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A lot of things have changed since he hit the ice, Steve thinks, but this hasn’t changed at all.
He raises his head to the sky, letting the moonlight scrape down over his nerves. He wants to run just to feel the shape of the wind on his face--he sits instead, savoring the light. His hackles rise when he sees another wolf trot out from the trees. He growls a warning, then notices the bright smudge of blue: a caught star glowing in the other wolf’s chest.
Tony? he thinks.
-
Tony’s in the kitchen the next morning, eating breakfast. For a second Steve hovers, wondering what he’ll say. Then Tony looks up and says, “Captain Wolf,” all smirky and cheerful, and Steve just rolls his eyes instead, tension fading.
-
“How does the--?” Steve taps his own chest.
Tony’s mouth quirks. “Took a few tries to get it shifting right,” is all he says.
“Was it, uh, before or after? Your bite?”
“Oh, before, way before.” Tony chews a waffle meditatively while Steve holds his breath. “I was fifteen.”
“You were fifteen?”
Tony grins. “Stupid, right? Puberty really sucked ass.”
Steve thinks of his own first change: a wood somewhere, France, maybe, war still breathing heavy on him and his men. They waited in the trees, guns ready. There’s no way to tell if a person will go feral until the first change, and Steve--well, there were enough casualties already. He trusted his men.
He remembers the touch of the moon, heavy as a hand on his neck, and the first hot shock of pain spearing through him. A hundred bullets, a thousand knives. The only thing that compared was the serum.
He looks at Tony and thinks, Fifteen.
There’s a lot about this man he still doesn’t know.