Marvel: Preston R/Steve R
[Incognito for Steve Rogers meant a white t-shirt (newly purchased), dark jeans belted with some forgotten thread hanging limp in the wet air on his shin from recent hemming, and navy gabardine, collar pulled up. It was hot, and blond hair stuck near-brown to skin, forehead and temples, but Steve ignored the way the moist heat plied underneath the crew'd collar of his t-shirt. the way it drew beads down the back of his neck. His bike waited by a dutiful pair of guardsmen, men who tried to keep the queue from rioting as the sun dipped and stomachs cramped; its engine rumbled a waning summer's thrum under the wooly tuck of the air.
Steve moved quietly through the tent, tarpaulin plastic vaulted by a scaffolding of metal rods taped together with scrim-backed polyethylene. A half-hearted generation of static tugged a flop of bangs against gravity as his boots scraped concrete and brick, the man skirting metal folding chairs and borrowed cots of the sick and healing. He responded only distractedly to the turn of heads in his direction. If he was smiled at, he returned the gesture, but his eyes were busy sweeping the place with a soldier's speed.
There. Steve circled toward the man as a tired hiss of rain pattered down on the tent.] Preston. [He didn't squat near the chair, but he did look down as he spoke, softly and with warmth. An electric hint of worry existed, but Steve had been practicing remained relaxed.] Ready to go?