Steve is on standby on New Year's Eve. It's a great time for a terrorist attack, pretty much anywhere in his world. Natasha and Sam and even Wanda are alert, keeping an eye on things, and they've worked hard in the previous weeks to cut off any trouble before it starts He dares to hope there won't be any kind of disaster that needs his attention tonight, but it would be wrong not to stay up, stay alert, wait out the night.

So he's in the Clubhouse, coffee on, with a radio on that's tuned to a station on his own world. His PINpoint is in front of him, volume high, in case someone texts or calls, and he's got his sketchbook open, pencils set out next to him. There's a loose gesture sketch of a man running on the page, but he's not happy with it and no further inspiration is forthcoming, so he's just sitting, listening, spinning a pencil between his fingers when there's a familiar POP of displaced air and a basket lands on the counter beside him.

...what the hell? He's on his feet in a second, looking around to see if anyone's there before he reaches out to take the handle of it, tugging it closer to see what's in it.

Gifts. Edible gifts. Steve is super-confused right about now, but pleasantly so.