Happy Birthday thunderboltsortofapenny! I wasn’t able to finish this in time, so here’s a little unedited snippet.
The Joint Special Operations Task Force team J5, the “Howling Commandos” as they would later be dubbed, had seen Steve angry, seen him bleeding, seen more of him than they ever wanted to in that small safe-house after the fuck-up in Sevastopol. But they had yet to see him drunk.
“It’s not right,” Morita said.
“In vino veritas,” Falsworth said.
“La mesure d’un homme,” Dernier said.
“What he said,” Dugan said.
And thus was born A Plan.
“Drink ‘til you drop, Cap,” Dugan plunked a tray of beers down on the table.
Perhaps Plan was too strong a word for it. Objective may have been a word better suited to a course of action that amounted to pour alcohol in him until he floats away.
“No,” Bucky said.
“Bucky,” Steve started.
“C’mon, Sarge, why not? We’ve got 72 hours,” Morita said.
“Yeah, Jimmy, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” Dugan said.
“So many reasons no. Starting with ‘I don’t even want to see you fuckers drunk’ and probably ending with ‘conduct unbecoming.’”
“Sergeant Barnes, this is an essential team building exercise. Seeing how our commanding officer behaves when he allows his inhibitions to be lowered will solidify a bond of trust to lean upon during combat situations,” Falsworth stated.
“Did you hear that Bucky?” Steve said with a Very Serious Face. “It is mission critical that I get drunk tonight.”
“This is a terrible idea.” Steve wasn’t even trying to hide his grin. Smug bastard. Bucky closed his eyes in resignation and heaved a sigh before opening them again. “We’re gonna need shots.”
When Steve woke the next day the sunlight wasn’t so much creeping gently across the floor as it was slamming itself through the window to punch him directly in the face.
“Oh my god, why,” he groaned as he covered his eyes. Or tried to at least. His brain was still struggling to reconnect with his body, so what came out was a rather pathetic “Hnnnnnn” and a single finger twitch. Obviously he’d have to take this more slowly.
Alright. The first step to any successful op is reconnaissance. Sit-Rep, Captain Rogers. A quick evaluation revealed that aside from the pounding in his head and eyes and the roiling of his stomach, he was uninjured. The air was cool and stale with the unpleasant combination of bleach, mildew, and urine, and the tile of the wall was cool against his back. He could hear heavy traffic outside, noise un-muffled by the thin exterior wall. Location: public restroom. Probably a rest stop right off the highway.
An unfamiliar draft on his legs told him his pants had concerningly more holes than they had had the night before, and the feel of tile against bare skin told him he was shirtless. And shoeless. It could be worse though. He could still feel his phone and wallet in the pockets of his pants when he moved. He could hear someone breathing to his left interspersed with the occasional pitiful little moan in a voice he’d recognize anywhere. He turned his head and risked opening his eyes.
Bucky was sitting on the ground next to him, curled protectively around an old soccer ball. He seemed to have fared only slightly better, also shoeless but still wearing an undershirt. But while he was slightly more clothed he was also considerably wetter.