Work Text:
“You’re going to be the next Dr. Seuss,” Stark parrots off the review on the book’s back flap. He sounds horrified. Bucky, who’s peering over his shoulder, bursts into laughter. Stark sends him a dirty look.
“Did you know about this?” he demands of Bucky, his tone accusing. This refers to the picture book in his lap, the third of a series starring a brave little bear and his dancing monkey sidekick.
Steve answers in Bucky’s stead, sounding mild but a bit miffed. “Of course he does. I bounce all my ideas off him.”
Stark makes a noise in the back of his throat, a little like a beached whale. “It isn’t even subtle.”
Bucky thinks the it could refer to a number of things: the characters, the pseudonym (S. Grant—unimaginative, but Steve seemed to have spent all his creative juices on the books themselves), the themes of loyalty, friendship and always doing the right thing.
“What are you gonna do when they want to interview you?” asks Stark. “Journalists are like hounds when they get a good story.”
“Oh, I’ve already done a couple,” says Steve, gesturing vaguely. “But they were all over phone or email.”
Stark isn’t appeased. “But when they start wanting them in person? When they wanna know the mystery man behind the pen name?” Stark wriggles his fingers at Steve, a derisive note in his voice as he says mystery man.
Steve shrugs. “I guess I can’t hide forever, but for now, I just want these books to be taken on their own merit.”
Stark is quiet for a moment. Then, “But why? Why are you doing this? Isn’t saving the world on a regular basis enough? You don’t have to show up the rest of us by becoming a famous author on the side too.”
Bucky thinks Steve is being pretty generous when he doesn’t mention the whole genius engineer, multi-billion dollar company thing that Stark has on the side.
Steve says, “I dunno. It’s fun. And if I get to teach kids about values and stuff while I’m at it, well, I can’t say no.”
And isn’t that Steve summed up in a well-intentioned sound bite? Bucky isn’t going to share that Steve started these books to entertain him while he was recovering from the Winter Soldier phase. It’s nice to have the upper hand for once—or if he’s feeling particularly maudlin, he’ll admit it’s more in-jokes with Steve than upper hand.
Meanwhile, Steve is saying, “Besides, Pepper told me to go for it.”
“Pepper?!” Stark’s betrayed expression is delightful. Bucky snickers. Barton, likely drawn by the indignant squawk, appears in the entryway of the communal kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Barton asks.
“Did you know Steve writes children’s books?” Starks flashes the book in his direction, and Barton’s eyes light up in unholy glee.
“Oh, no,” says Steve. “No, I’m not dealing with this.”
He crosses the kitchen to grab an apple in one hand and Bucky’s hand in the other. “C’mon, Buck, let’s go.”
Bucky shoots a parting smirk at Barton and Stark, and allows himself to be pulled away.
Steve manages to publish a handful more books before he’s outed, and by that point, all of the Avengers have learned of his hobby and have made it into his series in one form or another. The media suspects this, of course, and has a field day speculating on who’s who and how much of the stories are based off real occurrences. Entire websites have sprung up to worship this new facet of Steven G. Rogers.
Steve, for his part, perfects the “Aw, shucks, I’m just a normal guy who likes drawing pictures and saving the world” routine. The media loves it, and Tony rails against the injustice of it all. Of course, Steve did turn him into a talking cactus—a cute one, but still, a talking cactus.
One night, while Steve is sketching on the couch and Bucky is sitting at his feet, playing with a Starkpad, Steve turns to him and asks, “Do you want to write the next one?”
Bucky blinks at him. “What?”
“The books. Do you want to write the next one?”
Bucky blinks at him again. “What?”
“I can do the illustrations and you can write the story. It’ll be great.”
Bucky’s still nonplussed. “Why?”
Steve levels him a pointed look. “Bucky, you practically co-wrote the other ones. I think the best parts in them were all from your ideas.”
Bucky doesn’t agree but stays quiet.
“C’mon,” Steve wheedles, squeezing his shoulder, “just give it a try. This way I can focus on drawing, which is what I like best anyway.”
Bucky hums noncommittally, knowing that he can’t say no to Steve. He’s never been able to say no to Steve. Goddamn Steve.
That night the idea eats away at him, and by five in the morning, he not only has the outline to one adventure on his Starkpad but the inklings of how to follow it up with two other sequels. He has long abandoned sleep and is sitting on the roof, blankly sipping cocoa, when Natasha materializes behind him. Instinctively, he whirls around and goes for her throat, but she dodges easily.
“Now what do we have here?” She grabs the tablet from him, sidestepping when he tries to steal it back to safety.
“Give that back.” He sounds petulant. It’s embarrassing. It’s also the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Natasha just raises one eyebrow at him, not deigning to respond. She turns her gaze to his work, and he watches her with a scowl. Her reactions are inscrutable, which is annoying.
Finally she hands the Starkpad back to him and pats his arm. “Good. I like what you did with Tony. And Clint’s gonna whine about Steve letting you in on the act but not the rest of us.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “It isn’t Tony,” he insists. “It’s Ralph the Cactus. Also, it’s been Steve and me since before any of you were even born.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know, Granny.”
The book wins awards. Plural. Reviewers claim that Steve’s art has leveled up from charming to stunning. Bucky’s story—technically J. Buchanan’s story, but no one pretends to be fooled—is hailed as powerful and moving, with a poignant message for adults and children alike. There’s buzz about a movie adaptation.
Bucky thinks it’s ridiculous. He also refuses to give any interviews because he does not want to talk about any tales of “separation and harrowing loss” or “rediscovery of self-worth,” thank you very much.
It’s just a picture book for chrissakes. No need to be so dramatic. They should at least save it till he graduates to children’s novels.
Steve is happy, though, which is what’s important. And maybe Bucky enjoys it too, unsurprisingly, since he’s always been talented at spinning a good tale, an ability that landed him in a fair bit of trouble back in the day.
It isn’t until he publishes a few more books that Bucky meets his first adoring fan while getting lunch with Bruce. The child’s name is Andrew, he’s pint-sized, and his mother says the books helped them get through a hard time when Andrew was in and out of the hospital. Bucky is at a loss for how to answer and wonders what Steve would do in his place. At his side, Bruce is hiding his amusement behind a sandwich. Bucky doesn’t appreciate it.
He stumbles his way through his gratitude, wishes them well, and hugs the boy. No one is more surprised than Bucky himself at that last act, and Bruce snaps a picture of it. Later the picture is retweeted about a million times on Twitter.
Steve laughs for a whole minute when Bucky complains. Then he sobers: “You know this is good stuff, right? There’s a lot of hype over these books because of who we are, but there are plenty of people out there who recognize your talent too.”
And isn’t that something, thinks Bucky. A talent that doesn’t involve maiming or killing. He grumbles his assent, elbows Steve in the side, but then settles into his usual spot on the floor by their couch. His mind is buzzing with another story, and his masterpiece has yet to be written.