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    Summary

    The armour falls away, and he steps out. He stomps forward; the rooms goes black, and he kills everyone in his path, until a familiar wave of scent floods his eyes and his nose and his ears and his mouth and his throat, and he almost sobs.

     

    No, no, that’s not, that’s not possible. I don’t.

     

    Bucky removes the muzzle around his nose and mouth (a goddamn fucking muzzle; his heart digs hard into his lungs, whatever’s left of them, at least). His hair is long, when Tony had only seen it short. His eyes are sunken, narrow, gaunt but still the same blue-grey, the same colour of a still sea before a storm. He is a pale, feverish shade of the boy that Tony met in 1938, hollow, like he’s sick, like he’s starving, and for a moment, they just stare at each other.

     

    Written for the Winteriron Bingo 2019 for the "Alpha/Beta/Omega" square (N4).

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