Half of Steve’s brain believes that this could be one of those side effects from time spent in the water that SHIELD is always testing him for. He’s finally having a breakdown, or at the very least, he’s having auditory and visual hallucinations. The other half is prepared for the crazed weirdness of the twenty-first century because of Howard’s son can fly, it seems only logical that there are other Steve Rogerses too. Clones, he decides, even if the other Steve negates that. What can possibly be weirder than clones? Buck used to carry around science fiction dime novels, though Steve himself generally went for detective stories (or romances, if that was all he could trade for). Clones played pretty heavily in plot lines across the board, though they were usually horribly disfigured or brainless.
The man staring at him seems effected by neither.
At least he does look somewhat different, not in age exactly, for the elasticity of his skin was the same as he saw whenever he looked in the mirror. His eyes are the same blue, flecked with a little less green than they had been growing up, and framed by too-long lashes. His height is the same, though their footwear is different. Sneakers make him feel a bit shorter than the man he’s looking at in his boots seems to be. Jawline, shoulder span, stance-- No. It’s the color of his hair that’s decidedly off, brassy, almost, as if it’s artificial. Steve’s gaze zeroes in on that singular imperfection as he pulls his hands from the pockets of his brown bomber jacket. He might not have a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s unarmed.
“Think I’ll stand,” he said in a way that sounded good-natured, even jovial to Tony after that initial outburst, but is obviously guarded and wary to his other self. He’s regained his composure, that’s for sure, but only because his weight is now properly on his back foot and his limbs are loose.
One doesn’t have to ball one’s fingers into fists to be ready be prepared to fight. Besides, Steve can spring into action, literally, before most people can pull the trigger on their weapons.
“How about I stand and you get on with your explaining.”
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((This night suck. It’s been awhile.))
Date: 2018-07-20 01:27 pm (UTC)The man staring at him seems effected by neither.
At least he does look somewhat different, not in age exactly, for the elasticity of his skin was the same as he saw whenever he looked in the mirror. His eyes are the same blue, flecked with a little less green than they had been growing up, and framed by too-long lashes. His height is the same, though their footwear is different. Sneakers make him feel a bit shorter than the man he’s looking at in his boots seems to be. Jawline, shoulder span, stance-- No. It’s the color of his hair that’s decidedly off, brassy, almost, as if it’s artificial. Steve’s gaze zeroes in on that singular imperfection as he pulls his hands from the pockets of his brown bomber jacket. He might not have a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s unarmed.
“Think I’ll stand,” he said in a way that sounded good-natured, even jovial to Tony after that initial outburst, but is obviously guarded and wary to his other self. He’s regained his composure, that’s for sure, but only because his weight is now properly on his back foot and his limbs are loose.
One doesn’t have to ball one’s fingers into fists to be ready be prepared to fight. Besides, Steve can spring into action, literally, before most people can pull the trigger on their weapons.
“How about I stand and you get on with your explaining.”