Chapter 2: The Winter Soldier

If Bucky keeps his eyes on the space immediately in front of his knees, he can pretend it's just him and his drums. He can pretend every swish of his sticks and pump of a pedal is isolated to this tiny little world.

But he can't do that. He needs to pay attention. Needs to look up, look around. Needs to know if Rumlow or Zemo or especially Schmidt is about to pull some shit and change the gig. Schmidt already decided to splice together Tundraand Lady Luck in the Chamber with zero warning tonight. No doubt the sound engineers want to kill him as much as Bucky does; the metronome track in their ears had been completely off for a good twenty seconds and it had fallen to Bucky to keep the backbone of the song intact.

It's an ego contest every single time, and while the fans eat it up, it's frankly goddamn exhausting. The drummer's the glue holding the song—songs, sometimes—together, which is great and all right up until the song is trying to pull itself apart and the drummer is starting to think he wasn't cut out to be Atlas.

So he looks up as they go from chorus to bridge and tries to see if Zemo is about to launch into a solo. Even with the black paint around his eyes taking the edge off the glaring stage lights, he has to squint to see the purple-masked man a couple yards away. Past him, a sea of people packed into the stadium reach him only as a mass of shadows sporadically interrupted by flash photography and glowsticks. Their shouts and cheers are a dull roar pressing against his earbuds.

Zemo's not stepping forward. No solo. He breathes out, a sigh no one can see below the black mask that covers the lower half of his face. He should get creative, he knows. Give everyone who came out to watch them live on this last show of their latest tour something to take home. But his hands fall into old and familiar patterns. The version of this song they spent hours recording. The version he's played a thousand times. The version everyone here has already heard.

Rumlow stalks across the stage, allegedly just to do a fancy flip of his bass guitar where he won't hit Schmidt, but in reality it's an excuse for him to turn around to glare at Bucky from behind his Crossbones mask without anyone realizing he's doing it.

"C'mon, Winter Soldier," he seems to hiss, too quiet for any of the mics to pick up. Bucky reads it from his eyes more than anything. He glares back but knows Rumlow has a point. Rumlow already did a solo earlier; if Zemo isn't doing a solo and Schmidt needs to catch his breath, then this should be Bucky's time to shine. Schmidt's ego will carry the rest of the song.

He gives himself two more measures to think of something, time Rumlow uses to wander back to his spot, and then draws himself back into the little world of himself, his sticks, and his drums. He doesn't have to pay attention to the rest of the band for a moment, which would be a relief except for the fact that he has no real plan.

He'd pulled back to half-time when anticipating Zemo's solo. He doubles up and then ratchets it and everything else up to double time, grounding the pattern in the floor tom as he does it.

The noise of the crowd gets so loud he can hear it through his earplugs but it's just a droning in the background of the orchestration in his brain. He's alternating between high-energy grooves, a juggling act, everything up in the air and driving down until the perfect hit sends it soaring again. His left hand's doing something different than his right hand, his left leg different than his right leg, and he's got it all under control as he traverses his kit with pinpoint swings. His hair's flying around his face, there's sweat catching in the line where his mask rests along his cheeks, and his breaths are coming hard and fast, but that's fine. If he's pushing himself then he doesn't have to think about anything except the solo, and this solo is hellish once he adds embellishments. Exactly what he deserves.

Maybe this time he'll fuck it up. Wouldn't that be something? A news story for the ages, a flaming car crash of an exit to a career he'd happily watch go up in smoke. Hydra's machine of a drummer, burning out at their biggest ever show.

But he can't do that. He's too goddamn good. His solo ends with an explosive double hit on the crash cymbals and the stage shakes from the force of the crowd's roar. Schmidt drinks that up with a wide grin visible under his red skull mask, raising his hands like the adoration is all for him, and then he's bringing the mic to his face and Bucky's gone from the spotlight.

The pyrotechnics light up the front row of the crowd. They scream and yell and cheer, but none of their enthusiasm hits him. He plays on autopilot while sweat cools on his skin, watching them, struck by the absurd reality he's living: playing the instrument he loves with a globally famous band at a sold-out show to tens of thousands of people, and feeling…nothing. Yeah. Nothing.

Isn't he supposed to be enjoying this?

"The hell was that, Barnes?"

Rumlow's question breaks the silence when they're shedding their gear after the show. If they want to hit the afterparty, all of Hydra's tactical aesthetic has to go. Can't have the anonymous band members accidentally giving away their identities when they're nice and plastered.

Bucky's laid out on one of the cheap armchairs, all his gear still on. He's not ready to tackle the zippers, belts, and buckles just yet. Rumlow, though, has shed pretty much all of his Crossbones armor. Schmidt and Zemo have already gone, leaving the accoutrements of Red Skull and the Baron behind for the crew to gather up and put away.

"The hell was what?" Bucky asks so Rumlow doesn't repeat himself.

"Take your mask off."

"You can hear me fine. We played the show. The crowd loved it. End of story."

"End of story? You almost didn't play your solo for Insight. Schmidt noticed. What are you gonna tell him, huh?"

Bucky closes his eyes. The numbness is lingering. He simply can't bring himself to care about Rumlow's feelings or Schmidt's prissiness over his plans almost going awry.

It strikes him then that he still thinks of Rumlow as, well, Rumlow. Not Brock. God, they're not even friends, are they? And it's been years. Out of everyone in the band, Rumlow should be the exception. They've gone out drinking how many times? Does Bucky even have a picture for his contact in his phone?

Rumlow snorts. "Fine. Suit yourself. I'm not waiting up for you."

"Knock yourself out."

He knows without having to look that Rumlow is flipping him off. Only when the door shuts and Bucky knows he's alone does he bring himself to sit up. A haphazardly placed full-length mirror greets his dead-eyed gaze. He doesn't recognize the guy staring back at him. Gone is the fresh-faced kid thrilled to be picked for such an elite and experimental music program. Gone is his short hair, his easy smile, his left goddamn arm.

Standing, he steps closer, really looking at himself for the first time in months. The left arm is the big one: segmented and silver and stamped with that red star so tied to his image, the prosthetic is per the doctor who put it on him one of the best on the market, or it would be if it was publicly available and not a completely custom piece. That's the most obvious change. The next is his hair. He kept it short growing up but now it's long, coming down to his shoulders with uneven bangs that would make any self-respecting stylist weep. All for the image, or something. None of the other guys have to rock a bad haircut. All of them got full-face masks.

His mask is just for the lower half of his face. To compensate, or maybe just to obscure a bit more of his features, they have him smear black paint around his eyes for every show. It's supposed to make him look serious and intimidating. Personally, Bucky thinks he looks like a raccoon.

His clothes feel pretty trite in comparison to the thing grafted on his body and the hair that took years to grow out that long, but they still count for something. He's dressed like a soldier, for fuck's sake. Genuine tactical boots and pants, knee pads, sheaths and holsters on his thighs. A strappy leather vest with one sleeve carefully cut out to fully expose his prosthetic arm, and then a harness over that. He's not sure what the harness would do in practicality. Maybe he could put a gun on the back. He doesn't have a gun on stage but there are genuine knives sheathed on his right leg and in his boots and even one up his right sleeve, knives they made him practice with until he was good enough to show off at any fan events.

Turns out playing with knives isn't too different than playing with drumsticks. Just a bit riskier. The drumsticks themselves he can secure onto either leg.

Hydra's whole schtick is their tie-in comic about being supervillains and the Winter Soldier is all about that military supersoldier fantasy. So, naturally, they want him to play the actual soldier in addition to being their drummer, and yeah, maybe he got himself into something a little insane when he signed that contract all those years ago.

Granted, everyone in the band went through that military training course. They can even comfortably argue for more freedom to walk around town since they're all certified in self-defense and usually walk around armed in one way or another, a fact Rumlow took shameless advantage of when he dragged Bucky into whatever town they were in between tour gigs.

Did he have fun then? He honestly can't remember. It's not just the most recent concert that's blurry; they all feel blurry. He kinda feels like a stone that's been skipped across a pond, only processing the time passing under him when he briefly hits water.

Well, now he's hit the water and he's not bouncing again. He's sinking. Maybe he's been sinking for a while.

He reaches up and gingerly pulls the mask off. The expression that greets him is not a smile. It's not anything, because he's not anything. There were almost seventy thousand people crammed into the stadium an hour ago who'd excitedly tell anyone who asked exactly who the Winter Soldier is, but what about the guy beneath? What about Bucky?

There's only one response they'd give to that: who the hell is Bucky?

Well, enough's enough. He's been sticking this out for years thinking it'll get better and now he knows for sure that's not going to happen. He's sick of looking at his drums and thinking about how they're supposed to be fun. He's sick of playing in massive shows while feeling absolutely nothing. He's sick of lying to himself.

It takes a few seconds of fishing around his neck, but eventually his fingers catch on the necklace carefully tucked within his vest. He taps the chain, unwilling to pull out the attached tags, just reminding himself they're still there. After everything, they're still there.

His contract's up for renegotiation at the end of this tour. Hydra's record label is slimy, he's known that for years. He'll have to find a good lawyer to help him get out clean, but he'll get out.

He'll get the fuck out.

Hydra's Drummer Leaves Band

In a stunning press release this morning, preeminent rock band Hydra announced the departure of their drummer, known only by his alias as the Winter Soldier. The official statement names the expiry of his contact as the reason for his abrupt exit, which comes on the heels of the band's most successful tour to date.

Having been with the band from its inception eight years ago, the Winter Soldier—whose real name, like those of his former bandmates, is not known to the public—has been a grounding force in the band's often chaotic concerts. Unsubstantiated rumors paint him as a steadying influence off the stage as well, begging the question of how the band will adapt without him. His exit also calls into question the band's tie-in media, which depicts the members as supervillains often clashing with a colorful lineup of heroes. The Winter Soldier's story is the most popular of all the band's members according to released sales numbers.

Hopes that the Winter Soldier's real identity would be revealed with his departure were dashed when both the band and its eponymous label, Hydra Records, remained tight-lipped despite repeated inquiry. In an email response, band manager Alexander Pierce stated, "Our musicians' anonymity plays a key role in their ability to give their all to their performances and lead rich and uninterrupted personal lives." On the subject of the Winter Soldier, he added, "While we are sorry to see him go, we thank him for his eight years of musical excellence and wish him good luck in his endeavors."

The band and label have not yet given any indication of future plans for their lineup but have promised more information soon. The Winter Soldier was unreachable for comment.

Read the full article and see a list of possible replacement candidates here.

Outside his apartment window, New York looks the same as he remembers. That isn't saying much; he was here only a couple months ago, playing to an obscene crowd in Yankee Stadium. But that was in the Bronx, and now he's in Brooklyn. Or, back in Brooklyn, if he wants to get technical about it. How long has it been? Ten years? Twelve? Yeah, twelve.

Christ, the last time he had roots here, he still lived with his parents. With—

His hand closes around a picture frame at the bottom of the box he's slowly unpacking. A stack of other boxes sits waiting for his attention in the far corner of his studio apartment. If he were a smarter man, he would've bothered to label his shit, or at least pack all the essentials into the same box. Instead, he's been hunting for his goddamn pillow for forty minutes now and getting hopelessly sidetracked along the way. Sidetracked by things like this picture.

It's an old frame and the glass got cracked in the move, but the picture itself is undamaged. It's him when he was a kid, probably nine or ten. He's holding a skateboard up above his head, its scratched-up bottom facing the camera while he beams for all he's worth with a missing front tooth punching a hole in that smile. On the board is a riot of fresh-painted color, a couple of giant monsters attacking each other and their giant beams colliding in the center where the scratches are the worst.

Next to him, way smaller but with a smile just as big, is the artist. Steve. A wave of warm nostalgia washes over him along with the memory of that moment. His mom had chastised them both to stand still so she could get the shot. He and Steve had been way too excited to manage that for more than the instant it took her to get that picture. Right after, he'd picked Steve up and held him aloft like that skateboard, utterly over the moon with joy at what Steve had pulled off on that crappy old thing. That picture had been lost to time.

The warmth sharpens into burning guilt. He sets the picture aside with all the other pictures of him, his family, and Steve. There aren't many; most stayed with his parents when he moved out. All of the ones he took have spent the better part of a decade buried in other boxes much like these, stashed in a storage unit the label paid for along with most of the personal effects he'd had going into the music program.

There's one last thing in the bottom of this box: another, smaller box. An old boot box, flat and worn and taped shut with packing tape so old it's peeling. There are tiny flakes of desiccated adhesive dusting the cardboard. His mouth goes dry. When did he pack this? He doesn't remember—

It must've been right towards the end, when he was scrambling to get everything sorted and the moving van he'd hired was honking from outside his storage unit with the clear message that it was either toss things in the vehicle right now or get left behind. He hadn't been paying attention to what he was throwing in boxes at that point.

Whatever went down to get him in this situation now, he's gotta move it. Can't leave it in the middle of the floor, but he doesn't want to touch the thing. Can't just leave a box in a bigger box. It's a box. He can touch it. He can—he can pick it up and put it somewhere else. Where? Under his bed, yeah. It'll fit there. If he gets it out of this other box.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, shaking out his shoulders and stretching. "Get on with it, Barnes."

It's lighter than he thought it would be, but of course it is. There's nothing inside but envelopes and letters, he doesn't need to look inside to make sure. He leans back to get the right angle and slides it across the floor, where it fits perfectly in the deep shadow under his bed, right up against the wall, where it can quietly and silently turn to dust just like the tape that holds it together.

That's the end of this box. He clicks open his box cutter, cuts it apart, and tosses its flat panels onto the ever-growing pile to his left. Then he gets up, groaning when his knees complain, and drags the next box over. The blade gets to work on the tape. When he flips the flaps open, the Winter Soldier stares up at him.

It's a poster. An old poster, one of the first they did for the comic tie-ins. It depicts him posing with his drumsticks exchanged for knives on some generic torn-up urban battlefield, and he doesn't remember that photoshoot at all.

Suddenly, he's sick of unpacking. His pillow can wait; he's going for a damn walk.

In all, it takes him a month to get everything that matters unpacked and organized. The boxes save for the one he doesn't need to think about again get recycled, the trash gets tossed, and the apartment gets cleaned until there isn't a single speck of bubble wrap to be found. In the end, he's got a painfully spartan setup: the door on one side of the north wall, the kitchen taking up the wall to its right; beyond the small counter, his couch and TV. A window on the south wall, his two impulse-buy cacti soaking up the sun that occasionally comes through. His twin bed tucked into the subsequent corner, raised high enough that he can fit storage containers and the one box below it, his dresser just past that. The bathroom and laundry just barely make it into the remaining space.

One thing takes pride of place in the center. Rather, as close to center as it gets, which translates to the nook by the counter and the couch. His drum kit, which he hasn't touched since setting it up on day three. Just like his Winter Soldier gear, which now lives in a duffel bag buried in the bottom of his closet. He can't look at it without flashing back to that moment post-concert, that moment of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the guy looking back.

In terms of free floor space, his apartment is struggling to rival any of the hotel rooms he's stayed in over the years. But at least it's his. It's not like he had much choice when he was trying to find a place on such short notice. Money might not be an obstacle right now with what he earned on Hydra's payroll, but he's not trying to get fleeced, either.

He'll start looking around for better options in a couple weeks. He only just moved; he's not ready to do it again. Just like he'll start playing as soon as he's properly settled. Which is…well, he'd thought it would be when he was done unpacking, but when he stops in front of his drums, he doesn't feel anything. There's no urge to play. No music in his head. Nothing at all besides the fear that it's always going to feel like this, that a piece inside him is just broken, that he poured his heart and soul into something that never intended to give it back.

Those thoughts are a fast track to screaming into the pillow he unearthed on day four when he found it oh-so-cleverly stuffed into the wardrobe he'd thought was empty. He needs a distraction. Fortunately, New York is full of those.

The Winter Soldier schtick was good for at least one thing: without the makeup and mask and gear, no one recognizes Bucky Barnes. Especially when he puts his hair up in a small bun. Strolling the streets, he doesn't get a second glance. Well, aside from a few appreciative ones he returns with a practiced smile.

In the mornings, he goes for a run or hits the gym. During the day he finds himself mostly wandering. He visits parks, stops to listen to street performers, wanders through shops, peruses the library, and even checks out an arcade before eventually winding up at one of the local bars to waste away his evenings. It's not the most fulfilling daily routine, but once he's completely settled in, he figures he'll start doing a little more.

This particular evening's bar is pretty nice. A little claustrophobic, a little loud—they could put some cloth panels on the walls to really help the harsh acoustics—but erring more towards cozy than suffocating. He's got a stool up by the bar and a slightly overcooked burger to appreciate, which gets pretty hard to do when the radio playing over the speakers starts up the next song.

Suddenly, he can't taste his burger at all. He sets it down and tries a swig of his beer, but it's no use. His appetite's gone. He flags down the bartender.

"Hey, any chance you can change the station?"

"Not a fan?"

"Just kinda sick of 'em. Wishing the radio would play new stuff, y'know?"

The bartender gives him a considering look. "You into the local music scene?"

"Long time ago. I only moved back here recently."

"You should check out Tony's Workshop. Opened a few years back, it's where a lot of up-and-coming bands perform. Place has got a really good vibe. The only time you'll hear the top hits is if someone's doing a cover, and they usually try to be creative about it."

Bucky sips his tasteless beer. "I'll check it out, thanks."

With a name like Tony's Workshop, Bucky half-expects an Italian joint when he visits the place the next night. What he gets is a fairly standard brick affair nestled among the seemingly infinite townhouses and little shops on Sterling. It fits right in; he walks past it twice before realizing the demure building is what he's looking for.

Inside, it's larger than he'd expect, no doubt thanks to walls getting knocked down. There's a raised stage against the far wall that even sports scaffolding in case anyone wants to rig up some lights. There must be some kind of backstage, judging by the door set off to the side. A large bar takes up the right-hand wall, a set of swinging doors next to it that must go to the kitchen. Someone's put up all manner of handwritten chalk signs over the bar, one of which is just a selection of drinks labeled "The List," whatever that means. Booths claim the left-hand wall save for the corner nearest to the entrance, where the entrances to the bathrooms sit.

What catches and holds Bucky's attention, though, are the murals. Brilliant and bold, they flow along the walls as smoothly as any tattoo sleeve he's ever seen. In one spot, a breathtaking night sky; in another, a ship tossed at sea. When he looks closer at the latter, he realizes there's a tiny band getting thrown around the deck, and a second glance at the night sky reveals instruments in the constellations. On and on they go. It's almost dizzying.

Part of his mind breaks away from the wonder to note how they seem like the kinda thing Steve would've made, just a bit more grown up than two monsters battling it out on an old skateboard. He glances behind him, but there's no mural on the back wall; shame. Instead, there's a bunch of posters from actual bands. Famous bands. His stomach sinks in the moment before he catches sight of the Hydra poster mixed in with the rest.

The Winter Soldier stares out at him, eyes icy and murderous over a mask that, these days, looks more like a muzzle. He barely recognizes himself and can't decide whether that's a good thing or not. That mantle felt like a noose by the end, but at least the Winter Soldier could sit down and play the goddamn drums whenever he needed to

He swallows down all of those feelings. Walking out over the poster alone would be childish, he tells himself. He hasn't given this place a fair shot yet.

Even though it's a Wednesday and pretty early in the evening, there's a comfortable crowd. He doesn't see a hostess stand or sign, so he heads for the bar in case he's somehow missed it. A very attractive redhead with straightened shoulder-length hair acting as a shock of color over her black, presumably uniform button-up is chatting with a couple of guys at the far end opposite where Bucky takes an open stool, but the second he sits down she's heading over.

"Haven't seen you here before," she says. "First time?"

"Yeah. Just moved, got pointed to this place."

"Music fan?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, Mr. Sometimes Music Fan, what can I get you?"

He's got nowhere to be and nothing to prove, so he orders an old fashioned. She has a couple other drinks to prepare before his, but it's still less than a minute before he's got a glass in hand. The first sip burns on the way down, but after that it smooths out and pools warmly in his stomach. While he drinks, he takes in the full spread of what's on the shelves behind the bar and finds his eyebrows climbing higher when he catches a glimpse of the top-shelf labels. Either this place does really well or it's in impressive amounts of debt.

A glance over his shoulder at the many round tables dotting the floor shows a wide spread of clientele, from high school kids to college kids to young couples to old couples, all dressed in varying levels of formality. At least one couple is very clearly here on a date and dressed to the nines for it, for some reason. Hey, whatever makes 'em happy. The woman catches him looking and he raises his glass at her with an easy smile, which she politely returns before refocusing on her partner.

The rest of his drink goes down easy while he appreciates the murals some more, and by the time he's turning around to ask for a second, the bartender is already back like she'd seen it coming.

"More of the same?" she asks.

"Depends if you've got recommendations."

"That depends if you have preferences."

He spares another appreciative look at the bottles on offer. There's stuff he hasn't seen anywhere else, including—

"I haven't seen that since that place in Yekaterinburg," he mutters without thinking. The bartender looks where he's looking and her eyebrows shoot for her hairline.

"Yekaterinburg, Russia?" she asks.

"You know it?"

"I'm surprised you do."

"I moved here from Russia."

A coy smile plays on her lips and, when she next speaks, she does it in fluent Russian. "That place, was it called Churchill?"

He grins and sits up a little straighter on his stool. Her voice, smooth and cultured in English, is even more enticing in Russian. He replies in kind, ignoring the brief, confused glances of nearby patrons. "Yes. Have you been?"

"When a place in Russia makes a name for itself on whiskey instead of vodka, it's worth investigating. The Kizlyarka caught your eye? Want to try?"

"No trying, I know I like it. Pour away." He can't stop the smile on his face. Sure, New York is a melting pot, but a Russian-speaking bartender who's a ten by every measure he's got, and who works at a live show spot to boot? He's gotta know more. Really, he's gotta keep her talking. He could listen to her talk all night. "When were you in Russia?"

"I grew up there." She pulls down the amber-colored bottle with the visage of presumably famous guy staring over the white label. "You can thank me for this bottle being here. I take it you're not a fan of vodka?"

"I'm partial to grappa," he admits. "Vodka is for when I'm worried I might be close to feeling an emotion."

She laughs and pours a generous measure into a new glass, then pushes it close to him. "Well, I hope to see you enjoying the most renowned fruits of our country before the end of the night."

His grin widens. "Keep this up and I just might make it there."

God, when she walks away to help another customer, it's all he can to do avoid staring. Instead, he stares at his glass until he's sure he's got himself under control.

He takes a sip. It's hardly the fanciest liquor he's ever had, but it's familiar, a balanced drink that had seen him through many asinine nights when the band was being particularly stupid. Even with that baggage behind it, he can't help enjoying the familiar vanilla undertone. The bullshit had nothing to do with the drink; the drink was, and is, innocent.

Because the universe hates him, though, a rush comes through and the bartender doesn't have time to spare for another conversation. She keeps returning his smiles and refilling his drink, though, and he's content enough with that. He does manage to catch her name: Natasha. He wonders if that's her actual name, or if it's Americanized. Natalia would suit her just as well. He can't decide if it's rude to ask, but he's also at the end of his drink, which is an excuse to get her attention again.

But first, as his body is keen to inform him, bathroom. He stands and makes his way across the floor to the restrooms, thanking his ability to hold his alcohol all the while because he saw another guy take a tumble over a chair a few minutes earlier. The door to the men's restroom turns on surprisingly quiet hinges when he pushes his way inside, but when he takes in what lay beyond, he stops dead and wonders if the alcohol hit him harder than he thought.

After a moment of blinking and staring—thank god he's alone in here—he decides that what he's seeing is real. For whatever reason, the men's bathroom has a truly mind-bending mural taking up one wall that is almost reminiscent of some poor sod throwing up his guts. There's enough abstract colorful nonsense going on for plausible deniability. It barely feels like the same artist as the rest of the place, but Bucky feels in his unvomited gut that it is, in fact, the same dude.

In all, it's the most artistic rendition of someone puking he's ever seen. So of course he asks about it when he gets back to the bar.

"Oh, that?" Natasha shrugs while she pours him a refill. "Yeah, the owner—Tony, that guy with the goatee over by the stage—paid a local artist to do it, and generously enough that we now basically have an artist-in-residence. He hangs out here all the time. Why, like what you see?"

"The murals out here are amazing," Bucky confirms. "The one in there…" he tries to hunt for the right word in Russian and comes up short, landing on a wholly inadequate, "unique."

She chuckles to herself. "That's one way to describe it."

He jerks a thumb at the back wall. "Why nothing there? Why the posters?" Why Hydra? He doesn't ask that last part aloud, but maybe it bleeds into his voice a little.

"Maybe we ran out of money to commission the artist for that last wall," she jokes.

"Right, gotta prioritize the bathroom first."

"It was actually the manager's idea. The back wall, not the bathroom. A bit of inspiration for the performers." She shrugs. "Personally, I think it came down to it being odd for a place like this to not have band posters somewhere in it."

"Fair enough. By the way," he can see someone else flagging her down and so speaks quickly, "your name, I think I heard someone say it—is it Natasha, or Natalia?"

"For you?" Her eyes glitter and yeah, maybe New York isn't so bad after all. "Natalia."

He raises his glass in a toast as she turns away and doesn't feel his grin fade until well after the band on stage is through their set and the next one starts setting up shop. It's easy to ride that high through the next performances, and he even finds himself enjoying the show and some of the music. A number of the acts are using drum machines, but he can see a drum kit waiting in the wings for an upcoming band. He ignores the flare of jealousy that tries to sour the alcohol in his stomach and sips the water he's using to pace himself between drinks.

Despite trying to keep fidgeting to a minimum, he finds himself tapping his glass or the bar, or bouncing his leg, or nodding his head to the beat. Here he'd thought he'd kicked the habit, but apparently all it took was a handful of songs for it to come roaring back.

"Restless?" Natalia asks when she next comes by and catches him tapping the bar next to his coaster as the band finishes their final song. He curls his fingers in, embarrassed at getting caught, and glances down the bar. She notices. "Rush is mostly over. Why, eager to get rid of me?"

"No," he denies, and then switches to Russian for that little bit of privacy. "I don't want to make your job harder."

"Let me worry about that."

He raises his hands in surrender. "Understood."

"You know, you have my name, I don't have yours."

"James." He'd offer "Bucky" instead, but that's a bit much for a first conversation. He doesn't want to come off as overly familiar even if they've clearly got enough chemistry to set something on fire.

"So, James." She leans against the bar and he keeps his eyes firmly on her face, which isn't helping much because her face is fit to be framed and hung in a museum. The smirk on her lips tells him she knows exactly what she's doing, and damn, he's always been weak for the confident ones. "Why so restless?"

He clears his throat and wishes he could feel a bit more of the water's chill through his gloves. "I'm…or, I used to be…" get it together, "I was a drummer. Burned out. I'm kinda hoping being in New York will bring some inspiration."

Natalia glances at something over his shoulder. "Have you performed live before?"

He thinks about that last show. About Yankee Stadium. "A few times."

"Well, that's convenient."

Before he realizes what she's doing, she's grabbed his wrist and hauled his right hand up into the air.

"Hey!" he hisses, but she's unrepentant.

"Their drummer didn't show," she says, nodding at the on-deck band currently off to the side of the stage. He stares at that, then at her, speechless only because there are too many things fighting to be said.

Tony beats him to the punch, and his voice comes out of every speaker in the place, and he's looking straight at Bucky. "Do we have a taker?" Something in Bucky's face must show the disbelief he's feeling, because Tony looks at Natalia while he keeps talking. "Please, don't let my second favorite redhead bully you into doing anything you don't want to do. She isn't the one who pays if I get sued."

He gets some laughs for that. Bucky recognizes the offer: it's a way out. Natalia lets his hand go with a quiet, "The eyes are afraid but the hands still move."

His refusal sits ready on his tongue but that Russian saying holds it fast. His eyes catch on the band. They're looking at him with unabashed hope and fuck, he can't just walk away from that. He's not gonna fuck up someone else's night just because he's got some shit to figure out. He's a stranger in a strange bar; no one's got any expectations of him at all. Even numb, he can trot out a groove or two and get these guys through their set.

He lets his hand fall. And he stands up.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I can help out."

He walks up to the stage amid a roar of approval. Several people raise their drinks in a toast as he passes. He nods and plasters an easygoing smile on his face while Tony promises the entire bar a drink. He's starting to see why this place is so popular…and how it can afford those top-shelf brands.

"Dude, thank you so much," says the singer the second Bucky gets close. They all shake hands and introduce themselves. Bucky'll be playing with two Jacks and a Tammy, the last of whom is the proud owner of the accordion that had caught his eye on approach. Chalk that up as a first for him; he's never backed an accordion before. Maybe if he and Rumlow got Zemo drunk enough…

Anyway, they're all college kids. Nice enough, too nice to even comment on his single gloved hand. Clearly nervous, though, so he tries to set their minds at ease.

"It's no problem, been looking for a chance to play anyway." He realizes it's true as he says it, covers that unintentional admission with a casual, "So, got a plan?"

"Uh, yeah," says singer Jack. "Um. Do you have any songs you know really well? We do a lot of covers, there's probably something we both know."

Does he have any songs he knows very well. Does he. His gaze drifts towards the far wall before he yanks it back. Does he? Hard to say. Out loud.

Tammy pipes up. "Are you more of a rock guy or a funk guy? You look like a rock guy."

"We know both," says guitarist Jack.

"Rock."

"Okay, cool. How about Hydra?"

He almost says no on pure reflex but bites his tongue. Yeah, he knows Hydra. In fact, the way he shut the world away the last few years, they're most of what he knows.

Dammit. I did this to myself.

"Any song in particular?" he asks. "I know a few."

"Sick, that's great. Pull the Pin is probably the best one to warm up with, know that one?"

"Yeah."

"Cool, cool. We'll start with that. Then—"

"Listen," Bucky cuts in, "if you want—if you want—we can do what you originally planned for your set after that. I'll be fine after a warmup if you're okay with me improvising. I did a lot of that with my band."

They exchange looks. He gets their hesitation. For all they know, he could royally suck. But god, he does not want to play a full set of his own songs. The very thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. That's not why he's here. That's not why he left. That's not—

That's not what he wants.

"Let's play the one," singer Jack decides as he picks up a bass guitar. Not just a singer, then. "We'll make the call after."

Bucky nods. "Sounds good."

They'll make the call, all right. He'll make damn sure of it. Right after he figures out how they're incorporating an accordion into Pull the Pin's rather precise equation.

He takes his place at the drum kit, adjusting the stool a little before examining what he'll be working with. It's got about half of what he's used to, no double base, just the one crash cymbal, a high-hat that sticks a little bit when he lifts his foot off the pedal, and a loose washer on the snare. Whoever their drummer is, he needs to take better care of his kit so it can take care of him.

Playing Pull the Pin with a reduced kit isn't ideal, but neither is playing Pull the Pin at all. At least this way his obscene familiarity with the song won't be as obvious or suspicious. He takes up the sticks in hand and gives them a few experimental twirls. That's easy, familiar. These particular drums are not, and honestly, that's helping.

Guitarist Jack launches into the opening riff. Bucky joins in right as singer-and-bassist Jack launches into the vocals. The song flows easily from Bucky's brain to his limbs, then gets a little tangled when those limbs complain about the lack of options. He adapts, scaling things back and leaning on the accordion for the flare his part now lacks.

Color him impressed: they make the accordion work. They're not bad, overall. But other than the novelty factor, he's not hearing anything that asks him to sit up and listen. There isn't anything about their cover that raises the banner of who they are, and when the song ends, Bucky's pretty sure the applause is just polite.

God, when did he get this insufferable? Lay off, he tells himself. It's not like he sprang out of the womb with fully-fledged skills and the confidence to match.

The band's closed in around him while he was lost in thought.

"That felt pretty good," singer Jack says.

"Really good," confirms Tammy.

Bucky eyes singer Jack. "It's your call."

"You're really okay with doing it on the spot?"

Bucky nods, singer Jack smiles, and that's the decision made. After a spin of the sticks to settle them in his hands, Bucky holds himself ready while the band kicks off their original song. He supposes he could've asked them for literally any details about it—the name, maybe, or the beat—but he's pretty sure he's got the beat after the first few measures. Once the bass comes in, he's sure he's got it, and it's easy enough to join in.

Like their cover performance, there's nothing about this song that's going to turn ears and get stuck in heads, but nor is it going to offend the casual listener. Both Jacks and Tammy are predictable and easy to keep track of on stage; no surprises to watch out for, there, but he still keeps an eye on them to get a feel for their energy so he can match it.

And it's a good thing he does that, too, because he catches singer Jack bracing himself. He switches to a fill and, when singer Jack launches into the chaotic chorus, transitions to grooves that feed the chaos. His muscles try to fall into old, tired grooves, but Tammy with her accordion keeps snapping him out of those lapses. Despite himself, he finds a smirk tugging at his lips.

All too soon, the song ends. It catches Bucky a little by surprise, so the ending is awkward, but no one seems to notice. The band is too busy swarming him, clapping him on the back, and basically hyping him up for the next song. Their enthusiasm is a little suffocating and he hopes they don't notice that his smile is a bit forced. He tries to share in their happiness rather than think about how he hasn't felt that same feeling in years.

They kick off the next song and it's similar enough to the one before it that Bucky doesn't even have to wait for the bass to start up the drums. Mindful of this song's more orderly sound, he keeps things a little simpler. He's pretty sure this kit is liable to fall apart if he tries going that hard again, anyway.

As he's checking in on singer Jack, the man steps in the path of a light just enough that Bucky can actually see the crowd. There's a guy way in the back staring straight at him; not at either Jack or Tammy, but him. Blond hair, strong jaw, eyes that he just knows are blue—

His left hand twitches and he damn near snaps the drumstick before he can relax his fingers. His groove falls apart for that split second and he picks it up with a cold sweat breaking out all over him. No way. No fucking way.

Play, he tells himself. Just play. You're in your head, you've been drinking. Ignore that you've only had water for the last hour. You're just seeing things. Get it together and play the goddamn drums.

He can't stop himself from looking, though, even if the lights make it impossible to see details. Even when they're on the third song, and then the fourth, and the fifth.

When the last song ends, Bucky's cold sweat has turned into a heat that's left him shaking, his heart is pounding double-time in his chest, and the dull roar of applause scatters his thoughts like bowling pins. While Tony strides up on stage, Bucky abandons the sticks and slips out the nearest exit door.

Being volunteered to play drums, doing too much—he knew it was too much but it just felt so good to play again—and then that guy in the crowd who his brain kept calling Steve even though there was no way that six-foot American dream could be the pint-sized punk he abandoned—

Too much. Way too much, and no fucking shot he was going to stay on that stage and let the whole place witness his breakdown.

He saves that performance for after he's ducked out the back door, which leads not to a backstage but into the alley behind the bar. There, he can slam his shoulders against the graffitied brick wall and tip his head back and let the shudders take all his strength away until he's sliding down to the ground and managing something between a sob and a laugh at how pathetic he is without anyone the wiser. He's played to stadiums of tens of thousands of people, and he's like this after one amateur set at a random bar in Brooklyn?

"Jesus," he tells himself in a voice that shakes to match his body, "get it together."

That doesn't really help, of course. But once the delicate scents of New York's back alleys start filtering through his nose, his turning stomach gives him the motivation to haul himself to his feet.

If he goes inside, he doesn't doubt the bar owner—Tony, maybe—is going to make a big deal out of it. He doesn't want to be a big deal. He's not worried about people connecting some random good drummer to the band whose drummer just up and vanished on the other side of the world a few weeks ago, but he's not not worried about that either. Besides, people might start asking questions, and he's in no state of mind to be graceful about answering. He just played the drums and enjoyed it for the first time in…in…Christ, he can't even remember. He's gonna be a little selfish and enjoy that fact on his own. Without an audience.

He's suddenly very grateful he opted for water as his most recent drinks. He'll have to ask Natalia for some vodka another night.

Wiping his eyes, he leaves his wallowing spot and follows the alley out to the street, where he can collect his bike, shove on his helmet's protective layer of anonymity, and head home to the drum kit he missed like a lost limb for that entire set.