A/n: This was written for Sadirapookie's tarot card challenge on Tumblr. Since my skills in the graphic arts are woeful, I decided to go for a written entry instead. My card was the Magician. The card itself has a variety of symbolic images that represent the elements of earth, air, water, and fire. Other notable images in the card are an infinity sign, a wooden table, a carpet of roses and lilies by the feet, and others. In researching the Magician's card, one of the most common themes that kept popping up was how the card symbolizes the beginning of something. The Magician helps the person asking the question discover the drive, initiative, and power to start this something, though it's a bit of question as to whether the power is coming from outside of the asker (as in the Magician granting them the power) or if these skills come from within. Or maybe it's both. As above, so below, as the card likes to indicate.

With all that in mind, this story ended up taking me back to my fantasy roots and probably veering somewhat into AU territory. There's nothing here that contradicts anything we've seen on screen, however, so it's not exactly AU. This story operates on the idea that the identity of Steve Rogers, the man behind the Captain America mask, is a well-kept secret from the public. All the dates referred to in this story pull from MCU canon.

Okay, enough with the notes. On with the show!

Everything Is Now, and We Are Here

At its heart, this is a tale about beginnings.

"What is it with hot blonds randomly popping up lately?"

Steve knows he's dreaming, if only based on landscape alone. The rocky plains with scrubby brush laid out in front of him and that endless night sky above that stretches out to the ends of the universe clearly indicate that he's not in the middle of a European forest anymore. There's a part of him that thinks he can feel his body still back in the woods, curled around a banked fire taking a few hours to get his rest in while a couple of the other Commandos keep watch, but that could just be the innate oddness of dreams talking. He looks over at the young woman standing next to him who has uttered those words. "Excuse me?" he asks.

The young woman gives him an appraising look from the tips of his boots – now he knows he must be dreaming because he certainly wasn't sleeping in the khakis and woolen jacket with all of his insignia pinned on there in the woods – to the top of his head. She arches an eyebrow over the tops of her thick framed glasses. "First, I have to tase the crazy guy who fell out of the sky and thought he was a Norse god. Crazy but cut, I'll be the first to admit. And just as I get the chance to catch a few winks after the batcrap insanity of the last day, I'm dreaming about hot vintage soldiers…I suppose I shouldn't complain about that."

Steve stares around at the wide expanse of sky, at a few gnarled trees off in the distance, then his eyes land back on the young woman. She has long dark hair that's pulled up into a ponytail, with a few pieces coming loose and brushing against the glasses. There's pale skin and full lips, and an unusual outfit that seems a lot less structured than what any of the women he's familiar with wears. "What does it say about me if I'm dreaming about girls in odd clothes?" he fires back. He should be a gentleman, he knows this, but his words come out before he can control them.

Luckily, she seems to appreciate his candor and sends him a smirk. "That this could be the beginning of a weird yet beautiful friendship?"

"And now my dreams are bastardizing Casablanca," Steve mutters, shaking his head slightly.

She just laughs, loudly, the sound echoing out across the rocks and into the sky. She spins around in her thick riding boots, turning to look at the far off horizon. On the back of her neck, right below her hairline, Steve can see a mark, an inked on figure eight that's been tipped over to a horizontal position. The more he stares at it the more it looks like it begins to move, undulating and rippling across pale cream skin.

Steve blinks awake, his eyes finally focusing on the canopy of leaves and branches above him. He exhales roughly, and can see his breath make steaming clouds in the air.

Just a dream. Right.

Sixty-odd years and half a world away Darcy Lewis wakes up from her nap as Erik Selvig storms around the now empty lab/former car dealership, grumbling to himself about how Jane had done exactly what he'd told her not to and now he had to get her and the delusional homeless guy out of trouble. She frowns and pushes herself upright on the old couch, feeling the fabric scratch against the palms of her hands. Given the choice she'd rather deal with the handsome soldier in her dreams but real life is, unfortunately, making a nuisance of itself.

'Maybe tomorrow night,' she thinks, though it's a vague, half-formed idea.

The next time Steve dreams of the young woman, he dreams of her lounging in a tub inside a dimly lit bathroom. "Oh, jeez," he says, turning around quickly and knocking a few of the bottles spread out across the long counter. His hand bangs into what looks like a fancy radio, bringing a crackle of static and a burst of tinny-sounding music. He can easily see his blushing face in the mirror as a voice from the radio asks if he believes in magic, and his eyes snap down to the counter.

"It's okay, you can look," he hears her say, voiced laced through with giggles. "I don't think you can see anything below the bubbles. And hey, it's my dream; I bet I can make myself look as anatomically correct as a Barbie doll underneath all of this anyway."

Steve warily peeks over his shoulder. 'It's just a dream,' he reminds himself. 'No one needs to know that you're dreaming about naked women in bathtubs. Bet Bucky would appreciate the sight, though.' He turns around fully and sure enough she's covered in so many bubbles that only her bare shoulders and her grinning face are visible above the clouds. Near the spigot one of her legs dangles out of the tub, wet and dripping, and he could see another inked chain of flowers encircling her ankle, roses and lilies it looks like. "I thought the tattooed ladies were only found at Coney Island sideshows," he says, and her eyebrows arch over her glasses once more.

"Wow, you really know how to charm a girl, don't you?" she says.

"It's never been one of my strongest skills," Steve stutters out as he leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. "So what's a dame like you doing in a place like this?"

"You mean this lousy bathroom that I'm trying to make delightfully ambient by judicious application of some candles?" she says, picking up some of the bubbles with a fingertip and blowing them in his direction.

"Or in my dream," Steve says. "Because I'm pretty sure I fell asleep in the barracks and you're a hell of a lot nicer looking than the men on my team."

She preens at that statement, smiling smugly at him. "See, that was much improved. Thank you." Then she rolls her eyes and leans back in the tub. "As for me, I'm pretty sure I fell asleep on the sofa in the lab again and I really wish I was soaking in a bathtub. I was supposed to stay awake to wait for my crazy boss to get back from whatever scheme she and the crazy hot blond have cooked up, but obviously that didn't happen. This is what happens when jackbooted thugs steal my iPod." She gives Steve one of those up and down looks again. "Still think I got the better end of the deal, however, if you're showing up."

"Thanks. I think."

"So what's your name, soldier boy? This is the second time I've dreamt about you; I need something more than 'soldier boy'," she asks.

She should already know this, he thinks, being his dream, but maybe there's a script that has to play out here. He's not wearing the uniform of Captain America here, so he ends up saying, "Steve. My name's Steve Rogers. And yours?"

"Darcy Lewis." It's not the name he figures his sleeping brain would have come up with, but he only seems to have some minimal degree of control over the whole situation.

He comes to the conclusion that the name Darcy suits her when that toothy grin spreads across her face once more and she says, "You know, I think we can both squeeze into this bathtub; you're welcome to join me if you'd like."

Bucky falls, vanishing with a scream and a swirl of snow into the seemingly endless winter.

It's the first night of their renewed search for the Einstein-Rosen…oh, to hell with it, she likes the way the word 'Bifrost' trips off her tongue instead, and so Darcy decides to keep calling it that. She and Jane work diligently until the sun comes up, coming back to the lab with new readings and updated star charts. When they get back, Jane flops onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. Darcy pulls a couple of beers out of the fridge, pops off the caps, and walks over to hand one to Jane. "Isn't it a little early for that?" Jane says, though she takes the bottle from her.

"We've been up all night," Darcy says, sitting on the other end of the couch. "I think we're entitled to a beer before going to bed." She knocks her bottle against Jane's, a satisfying clink echoing throughout the lab. "To new beginnings."

"New beginnings," Jane agrees, and they drink deeply.

Darcy rubs her hands up and down her arms, feeling cold even in the middle of her dreams. "Where are we?" she asks, staring wide-eyed and horrified at the scenery around her. They're in the middle of a street at night and the buildings and homes on either side caved in or reduced to rubble, with streams and trails of smoke drifting upwards every so often.

"London. East End," Steve says, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets and his shoulders slumped. He doesn't look much like a soldier right now, more like the little boy lost, Darcy thinks.

Darcy takes in a shaky breath. She can't quite believe what she's dreaming, even though she's seen pictures in history books and studied the repercussions of World War Two in countless poli-sci classes. Right then and there she sees the destruction and damage up close and horrifyingly personal. "This is where you're staying?"

"Nearby here, when we're in between missions." Steve shakes his head, and what could possibly be a bitter grin flits across his face. "My best friend died on our last mission, and I couldn't do a damn thing to save him."

She pauses in the middle of the street, bombed out shells of buildings all around her. Darcy stares at him as he keeps walking, feeling that horror come zooming back. She runs after him, grabbing at his bicep to pull him to a stop. She can feel the muscles in his arm, tense and stiff like he's ready to run away. His face is pale yet oddly flushed in places, and his eyes look just a little bit swollen. He's been crying, Darcy realizes, even though the signs are barely there. "I'm so sorry," she says, knowing the words will barely make a dent in his grief. So she leans forward and wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly.

Eventually Steve's arms lift up and wrap themselves carefully around her shoulders. Even though he's a great deal taller than her he tucks his face against Darcy's neck, and she can feel the shudders running throughout his whole body.

When Darcy wakes up, she can still feel the traces of tears against the skin of her neck.

Steve blinks blearily in the darkness of the barracks, waking up slowing and wishing that he was still asleep. He closes his eyes and sees Bucky falling into the ravine, but he can also feel Darcy's arms wrapped around his back. It doesn't help with the pain of reliving that moment, over and over, but for the moment he doesn't feel like he's alone in the world.

"You have an artist's hands," Darcy says, picking up his hand and spreading the fingers wide. It's far more forward than Steve is used to from a dame, but he's stopped questioning these dreams. They're in what looks like one of those low, stonewalled farmhouses that the Commandos have camped out in while in France, seated across from each other at a roughly hewn wood table. The room is dark, and there are a couple of tall pillar candles flickering yellow and orange. The candles cast deep shadows across the table and onto Darcy's face, glinting off of her black-framed glasses.

"Maybe once," Steve says with a faint smile, looking down at the table and tracing patterns in the wood with his free hand. "But not anymore."

She laces her fingers through his, propping her elbow up and turning their arms into a triangular shape. "The fight comes calling, right?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not quite. I've never liked bullies. At least this way I can do something about it." He gently squeezes the fingers laced through his. "We're going in tomorrow," he says. "We're invading their home base and with any luck we're going to end this nightmare."

Darcy's lips twist to one side, not quite a grin, and he can see something nervous in her look. "I don't suppose you need me to tell you to be careful, right?"

"No. But it's nice to hear."

"So do you have any idea what you're going to do when the war's over?" Darcy asks, shoving her hair back.

Steve watches as the hair falls in a dark wave over one shoulder. He thinks of all the things he'd like to do once the war is done, take Peggy dancing, serve his country, maybe go back and finish up art school. His options are wide open and the world might just possibly be his for the taking. But none of these ideas make it past his lips, and instead he simply shrugs once more.

Darcy squeezes his fingers once more. "Well, just remember that every ending is also a new beginning. It's one big freakin' circle and we're just living in it."

Steve Rogers falls, lost to the ice and the ages, taking the bombs, the cube, and Schmidt down with him. Captain America is hailed as a hero and becomes a true legend. The man behind the mask gets lost in the myth, only remembered by the few that really knew him.

Darcy stops dreaming of her soldier. She doesn't know when exactly he became hers, but that's what he is in her head. And even though their dream encounters were few, she misses falling asleep and seeing him there.

Instead, her dreams take a darker turn. At the beginning Darcy wakes up shivering, freezing cold all the way down to her bones. Not long after that the whistling wind starts, pushing and pulling her in every direction and knocking her off her feet into what feels like massive mounds of snow and ice. When she opens her eyes, sucking in gasping breaths as if her lungs can't take in nearly enough air, she holds up her arms and is surprised not to see ice crystals growing on her skin.

"I can blame this on Thor, right?" she asks herself in the mirror because really, who else is she going to ask about this? Luckily she's alone in the cramped cell her university calls a dorm room, so there's no one but the spiders to hear her slightly insane ramblings about ice and giants and fiery destroyers and lost soldiers. Maybe it's a part of the inevitable crash of being back in the normal world after all those months of helping Jane chase wormholes and interstellar bridges. Instead of being out there she's stuck back on campus for three measly credits and a thesis she's lost almost all interest in.

For the briefest moment Darcy flirts with the idea of changing her major to mythological studies (yes, that course of study actually exists at her school) in an effort to help not explain but at least understand what went down in New Mexico. But the political science degree is almost complete, does she really want to spend another three years in school racking up the debt? So she resigns herself to her fate, ekes out a frankly fabulous thesis (even though she doesn't give a damn about it anymore) and manages to graduate with honors. Go team Lewis.

Still, Steve sleeps. It's going to be a while before he wakes up.

Darcy keeps in touch with Jane, who she finds out has been appropriated by S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep running her tests but with their backing and budget (which has no room in it for an assistant who's qualified in political science but not astrophysics, throwing a major wrench in her post-graduation plans. Damn government agencies). Jane sounds okay with this but there's an undertone in her voice, fragile and bitter, that Darcy thinks isn't as thrilled as it should be. Still, at least she can keep researching which is more than Darcy's got going for her right then.

The long months after graduation are filled with her parents harassing her about employment – it's not her fault the job market sucks balls – or of younger siblings who seem to know just what they want out of their future and are well on their way to getting it, unlike her. They are months of mind numbing normality that Darcy just isn't used to anymore. At the four month mark Darcy says to hell with it. A friend of hers from college posts on Facebook that she needs someone to fill the empty room in the apartment as the prior resident fucked off to live with a boyfriend (her words, not Darcy's) and if the room wasn't filled then she and the other roommates would lose their apartment. Apparently four people aren't enough to keep the apartment afloat, but a fifth would do nicely.

So, Darcy ends up moving to Brooklyn, New York. Surprisingly her parents are okay with this. Every ending is a new beginning, she reminds herself once more, echoing her own words from her dream.

The apartment itself is a bit – scratch that – a lot of a dive, but there are skylights and roof access points that make up for the shoddy interior space. Between the five of them the rent is surprisingly affordable, though still costing more than Darcy would have preferred. The perils of living in DUMBO, she thinks, which leads to the passing thought that that is an awful name for a neighborhood. Of course, there's still the general feeling of living in a dormitory (and she's pretty sure her new bedroom is about the same size as that confessional booth of a dorm room) but Darcy has never liked being alone all that much anyway. Despite the funny name she loves the area, and is more than willing to put up with the weed fumes from the art studio on the first floor – she is willing to change this opinion if they ever decide to share their stash – for the amazing view from the roof where they can see parts of the epic Manhattan skyline.

On one of the hottest evenings so far that year where Darcy is sleeping in just a pair of panties because wearing anything more would make her skin stick uncomfortably to the single thin sheet below she dreams of her soldier boy again. Steve's as naked as she is but he's curled up fetal-like in sweeping white drifts of snow. His skin is a ghastly shade of pale blue, and he's as still as death.

Darcy reaches over to straighten out his dog tags from where they're twisted around his neck. His skin is so cold to the touch, and she wishes she could take him back to her sweatbox of a room and warm him up until he doesn't look quite so blue anymore. As her dream doesn't seem to be that receptive to her wishes, she instead curls up behind him, thinking she can warm him up that way.

On the hottest night of the year, Darcy Lewis wakes up shaking with the cold.

In retrospect, that's when Darcy should have realized what – or who – exactly she is dreaming of. The story of the World War II soldier lost to the frozen wasteland is so well known that it has moved easily into legend. Movies and comic books keep the stories of Captain America's adventures alive for years to come, even though those tales barely resemble any real life versions of events. Darcy knows these stories too, between history classes in school that tell a sanitized (or rather, S.H.I.E.L.D. sanctioned) story and the more glamorous and adventurous tales shown on the screen. But none of these stories tell the truth of the matter, about the quiet man behind the mask who used to be an artist, lost his best friend to battle, and hoped for a future after the war. If these things are mentioned, they're done in ways that make for better storytelling, not to reveal the truth. That man, Steve, is who Darcy is dreaming about, not the legend.

In the end, none of this even matters. Because whether it's coincidence or fate, they manage to find each other again, and for the very first time, without dreaming.

Steve never expects to wake up. He knew as soon as he sat down in that pilot's chair that it was going to be a very short, one-way trip. If him crashing that plane meant that the east coast, hell, his own hometown would be spared, then so be it. In none of his wildest fever dreams did he think that he'd open his eyes well into the twenty-first century. He isn't quite sure which is more out of a science fiction novel, the frozen for sixty seven years beneath the Arctic ice part, or that life in those ensuing years has become that much more faster, louder, technological, and all around insane. And worst of all, there's no going back. Futuristic as this era is, they still haven't invented a time machine like H.G. Wells predicted so he's stuck in this brand new world without any sort of compass whatsoever.

But sometimes, if you're very, very lucky or very, very good, fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it will throw you a bone and give you a bit of a break. Maybe Fate has a bit of a soft spot for Steve Rogers, and maybe she wants to see what Darcy Lewis will do when confronted with even more unusual occurrences. Fate is a fickle mistress, but she does have a sense of humor.

Fittingly, it's a bitterly cold January night the first time Darcy sees Steve – or at least someone she thinks looks a hell of a lot like him. She can't even remember what she is doing out that late, if she's coming home from whatever shitty job she has that month or heading out to meet the roommates at a bar and drink cheap beer until they can't see straight. It doesn't matter. The important part is that whoever that guy is on the other side of the street looks eerily like the man she's dreamed about since Thor made his earthly debut, from the sharp part in his hair to the firm set of his shoulders. He's walking away from her, eyes straight ahead and focusing on something she can't see.

Darcy freezes in her footsteps, wanting to call out but knowing that the inevitable result would be her making a fool out of herself when it turns out not to be him. Because really, what are the chances?

What are the chances that she'd see him again the very next week too? That's exactly what happens, right in the heart of Midtown when she's attempting to make the most of the half hour lunch break from her latest temp job and indulges in the freshly made crepes from the food truck outside the building. There's a mass of humanity flowing all around her, but Darcy can still pick him out in the crowd, larger than freakin' life.

This time, she decides, she's got to find out for herself that it is not him, that her brain is seeing what it wants to see and filling in incorrect blanks. But before she can step out of line (she is willing to sacrifice Nutella and strawberry filled crepes for this) the man who looks like Steve vanishes down a subway entrance and her chance is lost.

"Am I going crazy?" she asks Jane later that night after giving her a brief and vague rundown of events. Darcy doesn't tell her everything though, because she likes her secrets. It seems entirely contradictory to her personality, but she likes those small little things that are hers and hers alone.

"Yes, you are," Jane says dryly, and Darcy and practically hear the smirk in her voice. "Look," she continues, sounding more like the scientist now. "I'm positive that there are any number of rational explanations for what's happening. People resemble each other all the time. How many times have you been told you look like that actress, by the way?"

"Who I look like is so not the point. You know, one of those rational explanations would be great right about now because none of this is making any damn sense!"

Jane laughs in her ear. "You're persistent, I'll give you that. I know you, Darcy, and you'll find the answers you need. Just…don't get arrested in the process?"

The first time Steve sees an iPod he's puzzled, but not for the reasons the headshrinkers at S.H.I.E.L.D. would suspect. He's puzzled because he dreamt about this device back in 1945, clutched tightly in one of Darcy's hands as they wandered through the streets of a bombed out London. Now, he knows the serum didn't grant him any precognitive abilities, and he doesn't recall Howard Stark ever cooking up some contraption like that. So why the hell is he dreaming about something that, according to the guys at S.H.I.E.L.D., didn't come out until 2001?

It gets worse when he thinks he starts to see the girl herself around the streets of New York City. The doctors say the serum had protected him permanent damage caused by the crash and the cold, but now he can't help but wonder if his brain got rattled more than he previously thought.

The moment when Steve thinks he sees a girl who looks startlingly like Darcy through the windows of the apartment next door to his one night is when he thinks he's well and truly ready to be shipped off to the asylum. There are faint thoughts that this is a dying dream of his, a life flashing before his eyes in that last moment before oxygen runs out, but if that's the case why aren't Peggy and Bucky there waiting for him? Besides, it has been proven numerous times that this is unflinching reality.

She's standing in a kitchen that looks old – real old, not just old looking like his appliances (he can tell the difference) – pouring something out into a mug and talking to another girl he can see through the next window over. Same dark hair, thick-framed glasses, curvy figure, and wide grin. Steve knows he shouldn't stop and stare, that it would bother people if they were to notice, but there's something so breathtakingly familiar about her that he indulges himself, just this once. He flicks off the lights in his apartment, allowing himself the luxury of pretending it's 1945 again for a little while.

As mentioned before, sometimes Fate doesn't mind giving her favored a little nudge, and she likes the lost soldier and the little woman with the magician's markings. She's gotten them as close as she can, now it's their turn.

Not long after that, everything comes to a head. It's not intentional, just a chance meeting of eyes through the windows of their respective apartments. But it's enough to make the fine hairs on the back of Darcy's neck stand at attention. This is the best chance for her to find out, once and for all, if she really is losing it or there's something a lot bigger at work here.

Tenacious she is, timid she isn't so she jams her feet into her boots and shoves her Taser into her back pocket. She runs outside, ignoring the fact that while it is a sunny Saturday it is only thirty-five degrees outside and a t-shirt doesn't exactly provide the best protection from the cold weather. As it is a fifteen second jog between buildings Darcy doesn't really care.

She runs up the stoop of the building next door and heads into the vestibule. Her eyes run across the lines of dull brass mailboxes, not coming to a stop until they land on a familiar name. Across the top of one of the boxes is the name 'Steven Rogers' printed neatly on a piece of tape. "Huh," Darcy says, head tilting to the side as if she can't quite believe what's right in front of her eyes. But that's just a name only, and a common one at that. It could be just coincidence still.

When a woman pushing a baby carriage struggles to open up the interior door, Darcy takes the chance. She holds the door wide open for the woman who thanks her with a smile, and then sneaks inside of the building before the door closes once more. The apartment is on the third floor if she's right about the numbers on the boxes, and she heads for the stairs. She's feeling tense and twitchy at the moment, better to hike up there than start bouncing around in an elevator.

Darcy comes to a stop in front of the door for Steve Rogers' apartment (and it is a very bland, unassuming door), takes a deep breath, reminds herself of her tenacity, and knocks. Ever so slowly the door creaks open, although it could also be her imagination playing up and making things overly dramatic by slowing down her impressions of time, and a tall figure appears in the doorway. She releases a soft, shaky breath at the sight of Steve standing there, in the flesh and even realer than he'd seemed in her dreams. But he's not smiling. His jaw is set and there's steel in his eyes, but more than anything else he looks incredibly nervous. Darcy thinks it a bit strange that she can tell this just by looking at him for a few seconds, but the thought is dismissed as soon as he opens his mouth. "Who are you?" he asks, hand gripping the door frame so hard it practically splinters.

"I could ask you the same thing," she shoots back, the words spilling out as if she'd flicked the off switch on her mental filters. "Because if you're the same Steve I think you are, and you recognize me for the same reasons, then we've gone so far into crazy that I just might be a lost cause. But I highly doubt I'm alone in the crazy this time."

Steve cuts his eyes across the hallway, staring at nothing for a moment. Then he looks back at her, more thoughtfully than anything else. "The back of your neck," he eventually says.

"Excuse me?"

"On the back of your neck there's a small mark." He pulls his hand from the door frame and makes a rocking motion with it. "A figure eight, on its side."

Darcy nods faintly. She usually wears her hair down so the small tattoo isn't easily seen. It's not one of her secrets, not exactly, but she's never the one to point it out first, a hidden treasure to remind herself that everything is connected and ongoing, forever and ever (it made sense to her at the time). So she turns around slowly, sweeping her hair to the side in the process to show off the tattoo that's right below her hairline. "It's an infinity sign," she says. "No beginning or ending, just a constant circle."

And if that's the way he wants to play it…she turns around and rattles off the insignia she'd seen on his dress uniform. She doesn't know the exact names of the bars, pins, and medals, but it's detailed enough. Steve just nods in response, looking about as dumbstruck as she feels right then. "How the fuck are you here?" she blurts out. "People aren't supposed to just walk out of dreams and move into the apartment building next door."

Steve arches his eyebrows, a skeptical look that she's actually familiar with. "I'm still not sure you're not a figment of my imagination. And frankly, out of all of the strange things that have happened in my life lately, this isn't even the highest one on the list. Close, but not quite there."

Darcy grits her teeth and jabs her index finger into his chest, feeling solid warm flesh beneath a rather unfortunate plaid shirt. Then she winces and shakes her finger out, trying to loosen up the jammed knuckle. Boy's got pecs, she thinks idly. "Don't avoid the question," she says. "I still don't get how you're standing here."

Steve laughs bitterly and shakes his head. "It's a long, strange story."

"It's a Saturday; I've got all the time in the world to hear this one."

"Captain America. Huh."

They're sitting on opposite ends of the couch in Steve's living room, exhausted from hours of storytelling. They look like mirror images of two broken dolls, legs splayed out awkwardly and backs slumping into the cushions.

Steve cuts his eyes across to Darcy. "Space aliens that look like Norse gods," he says in response.

"I honestly don't know which is weirder." Darcy sighs, rolling her head back on the cushions and wishing she could take a nap. Being honest is damn tiring, she thinks.

"Call it a draw, because if we ever tell anyone else about this…" he trails off, shaking his head.

Darcy snorts, not very ladylike but she doesn't really care, and finishes up the thought: "It's straight to the funny farm for us." She rolls her head to look at him. "For the record, I still say a wizard did it. Or at least Thor. Maybe."

"It's as good a guess as any I've got," Steve says.

"So how are you liking the twenty-first century so far?" Darcy asks, lips quirking up in a small smile.

Steve's face is solemn, however, and his gaze goes off into the distance once more. "Right now I'd give anything to go back to 1945," he says. "Doesn't matter if it's right in the middle of a war. I don't fit here."

"Adaptation takes time," Darcy shrugs, not sure what else she can say. But she knows what she can do. She pushes herself off the couch and grabs Steve's jacket. "Come on," she states confidently. "Let's go get pizza. There's a place down in Bensonhurst with some of the best slices that I think has been around even longer than you have."

As Steve looks up at Darcy, standing there eagerly with his coat held out like an offering in his direction, he knows that he's got a choice. He could stay put, only going out to the boxing gym to pound the living daylights out of their punching bags and for the occasional coffee. He could keep hoping that maybe one day he'll open his eyes and be in 1945 with Peggy by his bedside, welcoming him back with a wide smile.

But maybe it's time to accept the truth of the matter, that he can't go home again but he can always move forward. And he won't learn about this brand new century of his unless he gets out of his head, out of his apartment, and experiences life first hand. Steve stands up and takes the jacket from Darcy's hands. "You know, pizza sounds pretty good," he says.

Darcy just grins back at him.

A/N: The pizza place in Bensonhurst actually does exist, established in 1939 according to the sign outside and is one of the most well-known pizza joints in Brooklyn to this day. When you're there, I highly recommend the Sicilian style pie and the spumoni. I'm not quite done with this story; I've got plans to take this version of Steve and Darcy somewhat through The Avengers (as I've no desire to recap the entire movie in fic format) and a bit beyond that. It was supposed to be a part of this piece, but as I'm already late getting this fic submitted part two will have to wait. The second story will also be a bit more romantic than this one if the story goes where I plan it (I repeat my running out of time statement-it'll happen in this universe, just at a later point in time than this one ends), just to give you a heads up, so stay tuned for that too. Thanks for reading!