The pages of the open book were rustling in the wind, turning this way and that restlessly. Steve didn't try to catch them. He knew the book almost by heart anyway and could continue reading from any page. It was how his mom used to read to him when he was in the hospital bed again and again, just leaf through the pages till one of the paragraphs would catch her eye and the adventures would come to life in her quiet but cheerful voice. It was how he himself used to read to his mom years later when his own asthma went into complete remission and the heart surgery gave him hope for a long-ish and healthy-ish life but cancer took all the hope away from her instead. Most pages were yellowing from multiple liquids he had spilled on them as a kid – tea, medicine, even chemical experiments for school projects – and the silver letters on the cover were invisible now, with only the shallow indentations spelling 'Captain Blood' left behind.
He was sitting on a bench on the waterfront with just the book next to him, watching the sky slowly bloom in vivid lilacs with the sun rolling down towards the calm sea. Maracaibo was called a lake but technically it was just a bay, even if it was almost closed off from the sea by a narrow bottle-neck with a beautiful modern bridge across it. His sketchbook, hidden safely in his hotel room, held several dozens of different points of view of the bridge, the lake and even the countless lightnings that were burning the sky every night over by the Catatumbo river. It was beautiful and surreal in the best possible way. Steve couldn't care less.
When his phone vibrated insistently in the pocket of his shorts, Steve started but still for a second contemplated just leaving it there to buzz away happily. Sam would bite his head off later for that though, so not worth it in the long run.
"Rogers," and indeed it was Sam, because who else? It's not like Peggy… Steve inhaled sharply and tried to concentrate on his best friend's voice, "tell me at least you are out of your room. But also tell me you are in the SAFE, tourist-y part of that hellhole, God, when I told you to finally have some fun I meant like a normal person, going to California, Hawaii maybe, not fucking Venezuela."
Steve chuckled fondly, "It is not that bad here, I promise. I went to see the San Carlos de la Barra Fortress today and I even took a taxi instead of cramming into public transport with the locals."
"I am so proud of you, being all grown up and responsible and shit." Sam didn't sound very impressed though, "and when are you going to finally get laid? You are not the only crazy tourist in that place, go to a bar, pick up a girl, or a guy, or both? Just get out of your own head in the same way you got out of the hotel, kudos again for that, by the way."
"I will, Sam, I promise." Steve didn't actually mean it when he had said it. But some minutes after Sam had ended the call he started to think of what to do with his evening anyway. He had to do something. Anything. Getting drunk sounded mildly attractive, in fact. He was so tired of mulling over his memories, maybe some liquid amnesia would do him good. But not in a bar, it was loud enough on the waterfront with all the tourists that the noise was getting to him. He got up, picked up his book and resolutely squared his narrow shoulders. How difficult could it be to get a bottle of bourbon in this place?
Barely an hour later – and it included a quick pop to his hotel room to drop off the book and get some money out of the safe – he was back on the lake shore but this time he went over the edge of the walk down on the sandy beach. It was a little cooler now with the sun dropped over the edge of the horizon, and the bottle in his hands was icy and perspiring and so nice to push against his hot cheeks. The world got a lot friendlier just a couple of chugs in. Another couple of sips and everything seemingly wrapped in cotton wool and after some more of that bourbon – that Steve was responsibly chasing down with wedges of a single orange – finally, finally, nothing hurt. Not his mom leaving him all alone all these years ago, not Peggy choosing a career in England over their dreams of a future together, nothing. God, he loved this bottle. Why did he wait for so long to get this blissfully numb? And the sand was so soft, like the most wonderful featherbed in the world, and he was just so tired, surely no one would mind if he put his head down for just a second?
When he woke up it was still dark. Although it might have already been the next night and he spent the whole day unconscious on the scorching sand, that just might explain how his head felt like a watermelon split open into a thousand pieces and put back together with a single flimsy string. The empty bottle slid from under his palm and down over a tiny sand ripple with a mocking hiss. Steve sat up and had to groan out loud at the sharp pain slicing his skull in all directions at once. Right, this was why he never drank in the first place.
It took some time to find the bottle again – why was it so dark here anyway, were all the fucking street lamps broken? – but eventually he was upright, holding his forehead with one hand and the bottle with the other. He was not about to start leaving trash behind just because he felt like shit.
The walkway to which he managed to climb up from the beach was… not paved. He could swear there had been a proper boardwalk and benches and lampposts there but now only some lonely palms were scattered around. Maybe he just walked somewhere else while barely conscious? If Steve were able to feel anything except for the still crippling headache he would start getting scared by now. Getting lost with barely any cash and his very basic Spanish wasn't the brightest idea even in broad daylight. The city was… Steve finally looked up over some wooden two-storied buildings further away from the waterfront and blinked. There was no city. Where a couple of hours before he could see modern skyscrapers behind the smaller buildings of the bay area there was just darkness now. And not the darkness of a huge black-out, the moon was out and he would be able to see the dark outlines of concrete rectangles. If they were there at all. But there was nothing. Instead of a comparatively developed and modern city he was looking at a tiny town with some wooden and some stone houses, the tallest of which couldn't even reach the clearly visible in the distance church bell tower.
Steve closed his eyes carefully, inhaled, exhaled, wiped off some crust from the corners of his eyes and looked again. Nothing changed. He turned towards the water slowly, dreading the view. The bridge across the lake wasn't there. A couple of three-master ships with the sails taken in were anchored at a small distance from the shore, rolling gently on the waves. Steve giggled. Of course. He was still asleep, that was the explanation, clear and simple. It was really unfortunate to dream of a terrible hangover – but weirder dreams had happened. He sighed with relief and went away from the shore. He might as well enjoy this dream and take a closer look at this suddenly much more attractive little town.
He had to carry the empty bottle with him all the way which was highly annoying. But there were no trash cans anywhere – they disappeared together with benches and street lamps – and Steve couldn't make himself just toss the bottle. What if it broke, what if some kid stepped on the shards? Even in his fucking dream he just couldn't do the wrong thing. His mom's voice floated in his memory:
Why do you like this book so much, sweetheart? You never put up with any injustice and these characters are pirates, after all. – Mom, they are privateers, there is a difference, you don't get it!
Raising a shaking hand to his cheek Steve was surprised to find it dry. The hangover in this dream seemed so devastatingly real it left him parched to the point of not even being able to spare any water for the tears. That settled it. Wandering stumbling along the lake, trying to take in the surroundings was all nice and well, but who knew for how long this dream would torture him? He might as well try to find some water if he could.
The dream seemed awfully friendly in that it let Steve go wherever the hell he pleased. The logical way to go was to some sort of a tavern, where the doors were flung wide open to let out clouds of tobacco smoke and loud voices. But before he could reach the stocky building he heard a plaintive cry from the alley behind it. Still not very steady on his feet, Steve went to investigate nonetheless. Sharp focus moved his own aches to the back of his mind. The scene before his eyes, clearly visible in the lights leeching from the tavern windows, wasn't something Steve hadn't seen before. A muscular bearded man clad only in wide leather breeches was cornering a girl in a linen blouse and long skirts. Both spoke English which surprised Steve at first but then, yeah, right, still a dream.
"Let me go, you brute, I took the wrong turn on my way home, I am not a tart," the girl begged. The man just reached out and grabbed her by the blouse neckband.
"Not a tart but will work for me," he grumbled carelessly and tugged till the cloth tore, opening the creamy white of the girl's shoulder.
"Leave her be!" Steve moved forward purposefully, his hangover all but forgotten. The man ignored him and Steve pushed him aside with both hands, the wretched bottle still clutched in one fist. The man stumbled a couple of steps away from the girl, probably more from the sheer surprise than from the actual strength of the push but Steve definitely had his attention now. He managed to duck the first blow that came his way and even landed a satisfyingly heavy punch on the bearded jaw before the man tackled him to the ground. Smashing his loyal bottle over the head of the attacker and trying to shield his face from the flying glass at the same time, Steve heard steps and shouting. In a split second before a bloodied fist smashed into his temple he had a beautiful vision of a couple of huge gorgeous eyes in a pale face above him. Then everything went dark.