This (much belated) fic is a Multifandom Gift Exchange gift for xsnarkasaurus. I'm sorry for posting it so late, and I hope you like it! I know you asked for something rather fluffy and silly, and I've picked a setting that seems just anything but. Still, as an author, I hope you'll trust me when I say that next part will be fluffy and warm, even if in that bittersweet way of WWII dancing parties and romantic relationships between soldiers and women working in the army. I also hope I didn't offend anyone with that vision - but there was a brighter, funnier part of mid-war culture, and I want to explore it in this fic.
Steve Rogers has already seen people yielding to commands, no matter if those led them to certain death or not. He has witnessed - and tasted, too - the way cold-blooded manipulation can turn one into a submissive shell with little will of their own. He knows the power of prayer, feeling the mighty words shove away all his doubts. He has seen what simple, encoded messages could do. But world's most powerful words are -
'I'm an assistant.'
He reflexively lifts the girl's hand to his mouth and kisses the air over her fingers, still lost in thought, even if already returning to this manor. The assistant - Clarice or Darcy, he has met too many of them today - flashes a bright, lipsticked smile, not quite appropriate for mid-wartime official introductions, and takes a step back. Steve forgets her the moment he focuses on her employer, a petite woman with a child's face adorned with thick glasses. Jane Foster.
Darcy watches, smile still lingering on her crimson lips.
Once someone has already acknowledged you as a mere assistant, you slip into shadows and do whatever you want.
The United States had Howard Stark; Bletchley Park had Dilly Knox.
This was the only possible explanation Steve could find for his immediate dislike of this place. Knox certainly lacked Stark's fashionable suits and a sense of subtle control, but he replaced it with an irritating manner of everyone's favorite uncle, mingled with superior's patronizing tone. Both men had minds sharp as razors and both regarded themselves above their friends and co-workers - even if for most of the time they hid their self-admiration and let it show only through seemingly unimportant gestures. They also shared a habit of surrounding themselves with young women, which Steve found mildly disgusting. Women were not to be treated like pretty decorations. It took him way too long to notice that he was treated like a decorative piece as well.
He roved through corridors of Bletchley, out of place and out of work. From behind half-closed doors he could pick up snippets of conversation, most of them peppered with scientific jargon. Sometimes it would be Dilly quoting some long-dead Roman - those were the only moments he expressed fondness for something else than himself - or Jane's calm, soothing voice, partially drowned out by computing machines' crackling. More often people would fall silent once they had heard his footsteps, and serious matters would give place to Dilly's girls' giggles.
It was Bucky who elucidated Bletchley's twisted, paranoid logic.
'They think you're a German spy,' he told Steve during lunchtime, giving him a conspiratorial look.
Rogers gasped, nearly choking on his soup.
'Me. A German spy,' he said flatly, in complete disbelief.
'We know you're not.' Barnes peered at him for a split second, as if assuring himself of it. Steve avoided his stare, hopelessly pretending to focus on stirring the unappetizing content of his bowl. 'They don't. They accuse every newcomer, and you're special, because you put everyone's distrust to sleep. I mean this part of Bletchley that doesn't want to -' He made a gesture that Steve already recognized as a more rude synonym for fondue.
The supersoldier sighed wearily, waiting for his friend's wry smile to fade.
'Assuming I was spying on them, I wouldn't even know where to start.'
'Do you really think they forgot Erskine? And his affiliation?'
Steve nearly jumped and looked around, checking on cafeteria's other guests, but Bucky only shook his head.
'You're as paranoid as those Brits,' he said.
'I'm protective,' Rogers corrected him under his breath.
They finished their lunch in silence tinted with insincere smugness on Bucky's side and uncomfortable restlessness on Steve's. Around them, Bletchley Park workers ordered food and chatted casually. Even here, far away from battlefields, war took its toll on them - their smiles never reached the eyes, darkened with some kind of fortitude, although drained of faith. Malnutrition was written over their hollowed cheeks. And still, they led normal lives, working, dreaming, loving. Steve felt completely out of place.
'See you later,' he said, leaving Barnes among empty plates and with an astonished look.
He headed to a Victorian house, currently occupied by American guests. Its wild, unkempt garden provided a kind of shield, even if only an illusory one. Suddenly, someone caught his hand.
'I know you're not a spy,' said a girl Steve didn't recognize, unsuccessfully trying to keep the wind from pushing her long, chestnut hair into her face. For a second, she squeezed his fingers. 'You're... too true for that kind of things.' She let go, turning and trotting before he could reply. Rogers caught himself staring at her silhouette until she took a turn into one of the alleys and disappeared. He could still feel her warm fingers with small corns on their tips around his hand.
Then it occurred to him that if someone was spying and eavesdropping, it was her.
If they didn't invite you by the door, use the window. Living by this credo has led Darcy Lewis from London suburbs through a bunch of mediocre schools to work for British intelligence. She had worked, charmed and lied her way through, not hesitating when her keen eye spotted an opportunity. Meeting Jane Foster was one of such opportunities. At first the two women - the
young teacher and the shy scholar - were just friends from the neighbourhood, but during grim days of war their friendship
became most important mutual support.
'I thought of joining the RAF,' Lewis confessed one evening. 'Or, you know, becoming a Wren.'
Jane shot her an alert, anxious look, which the younger girl deciphered many weeks later.
'You might get killed,' she said quietly, not allowing her feelings to become any more visible.
Darcy shrugged and pouted her lips in her usual manner.
'Soldiers get killed every day, and I want to help, too.'
'I might know someone who would like to hire you if you really want to help,' said Jane, a bit too quickly, covering Darcy's fingers with her hand.
Miss Lewis agreed, much to her own surprise. A few weeks later she found herself packing and leaving her beloved London for Bletchley Park. Soon, instead of teaching children, she was reading messages, listening to phone calls not meant for her ears and assisting Jane in codebreaking. Still, a part of herself remembered her previous life and how she always got what she wanted. This particular memory currently badly reminded her of the fact that now she wanted a supersoldier.