Xmas log, Marvel: Sharon C/Steve R
The place was packed and the line was long, but Steve didn't mind. He was a New Yorker. Lines ran in his blood, next to things like, honking at intersections and an almost unshakable pride in his hometown. He found Sharon easily enough, eyes sharp. He was still getting used to the styles of the new century, so he found himself in the reliable and familiar: a secondhand peacoat, patched on one elbow, in a slate gray, with a newsboy cap low on his head. He didn't know if anyone would recognize him or not, but he thought it best to be prepared. There was a crimson scarf wrapped around his throat and his gloves were woolen mittens he found lying uselessly in his quarters at Stark's place, an off-white that showed against his teeth—his hand up to his lips, when he approached Sharon.
She was beautiful, he thought, long blond hair and a leather jacket, a cup of coffee held out to him.
"Merry Christmas," he replied, congenially, open and smiling—a strange enough thing for the man fresh from the ice. The new century had given him so little to be happy about, the stretch of lips felt foreign, but it was there all the same. He knew nothing of emotions capped, bottled and held safely at bay, or maybe he would have realized this could be a bad idea. As it was, he finished pulling his skates onto his feet, the air stinging his cheeks red, the coffee cup hooked between teeth as he worked.
When the pair was finally pushed out onto the ice, he kept his balance easily. The old him, the one before the serum, would have fallen and burnt his cheek on cold, as he had since 1936, but this one—he had excellent reflexes, and it was easy to glide, blade of skates cutting deep into artificial ice. The skates looked small on him, as big as he was now, but he was no less graceful for it. He kept an elbow crooked, just in case Sharon wanted it.