A/N: Hi, all! This is a Wintershock two-parter set in an all-human universe. The M-rating will take effect in the second part, even though the scene is hardly explicit.

And yes, the titles of these chapters are bits from the world-famous song "Don't Stop Believin'". I will not apologise for this.

Enjoy!


Strangers, Waiting


Darcy Lewis was not having a good time. Twenty minutes into this blind date-setup by her dearest and most-likely-to-find-herself-out-of-a-roommate-come-morning friend, Jane-and Darcy was wondering if it really was possible to wish oneself out of a bad situation. She had already tried tapping her heels together three times. She hoped someone in the restaurant had a magic wand she could test out. Did you need a wand to disapparate? For the life of her, she couldn't remember. A wand probably was necessary.

Blind dates were never a good idea. When would she learn to just say no to Jane. She was too much of a Yes Man. (Yes Woman? Did that need to be gender specific?) Either way, she said yes far too much. It was her fear of conflict. Fear of letting people down. Fear of never managing to find someone on her own. These things never ended well, though. Literally never. Since meeting Jane at a book club in college, she had been on . . . What was this? Seven? Seven. Seven of these blind dates. All left her feeling miserable and lonely.

But this one was special. It was the worst-the worst- blind date ever. In the history of the great, big, old as fuck universe, nobody had been a more horrible blind date than poor Darcy Lewis.

John Smith. The name should have given something away. It couldn't have been his real name. There was a hint of some European accent hiding in his words. Maybe (just maybe) he was a war criminal hiding out in the United States. It would explain why he was such a shitty human being. Or, maybe he wasn't human at all. That also would explain some things.

"...So I said, Janine, you knew the time this proposal was due, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go. And, this is best part, Diane, pay attention, she had the gall to ask me to reconsider!" John smacked the wooden table so hard Darcy's margarita sloshed in its glass. He looked at her, clearly waiting for some recognition of Janine's stupidity.

Darcy (or was her name Diane? She couldn't even remember anymore) took her cue and laughed weakly. The crackling, half-assed noise seemed enough to appease him, for he went on with his story.

"And in response to her pathetic whining, I told her, I don't care if you're eight months pregnant, you should have thought about that before you decided to be late with your proposal!"

Darcy nodded, sure her face was pulled into some show of disgust, but John Smith didn't notice. He took a long gulp of his whiskey, smacking his lips when the drink was wholly down his throat.

Let's countdown all of the glorious qualities about John Smith, shall we? Darcy murmured to herself. John was still yapping on about how ungrateful his employees were, unaware she had closed herself off from the conversation. He's sexist. That's blatantly obvious. He's been staring at my boobs since he got me from the apartment. He's got no tact. His wealth and status have clearly destroyed whatever human decency he was born with...

Darcy stared at him, wondering if she had picked out all of the the bad qualities. His old face, worn with years of being an asshole, was wrinkled and slightly grey. Handsome enough (she could only imagine how much better he looked when he was her age), but looks only counted for so much.

"Hey, waiter-boy!" John called as a figure drifted past Darcy. "Did you not notice that my glass was empty?"

"So sorry, Sir, I must have been distracted." The waiter John had snapped at, who was not even their waiter, came over to the table. He reached for John's dry glass, his large hand clutching the object so tight his knuckles burned white. "I'll grab another one for you right away."

John Smith nodded briskly. "Top shelf only, son," he said, though it came out as more of a command. "And when is our food getting here? We ordered nearly twenty minutes ago."

The waiter briefly glanced down at Darcy. His gaze, curtained by a sleek mop of dark hair that reached his dimpled chin, was intense, even if it lasted for only one second. His hazel eyes asked her a question: What the hell are you doing out with this guy?

"It's a very busy night, Sir. But I will check with the kitchen staff before I return with your drink," he said, looking again at John.

"Very well, Barney. Run along now. I'm getting thirsty." John snapped his fingers-an unmistakable dismissal.

The waiter paused for a moment. Trying to hide his smile, he covered his mouth with his free hand and pretended to be overcome with a coughing fit. As he stood there, Darcy caught sight of his name tag: Bucky.

He backed away from the table, with John telling him to remember to wash his hands lest he wish to be sued for some stupid thing or another.

As he crept away, Darcy watched him over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Her stomach tightened (with sympathy, mostly, she decided) and she mouthed a heartfelt I'm sorry. He bent his head once in understanding before slipping out of sight.

...And he's rude to the wait staff. A real winner.

To be fair, Jane would be horrified to learn how badly this date was going. She met this guy through work only once and he must have been in a much better mood then otherwise Jane would never have dreamed of pairing them together. Still, she was going to hold this over her roommate for a while to come. Provided, of course, she didn't end up going to jail for murdering John Smith in front of everyone in the restaurant.

"These waiters have no idea how to do their job," John said. Darcy could tell he was gearing up for another rant. "They are our servers. One would think they understood that meant I can ask them for essentially anything and they have to do it..."

He went on for a bit. Midway through his longwinded speech, Darcy stood up abruptly, purse clutched in her hand. John startled. He had probably forgotten she wasn't one of his blow up dolls. (She had a strange feeling he kept many blow up dolls in some dungeon. The Christian Grey types weren't nearly as endearing as EL James wanted them to be.)

"Bathroom," she said, moving the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Be right back."

She practically ran from the table, more than done with the evening. She was starved, objectified, and already exhausted despite it only being a quarter to eight. The expensive atmosphere of the red and gold and brown restaurant was weighing her down.

Darcy slipped past tables and people. Nearing the bathroom (maybe there would be a window big enough for her hips to get through) she knocked shoulders with someone. She stumbled slightly forward, looking back, ready to apologise to whoever she had run into in her desperate attempt to get away from John Smith.

It was a waiter. Dark, long-ish hair. Harsh, heavy forehead casting odd shadows over his mysterious face. In the dim light, she could just make out his amber-green eyes.

Bucky.

He held John's refill in his hand. Taller than her by a few inches even in her heels, he kept his eyes locked on hers. The thin, sparse hairs at the back of her neck stood up. That tightness returned to her belly.

Not sympathy, then, she concluded.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

She hadn't expected that.

"My shift is over and you really look like you could use a break from Mr. Smith." Her open mouth must have given her away.

He was right, though. More than right.

"There's an Eighties bar just up the road, if you feel like going."

Darcy had never done anything this reckless before. Bucky could be a rapist for all she knew. But her gut was shouting at her, banging her insides. It was telling her to go.

"Let's get out of here," she breathed, a rush of adrenaline spiking her blood as the words left her mouth.

Bucky smiled. This time, he didn't cover it behind his hand. It was a big smile, one that showed off all of his bright teeth and crinkled his gorgeous eyes.

Dropping John Smith's glass on a nearby, vacant table, he took Darcy's hand and led her through the busy, noisy restaurant. The sudden touch of his warm hand in hers jolted her enough to push her forward. They reached the kitchen. He pushed open the double doors, saying his goodbyes to the chefs and bus boys and waiters hanging out among the sweet-smelling food. Some whistled at the two as they trekked through the ovens, and Darcy's cheeks burned pink.

Outside, the October air was cool. Darcy loved DC in the autumn. The trees were melting gold and orange. The sky was filled with stars. Aeroplanes flew overhead. Darcy watched them soar over the Washington Monument on their way to Dulles.

Shivering in her tight, knee-length black dress, Darcy turned to Bucky. He was ridding himself of his apron, beneath which hid a nicely fitting white button-down tucked into his black slacks.

"You do this a lot, then?" she said, feeling as though she had just run a mile in her heels. Bucky raised a bushed eyebrow. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

His attractiveness was distracting. What was he doing as a waiter? Surely some Calvin Klein campaign was missing him dearly.

"Rescue damsels in distress," she clarified.

"You're no damsel in distress," he said, his low, almost gruff voice making Darcy's breath catch in her throat.

"You didn't answer my question."

He smiled, a small one that barely lifted the sides of his mouth. "No. You're most definitely the first."

She knew it shouldn't, but his admission (which had the potential of being complete bullshit) made her insides wriggle with delight.

"He's a regular, then? John Smith?"

"Oh, yeah. Most of his conquests are too blinded by his wallet to bother hating him. You, on the other hand"-

-"I was being obvious?"

He nodded. "Big time."

"He didn't seem to notice," she recalled.

"He's also too blinded by his wallet." Her rescuer (she was no damsel, but he still took her away from a disastrous situation) held out his hand. "Come on, then. The bar's just down the road."

Darcy took ahold of his hand. "Lead the way."

"I'm Bucky, by the way," he mentioned as they walked.

"Darcy," she responded.

He looked over at her, his hair blowing in the wind. She was glad she had tied hers up for the evening.

"I've never met a Darcy."

"Well, I've sure as hell never met a Bucky."

The lighting was low, but competing with it were the dozens of neon signs lining the walls. Round tables crowded the space around the bar as vinyl booths sat beneath those neon signs advertising soft drinks and random cities in the US. For a Friday night, the place was fairly empty. A few groups of suit-wearing women and men sat in booths and there was a small gathering of college-age kids swaying beside the jukebox as it blasted Michael Jackson hit after Micheal Jackson hit, but her and Bucky were the only ones without a posse.

Apparently, this was a DC gem. A secret hideout for those who loved the 80s. Bucky discovered it with his work buddies after a particularly long shift one night and they had been coming ever since.

"Did you grow up in DC?" Bucky asked, raising his voice over Smooth Criminal. They were steadily getting through the obligatory "getting-to-know-you" questions. She knew his parents were divorced, he was an only child, and his first trip out of the country was to Canada.

Darcy placed her beer on its coaster. "No. I'm originally from New Mexico. What about you?"

"Born and partially raised. I spent most of my time up in Brooklyn with my mom, but when I wasn't there I was down here with my dad. What brought you here then?"

"Politics."

"Oh?" He lifted that eyebrow again. This time, the left side of his mouth followed. "You don't strike me as the politician-type."

"I'm definitely not a politician. I'm a journalist. Political science."

Another look of shock. "What paper do you work for?"

This was a sore spot with Darcy. She had been applying for jobs for a little while now and no one was biting. "Well, I'm still looking. I only graduated in May. But I'm sure you know what they say, that journalism is a dying profession."

Bucky, chin resting on his closed fist, frowned a little. A thin crease appeared above the bridge of his nose as those dark eyebrows moved closer together. "Come on, now. That can't be true. Where did you graduate from? That's gotta count for something."

"GW. 3.75 GPA, but that was due to some not-so-bipartisan professors disagreeing with my ideas."

"GW?" Bucky lifted his head. His eyes went wide.

Darcy stroked the side of her beer, gathering water on her fingertip. "Yeah...?"

"I'm at GW right now getting my Masters!" Bucky shoved a hand through his hair, and Darcy watched, distracted, as it fell in pieces around his square face. "I've been there for two semesters already. I wonder if we've ever seen each other."

"Oh, I think I would have remembered if I'd seen you," Darcy said unthinkingly.

"Why's that?" Bucky asked.

Darcy could have curled inside of herself. Why did she say that? What on God's green earth compelled her to say that?

"Oh, you know," she said, lifting her beer to her lips and taking a long sip. Play it cool, Darcy. "I just think I would have remembered. You have a very . . . distinct kind of face."

It dawned on him slowly what she had meant by her original comment. Was it the light, or was there a faint rosy hue dusting the apples of his cheeks?

"To be fair," he said, eyeing the table. "I would have recognised you too."

Darcy's heart thudded into her ribs over and over. Deciding to change the subject before either of them burst into flames, Darcy asked what he was studying.

"Criminology," he said after a moment's pause. There was something more there, but Darcy had only known the guy for about thirty minutes and did not feel compelled to press further.

About to ask some more generic questions like they themselves were on a cringeworthy blind date, Darcy's phone buzzed inside her purse. Wincing, she slid it out and checked the caller ID. She could laugh-she did laugh.

"Who is it?" Bucky leaned closer, and Darcy was momentarily caught up in the subtle citrus scent of his hair. "John Smith. Huh." He peeked through his long lashes at her. His mouth was curled in an evil sort of smile that unexpectedly thrilled Darcy "Answer it."

She scoffed. "And say what?"

"Speak your mind. Tell him off for being such an entitled jackass."

Darcy was no dangerous woman, but she found herself taking Bucky's advice and opened the call.

Bucky swigged his drink, triumphant.

"Hello?"

"Diane?"

"No, sorry," she said, fingers rattling, "this is Darcy. Can I help you?"

"Must have the wrong number . . ."

"Wait!" Darcy gasped. Bucky jerked beside her. "You're not John Smith are you?"

Smugly, John responded, "Why yes, I am."

"Oh, wow! You see, I was on a date with a John Smith tonight. It was the worst date I had ever been on," she said.

Bucky's cheeks were rounded as he laughed, quiet enough for it to not leak through the phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I was on a date with this Diane chick and it was probably as bad as your date."

Darcy drew a sharp breath and pulled the phone away from her ear.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"He said I was a bad date!" she complained.

Bucky tipped his drink towards her. "You did abandon him before the food got there," he countered.

Fair point. Darcy pressed the phone to her ear. Time for the big finale. "Oh, no, that was me. You were on a date with me."

Bucky gave her the thumbs up. She had to stop herself from giggling like a foolish schoolgirl.

"But your name's Darlene."

Oh my god. This guy was the worst. "My name is Darcy," she said slowly. "D-A-R-C-Y, and it wasn't Diane you were on a date with, it was me, you entitled, selfish, arrogant asshole. Thanks for giving me a wonderful story I can relay to all of my friends as the years pass. Here's to you, John Smith," Darcy called, raising her nearly-empty bottle. Bucky brought his in the air too; they clinked glasses. Everyone else in the bar was staring at them, but Darcy couldn't have cared less. "Go die friendless and alone now."

And with that, she hung up, another shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"Woo!" Bucky cried, laughing freely. He grabbed her arm. His hand was cool against her fiery skin. That twisting feeling filled her stomach. "Now that is empowerment! Another round, Sam, for this spitfire and myself."

Darcy smiled at him, realising she had never before, in her 22 years of life, felt so carefree and safe with anyone. A stupid feeling, perhaps, brought about by a six month dry spell and alcohol, but she couldn't have rid herself of it if she tried.

And she really, really didn't want to try.

She had never done this before. Talked the night away with a virtual stranger. Of course, as the evening spread into the late hours of the day, and the other customers in the bar trickled out, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes became less of a stranger and more like an old friend she hadn't seen in ages. Speaking to him felt like a catch-up session. She didn't feel strange telling him about any aspect of her life, and he seemed open and honest with her as well.

Eventually, they stopped drinking. Too much pausing when they had drinks in front of them.

She learned about his early life in Brooklyn. About his best friend Steve, whose decade-old murder was lying in a vault, unsolved. He told her the stories of his first love, second love, third love. She swallowed the strange sense of jealousy that crept upon her during those tales of romance and heartbreak. He talked about the excitement in his household when he got accepted to Berkeley in New York where he majored in criminal justice. And he spoke of his time at GW, and together they contemplated the many scenarios in which they could have spotted each other on campus.

In turn, she spoke of herself. Of her life growing up in the bad part of New Mexico with her hardworking father and absent mom. She gave him snippets of information about the horrible place that was her high school and the boys that started to give her attention the day she returned from summer break sophomore year. She explained the shock of receiving her acceptance to GW, the happiness in her father's eyes that, as the time for her to leave approached, became more of a sadness.

When last call was made at a quarter to midnight, Darcy dreaded walking outside of the bar. Away from the David Bowie song swimming through the speakers, away from Bucky Barnes, the man who would one day run the Police Department in his hometown, she was plain old Darcy who had been setup with the worst guy ever by her best friend.

She didn't want the night to end.

They were alone in the bar by this time. Bucky, elbow on the bar, chin against his palm, eyes ripping through her damned soul, blinked slowly in the low light.

"Come home with me," he said, the last notes of Space Oddity fading into the atmosphere.

Darcy, like so many things that night, had not been expecting him to say that.

Was he drunk?

Was she drunk?

She started saying the alphabet backwards in her head.

She wasn't drunk.

"Darcy." Bucky reached for her forearm again. With no icy drink to keep it cool, his hand was hot against her skin. It burned right through her.

He hadn't been staring at her chest the whole night. One glance here and there, but her cleavage was on full display by Jane's suggestion. She could hardly blame him.

And he was good. She could tell.

Darcy looked at him straight on. Her skin prickled. "Okay," she said. "Okay."