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morgan-leigh:

Steve looks different now. You don’t like it.

Well, you should say, you don’t – like is too strong a word, you don’t have a real preference, that would be – it’s unsettling. It’s disorienting. This is not what Steve is supposed to look like. You are very clear on that fact. Steve is supposed to be shorter than you, and – and – not. Like this. Words. Things. You have had a lot of alcohol. Possibly you should have had less alcohol.

“You look funny,” you tell him. “Have I told you that yet? You look funny.”

Steve’s lips twitch. Even his face looks funny. More – filled out. Something. It’s appalling. You don’t – you don’t approve of it.

“Not in so many words,” he says.

“You do,” you say. “You look very strange. I find it – objectionable.”

“I guess they should have consulted you first, huh,” he says.

“Damn right they should have,” you mutter. “Fuckers.”

Bucky,” he mutters. “There are – there are women here.”

“Steve,” you say, “if you think these gals haven’t heard worse from a bunch of soldiers hanging around this pub all the time, you are even more naïve than I thought, and I’ve known you since you were ten.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles, and you grin at him, leaning over.

Fuckers,” you whisper into his ear, and he turns pink and turns his pint glass in a circle just like he always used to, back home, when he was nervous in bars, which, when you went out, was usually the case.

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