Chapter Text
You’re pretty sure the man drowning his sorrows at the bar is Captain America.
You’ve been silently making him drinks for the past few hours as he stares emptily at the crackling television in the corner, his presence steady out of the corner of your eye as the last of your patrons drift out into the early morning chill.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, and his eyes are unfocused as they flit around to land on you.
“Sir, we’re closing. Do you need help getting home?”
He breaks your gaze, slurring out something unintelligible before attempting to get up, stumbling, barely catching himself on an oak pillar behind him. You’re over the counter and by his side in an instant, a calming hand on his arm as his chest heaves, tight gasps escaping his shuddering frame. This close, you’re pretty sure it’s him. Steve Rogers. Captain America. One of the Avengers. He’s scruffier than you remember in the press photos you’ve seen, and his hair is longer, curling over the collar of his shirt, but it’s undoubtedly him.
From the way he’s moving, he’d be well on his way to alcohol poisoning by now if he was just a normal guy. Instead, he’s got an arm braced over your shoulders, his weight tipping over onto your frame as you weave through a sea of chairs and tables towards the back entrance of the bar. You didn’t think super soldiers could even get drunk. Too late, you remember that you still have to clean up and close. You mutter a curse, turning back to apologise to your coworker but she just waves you off, an odd smile quirking her lips.
It is way too cold outside for the jeans and tank top you’re wearing, but the Captain runs hot, and it isn’t until you’re safely seated in the taxi that you realise you’ve left your coat in the bar. That’s not even your biggest problem right now. He doesn’t remember where he lives. A nervous laugh escapes you, and you glance at the cabbie, who is thankfully too engrossed in switching radio stations to notice your turmoil in the backseat.
“What do you mean you don’t remember?” you hiss, pulling the seatbelt over his body and swatting his hands away when he attempts to pull you into his lap.
“Don’t know,” he mumbles. “Don’t have a home.”
Whatever smart remark you’re about to fire off withers at the abject sorrow in his voice, thick with the brightness of unshed tears as he raises his eyes to yours. You have to clear your throat a couple of times before you manage to stutter out the address of your apartment to the driver.
He’s quiet through the ride, his head bowed, large, calloused hands wrapped gently around one of your own. You let him.