after the end [stucky]

seven

The alcohol burns my throat like a raging fire, combusting my mind. I'm about to leave in five minutes but before I go, I already want to forget everything.

The stashes of painkillers are violently rummaged through with my desperate, seeking hands. They shake as they rip the cupboard open, the lock discarded to one side. There was no point in installing it anyway.

Teresa's voice echoes in my mind, These drugs are specially designed to be stronger in order to combat the Serum in your body. The formula has the same effect as normal painkillers but is lethal in large doses. Be careful—only take two at a time. And only when the pain really hurts or the therapy methods aren't working or you can't contact me. Otherwise, they remain locked.

Now, I almost choke as I stuff five of the strange, pink tablets down my throat. There's no taste—only a powdery, dry feeling left in my mouth.

I wash it down with alcohol. Not the usual wine or even vodka kind. No, I convinced Thor to give me his strongest Asgardian blend.

At the time, he only gave me a wary look. But I returned a cold, hard stare and he reluctantly gave me a crate of the liquor.

I knew that he knew what was happening. He'd gone through it after all. Like him, I'm going through my recovery. Healing. Unlike him, though, I'm destroying myself, going backwards. Retrograde.

It almost makes me laugh. Just a few months ago, I was so eager to go back to normal. Perhaps start a new life in this peace, away from the fighting, away from any disruption. No chaos, no pain.

As I chug the whole bottle of Asgardian alcohol, the pain intensifies even more.

Everyone was so happy that Steve Rogers, Captain America, World War 2 soldier, and survivor of the greatest battle in the whole universe, was finally, finally getting help. They saw the fatigue in how I moved in my body, the shadows in my eyes, the gauntness and hollowness of my face. I saw it too in every reflection.

In the mirror, the one-sided windows of cars, the gleaming metal of almost every surface in the Avengers Compound. The subway, the puddles of New York rain, Bucky's arm.

Bucky's eyes.

It was never a mask. It was always real. Except, it was—is—only a thin layer on top of what really happens underneath in the abyss. In my nightmares. Now also in the day.

Is there a word for nightmares that occur during daytime? Day-mares?

I laugh, the sound as dry as sandpaper, as the tablets. As dry as my throat as I step out of the Compound, into the night.

The cab driver's brows pull together at my coughing when I step inside. But he doesn't ask any questions or say anything other than "Where to?"

"To the city centre," I reply.

"Sir, I'm going to need an exact location. It's my job."

I almost punch him. I just want somewhere bright, somewhere noisy, somewhere fucking warm.

Plastering a smile on my face, I say, "Sobs. ASAP." It's one of the rowdiest and infamous clubs I often walk past during midnight, when I want the biting cold of darkness.