MU's Captain America | Season One | Episode Three

:warning: Mature Themes - Reader's Discretion is Advised :warning:

"Tides of the Mind"

Trigger Warning: Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, Mental Health Struggles, Emotional Distress and Disordered Eating

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It was dinner time in the penthouse in Manhattan, the lights dimmed and the faint hum of the city just below. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of sizzling as Steve Rogers stood in front of the stove. His body moved with an ease that suggested control, his hands steady as he stirred the chicken curry in the pot. The smell of spices wafted through the air—earthy cumin, garlic, turmeric. The texture of the curry was perfect: not too thick, not too runny. Just the way Steve liked it. A pot of miso soup simmered beside it, with silky tofu floating in the broth.

Bucky Barnes stood at the counter, chopping the greens for a Caesar salad. Croutons, crunchy and golden, scattered across the cutting board. Alpine, Bucky’s White Ragdoll cat, was nestled close to Steve, watching intently as he cooked. Despite being new to Steve, the cat had attached herself to him like a shadow. She kept a close eye on Steve, as if sensing that something was off.

Steve didn’t seem entirely himself tonight. He stood tall, his posture straight, the man he used to be, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his demeanor—something Bucky could feel even without words. Steve had been quieter, more withdrawn lately, and Bucky knew the signs. It wasn’t like Steve to bottle things up. Not like this.

The room felt heavier than usual, the weight of unspoken words thickening the air. Both men wore casual attire—t-shirts and sweatpants, flip-flops lazily shuffling along the floor. Bucky had a glass of vodka in hand, a habitual drink that helped him cope, while Steve cradled a glass of Jameson, spiked with a hidden touch of Asgardian mead.

A song played softly from the radio, the mellow tones of Maroon 5’s Memories filling the quiet space:

"Here's to the ones that we got

Cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not

'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories

Of everything we've been through

Toast to the ones here today

Toast to the ones that we lost on the way

'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories

And the memories bring back, memories bring

back you..."

Steve's grip tightened around his glass, his knuckles pale. Bucky watched him, sensing the shift, the subtle unraveling of something deep inside. It was rare for Steve to talk about his feelings, but tonight, Bucky could feel it coming. Steve’s gaze was distant, his eyes unfocused, almost lost in thought.

"I don’t know what’s going on," Steve said, his voice low, more to himself than to Bucky. He took a long sip from his glass, the alcohol burning as it slid down his throat. "I’ve never treated myself this shitty in my life. I don’t know what happened... what I’ve become."

Bucky paused, the knife in his hand halfway through chopping a green. "How? What do you mean?"

Steve hesitated. The words seemed to get stuck in his throat. He tried to speak, but nothing came out—just a mental block. His thoughts spiraled, and though his mouth remained silent, his mind screamed.

"I am doing heroin. I drink. I smoke. I don't eat. I get takeout or sleep hungry. Hunger is normal now. What happened to me?"

But those thoughts remained locked in his mind, suffocating him. He couldn’t say them. Couldn’t speak the truth, even to Bucky, the one person who might understand.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were glazed, almost vacant. “My emotions... they’re all over the place. I feel like I’m losing it.” He took another sip from his glass, eyes still unfocused. “And the worst part? If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be on the streets right now. That’s where I’d be. Or in a psych ward... it doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m lost.”

Bucky’s chest tightened as the weight of Steve’s words hit him. He knew something had been wrong, but hearing it spoken out loud made it real in a way that cut deeper than Bucky expected. Steve had always been a soldier, a leader, a man who fought through everything, but now it seemed like the fight within himself was more than he could handle.

Alpine meowed softly, rubbing her head against Steve’s leg, her presence a silent comfort in the tense silence. Steve’s hand instinctively reached down to pet her, but it was clear that his mind was far away.

"I don't know how to stop this," Steve murmured, his voice hollow. "It's like... I’m caught in a loop, Buck. A never-ending loop of... of self-destruction."

Bucky’s heart ached as he set down the knife and walked over to Steve. He placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to anchor him in the present, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. “You’re not alone, Steve. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

But Steve didn’t seem to hear him. The words didn’t reach him as he stood there, lost in his mind, drowning in the weight of his own thoughts. He was bipolar. His moods swung wildly, and the highs were like a rush of adrenaline, but the lows? The lows were suffocating. He had been battling PTSD too, the trauma of all those years spent fighting in wars, all those moments of fear and loss. The combination of it all was too much, too heavy for one person to carry. And Steve didn’t know how to ask for help.

“Steve,” Bucky said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "We’ll figure it out, alright? We’ll get through this together.”

But Steve didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up his glass again and took another long drink, the glass clinking gently against his teeth. His gaze never left the floor, his thoughts swirling like a storm inside his head.

Outside, the city continued its never-ending hum, the lights of Manhattan flickering like stars in the night sky. But in the penthouse, there was nothing but silence. A silence that spoke of too many things left unsaid. A silence that carried the weight of unhealed wounds, both seen and unseen.

The song on the radio continued to play, each word a reminder of the things they had lost and the things they had to fight for. But for now, all they could do was hold on.

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