AN: Written for britt1975 for the Darcy/Steve holiday fic exchange. Many many thanks as always to my wonderful betas, Ella Greggs and dhauren, and to nessismore for running the exchange.
Prompt: Darcy gets Steve's name in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Secret Santa exchange. What do you get for the Super Soldier who has everything? Extra points formistletoe, Christmas lights and spiked eggnog.
The tiny square of paper is burning a hole in Darcy's pocket. Of all the names to pull out of the hat for Secret Santa, it had to be Steve Rogers, her professional acquaintance/maybe friend/crippling secret crush. Which would be fine, except that now her imagination is running rife with inappropriate gift ideas, from the subtly romantic—two tickets to a baseball game so they can spend the afternoon sitting next to each other, sharing nachos and getting to know each other better—to the outright Not Safe For Work.
But half the planet is head over heels for Captain America, and she's not delusional enough to think that she above all others could woo him if she could just find the perfect gift. Besides, she's not going to ruin their tentative friendship by throwing herself at him. It's not like he'd know the present was from her anyway, since Agent Sitwell, aka the Secret Santa Tyrant, insists all participants' identities must remain anonymous. She firmly dismisses the idea of tying a big red bow around her boobs and stretching out under the Christmas tree, and resolves not to over think this whole gift giving business.
The next morning finds her digging around on what feels like basement level 400 of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s endless archives looking for a file for Jane.
Okay, so maybe it's more like level 8, but most of the stuff down here looks like it's older than her grandmother and she hasn't seen another soul amidst the labyrinth of filing cabinets and shelves. Interspersed among the file boxes are sizable pieces of confiscated vintage tech—no doubt the pride and joy of their villainous creators back in the day. The yellow light from the bulbs overhead is dim by the time it makes its way down through the forest of metal and cardboard. It should feel creepy but by some miracle it doesn't. Just secluded, forgotten.
Darcy is poking around in one of the file boxes when she finds the cufflinks. The label on the box says they were the personal effects of a captured Hydra agent from the 40s, probably long dead, certainly long gone. She tips them out of their little yellow envelope and rubs the dust off with her thumb. The stones must be sapphires or something, the way they practically glow despite the gloom. They'd bring out Steve's eyes perfectly.
"Steve Rogers and his stupid beautiful eyes, who does he think he is," she grumbles to the box as she replaces its lid and goes back to looking for Jane's file. After a few minutes of denial, she turns back and quickly stuffs the cufflinks into the same pocket as the little slip of paper bearing his name. After all, they are really pretty and it seems a shame to leave them locked away down here where no one can appreciate them.
With the yellowed file in hand, she makes her way out of the Temple of Dust. The comparatively bright lights in the elevator make her blink, but she's not complaining about returning to a floor that has fresh oxygen. She's heading back to Jane's lab when the door to the quinjet hangar opens and spits Steve and Clint out into the hallway. They're all suited up, heaven help her, but she keeps her gaze anchored on their faces, resolving to take a peek at their butts only once she's passed them and can ogle more discreetly.
"Hey guys," she greets them cheerfully. "How's your morning?"
"Disappointing," Steve says immediately, brows drawing together. "A doombot appeared downtown but the X-men took it out before we could get there."
She pouts, but it's a parody of sympathy. "Maybe the afternoon will prove more life threatening," she says, giving him a consoling pat on the arm.
The disappointment evaporates as he realises how petulant he sounds, and she's rewarded with a sheepish smile that's so adorable it actually hurts. To take her mind off the sweet agony gripping her rib cage, she cocks an eyebrow at Clint. "And your morning?"
"Ten out of ten," Clint replies without hesitation. "Got laid, then had cold pizza for breakfast, so..." He shrugs like it should be obvious.
It must have been one damn fine lay, because now that Darcy's paying attention, he still looks a bit dazed. That's probably to be expected, though. Natasha never does anything by halves.
"Over-sharing!" Darcy calls in a sing-song over her shoulder as she continues down the hall.
She listens to their retreating footsteps and, after what she gauges to be a safe amount of time, takes that peek she'd promised herself earlier.
This job will be the death of her.
That night at home she wraps the cufflinks in red tissue paper, slaps a tag on them and puts the little package in her top drawer to keep it safe until the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party on Friday.
She takes one more look at the little square of paper with Steve's name written on it (and maybe possibly runs her fingertip over the letters like a lovesick teenager just once) before squishing it into a little ball and flicking it into the trashcan.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party is in full swing by the time Darcy and Jemma arrive, Secret Santa gifts in hand. Darcy's never been to the top floor of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters before but apparently the whole thing is just one big super-classy conference room. Two of the walls are panelled in dark wood, and the other two are floor-to-ceiling windows that make it feel like the party extends right out into the night sky, inviting the lights of New York in to join them. The chocolate coloured carpet is cushy under her kitten heels, and the bar in the corner is made of marble.
"Holy crap," she murmurs, marvelling at the snowflake-shaped chandeliers and meandering garlands of mistletoe suspended from the high ceiling. Thousands of twinkling fairy lights help set the mood, as do the wrought iron candelabras of fat white candles spaced out around the room, and a Christmas tree that's so big it could only have been beamed in. The room is more than half full of co-workers dressed to the nines, standing in small groups or dotted on low couches. There's a healthy amount of chatter, but not so much as to drown out the playlist of classic carols.
Darcy smoothes a hand over her little red dress as she takes in the wanton waste of taxpayer dollars. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s R&D department probably burn through the same amount by 10am on a Monday morning, though, so what are you gonna do?
"Agent Sitwell really outdid himself with the decorations this year," Jemma says, looking nearly as awestruck as Darcy feels.
Winding their way through the party-goers are wait staff with silver trays of beverages and finger food.
"Eggnog!" Darcy flags down a guy with a tray of martini glasses filled with what could only be her favourite holiday beverage. She scoops a glass off the tray and inhales deeply, filling her lungs with its custardy, nutmeggy smell. She also catches a hint of something rich and alcoholic, probably brandy. Score.
"Want one? It's spiked," she says mischievously, waving her glass enticingly under Jemma's nose. Everyone knows eggnog smells even better than it tastes.
"No, thank you," says Jemma with a polite smile to the server, who moves on. "Dairy and I don't get on. I'd be farting all night." Jemma's hand flies to her mouth. "Oh! I didn't mean to say that out loud!" she says with an embarrassed giggle.
"Probably a good thing you're staying away from the 'nog, then. Sounds like you're liquored up already," Darcy teases, and takes a sip.
"I am not!" Jemma protests, all British and adorable.
Darcy plucks the neatly wrapped present out of Jemma's hand and deposits both their Secret Santa gifts under the Christmas tree.
"Come on, let's go find Ward so you can kiss him under the mistletoe." Darcy hooks her arm through Jemma's, eyes scanning the crowd.
Jemma shakes her head but lets Darcy pull her towards the throng of off-the-clock S.H.I.E.L.D. employees. "Oh, no... Do you think I should?"
Darcy is onto her second glass of liquid Christmas, feeling warm and relaxed, by the time some poor agent in a red suit and sporting an undeniably fake beard hands out the Secret Santa gifts. She gets a Macy's gift card—uninspired, but preferable to Jemma's cat sweater, poor girl.
Darcy is in pursuit of a third glass when she spies Steve standing on his own, examining his new cufflinks. She detours toward him because she hasn't said hi yet and she really should. Also, his guns look outstanding in that pale blue button-down and a girl can only resist their magnetism for so long.
He's leaning against one of the full-length windows, but straightens up and smiles warmly as she approaches. Quite inconsiderate really, the smiling, because now her knees have turned to honey and she has to make a concerted effort not to fall off her heels.
"How do you like the cufflinks? They're from me," she blurts out, then groans inwardly. Jesus, Lewis, way to keep a secret.
The corner of Steve's mouth ticks up in amusement. "I thought we weren't meant to say—"
"Yeah, I know, I don't why I said that," she says, with a wave of her empty glass. After a millisecond, more words tumble out into the space between them.
"I'm probably just nervous because I'm totally in love with you."
Steve's eyes go wide, and Darcy's pulse rate cranks up a few gears.
What. The fuck.
She glares at the empty eggnog glass in betrayal, but there's no way those two drinks were strong enough to account for this sudden bout of social retardation. She can salvage this, though. Everyone knows she's the queen of sarcasm, so all she needs to do is tell him she's joking. Easy.
She opens her mouth to execute her smooth recovery, but all that comes out is: "I can't believe I just said that. That was the one thing I've been trying not to say for weeks."
Darcy starts praying for a bilgesnipe to appear outside the window to distract Steve from this train wreck of a conversation—and perhaps to swallow her whole, that would be helpful, too.
"Jesus H. Christ, what the hell?" Darcy dumps her glass on the tray of a passing server. "Why do I keep saying mortifyingly truthful things?"
The cufflinks in Steve's palm are glowing now and he eyes them with concern. "Darcy, where did you get these?"
"I found them in the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives," she says, cringing as she's unable to stop herself from revealing that Steve's gift was not only second-hand, but obtained with a five finger discount. "They were confiscated from some Hydra agent back in the forties."
"Hydra?" Steve repeats, sounding concerned.
"Do you think they're making us tell the truth?" She scoops them out of his hand to take a closer look. The jewels are pulsing slowly with blue light. "Okay, I'm going to try and lie." She thinks for a second. "Tony Stark is the most humble person I know. Wait, how come it worked that time? And why haven't you blurted out anything embarrassingly honest yet?" she asks accusingly. "I suppose your thoughts are too pure."
"They're really not." He looks pained, probably because he knows what's coming next. "All I can think about is how amazing you look in that dress, and how badly I want to get you out of it."
Darcy mentally cancels that bilgesnipe order. She doesn't bother hiding her grin as Steve's ears turn pink in embarrassment. Her worst conversation of the year just got upgraded to the best conversation of the decade.
There are so many things she'd like to ask him while she's got him in this vulnerable position, but she keeps her mind on the issue at hand. "So I guess you're safe if you're holding them. It's just the people around you who are affected?"
"Makes sense," Steve says. "Allow yourself to be picked up by your enemy while you're wearing them, get as much intel as you can from your captors before you're processed, and then escape."
Darcy nods in agreement.
"I think we'd better put them back where they came from," he says, with a hint of captain-y authority in his tone that Darcy doesn't mind at all.
"Agreed." She's grateful that Steve doesn't seem to think anyone else needs to know about this. "And then we should talk more about that 'getting me out of this dress' situation. I owe you a Christmas present, after all." She smirks, giving in to the heady rush that comes when he smiles back.
They turn towards the door just as Bucky appears beside them. Darcy opens her mouth to warn him to keep his shut, but she's not fast enough.
"You know," says Bucky nonchalantly, glass of scotch in hand, "whenever I see you two next to each other it gets me thinking about the spectacular sex the three of us could have together."
Steve shoots her an urgent look. "Archives?"
"Yeah," she nods. "Probably a good idea."
Darcy barely notices the blunt edges of the shelves pressing against her back. It probably has something to do with the fact that her dress is pooled around her waist and there's an all-American hero mouthing hotly at her nipples through the black lace of her bra.
On the way back down to the archives, they'd held one cufflink each to neutralize the effects of the jewellery. Even so, they'd both stayed relatively quiet, not wanting to risk revealing any more of their innermost thoughts.
Level 8 is just as deserted as the last time Darcy was here, the lights just as dim. She'd located the appropriate file box, slipped the cufflinks back into their little yellow envelope, put them back in the box, and then... she's not entirely sure who jumped who, but it's not like it matters. There's only one thing giving her pause at this point.
"You know, there's something I should have asked you before we put those cufflinks away," she says, trying to keep her tone light.
"Mm?" Steve hums, his mouth never leaving her breast. The vibration of his voice on her skin sends a wave of shivers right to her core, making her fingers tighten in his hair.
With no small effort she schools her voice into something other than breathy moans and says, "Is this just a 'what happens at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party stay at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party' kind of thing, or are you thinking something more serious? Either is cool," she adds quickly, trying to sound chill. "I just... need to know."
Steve stops and looks up at her in surprise. He straightens up, reaches over her shoulder to fish the little envelope out of its box, and presses it into her hand with a smile. "I want you to be my girl, Darcy. I have since the first day we met."
Darcy's heartbeat loses its rhythm for a few moments. "Good answer," she whispers, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him in to kiss him soundly. One of his hands comes up to cup her cheek and the other squeezes her hip as he returns the kiss, hot and deep, until they're both breathless.
"I have a question for you, too," he murmurs against her lips when they stop to catch their breath.
"Oh yeah?" She pulls back to look at him but he avoids her eyes, trailing light kisses along her jaw instead. It feels like he's stalling, his thumb rubbing an anxious rhythm back and forth over her hip bone. When his lips reach her ear he says cautiously, "What do you think about what Bucky said, back at the party?"
He's trying so hard to keep his tone neutral, but hope is a difficult emotion to hide. She chuckles and pushes him just far enough away that she can reach up and toss the envelope back into its box. She doesn't need magic cufflinks to answer that question honestly.
She grins slyly. "Now I know exactly what to get you for Christmas."
AN: Happy holidays and thanks for reading :)