[ Steve's sitting at the edge of the roof with his sketchbook in his lap, trying to think, trying to translate the mental chaos of the past day into something that makes sense. The silver, unpainted shield sits next to him, face-up. His feet dangle over the edge.
Strategically, not a great position.
He's still not perfected his situational awareness, particularly in scenarios where he feels secure. So he doesn't hear someone come up, focused as he is on drawing the curves of the horizon - until he hears someone whisper what the hell in a voice that's almost familiar.
He turns sharply, starts to reach for the shield, and then stops.
Instant confusion.
He recognizes the arm. That's easy. The face is eerily similar. But it isn't the man he met hours ago, his Bucky Barnes.
Is this guy shorter?
What the hell is definitely the phrase of the hour.]
roof ;
Strategically, not a great position.
He's still not perfected his situational awareness, particularly in scenarios where he feels secure. So he doesn't hear someone come up, focused as he is on drawing the curves of the horizon - until he hears someone whisper what the hell in a voice that's almost familiar.
He turns sharply, starts to reach for the shield, and then stops.
Instant confusion.
He recognizes the arm. That's easy. The face is eerily similar. But it isn't the man he met hours ago, his Bucky Barnes.
Is this guy shorter?
What the hell is definitely the phrase of the hour.]