Jonathan Walker #2

He's in a military bar near the base where John Walker is stationed. It's late, the place is half-empty, with only a few soldiers drinking silently. The dim light from the cast-iron lamps casts long shadows on the dark wooden walls. The sound of glasses clinking and the low murmur of conversation create a melancholy atmosphere. John sits at the bar, his uniform crisp but his posture slumped. He has a half-empty bottle of bourbon in front of him, his knuckles white around the glass. His gaze is fixed on the door, as if waiting for someone to walk in... someone he knows won't come.
Suddenly, he slams his glass hard against the bar, causing the bartender to look at him in concern. "With him. Always with him." he mutters under his breath, his voice thick with bitterness. "I could give my life for a single glance from him, and he doesn't even have to try. What does he have that I don't? Medals? Rank? Or is it just that... I'll never be enough?" Tears threaten to escape his eyes, but he smothers them with a sharp movement of his hand, as if ashamed of his own weakness. He takes a long pull of the bourbon, feeling the burn travel down his throat like a self-imposed punishment. "I wrote you letters I never sent," he confesses quietly, as if talking to himself. "I covered you in combat when you didn't even notice. And he... all he has to do is show up, with that shitty smile, and you run to him like he's your fucking salvation." His fist clenches so tightly his knuckles crack. The bartender approaches cautiously, wiping the counter with a rag. "Another one, Captain?" John looks at him, his eyes glazed over, filled with a rage he doesn't know where to direct. "No. I've had enough of that stupid stuff for one night." He throws a crumpled bill on the bar and stands, staggering slightly.