"Pianissimo"

As soon as Phil Coulson reached the counter, May cut him off.

"Nothing new since yesterday," she said when he opened his mouth. "The only sheet music we've had in is elementary school orchestra scores, and Mack hasn't unpacked it yet. Any new stock is percussion-related or stationery. Nothing to interest you."

"On the contrary," he said, and he smiled. "Something new definitely interests me."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Him," Coulson said, nodding towards the piano section, where there was a man perched on one of the stools, playing quiet chords with his right hand.

"What about him?" May asked, frowning. How did she miss him? He must've been good at sneaking to evade her notice.

"Perfect posture, and look at his technique."

The stranger was only playing chords, so May would have to take Coulson's word for it; he knew what he was talking about. She couldn't help teasing him a little.

"And he has a nice ass," she said, making Coulson stutter and blush, and push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Do you talk about all your customers like that?" he hissed.

"We always talk about how nice your ass is after you leave," she replied. She didn't get many opportunities to fluster Coulson, so she was going to make the most if it.

"May." He tugged his lumpy tan-coloured sweater down, as if that was going to do anything to hide it.

"Those jeans suit you," she added, and Coulson glared at her.

"I'm going to go talk to him," he said primly, and he walked over to the pianist, still pulling at his sweater.

"You can't hide true quality!" she said, loudly enough for him to hear her, and he glared back over his shoulder.

May knew she had to return to the inventory, but now she was curious. Hunter joined her behind the desk.

"What're we watching?" he asked.

"Coulson and the piano guy," she said.

"Right."

There was a crash of keys as Coulson appeared in front of the piano. He said something to the man playing there, and held out his hand. May noticed something strange cross his face, and then his smile dropped completely as the stranger bolted, the stool tipping over, and it was only by some miracle – or spectacular footwork – that he didn't knock any displays on the way out. Good thing there were few customers. Coulson pushed the stool into place, and then returned to the counter, hands sinking into his pockets. To say he looked glum would be an understatement.

"Well, that went well," he muttered.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Hunter said. Apparently he'd lost his brain-to-mouth filter, and both May and Coulson glared at him. "He ran out of here like the hounds of hell were at his heels."

"Nice alliteration," May said. "And good point. What'd you say to him?"

Coulson shrugged. "I told him it sounded good. Asked him whether he played much. Then I thought I recognised him, so I tried to get a handshake. Then I saw… He's missing an arm. His left arm… it's gone. All of it. The sleeve's pinned up."

"That's why he was playing one-handed," she said.

"Yeah, I guessed that," he said acerbically. May kept her mouth shut. "Then, like Hunter said, he took off before I could even introduce myself."

"You think he used to learn?" May asked. If any customers showed up, Skye could handle them.

"If he did, and somehow lost the arm…" Coulson frowned. "But if he had his own keyboard or piano, wouldn't he play that? Unless there was a fire, like the one… Or he was in an accident, and had to sell some things to pay for medical treatment. That would explain why he doesn't have a prosthesis. Or what if—"

"Coulson."

"…Yes?" He looked agitated, and May sighed.

"You said you recognised him," she said.

"Well, if he's played in public before, that would explain it," he replied. "I'm sure I'd remember playing with him. He has the kind of face you don't forget."

"That handsome, huh?"

"Or I've judged him at a recital," he said, ignoring May's remark. (Although his cheeks were pinker than before.) "I'll look through the programmes at home. I just… noticed him through the window, and wondered whether you knew who he was."

"No idea," May said, now feeling guilty for ribbing Coulson. He seemed interested in this, and losing an arm was traumatic. Hell, Coulson knew that himself. He'd lost his hand and half his lower arm in a fire – probably why it was the first possibility he'd mentioned – and it was only through the grace of Stark Industries that he was able to get a fully-functioning prosthesis. Even then, it took a great deal of therapy before he felt confident enough to play again, let alone get to his previous standard. During recovery and PT, he'd taken to composing and arranging music, and Shield Music stocked all of his published works, which is how May went from being a fan to being a friend.

"I'd better go, then," he said, tapping his fingers idly on the countertop. "See you later, May. Hunter."

"Coulson," they replied, and he strolled out of the store.

At the music store that afternoon, Simmons answered the phone. May noticed her sigh, and then gesture.

"Of course, Mr. Coulson, she's right here," Simmons said, and May rolled her eyes as she took the phone.

"This is Melinda," she said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Coulson?" It could've been anyone named Coulson, after all. It wasn't necessarily—

"I found out who it is!"

She leaned back against the wall, hoping this wouldn't turn into one of those long, rambling conversations he was prone to if she gave him even half an ear.

"Tell me what you've got," she said.

"Found him in the sixth programme I looked through," he said. "Went from the beginning. He came first place in a recital I attended six years ago. Someone sent me pictures, but his was in the programme, of course. Now I remember. I spoke to him afterwards, told him he had a promising career ahead of him. He was barely out of his teens, took lessons against his father's wishes. Seems they were on at the same time as his friend's art classes, and he wanted to walk the guy home in case of bullies. Thought it was incredibly noble at the time."

"Did he recognise you?"

"I don't think so," Coulson said. "He wasn't interested in playing professionally, at least that's what he said at the time. But I saw how he looked today. I'm trying to remember what else he said." There was a pause. "Damn it, I don't know. And I don't know what happened to him, but I never heard his name after that."

"And you keep track of all the young artists," she said. "I told you you'd make a good mentor."

"I'm too busy writing," he said. "Way too busy. That was the year before…" He trailed off, and May flinched. She remembered it all too well, even though they'd never met until two years ago. (They never discussed the fan mail she sent him the first time she heard a recording of his over the radio.)

"Do you have any idea how you'll track him down?" she asked.

"May—"

"You wouldn't call me at work to talk about this if you'd just solved a mystery," she said. "You want to find him. Are you only curious about what happened to his arm?"

"He has natural talent! It's wasted if he's not playing. I don't know what he's doing right now, but if it doesn't put that same sparkle in his eye then he's wasting his time and depriving the world of… of…" She raised an eyebrow, knowing he'd be able to sense it. "This isn't about pity or… or anything like that. Or curiosity. This is about wanting to…" He trailed off, and she could tell this was different. There was a clatter, footsteps, and then the scrape of a chair across the floor.

Oh no.

He began to play sporadically, and May tried to make herself heard over it. She took the phone into the room behind the counter where they held reserved items, and shouted into the mouthpiece. It took a few tries before she heard a curse, footsteps again, and a curt apology from Coulson. Then he hung up, and she left the room, setting the phone back on its cradle.

"Composing frenzy," she told Simmons. "I think we're gonna have a break from him for a few days."

"Well, he's had a bit of composer's block recently, hasn't he?"

"Which is why we've been seeing him every other day. Let's hope he's writing a symphony or concerto this time; that always takes longer than arranging."

The first time May saw Coulson's mystery guy – and he didn't even think to tell her the man's name – she approached him carefully. He wasn't disturbing anyone, and she didn't want to scare him off. As long as he didn't think he was being a bother, chances are he would stay. Coulson hadn't been in for four days, so it seemed his composer's block was well and truly gone.

The man stayed for almost a whole hour, playing either chords or simple tunes, all he could do with one hand. She'd seen footage of Coulson when he was younger – under his protest, when she found video recordings at his house – and some of that same talent was visible here, in the way the man's fingers barely seemed to touch the keys and yet created such music. They were light, and he made it look so easy, even though she recognised the tune as an attempt at playing Beethoven one-handed.

From one angle, May could see the passion Coulson had mentioned, both love of the music and frustration. She loved the Sonata Pathetiqué, and he grimaced as he tried to tackle the tune. Was it this hard for Coulson after the fire? Was she witnessing the same struggles he went through?

Something tickled her cheek, and she wiped away a few surprise tears. The last time she'd cried was over Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto, when Coulson played it for the shop's tenth anniversary with a bunch of his friends from the city's orchestra.

She was shaken out of her reverie when there was a beeping sound. At first she thought it was a metronome, but realised it was the man's watch. He stopped playing to look at it, swore, and swung around so he could stand. May hurried forward, in case this was her only chance.

"Hello," she said. He startled, and stared at her. "Sorry. I'm Melinda May, manager of Shield Music. You were in here earlier in the week."

"Uh, yeah," he said, his voice hoarse. "Didn't mean t' bother anyone."

"You weren't," she said. "A… a friend was wondering about you."

He looked to the side shiftily. "That right? The guy who… who spoke t' me?"

"Yes," she said. "What's your name?"

"B-Bucky."

"Bucky…?"

"Barnes," he said. "Uh, James Barnes. Sergeant. Or… was. Listen, I'm sorry. I won't come back—"

"No, don't!" she said quickly. "I mean, yes. Come back anytime the store's open."

"Not like I can exactly play like this," he said, scowling at the space where his left arm should've been. "I shouldn't've come here. I'm sorry."

"Please," she said. "I think Co… I think he'd like to know how to find you. He met you once. He likes music as well, loves it."

He shifted in place, clutching the strap of his messenger back. "Don't think so."

"Well…" She couldn't give up. "Please, promise me you'll come back and play. It gets so quiet around here at this time of day—"

"I noticed," he said.

"And in the run up to Christmas we're always busier with getting the Christmas stock ready, designing and setting up displays, and arguing about what kind of music to play on the speakers… you'd be doing us a favour if you came in, made sure the pianos are in tune. You don't have to demonstrate for anyone." Barnes kept peeking at the door, and she realised that he would've set his watch alarm for a reason. "You could break up disputes over the decorations we use. Please. Come back? If you have the time…"

"I've got the time, trust me." He took a step towards the door, then turned his head slightly in her direction. "I'll think `bout it."

"Thank you," she said as sincerely as she could. He rounded his shoulders, and shuffled out of the shop.

Well, that was a failure. Unless he took her up on her offer (request; plea) to return and play, she was no closer to knowing how to find him. If Coulson called, what the hell could she tell him?

Damn it, now he'd dragged her into this mystery.

"Fitz!" she snapped at her technician, and he ducked out from where he'd been hiding behind their largest amplifier. "Find out what you can about a James Barnes, or Bucky Barnes, though he probably goes by James."

Sergeant, he'd said. Army. Was that how he'd lost his arm?

"Right away," Fitz said, and he hurried to the staffroom. May strolled back to the counter, pausing only to make sure the piano stool was straight (it was), and wondering how long Barnes had been watching the store before making his move. If he knew this was their least busy part of the day… well, it didn't exactly feel ominous – and who the hell would steal a piano? – but she still felt uneasy. Whether it was sympathy or Coulson's obsession or the mystery itself, she didn't know. And May hated not knowing.

At lunch break, Fitz dropped a bunch of printed pages onto the table in front of May, narrowly avoiding her salad. She pinned him with a glare, and he scooted off. She pulled the papers closer, and read about a young pianist James Barnes, who – as Coulson said – won first place in a competition six years ago, and a few other awards since, before dropping off the musical scene's radar.

Then there was an article from an obscure newspaper, one of those suburban newsletters, about two boys – Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes – joining up to fight overseas. The last few articles and pictures were after they returned, including one in a national newspaper hailing them as heroes. Half their battalion had been taken prisoner, Barnes in one half, Rogers in the other. Rogers's half had managed to rescue most of the prisoners, but it took much longer to find Barnes, who'd refused, under torture, to reveal any information to the enemy about troop movements.

May swallowed the lump in her throat when it was mentioned that part of the torture involved Barnes's arm being cut off bit by bit. He'd been lucky to get out of there alive, Rogers having to carry him out, wound infected to the point where the rest of the arm had to be removed to save Barnes's life. He'd been invalided home. No word on whether Rogers went with him, or where Barnes was staying now.

He'd suffered trauma. PTSD clinics were the first places she should look.

And May was pretty damn sure her husband would know who to ask.

"There's such a thing as patient confidentiality, Melinda," Andrew said, crossing his arms as he looked down at her. She stared back pointedly. "No."

"Andrew."

"No."

"Please?"

"Melinda!"

"What if Coulson wants to contact him?" she said.

"I don't care what Maestro Coulson wants to do," he said. "You know there's nothing I can do. And even if I found anything, I couldn't tell you, nor could I tell Coulson, or I'd risk losing my—"

"I know," she said. "But I'm not talking about anything in your field. I think that if he was seeing a medical professional, he wouldn't be loitering outside the store, then coming in to play for an hour, before leaving again. There are clinics around, you've told me that before. What if he goes to one of those…"

"Groups?" he said.

"Yes," she said. "Like people who've recently come out of rehab. Is there someone you can check with?"

"It's more than my job's worth, Melinda. I'm sorry."

"Even if it's for a good cause?"

Andrew's eyebrows drew closer together. "Even if I made inquiries, I couldn't tell you anything… without his approval."

"But I'm concerned about him."

"Crap," he muttered. May smirked internally; claiming to be concerned about a person was sometimes the only way to get information. "Fine. I'll ask if anyone knows anything about him; and if they do, I'll give them our number in case he wants to contact us, for any reason. But there's nothing else I can do. Your only alternative is to hire a private investigator, and I'm vetoing that here and now."

"That's okay," she said. "Fitz and Skye are going to stalk him on social media."

"Are you sure your music store isn't the front for some spy organisation?" She pretended to give it some thought.

"I think I would've noticed that by now," she finally said.

Stalking wasn't necessary. Not when Barnes came in nearly every day, even if it was just for ten minutes. May ensured that there was always an instrument available for him, in case he mistook the slightest inconvenience as a sign that he shouldn't visit.

It'd been more than two weeks since May last heard from Coulson. She had the phone number of one of his neighbours, who'd confirmed the sounds of erratic music, but May went over to Coulson's apartment at least once herself. He didn't answer the door, but she could hear him, and figured that he was probably alright; hadn't descended into madness or anything else dire. So she waited, and then one morning, while Barnes was playing, Coulson hurried into the store. His clothing was rumpled, his hair a mess, and he was clutching his worn music bag to his chest. They all stopped and stared as he made a beeline for the occupied piano.

"Hi," he said, dumping his music on the top of the upright grand. Barnes jumped as though a bomb had gone off, and May flinched at the reminder that he was a returned soldier. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you off last time… or startle you just then. I never got the chance to introduce myself." He held out his hand. This time, with only a few seconds' hesitation, Barnes shook it, pulling back again quickly. Coulson didn't seem put off. "My name is Phil. Mind if I sit?"

Barnes shook his head, and scooted over when Coulson moved to his left. He didn't say anything as Coulson took a sheaf of papers out of his bag and spread them over the music stand.

"What's this?" Barnes said. The mild wariness in his tone belied the tension visible throughout his entire body.

"Music," Coulson said. "Try to keep up."

"Wha—"

But Coulson was already playing, though May couldn't see how he was working the pedals without bumping into Barnes. More of the Phil Coulson magic, she could only guess. It wasn't until Barnes tentatively started playing along that she recognised the 'New World' Symphony by Dvorak. She'd only ever heard orchestral arrangements, and it didn't match what she'd heard Coulson composing, but he'd clearly arranged it as a piano duet for three hands. Not four.

This was why she loved Coulson. It wasn't his talent, but his love of helping and pleasing people. He was a genuinely good person, despite his heart condition, and the fire which could've killed him from the stress alone, not to mention the ex he'd driven away after too many fights over their conflicting musical careers.

"Sounds beautiful, doesn't it?" Bobbi asked, bumping May's arm. "Hot damn."

"Their styles are similar," May said.

"They're great together. Imagine what they could do if…" May knew what she was thinking. If Barnes had two arms, could they be even better?

Unfortunately, he'd only arranged an excerpt from the symphony, the part everyone recognised, which meant that the music was over too soon. Barnes was silent, which Coulson ignored (possibly on purpose) as he sifted through sheets of printed music.

"Would you like to play some more?" Coulson asked. Barnes took awhile to reply.

"You… happened to have three-handed arrangements lying around?" he said.

"Of course not," Coulson said. "I only have two hands, and I'm not bendy enough to play with a foot as well."

"Well, that's gonna break Hunter's mind when I tell him," Bobbi muttered.

"If I time it well enough, I'll get Andrew to walk into a wall," May replied.

"Why would you…" Barnes paused, and held one of the sheets closer. "Wait. Coulson. You're… are you Phil Coulson?"

Coulson cleared his throat. "Uh, yes," he said, and he adjusted his glasses. "I know I look kind of different out of concert dress."

"I'll say," May said, and Bobbi snickered.

"I… I didn't know it was you," Barnes said.

"Sometimes telling people who I am comes with a lot of expectations," Coulson said, "or uncomfortable questions if they remember…" He tugged up his left sleeve, displaying the prosthesis May had only seen properly a few times. Barnes touched it, running his fingers along the surface May knew to be flawlessly smooth.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Prosthetic limb," Coulson said. "Goes up to here."

"What happened?"

"Fire. Electrical fault. Smoke alarm worked fine, and the fire was only small when I tried to fight it. Good thing neighbours called the fire department, because… well, I'm a pianist, not a fireman. Fighting fire isn't my forte. That would be fighting hemi-demi-semi-quavers." Barnes laughed hoarsely, and May found herself leaning against Bobbi, head tilted as she watched the scene.

"The fire was close to the piano, which I was trying to protect, of course," Coulson continued. "Instead the flames got to the TV, there were more sparks, and… I'm not sure what happened next. They got me out of there, but not before burning wires caught me. I think I passed out, and my arm got trapped." He shook his head. "Took a long time to recover. I took up composing and arranging during therapy, because everyone was adamant that I not give up music. I don't think I could if I tried, to be honest." He tapped the prosthesis. "Metal actually moves better than plastic. With padding on the ends to reduce the clicking sound, and a flesh-like covering, you'd almost never know."

"Doesn't stop you playing," Barnes said. He hadn't let go of Coulson's hand yet, and Coulson didn't seem to mind.

"Cole Porter couldn't work the pedals of a piano, and Beethoven went deaf," he said.

"Comparin' yourself to them, are ya?"

"Comparing you to them," Coulson said. Barnes ducked his head, and moved his hand away.

"They still had both their hands," he said softly.

"Yes, but computer software can be used with one hand. And as I've just shown you, anything is possible."

Barnes's lips twitched at the corners. "That was… amazing. I haven't felt anything like that since…"

Coulson cocked his head. "May I ask what happened?"

"Enemy soldiers." Barnes exhaled through his teeth. "They took exception to me not tellin' `em anything. Thought cuttin' my arm to pieces might make me talk. I kinda went catatonic instead, like I'd've given the assholes the satisfaction anyhow."

"I'm sorry."

"So were they when the others came for me."

"I think you're incredibly brave."

"…One time, didn't you talk t' me? At that thing where I got first prize?"

Coulson chuckled. "You remember that? Yeah, I gushed over your performance."

"Didn't stop me from joinin' the army. But I wasn't gonna let my best friend got it without me. Punk always gets himself into scrapes. Live with him at the moment."

"Can I have your number? So we can maybe play together again sometime? I'm meeting my agent later, to go over the suite I just finished writing last night, and hand in the commissions I've been working on." He smiled sheepishly. "Otherwise I'd be happy to stay longer."

"No, that's fine," Barnes said. "Uh… or maybe I can call you instead?"

Coulson's smile faltered, but he nodded. He reached into his bag and pulled out one of the many business cards he kept to hand, and gave it to Barnes.

"I hope I hear from you soon," he said, and he slid off the piano stool, grabbing his bag as he went. "Goodbye, Mr. Barnes." He gave Bobbi and May a sharp look, and Bobbi hurried back to her work. May returned his look. "May."

"Coulson," she said. As soon as he'd left, she frowned at Barnes, who was fingering the edge of the card. "Break his heart and you'll wish you were a POW again."

He gaped as she strode back to the counter, where a customer was waiting.

By some miracle, Barnes and Coulson met up again at Shield Music. Maybe the ex-soldier had taken May's threat to heart? Both men seemed happier, playing the pieces Coulson arranged, and May pretended not to know about the betting pool on when Barnes would twig to the flirting. If he'd noticed and was ignoring it, or pretending not to notice it for some reason, he was doing a damn good job. Not that Coulson was pushing him; but he looked at Barnes with stars in his eyes, and got to know when to pull back instead of pressing on.

One day, however, Coulson carried in a long case, definitely not for an instrument, and sat beside Barnes. He propped music up on the stand, but before they could start playing he rested the case on his knees and opened it up. May was in a prime position, working with the music-note tinsel up high, and could see what looked like part of a robot… an arm. Like his, but without the sleeve that made it look like skin. She lithely leapt down the ladder and crept closer.

"It's a prototype like the one I have," Coulson was saying. Barnes was leaning over and studying the prosthesis. "Except for the full left arm. If you come in for measurements sometime, then… he did a good job. You've seen me play. It takes time and practise, like learning a new instrument, but one day, maybe…" He sighed, and scratched the back of his head. "You'd expressed an interest."

"But this'd be… way too much," Barnes said. "More than I can afford."

"You're ex-military, and Stark owes me another favour. Even if he didn't, I've been thinking. You want to get back in the game, right? Play professionally?"

"It'd be a… a dream come true, Phil." May's eyebrows jumped. First name basis? When did that happen?

"I had an idea, not that I've run it by Stark or anyone else yet. A concert of piano duets. The two of us. Both with prostheses designed and built by Stark Industries. It would be a great selling point. I'm sure Stark would field the costs… Bucky?"

"It's…" She could see Barnes trembling. "To make money?"

"What?"

"This is all so you could make money? Jesus Christ, Phil, profiting from other people's personal loss is… is… it's despicable!" He jumped up and away from the piano stool, almost knocking it over again, and May stepped forward at the same time as Phil. "You saw me with one arm and thought 'Hey, I know, if we both had fake arms and played the piano what a great gimmick that would be!'?"

"No, Bucky—"

"What else am I s'posed t' think? I barely know you. People don't do this kinda thing outta the goodness of their heart for people they don't know. I knew there was a reason you were hangin' around me. Shit, I even thought maybe you had a… a thing for me, but it was all for…" He pursed his lips and looked away. Everyone was quiet, and when Coulson moved closer, protesting, Barnes waved him back. "No! I don't wanna hear it. Take your charity an' all its strings elsewhere, an' leave me alone."

"Bucky—"

Barnes shook his head as he grabbed his bag and stormed out of the store. Coulson started to follow, then pulled himself up short and sank onto the piano stool.

"That went well," Skye said. May narrowed her eyes and Coulson scowled. Wide-eyed, she disappeared so fast it was like magic. Sighing, May perched on the edge of the stool beside Coulson.

"You could've broken that more gently," she said.

"This didn't go at all like I imagined," he muttered. "Too damn optimistic for my own good. Any time I tried to imagine it going badly, my mind wouldn't let me go there. Damn it!" He ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. "I wanted to help him. He had so much promise, and no one seemed to be there for him like they were for me after the fire. I shouldn't have gotten involved, but—"

"You're a good person, and he doesn't know that," May said, wishing she was better at comforting people. "But you tried to explain it here? In public? Why not at his place, or yours, where you could've forced him to stay and listen?"

"This is the only place I've ever met him since… since that first day." Coulson slumped over, before immediately correcting his posture. "Maybe an appointment with Stark would've been better?"

"From what you've told me about him, I'm pretty sure Tony Stark would only make everything worse," she said.

"He's not so bad."

"Oh?"

Coulson was silent for a minute, and May noticed Skye dealing with the tinsel, probably to make up for her flippant remark. Good. Except that May was apparently in charge of consoling her friend.

"Try again after he's had time to cool down," she said. "Or approach his best friend first. We'll have to call off the betting pool if this doesn't get resolved."

"Betting pool?" He peered at her. "Do I want to know?"

"No."

"Okay."

Every couple of days Coulson would visit the store, and the other days he'd call to find out whether Barnes had been in. He hadn't, and May predicted that it'd be at least two weeks before he came back. In the meantime, any time he did come in, he'd start off playing something recognisable and cheerful, before descending into something mournful, and possibly composed on the spot. May had taken to sending him into the staffroom with Hunter whenever the other customers began to look uncomfortable. (They were friends, but she refused to lose business because he had a broken heart.)

It turns out that she'd been uncharacteristically optimistic as well. Weeks went by without a sign of Barnes, and they all began to fear that he wasn't coming back. And damn Coulson, but they were all invested in this now. They talked about it during work and outside of work hours, especially with the large Christmas order leading to over-time. Andrew brought work with him the one day that May sent everyone home on time so she could do inventory. He kept her company and caffeinated, and was there when someone pounded at the front door.

"I'll see who it is," May said, and she walked into the main part of the store.

"I told you I could see lights on!" Tony Stark said, waving from the doorway, with Barnes standing behind him. May frowned as she opened the door. "I told Buckaroo I could see lights on. He didn't want to come in, but Coulson told me about this place, and this is fate. You must be May, can I call you May? Hi, Tony Stark. This here is Bucky Barnes, but I guess you already know that?"

"Hello, Barnes," May said.

"Hi," he mumbled. Stark didn't seem to notice the tension.

"Why are you open so late?" he asked.

"We're not," May said. "I'm doing inventory."

"That means it'll just be us. Perfect! I don't like a big audience when I'm testing new things. Or testing things I'd already made but haven't seen in action yet." He pulled Barnes into the store and over to the pianos. "Okay, pick one. We're gonna test this baby out. Hey, it was May, right? Or April? June?"

"May," she said.

"Can we get some lights on? Thanks. Sit down, Buckster. Don't worry, I'll reimburse you for the inconvenience. Besides, I'll bet he plays like an angel, especially with his new toy. Show her off, Sarge."

He gently shoved Barnes towards one of the pianos, and May noticed the way he steadied himself with his left arm. The left arm he didn't usually have. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Andrew appeared at her elbow.

"That's the Bucky Barnes I've been hearing about?" he said quietly. May nodded.

"Come on, give her a spin," Stark said. Barnes removed his glove, flexing the same shiny metal limb Coulson had brought in over a month ago. There were coverings on the ends of the fingers, similar to Coulson's. He placed his hands gingerly on the keys, and May stiffened as the left one came down to hard when he tried to play. He nearly bolted like he did on that first day, but Stark clamped down on his shoulders.

"I know, I know," Barnes said. "Gentler."

"And take your time."

"No more than fifteen minutes," May said. "Inventory's nearly done."

"We're good out here," Stark said, waving vaguely at her. "Go on, Buck-Buck."

Barnes grimaced at the nickname, and May couldn't blame him. Nevertheless, he tried again, and again, while Stark switched his attention between the arm, Barnes, and something he was reading on a small monitor. Slowly the music became less stilted and uneven, and May leaned into Andrew's hold as it soothed her. At the end of something familiar – could have been Chopin – Barnes stopped, and he looked up at Stark as he flexed the mechanical arm again.

"Was that enough?" he asked.

"Plenty," Stark said. "I'll go over the readings tonight and get you to come back in for a fitting tomorrow. You thought over that concert idea yet? You and Coulson should play together. I like the novelty of two of my butterflies in concert." He winked at May and Andrew. "In concert. Get it?"

"This is a music store," May said dryly. "We all get it."

"Eh, it was worth a try," he said.

"Coulson… already told me," Barnes said stiltedly. "About the concert."

"I never told him about it," Stark said. "You mean he came up with the same idea as me?" He grinned. "Great minds think alike. Don't tell him I said that, though. I get the impression he hates me." His voice took on a bitter note.

"He doesn't hate you," May said. "He said, and I quote, 'He's not that bad'. But you didn't hear it from me."

Stark brightened. "Okay, Buck Rogers, off with the arm. It still doesn't fit as well as I'd like, and I'd prefer you be with comfortable with it before you start wearing it regularly. I'll drop you at your apartment on the way home."

"I'll finish up out back," May said. They'd been there for half an hour, and Stark flinched when he looked at his watch.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Do you take credit cards?"

"Yes."

"Great. Does your hubby know how to work a cash register?"

"You bet I do," Andrew said, smiling. May wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he seemed to like Stark. She retreated to the back, trusting Andrew to take care of things, when Barnes ran to her side.

"Don't tell Phil," he said.

"He's been here or calling me every day since you left," she said, unable to contain all her anger. "You hurt him, Barnes. You broke his heart."

He looked uncomfortable. "Wouldn't say I broke his heart," he said.

"You really didn't see it? Well, damn, I won that bet."

"But…" He turned pale. "He didn't think of me like that, did he?"

"I don't know whether you're straight or gay or bi," May said. "But you obviously missed all the clues he was giving you, so I'm thinking straight."

"Mostly. Pretty much. I… I'd never thought of him that way. He was being nice to me, that's all."

"Because he's a nice guy," she said. "Some people are like that. I know you lost your arm in more traumatic circumstances than Phil, but he's been trying to give you the kind of help he received after the accident, and I'll lay any odds that he would've covered the full cost of the prosthesis himself and was using the concert as a cover so you wouldn't think it was charity."

"…Oh."

"And now he knows your opinion of him, and how low it is."

Barnes fidgeted in place, staring at the floor. "This is the arm… he gave it back to Stark. I didn't know until I got there. He'd commissioned it specially for me. I'm… I'm not used to this kind of attention. No one I know could ever afford this."

"A real Cinderella story," May said. Barnes's cheeks turned pink. "What are you going to do? Coulson deserves better than this."

"I know."

"Call him."

"…I guess I should."

May didn't tell Coulson about the visit, no matter how much she wanted to. She hadn't promised Barnes that she'd keep his appearance secret, but she didn't want to lie to Coulson, and she owed more to him than she did to Barnes. Fortunately for her, either Barnes called him, or he'd simply given up, because when she next heard from Coulson it was when he wandered into the store a few days later and stared blankly at the sheet music. Barnes crept into the store, and hesitated before approaching Coulson. Some of the regular customers had heard about the saga by now, so they were all watching with bated breath as well.

"P-Phil?"

It took a few seconds, before Coulson's eyes widened and he spun around.

"Bucky!" he blurted out. "W-what're you doing here?"

"Wanted to say I was, uh, sorry," Barnes said. "And thank you."

"For what?"

"You mean you didn't notice?" Barnes raised his left arm, the metal now covered in flesh-coloured material. "I, uh, could use some expert help. Haven't had much of a chance to play with it on, and I don't have my own piano. Do… d'you have one? At your place? I don't wanna keep imposin' on the people here, and I figured… maybe I could bring takeout…"

"Takeout?"

"Sustenance. So we can practise for the concert."

"Concert?"

"The one you suggested?" Barnes said. "Seems as good a way as any to get back into the swing of performing in front of other people. You know, paying people. And it'll make you happy. And… I want you to be happy. I wanna make you happy."

"Bucky." Coulson checked himself before he could lean on the sheet music and crush it. "This isn't about me—"

"Part of it is. It's about both of us. Us, Phil. If… if you still wanna do the concert, then there's nothing else I'd rather do."

He inhaled slowly. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Barnes said.

May refused free tickets, but she allowed Coulson to give all the staff a discount, and closed early the day of the concert to make sure they'd have time to get ready, have dinner, and get to the venue. There was an orchestra and two pianos on stage. It took months to plan, plenty of time for Barnes to get used to playing with the new arm, and for them to get used to playing on separate pianos. Coulson used some of the time to compose and arrange, and they spent weeks rehearsing with the orchestra.

They started with his arrangements of some of the more well-known pieces, including ballet music by Prokofiev and The Blue Danube by Strauss Junior. There was also a medley of instrumental music from operas, followed by a short interval.

Then the highlight of the evening: Coulson's new symphony, number three, 'The Red Star'. It was more of a concerto for two pianos, but he told the audience (after an encore of the final movement) that this was the only time the symphony would be played with pianos, and that he would be premiering the proper symphony next season. They had to perform a second encore, this time Coulson and Barnes on one piano improvising their own variations on Mozart's Ah vous dirai-je, Maman. There was some laughter as they debated while playing, excusing cross-hands, and the audience loved the banter.

When the men took their bows at the end, May noticed their fingers brushing together, and the way they stood much closer, but then it was no surprise to her. She'd seen plenty of looks between them whenever they visited Shield Music, and she had a feeling that there'd be no more solo concerts for either of them.

I liked doing all of this from May's perspective. It was fun.

Thanks to all the support I received for this on Tumblr, especially thestanceyg, who loved it from the beginning. This was for Piano Month… so, naturally, I didn't actually finish it until late on the last day. *Rolls eyes*

Please review!