TW: implied/referenced child abuse, alcoholism
When Doctor Erskine offers him a glass of schnapps on the night before his procedure, Steve barely swallows down his reflex gag. He can smell the fruitiness of the liqueur as Erskine pours them both a few fingerfuls, his eyes sincere.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing," he says, holding out the glass. "That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."
Steve nods, and reaches to accept the offering. Erskine had already told him that the drink is from Augsburg, his home city. It is probably one of the few reminders of his homeland he has left, and the fact that he wants to share it with him now is a sign of mutual respect and affection.
But his words echo back at him as he stares at the clear liquid. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.
He swallows uncomfortably, thinking over Erskine's story about Johann Schmidt, and how the serum had amplified the evil lurking inside him. The serum had twisted him and pulled his darkness up to the light.
The scent of the schnapps—an apple variety it would seem—wafts up to him, and he is reminded of another smell. The liqueur had been no doubt much cheaper, and of lesser quality than this. But the sickly-sweet smell is similar enough. The scent is far too familiar for comfort.
His father had smelled like this often enough.
When he had been very young, he had once mistaken the fruity smell on his father's breath for some kind of candy. He can't remember how old he had been then, but he hadn't yet learned to read the signs of Pa's drunkenness yet, and he had made the mistake of asking him for a piece of candy too.
Of course, he had been too young to know the expense of candy was almost too much for his tiny family (or, it was in Joe's eyes at least.)
He can still remember how angry Pa had gotten. He had yelled and ranted for ages about ungrateful children and demanding brats. He hadn't actually hit him, not then. But with how loud he had yelled, and with the aggressive sweep of his hand when he had slammed it against the kitchen table, he hadn't needed to.
Pa had died the year he had entered into the third grade. It hadn't been a quick death. It had been long and painful as he had succumbed to influenza, the disease made worse by the damage to his lungs from gas during the war.
Even so, Pa drank through most of it. If he was well enough to leave the house, then he would go and come back drunk and feverish.
Ma had used to tell him quietly that the war had changed him. Pa hadn't always been loud and angry. He didn't used to drink so much. When he and Ma had been dating, he used to take her dancing, and the two of them had saved up together to afford the boat crossing over to New York.
Steve had used to try to imagine this loving, hard working version of his father. But he couldn't do it without a feeling of bitter resentment. That man was long dead. The war, and poisonous gas, had killed any chance of them ever meeting.
What did your father die of? the enlistment doctor had asked him, more than once.
Mustard gas, he'd said, without a sliver of guilt. Mustard gas had killed his father, if only slower than most. And in the meantime, it had replaced him with a meanspirited, foulmouthed, drunken stand-in.
He stares down at the glass, his throat dry as he swallows, trying to prepare for tasting it. War had turned his father into a violent monster as easily as Erskine's unfinished serum had corrupted Schmitt. How does he know it won't do the same thing to him? Erskine seems to be convinced that he is a good man to his core, but he had seen Pa's hidden depths.
War had changed him beyond recognition. How does he know he is any better than Joe Rogers? What guarantee does he have that the serum won't pull the exact same darkness to the surface, like it had for Schmitt?
That had been a worry even before he had been selected for Erskine's program. Going to war hadn't been an easy choice. Here he was, desperately trying to sign up for the same thing that had taken and twisted his father beyond all recognition.
But…but he has to believe that that won't happen. He had been fighting against the specter of his father for his whole life. Trying to use his fists for good instead of bad. Avoiding drink, no matter the Irish stereotypes. He can be different than Joe. He has to be.
He has to believe Erskine is right with his reason for choosing him.
A strong man, who has known power all his life, will lose respect for that power. But a weak man knows the value of strength, and knows compassion.
He can keep his promise. He can stay a good man, no matter what the war, or what the serum does to him.
Even so, he feels nothing but relief when Erskine swoops in at the last minute and plucks the glass from his hand.
"No! No! Wait!" he interrupts, just as they are about to drink. Steve doesn't protest as the glass is snatched away, his eyes following the doctor's movements with bemusement and relief. He had done his best to appear unconcerned, but he'd been dreading tasting it. "What I am doing? No! You have a procedure tomorrow. No fluids."
He almost laughs. "All right," he says easily, his shoulders relaxing as the chill of the glass leaves his fingers. "We'll drink it after."
The thought of drinking alcohol isn't appealing, but he wants to prove to Erskine that he will be the same person before and after the procedure. The same man he is willing to share a drink with now.
Erskine grins at him before downing both their drinks, and Steve feels ashamed at how relieved he is when the bottle is sealed up again.
oOo
He never does get that celebratory drink with Erskine.
Instead Hydra murders Erskine and tries to steal the serum. Only seconds after opening his eyes to a new world, Steve has to watch as Erskine slips away from it. His finger taps his chest twice, one final message that will serve as his last words.
Stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.
He tries, but currently it seems the army only wants a perfect test subject, and the government wants a perfect propaganda piece. Nobody wants him, as a soldier or otherwise.
"You are not enough," Colonel Philips tells him bluntly, because he had been promised a whole army of super soldiers, not one man. With Erskine dead, they have no way of recreating the serum beyond testing him and trying to pick apart what it had done to him.
As far as they can tell, the serum had been a complete success. He is in peak physical condition. All his ailments have been cured. He can run faster and longer, and he has an appetite to match. They have to test that too, and figure out what his metabolism is now. They draw samples of his blood (and make notes of how quickly he heals), and they test some of Erskine's theories about the serum.
Namely how it affects him right down to his cells.
Erskine had explained this all to him before the procedure, but basically, the serum creates a protective system of regeneration and healing. In practice, this means he heals much faster than he used to. But since purposely injuring him and seeing how he heals starts edging into unethical territory, the doctors come up with another method of testing that theory.
Steve isn't a fan.
"What was your alcohol tolerance before the serum?" asks the lab technician, his eyes not even lifting from his clipboard as he waits for an answer.
Steve fights against shifting uncomfortably from his perch on the hospital bed, and clasps his hands between his knees. "Not very high," he admits. "I didn't drink much before."
He hadn't been completely dry, no matter if that would have been his preference. Avoiding drinking could be surprisingly difficult. It was normal to go out for a drink after work, and when he tried to beg off, he found himself even more of an outcast than usual.
Usually, on those occasions, he would try to limit himself to one drink for the night. Most of the guys around him were too distracted to notice if he didn't keep up with them, and that way, he could at least tag along for the 'bonding experience'. But even that was difficult. Bars were uncomfortable, with their loud and drunk patrons, the smell of alcohol, and sticky floors. Every once and a while a fight would break out, and generally he would have to duck out at that point.
Before the war, he and Bucky had shared a flat with another labourer, Arnie. More than once he and Bucky had tried to invite Steve out for a night on the town. He had tried his best to oblige, because he knew they only meant well. But alcohol seemed to shorten his temper tenfold. He didn't even have to drink it to start feeling tense and agitated. The taste and smell reminded him too much of Joe, and his souring mood made him feel like Joe.
Eventually, he had finally admitted to Bucky how much he hated alcohol, and why. Bucky had known about Joe, but not the full extent. He had been young back then, and had only seen a few years of it. Steve isn't sure if he fully understands his aversion to alcohol now, but he had stopped trying to get him to come out to drink. Alcohol was never a part of any of the double dates they went on, and if Bucky ever came back from a night drinking, he would usually head off to his room to sober up away from Steve.
Of course, unlike Bucky, the lab techs have no intention of helping him avoid alcohol.
"If Erskine's theory is correct, then you should remain sober," they tell him as they set a bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass on the table next to him. Steve stares at it, certain his face is pale and drawn. If he has to drink, he tries to avoid hard alcohol. He can almost tolerate a beer sometimes, but this—
But they are all watching him, and he doesn't think that, even if he were to explain his distaste, they would be willing to forgo the experiment. So he swallows down his nausea and reaches for the glass.
He can't stop his nose from wrinkling as he opens the bottle. The smell is intense, sharper than he can ever remember it being before. He hadn't liked the smell of alcohol before the serum, and now his senses are enhanced.
His throat is dry, and his skin crawls as he pours himself a glass. The sound of the liquid hitting the glass is loud in the waiting silence. He doesn't fill it all the way. If they want to test his sobriety, then he should probably drink at a measurable pace (and he also doesn't think he can choke down a full glass). The amber liquid reflects the lights and he can feel the eyes of the technician analysing his every move as he lifts the glass to his mouth.
He knew it would burn, but he coughs anyways. A part of him had been hoping the serum would somehow counteract that, but he has no such luck. His eyes water and he fights against gagging, continuously aware of the people watching him. He manages to swallow, and it burns all the way down to his stomach. He winces, and he is sure his cheeks are burning at his novice reaction to the drink.
And that had been only one sip of his first glass.
It probably wouldn't be so bad if he were allowed to mellow it out with a little water or ice, but he knows without asking that that is not on the cards. The whole point is to test his resistance to alcohol. The results would be inaccurate and inconclusive if he adds anything.
The lab techs are very methodical about it. They test his blood regularly to determine his blood alcohol content, and they question him about any drunk symptoms. To their delight and satisfaction, he shows no signs of drunkenness, even as the bottle empties. For his part, Steve does his best not to throw up, because his nausea has nothing to do with how sober he is.
He has a moment of panic when he finally finishes the bottle that they might want to test again with a different alcohol, but thankfully the idea is dropped. "We'll have to monitor you for the rest of the day," he is told. "But as far as we can tell, the serum will prevent you from getting drunk."
As much as he had hated the bitter taste of whiskey, he also feels an immeasurable sense of relief at the declaration. He can't get drunk. No matter what happens, and no matter what the serum does to him, he can't become a drunk like his father. It is physically impossible.
Simply knowing that almost makes up for everything else.
oOo
Even when he officially gets a command in the army, alcohol isn't completely avoidable. Going out drinking is the favourite pastime for soldiers on leave, and he can only skip out so many times. The Commandos themselves had been founded in a bar, although Steve hadn't actually partaken very much. His permanent sobriety gives him a good, acceptable excuse. Why spend money drinking if you can't get drunk?
Bucky, of course, knows the deeper reasons behind his abstinence. Usually in the bar scene he acts as a sort of buffer between him and the other, rowdier patrons. From what he can see Bucky doesn't drink a lot either—although why that is, he isn't sure—and with him there it is easier to tolerate, and maybe even enjoy the evenings.
Alcohol sneaks into other places too though.
"Do you want some?" Howard asks, nodding towards him and Bucky as he tops up his glass. The two of them had stopped in to check out the grappling hooks Howard had been working on, and, as is typical in the evenings, Howard chats with them over a glass of bourbon or scotch.
Steve can smell it the moment he steps into the lab, and he fights to keep from tensing. Howard's drinking isn't a new thing, but it baffles him nonetheless. He knows drinking is supposedly a stress reliever, and enjoyable, but it also impairs judgement and motor skills. Even if Howard doesn't drink a lot in the evenings, it still seems like a big risk to indulge in his labs.
He doesn't say any of that though. He declines Howard's offer with a shake of his head, and Bucky does the same.
"Your loss," he shrugs, tipping his head back as he drains his cup. He refills it immediately and carries it with him as he shows them his different gadgets.
The sound of the ice in the glass is different than what he is used to. Prohibition made it so his Pa usually drank in speakeasies, rather than at home. If he did bring anything back, then he just drank it straight from the bottle.
The smell though… that is familiar. Howard laughs at something he says and Steve pulls away. His nose wrinkles before he can stop it and he clenches his fists at his side. Alcohol permeates Howard's breath, and the scent nearly throws him back decades to foul breath and heavy hands on his shoulders and a ringing in his ears-
Before Howard can notice his retreat, Bucky steps forward, calling his attention as he pulls him away to look at something on the other end of the table.
Steve lets out a breath, grateful for the reprieve Bucky had given him. Over Howard's shoulder, Bucky throws him an assessing glance, and he nods to put him at ease.
He uncurls his fists and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants. He tries to ignore the slight tremble they have. He is fine. Howard wasn't even being aggressive towards him, and anyway, Bucky is here.
He's fine.
oOo
After Bucky dies, he sits in a bombed out bar and stares at the bottle of vodka on the table across from him.
It had been a gift from a Russian family they had stayed with. It had been given to him initially, but Bucky had claimed it pretty soon after. Steve can remember the Commandos asking after it a few times, but Bucky had always brushed it off easily.
Bucky had hidden it so well Steve hadn't seen heads or tails of it until he was forced to go through his things.
He thinks he understands more about his father now than he ever did.
Vodka has a high alcohol percentage. If anything can get him drunk, this is it. It burns worse than the whiskey when he drinkst, and he feels disgusted with himself, but he doesn't stop.
His father had lived his life hiding behind a bottle, doesn't he deserve to do it this one time?
It doesn't work. He should be relieved about that, but he just hurts. Acid burns in his stomach and his throat feels raw and his eyes are puffy and swollen. He sits in abject misery, his stomach churning.
Peggy comes, and he tries to drag himself out of it. He can't sit and wallow. If he does, then he is no better than Joe. He needs to get up. He always gets back up.
"I'm not going to stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured," he says.
Turns out he doesn't need to be drunk to make dangerous decisions.
oOo
He feels absolutely lost when he wakes up in 2012. His entire world, his entire sense of self and framework of thinking had been torn out from under him.
He feels anchorless, completely adrift. It doesn't help that people look at him and expect things. People expect Captain America to be calm and controlled. They expect him to have things taken care of without unnecessary guidance (even though he knows nothing now.)
On the other hand, they don't expect him to take to phones as quickly as he does, and they don't expect him to react to the changes in politics like he had.
It is exhausting.
He is only a few weeks in to his so-called new life when SHIELD calls him into another battle.
He still has nightmares about Bucky falling. He still dreams about deadly raids and deafening explosions, but he doesn't say no.
He doesn't know what to do with himself without something to fight for. Without a goal, without some kind of anchor he worries he might snap. It feels like something is winding up inside him, a spring going tighter and tighter no matter what he does.
It leaves him breathless with anxiety, but it also burns with a dangerous growing anger.
He tries to shove it down and ignore it. He refuses to give in to it. Ma had always talked about how Pa had changed after coming home from the war. He cannot, cannot allow that to happen to him (even though it doesn't feel like he came home. Home is gone.)
Erskine had chosen him because he was a good man. He can't lose that.
Sometimes his control feels paper-thin.
It is a shock to see Tony. Not only does it drive home the fact that Howard is dead, but it also makes it clear just how much time has passed.
Tony is older than him. Tony is Howard's son and he is older than him.
A scream builds and builds in his chest, and he tries to smother it. He can control it. He can handle it. He can deal with aliens and gods and another war and the death of all his friends—until he can't.
The breaking point is when he finds the Hydra weapons. Rage pulses through his entire body and his teeth grind as Tony reveals that SHIELD had been planning to build weapons with the Tesseract.
Is seventy years too long?! he wants to scream. Did you forget the death, and the camps, and the rows and rows of empty graves because there is nothing left but dust?!
It was two weeks ago for him.
Maybe that's why he can't hold his temper with Tony. He had barely been holding on by a thread, and Tony's flippant nature grates at his last nerve. He shouldn't have snapped at him, but the words burst out. He is overwhelmed by the sheer anger he feels as he argues with Tony. He feels dizzy with it, like something is stoking a huge wave of fury inside him and he can barely keep a float.
"You know, you may not be a threat," he snaps, uncaring for the moment how sharp his words are. "But you better stop pretending to be a hero."
Tony's eyes go dark and cold. "A hero?" he repeats, turning to face him head on. "You're a lab experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle."
The words are a punch to the gut, as cutting as anything his father had ever said about him. A waste, he would say, when he had been sick, and they had had to use the grocery money to buy him medicine because Pa wouldn't give up a single penny of his bar money. He'll dig us into an early grave, if he doesn't keel over and die first.
The monster inside him rears up and he sees red. His hands clench into fists and he can feel himself shaking in remembered pain, hurt, and anger. So much anger. Lash out, something hisses at him—and he wants to. He wants to so much. It's all he can think about beyond the rushing in his ears and the buzzing in his head.
But he can't hit in anger. Not like this. He can't lash out, not with the serum, not like this—
"Put on the suit," he grinds out, holding onto his composure for dear life. He can't hit and he can't yell. Not like this. Not against someone defenseless. "Let's go a few rounds."
Loki's sneak attack hits before he and Tony can make good on the words they spit at each other, and the shock of the exploding engines snaps him out of the red haze he had been in. Fear lurches up his throat as he gets tossed to the floor and his emotions flip in barely a second. He would gasp for breath if he had time. He would try to figure out what had just taken him over— But he doesn't have time. He has a job to do, people to defend, and he gets up to fight.
He doesn't have time to think back on the incident until after the battle. As SHIELD and Thor negotiate terms regarding the scepter and the Tesseract, Bruce informs them of his theory on its influence on their emotions.
"I have no doubt it was egging us on," he says, flexing the hand that had grabbed the staff back in the Helicarrier. "If Loki's plan was to get captured all along, then he knew we could have the scepter. You heard the recordings of him in the chamber. He could have planned on using it to turn us against each other."
Steve tries not to look at Tony as he listens to his explanation. There is a certain logic to his words, but that doesn't stop his crushing sense of guilt. Scepter or no scepter, he had still come dangerously close to following Joe's example back there. Even if the scepter had been manipulating his emotions, he had still given in. He had still been willing to fight with Tony, and shouted those terrible things at him.
And then Tony had almost died. Trying to save everyone. (Exactly like him.)
He should have been able to control himself. He should have fought against the urge to fight with Tony. Bruce's words can't convince him that he doesn't have something terrible and dark inside him.
And if that is true, how is he any different from Joe?
AN: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I always wanted to explore Steve's relationship with himself, anger and alcohol with Joe Rogers thrown into the mix.
His perception of himself is a little skewed, since he is so worried about being like Joe, so we'll have to see where that goes.
This fic is finished, and I will be posting on Wednesdays.