The modern world was exhausting. Yes, certainly, there were elements he appreciated (plumbing, electricity, doughnut holes), but for all the things he appreciated, there were equal or more things he did not (cellular telephones, energy drinks, most of what was on television). Learning to navigate a new world while trying to keep that same new world from ending was highly overrated, in his occasionally-pessimistic opinion.

They'd just managed to defeat yet another ugly, disgusting servant of the other side and he was feeling particularly displeased with the modern world and his presence in it today. Because of that defeat, Lieutenant Mills had been forced to return to the precinct to complete "a stack of paperwork higher than that tower in Dubai". She had been far too irritated with the situation as a whole for him to be willing to ask her to explain that statement, so instead he had made his way to a local tavern and was sampling their various whiskies. It wasn't healthy in any number of ways, but he wasn't particularly concerned about that right now.

When a pair of highly muscled shoulders appeared in his peripheral vision, he nearly got up and left. He wasn't inclined to speak with whichever member of the police force had arrived to check on him, and he didn't know of others who would have such a physique. The man next to him ordered a shot of whisky for himself, then glanced over at Ichabod and raised it in a half-toast before downing it.

"One of those days," the man said, and Ichabod chuckled humorlessly. The stranger was, on closer examination, not a member of the police force, and appeared to be having a day that was just as bad as Ichabod's.

"I seem to be having a number of them," Ichabod agreed, and downed his own shot.

"Tommy, eh?" the man said, raising an eyebrow, and Ichabod frowned confusedly.

"I'm sorry, no. I think you've mistaken me for someone else," he said as politely as he could.

The man shook his head in apology.

"Sorry. It's what we called the British soldiers. Old habits die hard."

So the man had served in the American forces in some conflict that involved British forces. Not his own, clearly, but he knew that the two nations had been allies for some time now.

"That's perfectly alright," he excused the other man. "It's far better than redcoats or lobsterbacks, I assure you."

"That's a blast from the past," the muscled man said. "That's from what, the Revolutionary War?"

"Indeed," Ichabod agreed, and decided to be a bit more honest. He'd be disbelieved due to the alcohol anyway. "Ichabod Crane, lately arrived from that very conflict. Serving on the side of the colonists, to be clear."

The man stared for a few moments, then signaled for another drink and downed it.

"As long as we're telling things that no one will believe," he started. "Steve Rogers. Served in the United States Army in World War II, frozen in a block of ice, woke up about two years ago."

So they were both men out of time and both soldiers. The universe liked its parallels.

"Tell me, do you find this modern world incomprehensibly and unnecessarily complex?" he asked, and signaled to the barkeep to just bring the bottle. It was likely going to be one of those nights, after all, and there was no reason to keep the poor man shuttling back and forth.

"Sometimes," Steve agreed, and accepted Ichabod's wordless offer to pour another round for them both. "I see so many things. Some of them are good, of course. Some of them, though, I really don't understand."

Ichabod could and did drink to that.

"Must be worse for you, though," Steve said. "I only came forward about sixty years. You came forward, what, two hundred fifty?"

"More or less," Ichabod agreed. "I do quite enjoy indoor plumbing, I must confess. And electricity is quite nice as well."

Steve chuckled.

"I can see why you'd like them both. Can't say I blame you."

"And you?" Ichabod queried gently. "What do you like best about your new time?"

"Medical care," Steve said. "Men died on the battlefield right and left. Now they take them from a war zone halfway around the world to a hospital in DC in hours and they save them."

Ichabod could and did drink to that too. He'd need to find one of those "taxis" to take him home at this rate. Steve didn't seem to be showing many effects of the shots, but he hadn't had as many either.

"That is very much a positive aspect of this time," Ichabod agreed. "They died in even worse numbers in my time, and if they didn't die, they often wished they had."

"Same," Steve agreed, and raised his glass slightly. "To fallen comrades."

That was something Ichabod could certainly drink to as well, and so he did.

"So why are you here and not there?" Steve asked casually. "Some kind of Rip van Winkle thing? Not that you have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, no, it's quite alright," Ichabod assured him, perhaps a bit tipsily. "It seems I was needed. I died, or thought I did, but I woke up, so clearly I didn't. Or perhaps I did. I'm not quite sure on that point. Katrina hasn't been very clear about it."

"Katrina?" the other man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My wife," Ichabod explained. "Currently trapped between worlds. It's a very long story. I'm not sure there's enough whisky in this town for that story."

"That's terrible," Steve said honestly, or apparently so, and refilled both glasses. "I'm not married, but I can understand losing someone you care about. Everyone I cared about is in an old-folks home these days, if they're alive at all."

"Everyone I care about is on a genealogy chart in the 'can't count that many greats' section, to quote someone I know," he said, perhaps a bit bitterly, but it had been that kind of day. He downed his whisky in one gulp.

"Do you have someone here to help you? I'd offer, but I'm just passing through. Plus I don't really know this world that well myself, obviously," Steve said.

"I do, thank you," Ichabod confirmed. "A member of the local constabulary has been quite helpful to me."

"Good. Everyone needs someone to help them navigate the world. Especially if it's not their world," he said with a humorless chuckle, and Ichabod joined him, then refilled their glasses one more time.

"To navigating the world without a compass, sextant, or any kind of map," Ichabod said, and raised his glass.

"C'mon Ichabod," Steve decided after one last shot. "I'll get you home. And I'll give you my phone number in case you need to talk to someone else who doesn't understand this internet thing."

"Do not get me started on that," Ichabod slurred slightly, but paid his tab and followed Steve out of the bar anyway. He had no idea what came next, but knowing that he wasn't the only one out of time was remarkably comforting.