Behind The Curtain
By: The Hatter Theory
Solace
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created by Marvel
AN: Because I am all over the place with When Silence Falls, since it will take place in Tony's POV and because playing with what everyone is doing on Earth (or even in Asgard) is too much for my muses to resist. Differing POVs etc. Probably a lot of wangsting, definitely some humor, just a lot of randumb.
Steve doesn't drink. It's a well known fact in the Avengers Tower. It had been the source of much derisive (and then friendly) teasing from Tony Stark, which had never bothered him, because Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Steve hates beer because it reminds him of people that are gone, or going gone, of smoky bars that should have sent his asthmatic lungs into fits, or blackouts and shuddering yellow lights and dances that have but never been and will never ever be. He doesn't drink beer.
The smell of peppermint will sometimes waft by, and he will remember schnapps and the man that offered it. He will remember a drink that never happened, but should have. Steve doesn't (didn't) drink liquor. He doesn't like the smell of peppermint or schnapps, in fact he studiously avoids anything resembling german alcohol, because he's not sure, but he might hate it, not on principal but because it will never be that bottle or that conversation.
Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Not because he was America's Boy Next Door, as Tony had been fond of saying, but because the taste didn't appeal, and there was no reason to suffer it if it wouldn't provide the sort of solace it afforded everyone else. So Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Not after that first time trying.
Except Steve is sitting in his room, a bottle of scotch on the table, the label proclaiming that it is older than him (and for once something in the tower is, even if it's just booze), a glass in his hand, three fingers full of a rich amber liquid that has the unmistakable smell of alcohol and oak. Steven Rodgers, Captain America, the man with a body so clean D.A.R.E. begged him to be their posterboy, is sitting, hand careful around the crystal glass stolen from the bar three floors up, nostrils flaring now and again to take in the scent. A daily ritual that he performs alone.
Steve doesn't drink for a high, doesn't drink to escape. Steve is not like other people. Even the most avid, dedicated whiskey enthusiast will say he's wasting, because those three fingers will last for three hours unless there is a call to battle. That situation has happened more than once, and he has gone into a fight with the smell of expensive scotch on his breath, on his tongue and in his nostrils, remembering.
Steve drinks because of the smell. Because scent triggers memories better than a picture, because looking at pictures of a dead man reminds him, every time, of the twisted, blackened metal and the screaming on Jarvis's memory before the comms had cut out completely. Because Tony had always smelled like oil and grease and coffee and scotch. Steve doesn't (didn't) drink, except on the day of the funeral, on the day he lost Bucky, except for every day now, clinging to memories of the men he has lost, of the friends he has been forced to say goodbye to.
Steve takes a sip, the burn of the alcohol evaporating almost entirely, leaving behind a taste that is so strong it lingers on his tongue, his cheeks. He imagines it filling him. The scent lingers, easily perceived by his keen sense of smell. He remembers smiling, over loud obnoxious laughter and a one man show that just wouldn't quit, but had gone out in a blaze of glory that is still being talked about three months after the fact.
Steve drinks. It's well known to the Avengers, to him, to Jarvis, but no one comments, and no one will. He drinks to remember and to escape, he drinks for solace. He sometimes wonders if how he drinks, how he is forced to drink, is any different than a true alcoholic, any different than Tony. But he doesn't stop.
