A birthday gift for Pollydoodles featuring fake marriage, mutual pining, and much tropey goodness.
Chapter One
Darcy stares around at the living room of her new home, wondering if all the remaining chintz in the world had been dumped into it. There were a lot of clashing florals happening, and they weren't even fashionable ones.
"So, do we get a redecoration budget?" she asks, poking at the nearest armchair. It's the height of grandma chic—she believes her grandma does, in fact, own this chair.
"No," Steve responds. He's in a stare off with Barnes, which Darcy thinks means they're having a silent conversation. It's hard to tell. They could just be brooding at each other. From what she's witnessed of them so far, brooding seems to be a hobby.
"Then the first time someone comes over it'll blow our cover, because there's no way I would willingly live with this lot."
Steve turns to give her a look she interprets as 'authoritative', and ignores anyway. "We have to be careful how we spend money—it's already cost enough to buy these safehouses."
"Yes, I'm sure this set you back millions." It's a pretty enough house, a little stone-built cottage with a slate roof, and she can't even muster the cheek to call it small after living in a New York studio for the past year. But Darcy knows that it was swooped up at a bargain price through an auction, from a buyer who was happy to take cash for a quick sale. It's a shame Darcy didn't have any say in the location: London was one thing, but the ass-end of Yorkshire is another.
She's not even sure how this makes sense. They're supposed to be in hiding, and yet Steve and Natasha have decided that two Americans suddenly moving into the area will somehow not stand out.
"It fit the parameters perfectly," Natasha replies, coming in from the hallway, brown wig covering her normally vibrant hair. "It's isolated, there's no known history of Hydra activity within 250 miles of here, and it has a reliable internet connection."
"And when the locals start talking about the strangers who just moved in?"
"They won't. There are a lot of holiday cottages and newcomers to the area. If you don't annoy them, they won't care." Natasha tosses something at Darcy, and she fumbles the catch, only just stopping it from hitting the floor. "Keys to your new Land Rover. You'll need it when the weather's bad."
Darcy examines the key chain. "When you say 'new', you mean 'old', don't you?"
"As the hills. Hope you enjoy the smell of wet dog."
"Ugh."
"And it's at least a two hour drive to the nearest IKEA."
"UGH."
"But only an hour to the supermarket!"
"Seriously, what's wrong with London? Nobody would look at us twice there! I could literally stand on a street corner banging on a pan yelling about shacking up with the Winter Soldier, and people would just pretend not to hear me!" Darcy notices, a moment too late, the way Barnes winces at her using his former code name. He slips from the room, but she can't follow him, because Natasha's still trying to be reasonable.
"Too much surveillance, and we can't rely on SHIELD or Stark technology anymore. Old-fashioned hiding out is the way to go."
"Fine. But I don't have to like it."
Steve has followed Barnes, and it turns out they're unloading the last of the stuff from the car they'd driven up in. Darcy stands on the doorstep, staring out across the valley below them. She has to admit the view is spectacular: rolling green hills bisected by crumbling stone walls, cresting to peaks around the edge of the valley. Streams meander through the landscape, glittering in the sunshine. There are sheep everywhere, and she's less thrilled about that, but the air is still and quiet. Peaceful.
She suspects that's another reason the cottage scored high on Natasha's list of requirements: Barnes needs to make up for about seventy years of lost peace, and this isolated corner of the countryside ought to deliver it rapidly. Personally, Darcy thinks she's going to be bored out of her skull, no matter how good the internet connection is.
Belongings and groceries unpacked, Steve and Natasha make a hasty exit. They've got a plane to catch to their own safehouses: one-time Avengers are now scattered around the world in hiding, paired up to protect each other and the rest of the team. Steve will be with Wanda, Natasha's on the run with Sharon, Sam has the dubious honor of babysitting Scott Lang, and Clint's gone back to his farm and family, because even Tony Stark isn't dick enough to give the location of that up.
And somehow Darcy, who isn't even an Avenger or involved in their little skirmish, has been called in to play house with Barnes.
"We need your skills," Natasha had said when she dropped out of the sky into Darcy's apartment. To which Darcy had questioned what skills? People management, computers, and living in 21st century England, apparently.
Of course, Natasha hadn't told her the full story until after they'd arrived in Heathrow and started driving north instead of heading into London, by which time it was too late for Darcy to back out. Not only was she going to be living with Barnes, but they'd been set up with new identities and would be dwelling in the middle of frigging nowhere (a.k.a. the North Yorkshire Dales).
The best part—the reason Darcy is wearing shiny new jewelry on her left hand, forcibly wedged into place by Natasha—is the new identity involves her being married to Barnes. In fact, since Darcy Lewis already exists in UK government records, they've just added a husband, trusting that no one will ever suspect her of sheltering the former assassin.
"Not necessary!" Darcy had protested. "We could just live together."
"This makes you each other's next of kin. It could be important if anything happens."
If anything happens, Darcy is armed with a Wakandan-built taser, to go with Barnes' replacement arm, which is a more realistic-looking prosthetic than the last one. Apparently Tony Stark is the only person out there who knows that Barnes no longer has the Hydra-issued metal arm, and even he doesn't know about the generous upgrade. Barnes' most identifiable feature, apart from his thighs and dead-eyed stare, doesn't exist anymore.
The thighs, she can live with. They're almost as good a view as what's out the window. The stare, on the other hand, will take some getting used to. It's a weird feeling being married to man she's yet to have a conversation with. She wonders how he feels about their shared surname: Laithe, which Natasha had informed her was local dialect for barn.
Darcy's been too busy figuring out what supplies they have in the kitchen to explore the rest of the house. There are only two rooms downstairs, the living room at the front and the kitchen at the back. The stairs are steep when she eventually ventures up them, and narrow, which doesn't bode well for getting furniture up them if they ever do make it to IKEA. There are two doors when she gets to the top, and that immediately has her concerned. She pokes one open, and it's a bathroom, leaving her with a sinking feeling. Sure enough, the only remaining door leads into the sole bedroom.
It has amazing views across the valley—and one bed.
She whips out her phone to fire a text off to Natasha, before noticing that she has no coverage on her phone. None at all.
Darcy stomps her way back downstairs, just as Barnes comes through the front door.
"Did you look upstairs? I'm going to murder Nat!"
He stares at her, and his head twitches in what she thinks might be a shake. He does not reply verbally.
"Well, not only are we sharing a bedroom, but we're sharing a bed. Her specifications for a perfect house apparently didn't include two bedrooms. Or cellphone coverage! I mean, what if there's an emergency?"
"There's a phone." He points to the handset plugged into the wall. "And panic buttons all over the house. We press them, it alerts the team."
His voice is scratchy from disuse, but low and soft. It's a pleasant voice, all things considered. Darcy thinks he should use it more.
"Or—and here's a novel idea—we live somewhere we can call them from wherever we are, at any time, using a handheld device!"
Barnes shrugs. "I think we're going to be fine. I did a perimeter check—you can see for miles around the house, and the terrain's too rough to drive on for most of it. We can see, and hear, every car coming on the road. There's no way to set up an ambush, short of landing on the house in a helicopter."
"But that still leaves us with the issue of there only being one bed."
"I'll sleep on the sofa."
Darcy gestures expansively through the doorway into the living room, where there is an impressive collection of armchairs, but no actual sofa. "Good luck with that."
He follows the direction of her hands and frowns, which deepens into a glare. "You don't need to murder Natalia. I'll do it. I'll be more effective."
Bucky doesn't know what game Natalia is playing, but he struggles to believe this is a mistake or oversight. He sulks over it the whole time the girl—Darcy—is in the kitchen, preparing food, while he checks that was she says is true.
No, Natalia was here for days before they arrived, purchasing the property and ensuring it was habitable. She provided a list of the work she has done: installing a generator, so they have a source of electricity if the area suffers a power cut, making sure the phone is connected, and adding the security system. She must have slept in that bed, so she is well aware of the lack of other arrangements.
He doesn't doubt she will only return here when their ire has cooled—probably only if there is a dire need to do so.
Of the girl, Bucky isn't sure what to make of her. She talks a lot, even when he doesn't respond, and in anyone else it would become annoying, fast. Here, though, it fills what will be a perpetual hush. He suspects she will tire of his silence long before he tires of her words. He's going to have to dredge up the part of him that used to be a decent conversationalist.
There's a softness to her, and a candor he's not come across in a long time. His days have been filled with spies and soldiers, but she has none of that artifice surrounding her. Steve says she's helped save the world and is friends with Thor, one of the Avengers Bucky hasn't met yet. What he doesn't understand is why she's so willing to drop her life and come live in the back of beyond with him. Natalia claimed it's because she's a good person, but there has to be more to it than that.
Maybe that's a conversation he can strike up. He is married to the girl, after all. He ought to know this stuff.
So their first conversation wasn't exactly a meet-cute, but it's out of the way and didn't end in bloodshed. Except possibly for Natasha at an unspecified future date. But all told, Darcy thinks she's got this housewife business down. She cooks a meal for them and serves it on the little table in the living room. Barnes inhales it, then goes searching in the kitchen for more food. Apparently she's vastly underestimated an appropriate portion size for him.
"When the recipe says it serves four people, instead of halving it, I'll just cook the whole thing from now on," she says as he retrieves the rest of the chicken from the refrigerator and digs in. He nods and rips a wing off the carcass.
That leaves the awkwardness of night falling, and the thorny issue of sleeping quarters. Darcy does the gallant thing, and goes to bed at an earlier than normal hour while Barnes does another perimeter check, hoping to be asleep before he comes to bed. Because, hey, it's been a long day with all the traveling and crossing time zones and stuff.
She's shared beds with people on a platonic basis before, even men. It's no big deal. Of course, usually the men were friends, or Erik. Instead, Darcy's looking at spending the night—several nights—next to an ex-assassin she'd only met hours earlier. Steve's assured her he won't harm her—he had some remedial therapy in Wakanda while they were fixing his arm—but he's still not her ideal bed partner.
It's also only a queen. Barnes looks broad enough to fill the bed on his own.
In the pajamas which provide the most skin coverage, she claims the right hand side, and curls up to face the wall. It's actually a little eerie how quiet the house is, without even the sound of traffic outside. If she strains, she can probably make out sheep bleating in the distance.
She drifts, unable to properly tumble into sleep, until she hears the front door open and close, then Barnes' footsteps on the stairs. He washes up in the bathroom before entering the bedroom.
There's the sound of cloth hitting floor, and the covers shift as he pulls them back and climbs in the bed. Darcy's ninety-percent sure he's just stripped off and dumped his clothes on the floor (mental note to buy a laundry hamper), rather than putting any version of sleepwear on. She is so far from relaxed it's not funny, but if Barnes realizes she's still awake, he doesn't say a word. His shoulder brushes against her back—yep, this bed is not wide enough for the both of them—before he shifts onto his side as well.
This is fine. Absolutely fine. A sofa-bed for one of them to sleep on is totally not a priority or anything.
Barnes' breathing is slow and even almost immediately, but that doesn't count for anything. Darcy also realizes, possibly too late, that he has zero reason to trust her. It won't even have been Steve to vouch for her, because she'd met Cap a grand total of twice before today. Barnes is relying on Nat's word, and even Darcy isn't sure how much stock to place in that. She'd better not make any sudden movements in the night, just in case.
Her cheerful thoughts keep her awake longer than can be healthy, and it's only exhaustion which finally sucks her under.
It's the tight arm around her waist which wakes her in the morning, and the baking hot body pressed against her back.
I think we can all see where this is going.