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marmolitaAlso on AO3.
Captain America, Howard/Steve, rated R. WARNINGS: Dubcon, noncon, not sure where you draw the line between the two but this is pretty much there. There is no capability to consent, but there is also no malice.
Steve twirls the glass in his fingers as he listens to the click of Peggy’s heels receding. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. Her words echo in his ears, in his mind. He damn well must have thought you were worth it. His fingers close on the glass, too hard, trying to forget. He damn well must have--
Steve slams his fist into the table, and a spiderweb of cracks spreads out from the impact. He stands up fast enough to knock over the chair behind him, but he doesn’t stop to right it.
Howard Stark is working on attaching booster engines to a motorcycle when Steve walks in, half-empty liquor bottle dangling from his hand. He doesn’t look up from his work as he says, “If you’re trying to get drunk I can get you something better than that.”
“Agent Carter says my metabolism is four times normal. I can’t get drunk."
Howard reaches behind him and grabs a screwdriver off the workbench, eyes remaining focused on the motorcycle. “That doesn’t mean you can’t get drunk. It just means you need to drink four times faster.”
Steve looks at the bottle, then downs the rest of it in one swig. He puts it down on a table next to a pile of disassembled guns. There is a clank, then the stuttering of an engine. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to see the fear and accusation in Bucky’s eyes as he fell from the train, trying to ignore the feeling that his insides are being ripped to shreds. When he looks up, Howard is next to him, holding a bottle of Scotch and a glass. He pours some into the glass, then hands the bottle to Steve. “Barnes was a good man,” he says, clinking his glass against the bottle. “I’ve got five more. That ought to be enough to get even you drunk, for a couple of hours anyway.” When Steve hesitates, he nods encouragingly. “The whole bottle. Drink it up. I’ll stick around and keep an eye on you.”
Three bottles later, Steve is sitting on the floor of the lab, face and neck flushed red. His shirt is unbuttoned, shoes kicked off. Howard has finished with the engine and is digging another bottle out of his private stash, refilling his own glass before setting it down next to Steve. “Hey, you got a radio?” Steve asks, words beginning to slur together, vowels taking on a Brooklyn drawl. “Let’s put on some music, do you like music? I like music.”
“Sure, Captain.” Howard switches on his radio and adjusts the dial until he finds some jazz with not too much static, then lowers himself to the floor next to Steve, leaning against the workbench.
“Steve, call me Steve. Jesus, you saw me before. You know I’m just a scrawny kid.” Steve twirls the bottle around in time with the music, humming almost under his breath. For a while, there is just the scratchy sound of the radio, Steve’s humming, and the clink of glass.
Howard takes a sip of his drink, swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing. He nods toward the bottle. “Better keep drinking, Steve, if you want to keep up with your super-fast metabolism.”
Steve lifts the bottle and drinks, throat working, until half of it is gone. “I saw your expo.” He leans forward, too close to Howard. “The flying car. Thought you were a fuckup. When I saw you in the lab, that day, I thought for sure the procedure was going to kill me with a fuckup like you running it.” Steve sits back, too quickly; his head knocks against the workbench. "Fuck. I was wrong. You're a fucking genius. A goddamn fucking genius, and I'm the fuckup.”
“You did everything you could.” Howard lays a hand on Steve’s knee. Steve closes his eyes.
“Bucky is dead because of me.”
“He would have died in a Hydra torture chamber if you hadn’t rescued him.”
“Maybe he should have. At least then it wouldn’t have been my fault.” Steve drains the rest of the bottle, and when he puts it down, his hand is unsteady and the bottle topples over. “Fuck. Still not drunk enough to forget.”
Howard presses down on Steve’s knee and levers himself up. Steve cradles his head in his hands and listens to the sound of the cabinet opening, closing, Howard’s footsteps approaching, out of rhythm with the music. When he lifts his head, the room spins for a moment before settling down, his eyes unfocusing and then focusing in again on the two bottles Howard is handing him. “Last two bottles. You just polished one off, took you about five minutes. If you can get down another in the next five minutes it might be enough to knock you out. Otherwise there’s one more.”
Steve doesn’t say thanks, but he takes one of the bottles and drains it. Not quite enough to knock him out entirely, but he dimly realizes that the slanting of the room is because he is sliding sideways to the floor. Howard is there, kneeling on the floor beside him. “Okay, Steve?” he asks, and Steve feels the warmth of the hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Steve tries to say, but it comes out as more of a grunt. The world is receding from his awareness, along with his memories. “Talk to me,” he mumbles, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Sure, Steve.” Howard’s hand slides down to Steve’s stomach as he helps Steve lay flat on the floor of the lab. “You’re not alone. I’m here. And you were right, I am a fuckup. I’m also a fucking genius so you’re still right on both counts. I thought that procedure was going to kill you up until the minute you came out of that chamber still breathing.” Steve’s undershirt pulls up and he tries to reach to fix it, but his arms don’t move the way he wants them to. Howard slips his hand underneath the shirt, fingers tracing over the smooth ridges of muscles. “Scrawny kid, huh? Not so scrawny now.”
Howard moves his hand away, and then he is back, one hand holding up Steve’s head and the other holding the remaining bottle to his lips. “You want to go to sleep, right?” he says, tipping the bottle up. “Drink a little more.” The alcohol burns against a cut on Steve’s lower lip, but he swallows, and swallows, until Howard lowers the bottle. “There you go, that’s it. See, I told you you could get drunk.”
Everything spins, blurs, and darkness comes in and out. He can still hear Howard talking, but it sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Relax, Steve. I’m going to take care of you.” Howard’s hands are back, touching his ribs, sliding down his sides. Steve is barely conscious; he can’t string two thoughts together into anything cohesive. The hands are at his belt, then opening the buttons on his pants. “You’re not alone tonight. I’m just going to help you relax. Help you sleep.” Howard’s face is close, too close, and his moustache tickles Steve’s ear. Those hands are sliding under the waistband of Steve’s underwear, and he tries to move, tries to reach out, but all he manages to do is curl his fingers. Then Howard’s face is gone, and something warm and wet is closing over him, and his vision blurs and goes black.
Steve wakes hours later on the floor of the lab, alone. There are six empty bottles lined up next to him, and the radio is still playing. He almost remembers drinking the fifth bottle, but not the sixth.
His belt is buckled through the wrong hole. There is something he can’t quite recall tickling the back of his mind.
Bucky is still dead.
Steve leaves the lab and doesn’t look back.
Captain America, Howard/Steve, rated R. WARNINGS: Dubcon, noncon, not sure where you draw the line between the two but this is pretty much there. There is no capability to consent, but there is also no malice.
Steve twirls the glass in his fingers as he listens to the click of Peggy’s heels receding. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. Her words echo in his ears, in his mind. He damn well must have thought you were worth it. His fingers close on the glass, too hard, trying to forget. He damn well must have--
Steve slams his fist into the table, and a spiderweb of cracks spreads out from the impact. He stands up fast enough to knock over the chair behind him, but he doesn’t stop to right it.
Howard Stark is working on attaching booster engines to a motorcycle when Steve walks in, half-empty liquor bottle dangling from his hand. He doesn’t look up from his work as he says, “If you’re trying to get drunk I can get you something better than that.”
“Agent Carter says my metabolism is four times normal. I can’t get drunk."
Howard reaches behind him and grabs a screwdriver off the workbench, eyes remaining focused on the motorcycle. “That doesn’t mean you can’t get drunk. It just means you need to drink four times faster.”
Steve looks at the bottle, then downs the rest of it in one swig. He puts it down on a table next to a pile of disassembled guns. There is a clank, then the stuttering of an engine. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to see the fear and accusation in Bucky’s eyes as he fell from the train, trying to ignore the feeling that his insides are being ripped to shreds. When he looks up, Howard is next to him, holding a bottle of Scotch and a glass. He pours some into the glass, then hands the bottle to Steve. “Barnes was a good man,” he says, clinking his glass against the bottle. “I’ve got five more. That ought to be enough to get even you drunk, for a couple of hours anyway.” When Steve hesitates, he nods encouragingly. “The whole bottle. Drink it up. I’ll stick around and keep an eye on you.”
Three bottles later, Steve is sitting on the floor of the lab, face and neck flushed red. His shirt is unbuttoned, shoes kicked off. Howard has finished with the engine and is digging another bottle out of his private stash, refilling his own glass before setting it down next to Steve. “Hey, you got a radio?” Steve asks, words beginning to slur together, vowels taking on a Brooklyn drawl. “Let’s put on some music, do you like music? I like music.”
“Sure, Captain.” Howard switches on his radio and adjusts the dial until he finds some jazz with not too much static, then lowers himself to the floor next to Steve, leaning against the workbench.
“Steve, call me Steve. Jesus, you saw me before. You know I’m just a scrawny kid.” Steve twirls the bottle around in time with the music, humming almost under his breath. For a while, there is just the scratchy sound of the radio, Steve’s humming, and the clink of glass.
Howard takes a sip of his drink, swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing. He nods toward the bottle. “Better keep drinking, Steve, if you want to keep up with your super-fast metabolism.”
Steve lifts the bottle and drinks, throat working, until half of it is gone. “I saw your expo.” He leans forward, too close to Howard. “The flying car. Thought you were a fuckup. When I saw you in the lab, that day, I thought for sure the procedure was going to kill me with a fuckup like you running it.” Steve sits back, too quickly; his head knocks against the workbench. "Fuck. I was wrong. You're a fucking genius. A goddamn fucking genius, and I'm the fuckup.”
“You did everything you could.” Howard lays a hand on Steve’s knee. Steve closes his eyes.
“Bucky is dead because of me.”
“He would have died in a Hydra torture chamber if you hadn’t rescued him.”
“Maybe he should have. At least then it wouldn’t have been my fault.” Steve drains the rest of the bottle, and when he puts it down, his hand is unsteady and the bottle topples over. “Fuck. Still not drunk enough to forget.”
Howard presses down on Steve’s knee and levers himself up. Steve cradles his head in his hands and listens to the sound of the cabinet opening, closing, Howard’s footsteps approaching, out of rhythm with the music. When he lifts his head, the room spins for a moment before settling down, his eyes unfocusing and then focusing in again on the two bottles Howard is handing him. “Last two bottles. You just polished one off, took you about five minutes. If you can get down another in the next five minutes it might be enough to knock you out. Otherwise there’s one more.”
Steve doesn’t say thanks, but he takes one of the bottles and drains it. Not quite enough to knock him out entirely, but he dimly realizes that the slanting of the room is because he is sliding sideways to the floor. Howard is there, kneeling on the floor beside him. “Okay, Steve?” he asks, and Steve feels the warmth of the hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Steve tries to say, but it comes out as more of a grunt. The world is receding from his awareness, along with his memories. “Talk to me,” he mumbles, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Sure, Steve.” Howard’s hand slides down to Steve’s stomach as he helps Steve lay flat on the floor of the lab. “You’re not alone. I’m here. And you were right, I am a fuckup. I’m also a fucking genius so you’re still right on both counts. I thought that procedure was going to kill you up until the minute you came out of that chamber still breathing.” Steve’s undershirt pulls up and he tries to reach to fix it, but his arms don’t move the way he wants them to. Howard slips his hand underneath the shirt, fingers tracing over the smooth ridges of muscles. “Scrawny kid, huh? Not so scrawny now.”
Howard moves his hand away, and then he is back, one hand holding up Steve’s head and the other holding the remaining bottle to his lips. “You want to go to sleep, right?” he says, tipping the bottle up. “Drink a little more.” The alcohol burns against a cut on Steve’s lower lip, but he swallows, and swallows, until Howard lowers the bottle. “There you go, that’s it. See, I told you you could get drunk.”
Everything spins, blurs, and darkness comes in and out. He can still hear Howard talking, but it sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Relax, Steve. I’m going to take care of you.” Howard’s hands are back, touching his ribs, sliding down his sides. Steve is barely conscious; he can’t string two thoughts together into anything cohesive. The hands are at his belt, then opening the buttons on his pants. “You’re not alone tonight. I’m just going to help you relax. Help you sleep.” Howard’s face is close, too close, and his moustache tickles Steve’s ear. Those hands are sliding under the waistband of Steve’s underwear, and he tries to move, tries to reach out, but all he manages to do is curl his fingers. Then Howard’s face is gone, and something warm and wet is closing over him, and his vision blurs and goes black.
Steve wakes hours later on the floor of the lab, alone. There are six empty bottles lined up next to him, and the radio is still playing. He almost remembers drinking the fifth bottle, but not the sixth.
His belt is buckled through the wrong hole. There is something he can’t quite recall tickling the back of his mind.
Bucky is still dead.
Steve leaves the lab and doesn’t look back.
