[time loop] aftermath, pt. II

[onlyapassenger]

The last place Bucky wants to be right now is in public, but heading home isn't much of an option, either, not when he's likely to get cornered with a million questions; he's too raw for human consumption, wearied by the force of his fury he's working hard to contain, but Steve suggested they get a drink, and so here they are, Captain America and Bucky, all grown up, and sitting in the darkest corner of the Hub they can manage on a Friday night. The white noise of the other patrons is enough to drown out the racing thoughts in Bucky's head; the three shots he downed upon sitting gets rid of the taste of his own vomit from before. He asks the bartender to leave the bottle. Nothing, though, seems to stops the itch that nags at him from underneath his skin, the need to hit something until it breaks.

Instead he sits, body so tense it's only a matter of time before he snaps entirely; despite this, his gaze stays leveled on Steve, his own wish for retribution taking a backseat to making sure his friend isn't about to lose it again. Bucky's a force to be reckoned with on his own, certainly, but between the two of them, they could leave the whole of the island in ruins by morning, and whatever reservations Bucky has about this piece of hell, he won't be the one who lets Steve jump off the deep end.

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[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

I feel everything I felt during the time we were trapped and reliving that day moving under my skin. Still. The sound of people going about their lives doesn't help, but it doesn't make anything worse, I guess. I lift the bottle Bucky's already taken a few shots from and turn it over in my hands.

"...You know I was never one for drinking," I say, pouring the clear liquid with its sharp wafting scent of alcohol, strong and almost antiseptic, into my own empty tumbler until it's about half full.

"During the war the most I'd manage was a brandy with the high brass or a beer with the fellas. After I woke up, though..."

I set the bottle down and turn the glass on the table, not contemplative, just fidgeting, really. It's taking all my energy not to flip the table and break my hand against the wall.

Well, probably break the wall with my hand, to be honest.

"After I had gotten through my first trial as an Avenger, once it had sunk in that everyone I knew or cared about was gone, died in the intervening years or so old that I was a memory they'd made their peace with and put to bed, I went back to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn. I walked over the bridge and down to P.J. Hanley's, and I got a bottle of schnapps." The doctor's favorite, but I don't add that, and I don't know why.

"And I drank it. The entire bottle, one sitting." I tip my glass back now, and drain it, wincing a little at the flavor, feeling the alcohol burn down my throat and then, effectively, disappear.

"That's when I figured out I couldn't get drunk."