmon canapés and smile vaguely at the couple watching them from behind a potted plant.

"Is Thor bringing anyone?"

"Jane had to work, but I think Darcy was going to tag along if she could."

Bucky almost grins at the thought. Men in million dollar suits and women with altogether too little clothing on? Of course Darcy would be tagging along.

They wander for a bit longer, eventually finding their way out onto the jetty that overlooks the east river. There's less people out here, milling around rather than circling for gossip like birds of pray. The air is starting to cool in the mid-September evening too and Bucky can't deny New York is beautiful, even if it is currently marred by a certain Tony Stark's slightly intoxicated gesturing. When Bucky realises the idiot's gesturing at him he sighs, wishing he'd taken waiter up the offer of a drink, earlier. As it is Bucky shuffles towards the millionaire, frantically searching for Nat to at least deflect some of the man's obnoxious rambling. He can't find her.

"Barnes! S'good to see you. How are you? You look good. It's a good look. Didn't you wear that Jacket last time, at the, uh, jeez, what was it called, Pepper? Pepper? Ah, Pepper there you are, what was the thing called, you know, the thing thing with the big tower and the fireworks, yeah that's right, the thing in Seattle. Didn't you wear that Jacket in Seattle? You'll have to get another one before you go to London. Pepper'll send a guy over next week. You still living in that shit-hole? You know I can get you a bigger house you know —" Bucky drowns the next part of the conversation out - it always goes through the same spiralling topics anyway - and watches the people over Tony's shoulder, trying to send 'help' signals at Nat who's found an attractive PA type woman to talk to and isn't paying any attention to Bucky's plight.

It's then, when he's trying to send panic waves at Natalia, that Bucky sees him. Dressed in a dark blue blazer and cream pants (A look only the bravest can pull off) the back of a guy, 6ft something tall, catches his eye. And for a second Bucky swears it's him. Steve fucking Rogers. But then the guy moves inside and Bucky can't see him anymore.

"… so, what do you think? Actually it doesn't matter, I might just do it anyway—"

"Sorry Tony, excuse me a moment?" And with that Bucky walks away, Stark's protests falling on deaf ears. Somehow he manages to find his way inside, ducking past people until he's pressed up against the cool tiles of a bathroom stall. Next to him some couple appear to be getting it off in a horrifically drunken manner. Bucky can't hear them, doesn't particularly care. He just knocks his head back against the wall and tries to breath as the whole day crashes back onto him like the mother of all tidal waves. Fuck.

It couldn't have been him. What the hell would he be doing at one of Stark's parties?

What the hell would it matter if he was?

It does matter though, for whatever dumb reason, it does matter and Bucky can't shake the cold churning that's settled back in his stomach. God he's so stupid, letting it affect him like this. It's just a fucking seat, he'll get another shot at it someday. Probably.

He leans over and retches.

Christ he wishes he'd had more than just that drink now.

Notes:

FYI: A CCA is a Cannes Classics Award which, as of 2010, is now an International Music Award.

Thanks for reading! As always this work is unbeta-ed so if you spot anything do feel free to let me know. (Alternatively, if you are a magical soul and would like to beta this for me please do get in touch either on here or over on tumblr :) ) Feedback etc. is always greatly appreciated and much loved if that's your kind of thing...

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