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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."

B gives him a sidelong wary look. It's slightly exaggerated; he's joking. Mostly. "Not sure if I should be worried or not. Songs like what?" Please teach him some bubble gum pop or like some Sugar Ray or something.

"Like..." He rubs his jaw, thinking. "I don't know how to play this one, so I'll just show you the music video. Which were also big when I was a kid."

He pulls one up: "This is Elton John. It's a ballad about overcoming loss."

B does kind of rear back at the opening, startled. And gives it a skeptical look as it continues. And frowns at the frankly very confusing imagery and dancing. "That is awful dancing," is what he takes away from it, in the end.

"That sums up the decade I came of age in, yeah," he chuckles. "But what about the music?"

He gives it a serious thought for a moment, trying to divorce the music from the very confusing and kind of unpleasant video. "It's okay," he decides. "A little abrasive? But I've heard worse."

As mun watches it again and decides it's one of the gayest videos she's ever seen, damn.

Imagine how people were still surprised when Elton John came out...

"I keep forgetting you're an old man at heart," he teases. And then, shaking his head, "Then again, me showing you this music without any irony marks me as an old man, too. All right, try this one. I'm going to make Steve watch the movie it's for when he wakes up, which means you're obligated to watch it with us."

He wants to protest that he's not an old man, he's still perfectly functional, but, well. Maybe in some things. He certainly aches like an old man, Jesus.

He listens, brows coming together seriously. "This one sings better than the other one," he decides. "Less like I want to punch him." Also, the lack of mostly-naked, weird-dancing people in this one is better. So his final decision is a satisfied: "Not bad."

Edited (whole wrong word, there) 2021-05-07 18:02 (UTC)

Laughing, "Be careful who you say that to, I think there are people here who would take a bullet for Elton John. All right, so Huey Lewis is on the list. I've been thinking, once we're more used to playing together, we could create some of our own music."

That brings him up even more sharply than the opening to Elton John's video. "I don't make things," he protests, confused. Which is not entirely true, he can make origami, and like one or two food dishes. But still! Music is different!

The reaction isn't completely unexpected, so Lark just takes it in stride. "No? Why not?"

"I'm not creative. That's. That's Steve, not me." Which is also kinda not true. Bucky Barnes was pretty great at telling and making up stories, but he doesn't remember that. (James-the-train-prisoner was good at telling and making up stories, but that's not him.)

"I meant as a collaborative project. I provide the words, you create the rhythm and the feel to go with them. It becomes a sort of translation."

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