Archive of Our Own ^omega

“Captain Rogers?”

“Yes?” Steve's voice was polite but blank as he answered the door to a small group of police officers. The one who had spoken, who had, in fact, still got one arm raised slightly from where he'd knocked at the door, shuffled backward slightly and opened his mouth again.

“We- we have a warrant for your arrest.”

“You've got a what for his what?”

This came not from Steve, whose grip tightened on the doorframe slightly, accompanied by the sound of cracking wood, but from Bucky who had appeared behind him with both a half-eaten bowl of cereal and an incredulous expression plastered across his face.

The cop cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his compatriots, none of whom looked directly at Steve. Or, indeed, Bucky, who was gripping his spoon like it was a weapon. In his metallic hand, it might well be.

“There's, uh, there's been an allegation.”

--------

Steve shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, wincing as he heard it creak in protest under his weight. He threw a glance up at the CCTV camera fixed in the corner, red light blinking consistently as it recorded the room, then back to the stone-faced detective sat across the table.

“Are these really necessary?” he asked with a somewhat forced light tone, bringing his handcuffed wrists up slightly from the table.

“Just a formality, sir,” the detective murmured, not pausing to look up from the papers he had been shuffling for the last five minutes or so.

“I mean, you know I could just-” Steve tugged his wrists in opposite directions, the metal straining as he did so.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” This time, the detective’s steel blue eyes flickered up to meet Steve’s own briefly, raking across his face with a calculating glance.

Steve sighed.

“No,” he said, measuredly. “I’m just trying to figure out why I’ve been here the last three hours, and handcuffed to boot,” he said, fighting to keep anger from his voice. The other man cleared his throat, put the file he’d been reading down on the table carefully, and leaned back in his own chair. Arms folded, he regarded Steve slowly.

“Captain America,” the man said slowly, chewing the words over as he spoke, the fingers on his left hand tapping a short rhythm against the file in front of him. “Steve Rogers. You’ve been around some, right?”

Steve popped an eyebrow, unsure where the question was supposed to lead, or indeed what he was really supposed to say to it, but answered anyway.

“Depends what you’re asking, Detective,” he said carefully. “Geographically, or, uh, historically speaking?”

“Both,” the other man said companionably. “I mean, you were born in 1918, and here we are. A whole new century now, never mind that you’re, what, over 100 years old yourself? You must’ve seen a lot of things. Done a lot of things. Met, uh, a lot of people.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, still unable to figure out where this was all heading. He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to say the right thing, whatever the hell that might be. The detective smiled widely suddenly, though to Steve’s mind it was gone as abruptly as it appeared.

The other man pushed himself out of his chair, crossing to the other end of the table and pouring himself a glass of water from the clear plastic jug that sat there. He drained it quickly, and made to pour himself another.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my manners are shot - you want one?” The detective gestured to Steve with the jug, and Steve shook his head. The man shrugged and continued to pour for himself. This plastic cup he did not drink immediately, but rather kept in one hand as he walked back to his chair opposite Steve. He did not sit, but rather leaned his elbows on the back of the chair, and fixed Steve with a long look.

“My father was a big Captain America fan,” the detective said conversationally, leaning forward. “Huge. Collected tour posters, playing cards and everything, all that vintage stuff from when you were still just travelling across the US with those fancy backing dancers.” He paused to take a swig of water, eyes still fixed on Steve’s own, who gazed back impassively still wondering where all this was leading.

“‘Course, he wasn’t quite old enough to have been there himself, you understand, but he loved it,” the other man said, nostalgically. “He could tell you a lot about those days, you know, real enthusiast, but he wasn’t there. Bet you could tell me a lot about them, huh?”

Steve, confused, shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh yeah, I bet you got a lotta stories about the good old days,” the detective said, settling himself down in the chair properly once more, elbows on the table and winking at Steve as though they were sharing some kind of secret together. “And it was wartime, after all. Everything was just that bit more lax. Skirts were getting higher, morals getting lower, everyone in that end-of-the-world mentality.”

“I’m not really sure-” Steve began, shaking his head.

“I’m just trying to get an idea of what it was like for you, Captain Rogers,” the detective said, and Steve thought he could sense an icy edge to the otherwise friendly tone of the other man’s voice. “A man who suddenly got everything he wanted, at the flick of a switch. A man who was suddenly the envy of every young man in America, a man who was desired by every eligible young woman-”

“I mean, that’s not-” Steve laughed. “That’s not really what it was like.”

“No?” The detective looked interested. “That’s certainly what it looks like. The history books are very clear, Captain, about how much you wanted to be in the army. And how many times you were turned away for poor health. Suddenly getting everything you ever wanted must’ve felt like … well, it must’ve felt just like winning the lottery.”

“I… I guess,” Steve said, feeling uncertain about where this conversation was headed. “I could never have dreamed that... Dr Erskine gave me a chance at a life that probably wasn’t possible without-”

“Maybe got you a shot at some girls who weren’t possible before, right?” The other man winked at Steve.

“That, uh, that wasn’t really what was on my mind, Detective,” he answered slowly.

“Aw, you sure?” The detective said jovially, though again Steve thought he could hear something else underlying that conversational air. “Young man like you, all of a sudden you’re a strapping specimen with a lot of female interest, out there touring the country. Everyone and their aunt lining up just to get a photograph with the famous Captain America. Bet that sort of attention gets kinda… addictive, after a spell.”

“What exactly are you implying here?” Steve said, and he was absolutely certain that there would be no mistaking his tone.

“Dorothy Johnson, nee Henricks. Says she met you at the USO tour in NYC? Ring any bells?” The detective’s voice matched Steve’s own, all pretence at being Steve’s friend gone in an instant.

“I've got an eidetic memory,” Steve said flatly.

“So answer the question, Captain Rogers.”

“I- is there a photograph?”

The detective opened the file he’d been perusing previously, flipped some pages before extracting one document from it. Eyes firmly on Steve, he slid a black and white photograph across the table towards the other man. Steve picked it up and closed his eyes briefly.

“Captain?”

“Yes,” Steve said quietly. “Yes, I remember her.”

--------

“Rape?”

The entire room was silent after Bucky’s spluttered question. Had it been under different circumstances, Steve might have been able to raise a wry smile at the only time he’d ever seen the team speechless. As it was, he dropped himself onto a stool at the kitchen counter, deflated.

“Can they even… I mean, from that long ago?” Pepper looked questioningly toward Natasha, who shrugged her lack of knowledge in return.

Steve dropped his head into his folded arms and let out a stifled groan that was mostly muffled by sweater and arm muscles. Bucky, slipping on to the vacant stool next to him, clapped the Captain on the back sympathetically.

“What does she want?” Steve’s question was both plaintive and muffled from behind his arms, but the room heard him anyway.

“Fame? Money? A lot of people find it the easy way, Cap.” Natasha shrugged again, pouring steaming coffee into a mug and sliding it across the counter to him. “Sleeping with someone famous, or claiming you have, for some people it’s kind of a past-time.”

“Why Steve? Why not Stark?” Bucky gestured toward the billionaire, who was leaning nonchalantly against the other end of the kitchen counter.

“Hey, I've been to bed with a lot of women, but they all wanted to be there.”

“She's making it up, Tony-” Steve ground out, and Pepper put a soothing hand on his arm whilst shooting a dark daggered look at the other man.

“Surely this broad has to be a hundred years old,” Bucky scoffed. “Steve's memory is fine, but he ain’t the standard. How can they take hers as gospel?”

“She'll be ninety six,” Natasha said, from the counter. Steve didn’t bother to ask how she’d found that out, or how quickly.

“Ninety six?” Bucky echoed, turning his head to look at Steve. “But that would make her-”

“Fifteen in 1943.” Steve finished. “Yeah. She's claiming that I’m a, a-” he broke off, shaking his head and unable to finish what he was saying. The table was silent.

“How can they let people say these things?” Bucky shook his head, one hand gripping Steve’s shoulder in a gesture that was partly comfort for the other man and partly a way to anchor himself against the conversation.

“Because sometimes, maybe even a lot of times - they're true,” Natasha said, breaking the silence of the room.

Steve gaped. “You don't think that I-”

“No, Steve, of course I don't. But that's not true of everybody. Especially people in positions of power. People - women, most especially - need to be able to speak up, to know that they can.”

“Not when they're lying, they don't.” Bucky said darkly.

“You need to know that there will probably be more,” Pepper said. Steve's jaw worked, but no sound followed. The redhead threw him a sympathetic look before continuing. “I’m sorry Steve, but this sort of thing, once it hits the papers, suddenly everyone has a story. True, or otherwise.”

“You need to lawyer up, buddy,” Tony said sagely, pointing a finger at Steve. “Prepare for a fight.”

“Yeah,” Steve said distractedly. “There’s some legal liaison whoever, I gotta meet him tomorrow morning.”

--------

“Now, then, Mr Rogers-”

“It’s Captain,” Bucky said bluntly, staring up at the lawyer from his position seated across from Steve. The blond shot him a look that plainly said shut-up-Buck, but the dark-haired man was having none of it.

“I’m sorry?” The suit said, somewhat short of politely, pausing to swivel towards where Bucky sat. Bucky, for his part, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward over the table, one elbow making a sharp metallic noise as he dragged it slowly over the formica.

“I said,” he said slowly, gazing up at the other man with clear blue eyes as he spoke. “That it’s Captain, kid. Steve here was a Captain before your father ever even-”

“Buck,” Steve’s voice was strangled as the suit narrowed his eyes across the table at his friend. “Not helping.”

“I’m not the only one,” Bucky growled, and the lawyer bristled.

“Should you even be in here, Mr, uh, Mr Barnes?”

“Funny, ‘cause I was just thinking the same about you, pal.”

“I’ll just go and… Grab some coffee,” the lawyer stuttered, pushing his chair back with a squeak.

--------

“I’m pretty sure that guy thinks I’m guilty,” Steve said heavily, as the door swung shut on the small room.

“And I’m pretty sure I have no idea why you’re sitting on your ass waitin’ on that monumental waste of good oxygen, when you know damn well the best lawyer in the United States is just a phone call away,” Bucky answered, leaning back in his chair and fixing Steve with a long look.

“You mean-”

“Who else?”

--------

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

The pint-sized blonde popped a hip as she stood in the doorway, a wide smile on her face as she tossed back her neatly blow-dried hair with one hand, and adjusted the laptop she was holding with the other.

“Oh, would you mind?” She handed off the large print bag from one shoulder to Steve’s lawyer, who took it dumbly, his jaw hanging slightly as he took in the vision in pink in front of him. “You can just never trust the weather in New York. And with suede shoes, you can’t take any chances, so I have to carry alternatives.”

“Miss Woods,” Bucky said from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms and a grin of his own across his face.

“Mrs. Richmond,” Elle corrected, swivelling on one baby-pink Prada heel, before enveloping him in a hug around his middle. “And what is this?” She drew back from him, tugging at the ends of his hair which once again brushed his shoulders. Her bouncy blonde pony tail swung as Elle tipped her head to one side, waiting on an answer.

“I read it in Vogue. Hipsters are in,” Bucky replied solemnly.

Elle raised an eyebrow.

“Darcy likes it longer,” he amended with a one-shouldered shrug and a somewhat sheepishly crooked grin. “How was your journey, anyhow?”

“Lucky for you, I was in the area,” Elle said brightly, setting her laptop on the table. “The Elie Saab end of season sample sale was happening just three blocks away. Very exclusive.”

“And I’m guessing you had no trouble scoring an invite-”

“‘I’m sorry, is this some kind of groupie visiting hour I wasn’t aware of?” Steve’s lawyer snapped, dumping Elle’s bag onto the little formica table with a heavy thump. It let out a deep growl, and shook violently before a small chihuahua popped its head over the lip. The man took a hasty side-step away from the table, and the sharp white teeth bared in his direction.

“Oh yeah,” Bucky waved a hand dismissively in the other man’s direction without actually looking at him. The other hand he used to pull out a chair for Elle, ushering her into the seat. “You’re fired. Sorry, I forgot to mention.”

“I think you’ll find, as you’re not my client, that you can’t actually-” the lawyer bristled.

“You’re fired.”

Steve’s voice was quiet, but the words echoed around the small room regardless. The suit grabbed at his jacket from the back of the chair where he’d slung it earlier, glaring at first Elle, and then Bucky, who threw him a salacious wink as the man left.

--------

“Well, the good news is that the criminal case is going nowhere-” Steve said, running a hand through his hair and dishevelling it even further. He’d been locked in a small room with Elle and Bucky for a couple of hours as she flicked through the case notes and he brought her up to date.

“That’s great news, Steve,” Darcy said enthusiastically as she crossed the lounge floor to hug him tightly around the waist, the others looking to him from where they sat.

“-that’s not the only news,” he continued with a heavy sigh. Darcy pulled back from him and squinted upward, a confused expression across her face. She looked from Steve to Bucky, who shook his head grimly and dropped his not inconsiderable bulk into a waiting chair.

“Spill it, Rogers,” Nat said from her perch on the arm of the couch.

“The Statute of Limitations prevents the state from pursuing an investigation older than five years,” Steve began.

“Good thing you’re vintage,” Tony said brightly, and Pepper elbowed him in the ribs.

“So how comes you were hauled into the station then?” Darcy asked, indignant on Steve’s behalf.

“Guess someone got excited about the idea of arresting Captain America,” Bucky answered sourly. “You know what they’re like, act first, ask questions later.”

“Entirely unlike the Avengers,” Nat murmured to her coffee cup. Steve, enhanced hearing catching her words, threw a somewhat injured look her way and she shrugged back.

“I think there was some confusion,” he said, bearing the burden of fairness even when it was being used against him. “Elle said New York did wipe the limitation recently, but the Supreme Court overruled that in, uh, historic cases.”

“And because our boy here muddies the waters of what exactly constitutes historic and current-” Tony said leaning back against the couch and pointing an index finger Steve’s way.

“-confusion, yeah,” Steve finished with a shake of his head. “Don’t think they were supposed to send me to the duty lawyer, either.”

“Well, he was about as useful as a chocolate radiator,” Bucky muttered. “Feel sorry for the poor saps he’s actually supposed to work for.”

“So, no criminal case, because of the five year thing?” Darcy asked, turning back to Steve with an expectant look on her face. “So what’s the bad news? You have to pay costs for the investigation they shouldn’t have done, or something?”

“The bad news is-” Steve broke off, looking to Bucky, frustration written all over his face. The other man looked back, sympathetically, and picked up where Steve had left off.

“-the bad news is that this woman is pursuing a civil case instead.”

--------

“So, you should probably be aware that because of the type of case, they're gonna ask some, uh, intimate questions Steve,” Elle said from where she was settled on the other side of the table, flipping open files and shuffling through the paperwork in them. Across the room, Bucky sat next to Darcy, one hand laying casually against her knee as the brunette tapped away at her laptop, looking at the files Elle had shared.

“Intimate?” Steve echoed dumbly.

“They'll want to know who you kissed since 1943. What you've done with them. What your… Sexual appetites are.”

“Why is this happening to me?” Steve asked, putting his head in his hands.

“Nothing more than standard magazine interview questions, pal,” Tony said, slapping him on the shoulder, coffee mug clasped in his free hand. “You’ve done Pepper’s media training, right?”

“I don’t answer those questions. Elle, can't I talk to her?” Steve asked desperately. “Just, just get this straightened out. I'm sure this doesn't need to go to court-”

“You can't speak with her,” Elle cut across him, blonde head tilted to one side and eyes sympathetic. “You know that. And in terms of who you should be speaking with.” She trailed off, but waved her pen - the fluffy pink bobble bouncing wildly as she did so - first in the direction of Tony, who responded with an exaggerated gasp, then over the various others collected in the Avengers tower kitchen.

Steve sighed deeply, but shrugged. “They’ll end up involved anyway.”

“That’s the team spirit we’re looking for, buddy,” Tony said, patting Steve’s head.

--------

“So, after the show, you would do photo ops and autographs?”

Steve nodded mutely in response.

“And, this girl, this-” Elle flipped a few pages in front of her, riffling them until she found what she was looking for and ran a finger across the cream paper. “-uh, Dorothy Henricks, as she was then, she was one of them?”

Steve nodded once more. Elle made a note, then turned to a second piece of paper, scanning the printed words quickly before speaking again.

“She says you kissed her, then invited her back to see your dressing room.”

“Classic move,” Tony said solemnly, and Steve half rose from his chair.

“Steve, sit,” Nat accompanied her words with a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Stark, zip it.” Tony drew his hand across his mouth with a theatrical flourish, earning himself a sharp look from the red-headed spy.

“She kissed me,” Steve said quietly. “She waited, until everyone else was gone, and then she planted one on me. She wanted more, even I could tell that, but I didn't. I swear.”

“Did that happen a lot?”

“Some,” Steve shrugged.

“Did you ever take up any of those offers?”

“Elle-” Steve had turned scarlet.

“Does anyone else want popcorn for this part?” Tony asked brightly.

“Stark-” Nat said warningly from where she was sitting at the kitchen counter.

“If you can't handle me asking them, you’re not gonna handle it when people shout it at you in the street, or when you're on the witness stand,” the little blonde said bluntly, before softening her expression and leaning forward to pat his knee gently. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Steve, but this is the reality.”

Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, inclining his head forward and breathing deeply before responding. When he did, his eyes were still tight shut.

“Yes.”

Bucky's jaw dropped open, and Elle made a careful note, pink pen curling across the paper in front of her.

“You never told me,” Bucky said, faintly accusatory as he spoke.

“It wasn't really the time, Buck,” Steve said tiredly, finally looking up. “And then… And then I didn't want it to get back to Peggy.” He shrugged, helplessly.

“She says that she still has the photograph taken with you,” Elle noted, tapping a manicured fingertip half way down the page in front of her.

“I'm sure a lot of people do,” Steve shrugged. “That was part of the point of the tour. Get a photograph, get an autograph, roll up and see the US Army’s performing monkey.” His voice had turned bitter.

“Did she go to this show alone? What about her parents?”

“Father died a few years before, mother remarried,” Nat interjected, flicking quickly through Elle’s stack of paperwork. “Apparently neither of them went to the show, she went along to see the famous Captain America.”

“Just her, alone?”

“No, not alone,” Steve said quietly. “Her brother was there as well.”

--------

“Steve, I like to be honest with people,” Elle said, crossing one leg over the other as she settled back into her chair. After hours of digging through paperwork, line by line and question by question, the others had drifted away to attend to other things, leaving Elle and Steve alone amongst the open files spread liberally across the room.

“Lots of people think that it’s better to not say anything if they see something wrong, but I think we both know that not speaking up only leads to seeing your friends make really bad decisions, like dressing down to be taken seriously. So, can I be honest with you?” The fluff-ball topped pen passed from hand to hand as she regarded him.

Steve drained his glass of water in one before glancing at her over his shoulder briefly, and shrugged. It occurred to him that he seemed to spend a lot of his time at the moment shrugging at people.

“Okay,” she continued, putting the pen carefully down on the tabletop and getting to her feet slowly. “Speaking honestly, I think there’s something you’re not talking about here. And maybe that thing could make a real difference in your case.”

“I don’t think so,” Steve shook his head.

“You don’t think that you’re not being completely honest with me, or you don’t think that whatever it is will make a difference?” Elle pushed gently, her head tilted to one side and her pony tail bouncing slightly as she looked at him.

Steve sighed, dropping into the vacated chair and running a large hand through his hair.

“Oh, it’ll make a difference,” he said quietly, head dropping into his chest as he spoke, shoulders hunched. “It’ll make a helluva a difference, to a lotta things, but it’s not gonna help - believe me.”

“Steve,” Elle said solemnly, bending until she was balancing on her heels in front of him, one large hand clasped in both of her own. “Who did you have a relationship with in 1943?”

“It was just the once,” he said imploringly, shaking his head slightly.

“And it was-”

“Henricks,” Steve’s answer was short, and he stared at the table in front of him intently.

“But you said…” Elle trailed off, gazing at the man in front of her intently as the penny dropped hard. “Oh. Oh, Steve.”

“I don’t need your pity, Elle,” he said shortly, neglecting to look at her. Her face softened, and she leaned forward to cover one of his hands gently.

“Steve, the last thing you have is my pity,” she said, and he looked up at that. “You have my loyalty. You have my allegiance. And you have my anger that you’ve felt the need to keep this secret for so long.”

“I don’t want to - to come out, Elle,” Steve said quietly, but with emphasis, stumbling slightly over the term. “It’s - it’s personal. And it’s not something to be forced out into the open just because someone is telling lies about me.”

“Unless that’s what they want,” she said thoughtfully, tapping one manicured fingernail against her chin. “What if this whole thing isn’t about this so-called rape accusation? What if it’s about trying to discredit you?”

“Discredit me?”

“Absolutely,” Elle answered, beginning to pace in front of him. “I don’t need to tell you that you’ve ruffled feathers over the years. For a lot of people, a lot of high-ranking people, Captain America is exactly the hero they don’t want around.”

Steve frowned. He was no stranger to being a thorn in the side of the authorities.

“It’s exactly like when we had a new nail technician move into the same street as the existing nail salon, and they totally undercut the prices but offered a much better job,” Elle said earnestly. “Soon enough, everybody moved over to the new place.”

“Uh, yeah, Elle, I’m not sure that-”

“A month later, the new place got nail bombed.”

“Nail bombed?”

“Shellac everywhere,” Elle nodded fervently, gesturing an explosion with both hands. Steve blinked, and she continued. “Anyway, my point is, people will totally try to take down a threat.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responded slowly, rubbing the back of his head with bemusement and looking down at the pink-clad lawyer. “I guess that’s… Possible.”

She patted him on the arm, her hand tiny against his bicep, and began packing her files into her shoulder bag. Bruiser, previously asleep with his head tucked into his tail atop one of boardroom chairs, awoke with a small chirrup and scampered across to Elle. She scooped him into the crook of one arm, kissing the top of his head as she looped her shoulder bag over the opposite arm. Patting herself down and flipping her pony tail back, she made for the door.

“Elle-” Steve put his hand out, blocking the doorway and a truly anguished looking expression plastered over his face. She stopped short, looking up at him questioningly. Nestled into her arm, Bruiser looked up at him, too, head cocked to one side as though for all the world he was waiting for Steve to continue as well.

“You can't tell anyone,” he implored. “Even if - even if it means -”

“You know there's nothing wrong with being gay, right?” Elle said quietly, laying a hand over his bicep and squeezing gently. “Things have changed. It’s not like it was in the thirties. It’s legal now. And Pride is a trip.”

“Some things have changed,” Steve answered slowly, pushing one large hand through his hair and leaving it askew. “But not all things. They wouldn't accept a gay Captain America, and you know it, Elle. Even Buck-” he broke off, his face slipping even further into a troubled cloud.

“I think you need to talk to Bucky,” Elle said firmly. “Whatever else you do, or don’t do.”

“I think we’ve made it 90 odd years without it coming up,” Steve snapped back.

“You spent 70 years each not even knowing the other one was alive,” Elle pointed out, unbothered by his tone. “And now look at you. Maybe you need to trust him a little.”

--------

“You dumbass,” Bucky said incredulously, thumping Steve hard in the arm. “You think I give a shit?”

Steve blinked, reeling from both Bucky's words and the punch, which had been delivered with a closed metal fist. They sat on the rooftop of the Avengers Tower, legs dangling over the edge and looking out at the city lights twinkling against the night sky.

“Just can't believe you never told me, punk,” Bucky sniffed, casting a sidelong glance at his friend. “Like I ain't good enough to know all your secrets?”

“That's not why I never told you, and you damn well know it,” Steve answered, looking at the way his legs swung over the side of the building, fingers laced together and shoulders hunched.

“So you thought I'd have some kinda problem?”

“No - yes - I don't know,” Steve struggled, looking down at his fingers, lacing them together and not, again and again as he fought to find the right words. “I heard what kinda shit they said down at the docks. About queers and fairies and what they'd do to a man if they caught him looking.”

“Ain't no man have been looking at that motley crew,” Bucky said sagely. “And they'd have been counting themselves lucky if you'd given ‘em the time of day.”

Steve huffed in response, head tucked into his chest but a small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“So did you, you know, I mean before the -” Bucky gestured. Steve squinted at him, head tilted to one side. “You know, before the serum. Any luck?”

He huffed a laugh in response, the warmth of his breath misting against the cool air. He rolled his head back on his shoulders, stretching his arms out behind him, before casting a side-long glance at Bucky, who was watching him curiously. Steve raised a single eyebrow, accompanied with the barest movement of a nod, and Bucky nearly fell off the building.

Steve, laughing despite himself, reached out a hand and yanked Bucky back into place. Once he was righted again, and had swallowed down his surprise at Steve’s admission, he fixed the other man with a narrow gaze.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me about your first time.”

“Practically speaking, when would I have, Buck?” Steve spread his arms wide as he spoke. “You were in Europe, and when I caught up to ya, it wasn’t really the time.”

“I told you about my first time,” Bucky pointed out.

“Yeah, I remember. In fact, as I recall, I heard a lot of it first hand,” Steve said dryly, accompanying his words with a meaningful roll of his eyes.

“Hey, there weren’t too many places to go, you know?” Bucky said with a shrug that turned into a laugh. “What was a guy to do?” Steve laughed as well, shaking his head. Bucky had been incredibly popular with the opposite sex, and, frankly, a fair number of his own sex, though only Steve would have realised at the time.

Their laughter lapsed into a companionable silence as they sat, looking out over the rooftops of New York, the streets glowing beneath their feet as they dangled them over the side of the building.

“Didja know?” Steve asked, looking sidelong at the man perched next to him. He’d been careful as all hell, and for good reason, but James Buchanan Barnes hadn’t been picked out for sniper training for no reason. The man observed, even when he wasn’t strictly intending to do so. “Even a little suspicion?”

Bucky frowned.

“I - nah, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” Steve asked, a little surprised at his answer.

“Hey, remember who you’re talking to, here. I ain’t exactly the memory master, am I.”

Steve laughed.

“But, yeah honestly, I’m not sure. You tell me now, and I can think of this time or that time that makes more sense, but did I have an inkling?” He shrugged, and threw his friend a side-long glance from the corner of his eye before continuing. “I dunno. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, so they say.”

Bucky kicked his legs, thumping one heel against the side of the building with a repeated rhythm that Steve recognised from a long time ago - the restless movement of one James Buchanan Barnes, who had something on his mind. He waited, knowing that Bucky wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself for very long. After a moment or two, it burst out of him into the night air.

“I feel like a shitty friend.”

“What? No-”

“Yeah, Rogers,” he said heavily. “You’re supposed to be my best pal, and here I’m pretty sure I never knew one of the core parts that makes you Steve Rogers.”

“Bucky, it’s…” Steve shook his head, searching for the right words. How to explain? How to let his best friend, the man he’d shared pretty much every other milestone with - including, somehow, death and resurrection, after a fashion - know that this was something that sat just slightly outside of everything else. He stumbled over words in his head, trying this and that way, before settling on something that was true, although not the whole of it.

“It’s not about you.”

Bucky regarded him solemnly, the light breeze lifting his shaggy hair from his cheeks for a moment. Steve remembered the look that Bucky was giving him - the same look that had raked across him when he’d been insistent that he needed nothing, needed no one, after his mother died. The same look that had come bundled with a promise that they’d always be there for each other. The same look that told him, even if Bucky didn’t really know - couldn’t know, not exactly - what he was going through, he’d be there anyway.

“‘Til the end of the line,” he said quietly, and Bucky nodded.

“It can’t have been easy,” he offered, after a moment, still looking at Steve seriously.

“Nah, it wasn’t,” Steve huffed something approaching a laugh in return.

“What about Peggy?”

“Peggy? Ah, Peggy was…” He rubbed hand over his chin reflexively, thinking back to the spunky brunette who’d stood by him when it seemed no one else believed in Captain America. “Peggy was everything I should have wanted. Anything a man could have dreamed up, there she was. And she understood me. Why I was doing it, why Erskine picked me, I guess.”

Bucky nodded, also remembering what he could of the plucky Brit. Steve sighed heavily, his shoulders shifting as he looked up at the sky above them, the stars twinkling almost as much as the city lights below. He chewed on his lip before continuing.

“I mean, if we’re talking shitty people here, I guess I was shitty to Peggy. Was probably the right thing, putting that plane down when I did, letting her go to live her life.”

Steve looked at Bucky from the corner of his eye, guilt racing through him.

“From what I remember of her…” Bucky trailed off, looking out across the darkening skyline.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, she’d’ve kicked your ass seven ways to Sunday, pal,” Bucky laughed, and - after a moment - so did Steve. “But after that… After that, probably she’d’ve been your biggest defender.”

--------

“So the court case is dead in the water, right?” Bucky said cheerfully as he banged the kitchen cupboard door shut with his elbow, balancing two bowls and a spoon in his free hand.

“What’re you talking about, Buck?”

Steve looked at him askance over the kitchen counter, already littered with the debris of Bucky’s first breakfast.

“The court case,” Bucky replied to the question Steve hadn’t actually asked, pairing it with an unconcerned shrug, reaching for the milk. “You get on the stand, you say ‘no your Honour, I’m as gay as they come’ and then they’ll throw it out.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that, Buck,” Steve shook his head, snagging the cornflakes packet from the other man.

“But, if people knew the truth, then-”

“Then they’d queue up to throw stuff at me in the street,” Steve interrupted.

“Not necessarily-”

“Buck, name one gay superhero,” Steve countered, his voice rising.

“Well, I mean…” Bucky paused, flesh hand rubbing the stubble across his chin thoughtfully. “There’s - well, not him. Actually, I always got a vibe off that Starlord guy. Like he was tryin’ too hard. But then - uh - or-”

“Exactly,” Steve said, cutting across him.

“Since when have you ever had an issue bein’ different to anyone else?” Bucky responded, changing tact swiftly. “You’re Steve Rogers. Kid who knocked down Billy J. Hudson in first grade for tryin’ to peep up Julie Goldstein’s skirt.”

“And then got knocked out five seconds later after Billy got back up again,” Steve said sourly.

“And did it all again the followin’ week. C’mon, Rogers. You’re the poster boy for not giving a shit about anyone else’s opinion,” Bucky knocked the man next to him with his shoulder, gaining himself a crooked half-smile from the large blond. “That’s who you are, pal. Before anything else. That’s all anyone cares about.”

“I’ve seen the internet, pal,” Steve said sourly, grabbing the open milk from his friend and pouring it liberally over his cornflakes. “People care about a helluva lot of things, and almost none of them are positive.”

“Steve, before you, there were no superheroes. You were the first. So why not be the first gay superhero?”

“I’m… Not ready for that,” Steve said quietly. “Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but personal is private. I don’t think I owe the world all of me.”

--------

Somehow, without entirely intending it, once he’d confessed to Bucky it seemed the right thing to do to let the truth ripple out across the rest of the team. Steve was an intensely private person and had kept his business quite happily to himself for the best part of a century, but he was also at heart a military man who believed that a team was stronger when they believed in each other. Bucky’s immediate acceptance had lessened the weight that had laid on his chest since the police had knocked on his door, and mostly his news had gone unremarked upon, with the small exception of one Tony Stark.

“You find me attractive, right?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“You’re right, it is a stupid question,” Tony looked chastened for a moment, then brightened up. “Everyone finds me attractive.”

“You’re definitely allowed to hit him if you can classify it as a reaction to a hate crime,” Bucky murmured under his breath. “Read it in one of Elle’s law books. I’ll back you up.”

“Does ‘back up’ mean hitting him as well?” Steve asked sagely, raising an eyebrow in the other man’s direction. Bucky merely shrugged in response.

--------

“Captain Rogers?”

“No comment,” Steve answered automatically, not turning to face the woman who had called his name. He had a full grocery bag under one arm and was fighting his own trouser pocket for the keys to his apartment.

“Don't be like that, I could help you,” the woman wheedled, and something in Steve snapped. He turned to her with fists clenched and a flush rising on his face, only to be blinded by a brilliant flash of light that took his sight momentarily.

One arm up to shield his face, Steve blinked back into focus and looked at the woman in front of him, a willowy blonde. The photographer at her side was a much smaller man, who clutched at his camera as though frightened Steve might take it from him.

“I really don’t need your help,” he growled.

“Fine, Captain,” she said under her breath as he turned away. “No help it is.”

--------

“Well, that's the morning papers.”

Bucky threw a stack onto the lounge table, the pile spilling over, headlines bold and blaring. Steve leaned across the table and frowned.

“Sorry, Steve - can't buy ‘em all, buddy.” Tony said sympathetically.

“Captain Pervert,” Steve read aloud from the front of the first one.

“Don't read ‘em, Steve,” Bucky advised, snatching it away and crushing it easily in his metal hand before tossing it expertly into the garbage bin on the other side of the room. “Remember all the crap they said about me?”

“But all that stuff was true.” Stark remarked, and the next paper on the pile hit him instead of the trash can.

--------

Elle stood in front of the board room wall, which had been liberally covered in pink sticky notes and drawing pins with pink string connecting one note to another - and, in some cases, several.

“Oh, the Barbie Murder Wall,” Tony said as he sat down next to Pepper. “I loved that one. Went great with the Nancy Drew Barbie they released in ‘89."

Elle, spinning on one pink kitten heel to face the team sat at the board table, ignored him.

“So,” she began brightly, looking from one face to the next in turn. “When it comes to sexual assault cases, there’s typically three main defences.” She gestured to the wall behind her, where three flash cards with bold pink writing were pinned.

“Innocence, consent, and insanity.” Elle tapped each one in time as she spoke.

“Insanity is not something you want to bring up, it opens multiple other cans of worms,” she said frankly. “So you’re down to consent, which means that Steve admits he had sex with this girl but she was fully consenting to wanting to do that. Again, sticky, not least because she wasn’t of age at the time so therefore legally could not consent.”

“And also, I did not have sex with her,” Steve pointed out.

“Might wanna change your wording there, Capsicle,” Tony said cheerfully. “I know you were in the deep freeze at the time, but the American public have heard that one before.”

Steve and Bucky exchanged a bemused look, and, at the end of the table, Pepper shook her head.

“Different states have different ages of consent, right?” Bucky said hopefully.

“True, and historically they’ve been…” Elle pulled a face. “Controversially lower, but since Steve’s old but not 1800s old, it’s irrelevant for us. In New York, by 1943 it was 17, and this girl would have been-”

“Fifteen, yeah.”

“So, really, it’s innocence. Which usually means proving you were somewhere else when it happened, but of course we can’t do that because no one disputes that you were where she says you were - history books and tour posters confirm.”

“Also-” Bucky gestured towards the black and white photograph which was front and centre in the middle of Elle’s wall. A fifteen year old Dorothy smiled brightly back, Steve’s arm casually slung across her shoulders.

“The thing is, it’s on the other side to prove your guilt, Steve,” Elle said. “They’re the ones levelling the case, making the accusation, so they need to build the case against you. All we have to do is refute it.”

“All we have to do,” Steve echoed with a hollow laugh.

“Look, realistically, it’s typically harder to get a sexual assault accusation to stick,” Elle said carefully. “Really, it’s on us to put enough doubt into the jury’s mind. We need to convince them that it’s just more likely that it didn’t happen.”

“What good is that?” Steve asked, horror-struck.

“Uh, it’s the kind of good that ends with you not wearing a fetching orange jumpsuit and breaking rocks apart for the next 15 years, Steve,” Tony responded. “You know, avoiding jail time? Generally what we’re aiming for here.”

“Civil cases don’t end in jail time, Tony,” Pepper said, shooting him a look that suggested she thought he really ought to know that by now. “Whatever happens here, Steve’s not in any danger of going to jail.”

“That’s not enough,” Steve said, shaking his head and turning back to Elle. “Doubt in the minds of seven people might be enough to get me acquitted in a trial, but it’s not telling the world that this is horse shit, is it?”

“I’m starting to think that’s the point,” Elle said. “Look, civil isn’t criminal, there’s no acquittal. They’ve got better odds than they would if it was a criminal case, but even so - it’s still something they’re saying happened seventy odd years ago. There’s no DNA, there’s basically no witnesses. It’s still an uphill battle for them.”

“So what is the point of all this, then?” Steve asked hoarsely. “Sport?”

“I think someone is out to damage your reputation, Steve,” Elle said simply. “Someone wants to put you on the world stage, and shoot you down. Whatever happens in the courtroom, we all know that the public in general will form their own opinions.”

“And they already are,” Darcy muttered, giving Bucky a look. She’d spent long enough on various forums and social media, tracking the spike of interest in Steve’s case, and what people had to say. As with most things, everyone had an opinion, and most people weren’t shy about sharing it online, either.

“Why would this Dorothy Henricks, or whatever her name is now, care anything about my opinion ratings?” Steve asked incredulously. “I met her one time, 76 years ago.”

“Can they even rely on her memory?” Bucky asked, sure that it wasn’t the first time he’d raised the same point.

“There’s a lot of detail in her statement,” Pepper said, looking up from her laptop where she’d been reading the finer details that Elle had shared. “Right down to the exact shade of lipstick she was wearing.”

“I’m not so sure it’s her idea,” Elle said thoughtfully.

“I bet I know,” said Bucky darkly, and Natasha shot him a look from across the table. Steve looked between the pair of them. “C’mon, we’re all thinking it, right? It’s not just me?”

“Ross?” Nat asked.

“Who else hates the Avengers as much as he does?”

“Quite a lot of people, actually,” Pepper murmured under her breath.

“And he was already humiliated publicly over my trial - and by Elle,” Bucky pointed out. The little blonde flushed slightly. “Maybe he expected us to run to her again. Maybe this is a two-fer deal for him.”

“If it is him, he’s not showing his hand,” Steve said. “His name is nowhere near this case, on any of the paperwork, and I think people would ask questions if he turned up to the trial out of the blue.”

“Whether it’s Ross or not,” Elle interrupted. “I certainly don’t think that Dorothy Henricks has come up with this on her own, but at the end of the day, she’s the one in the stand.”

“So?”

“So, if it’s not coming from her…” Elle shrugged. “She’ll be easier to break.”

--------

“Okay, so we need a battle strategy.”

Elle looked expectantly at the gathered team.

“But Steve’s got a cast-iron alibi?” Bucky interjected.

“Well, not really,” Elle shrugged. “I mean, yes, he does, but it’s hard to prove and besides - Steve’s not comfortable using it.”

Bucky turned to Steve with a look that somehow managed to position itself halfway between pleading and astonishment at his reluctance to use the only reasoning he had. Steve sighed heavily. It felt like he’d been having the same argument with the other man since he’d explained the situation.

“I had a single - brief - relationship - if you can even call it that - in 90 years, and this is what happens as a result?” Steve said, speaking to the room as a whole but mainly appealing to Bucky. “This is what people choose to hold over me, as leverage? Forgive me if this isn’t something I want to pursue publicly.”

“Bucky, I get that you’re just being a good friend, but Steve doesn’t want to come out publicly,” Elle said firmly. “You have to respect that, we all have to respect that, and I need to find some other platform on which to fight this case.”

“How likely is that?” Nat asked, shrugging at Steve when he threw her an injured look in response.

“Bucky, quick - what’s my favourite mantra?” Elle snapped her fingers in Bucky’s direction.

“If the fabric doesn’t work with you, you don’t work with that fabric,” Bucky intoned, Natasha throwing him an incredulous look as he did so. He shrugged unconcernedly in her direction.

“Exactly,” Elle said decisively. “What we need is a defence that works for Steve, not just one that works for the case.”

--------

“Well, gosh Mr America, sir,” the tall blonde said, dropping into an awkward curtsey. “It’s a real honour just to touch you.”

“Uh, Elle-”

Steve looked at his lawyer with some concern, taking a small step backward as the larger woman advanced on him. She had what appeared to be a folding table under one arm, and Steve thought she might be about as tall as he was.

“Steve, this is Paulette,” Elle said brightly.

“I thought she did hair?” Bucky asked under his breath.

“I thought you said I needed to relax,” Steve said out of the corner of his mouth as Paulette flipped open the table.

“Oh, no, she’s diversified now,” Elle nodded excitedly. “She does a fantastic deep tissue massage. Really gets right into those tough knots. You’re gonna love it.”

--------

“Darcy, anything?” Elle asked, and the brunette shook her head in response, face illuminated from the glow of her laptop screen. She’d volunteered to research into Dorothy, hoping against hope that she could find something - anything - in the depths of the internet that could help Steve’s case.

“Nothing,” she said glumly, sitting back in her chair with a sigh. “Well, actually - lots of things, our friend Dorothy really puts the social in butterfly - but nothing I can see that’s useful.”

“She puts the book in scrap-booking, too,” Nat added, flipping over the files that they had spread across the table. “Looks like she’s supplied a lot of so-called evidence to this case. Not all of it particularly useful, to her or us.”

“Maybe she’s just trying to bury the case under the weight of all this,” Darcy said, indicating the pile of submitted evidence that had arrived along with the case files. “Distract us from the key points with a mountain of irrelevance.”

“Apparently she was a department store buyer for most of the ‘50s,” Pepper said, squinting over Darcy’s shoulder at the screen. “Looks like she worked at Bergdorf Goodman after graduating college, moved into charity fundraising work after she got married. Interesting, but, as you say, not useful.”

“Ugh, this is impossible,” Darcy said, slumping back in her chair and pouting at the screen.

“Don’t give up hope,” Elle said firmly, reaching across to pat Darcy on the hand. “There’s always something. We’ve just gotta sift through the unimportant stuff first.”

--------

“She’s a Delta Nu?” Elle said slowly, staring at a glossy black and white photograph that she’d just uncovered from the pile of files they’d been working their way through that week.

“Delta who?” Bucky asked from the other end of the table, blinking somewhat blearily over his half-drunk coffee.

“It’s a sorority, my sorority,” the blonde answered off-handedly, bringing the photograph closer to her face. She tapped the black and white gloss with her index finger. “See here, on her lapel? That’s a Delta Nu pin.”

She thrust it toward Bucky, who leaned forward obediently to take it from her. He peered at the photograph, a prim and proper looking young woman stared back out at him. As Elle had pointed out, a small pin was affixed to her lapel, pride of place on her chest. Bucky looked over the photograph at Elle, who was looking decidedly pale.

“Does it mean anything?” He asked, not following. “Is it something we can use?”

Natasha, sitting between them, plucked the photograph from Bucky’s hand and stared at it herself. Elle remained quiet, tapping the bobble of her pen against the desk and staring into space.

“Are you okay, Elle?” Bucky asked, concerned.

“I - I just…” She trailed off, turning her head to look at him. “I believe Steve, of course I do. But a Delta Nu sister would never-”

“People do all sorts of things, Elle,” Nat shrugged. “For all sorts of reasons. Just because they shared a house and wore pink on Wednesdays, doesn’t mean much 70 years on.”

--------

“You think she’s okay?” Tony asked critically, arms folded over his chest as he stood in the doorway of the boardroom.

“Who, Elle?” Bucky paused and looked across at the little blonde. “Sure, Elle’s always okay. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“She just seems a little… Flat,” Tony said, still looking at her, his head tilted to one side. “Since she realised that Henricks woman is a Deltoid Blue-”

“Delta Nu,” Nat corrected absentmindedly.

“-she’s not been herself.”

Bucky made a disparaging noise and waved his hand in Tony’s direction.

“That’s definitely a duller shade of pink than normal,” the other man said, gesturing at Elle’s dress. The three tilted their heads to consider.

“It’s pastel,” Nat said, after a moment.

“Last week? Neon,” Tony pointed out.

“You’re telling people’s moods from the shade of their clothing now?” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Stark. Even you can’t believe that.”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Tony said, hands up in a defensive mime. “I’m just pointing out that your main Powerpuff girl isn’t operating on all cylinders right now.”

--------

“She says she has your handkerchief, Steve?”

Obediently, he looked over at the photo Elle was holding out to him. Across the bottom of it was written, in big black lettering, Exhibit 34C.

“Yeah, that’s mine,” he nodded, after a quick glance.

“Stevie-” Bucky punched him in the arm.

“Hey, what’s that for?” Steve asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“You’re not meant to say things like that,” the other man said incredulously. “You say ‘no, your honour, I’ve never wiped my nose in my entire goddamn life, I’ve never even owned a handkerchief, we were far too poor - I’m not even sure, now you come to mention, if I know what a handkerchief is’.”

“Buck, I’m not going to lie,” Steve said patiently, still kneading his knuckles into the sore spot on his arm. Most people couldn’t hurt Steve, but Bucky was as strong as he was - and with a metal arm, to boot. “That’s the whole point, here.”

“The point is that you don’t get put away for something you didn’t do-”

“-he can’t be put away, it’s a civil case,” Nat said from the other side of the table, rolling her eyes. Bucky waved his hand dismissively in her direction.

“It’s got my initials embroidered on it, Buck,” Steve said tiredly, pointing to said initials, clearly displayed in the black & white photograph.

“Plenty of SRs in the world,” Bucky replied, shrugging.

“She says you gave it to her - after,” Elle said, a slightly guilty look passing across her face as she spoke.

“That… That did happen. But it wasn't her-”

“It’s got her lipstick mark on it,” Nat said, taking the photo from Elle and looking at it critically before referring back to the paperwork in front of her. “She says she reapplied her favourite Victory Red and used the handkerchief to blot it.”

“Doesn’t prove a thing,” Bucky said mulishly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Doesn’t look good though, does it,” Steve said heavily.

--------

“Elle! Hey, Elle!”

The girl in question looked up from where she was standing in the entrance hall of the courthouse, Steve suited and booted at her side. A short Mexican man was waving frantically at her from the staircase. She waved back as he began to descend.

“I represented him,” Elle clarified the unasked question for Steve before greeting the other man. “Hey, Luis.”

“Yo, Miss Woods,” the little dark-haired man grinned widely as he presented himself in front of them. “Uh, Richmond. Missus. We still on for next month?”

“Yes, yes, we are,” Elle gave him a warm smile in return, and the man clapped her on the shoulder briefly before turning on his heel and pushing the doors open. Steve looked down at her.

“You keep up with all the people you represent in court?”

“I mean, I try, but you know, it’s a lot easier when they’re re-offending.”

--------

Steve took a deep breath as he waited for the courtroom to be opened, his shoulders lifting high and then dropping as he exhaled hard. Bucky, standing at his side in a similar dark suit, hair slicked back for once, and holding a small be-sweatered Chihuahua in one hand, gave him a nudge in the ribs.

“You okay, Rogers?”

“About as okay as a man about to be put on trial for rape can be,” he muttered in response.

Bucky looked at him for a moment, considering, and then thrust Bruiser at him. Steve, surprised, fumbled at the dog, just about managing not to drop him.

“What the-”

“Just hold the damn dog,” Bucky growled.

--------

“Henricks is quite an unusual name, did you know that?” Elle asked, smiling at the woman in the stand. “Especially in New York.”

“I wasn't aware, no,” the woman said, glancing toward the judge and then back at Elle. “I'm not sure what that has to do with anything though?”

“Actually out of the entire populace, there’s only two families in the tri-state area with that name,” Elle continued, though she stumbled slightly on her words. Bucky suppressed a groan at the way she appeared to be floundering. Her dress, he noticed, was a blush pink. So light, it might not even qualify as pink. He thought of Tony’s knowing look, and closed his eyes briefly.

“Well that is… Interesting,” the woman in the stand said, after a moment and with a second look up at the judge. “My name is Johnson now, however.”

--------

“Intentional infliction of emotional distress - fancy legal words, but we know what this case really is,” said the blue-suited news presenter, looking seriously to camera. She nodded slowly, knowing that what she was about to say next was already being hotly debated in living rooms all across America - as well as online.

“The first day of Johnson vs Rogers has us all gripped,” she continued. “Is America about to witness the fall of her most beloved superhero? Whilst modern day sensibilities are undoubtedly different to those of the 1940s, can we really ignore what this case is saying - that Steve Rogers, Captain America, knowingly abused his position, taking advantage of the impressionable young girls who just wanted to meet the face of the US Army?”

--------

“The fact is, this case comes down to a he-said she-said scenario,” Elle said, addressing the courtroom with what looked to Bucky like a falsely bright smile. “Except, as every grade school kid knows, Captain America has an eidetic memory - we know for a fact that his recollections are correct.”

She nodded, though it looked more as though she was reassuring herself of the fact than anyone else. Bucky resisted the urge to rub his hand over his forehead.

“Not so for the rest of us, I’m afraid,” Elle continued, turning towards the jury as she spoke.

“My memory is very good, exceptional even,” Dororthy interjected from the witness stand.

“Mrs. Johnson,” the judge reprimanded from her seat. “Please refrain from adding to the defence. You’ll have enough questions put to you in due course, I can assure you.”

Elle nodded toward the judge, and took a deep breath before she carried on.

“Usually I wouldn’t like to ask a lady to reveal her age - why would we need to, girls, when a small pot of L’Oreal Revitalift keeps our secrets for us-” she paused to wink at the jury before turning back to face the witness stand, regaining a little of her usual confidence. “But in this instance, Mrs. Johnson, could I just ask you to clarify for the court?”

“I will be ninety-six in September,” the woman answered primly.

“And may I say you look barely into retirement,” Elle said sincerely. “But whilst I’m sure the reporters and the women of this courtroom will be keen to hear your skincare routine, Olay doesn’t have a serum for the brain. Memory is a fickle thing, and the older we get-”

“My memory is as good as it ever was,” Dorothy cut across Elle. “And moreover everyone in this court can see that it is, because the photographs and the evidence I’ve submitted all show every detail I’m saying to be true.”

--------

“This is not going well,” Darcy said with a groan, sinking back into the couch as the large screen television displayed coverage of Steve’s trial.

“Unfortunately, it is not,” Pepper agreed, coming to a standstill behind the couch, arms crossed in front of her as she grimaced at the screen.

“There’s gotta be something we can do,” Darcy said, muting the television and looking up at the tall redhead. “We can’t just sit here and watch the monkeys take over the circus.” She gestured towards the screen where Jesse Waters was having a spirited discussion with Laura Ingraham. Even with the sound off, it was clear that nothing positive was being said about Steve.

“We’ve been through just about every document we can find,” Pepper answered, sinking onto the couch arm next to Darcy. “And nothing seems to disprove a lick of what that woman is saying.”

“She can’t be as squeaky clean as she’s making out,” Darcy grumbled. “No one is this much of a goody-two-shoes.” Darcy picked up Elle’s pom-pom topped pen, tapping it absentmindedly against her chin as she mused. “What would Elle do?”

“She’s doing all she can, Darcy,” Pepper reminded her.

“No, but I mean - Elle’s a lawyer, she’s… Busy Lawyering,” Darcy said with an impatient wave that sent the pom-pom nodding toward the tv screen, where Elle was indeed making her way up the courthouse steps once more, clutching her laptop in one hand and her handbag in the other. She looked defeated, though Darcy couldn’t voice it. “What would she be doing if she wasn’t a lawyer?”

“Probably hosting a sorority dinner,” Pepper laughed to herself. “Oh, you mean if she wasn’t on Steve’s case specifically?”

Darcy looked at Pepper, her mouth open.

“Hosting a sorority dinner,” she said slowly. “Sorority - Elle’s sorority. Dorothy’s sorority.”

“My sorority,” Pepper said casually.

“Wait, what?”

“My sorority - I’m also Delta Nu,” Pepper shrugged. “It’s how I know Elle. There’s a whole network of sorority sisters, right across the US. We have dinners, fundraisers, there’s a newsletter-”

--------

“A heritage tea party,” Darcy clapped her hands together and gazed around the room at the tables and chairs. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re going to crack this case wide open over scones?” Tony asked, surveying the way his boardroom had been transformed once again. Gone was Elle’s murder board and pink sticky notes, in their place chintzy sofas and tables laden with delicate lacework tablecloths. “Lawsuit Barbie turns Pink Panther?”

“Well, stranger things have happened, Tony,” Pepper said evenly, adjusting a cake stand with a critical eye.

“How do you know these women will even turn up? They’ve got to be care home candidates if they’re not already in the grave,” the dark-haired man said, shaking his head.

“A Delta Nu would never miss an opportunity to support her sisterhood,” Pepper said, smoothing out a lace tablecloth as she spoke. “Even if she needs a little assistance to get there.”

“And how are you going to get people talking about some random woman from seventy years ago?”

“She’s not a random woman to them, she’s a sister,” said Darcy, appearing at Pepper’s elbow.

“It’s a heritage tea, Tony, the whole point is to discuss older members and remember their contributions,” Pepper explained patiently.

“You mean gossip,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

“If the high heel fits.”

--------

“Wow, this is… Really pink,” Darcy said, looking at herself critically in the mirror.

“It is a bit violent,” Pepper agreed from behind her, smoothing her own, rather more muted, pink pantsuit.

“You sure I’m going to pass as a Delta Nu?” Darcy asked, turning to face Pepper with a concerned look across her face. “I never actually finished college, what with the whole Thor thing, and, well - everything else.”

“You’ll be fine,” Pepper answered, putting a comforting hand on the younger woman’s shoulder as she spoke. “These women like to talk, you just have to start them up and then guide them in the right direction.”

“What if ol’ Dorothy Henricks really is whiter-than-white?” Darcy asked, smoothing down her skirt. “What if there’s no dirt to dig, and we just threw a really expensive tea party for no reason?”

“Then at least we tried,” Pepper said firmly.

--------

“You know, I’m actually a legacy,” Darcy said conversationally, settling herself onto the chintz pouffe, taking care to cross her legs at the ankle as she sat. She offered the woman next to her a tray of tiny pastel coloured macarons. “My mother, and her mother, were both Delta Nu.”

“My daughters were all in Delta Nu,” the woman reminisced, plucking a single pale green pastry from the plate. Darcy resisted the urge to shove three in her mouth at once. “Well, except for Rachel. She’s always been a little… alternative,” the woman nodded meaningfully at Darcy, who nodded back, wondering vaguely whether alternative meant that Rachel was a punk with two full sleeves of tattoos and a shaved head, or just a girl who didn’t always wear a twin set and pearls to lunch.

Shaking the thought away, and offering the plate around the small group politely, Darcy focused back on the task at hand - grilling the women of Delta Nu for information.

“And I had an aunt, too - well, she was a second cousin twice removed on my father’s side, but everyone’s an aunt, right?” Darcy laughed and the women laughed along with her. “Dorothy Henricks? Maybe you knew her?”

The women shook their heads as one, and Darcy swallowed down her disappointment with a tight-lipped smile and tried not to groan out loud. She’d spent the afternoon floating from group to group, listening to somewhat outdated views on everything from social reform, to immigration, to hair colour. This was the last group but one, and if the final set of women had nothing to tell her, then the operation had been a bust.

“Excuse me, dear,” a wavering voice came from her left, and Darcy looked to the source of it. One of the women in the final group, a petite woman with a neatly set perm and a set of pearls that Darcy was certain cost more than her entire apartment, beckoned to her. “You’re asking about Dorothy Henricks?”

“Henricks?” Another woman, sitting on the sofa next to the first, asked, looking up from the piece of cake she was digging into. Darcy raised her head but tried to keep a handle on her hopes, snagging Pepper’s teapot from the table and heading across to the final group of Delta Nu sisters.

“Did you know Dorothy back then?” She asked politely, carefully pouring tea into the delicate china cup held out to her. “She would have pledged in, oh, in the fall of ‘46?”

“Little Dotty Henricks?” The woman snorted around a mouthful of Victoria sponge. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Darcy glanced at Pepper, who had arrived at the other side of the sofa, confused.

“Henricks?” Said the other woman, absent-mindedly stirring her tea. “Was she that little bit who-”

“Who tried to pledge, yes,” Victoria Sponge finished, nodding her head enthusiastically and dropping crumbs as she did so.

“Tried to pledge?” Pepper’s eyebrows knit together and she threw Darcy a sidelong glance. Darcy, for her part, dug her fingertips into her thighs to keep from shouting.

“Tried in the fall rush and the following spring, as I recall,” Victoria Sponge answered, trying and failing to keep the glee from her voice.

“Remind me, Daphne dear, did she even get a bid?” Tea Cup asked, taking a small sip.

“Oh, well she did, the Rosewood girl took pity on her always hanging around,” Daphne nodded, regarding the last bit of cake on her plate and deciding, with apparent regret, to leave it. “But that’s as far as it went.”

“So she was never actually a Delta Nu?” Darcy asked, feeling slightly faint.

“Sorry, honey, your aunt’s a phoney,” Daphne said, leaning forward to pat her knee. “Not everyone’s got the stuff to be a Delta Nu, you know.”

--------

“She lied,” Elle said, eyes shining, as she hung up on Darcy’s frantic voicemail. She looked from Bucky to Nat, stood beside her, waiting patiently for a better explanation of the urgent phone call she’d had to take.

“We know,” Bucky replied, confused.

“No, she lied about being a Delta Nu - she’s not a sister at all,” Elle explained.

“So?”

“So - if she lied about that, what else did she lie about?”

“Elle, I gotta tell ya, not everyone is so interested in sororities,” Bucky said with a broad attempt at diplomacy. “I know you’re probably offended about stolen valour or whatever, but I don’t think the jury is gonna care that-”

“But she had a pin,” Nat said thoughtfully, her eyes on Elle. “A Delta Nu pin.”

Bucky looked between the pair of them as though they’d gone mad.

“A fake,” Elle said, before correcting herself, an odd look passing over her face. “No - a replica.”

Nat tilted her head to one side, waiting for Elle to catch them up. Bucky felt lost.

“It's on a wall in the Smithsonian,” the blonde said slowly, eyebrows furrowing in thought.

“Huh?”

“Steve. He has an eidetic memory, right?” she asked, apparently not expecting an answer as she rushed onto the next part. “Everyone knows that. It's on the wall in the Smithsonian.”

“And a couple dozen history books,” Bucky noted with a shrug. “So?”

“So I knew something sounded familiar,” she said, impatient. “Get your coat, and the jet. We’re going to DC.”

--------

“You know, I came here like three weekends in a row when we researched your case,” Elle said confidentially.

“You did?”

“Uhuh,” she nodded, heels clicking on the marble floor. “There’s a great spa I used to hit up when I was working here. So relaxing. And when I was in the museum, I didn't just look at the wall about you.”

Elle hauled him toward a small room, a part of the exhibition dedicated to the original Captain America touring show. Three mannequins wearing variations of the USO girls’ dress greeted them, a tinny version of the Star Spangled Man piped out through speakers set where their mouths ought to have been.

“Steve hates that song,” Bucky grinned, looking over the mannequins as they stood before him, one plastic arm raised each in an approximation of an army salute.

“He does?” Elle asked, tilting her head to one side as she digested what he’d said. “But it’s his ringtone?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered with a snort. “Stevie’s never really got the hang of modern technology. Streaming tv is about his limit. Me, on the other hand-”

Elle grinned back at him, then put a hand in his, urging him along to the next room, which turned out to be a larger exhibition about women and the war effort. Bucky thought it was a neat segue from the girls who’d supported Steve through his touring months. Elle, breaking away from him, trotted impatiently through the exhibits, clearly looking for something, though Bucky couldn’t imagine what.

“Did you know that there was a ban on makeup in the war years?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder at him as she walked.

Bucky paused. His memory wasn’t the best, not after years of electroshock straight through his temples, but he also wasn’t sure it was something that he’d necessarily have taken in anyway.

“Uh… Maybe?”

Elle threw him a smile before continuing. “I mean, it wasn’t, like, banned from use. But, for a time, the manufacturers weren’t allowed to make any new products, by order of the WPB.”

“The War Production Board monitored makeup?” Bucky asked, finding a spark of memory flashing for him around the acronym.

“You better believe it, Bucky,” said Elle earnestly. “Men always want women to look their best, but they don’t want it at the expense of something they’re doing.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite-” he started, but Elle had continued without pausing.

“Do you know Elizabeth Arden?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Not personally,” he said slowly, the name ringing the faintest of bells somewhere in the back of his shattered memory, but unable to properly place it in the face of Elle’s enthusiasm.

“Oh, she was a revolutionary,” the blonde said with fervour. “By 1925, she had salons all over the world - she even supported the suffragette movement with a bright red lipstick-”

“She sounds a real peach,” Bucky said firmly, cutting across her. “They should add her to the school curriculum. But as fascinating as the history of lipstick is-”

“This is important, believe me,” Elle said, coming to a stop in front of a wall with a large mural emblazoned on it. In bright red foot high words, it proclaimed ‘Beauty is Duty’. She gestured to it excitedly. “See?”

“No,” Bucky said, shrugging.

Elle stepped forward and, with one perfectly manicured nail, tapped the information board below it meaningfully. It described the short history of a lipstick called Victory Red, and a small tube - half-used - was carefully on display in a perspex case to the side. Bucky, swallowing back what he really wanted to say, and reminding himself that there was a reason they’d wanted Elle to lead the case after all, bent to scan the text.

“Created to boost citizen morale… a symbol of patriotism,” he muttered under his breath as he skimmed the short paragraph. “Huh. Like Steve, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Elle said, nodding. “But that’s not the point. The point is, Dorothy Johnson - Henricks, whatever - has been leaning this whole trial on her memory, that handkerchief, and that lipstick mark.”

“I knew the handkerchief was a problem,” Bucky replied, feeling vindicated, then paused. “Wait, how is it a problem?”

“It’s not the handkerchief,” Elle answered, with a shake of her head, blonde hair swinging slightly as she moved. “Not exactly - it’s the lipstick. She’s been so loud about it being Victory Red, and it’s such a famous shade for the time, any Arden aficionado would know it, but that mark was not made by a 1940s lipstick.”

--------

“Mrs. Johnson,” Elle smiled brightly. “Welcome back to court, and thank you for taking the stand again. I appreciate at your age it’s not always so easy. I just have one or two clarifications to make, if you don’t mind.”

The older woman sniffed, drawing her pashmina around her shoulders and resettling herself on the wooden chair of the witness stand.

“You know, I’m a Cosmo girl through and through,” Elle said, turning to the jury and shooting them a wide smile as well. “We all have our signature colours, and I’m sure you’ve guessed that mine is pink.”

There was a murmur of laughter that rippled across the courtroom, and Elle nodded her head indulgently, waiting for it to die away before continuing.

“But I thought today I’d try something new,” she said, stepping back to her counsel table and reaching into her handbag. Taking out a set of makeup wipes, she carefully removed the pink lipstick that she was wearing.

“Mrs. Richmond,” the judge said, unamused, above the titters that had begun throughout the court room. “I trust you remember that this is a court case, and not a TikTok video.”

“Oh, this is relevant,” Elle answered, turning back to the judge with a lipstick-stained wipe in one hand and an earnest look on her face. “I promise.”

“Proceed, then,” the judge said, narrowing her gaze at Elle. “But I should remind you that I am not in the habit of allowing frivolous stunts in my courtroom.”

“Of course, your Honour,” Elle said with a deferential nod. She turned back to her handbag, but not before winking at Steve who was sitting on the other side of the table. He managed a weak smile in return, Bruiser nestled into the crook of his arm and snoring lightly. Bucky and Elle had arrived back from DC late the night before, and, whilst he’d heard there was a grand plan for today’s session, he had no idea what it actually was.

Elle pulled out a tube of lipstick, and turned back to the jury.

“Not my usual shade, but needs must,” she smiled, popping the lid and twisting the bottom to reveal a bright red lipstick. In the stand, Dorothy Johnson paled slightly under her foundation, but squared her shoulders and sat upright.

“This-” Elle said, waving the tube toward the jury. “-is Victory Red. You’ll remember the name, I’m sure, as the lipstick that Dorothy was wearing the night she went to the USO tour to meet Captain America.”

The judge frowned slightly from her position on the bench, but said nothing as Elle pulled a handheld mirror from her pocket and carefully applied the lipstick. The jury looked at each other, murmurs increasing both from them and the small audience in the gallery as the blonde made sure every part of her lips was a bright, vibrant, red.

“Oops,” she said, setting the tube back on the counsel table. “Mustn’t forget to blot. Steve?”

She looked at him expectantly, and Steve blinked back, lost. From behind him, Bucky reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bright, white handkerchief, leaning over both the wooden balustrade and Steve’s right shoulder to present it to Elle with a flourish.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” Elle winked again as she took it. Steve closed his eyes briefly and reminded himself that both Elle and Bucky were his friends.

“This isn’t something a modern day girl needs to worry about as much,” Elle said conversationally as she folded Bucky’s handkerchief carefully, turning back to the jury as she did so. “The lipsticks of the 1940s looked matte on the wearer, but they were made of things like castor oil and petroleum which made them super creamy.”

“Of course-” she carried on, looking for all the world as if she were having a one to one with some of her sorority sisters. “-Victory Red was produced in war-time, so it was probably beeswax that they used, but the effect is the same. A girl needed to blot, and any marks left would be much thicker than we’d see today.”

Dorothy Johnson swallowed slightly, and shifted on the wooden chair in the witness box. Elle, using the folded handkerchief, blotted carefully. When she took the fabric away, a clear red mark was shown. Stepping back, Elle laid it carefully on her counsel table, and the court waited to see what she would do next.

“You Honour, could we publish Exhibit 34C again for the benefit of the court?”

There was a rumble of whispers that rolled around the courtroom at Elle’s request, and Steve couldn’t help but notice that Dorothy Johnson’s smile appeared welded into place. The judge shot Elle a look that plainly said she was suspicious of Elle’s tactics, but couldn’t quite see any reason to deny her. She made a motion with one hand to the clerk, who nodded in return and fiddled with the remote for the monitor hanging on the wall.

Whilst they waited, Elle turned back to the jury.

“The reason I mention the difference between war-time lipsticks and modern lipsticks, is that whilst the colour may appear the same, the consistency is very different,” she paused, glancing across at the folded handkerchief still lying where she’d left it on her counsel table, knowing full well that the jury would - to a man - follow her gaze. “It means that any marks they leave are, well, pretty different, too.”

There was a gasp from one of the younger jury members as Elle’s explanation sank in, a redheaded girl who was probably college-age. She looked from Elle to Dorothy, who set her jaw tight and looked straight ahead, refusing to meet Elle’s eyes.

The monitor flickered into life, and the clerk announced “Exhibit 34C, your Honour.”

Every eye in the room swung to the monitor, eager to see. Steve’s handkerchief was displayed, both it and the lipstick mark upon it broadcast 5 feet wide for the people watching. Several members of the jury craned forward over the railings, looking between the enormous screen to where Bucky’s handkerchief lay on the table. Elle, anticipating the interest, crossed back to the table and picked up the material. She walked back to the jury box, handkerchief held carefully between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, cautious to leave the lipstick stain untouched.

“Can you see any difference between this stain and the stain on the screen?” She asked, offering the handkerchief to the first person on the bench, a tall dark-haired man who looked vaguely terrified to be handed it. He took it gingerly, glancing between the stain in front of him, and the large screen on the other side of the room.

“Uh,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that was not holding Bucky’s handkerchief. “No?”

“Ugh, give it here-” the redheaded girl said with a roll of her eyes from the other end of the row, holding her hand out impatiently. The dark-haired man passed it down, grateful that the spotlight had shifted from him to someone else. The redhead, taking careful hold of the handkerchief when it reached her, peered at it carefully.

“Oh,” she said, disappointed, looking up at Elle. “It isn’t any different.”

From her seat in the witness box, Dorothy Johnson looked considerably brighter.

“No,” Elle said, leaning forward and taking the handkerchief from the girl with a small smile. “It wouldn’t be, because although the lipstick I just applied is called Victory Red, it’s a modern version.”

There was a short gasp from the room, which stuttered back to silence as the people gathered tried to understand where Elle was going.

“In 2004, Besame Cosmetics was launched,” Elle explained. “A company dedicated to the recreation and manufacture of classic historic makeup from the early part of the last century, some of you may be familiar with the name. In 2021, they launched Victory Red.” She spun on her heel to face Dorothy Johnson, the smile fading from her face as she did so.

“It’s a replica,” she said, staring hard at the woman in the witness box. “A fake, some might call it.”

Dorothy laughed nervously, and looked to the judge, who stared back impassively.

“Well,” she said, knitting her hands together carefully and resting them on the front of the witness box. “It’s a very interesting lecture on the differences in makeup trends through time, but I’m not sure this really has anything to do with the case-”

“That lipstick is the modern version-” Elle said, as though Dorothy hadn’t spoken. “This one, however,” she reached into her pocket and pulled out a second tube, holding it up for the jury to see. “This actually is the original Elizabeth Arden Victory Red.”

“That can’t possibly be real,” Dorothy said sharply. “You can’t find it nowadays for love nor money, I looked everywhere-”

She cut herself off suddenly, realising what she’d said and how it implicated her, and Elle smiled softly.

“I know,” she said, looking down at the little tube in her hand. “You must have searched everywhere you could, but the only original version I could find was on display in the Smithsonian. Anyone else, well-” she looked up, and shrugged lightly. “-they’d have to make do with the replica.”

Elle paused, then looked back up at the old woman.

“Like you did, when you stained Steve’s handkerchief.”

--------

“I still can’t believe you didn’t go after her for your court costs,” Bucky said with a shake of his head. Steve rolled his eyes in response.

“She’s in enough trouble as it is,” he replied, snagging a beer bottle from the cooler and handing it silently to the other man, who popped the cap one-handed and passed it back. “Perjury is a serious crime.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, incredulously. “It is, punk. Hence the court costs.”

Steve smiled to himself. Henricks being proven to be a liar on the national - international, by the time it hit the internet, and that had only taken a matter of minutes, if that - stage, was more than enough for him. That Elle had been able to keep private life private, as well as his good name out of the proverbial mud, was something he wasn’t taking for granted.

“Mr. Rogers,” came a voice at his elbow, and he turned to find the blonde in question smiling up at him. She clinked her own bottle against his, and he grinned back.

“Careful,” Bucky said with a sly grin of his own, appearing on Steve’s left. “This is usually the point where she tries to score you a date.”

“Well, now you mention it,” Elle began earnestly, laying a hand against his arm, and Steve laughed. “There’s a guy at Emmet’s office, super cute-”