Off Broadway

It wouldn't be the first time Steve Rogers had found himself in a back alley getting the snot beat out of him. 

But this time, Bucky didn't come around the corner to step in and save the day. Steve lay propped up against a trashcan, and he was pretty sure that after that last swift kick to the stomach, that big bruiser had rearranged something, if not broken a couple of his ribs. He was vaguely aware of the marquis lights flickering around the corner, and the sounds of feminine laughter floating past the alley. 

He shifted trying to stand and groaned when the blood again rushed to his head. He exhaled sharply and clutched weakly at his ribs. It was hard to tell around the ringing in his ears, but Steve could've sworn that he could make out rapid footfall towards him. 

"Hey, mister, you, okay?" Steve squinted up at the face hovering over his. 

"Am I in heaven?" He mumbled, struggling to make out the fuzzy features of the hazy figure about him. Then gentle hands were on his face, gingerly examining his cut and bruised face. 

"Hardly." Steve heard the feminine voice say dryly. "You need to see a doctor." 

"No, I'll be okay." He groaned, pulling his face away and tried to stand, but wheezed and fell back at the sharp pain in his side. 

"Night, Merle, tell Marlene and the kids I said hello." You smiled at the elderly stagehand and rested your hand on the back exit door. 

"Will do, Miss Fancy, you have a good night." Merle smiled warmly at you with a waive and returned to his sweeping. Bracing yourself for the bitter wind, you pulled your collar a little higher, and pushed open the back door, clapping a hand down on top of your head to keep your hat from flying off. 

You might not have to pinch your pennies like you used to, but old habits die hard. Besides, this happened to be one of your favorite hats. Tentatively you glanced out the door, head darting side to side, and you sighed when there were no lingering male admirers waiting. 

Stage door Johnnie's the girls called them. Men who weren't satisfied with admiring from the stage. They'd send letters, gifts, and occasionally you'd find them outside the backdoors hoping to catch even a glimpse of their favorite dancers. Luckily, you hadn't had many admirers who were so persistent. Not that there wasn't the occasional pest you had to fend off. Fortunately, it seemed tonight would not be one of those nights you had to beat off some lech. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, you trod through the snow, avoiding the slick spots. You couldn't wait to get home, there was a tea kettle and midnight radio drama calling your name. The sickening sound of someone being punched in the guts gave you pause. Another sickening blow, and the sound of a weak wheeze. Then two rather burly looking brutes were running out of the alley beside the stage door. Neither so much as had a scratch on them. 

Another low moan. Your heart sank. You'd heard sounds like that before. When you were little your dad would take you hunting sometimes, you weren't a stranger to the sounds of a wounded animal. Making sure the two thugs weren't coming back to finish off whoever lay in that alley, you rounded the corner and gasped. 

Laying propped up against the dumpster was a frail looking man. His breathing was so shallow, that you'd be forgiven for mistaking him for dead. The only signs of life in him were those rattling groans and his feeble attempts to pull himself to his feet. 

"Hey, mister, you, okay?" Rushing forward, you dropped to your knees and gingerly examined his face. He didn't look good. His left eye was already swollen shut, his lip was busted in two places, and there was a gash on his cheek that clearly needed to be stitched. And that was only his face. With that wheezing he was doing; heaven only knew what damage he'd sustained to the rest of his person. The man squinted up at you with his good eye, and his fingers twitched weakly at his side. 

"Am I in heaven?" His voice was surprisingly strong. You snorted. 

"Hardly." Your tone was dry. Reaching into your pocket you pulled out a handkerchief and dapped at a smudge on his forehead. "You need a doctor." The man's eye shuttered and his jaw clenched. 

"No, I'll be okay." He pulled his face free and tried and failed to pull himself up. You reached out a hand to steady him when he wheezed sharply and fell back with a groan. 

"Christopher Columbus! Are you always this stubborn?" Your eye twitched in exasperation, and you slammed your hat back down onto your head. The man looked at you apologetically and somehow managed a lopsided smile. 

"I'm afraid so, ma'am." He attempted to chuckle, and quickly devolved into a coughing fit. You scrambled to help him lean forward, and patted his back as whooping coughs racked his frame. 

"I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure something in there's broken." He waved a hand in protest when the coughing subsided. You bit the inside of your cheek, anger at his obstinance rising into your throat. "Come on." You wrapped both arms under his shoulders and tugged and pulled until he was on his feet. He staggered like a newborn deer, but he was on his feet. 

"Ma'am, I'll be fine." He protested weakly. You pursed your lips and taking his hand, wrapped his arm around your shoulders and braced his weight against you with a steadying arm around his waist. 

"I'm no doctor, but we can do something about those cuts and that gash on your face." He opened his mouth to protest. "That's an order, not a request." You looked at him firmly and steeled your eyes. "Now march."  He let out a weak chuckle and shifted his weight with a wince. 

"Yes, ma'am."  He nodded once, and together you slowly made your way back to the theatre, and you managed to help him hobble up the small flight and banged furiously on the back door. Seconds later Merle opened the door. 

"Did you forget- Miss Fancy!" His eyes widened and he flung the door open when he saw your battered companion. 

"Merle, are any of the girls still here?" You grit your teeth and tighten your grip when you felt him begin to slump against you. Merle nodded, and quickly ushered you back through the door and shut it soundly. 

"Sure, are Miss Fancy. Miss Peaches and Miss Gale I know for sure are here." 

"Sugar Puss still here?" 

"I think so, Miss Fancy." Merle slipped his arm around the man's other side to help you support his weight. 

"Oh, thanks, Merle." You sighed in relief, and together you half dragged the half-conscious man towards the dressing rooms. "Sugar Puss!" You called out, kicking open the door.

"My palm's a itchin', someone talkin' about me?" Your friend turned on the stool she was sitting on and taking in the sight of you dragging an injured man into the dressing room, dropped her brush and rushed forward. Merle released his grip on the man, the lanky blonde helping you support his weight. "Where'd you find this one, Fancy?" Her voice strained as she helped you lower him onto one of the stools. 

"Two thugs beat the stuffing out of him and left him in the back alley." You took a deep breath and stretched out your back muscles as Sugar Puss started examining his cuts. 

"This gash needs stitchin', Fan can you get me that kit out of my purse?" She turns to look up at you and gestures to the bag hanging on a hook by the door. 

"Sure thing." You quickly grab her purse, and she turns her attention back to the man in question. 

"You got a name, Sugar?" She asks the man, tilting his face and dabbing away the dirt with her handkerchief. 

"Steve, ma'am." He seems overwhelmed by his surroundings, and the powdered blonde woman with her hands on his face. He blushes and his eyes dart to meet yours as you hand her the kit. Taking the kit from you, she narrows her eyes observantly for a moment before smirking and turning back to face him.

"I'm gonna stitch you up, okay, Steve?" Sugar Puss searches his face to make sure he understood. Steve hesitantly nodded and glanced nervously at you again. Sugar Puss reached into the kit and sanitized the needle, before threading it. Steve shuffled awkwardly on the stool and winced, trying to cover the fact that he was clearly in a lot of pain. "I'll be quick." Her eyes shone apologetically, and you rounded his other side. 

"You can hold my hand if you want." You said softly, not wanting to wound his pride with the offer. Steve winced again and looked over at you before reluctantly taking your hand. "You can bear down." You squeezed his fingers for emphasis. "I'm not made of sugar." A small smile ghosted across his face and he squeezed your hand back, surprising you. For such a frail looking man, he had a rather powerful grip. 

"You ready?" You turned your heads towards Sugar Puss in unison. 

"Yes, ma'am." Steve cleared his throat and set his jaw. The needle slid through his skin and his grip on your hand tightened. And with every additional stitch his fingers gripped yours tighter and tighter until his knuckles were white. His good eye squeezed shut and he grit his teeth. But he didn't make a sound. He took it like a champ. 

"There." Sugar Puss snipped the thread and knotted the ends. "All done, Champ." She bathed the needle in alcohol again and placed it back in the kit. Steve let out a shuddering breath as he eased his grip on your fingers, but didn't release your hand entirely. 

"You did great." You murmured, blotting away a thin layer of perspiration that dotted his brow. Steve smiled weakly and squeezed your hand. Sugar Puss returned to examine her work and tilted his chin side to side. 

"Thank you, ma'am." He looked up at her sincerely. Sugar Puss snorted and waived off his appreciation. 

"I'm no ma'am. My name's Sugar Puss, honey. And this here's Fancy." She gestured to you. Steve turned his attention to you. 

"Stage names." You offered, giving him a wry smile. He nodded in understanding. 

"Could I know your given name?" He asked softly, and you were again taken aback by the strong timber of his voice. It was soft and gentle, but solid. 

"Y/N." You said, finally releasing his hand. 

"Y/N." He repeated and turned to look back at Sugar Puss. She shook her hands and head in tam den and laughed heartily. 

"Oh, no, not me! The name's just Sugar Puss. That is, to everybody but my mama and maybe the preacher man!" Steve's lips curved up at the edges and his good eye shone with warmth. She frowned and inspected his face again. "You gotta get somethin' on that eye, Honey." His hand flew up to the eye that was swollen shut and he hissed.

Sugar Puss pealed back his fingers and gave it a good once over. "Put a steak on it when you get home, and it'll be as pretty as your other eye in no time." Steve blushed at the comment and shifted on the stool. 

"Thank you again, ma-, Miss Sugar Puss." 

"You can drop the miss, Honey, you're practically family here." She folded her arms and looked at him intently. "As a matter of fact..." She looked at you and her eyes glimmered. You groaned. 

"Aw, come on Sugar Puss, not right now! The poor man's been through the wringer, he probably just wants to go home." You groaned. She scowled at you and waived off your concern. 

"We'll make it quick. Girls! Girls! Come ere'!" She gestured enthusiastically for the other women to gather around Steve. He looked to you, clearly confused and overwhelmed. Sighing you gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

"I'm sorry, when Sugar gets a notion in her head-" She cut you off with a firm clap of her hands. 

"Ladies, this creamy doll sitting here is Steve." Sugar Puss placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, and his face turned a beautiful shade of vermillion. You groaned again and covered your face. It was hard to tell who wanted to crawl under the vanity table more, You or Steve. The women looked at each other, and then at Steve. "We're initiating him." She squeezed his shoulder and smiled brightly at them. "All in favor say aye, all opposed nay." She raised a brow pointedly and a collective chuckle went through the room before a resounding "Aye!" from each woman. 

Sugar Puss smiled brightly, and you glanced between your fingers from her to Steve. His eyes were glazed over at this point, and he was staring firmly at a spot on the floor. 

"Now, Steve." She looked at him seriously and pursed her lips dramatically. 

"Pardon?" He snapped back to attention and looked up at her, confused. Sugar Puss let the pause linger for a moment before smiling again. 

"New initiates to the gang get a name." She said slowly. He looked up at you in confusion. 

"That's how each of us got our stage names. The others picked it." You explained, stepping a little closer to offer him some semblance of support. Looking back at her, you noted the intense look of consternation on Sugar Puss' face. "And Sugar Puss is the grand master of decision." Steve looked at her and pulled at his collar nervously. 

"Slats." She decided. 

"Slats?" He shifted on the stool and winced, moving a hand to hold his ribs. She gingerly checked his side and whistled.

"You're gonna want to wrap those up when you get home." She said quietly, looking past him at you. Steve muttered something unintelligent before turning to look at you, he was clearly worn out. 

"Come on, Steve." With Sugar Puss' help you got him into a standing position and wrapped your arm firmly around his waist. 

"Where are we going?" He groaned, and his good eye squeezed shut. You gave him a concerned look and clapped your hat back on your head. 

"I'm taking you home." He opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a firm look. "There's no way you're going to be able to get home alone, let alone bind those ribs. Accept the help." He scoffed again and you applied slight pressure to his side, drawing a sharp gasp from him. "That wasn't a request, Slats." He looked at you stubbornly and you smirked. "Besides." you winked, "You're one of the gang now, and we take care of our own. Slats." You emphasized the nickname again.

"Yes, ma'am." He chuckled, accepting defeat.