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Originally, it had been Bucky who was more into music.
He had always been scraping together money to buy the records of his favorite songs, wanting to listen to them exactly when he wanted, and not have to wait for them to come on the radio.
Every moment he wasn’t dragging Steve to science museums and exhibits was spent hauling him all over creation to “check out this new nightclub I heard of,” that was always reported to have the best musician or singer or genre in the city.
Even when they were slogging through the muck and the mire, caked in God-knows-what and almost always covered in mud, he was singing, or humming, or asking Dugan or Monty or Jones “Hey, you remember that song? Yeah that one, that's it. What's the next line?” Always trying to remember the words and the way they made him feel. Steve had never totally understood, but then, with his hearing how it was, music usually meant that he was struggling more than usual to hear the conversations around him, so it was more nuisance than anything.
After Steve came out of the ice, he moved into his SHIELD-Issued apartment and found a fancy record player and shelves of music from “his time” that he didn’t actually want to listen to, because they were too painful. If they didn’t bring up memories of Bucky tapping his toes and singing along, dragging Steve to the middle of their living room and attempting to teach him to swing, they conjured images of the few times he and Bucky had acted (in the privacy of their own home, and then the privacy of Steve’s officer’s quarters while on R&R) like a regular couple would, dancing cheek to cheek to the slow, sweet songs the bandleaders and the crooners had perfected.
Sam was the one who’d given Steve’s aimless musical taste a place to start. Coming to in the hospital with Trouble Man playing was a wake-up. It’s not that he’d wanted to avoid new music. Once he’d gotten the serum, he’d started to gain an actual appreciation for music, since he could finally hear it easily. No, it wasn’t that he wasn’t interested; it was more that he was so spoiled for choice that he was overwhelmed, and didn’t know where to start, but with that one album, he had a jumping off point.
Over the next few years, he amassed a wide and varied collection, mostly of vinyl, that ranged from music he’d known in his original time to newly released things. Sam always gave him records as a gift, usually of something or someone that Steve had never heard of and shot him off in a different direction from where he’d been before.
The more he listened to and the more he discovered, the more he finally understood why Bucky had leaned so heavily into music before. For someone who notoriously struggled with expressing his emotions in a coherent and healthy fashion, music was freeing, and he could always find a song that expressed what he was trying to say.
When Bucky came back, and all the attendant settling and readjusting had leveled off, Steve was wholly unsurprised to come back to their apartment and find Bucky in what he referred to as Steve’s Listening Nook -- a corner of the living room that got the good sun, that now boasted a soft rug and thick floor cushions, the L shaped shelves on the walls holding all of his records, with the console itself set underneath them. He’d bought headphones with the curly cord, the noise canceling ones, and had been known to plug in and tune out on more than one afternoon, lying in the sun and surrounding himself with the melodies he’d grown to love.
Bucky was curled up like a cat in the late afternoon light, basking in the warmth, a small smile on his face.
Steve smiled too, so happy his heart could burst, seeing the love of his life relaxing in their home, unbothered and unworried. He went quietly to the kitchen, putting away the groceries and starting the soup in the crockpot before he grabbed his sketchbook and walked back out to sit on the couch.
Art was another thing he’d brought back into his life, sometimes sketching while listening to his music and letting it influence what he put on the page, and sometimes just letting it flow out of him while he sat in the silence of the apartment. Right now, he wanted to capture the way Bucky looked, absorbed as he was in his own little world, guard down, sweet and lovely in their living room.
Before he realized it, Bucky was stretching and sitting up, smiling at Steve as he took the headphones off and unplugged them, turning the music up just a little and letting Steve into that private world with him.
Bucky stood and walked towards the couch, and Steve met him halfway, the two of them coming together in the center of their living room.
“Dance with me?” Bucky asked, holding his hand out. Steve took it, and Bucky pulled Steve into his chest, kissing him slow and sweet as they started to sway to the soft guitar coming from the speakers.
Steve took a moment to remember this moment, to catalog the way the orange-pink glow of the setting sun highlighted the angles of Bucky’s face, the way his hair was falling out of the low bun he’d put it in earlier. Bucky’s eyes were shining, the love light in them radiating warmth and serenity, and Steve knew that he looked the same.
Glenn Frey was singing in the background, and Steve couldn’t think of a better embodiment of what he felt right now.
I got a peaceful easy feelin', and I know you won't let me down...