He doesn't drink much.
Hell he can't even get drunk anymore.
But all that aside he does it anyway, throwing back another whiskey, and shuddering as it burns its way down, Steve glances around the smoky bar.
He's figured out by now no matter how much he drinks he metabolizes alcohol too fast to get drunk; still whiskey burns and gives him something to feel other than his emotions. Therefore it is his drink of choice. The devil in a bottle, the downfall of far too many people, he knows what it can do. Still, Peggy Carter's memory drives him to it.
The bottle is near to half-gone when he hears her laugh. No, he catches himself, not Peggy's laugh that would be impossible, but it's close. Close enough that he has to look. Three young women sit in a booth, nursing their own bottles of beer. Two look genuinely happy; the third, the one who'd laughed, looks as if she's doing it for their sake.
She looks like Peggy looked, pale skin, bright red lipstick, auburn hair and very fortiesish make up. Steve feels a rush of familiarity, women don't look like that anymore, in seventy years a lot has changed but to him, the forties era is eternal… classic.
In between shots, he can't help but watch her. She's short, five feet at most, but for all that looks like a lost child. Her hair, he finds out, is actually a dark ebony, like black coffee. It was only the dim colored lights of the bar turning it auburn, and her curves are in all the right places. He knows the instant she catches him. Their eyes meet, two lost souls looking for something real in all the wrong places. She gives him a shy smile, and he looks away.
The bottle is close to empty when he smells her approach. Her scent is clean, a feminine combination of sugary sweet perfume that he can't identify, with just a hint of the beer she's been drinking all night. She pulls out the stool next to him and settles in with that same nervous smile.
"I'm Tara," she offers.
"My friends wanted to go to some lame dance club, and I-."
She trails off and looks down at the bar.
"I didn't," she whispers.
Steve wants to wrap his arm around her and tell her it would be all right. Instead, he just offers her his name and a shot of whiskey.
An hour later he has her in his arms, in his bed. Her unruly curls spread out on the pillow like spilt ink. Her eyelids are half lowered, but he knows she's awake he can see her bathed in moonlight, like an angel. He nips her neck and she laughs breathlessly, pushing at his significant weight. He rolls onto his side and looks at her, exploring her softly, creamy skin with his fingers.
"Do I look like her?" Her whisper startles him, and he drags his gaze up to her face. There is no accusation there, just honest curiosity.
Still, he hesitates.
"Not really. You sound like her. And you looked like she looked at the bar." He gives her a half-hearted grin.
She smiles sadly.
"You look like him, but he wasn't so big." She sits up and hangs her legs over the side of the bed, his eyes finding an American flag tattooed on her shoulder, under it in fancy script is the name.
Joey.
He follows her to the edge of the mattress, pulling her back to his chest and wrapping his arms around her. He drops a gentle kiss on the top of her head and holds her as she cries.
It isn't absolution, but it'll do for now.
Just a little Captain America/ OC thing PLEASE REVIEW!