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Steve knew he couldn’t get drunk but that sure as hell didn’t stop him from trying. It sure as hell didn’t stop him from begging for the pain to dull, even slightly. He begged for mercy from whatever deity was out there, looking down and watching the loss destroy poor Steve Rogers. Bucky’s final scream ate away at his mind. If he was normal the alcohol would have slowed the gnawing. Hell, if he was normal, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. He probably would have lost Bucky anyway, as there wouldn’t have been anyone to rescue the 107th. But at least if that were the case, he wouldn’t have had to watch his body fall. If that were the case, he could get drunk.
The grief was like a migraine. The grief was like an angry stab in the heart. In the back. Everywhere. It was like every bad thing Steve could think of. Worse than all of that because he was left to face the pain alone. Losing his mother had been one thing, but Bucky had been there to comfort him. Bucky wasn’t here now. Steve would never cry on his shoulder again, and that was ironically the thing that made him cry the most.
After a while, the tears stopped because there were simply no more left. Captain America’s eyes were red and puffy and it stung to keep them open. A few hours ago, him and his Howling Commandos had been the ultimate symbol of freedom and war and patriotism and courage. After what had unfolded on the train, Steve felt like the ultimate symbol of failure and weakness and everything else he had felt countless times before the serum. And again, it was the first time he had to feel these things without Bucky’s comfort and encouragement.
He was probably only sitting among the ruins for an hour but it felt like 7. It felt like it had been an eternity when Peggy appeared among them, hesitantly giving Steve a pep talk. She meant well, but he was too mad to appreciate what she was saying. He was mad because she wasn’t Bucky and if she had been, Steve would have listened to those words like they were the most beautiful symphony ever composed.
He knew he would have to put back on the face of the Star-Spangled Man in the morning. The surviving soldiers expected him to rise above tragedy and continue the fight like a true American hero. They needed him to. Everyone would still be mourning but whoever showed it would be a quitter. Captain America wasn’t a quitter, no matter how much he wanted to be. No matter how much he wanted to leave the war and move back to Brooklyn, that wasn’t acceptable. Not in Steve’s mind, not in Peggy’s, not in the infantry’s, not in Erskine’s, and certainly not in Bucky’s.
Captain America had failed but he wasn’t allowed to show it. Fake it ‘til you make it. The morning would come soon enough and he would have to plaster on the mask of confidence, but until then, Steve allowed himself to sit in a destroyed bar, pointlessly sipping whatever he found, knowing deep down that it wouldn’t do shit. He allowed himself to do so to honor his fallen best friend. His love. The truth is, Buck fell into the snow that night, but Steve fell, too.