Summary: Steve returns to Revolutions to give Bucky a review. Peggy Carter calls and immediately knows something's up.

-o-

you never know how slow the moments go

'til I'm near to you

I see your face in every flower

your eyes in the skies above

it's just the thought of you,

the very thought of you, my love

Steve hummed along as he sketched out the front of the record store, detailing the sign before moving to the counter inside. He made a mental note to tell the employee who'd helped him of how much he'd listened to it (twenty-two at last count) the next time he made it down to Revolutions. He depicted the two employees smaller than he would've liked for scale, so to the side he sketched more detailed facial exercises. Yeah...for exercises, definitely the reason.

It was completely coincidence, of course, that Steve ended up with more sketches of Sarge than...er, the other one. He felt a little guilty for not catching her name, but his attention had been pretty quickly diverted, after all. He took a mental image of his smile and expanded it into what he imagined a full grin looked like on him, how it tugged at his facial muscles and transformed his eyes into something softer. Not that he had any idea if that was accurate, but he liked drawing him anyway.

Of course he made sure it wasn't much longer before he offered up the review he'd promised. It had been a few days but not quite a week; though he'd thought of going in sooner, he worried it might seem a little too...something, so he waited. It was far cooler than the walk to his previous visit, feeling more like October, and the warmth of the small shop made him automatically feel welcome.

"Steve, right?"

The voice wasn't the guy's though, and Steve turned to see the redhead from the other night. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it made her look just a little less intimidating-or maybe that was the smirk playing across her lips. If she were making an effort to hide it, it wasn't effective.

"Natasha. Overheard you and Sarge."

She nodded toward the side wall, where Steve noticed a tiny office lighted up behind closed blinds. He hadn't even looked around that much before, but that must've been where he had been the last time.

"If you wanna tell him hey, he's back there."

"Thanks, I owe him a review."

"So I heard."

Natasha laughed and Steve, though mildly irritated, headed back to the office. Through the gap in the doorway Steve could see boots perched up on the desk, crossed and rocking back and forth to music (was that Dean Martin's "Sway" or yet another new cover?) playing softly inside. Steve knocked before he looked like someone confirming whatever weird suspicions Natasha had and was disappointed to hear the sound cut down.

The door swung open to reveal Sarge leaning back in a swivel chair, gloved hand on the doorknob. A grin spread over his face, not unlike the one Steve had imagined, and he straightened to gesture Steve inside. Tonight his hair was down and it was wavier than Steve had pictured it, and collar-length. It somehow suited him—like everything did.

He shut the door almost closed again but it didn't bother Steve. He felt no more intimidation from him and the office would have been even more cramped with the door open. He'd also come to pretty decent terms with the feelings he'd developed (not necessarily Feelings, if he'd been kidding himself), and told himself firmly to chill.

"You're killin' me here, Steve. What's the official verdict?"

"Well, Sarge, best one off the album. No question." Steve leaned back against the wall, as if to attempt to put more space between them. (Not much good; how small was this place, anyway?)

(Correction: he felt no more intimidation from him being potentially scary, but rather from the intensity of his feelings this time around-even stronger than the first time, as if he'd forgotten just how well they'd seemingly connected.)

"Her voice is unforgettable. I was actually wondering if you've got any other recordings of it."

"Of course," His eyes lit up as he nodded. "You've found your guy."

He stood up to search through a shelf of records above his desk before pulling out a compilation of live Billie Holiday songs. Steve dragged a hand through his hair while his back was turned, issuing as quiet of a sigh as possible. The choice of words had to have been unintentional, he firmly told himself. No use in delusions or making things out to be more than they were.

"Track A3. They were smart and put it near the beginning this time. This is my personal copy so I'm only lending it to you on one condition. Uh, scratch that. Two." He held it against his chest as he turned back to face Steve.

"Um…?" Steve offered cleverly, his mind going a mile a minute.

"It's actually Bucky. My name." Bucky continued. "If I'm lending you my best album I gotta be up-front with you about that, first of all."

Somehow this reveal made the cramped space feeling even more intimate, and somehow between the blood rushing through his ears and the thudding of his heart in his throat Steve heard the sound of Natasha's laughter from far away. Just a customer, I'm sure, Steve reasoned though he felt paranoid someone else could read all the thoughts racing through his head. (You know, like Steve was "just a customer"…)

"Sarge isn't really me, y'know? She just likes annoying me."

He grinned again. "Secondly, I gotta have your number, to get it back. In case I get to missing her."

He laughed and scratched an eyebrow, as if mulling over his last words.

"Look, uh, it's not a must I guess, but I wasn't kidding on it being my favorite album. You know those songs that feel like they musta been written from your soul?"

Surely Steve's heart was beating so loudly Bucky could hear it-Steve was convinced. They'd really just met and here they were talking about souls and exchanging numbers and beloved records, and Steve felt a little lame for not having anything to offer. Bucky had given him a new favorite of the jazz era and more importantly, a new muse, of which Steve had been so severely lacking.

"No, yeah, of course," Steve leaned down and grabbed a pen and pad off Bucky's desk quickly. He scribbled it down and his name, as if he wouldn't know but it was too late, and set it back onto the desk before Bucky could notice his hands shaking. "I promise I won't hog it."

"Cool." Bucky bent, scribbled his own number on the paper, with "Bucky" under it, returning the favor (and so what if it brought a smile to Steve's face?). Bucky tore it off and stuck it inside the album cover.

"Look, uh, I'm not trying to scare you off or anything," Bucky said, voice dropping in pitch, sending a shudder through Steve.

Steve's own throat felt too tight for him to speak properly. I'm the one who's be scaring you off, he thought, forcing himself to meet Bucky's gaze. It had been forever since he'd felt this for anyone, not since Peggy back in high school. She'd loved him even before he'd gotten over his childhood illnesses, but things hadn't exactly worked out for them, despite their deep love for one another.

Back then it had been the nervousness of first times and adolescence in general and the constant reminder of the fragility of life; this felt like something entirely foreign, more profound somehow. Maybe age just did that.

"No, I—I didn't think so," Steve stammered finally. "It's cool to have a music buddy."

"Yeah but," Bucky shrugged, "I don't even know anything about you. I guess you could be someone to come finish the job."

He laughed but something in it felt forced, different from what Steve had heard before. He knew soldiers had a hard time readjusting, and if Bucky had just moved here he was bound to feel anxious. Especially if whatever had happened to his arm had been particularly traumatizing (and how could it not be?).

"I'm an artist," Steve offered, feeling a little unaccomplished. Here was a man in front of him who'd served his country in war and subsequently opened up a record shop, all the while looking no older than thirty.

"Oh yeah?" Bucky raised his eyebrows, actually interested. Steve expected the usual question ("Can you draw me?" to which he wasn't sure he could keep from admitting the truth) but instead got another that made him feel a little less panicked. "Like landscapes or comics, or?"

"Different things. Architecture, people, graffiti…whatever catches my eye, I guess."

"You do shows or have a gallery?" Bucky looked genuinely awed, but Steve wasn't sure if he imagined him leaning in closer or not.

"I have before, not a regular one. I never thought they were that good."

"If you've been in shows they've totally gotta be. Come on, Steve, have some confidence!"

He leaned to the side and pulled open the blinds to check the line at the counter, which was four people long.

"Ah, shit, gotta go. But hey—call me and let me know how you like the live version!"

"Yeah, definitely." Steve called after him, wondering how he was supposed to get the guts to call Bucky. Maybe Billie could help him work up the nerve.

-o-

A few hours into listening to Bucky's record his phone rang. He immediately thought the worst, that Bucky was calling to tell him he didn't trust him anymore and wanted the album back; he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Peggy Carter splashed across the screen.

"Hey, Peggy!"

"I'm glad to hear you so chipper," she greeted in her English accent, a side effect of being raised in the UK for the first twelve years of her life. "Last time you were so busy."

"I recall someone worrying about that," Steve laughed. "No reminder necessary. I'm good, Peggy, how are you?"

"Oh, you know," she sighed, "busy as always. Losing my sanity. I've got a grey hair!"

"No way."

"Way. I'll show you. When are you free?"

"Pretty much anytime."

"So no gal after all?" she sounded disappointed.

"No, Peggy."

"Okay, how about next Thursday, lunch? I've got so many bloody meetings I'm up to my ears. Tony Stark loves to hear himself talk-but oh, I digress."

Another sigh. "We'll order a ton of mimosas."

"Well, you've got a deal in that case," Steve laughed.

They chatted a while longer and by the time they hung up, Steve's cheeks and neck were still flushed from her guess that he was dating someone. Had he sounded that nervous when he answered the phone? That was no good if he were to remain cool at all times around Bucky.

Bucky...it was a name Steve had never heard except as a nickname, so naturally he was curious as to what his real-real name was. His mind switched to his lunch date with Peggy, whether she'd be able to confirm something was indeed up.

He decided he might as well just tell her he was making fast friends with a record-shop guy/Army vet and see if he could play it off, hide how much he felt drawn to Bucky. He doubted it-she wouldn't have the position at S.H.I.E.L.D. that she held if she didn't keep a close eye on everything-but through hope, held out.

Thursday would be a good day to return to the shop too, Steve decided while lying in bed and idly counting the ceiling tiles. He would call Bucky Wednesday night and ask if it'd be okay, of course it would, and Bucky wouldn't detect how nervous he felt just thinking about it. Right? Then he remembered: mimosas.

Mimosas might just save him after all.

-o-