He hadn’t planned on telling anyone Bucky’s secret. It came about when he attended a class at the VA, right after he met Sam jogging around the Lincoln Memorial. Some of the other veterans at the VA were intrigued by his presence, and one of them, a man who introduced himself as Fred, struck up a conversation by the coffee table after the class was over.
“It means a lot, seeing you here,” Fred told Steve. “I mean, if Captain America’s got problems, it makes it a little less embarrassing for the rest of us.”
“I’m glad,” Steve said earnestly. “But you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I got raped, in basic,” Fred responded, his tone casual. “That’s pretty embarrassing.”
Steve was used to the candor of strangers. Something about his celebrity status made people say things they normally wouldn’t to someone they’d just met. This was a new one, however, and he reeled internally.
“I’m sorry. Did- did they get the person who did it?”
“Nah. I mean, it wasn’t- it was a woman, my superior officer. They dinged her for having ‘sexual relations’ with a cadet, but they said women can’t really rape men, so- ”
Fred shrugged, trying to mask his pain.
“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated, tamping down his anger at the system. “But that’s still nothing to be embarrassed about. It wasn’t your fault.”
Fred remained visibly unconvinced, and Steve grasped for something to offer in the way of help. He needed to help.
“I had a friend, back then,” the secret rolled off his tongue. “A man. It happened to him, too. It can happen to anybody.”
Fred perked up at that. Not a lot, but enough to let Steve know he had gotten through to him. Later that night, after some internet research in his apartment, he decided to do something more. There were people doing such good work for sexual abuse survivors of all genders, and he wanted to help. He could speak up about this issue, use his fame for something better than mopping up SHIELD’s messes.
He’d have to use Bucky’s name, he decided, to avoid people speculating wildly about which friend he was referring to. He’d promised Bucky so long ago that he’d never tell anyone what had happened to him, and it felt bad, breaking that promise, but he was convinced it was the right thing to do. It would help other people, and Bucky would’ve wanted that.
Steve felt the familiar clench of heart and gut when he thought about Bucky. That deep, lingering grief that seventy years hadn’t erased, and seventy more probably wouldn’t either. His friend had fallen to his death without the support and understanding he’d needed. Steve didn’t want anybody else to go through that. He knew Bucky wouldn’t either.
“I miss you, Buck,” Steve said to the empty room. He didn’t really think Bucky could hear him, but it was comforting to pretend. “Forgive me?”
There was only silence as Steve began composing emails.
*
Eight months after the fall of SHIELD, and the first thing Bucky did when Steve found him was deck him in the jaw.
Steve had found Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest, and come in through the window. Bucky had come home a few minutes after that, taken a long look at Steve (who’d stepped forward hopefully no matter how stupid that was) and punched him. He used his right hand, which Steve took as a measure of recognition, but still. Steve staggered backward, unarmed and in civvies, putting up his hands in surrender. He should have brought Sam and Nat with him, but it had been such a thin lead.
“Bucky, it’s me!”
He was afraid that Bucky wouldn’t know him, that he would try to beat Steve to death like he had in the Helicarrier.
“Do you know who I am, Bucky?”
He repeated Bucky’s name, because while he was afraid of what Bucky might do to him, he was even more afraid that Bucky wouldn’t remember his own name. Steve still had nightmares about his best friend’s empty eyes and emptier tone as he inquired ”Who the hell is Bucky?” before leveling a gun at Steve’s head.
“You told,” Bucky growled instead. “You said you wouldn’t tell anybody, but you did.”
It took Steve a moment to understand. When he did, and after the relief of being recognized had passed, horrible guilt surged in his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed incredulously.
“Fuck you.”
Steve watched warily as Bucky shed his overcoat in the apartment’s entryway and walked over to the small refrigerator. There was a notebook on top that Steve had noticed, buried underneath two brightly packaged candy bars. Bucky slid the notebook out from underneath, opened it, and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.
“This is your idea of not telling anybody, huh?”
Steve recognized the pamphlet Bucky was waving at him. He knew what was inside.
“You’re right,” Steve dipped his head minutely, not taking his eyes off Bucky. “I’m sorry.”
“You know where I got this, Steve? In the lobby of the fucking Smithsonian. The little story you have in here is all over the fucking internet. I didn’t want anyone to know, and now the whole fucking world knows, so don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry ‘cause that ain’t gonna cut it.”
Bucky’s rant had the flow of rehearsal to it. It hurt, thinking about how many times Bucky had practiced that speech. It hurt, how much Steve knew he deserved it.
“You’re right,” Steve tried again. “It wasn’t mine to tell, even if you really had been dead. Which, by the way, I’m really, really happy you’re not, Buck.”
He cracked a smile at Bucky, holding back his greater joy that not only was Bucky alive, but he was right here and he knew Steve, even if he was angry with him. More than anything, Steve wanted Bucky to smile back at him. Bucky looked down at his feet instead.
“That makes one of us.”
“Come back to New York with me,” Steve tried, ignoring the troubling implications of Bucky’s statement. “I can get you asylum with the Avengers while we figure all the legal stuff out.”
Bucky looked up at him sharply. He still had the notebook clutched in his left hand, the crumpled pamphlet for the Male Survivors Support Network in his right.
“I won’t be locked up again,” he warned icily, shaking his head. “I won’t.”
“No one’s gonna lock you up,” Steve swore. “I won’t let them.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He was right, Steve knew. It wasn’t just the US Government they had to contend with, Bucky was wanted in at least twenty other countries, including the one they were in right now.
“Not that I don’t deserve to be locked up, or worse,” Bucky continued. “God, the things I’ve done.”
“It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.”
The conversation was becoming disturbingly familiar, but Steve didn’t want to point out the parallels between this and what had happened back in 1944. He was pretty sure Bucky could already see them. Steve’s heart ached for his friend. For everything he’d suffered, and for Steve’s own role in that suffering.
“Yeah, well, I still did it, Steve. I wasn’t strong enough to stop them from making me do it.”
“No,” Steve said adamantly. “I’m not gonna listen to any of that bullshit. Not from them, and not from you.”
Bucky looked away. Steve grasped for something to say. Something that would convince Bucky to get on the jet with him.
“Did this help anybody?”
Bucky broke the silence through gritted teeth, waving the pamphlet at Steve again. Guilt and hope warred inside Steve.
“Yeah. A lot of guys, Buck.”
“Good,” Bucky’s shoulders relaxed a little. “It’s not okay, that you told, but I’m glad it helped somebody.”
Steve choked down another empty apology. He nodded at Bucky.
“A lot of guys,” Steve repeated. “Some of ‘em would probably like to meet you.”
“Then they’ll be disappointed,” Bucky shot down that line of thought.
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll come back with you,” Bucky decided, and Steve’s heart leapt. “I’m tired of running. I’d like to stop. But I won’t be locked up again.”
His jaw was set obstinately. When he leveled his eyes at Steve they were weary, beaten down, but they weren’t the empty eyes of the Winter Soldier from Steve’s nightmares. Steve saw a spark in them, and he wanted to keep it there. He chose his next words carefully.
“I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Yeah, I know you will,” Bucky sighed. “Give me a minute to get my stuff.”
Steve watched as Bucky pried up the floorboards in the kitchen area to retrieve a large backpack. Bucky opened the top and shoved his journal and the pamphlet inside. After a moment of consideration he added the two candy bars from the top of his fridge, then swung it over his shoulder and went toward the front door. He retrieved his coat, dropped the backpack to put it on, and maneuvered the bag back over his shoulders. He looked at Steve expectantly.
“Ready?”
Steve smiled and made his way to the door. Bucky’s lips twitched at him. As good a smile as Steve would get under the circumstances. He’d take it. He’d take anything Bucky was willing to give him at this point.
Fill: Speaking Out (3/4)
He hadn’t planned on telling anyone Bucky’s secret. It came about when he attended a class at the VA, right after he met Sam jogging around the Lincoln Memorial. Some of the other veterans at the VA were intrigued by his presence, and one of them, a man who introduced himself as Fred, struck up a conversation by the coffee table after the class was over.
“It means a lot, seeing you here,” Fred told Steve. “I mean, if Captain America’s got problems, it makes it a little less embarrassing for the rest of us.”
“I’m glad,” Steve said earnestly. “But you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I got raped, in basic,” Fred responded, his tone casual. “That’s pretty embarrassing.”
Steve was used to the candor of strangers. Something about his celebrity status made people say things they normally wouldn’t to someone they’d just met. This was a new one, however, and he reeled internally.
“I’m sorry. Did- did they get the person who did it?”
“Nah. I mean, it wasn’t- it was a woman, my superior officer. They dinged her for having ‘sexual relations’ with a cadet, but they said women can’t really rape men, so- ”
Fred shrugged, trying to mask his pain.
“I’m sorry,” Steve repeated, tamping down his anger at the system. “But that’s still nothing to be embarrassed about. It wasn’t your fault.”
Fred remained visibly unconvinced, and Steve grasped for something to offer in the way of help. He needed to help.
“I had a friend, back then,” the secret rolled off his tongue. “A man. It happened to him, too. It can happen to anybody.”
Fred perked up at that. Not a lot, but enough to let Steve know he had gotten through to him. Later that night, after some internet research in his apartment, he decided to do something more. There were people doing such good work for sexual abuse survivors of all genders, and he wanted to help. He could speak up about this issue, use his fame for something better than mopping up SHIELD’s messes.
He’d have to use Bucky’s name, he decided, to avoid people speculating wildly about which friend he was referring to. He’d promised Bucky so long ago that he’d never tell anyone what had happened to him, and it felt bad, breaking that promise, but he was convinced it was the right thing to do. It would help other people, and Bucky would’ve wanted that.
Steve felt the familiar clench of heart and gut when he thought about Bucky. That deep, lingering grief that seventy years hadn’t erased, and seventy more probably wouldn’t either. His friend had fallen to his death without the support and understanding he’d needed. Steve didn’t want anybody else to go through that. He knew Bucky wouldn’t either.
“I miss you, Buck,” Steve said to the empty room. He didn’t really think Bucky could hear him, but it was comforting to pretend. “Forgive me?”
There was only silence as Steve began composing emails.
*
Eight months after the fall of SHIELD, and the first thing Bucky did when Steve found him was deck him in the jaw.
Steve had found Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest, and come in through the window. Bucky had come home a few minutes after that, taken a long look at Steve (who’d stepped forward hopefully no matter how stupid that was) and punched him. He used his right hand, which Steve took as a measure of recognition, but still. Steve staggered backward, unarmed and in civvies, putting up his hands in surrender. He should have brought Sam and Nat with him, but it had been such a thin lead.
“Bucky, it’s me!”
He was afraid that Bucky wouldn’t know him, that he would try to beat Steve to death like he had in the Helicarrier.
“Do you know who I am, Bucky?”
He repeated Bucky’s name, because while he was afraid of what Bucky might do to him, he was even more afraid that Bucky wouldn’t remember his own name. Steve still had nightmares about his best friend’s empty eyes and emptier tone as he inquired ”Who the hell is Bucky?” before leveling a gun at Steve’s head.
“You told,” Bucky growled instead. “You said you wouldn’t tell anybody, but you did.”
It took Steve a moment to understand. When he did, and after the relief of being recognized had passed, horrible guilt surged in his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed incredulously.
“Fuck you.”
Steve watched warily as Bucky shed his overcoat in the apartment’s entryway and walked over to the small refrigerator. There was a notebook on top that Steve had noticed, buried underneath two brightly packaged candy bars. Bucky slid the notebook out from underneath, opened it, and flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.
“This is your idea of not telling anybody, huh?”
Steve recognized the pamphlet Bucky was waving at him. He knew what was inside.
“You’re right,” Steve dipped his head minutely, not taking his eyes off Bucky. “I’m sorry.”
“You know where I got this, Steve? In the lobby of the fucking Smithsonian. The little story you have in here is all over the fucking internet. I didn’t want anyone to know, and now the whole fucking world knows, so don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry ‘cause that ain’t gonna cut it.”
Bucky’s rant had the flow of rehearsal to it. It hurt, thinking about how many times Bucky had practiced that speech. It hurt, how much Steve knew he deserved it.
“You’re right,” Steve tried again. “It wasn’t mine to tell, even if you really had been dead. Which, by the way, I’m really, really happy you’re not, Buck.”
He cracked a smile at Bucky, holding back his greater joy that not only was Bucky alive, but he was right here and he knew Steve, even if he was angry with him. More than anything, Steve wanted Bucky to smile back at him. Bucky looked down at his feet instead.
“That makes one of us.”
“Come back to New York with me,” Steve tried, ignoring the troubling implications of Bucky’s statement. “I can get you asylum with the Avengers while we figure all the legal stuff out.”
Bucky looked up at him sharply. He still had the notebook clutched in his left hand, the crumpled pamphlet for the Male Survivors Support Network in his right.
“I won’t be locked up again,” he warned icily, shaking his head. “I won’t.”
“No one’s gonna lock you up,” Steve swore. “I won’t let them.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He was right, Steve knew. It wasn’t just the US Government they had to contend with, Bucky was wanted in at least twenty other countries, including the one they were in right now.
“Not that I don’t deserve to be locked up, or worse,” Bucky continued. “God, the things I’ve done.”
“It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault.”
The conversation was becoming disturbingly familiar, but Steve didn’t want to point out the parallels between this and what had happened back in 1944. He was pretty sure Bucky could already see them. Steve’s heart ached for his friend. For everything he’d suffered, and for Steve’s own role in that suffering.
“Yeah, well, I still did it, Steve. I wasn’t strong enough to stop them from making me do it.”
“No,” Steve said adamantly. “I’m not gonna listen to any of that bullshit. Not from them, and not from you.”
Bucky looked away. Steve grasped for something to say. Something that would convince Bucky to get on the jet with him.
“Did this help anybody?”
Bucky broke the silence through gritted teeth, waving the pamphlet at Steve again. Guilt and hope warred inside Steve.
“Yeah. A lot of guys, Buck.”
“Good,” Bucky’s shoulders relaxed a little. “It’s not okay, that you told, but I’m glad it helped somebody.”
Steve choked down another empty apology. He nodded at Bucky.
“A lot of guys,” Steve repeated. “Some of ‘em would probably like to meet you.”
“Then they’ll be disappointed,” Bucky shot down that line of thought.
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll come back with you,” Bucky decided, and Steve’s heart leapt. “I’m tired of running. I’d like to stop. But I won’t be locked up again.”
His jaw was set obstinately. When he leveled his eyes at Steve they were weary, beaten down, but they weren’t the empty eyes of the Winter Soldier from Steve’s nightmares. Steve saw a spark in them, and he wanted to keep it there. He chose his next words carefully.
“I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Yeah, I know you will,” Bucky sighed. “Give me a minute to get my stuff.”
Steve watched as Bucky pried up the floorboards in the kitchen area to retrieve a large backpack. Bucky opened the top and shoved his journal and the pamphlet inside. After a moment of consideration he added the two candy bars from the top of his fridge, then swung it over his shoulder and went toward the front door. He retrieved his coat, dropped the backpack to put it on, and maneuvered the bag back over his shoulders. He looked at Steve expectantly.
“Ready?”
Steve smiled and made his way to the door. Bucky’s lips twitched at him. As good a smile as Steve would get under the circumstances. He’d take it. He’d take anything Bucky was willing to give him at this point.