-The Ancients Are Rusting-
She doesn't match with the setting, the populace, the time. He understands.
–
He's walking outside for some fresh air, away from punching bags and dingy apartments. Just a walk in a park, he thinks, away from the silence, away from the noise, nothing but good company and the chirp of birds. The streets are still unfamiliar to him, people bustling past him, and he tucks his hat back down to avoid stares. His feet guide him to a rushing fountain eventually, and a quick survey confirms he's alone. He leans back onto the bench to stare at the sky. The effulgent sun moves behind the canopy of clouds, dimming the brightness, and he sighs.
He blinks when he hears a soft humming, straightens himself when he hears the feminine lilt. The humming is still there, and slowly, Steve leans to the side, curious.
An eccentric looking woman is sitting on the bench directly across the fountain, scattering bread crumbs to the desperate pigeons pecking at her bare feet. Steve blinks at her strange, bright glasses, the radishes dangling from her ears, and wishes to voice his concerns but doesn't want to intrude upon her privacy. Silently, he watches as her dainty fingers dangle over the beaks, teasing, before releasing the crumbs. The tilts of her smile as she quirks her head to the side.
Before he is fully aware of it, his fingers are already curled around his pad, one hand curled around his pencil as it performs mad streaks across the blank page. When he is finished, and the sun is starting to set, he raises his eyes to see if the woman has left.
"May I see?"
He starts, barely, before offering an embarrassed smile. "Ah, um, here."
She takes the pad from his fingers, and leans in to inspect the sketch. He can't help but feel self-conscious.
"How much for it?" She is saying now, reaching inside her satchel. He doesn't notice how it seems to swallow her arm.
"Oh, I'm sorry, it's not for sale." He blinks, wants to take it back. He sketches her without permission, and then refuses to give her the drawing? She probably thought low of him now, keeping a drawing of a stranger for no reason. He clears his throat nervously.
"I see," she whispers, and narrows her eyes through the thin swirly lenses. She raises her hand, and he tenses. Softly, she pats his hat, strokes it. Bemused, he watches her frown.
"I'm sorry; I'm not used to the politics around here. It's," she pauses, as if searching for the right word, "new."
"It's alright," he says after she removes her hand from his personal space, "I understand."
"You're very kind," she says, eyes softening, and seeming to lose the concentration she held so firmly before. Silently, she returns his sketch. Up close, he notices her strange necklace, formed with some strange bottle caps, and although he is still getting used to the new style in this era, he knows her necklace is a little out of place.
"What's your name, miss?" He asks, curious, straightening.
She hums for a few moments, as if remembering was such a chore. Finally, "Luna. Luna Lovegood. Although some people prefer Looney."
She quirks her head to the side. "What do you prefer?"
"Luna," he answers, brows furrowed, "are some people bothering you?" He's never liked bullies.
"Oh, no," Luna is quick to assure, offering a serene smile, "good people can be unkind, sometimes."
"I see," he replies, slowly, although he doesn't, not really. Luna smiles at this, leaning forward. She taps his shoulder twice before retracting her hand.
"There," she announces, "got rid of the Wrackspurts."
"Right," he says, blinking. She laughs.
"What is your name, Mr. Soldier?"
"What makes you think I'm a soldier?" he inquires. Luna just doesn't strike him as someone who would watch the news, or understand it, really. (He still has trouble)
"Oh, it's very obvious. See here," here she taps his shoulders, "you tense your shoulders when I get close, like I'm a threat." He resists the urge to interject. Since he's sure anyone would tense when a stranger got too close.
"And you're always looking around. I've counted how far your eyes are six times. I think it was a Muggle who said eyes were the windows to souls, wasn't it?" He doesn't ask what a Muggle is. He thinks it's better to be ignorant in that area.
Without hesitation, she lifts pale hands to shade his eyes. "Your eyes are very sad, Mr. Soldier. I've seen many warriors like you, who need big voices to hide their sad sad eyes."
"Do you know anybody like that?" Stark, is the immediate thought. The big voice was right, of that he was certain. She drops her hands, and he scrutinizes her.
"Steve Rogers," he says, finally, offers a hand. The smile she returns reminds him how shy around girls he still is. Her shake is warm and firm, he notes when she lets go.
"The sun is gone," Luna observes mournfully, turning away.
"Yes," he agrees, watches the sky darken. "It's getting dark, would you mind if I walked you home? It's not safe."
"That would be nice."
–
The others stay clear of her, he notes, as he walks her home. She seems to skip along, bare feet dancing along pavement. The lights seem to avoid her too, somehow. Magic, he thinks, and quells the absurd thought.
"This is home," she announces suddenly, stopping. Steve stills too, turns to stare. He's a little surprised she lives in an apartment. For some reason, he expected something else.
"Would you like to come inside, Steve?"
"I'm fine," he answers, and she offers a wave. Silently, he watches her disappear.
He starts when he feels something heavy dropping on his head. He takes off his hat hesitantly, and it's heavier than before. A handful of gold coins rest inside the hat, and his eyes widen.
Magic, indeed.
A/N: Captain America is my least favorite character. I'm trying to fix that. do you ever get that frustrated feeling when you have this awesome idea in your head and it turns to utter crap under your keyboard. i'll probably change a few things. also, third time's the charm should be updated soon. hope you enjoyed. reviews would be adored.
2/3/13: Brushed away some grammatical errors. Will try to update soon.