A/N: Okay, so I know it's been awhile since I updated anything, and now here's a brand-new thing, and that's really confusing. Well, here's the sitch: I'm in grad school, and it involves a lot of studying. Studying also has the terrible side effect of making writing things really difficult. So, I'm not saying I'm giving up on any of my fics-in-progress, just that I'm writing what I can get my brain to write right now, and it turns out that is… this little fic right here! I hope you all enjoy, and I promise I'm trying to get back around to my other stuff!

*This is meant to fit into my Phil Coulson Is A Squib-verse, but can be read as a standalone*


The girl seems to be wandering aimlessly down the dirty alley he's sitting in.

She's wearing a long, brightly colored patchwork dress, and no shoes. Her long, blond, wavy hair floats around her body.

Huddled in the dark, next to the dumpster, he tracks her movements involuntarily; she's the only bright spot in sight. She moves with a peculiar grace-her steps almost straight, almost dancing. He's completely mesmerized.

She stops abruptly, in front of him, and looks at him fearlessly.

"You should really be more careful around the Nargles," she says, face perfectly serious.

He doesn't understand what in the world she's saying, but her voice, oh, her voice is the promise of everything soft and warm. He wishes he could listen to it all day.

She's watching him, as if she's expecting an answer, and he panics, and blurts the only thing he can think of, what's been playing in circles in his mind for days.

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

He knows she won't know; it's a stupid question to ask her, but she tilts her head a little, like the chilly winter air will tell her the answer.

"I'm not sure," she says finally, and those pale blue orbs catch him fast. "Who is he to you?"

He's falling gently into her eyes, and can't speak for a moment. He's supposed to be Bucky, he realizes, but it's not quite right…

"He's a stranger," he tells her, hoarsely.

The girl smiles at him, like he's told her something special, and holds out her hand.

"Well then, pick something that feels like you," she says. "My name's Luna."

He stares at her hand, pale and glowing, and thinks that is exactly the name that's right for her, perhaps in more ways than physical appearance. He lifts his hand to hers.

"I'm… James," he says, and that's right, too.

"Lovely to meet you, James," she says, shaking his hand gently, as if it might break, even though her slim fingers are dwarfed by his. "Would you like some soup? I've just made some."

James has no idea if he likes soup. Or ever did, or will. But he has a feeling that he'll like anything this girl makes.

"Yeah," he tells her. "That'd be swell."


Her apartment is as whimsically decorated as her person, and just as colorful. James turns slowly to take it all in. It should be overwhelming, but it's not.

His memory is a collage of black and white, and he craves the colors, the vibrancy, that tells him this is all real.

Luna stands by the stove, ladling soup- or no, she's not. The ladle is doing all the ladling. As he watches, it fills two bowls, and then the bowls float themselves to the table. He glances at Luna with his question in his eyes.

"Magic," she explains with a shrug, smiling at his fascination as the table sets itself. James frowns a little, because something about that word carries something bad with it, in his shattered memories. That word has given him pain before, somehow.

Luna taps one of the spoons on the table with a stick, and it changes, forming a delicate silvery flower.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

James slowly reaches toward it with his metal hand, and cautiously traces the edge of a petal. He nods, slowly, the fear in his head melting beneath Luna's sparkling smile.

He sits, and eats his soup. It's the best soup he can ever remember having (not that it's a high bar, but still).

And she must truly be magic, because he finds himself agreeing to sleep over in her spare room, with no hesitation at all, and then in the morning, when his hand is twisting the doorknob, her sleepy voice from behind him whispers, "Stay."

His hand falls away.

"Okay," he says, and he does.


Leave a review on your way out! :)