Captain America? That's a little on the nose, wow. But, Jim reminds himself, Steve has his roots in Earth's second World War. Flashy propaganda was the thing to do back then, if the old records are any indication. And Steve seems perfectly aware how impractical and outdated it looks, so Jim feels confident enough not to need to hide his amused look out of politeness. Of course, it's not like Starfleet personnel wear armor either.

"Sounds like a hell of a story." He doesn't ask more than that just yet though, just nodding and giving Sarah one last pat before investigating the workout area. Just like Steve promised, there are handwraps available, and Jim shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the nearest convenient piece of furniture. A small portion of the worgen's bitemark peeks out from beneath his shirt, new pink skin healed over the injury, and it doesn't restrict his movements as he begins taping up his hands. He hasn't done this for a while now, not properly anyway, but his muscle memory hasn't forgotten how.