From my own headcanon. Takes place during the final battle in Avengers. Darcy is Coulson's PA, and she was also raised by him. Just to explain why a SHIELD agent showed up and started helping her out: Darcy's father was a SHIELD agent, he died before he learned that Darcy's mom was pregnant. SHIELD keeps tabs on all of the agents families, and when fishy things start showing up at the Lewis household, Coulson decides to check it out and he starts helping Darcy, so that's how they know each other. I don't want people reviewing "WHY is random shield agent just popping out of nowhere to help this random kid?" there's a backstory, but it'll take to long and doesn't have a LOT to do with this particular story. But that's how Coulson knew about Darcy. Enjoy! - darthsydious

Darcy sat in one of the panic rooms in Stark Tower. JARVIS is steadily keeping her up to date on what's going on. Clutching her taser, she huddled in the corner, somewhat angry that she'd been tossed in here by some unnamed agent.

"I'm trained, I can help!" she insisted, nameless Agent she didn't recognize only shook his head.

"Coulson's orders."

"I'm his PA, the hell-" the door cut her off midsentence. Any pounding, swearing and threatening to tase the first person to open the door fell on deaf ears. It wasn't until a tremor shook the building that Darcy wondered if she'd been too hasty. Sure, she'd been trained to kick some serious butt, she'd put down a few baddies in her time as Agent Coulson's PA. She'd seen some downright bizarre junk. But Stark Tower aka the newest, shiniest, safest building in New York should NOT shake the way it was.

"JARVIS, talk to me," she said and the computer beeped in response, quickly filling her in on what was happening. She tapped her phone, plugging in the pass code. Punching in Coulson's number she waited. "Figures, he's not picking up," she murmured. "Hey jerkface, next time you want me out of the way, come put me in a safe room yourself, instead of having nameless butthole number twelve shove me in here like a six year old. And don't forget you have a meeting at 1:15 on Thursday," she paused. "Be careful out there." and hung up, almost picturing Coulson's face when he'd check his messages. Darcy was proud of the fact that she was one of the few people who could break the seemingly impenetrable mask that Phil Coulson always seemed to wear. She'd known him almost her whole life, since she was eight, actually. He'd just…been there all of a sudden.

She had been waiting for her mom to pick her up, which she didn't really expect, because her mom never followed through. Her mom was always hung over, or going out or too busy for Darcy. She'd learned to let it not bother her. Some kids had parents that loved them and took care of them and made them cookies and took them to Chucky Cheese for their birthdays. Other kids (Darcy hadn't met them yet) had mom's like Darcy's. They partied all the time and didn't give a rat's butt about what their kids did, as long as they did it quietly, as long as they didn't cry, as long as they would "For GOD'S SAKE shut the hell up with that cello and go watch tv." You know that kid Matilda? Darcy was like her. Only you know, without telekinesis.

The day Phil showed up at her school, she clutched her cello case, her teacher was actually letting her take it home to practice. The instrument was bigger than she was, and in its case it was massive. The unmarked car sat in the designated pick-up area; a man in a suit and sunglasses was waiting there.

"Darcy Lewis." It wasn't a question. He knew who she was. She paused, squinting. She needed new glasses, but her mother kept forgetting to make an appointment. Her prescription was old, so she had to squint hard at the person, trying to see their face.

"I don't talk to strangers," she said, her small voice had confidence in it as she started down the sidewalk.

"Your mother called me to pick you up," Darcy stopped and frowned.

"Mom doesn't spend time with rich people," he almost smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"What makes you think I'm rich?" She set her cello down with a 'thunk'.

"Seriously? Your suit is measured to fit you, even with my bad eyes I can tell that, your car is almost new, from a company that isn't in the tri-state area, washed and waxed frequently, and its license plate isn't from this state. It's not rented, and your shoes are shiny." The man quirked an eyebrow.

"My shoes are shiny?"

"Nobody in Nebraska polishes their shoes," she said. "Everyone has farm boots or sneakers,"

"You're very perceptive," he commented. "At any rate, I've been sent to pick you up, so let's go. There's room in the trunk for your cello." He opened the door for her, and she studied him carefully. A sudden thought flashed through her eight-year-old brain that he might be a kidnapper. But she squashed that down. Kidnappers weren't this open, they didn't have fancy cars, and they certainly didn't call kids by their first and last names.

"Are you from the FBI?" she asked, unmoving.

"No, but I work for a company like it,"

"Cool!" was the response that surprised Coulson. His eyebrows lifted from behind the sunglasses. "So you're like James Bond, only…less awesome." His brow furrowed.

"Less awesome?"

"Yeah, he's English, and he has someone to give him gadgets and stuff. My glasses aren't too good but I'm pretty sure you aren't the type to carry exploding pens."

He picked her up every day from school from then on. One day, she was waiting outside of school and he was late. She tried not to care. He was an Agent for some secret organization, that was true enough (he never denied it, so Darcy was convinced). She rubbed her swollen eyes behind her glasses. Her mom's new boyfriend was a jerk. He hit her mother, and as little as she had in common with her mother, Darcy knew no one deserved to be beat up for burning dinner. So she kicked him, thinking she could at least lock herself in the bathroom once she got away. The only problem was she didn't get away. He'd caught her by the arm, swinging her around to face him. He'd hit her so hard her glasses bent, she heard her mother screaming at him to stop, and she remembered seeing a hand coming at her face. When she came to, she was in her room; her mother had a cold pack in her hand.

"Where's Phil?" she asked softly. Her mother didn't respond, she tried to put the ice pack on her face, but Darcy pushed her away, her fingers swollen. "I want Phil!"

"I'm sorry, Darcy," was all her mother said. She stared at her mom, her heart dropped. For a moment, she thought her mother meant Phil was dead. But her mother shook her head. "You'll see him tomorrow."

"Why don't you break up with Rick?" she asked angrily, batting her mother's hand away again.

"I can't."

"Yes you can!"

"It isn't that simple," her mother said. "Keep the ice on your face tonight,"

"Where is he?" her mother was quiet.

"He went out; he'll be back later,"

For the first time in her life, Darcy watched her mother take a chair and sit by her doorway. She was keeping watch. Rick must have been really mad at her then. Darcy had fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes, her door was shut, but she could hear her mother and Rick arguing. He was angry at Darcy, he wanted to send her away.
"I would if I could, I never planned on her! But she's only eight, so I'm trying to be responsible."

"S*** Mary, get her a foster home or something, I told you-"

"Rick please-" her mothers' voice was cut off by the noise of scuffling. Quietly, Darcy swallowed her tears, her throat ached. Sliding out from underneath her covers, she went to her closet, taking down her favorite coat. She rolled it up, stuffing it in her school backpack. She took all her clean underwear and socks out of her drawers, and as many changes of clothes she could fit into the bag. Phil would help her. He must.

The next day she went to school her backpack and cello case heavier than usual. Her mother and Rick weren't awake when she left, and that was how she wanted it. After school, she waited for Phil. And waited. And waited. Two hours after 8th period, the unmarked car turned the corner, and Darcy looked up, her heart leaping. Phil climbed out,

"Sorry I'm late I-" he stopped short. He was staring at her, and Darcy felt shame welling up inside her, feeling her cheeks burning. She looked at her shoes, at anything but Phil. He knelt down, tilting her chin up. "Let me see," he said gently. She pulled her glasses off, blinking. Carefully, he studied her. He looked angry, that was the first time Darcy saw him break that mask. He always wore sunglasses, and sometimes she could make him smile. But now his Aviators were in his pocket, and the white-hot rage in his eyes made her tremble.
"It's nothing," she murmured, "It was my fault I got hit-" suddenly the anger in his eyes was gone, and there was only Phil, warm and caring. His hands curled around her arms, squeezing gently.
"Don't you ever say that again," he said. "Do you hear me, Darcy Lewis? You don't ever let someone hit you, and you don't ever say it was your fault." And he hugged her. Darcy had never been hugged before in her life. For a moment, she didn't know what to do. A hug was something people who loved each other did. She saw it on tv and in movies. It was everything she'd hoped it would be. It was all warmth and happiness, it was protection and love. She felt secure for the first time in her life. Her arms found their way around Phil's neck and she burst into tears. Eight years old and sobbing. Despite all this, he picked her up, cradling her in his arms. "Barton, give a hand," he said. Darcy realized now someone else was in the car. Through blurry eyes she watched the man she didn't recognize, and then a woman with curly red hair step out of the car. The one called Barton picked up her cello case and backpack, the woman waited by the car, looking around. Coulson put her in the backseat, patting her forehead.

"You're gonna be ok," he said quietly.

"She coming with us?" Barton asked, and Phil nodded. "Natasha," he called and the redhead climbed in. Darcy laid down on her side already buckled in. Curling into a ball, she shut her tired eyes. She didn't want to go home.

"Sir?" she heard Barton say, she heard Phil lean over from the driver's seat. She didn't know they were looking in her backpack full of extra clothes. They were speaking quietly now, Natasha spoke Russian, and the others spoke it too. She felt the car turn left, then right, then make two more lefts. The car stopped, and Darcy still didn't move. She didn't want to look up at her house, didn't want to feel the bile in her throat that came up almost every day when she arrived. But she must. Slowly, she sat up; deciding she could run away that night, after Rick and her mother went to bed. She reached for her buckle, but was stopped.

"You stay here kiddo," Barton said, "Phil and Tasha want to go in first,"

"Is that ok?" Phil asked, Natasha was already out of the car. Darcy decided it wouldn't matter what she said, Natasha would probably go in whether she liked it or not. Slowly, Darcy nodded. Phil checked his side, and numbly Darcy wondered what for. Barton sat in the front seat, Darcy in the back. For a while they sat, listening to the rain drum on the roof. Barton cussed, then turned around, remembering she was in the car

"Oh shoot, you're- dang, sorry." He muttered, "Shouldn't cuss,"

"I've heard worse," she said. His face was serious then.

"I bet you have," he rifled through the glove compartment, "You hungry? Phil always has snacks somewhere- ah!" he handed her a package. "You want a Twinkie?" Darcy sat up almost immediately. Her favorite snack in the entire world was Hostess Twinkies. She ripped the plastic open, biting off a mouthful. "Hey that's a cool beanie." He said. She reached her bruised fingers up, touching her knitted hat, smiling a little. Still, she watched her house, wondering what was happening. Suddenly, there was shouting, Rick's voice drifted out the window, cussing and swearing and threatening, she heard her name shouted too.

"What did she tell you? I will kill her, I will kill that little-" before she could hear anything else, Barton was in the backseat, covering her ears. She didn't realize she was shaking, her Twinkie dropped to the floor. She twisted and turned her head, trying to see the house again.

"No," Barton said firmly. He pressed her hear against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. His scarred hands combed her dark hair. His heart muffled everything else. For the second time in her life she was being held. Suddenly the car doors were open, and Phil and Natasha were getting in. Darcy sat up and Barton let her. She looked out the window; her mother was in the doorway, hugging herself. Before she could even wonder what was going on, the car pulled away. Darcy didn't know where they were going, but it was away, and she felt her heart leap.

"Where are we going?" she asked finally.

"New York," Phil said, glancing up at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Oh," she sat back, watching the traffic light blink from red to green. "Why?"

"That's where we're going to live," Phil said. "I'm going to take care of you now." That was all. Darcy would find out much later that her father was a colleague of Coulson's, that he'd been killed in action before he even knew about Darcy.

"Miss Lewis, there is an incoming message for you," JARVIS voice startled her from her reverie. Getting to her feet, she hit the comm.

"Hey Beanie," it was Barton
"Clint!" she gasped, "Holy crap, where are you? Are you ok? Is Nat ok?"

"We're fine, we're all fine, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm in the panic room, JARVIS is waiting for the all clear."

"It's gonna be a while, a lot of red tape, you'll be out by dinner time," he said. His voice was tired.

"Sweetness. Hey put Phil on. I've got a bone to pick with him, if I can't yell at him to his face, I can at least cuss him out over the phone," she said, mock-serious. The other end of the line was quiet for a while. Too long. "Clint?" she could hear him sigh as if someone pushed all the air out of him.
"He's uh…Darcy he's…"

"Clint Barton you tell me where Phil is," she said, feeling her throat swell. She couldn't breathe.

"Darcy…he's um…he's gone, Phil's gone."

Clint could hear her on the other end, fighting to speak through her tears.

"It's not fair!" she screamed into the receiver, "That's a lie, Clint Barton, you- you put him on the phone right now or I'm going to hit the crap out of you-"

"Darcy!" he barked, the others looked up from their plates; the shawarma joint was empty save for the staff. Clint got up, trying to move away from the others. "I'm sorry Darcy," he was in the corner, wiping his eyes as she sobbed over the receiver. "He tried; he was…he was- Darcy-girl I'm coming. Darcy wait there, don't- I'm coming to get you," he hung up the phone, casting one glance at the rest of them. Natasha was already on her feet, her usually cool demeanor was gone, worry overtaking her features. "I gotta go," Clint said.

The others followed the two master assassins, picking through the rubble, trying to find the most direct route.

They got to Stark Tower, assessing the damage quickly, which was minimal.

"Hey, dummy, talk to me, where's Darcy?" armor shedding as Tony strode across the floor.

"Miss Lewis is in safe room number fifteen on the subfloor."

"Great, override safety, on my signal," the group waited in the hallway as Tony punched in a code, the door slid open. Inside, Darcy was curled on her side, hugging her knees to her chest. Clint stepped over the mess, ignoring the pain in his arms and shoulders. In fact he hurt all over. But seeing Darcy, he felt his chest begin to ache. Deep and familiar, he'd felt like that when he'd first seen her. Eight years old her face a mask of bruises, trying to hide behind glasses too big for her face.

"Hey Beanie," he said softly. She looked up at him, not moving. Carefully, he sat down, waiting for her to initiate contact. Darcy had not been held or touched or cuddled or kissed until she was eight. That does things to a person. She always accepted physical contact, but right now, Barton waited. Finally, when she wouldn't move, he reached for her hand and she took it, not looking at him. "Let's get you out of here,"

"No," she said softly. The group in the hall was quiet, listening. "In here…Phil's still alive…if I step outside, it's real, and he'll be gone,"

Clint blinked back tears. He picked her up, pulling her onto his lap like he used to. The others stood in the doorway now. Natasha stepped through, sitting down by Darcy and Clint. She looked at the others and slowly, they all ambled in. Darcy watched them all find a place, Bruce Banner took the desk chair, and Tony stood in the corner, fiddling with a screwdriver. Thor stood, looming in the doorway, and she wondered why he hadn't gone looking for Jane. Finally, her eyes rested on Steve. Her eyes wet and swollen, she stared at him. He looked at his feet, uncomfortable.

"You're Captain America," she said quietly.

"Yes Ma'am." He nodded.

"Phil loves your comics," she said. She heard Natasha shift beside them. Steve looked at Darcy now. "I just found him a couple rare cards; maybe you can sign them for him." Bruce put his head in his hands, crying softly. Steve blinked, feeling hot tears roll down his face.

"I think I could spare a few minutes," he choked out.

They sat in the panic room for a long time. They didn't talk or try to. Talking was too difficult. It was Darcy who got up first. Steve saw and gave her hand, helping her up. Clint and Nat followed.

"I'm gonna get some food," she said, looking back at the group, "Are you guys hungry?" they all looked at each other, and then back at the young woman.

"Oh Hell, I can eat again," Tony said. She nodded; glad she had something to do. She stopped at the doorway though, remembering what she'd said earlier. Outside the door was real life again. Outside the door, Phil was dead, and he was never coming back. Tony saw her hesitating, and he went to stand beside her. He put his arm around Darcy, squeezing.

"We're all with you kiddo," he said. She took a deep breath, stepping over the threshold.