Quicklog, Marvel: Logan & Steve R
[The good Captain America was young. "Fresh out of the ice," the people tending to him in those first few days at S.H.I.E.L.D. had said. 26 years old, weeks out of a war, and here he was, now a full sixty-nine years in The Future, instead of sixty-seven, with the world spinning on and him coming in and out of time. Only this time, there hadn't been any ice. No excuse for why he should have skipped ahead again, except for this mysterious hotel he was told about, and he was pretty sure any and all hotels he'd ever stayed in had been razed long ago by some overeager renovator.
He couldn't get drunk, but some explanation, offered over a beer—he wasn't going to turn that down. The names on the pages of his journal were wholly new or familiar in turn, but none that he knew well, none that made his heart skip—Peggy, for instance. Bucky. But, even if he was "fresh out of the ice," he knew now not to expect them.
There was too much happening in his head and he still wasn't used to the speed of things. So, he'd walked. Cold tinged his cheeks with red, leather jacket brown over broad shoulders, and trousers and a button-up worn high and to the last button. He didn't know who he was looking for, but a nod came his way, sharp blue eyes caught quick, and he smiled, nothing easy, but warm.
Before sitting, he held his hand out to the man named Logan.] Steve Rogers, [he said by way of introduction. A shake, and he was seated.] The last beer I had came from an olive can. Any recommendations?