worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

Lark is here a lot. He is here, right now, specifically hoping to meet B. It's been a little while since that talk in Steve's room, and he's wanted B to have space to process, but he's also worried. A lot.

B is still often in Lark's cabin, hovering around Steve, but he's not saying much when Lark's around. Even when Lark is kicking him out to go get some sleep in his own cabin, he's quieter than he was before. There's a lot going on in his head, even after Ellie's vacated the premises and is back in her own body. Piano is one way that he has to make some of that shut up.

All of that does mean he's a little surprised to see Lark at the piano, though. He eyes him sidelong, but comes over to pull out the bench, anyway. "Hi," he says, maybe a bit belatedly.

"Hey," Lark says, as comfortable as if they've been doing this every day for years. "Do you feel like playing together?"

Well, that's okay. If that's all Lark is here for, that's fine, so he nods. It does leave him vaguely concerned, though, even as he settles on the piano bench. "There's nobody with Steve if we're both here."

Even from here, he'd hear Libby if Steve woke up. But even if he and B ran back, Steve would still be alone a minute or so, and he's pretty sure that's a minute too long for B.

But Lark is nothing if not prepared.

"Yeah I actually got you something. It's not as good as this," nodding at the piano. "But it's portable. We can practice in the cabin."

Less chance of being interrupted that way, too.

He gives Lark a somewhat skeptical look, but stands up again. "What did you get?" he asks, not quite suspicious, but... he can't think of anywhere in the cabin where they could really put a whole-ass piano.

"Can I let it be a surprise?" Lark asks, because he hadn't realized B might not know what Lark is talking about. This is going to be good. He leads the way out, holding the door for B.

B scowls just a little at the idea of surprises, but allows, "As long as you don't make me close my eyes for it. Ellie's always making me close my eyes for her surprises." And that's hard.

"Because it's traditional," Lark protests, but it's not serious. He won't make B stand still with his eyes closed, hearing unfamiliar sounds as Lark gets the surprise ready.

But when they get to the cabin and into the living room he does say, "Wait here."

Waiting, he can do. He's pretty good at waiting. He waits looking at Steve's mural, listening to Lark do whatever he's doing and for any sound from Steve's room, and crouching down to pet Libby when she trots up for attention.

Lark comes back from his room carrying a black keyboard and a stand for it. He sets it up, and turns it on.

"Give it a try."

It actually takes him a minute to work out what the hell that is... and then he circles it once with a little furrow between his brows. "They make electric pianos?" Of course they fucking do. They make electric everything now, don't they.

He's biting back a grin watching B, watching him walk around it like a dog circling a new toy.

"It's a little different sound quality than the one in the music room, but it has more options. And this way you can practice without having to leave Steve."

He pauses, not actually in front of it, but close enough so he can press one key down. The sound is definitely a fake sound, something recorded and played back, but the note is right. He plays an upside-down major triad, and it's all in tune.

Worth it to keep an eye on Steve, he decides. "Now I'm never gonna leave your cabin, Lark," he says, only about half serious.

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I guess I wasn't looking to get rid of you anyway."

He pulls up a stool from the kitchen bar. "Want to practice together? Try out some of the other settings."

They're a series of buttons listed with the instruments they mimic: French horn, clarinet, a half dozen others.

"Maybe let me get used to how the piano sounds before I start trying." He stops, now facing the keyboard properly, and bends down a little to frown at the buttons. "Clarinet. Clarinet? Seriously?" He's not sure if he wants to laugh or throw the thing across the room.

He won't throw the thing across the room. Lark asked for it specifically. But occasionally the urge to throw or hit is still there over stupid shit.

"You'll be glad about it when we do Peter and the Wolf," Lark smirks. The keyboard looks so dainty and fragile next to B, compared to the sturdiness of the piano. "You should be glad I didn't get one from when I was a kid. Synthesizers took over, there were no classical instruments."

"I don't know what that is," B points out. "You're lucky I know what a clarinet is, actually." Some of the instruments on those buttons he doesn't recognize (what the hell is a "fantasy"?), in fact. But he does settle in and try another couple set of chords, carefully. His hand still isn't all the way healed.

Then he starts on an only slightly slowed-down rendition of Oh Johnny Oh. Somebody remembered a song from before HYDRA, it seems.

Music with B had begun as just a shared hobby, something they could have conversation over and have long silences as well without it being awkward. But he's come to enjoy hearing B play just on its own merits, he's enjoyed seeing B improve, so he listens for those reasons and because he doesn't know this song so he can't join in until he's heard at least half of it.

"I like this one. Does it usually have lyrics?"

"Yes. But I don't remember what they all are. I remember the chorus. And one of the verses." That he can't put together the second verse and the bridge bothers him a little, to be honest. It's bad enough having a song stuck in your head that you don't want there, from before you were a goddamn killing machine; it's worse when you can't remember all of it.

"Give me the chorus, and I can look up the rest later," Lark offers. He falters in following the tune on the guitar, waits a beat and catches up.

You're just trying to make him sing, aren't you, Lark. He has your number. Judging by the sidelong look he gives Lark, he wants Lark to be aware he has his number.

But he does it anyway, haltingly, slowing his playing down and leaving out half the chords so he can do both at once. His voice isn't half bad, but it's clearly rough and rusty. He hasn't actually done much singing since, well, since 1945 really.

What Lark judges singing on has nothing to do with tone or range, but rather on song choice and the emotion behind it. Often, with humans, there isn't much feeling to pick up on. With B he's just surprised and deeply gratified to hear him singing at all.

He's watching him, head slightly tilted, smiling a bit. "I like it."

B shrugs once, trailing off when he reaches the end of the words he remembers. "It's fun. I need more fun songs, I think." Most of the ones he can play are sad, or at least not up-beat. "But I don't remember the rest. It's from. You know. Before." A vague gesture at his head with the flesh hand; before the memories were taken away, clearly.

"I've been looking into happier songs, actually. Most of the ones I'm partial to were from my teenage years. They're," a small laugh. "Very different from what we've done so far. You'll either like it or hate it."

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