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There was a sharp knock on the door. Steve startled awake, groaning as he groggily came to. It was light outside the slatted blinds and the air was thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and smoke. He was lying face down on his bunk, green collared shirt rumpled on his chest and his blond hair was a mess from the pillow. Levering himself onto his forearms, he pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, wincing.  "Who is it?" Steve called in a scratchy morning voice. His mouth was dry and his head was pounding. This was by far the worst hangover he'd had in seventy years.  "Open the door, Rogers." Natasha's voice was muffled through the do