stevebucky - hiraeth

1. Aftermath

"That was my father's shield!"

The words are echoing through Steve's mind, repeating themselves, over and over, as he sits in his lonely apartment in New York, hands over his face, angry.

Dust motes swirl through the air, beams of sunlight peeking through the windows. It's been three weeks, and Steve is waiting for the government to find him.

He's surprised they're not here yet. It was almost immediately after his so-called epic fallout with Tony that they found him, 'they' meaning Ross's government goons. 

He had barely gotten away. If he had his shield, maybe it would have been better. But he had been defenseless.

Defenseless. Useless. Was that really all he was without the shield? Useless?

Just a guy with a dumb amount of muscles, who can get shot three times, beaten to a pulp and then fall into a river and still be fine.

Thank you, Erksine. He thinks, scoffing a little.

Bucky suddenly flits through his mind and his heart seizes painfully, a tsunami of emotion rising to the surface. He shoves it down. 

He takes a deep breath and stands up, upsetting a glass of vodka, a birthday gift from Nat from a few years ago. "Just because you can't get drunk doesn't mean we can't both enjoy it!" she had teased. They never got to try it, they both forgot about it and now he was a war criminal, or something.

He missed her. He missed Clint, and Thor, and Bruce. That's all. Those were the only people he missed. 

And while he was lying to himself, Bucky had two arms.

The vodka ran off the table and dripped into a puddle. Steve made no movement to clean it up. While everything in his life was coming crashing down, he might as well just be a passive observer.

                                                                                 -

The sun set, the last rays reflecting off the vodka puddle on his floor. Steve was immersed in an article on his phone(Tony was convinced he had no idea how to use one, Steve had eagerly fed the lie while learning on his own). Something about how great the current ash-hole of a president was. Apparently they hadn't noticed he was a living Cheeto. Motherforking far-right republicans.

70 years in the ice, and this is what I wake up to. A tanned blob with a bichon frise on his head.

Steve fought off another rising wave of loneliness. Everyone would have loved to hear him rant about America. Maybe. He used to spend a lot of time doing that. He wasn't exactly sure if anyone enjoyed it.

The vodka was starting to smell. He couldn't take it anymore. 

He went into the kitchen. He had several bottles of alcohol, and no idea how any of them had come into his possession in the first place.

He might as well just get rid of them. By drinking them.

Two hours later, he had finished them. Seven bottles of varying types of alcohol, all disgusting. None of them had an effect on him. At some point he had started crying, ugly sobs that didn't seem to be tied to anything, just the result of the craptastic cesspool of terrible things that had happened lately. He was trapped in a pit of emotion.

He heard something break in his bedroom and stiffened, hastily wiping his face. He got up, unconsciously reaching for a shield he didn't have. He felt weird without it. Vulnerable.