Steve Rogers and Religion, Part 2

In "Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down)," the author spitandvinegar presents Steve Rogers as a devout Catholic who attends mass several times a week and is devoted to praying and reading his Bible. [NB: My main review of this fanfic is found here].

Excerpts:

[Chapter 1]

He's kneeling in the little Catholic church that's the closest there is to his apartment. It's an ugly, modern building, and he hates it, and he feels guilty for hating it. He's on his fourth rosary.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus – ” he breaks off when he notices the priest sitting in the pew next to him. He's not sure how long he's been there for. He ducks his head a little, which sends a rush of dizziness through him. “Father.”

“No, please, don't let me disturb you,” says the priest.

“I think I should probably sit down,” Steve says, and does, wincing at another wave of lightheadedness. It occurs to him that he hasn't eaten all day, and the sun has long since set.

“You're been here for a long time,” the priest says. “I don't think He'll mind if you rest a little. You know, I don't often see people your age praying the rosary, especially not in Latin.”

“I'm older than I look, Father,” Steve says, and the priest takes a look at him and gives a very small double-take. Then he smiles.

“I suppose that you are.” He pauses. “Is there anything in particular that's troubling you?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “I've already confessed about it. But it's the same thing again and again, and I don't think – I don't think I can stop. I don't think I want to.”

The priest's smile widens. “I don't imagine it could be anything too terrible, from you.”

“I'm in love with another man,” Steve says.

There's a silence.

. . . .

[Chapter 5]

After dinner Steve badgers Buck into stepping on the bathroom scale for him. 184.

Steve frowns. “How is that possible?”

“The arm,” Bucky says. “And. The bones. T-t-t-t-titanium reinforcements. Approximate weight 25 kilos.”

“Oh, Buck,” he says. Bucky doesn't say anything at all.

That night Steve orders a case of high-calorie soy-based protein shakes from the internet. They come highly recommended on a forum for vegan bodybuilders.

Then he gets down on his knees.

“Good Saint Dymphna, great wonder-worker in every affliction of mind and body, I humbly implore your powerful intercession with Jesus through Mary, the Health of the Sick, in the present need of James Buchanan Barnes for the relief of his illness. Saint Dymphna, martyr of purity, patroness of those who suffer with nervous and mental afflictions, beloved child of Jesus and Mary, pray to Them for me and obtain my request.” He takes a deep breath. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum...”

The prayer for intercession. Our Father. Hail Mary. Glory Be.

The prayer for intercession. Our Father. Hail Mary. Glory Be.

Again.

Again.

Again –

He falls asleep on the floor next to his bed.

. . . .

[Chapter 6]

"Afternoon, good lookin'. Glad to see you've decided to join the living."

Buck glances at the clock on the bedside table, then flops backwards with a groan. "It's s-s-seven in the goddamn AM."

"I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that's when regular people wake up," Steve says. "To go to work. You know, at a job?"

"I ain't the unemployed one in this relationship, d-d-dollface. Heading off to haul crates every day, busting my ass so you can sit around on yours eating b-bon-bons and reading Ladies Home Journal."

Steve sniggers. Buck winks, then says, "So where are you t-taking that cute unemployed ass, anyhow?" He tics a little.

"Mass, Buck," Steve says. "It's Sunday. I woulda thought a working man such as yourself would know what day of the week it is."

"Oh, I know what day of the week it is, I just can't think about church without b-bleeding out the ears and screaming in Greek," Buck says and tics again, harder; the head one and a new one from this week where he shrugs his shoulders really fast. He hasn't been grunting so much for the past few days, which is a relief: Steve hates that one. Bucky says, "That was a joke, don't get all worked up."

"Well thank the Lord for that, I was about to call up Father Gary for an exorcism," Steve says and grabs his wallet off of the bedside table. "You can come with me, if you want."

"What, are you trying to get me to b-burst into flames?" Then, with a hint of warning in his voice, "You ain't getting me into the fold, Rogers. Don't bother."

Steve pauses halfway through getting his wallet into his pocket, stricken.

Steve's faith has only ever become an issue between them once, before this. It was when Steve was twelve, right before his confirmation. He was excited about it, wanted to talk about it all the time, and something he said – neither of them could remember exactly what it was, afterwards – must have sounded to Buck like “You're a dirty rotten sinner for not believing like I do.” He refused to talk to Steve for almost a week, and Steve practically went nuts trying to figure out what was wrong, until Buck came climbing up Steve's fire escape and wailed, “You're my best friend and you think I'm gonna burn.”

So they hugged and cried all over each other, even though they were old enough to know that a couple of guys shouldn't be acting like that. Steve promised that he thought Buck was the swellest guy in the world no matter what he believed in, that he didn't give a darn what Father Michael said, and that he'd never, ever say anything to make Bucky think otherwise. Buck promised Steve that he'd never up and leave Steve all alone like that again, even if they had him locked in a jail. In hindsight, Steve kind of wonders if that day – two skinny kids way too wrapped up in each other, promising to love each other more than they loved the laws of man or God – was the first step on a path that ended with them sharing a bed in 2015.

It stings, now, to know that Buck's forgotten it. That he could lose something that Steve carries so close to the bone.

"You know I wouldn't, Buck, you know I promised that I'd never push you about it, you know I don't care that you're not –"

"Hey," Bucky says. "Hey. I didn't know. I don't remember us t-talking about this before. I should've figured you'd be a fucking s-s-saint about it. Catholic pun intended, b-by the way." His accent's drifting, getting a little British or something.

. . . .

[Chapter 8]

Buck takes the cuffs off of Steve, who jerks off while Buck kisses on him and talks a lot of really filthy bullshit. Then they sponge themselves down and drag their tired old asses to bed. Steve climbs in with a book, and Buck does a double-take when he realizes what it is. “Christ, Stevie, I know you g-got some weird shit going on in that head of yours, but sucking my dick and then bringing a B-b-bible to bed is fucked up even for you.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “It ain't like that. I just.” He grabs Buck's hand. The metal one. Buck can never figure out what the hell he gets out of holding that thing like it's an actual part of a real person. “When you were missing it was really hard to pray. I was – I was real mad at God, Buck. For bringing you to me and then taking you away again. And I tried reading the Bible to find some – some comfort, I guess. Or some kind of explanation. And I found this. And I remembered how that night when you choked me you were quoting from the Book of Job, and how you helped me memorize that when we were kids, so really it was kinda my fault that you had that stuff in your head. No, come on, don't argue, I'm not finished yet. I just wanted to read this to you. So you could have something better in your head. Because it made me feel better, and maybe it will make you feel better too, especially since you wrote me that note, and I can't – I can't put words together about that kinda thing like you can, Buck. I get really dumb about it. So, uh. Can I? Read it to you?”

This big goddamn meatball. Buck wouldn't be able to say no even if he wanted to.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “G-go ahead.”

Steve clears his throat, and starts to read, that big deep voice of his soft and gentle on the words.

“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth? It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.” [*]

[*] Song of Solomon 3:1-4.