There was something eerily familiar about this one, some light so distantly recognizable in their blue eyes, and some very small, far part of his mind, clouded and muddied from all the years and all the pain, cried out with surprise, cried out with some semblance of happiness. There was something so oddly strange about his hesitant movements, the flicker of his gaze, the emotion raw and alive in his voice.
There was something just so very foreign, and yet the soldier felt, vaguely, that it wasn't so foreign at all. He felt that it was all just some part of time that was repeating itself, as if destiny had intervened in its most grand way to see that this moment, just now, happen once again. There was age, and some kind of rough disappointment, in his voice when the man spoke for the second time, and the soldier shivered inwardly at the image coming to him, shying away from the melting reality all around him.
The man was different, now, skinny and pallid and ill-looking, tousled strands of yellow flopping messily every which way atop his small head, his shoulders so thin and fragile that the wind just might knock him over. His eyes were sad, ocean storms raging within the vivid irises, but they were strong and determined and fierce. His smile was soft, friendly in a way the soldier had never known, soothing like that of a well-loved family member. His frail torso shook with silent laughter, and in that moment the assassin felt more welcome than he had in all of his remembered life, felt comfortable and at home for the first time.
He felt it all, and the man turned to him, mouthing a single word, a name, just like a prayer, filled with hope and spirit and warmth: Bucky.
The soldier blinked, and it was gone, faded away from the backs of his eyes, its imprint and its ghost both lost to him. The man was different once again, and there was agony etched into the creases of his skin.
Who the hell is Bucky?
Based off a prompt given by kissinghiddles over on Tumblr.
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