A/N: This story is already in the works over on AO3, but I know some people to go on that website, so I thought I'd bring it here. Expand the audience and whatnot.
Coffee Shop Girl Part Three is in the works. April 2017 has been the worst month of my entire life, but I'm getting through it by getting back into writing.
This weird little story is set between Winter Soldier and Civil War. There will be canon changes, just as a warning.
Enjoy!
Catch Me If You Can
She has the strangest suspicion he isn't supposed to be there. It's something in his gait. Like he's got pins and needles. Or like he's desperate for the toilet. He moves up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial as though his bladder is moments from imploding. She has done her best to stay away from danger these past few years, but this man, hiding his face beneath a baseball cap, arms covered in a red hoodie despite the almost 100 degree weather, is just begging to be followed.
"Hey, where are you going?"
Darcy Lewis stops dead in her tracks. She had forgotten about Rob. All of her attention has been sucked up by the mystery man with the tattered backpack. Closing her eyes for a second as she searches for a good—it doesn't have to be good, but she has to say something—excuse, Darcy twists in her uncomfortable heels and smiles apologetically at her lunch date.
"Lincoln Memorial," she says, throwing her thumb behind her shoulder. Rob frowns. She's never seen him look so confused before. She hasn't known him for long, though, so perhaps that isn't saying much. Darcy scrambles for something else to say. "I just remembered that I need to go pay my respects to good ol' Honest Abe."
Rob holds that confused look. His dark eyes squint at her in the DC sunlight. Then, his face relaxes. He starts to stand. "I'll go with you!"
"No!" Darcy exclaims. The confusion returns. "I mean," she laughs pathetically, pressing her finger into Rob's hard chest, "you need to stay here and guard my food. These pigeons are bastards."
"We could just bring the food with us."
"No, Rob. I need to do this by myself," she says, jaw clenched.
Finally, Rob takes the cue and sits down like a good boy. He tucks his press badge between the buttons of his shirt and smiles sweetly at her.
What a buffoon.
Darcy shoots finger guns at him—why, she will never understand—and retreats from the Reflecting Pool, wishing that she had disobeyed her boss's orders to start wearing high heels. They are the single most uncomfortable invention of all time and they are hardly discreet. Her shoes click and clack as she makes her way to the steps leading up to the Memorial. There are men and women dressed in business attire scattered around the steps, piles of food in their laps. Sprinkles of tourists are spread out. Cameras are poised to take mediocre pictures. Darcy hears shutters go off as she weaves between politicians and their mistresses on lunch breaks.
As she nears the top, Darcy fears the man has already gone. She spent far too long trying to convince Rob to stay by the water. This guy is potentially just a harmless tourist, but the longer she sat debating following him, the longer it took her to get up here, the stronger that sense of unease inside of her became.
Whoever this person is, he is dangerous.
Where are the Avengers when you need them?
Sweat rises on her skin as Darcy enters the Lincoln Memorial. It's practically empty inside. Five people tops, and they look to be related. Her shoes echo through the open building, causing those inside to stare at her. All except one.
His backpack is hanging off one shoulder; the zip is open maybe one inch.
Darcy's heart pounds. Blood rushes in her ears, cancelling out the sounds her heels make as she walks slowly towards her mystery man. Eyeing the family of tourists, she jerks her head to the exit. They must see the desperation in her eyes, for it takes only one moment before they retreat from the marble room.
She continues her trek in the direction of Lincoln. Mystery Man is looking up at the words carved atop Lincoln's head in large, capital letters. "In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever." She sees spikes of hair sticking out beneath his baseball cap. She also notices how terribly rigid he has become since she started her surveillance.
She's been caught. Not that it would have been difficult. These damn shoes gave her away.
Darcy can't swallow. Her throat is too tight. Fear has replaced the false sense of bravery inside each of her cells. She quakes in her knock off Christian Louboutins.
And then he turns around, slowly, like some big cat who has fooled its prey into thinking it's harmless, and Darcy quickly - in a split second - realises her big mistake.
This is no potential terrorist. No gangbanger. Not even some kid dope dealer.
She saw those files while she was still working for Jane. She shouldn't have. She was told strictly not to look at them. But she saw them anyway.
The Winter Soldier.
Darcy gasps through the sliver that has become her throat. She takes one rickety step back, her heel catching in a groove in the flooring. She begins a tumble to the ground, but her harsh landing never comes. A metal arm wraps around her waist to stop her from falling. She feels every mechanical movement against her as though neither of them is wearing any clothes.
Peeking up through her lashes, Darcy sees the face of her rescuer. She can taste her heart as she focuses on every small detail. His skin is pale, probably due to the long sleeves and pants. Pinpricks of hair coat his jaw. It's been a few days since his last shave. There's a deep dimple in his chin.
Then she gets to his eyes. Tired. Sunken. He looks as though he is a hundred years old. Which, Darcy reasons, he is.
Still, he is handsome. Much more handsome than he should be.
Their bodies are pressed against each other. She can feel his breath washing over her. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine.
It is then she remembers who he is. Her eyes widen and she clutches his shoulders, trying to pull herself into an upright position. But, of course, she can't move.
Darcy blows a wisp of hair off of her lips. "Let go of me," she commands.
The Winter Soldier's face hardens. It seems he forgot who he was as well. "Why are you following me."
It is not a question.
"Are you kidding me?"
His features do not change. Not a joke, then.
"You're so obvious," she says. "I spotted you a mile off."
"How did you know who I was? Who do you work for?" His grip tightens around her waist. This was a bad idea.
Darcy glares at the ancient assassin. "I don't work for anybody"—
—"Liar!" He snarls. He is the human embodiment of Scar from The Lion King. She sees it clear as day now. "Tell me who you work for."
"The Washington Post! I'm a reporter for the Washington Post. And I didn't know who you were when I followed you in here. I only knew how obviously abnormal you looked," Darcy spits.
The Winter Soldier's face crumples in anger. "But you know who I am," he says, sounding almost desperate. "How do you know who I am if you're just some journalist!"
Darcy truly feels like she's entered onto the set of some movie she isn't meant to be in.
She should have left well enough alone and continued her lunch date with Rob.
"How?" he asks again. He's going to break her ribs if he keeps this up.
"I used to work with SHIELD!" she reveals.
His entire face widens. He releases her immediately and backs away. Thankfully, she manages to stumble into an upright position.
He doesn't look so tough now. Instead of Scar, he has become Simba, watching as his father gets trampled by wildebeests. Shock and fear paint his face.
"It wasn't really voluntarily," she explains when it looks as though he might bolt. He eyes her confusedly. "My work with SHIELD. It was more accidental. I interned for an astrophysicist and she got hired by them when Thor fell out of the sky. You've met Thor, haven't you? I had no choice but to follow. I'm not some savvy secret agent sent to kill you."
His body is tense again. If he were a turtle, Darcy knows full well he would be buried within his shell.
"You're not scared anymore," he points out.
"Yeah, well you pissed me off."
It happens so fast, Darcy almost doesn't catch it. But it's there. Just for a moment. A smile.
What is this? Isn't he supposed to have snapped her neck and thrown into the Reflecting Pool by now? From what she read in the reports, she assumed he would be armed and dangerous (no pun indented). It had been years since his face off with the Cap. Where was his master plan to blow up Washington DC and skin Captain America alive?
Why was he hanging out in memorials, rescuing clumsy idiots?
"That serum they injected into you," Darcy says. She steps closer to him. Her shoes echo in the room. "You're fighting it, yeah?"
He's shrinking again into his shell. It's almost as if he is afraid of her. This is a twist she never could have seen coming.
She's had it wrong. He isn't Scar. Nor is he Simba. He is Mufasa, falling from the rocks, betrayed by his own brother. There is fear in his eyes. It's diluted amongst the bravado and will to survive, but she can sense it. There is no mission to wreak havoc. There is just a man trying to prove to himself that he is better. That he can push through the deep-rooted compulsion to destroy and make it in this world by himself.
"It's hard"— he begins, but clambering footsteps distract him.
Darcy looks towards the Memorial's entrance. Shit. It's Rob. Better yet, it's Panting Rob, running through the columns and up to her. The Winter Soldier turns away.
"Darcy!" he heaves. "We're late. I tried calling you, but you wouldn't answer your phone."
"I left my phone with you," she says.
Rob straightens, a pinkish glow forming around his cheeks. He reaches inside his shirt pocket and returns her cell.
"Oh. Still, we need to get to the Capitol." Rob holds out his hand for her. Sweet Rob.
Darcy looks between her coworker and the man standing at number one on SHIELD's Most Wanted list.
Does she really have a choice?
"I can't make it," she says, watching the Winter Soldier's head jerk. She can't see his face, but she assumes he looks puzzled. "I have a roast sitting in my crockpot at home and if I don't get to it now, it will burn down my apartment. You go ahead. Make up some excuse for me."
Shooing Rob along, Darcy waits for the bumbling journalist to get halfway down the steps before returning to the reformed killer. He rotates on his heel. His square jaw is locked. He is most definitely bewildered by her decision to stay. He shouldn't be, though. Her time at SHIELD may have been somewhat inadvertent, but she caught the monster fighting bug as she worked alongside the team. And if it turns out that this man—who, according to every last detail she learned in her many science classes over the years, should be dead either of exhaustion or bullet holes—is managing to fight off whatever mind control serum HYDRA has administered to him over the years, then she wants to do whatever she can to help him.
Jane would be proud.
Or not. Probably not.
"This apartment," he says, his voice dropping off.
"Right," Darcy says. It makes sense he wouldn't want to stick around in the open. After all, there are still a billion agents from both the right and wrong sides of the tracks who want his head on a pike. "It's within walking distance. We can take the seedy backroads to avoid detection."
There it is again—a smile.
She has been scrambling to haphazardly clean her apartment for the past five minutes while the Winter Soldier stands by her front door, arms stiff by his sides. Never in a million years could she have imagined spending her Wednesday in this predicament. As she tidies the minuscule lounge area—despite its size, Darcy has managed to lump all of her washing in the centre—she experiences waves of trepidation stemming from the sudden realisation she has allowed a murderer into her home.
What if he isn't as rehabilitated as he appears? What if his plan is to gain her trust only to kill her in cold blood because she knows too much? What if there is a bomb inside of that backpack he has yet to remove from his shoulder?
But just as she is ready to have a full-fledged panic attack, she catches his eye. Those tired, hazel eyes that have been forced to perform the misdeeds of the world's most deranged and psychotic bad guys. She calms after that.
"There," she puffs, cheeks billowing. She stands in the middle of her living room, hands on her hips, proud of her ability to shove dirty clothes into the spare closet outside of her bedroom. "Please hold your applause."
The Winter Soldier does not move. Darcy notices the sudden shift in the air. "How did you get mixed up in SHIELD in the first place? How did they let you go without a fight?"
"Who says they let me go without a fight?"
"Why did you bring me here?"
Of course he has no time for games.
"Because," Darcy says. Truthfully, she has been asking herself that question ever since she let Rob go with that stupid story about a crockpot. "Because . . ."
"Because you're still working with SHIELD and you're stalling until the Avengers burst through your door to take me away?" He has moved from the entryway. He is in front of her, mistrust flashing like clips of lightning in every word.
Darcy blanches. "Of course not. I haven't been in contact with anyone from SHIELD in years."
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"Keep your voice down. I have nosy neighbours. I'm sure they'd have no qualms about turning you in."
"Why?" he demands, voice steady. He moves through emotions like Darcy moves through different cartons of ice cream. Fast and without warning.
The answer is obvious. "Because you looked like you needed help. You looked frightened and lonely, and I started thinking about what you must have been going through ever since you realised what HYDRA had done to you, and I couldn't just let you go."
The Winter Soldier looks taken aback by her confession. He repeats his question softly. Shakily. "Why?"
"You're in DC. You should be as far away from DC as imaginable, and yet here you are. You were out in the open where anybody could have spotted you. If that isn't a death wish, I don't know what is. You're obviously not the deranged killer everyone thinks you are." Darcy really hopes she's right about this detail. It would be awful for her if it turns out she's wrong.
"That's incredibly naive of you to assume," he says. "I could snap you in half like you were nothing more than a toothpick."
Darcy exhales in a rush, not having realised she was holding her breath. The Winter Soldier is leaning down. Their faces are mere inches apart. "Yeah," she says. "But you won't."
A couple of hours later, after much needed deflation, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, the super villain formerly known as the Winter Soldier, is sitting on her sofa. Head laid back against the cushions, he is asleep. His body still holds much of its rigidity in sleep. Jaw tight, hands balled into fists, eyes moving about beneath their protective lids. She bets that if she made a single noise, he would jump from his slumber, completely alert and ready for action.
He took off his jacket before he got comfortable and she is wholly transfixed by his left arm. The blood red star on his would-be shoulder shines as dusk creeps towards them. Darcy spots several thin scratches on the Communist mark. He must have clawed at it, tried to remove it, when he escaped HYDRA.
She has no idea what she is doing.
No. She does. She is harbouring a fugitive. SHIELD wants him. HYDRA does as well. Captain America would want nothing more than to know his friend is safe. Basically, this is a bad idea.
Is it coincidence that brought them together? She had opted for eating at the café due to the heat and her black dress, but Rob insisted they go to the Pool. She is not, like she has said many times, a secret agent. There was nothing forcing her to follow the suspicious character up to the Lincoln Memorial. She certainly had no obligation to bring him home.
But she doesn't believe in silly things like fate, so it must be coincidence.
"And what a mighty fine coincidence it has turned out to be," Darcy whispers, sarcastic.
Beside her, the Winter Soldier stirs.