Chapter Summary: "Drove downtown in the rain, 9:30 on a Tuesday night, just to check out the late-night record shop." Steve checks out a new local vinyl records store, where co-owner and employee, Bucky, makes a suggestion. Natasha, Sam, and Peggy can all see through them both. Just another AU of these two dorks trying to get together with this poor group of friends watching, probably with popcorn.
Notes: Got the idea for this while on a BNL's "Brian Wilson" repeat binge ( watch?v=51zsxbB8WS8). I really meant for it to be a one-shot but now it's multi-chaptered and please help me I can't stop... Will be eventual smut.

-o-

Steve crumpled up sheet of paper #556 and tossed it into the ever-growing pile in the wastebasket. Tapping the eraser end of his pencil on the few remaining blank pages of his sketchbook, he amused himself for several minutes by staring at the wooden manikin in front of him. The manikin stared back almost defiantly, motionless in a ridiculous superhero-esque pose into which Steve had fashioned it.

I dare you to draw me! It taunted Steve, who messily sketched out the scene for warm-up sketch #557. He sighed, balled up the doodle and finally rubbed his eyes. Then he looked around for something-anything-to get him back in the mood, first blearily blinking first at the dormant TV, then his half-full bookshelf, before his gaze fell on his record collection. Of course.

Just last week, Steve had read a blurb on the city's news website about a relatively new vinyl shop down on Broadway. It stuck out in his mind because it was both a record shop and had late hours, closing at 11pm or 12am—something rare for this sleepy, quiet neighborhood full of well-off young professionals and older, settled folks. Records stores, though picking back up, were still small in number around the area, and Steve had to drive thirty minutes just for the closest one before the one on Broadway opened.

Luckily it was 9:17, just early enough that Steve would have plenty of time to pick out something he was feeling more than his current set, but not so late he would feel rude. Broadway was close enough that he felt like walking so he donned a lightweight, zip-up jacket and headed out into the calm October evening. Just getting out of the apartment and enjoying the wind dragging its insistent fingers against his skin almost convinced his muse to come back—almost. He briefly considered turning around but pressed on, curiosity nagging at him.

When he reached the record shop the neon cursive in the large window glowed at him warmly, splashing bright red across his face.

REVOLUTIONS

NOW OPEN

He spotted a small number of customers milling around the aisles and flipping through rows and rows of vinyls through the large front window. When he entered, the cash register area was empty, no sales associate in sight.

"Hey, welcome," called a woman from somewhere off to the side.

Steve spotted her quickly, red hair standing out even among some of the more brightly-decorated customers-like the ones with neon blue and green, etc. streaks. Leaning back against a row of vinyls casually and in the midst of a conversation with a guy, she looked nice enough; however, Steve got the distinct impression she could be the store's security despite the laid-back appearance. Her eyes had a hard look that suggested he'd better not make a wrong move or he'd be booted in seconds flat-literally and figuratively.

"Lemme know if you need some help. Sarge is around here somewhere if you can't find me." She flashed a grin before returning to her conversation.

Steve offered a 'thanks and began browsing'. He could find something enjoyable in every genre of music he'd heard, but he'd always been drawn to big band, jazz, swing, that sort of thing. His mother had really dug it before she passed and he'd inherited a ton of her records on that occasion. As a result he'd developed a tenderness for the era. Tonight was just the sort of night he felt it had the most potential to spark him into doing something other than subpar, uninspired sketches. Maybe something he could finally sell now that his earnings from his last show were wearing down.

So maybe buying a record wasn't necessary, but he certainly wouldn't go hungry from buying one. Growing up poor and sick with his parents' income and then just his mother's relatively meager wages often going toward medical expenses instead of more groceries, he had developed the tendency to make exceptions. (Given the frequency they probably weren't exactly exceptions but habits of giving in to impulses-but who's getting technical?) Other than that he was frugal, and living by oneself didn't require much other than utilities and rent. He felt he deserved to treat himself every now and then, especially in the name of sparking his muse.

Steve flipped through a couple of Cole Porter albums, then Glenn Miller and Bing Crosby. None by the Rat Pack members, though he was sure he had every song of theirs individually in some capacity. At some point a man walking by paused in Steve's peripheral vision but before he could turn, he kept walking on. He spent a couple more minutes browsing random compilations of various artists from the thirties to the fifties, one of which he finally picked.

As he approached the checkout counter he noticed the other associate was finally back. He was the guy who had almost stopped to speak to Steve, and nodded as Steve reached him.

"Thanks for coming in," his voice was deep, hard, and a little friendly all at once.

"I've been meaning to since I heard about this place," Steve offered somewhat apologetically, glancing at his name tag. "So you're Sarge."

He wasn't sure why but even with the friendliness, something about him made Steve a little intimidated (much like the previous employee-were they related or something?). Sarge wore a black glove on his left hand (fashion statement, or threat?) but otherwise came across as a chill guy.

"Guilty, but it's just a nickname," he offered a crooked smile. "Coworkers stuck me with it so you can guess what I did before here."

If Steve weren't attuned to noticing details he probably would've missed the almost imperceptible flash of something across his eyes. He figured the glove wasn't exactly a fashion statement, then.

Just what exactly was making Steve feel so on edge about him? It wasn't the heebie-jeebies—that much was for sure. His ice-blue eyes seemed to suggest more than his outer shell, but Steve brushed that off as his artist side's wishful thinking. No...it was more that something about him felt inexplicably familiar.

"Things change pretty fast out in the army. So I took the money I'd saved up, moved, and opened this."

Army...that made a whole lot of sense, Steve thought, and could easily picture him in uniform-kicking ass before taking names, giving and following orders.

"I'm Steve, no cool nickname or story," he smiled though it felt more nervous than Sarge's had looked; however, talking to him was unnaturally easy (even though Steve usually got along with almost everyone anyway).

"I'm sure I'll be a regular."

"Well, since I can call you that now, can I make a recommendation, Steve?" he plucked the vinyl from Steve's hands and leaned on his elbows, holding it face-up.

"Go for it. I was indecisive anyway."

"Badass. Come with me then," he stepped around the counter and led Steve back down the aisle of music by decade.

His shoulders were broad and he had brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He looked like he'd be interesting to draw, but Steve felt almost embarrassed by the thought. How would that conversation go? "Hey, you just met me, but can I draw you? Even though you could probably snap my neck in a nanosecond without thinking twice about it? By the way, please don't do that. I'm not a creep, for real."

'Sarge' stopped in front of the same row Steve had picked the album from, and promptly put the compilation vinyl back. He flipped through a few more behind it and plucked a Billie Holiday best-of album titled The Legendary Lady Day.

"Track B7, 'The Very Thought of You.'" He said matter-of-factly. "It kinda gets overshadowed by her more famous ones, for good reason an' all, but it's a favorite. She gets in your head more than any of those on that other album would."

He handed Steve the record and when their fingers brushed, Steve noticed the contact more than he should have. He'd just come to the shop for a new album and instead he'd gotten all kinds of weird, sudden, and convoluted feelings.

"I don't have any Billie Holiday, now that I think about it," he finally managed. "I'll make it the first track I listen to."

"It starts with a really catchy piano bit," Sarge said as they made their way back to the front of the store.

(Steve wondered if he had also noticed his other coworker looking at them curiously from behind the other register; Steve shot her a stupidly nervous smile before turning to Bucky gratefully. Great, probably made it worse, he silently chided.)

"You'll know it when you hear it and don't be a stranger. I want your review. Ten ninety-five."

"You bet," Steve smiled again as he headed out the door. "I'll see you soon!"

Bucky's coworker made sure the star customer—Steve, was it?—was out of sight before she slapped him on the back with a laugh. Her earrings, two tiny knives dangling from her earlobes, glittered with the movement.

"Never seen you so one-on-one with someone, James," she said, earning one of his piercing glares.

"I'm a forties guy, that's all. Appreciate good music, something you wouldn't know about." Bucky checked the fingernails on his right hand with gusto, Nat's response a roll of the eyes. "Pretty sure I just made a regular customer too, and not just from flipping my hair and/or threatening him."

"Yeah, alright," she didn't sound convinced, unsurprisingly. "Nothing wrong with being 'a forties guy', just a little surprising. Can't say I knew that about you."

"Anyway. Back to work. You go get one-on-one with someone."

-o-

Try as he admittedly didn't much, Bucky's brain kept allowing Steve to creep into it: his kind smile, eyes a deeper blue eyes than his own. Everyday he went to work, hoping Steve would be back in, and he wasn't. Shifts seemed to tick by more slowly than ever, and he felt ridiculous for having felt such things so soon. It wasn't as though he were friendless; his Army buddy, Sam Wilson, understood him more than most.

Still, Bucky felt compelled to know more about Steve, as if his intense gaze drew him in. He'd noticed him the first time he came out of the office and glanced around the store: a tall and muscular build but nice in the face, dark blonde hair in a businessman's cut. That smile had caused a ripple through Bucky, which he'd forgotten until he was thinking yet again about the interaction, replaying the details time and time again. Usually guys who looked like that didn't act as friendly as Steve, at least in Bucky's opinion-but maybe that was because they saw how relatively unfriendly Bucky looked.

He spent his evenings watching tv idly without absorbing much of it at all, and felt like he should be waiting for the phone to ring (however completely ridiculous the thought was). He was frustrated with himself for getting so invested in someone he'd probably never see again, but something tugged at him. He felt warm, like a childhood friend, but Bucky was sure would've remembered someone like Steve.

So he decided that Steve was just one of those guys you felt like you'd met before, and relayed this later to Sam during a visit to the gym.

"I've gotten that with people, sure," Sam glanced sidelong at him. "Didn't know you were a forties fan, though."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, Nat said the same thing. Is it that weird? You're telling me you don't like swing and jazz?"

"Psh, don't talk to me about jazz. Just didn't picture it being your type."

"Not like you've been in lately to talk music," Bucky arched his eyebrows at Sam before taking in a big gulp of breath to exhale when he pushed the weight apparatus handles. "Or to support your friend."

"Don't wanna interrupt your bonding with the customers," Sam shrugged. "You never talk about customers on your off-time, man. This must be a cool guy."

"Would you shut up?" Bucky shook his head, glaring again and speaking between reps. "A lot of the customers are predictable, is all. I wouldn't have called it for him either."

"And feeling like you met him before."

"Yeah," Bucky released the handles and fixed Sam with a stare. "You'd tell me if that sounded crazy, right?"

Sam leaned down, hands on his knees, to look at Bucky closely. Bucky never remembered doubting himself this much before he'd returned from overseas, but rationally knew it was a normal reaction. Continually checking with someone who wouldn't be afraid to tell him was just one of many unfortunate side effects he'd suffered from having had his brain messed with so rigorously.

"You know I would, but relax. We've all gotten that feeling with someone."

"Okay," Bucky picked up his reps again. "Thanks."

"Why don't you invite him for drinks sometime? I'll be your backup in case he's crazy." Sam tried to sound casual but it failed; something about the lilt in his words held a suggestion of something else.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Bucky ungracefully blew a piece of loose hair out of his eyes. "We've only talked one time, though."

"So? It's drinks, not a dinner and a movie."

Bucky's glare returned. "It's not a date, either. What the hell, Sam?"

Sam snorted.

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, man. You were the one who said something about a date."

Bucky's response was only a slew of Russian, but Sam could easily use his imagination as to his friend's choice of words.

-o-