[ She recognizes him, and he knows it. He's learned to read faces, and he's profoundly certain that her reaction is at least semi-deliberate. Bucky glances at the cake, and thinks of a certain idiot somewhere in the hotel giving away even his own rations for the good of people he doesn't know.
(Steve likes chocolate, in whatever form it comes in.)
But all the same, Bucky is wary, hyper-vigilant, tension written in the line of broad shoulders. This man is not the footnote in history, not the face plastered on exhibits, carefully airbrushed and summarized in one neat little paragraph that gets as much wrong as it does right.
He stays remarkably still, expression unreadable. ] Who are you?
no subject
(Steve likes chocolate, in whatever form it comes in.)
But all the same, Bucky is wary, hyper-vigilant, tension written in the line of broad shoulders. This man is not the footnote in history, not the face plastered on exhibits, carefully airbrushed and summarized in one neat little paragraph that gets as much wrong as it does right.
He stays remarkably still, expression unreadable. ] Who are you?
[ And he's not just asking about her name. ]