Chapter Text
He'd swatted Steve on the back of the head when he heard he'd jumped on a grenade, even though the grenade had been a fake. He'd rolled his eyes, chewed him out a little, and had turned it into a joke.
He'd drank the glass of beer he'd had in hand when he'd heard. His next drink had been whiskey, and then he'd made his excuses, something about seeing a skirt that wasn't Miss Carter (or Agent Carter, or Peggy, or whatever Steve had called her, he had no right hating her but damn if he didn't want to snarl at the woman) to go chase, and Steve...
Steve had let him go.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Something, maybe. Something, instead of nothing. Steve had seen through him before, seen through his halfass excuses, even if he'd always managed to argue him down (only person who could do that before but now he was pretty sure that wasn't his title anymore since Peggy Carter was on the scene), but Steve had just let him go.
From where he was standing, between two buildings that had probably been better off before everything went to war and hell, the alcohol wasn't nearly as good coming back up as it was going down. Couple beers, a whiskey, no food on his stomach to cushion it, and that was part of the problem. The rest of it was this nervous energy, or he'd call it nervous energy for lack of anything else to call it. He felt like he was shaking, shivering, ready to rabbit or to beat his way out of something, maybe one of those barroom scraps he and Steve used to get into (or that Steve would start, that was more honest than just saying they happened wherever Steve was, no, Steve started those fights with his smart mouth) would be just the thing to bring him back to normal. But how was he going to start a fight in a bar full of guys he was going to be fighting alongside?
So that left him walking, skin feeling hot even though the night was cold, clothes rumpled, hair combed but nowhere near in order. Months ago, he'd sooner be shot than be seen looking like this. He had an image to keep up, people to win over, and you couldn't do that if you didn't dress worth a damn, and now he looked like exactly what he was: a soldier through the wringer backward who'd left a day's drinking back in an alley. Who was wondering why the hell he'd got into this damn war.
Steve had fought tooth and nail to get in, but he'd been rejected. And rejected. And rejected. He'd broke the damn law who knew how many times just to get rejected again. When his own draft letter had come, he knew he couldn't get out of it, so he'd set things up instead. Like he'd always done. The Army would pay him, so the apartment was paid for. Food was probably paid for. Steve's work, whatever he could find, would pay for his classes and anything else. And he'd made sure to sign papers saying that if he died, his death benefit went to Steve, and Steve would be provided for.
His entire reason for not dodging the draft was so he could make sure Steve was provided for. So what did Steve do once he was gone but get himself into the goddamned military, throw himself on a goddamned grenade, get himself goddamned experimented on, get himself a goddamned Brit girlfriend (who looked at him like he was scum, which he was, but she didn't have to make it so obvious in the way she wouldn't even lower herself to look at him like he was human, but what did it matter when there was Steve to look at, right), walk right into goddamned enemy territory--
Was that what happened when he was away from Steve? Did he intentionally start trying to kill himself, or was it just a side effect of being headstrong and too stupid to walk away from a fight?
Why couldn't Steve have just left well enough alone, let him get killed, and find a good life back in Brooklyn? Why'd he have to go and prove what he'd known all along - that Steve was the good one, the worthwhile one, while he, himself, was the gutter rat not worth Steve's time? Now Steve was goddamned Captain America, and he...
He was the even smaller footnote to a good man's life.
He'd ended up in another alley, thankfully with nothing left in his stomach to cough up. Shivering, hugging his own knees, his mind full of images of a little piggish face looking at him with glee, Steve almost dying, the pain of needles in his skin, something searing through his veins, his best friend barely recognisable, yanking him out of there, not even letting him die while he thought he was doing something good--
The bricks behind his head hurt in a good way as he knocked his head back against them, trying to jar the images loose, trying to jar the feelings out, trying to give himself a physical reason to cry instead of the nightmare memories and anger that welled up as tears and burned their way down his face.
He hated this war. He hated anything that made him want to punch the person he'd built his life around, but there wasn't time to let himself fall apart the way everything in his head wanted him to. He'd sucked it up before, pulled on that cocky smile like a disguise when Steve came home bruised cheeks and chin. Time to do it again. To be the smooth New York charmer he'd always shown. Maybe Steve would at least make them write something nice on his tombstone. 'Course he would. He was Steve.
----
That was his face. With less hair altogether, it was his face on the glass wall, looking like it had been clipped from newsprint and pasted in place.
Childhood friend, the text said. The Soldier wondered. If they were friends, why were the fragments of memory he did have so disjointed. He felt guilt surrounding Captain America. Steve Rogers. He felt anger. He ached, but there was nothing he thought he could call friendship.
Excellent athlete. Excelled in the classroom. Invaluable marksmanship. Those, he believed, even if he wasn't sure how smart he was now. Years of electric shock probably took its toll, but he was smart enough to know that this wasn't the place to learn about the person he used to be. Just the few paragraphs on a glass wall felt like they either left out too much or were full of lies.
He pulled down his hat, pulled up his collar, pushed back the incoherent memory that had hit hard when he'd entered the exhibit, and left. He felt full of nervous energy, his insides seeming like they were swimming through him, leaving him nauseous with no alcohol to throw up. He'd find a place with some books. Or look into the internet. He was remembering how to do that. Maybe somewhere would have the truth and not government-sanctioned, museum-displayed propaganda.
The truth about why he wanted to punch Steve Rogers in the face and apologise right after, about why Steve made him so angry and so helpless at the same time. And maybe while he was looking for that truth, he'd find a few fights to get into and use some of that tension that had him tied up inside. Had to be better than ending up being found right under Steve's nose (because then Steve would give him that unfair look with his big, blue, puppydog eyes and that turn of lip that always made him look pathetic and did funny things to his heart, had him wrapped around his finger and he hated it, gave him a five-foot-nothing weak spot) while he was healing up.
The metal detector went off. Stupid arm. He punched the guard and ran, disappearing before any kind of law enforcement could arrive. But Steve would find him eventually. 'Course he would. He was Steve.