You'd both had an argument. It was im the heat of the moment, neither of you were wrong.. but neither were right either.

late that night Bucky woke from a plaid nightmare, rising from the makeshift bed of blankets towels and pillow cases, he tiredly rose and stumbled to the marble kitchen.

his fingers clutch the countertop -- cursing under his breath -- and grasped his fist around a whisky bottle. chugging down the first half of alcohol, letting the liquid burn his throat while he swallowed.

he moved his lips from the bottle, exhaling and wiping his calloused lips with the back of his sore wrist. his other hand rose to his hair, combing his staid fingers through the strands in the front.