One day he will look into the rearview mirror of some calloused taxi driver's car and see his existence; a maternity ward where he was born, tender arms, a college degree, bullets – his bland life sluggishly lumbering towards a horizon of mediocre skyscrapers and dilapidated bricks. And he will not idly dismiss this life, the appeal of cold floors, overly-salted soup, and alleyway fights much too strong for him to ignore. Because this life that he sees lacks the darkness and the frigid claws and tears that had torn at his chest and face when he was the figurehead for the war. Because Steve knows he was nothing more than that, despite breaking free from the bondages that had restricted his physical prowess to the stages and eyes of lost children and women. Yet, he touches the back pocket of his blue jeans. She isn't there, safely guarding him from these malicious thoughts, but he finds reprieve in the adopted movement and shakes himself from his reverie.

He looks away from the rearview mirror and spots the telltale sign of Central Park; jogging feet, salted peanuts, sleek, dark cameras. He hands his driver the allotted amount of money due and then some more before pushing the car door open. He is hit by the scent of winter, and he allows himself to slightly curve his shoulders to preserve a semblance of lingering warmth, before heading up the steps to the American Museum of Natural History. Aside from rehabilitating himself to the technology of the decade, he had decided that it was in his best interest to also catch up on the legacy the war had left behind.

Plus, Stark had been growing overbearing for the past few days, and the man needed data from the institute.

He easily slides through security and finds himself gazing at the large bones of the tyrannosaurs rex. As always, a second of his breathing is stolen by the sheer size of the extinct animal. While he had faced far greater enemies of larger proportions, this dead animal before him is something more majestic – transcendent. "Like you," he could hear the bite in Stark's words if the man had accompanied him, and cannot control the chuckle that builds up and past his lips. Then suddenly, he makes the mistake and turns his gaze to the side of the entrance hall.

His breath, this time, does freeze, and he realizes that monstrosity and beauty instill two different kinds of fear into a person.

And beauty is terror.

Her body moves through the crowds like a knife, they part for her, consciously or unconsciously, Steve can't differentiate, but he continues to watch. To watch as the chatter of the public fall like waves crashing on the shore to his ears as he cannot help but notice how silent, she moves. She glides through throngs of sugar-powered children, a betraying smile painting her red lips, and for a miniscule of a second he is reminded of other stolen smiles – Peggy, and he blinks. He loses all but two seconds of her, yet by the time he is turning his body to find her elusive figure, she is already at the exist. Unmoving.

Then she tilts her head and he valiantly tries to ignore the large curls reminiscent of his rearview past, and feels his cheeks heat. She is watching him too. Under her heavy-lidded gaze, the ghost of her red lips mock him as she dips her head and disappears through the exit doors. Steve Rogers' chest rises again.

Beauty is a terror.

He takes a step back, feels the brush of a wool coat, and quickly turns to apologize at the woman who had been darting behind him. She doesn't pay heed to Steve though, and he is under no doubt that the stranger has grown accustomed to New York's lack of propriety and personal space. He looks back at the exit again, her aura pulling at him while his own feet continue to move the other way. He cannot forget her, cannot erase her dark eyes and heavy curls, and cannot for some strange reason, bury the way he made her feel. Scared, frightened – and rightly so.

"For what could be more terrifying and beautiful than something or someone that can make us lose control completely?" Steve jostles from his thoughts, frowns at his lack of attentiveness, and nods at the museum employee by his side.

"Hi, I'm Everett Sterns," he smiles. He must be the same age as me, Steve accepts the handshake. Or was the same age as me. He glances back at the doors one more time, hoping by chance that maybe the mystery woman would come waltzing back in. "I'm Professor Rourke's assistant – he's, uh," the boy flushes. "- he's very sorry he couldn't personally come down to meet you."

Steve rolls his shoulders back, revealing his full height to the boy. He tries to appease him with a smile as he fully turns his attention towards the young man. "I'm sure he has his reasons," he nods. "I'm just here by proxy too."

Everett is lean, his hair so blond that it is almost white, and visibly deflates under Steve's forgiving attitude. "Well, you know how scientists can get," he jokes, then swallows, appearing to choke on the very words he had just spoken. "I – I mean with all due respect, they are busy men I just meant –"

"It's fine," Steve doesn't mind any sharp retorts thrown at his friend's son. Son – he is still recovering from the time difference. "It's all fine," he repeats at the red-faced boy. "So do you have the papers?"

Everett plainly stares at him, before consciously berating himself and shaking his head. His feet turn and he beckons the famous Steve Rogers to follow him. "It's on a flash drive – no papers," he navigates them through the sea of tourists, strollers, and slow-paced gentry. "I was just scanning a few more documents onto the computer before you came in actually – our correspondence from Paris had just dropped them off," he leads them past a door with an "Employees Only" lettering emblazoned on the frost-glass in big, white paint. They scale up a stairwell.

"Paris?" Steve echoes. They are isolated from the populace now, and he finds his words bouncing off of the white walls. Everett leads them to a hallway with many glass doors. He reaches for the lanyard in his pocket and grabs the ID at the end of it. Pressing it against a metal square, the door they are settled in front hisses open to reveal a very cluttered lab. Steve lets Everett walk in first as he follows him at a slower pace.

"Looks like the papers are done," the young scientist reaches for a small rectangular item lying on top of a printer. "But yes, Paris," he confirms, jabbing the flash drive into its corresponding slot. "We are connected to many museums throughout the world. Sharing data, I find, is the most important variable in regard to producing and promoting scientific discoveries."

Steve mutely watches as Everett transfers the newly scanned documents into the folder. "Diana – I mean," the boy stutters again. "Miss Prince, will be by later on this week to work with Dr. Rourke in the translation of a few documents – you should stop by then or give us a call if some pieces don't appear right after Mr. Stark processes through them," he suggests.

Steve takes the flash drive form Everett's hand and stores it safely in the chest pocket of his leather jacket. He is almost tempted to ask what Diana Prince looked like, but holds back on it. He nods one more time at the assistant. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Sterns. Stark appreciates it."

A/N: To be fair, I've always had this idea after the Wonder Woman movie. Anyway, someone stop me. I haven't finished my other story and am in no position to be creating a new one. However, sound tracks inspire, and words just spilled and it just had to be done. To be clear, I will be sticking with the movie-verse for both Marvel and DC movies since I read the comics when I was young and have no good memory left about them. Anyway, I hope this was okay! Questions, feedback, comments, constructive criticism - hit me!

And like always, fair warning that I suck at present tense, and so apologize for any grammatical errors. I will go over this when my semester ends.