Hidden under the brim of a worn baseball cap and the expectation that he, Steve Rogers, the grand and glorious Captain America, would have been anywhere but in that exhibit, he had been shown what history had written of him. The lines S.H.I.E.L.D. had drawn of him in the files he had seen of himself (briefly and incomplete) had made him one man, the mosaic of information on the internet another, the Smithsonian still another. He had been made out to be a threat, an empty piece of propaganda dusted off for a new age, a hero of the Greatest Generation who had fought for what was right and true.
He could not have helped but seen the before and after photos of himself projected on the walls for children to measure themselves against, and heard the story of himself overlaid by the staunchly believing voice of a man he had never met. A hired actor, no doubt. As he sat there in the sunshine and thought of those reels of old film that told only part of the story, and the file that lay hidden in his room of what had been kept from him and the world, Steve thought he would much rather take the past as a whole. Not just for the bright and glorious pieces of it. Or, worse, what had been written only by the victors.
The revelation of who he spoke to then had him working not to let his smile slip, leaving him to remind himself with a kick of what Thor had told him. That the Loki of the Nexus had not lived that life yet. That he had not done what he had done in New York, and that, more pointedly, meddling in the affairs of time to repair or prevent the past only threatened the future. He shook the woman's hand firmly, allowing his trust in Loki's brother to extend at least enough to try to keep himself from judgement just yet.
When he released Loki's hand, it was to set his hands in his lap, curled around the binding of the book. With the consideration of all he did not know, and could not know in the situation, the memory of Loki having been called a sorcerer (among other things) rose to the top of his thoughts and allowed him what seemed like a safe enough avenue of conversation. "No one seems to know what's going on or how long this all will last. Do you have any idea?"
no subject
He could not have helped but seen the before and after photos of himself projected on the walls for children to measure themselves against, and heard the story of himself overlaid by the staunchly believing voice of a man he had never met. A hired actor, no doubt. As he sat there in the sunshine and thought of those reels of old film that told only part of the story, and the file that lay hidden in his room of what had been kept from him and the world, Steve thought he would much rather take the past as a whole. Not just for the bright and glorious pieces of it. Or, worse, what had been written only by the victors.
The revelation of who he spoke to then had him working not to let his smile slip, leaving him to remind himself with a kick of what Thor had told him. That the Loki of the Nexus had not lived that life yet. That he had not done what he had done in New York, and that, more pointedly, meddling in the affairs of time to repair or prevent the past only threatened the future. He shook the woman's hand firmly, allowing his trust in Loki's brother to extend at least enough to try to keep himself from judgement just yet.
When he released Loki's hand, it was to set his hands in his lap, curled around the binding of the book. With the consideration of all he did not know, and could not know in the situation, the memory of Loki having been called a sorcerer (among other things) rose to the top of his thoughts and allowed him what seemed like a safe enough avenue of conversation. "No one seems to know what's going on or how long this all will last. Do you have any idea?"