[Over the racket in the room, both mental and verbal, Bucky barely hears his name. His head turns on a swivel and finds a small man standing across the room from him. His facial features say Steve, but the rest of him doesn't compute in Bucky's head. In the museum, Steve was broad-shouldered-- after serum, Rogers stood at 6'2" and weighed 240 pounds-- and tall. Except... except Steve wore newspapers in his shoes and god his head hurt like hell. This doesn't work, this isn't right.
The back of a freezer truck and the tail of a quinnjet don't fit and Bucky's brows furrow. This isn't right. They don't fit.
He remembers the tabloid in Bucharest, a picture of him in Vienna when he never went near the city. Maybe... maybe this was something like that. His brain latches onto the idea, though it's only tentative. This doesn't work. This isn't Steve.
Instead of replying, he stares in silence, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on.]
no subject
The back of a freezer truck and the tail of a quinnjet don't fit and Bucky's brows furrow. This isn't right. They don't fit.
He remembers the tabloid in Bucharest, a picture of him in Vienna when he never went near the city. Maybe... maybe this was something like that. His brain latches onto the idea, though it's only tentative. This doesn't work. This isn't Steve.
Instead of replying, he stares in silence, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on.]