Remember when I said it was going to be just 2 chapters? I lied. :)
No, honestly, there were so many things I wanted to involve in the plot that I couldn't resist making the whole story a bit longer. Also, Darcy. I enjoy writing liberated!Darcy so much.
Anyway, enjoy. :)

There are some things that Steve isn't supposed to draw, regardless of the seeming ridicule of such order - but he's learned his lesson, cautiously avoiding anything that could give away any of the Army's plans. He prefers the abstract anyway, using strokes of pen or pencil where others would choose words. His characters float in a barely sketched background - so it's impossible to tell where he's been - and are mostly faceless. They have no eyes to squint accusingly at him for drawing them this way and no mouth to curl in smiles. It doesn't matter; he carries the images of important people in his mind, engraved in his memories and retouched by dreams.

In this case, though, he would like to know how to draw the face. Instead, the stranger keeps her long hair out of an oval shape, an empty space which should strike with meaning. On other sketches, she's already turning away, her coat flapping in the wind. On another one, she disappears not into an alley, but into a darkening hedge of symbols and numbers.

This one would probably denounce too much, so Steve decided to hide it.

Before the official working hours began, Darcy found a wicker basket full of paper sheets waiting for her on her desk. She estimated the number of sheets in her mind and stifled a groan.
'Can you get this done by tomorrow morning?' Jane asked in a quiet, serious voice all of a sudden.
Darcy nearly jumped, not expecting to see her friend - and supervisor now, too - so early in her office.
'That's a lot of work,' she remarked, placing her copy of Russell's "Principles of Mathematics" by the basket.
'I know. But it's important.' Foster removed her glasses and rubbed her nose in places where the frame left hollow red marks.
'As if anything in Bletchley wasn't.' Her assistant picked up the topmost sheet and examined it. It was printed in two columns, each containing eight block letters. 'Let's look for patterns.'

For a while, she was silent, biting the tip of her pencil in pensiveness and marking all the similarities her mind picked up. The clatter of machines in adjoining rooms suited this task, imposing a hypnotic, trance-like rhythm. As time passed, noticing reiterations became automatic, nearly thoughtless, as if they shone out in the paper. Then, hopefully, realization would strike and the code would break.

'It's not about the Germans, is it?' Darcy suddenly said, lifting her head and keeping her voice casual and low. She knew too well that in Bletchley, walls had ears. It led to developing an useful habit of concealing any signs of agitation or interest - anything that could signify importance - in conversation.
Jane didn't answer, persistently pretending to be scanning through her notebook.
'If it was a German code, you'd have given it to Dilly's girls. They're better than me, we both know it,' Lewis added with a hint of accusation. 'And if they break it, the news will spread fast.'
She rolled the pencil between her fingers.
'Aren't you going to answer me?' She asked angrily.

Even though she could see only Jane's profile, Darcy could tell her friend was fighting off a smile.
'They might have put you in the wrong division.'
'Thanks, but I'd rather hear the facts than a compliment,' the assistant retorted before considering her answer. She observed Jane's expression nervously, half expecting a reprimand.
'It is an American message,' Foster finally said. 'Addressed to our... guests.'
Darcy bit her lip.
'So you suspect them, too?' It sounded more aggressive than she had intended.
Jane shrugged. During past months Darcy had seen many different expressions on fellow decipherers' faces - some did their work with hatred-fueled fortitude, others with curiosity or a solemn look acquired by proper citizens sacrificing themselves to their communities. But Foster was approaching codebreaking matter-of-factly.
Just like now, when she said, 'A bit of vigilance hasn't harmed anyone yet, has it?'

Darcy shook her head and pulled another printed sheet.
'You're impossible,' she muttered. The few things she knew about her friend were just a tip of an iceberg, but she never doubted she wanted to look beneath the surface, right into cold water. The answer to this was obvious. 'And you want me to believe you're here to ponder upon rows of symbols with a little help from that good old Russell fellow? I call bullshit on this.'
Jane didn't manage to hold back a displeased "tsk" at the sound of such a rude word in her assistant's mouth. Lewis calmly counted to ten, waiting for the reproachful expression to smoothen and give place to another of Jane's discreet, shy smiles.
'That's confidential,' the scholar said, which in Darcy's ears sounded like "you'll find out later".

At some point - late in the evening, by the yellowish light of table lamps which always caused Darcy's eyes to sting - the code was broken. Jane sighed with relief while reading the message. Darcy was barely able to hide her discontent. Knowing the so-called guests will leave in one week was no good news for her.

She walked back to her apartment, crossing her arms to keep warm in the chilly wind. She remembered feeling like this as a child, when her mind refused to get ready for disappointment. Now her wishes had changed and they often involved men, but the sensation of something slipping right from her hands was the same. The greater her fascination, the worse.

In this case, the fascination had gotten out of control, to the accompaniment of Darcy's internal applause. She openly admitted, even if just to herself, her admiration for the supersoldier's beauty. He was beautiful in the most classical way, one she usually found boring, as any flawlessness, but in this case it only meant she had to be more careful to notice traces of past flaws in the legendary body. There was also his intriguing shyness and gentleness, unsuitable for someone who killed other people for a living, and unbelievable fortitude, already carving itself in little wrinkles on his face. A pretty man, a forbidden fruit - she had expected many things, but not such a complicated riddle. Laughter mingled with despair welled up slowly in her throat. She discovered she'd gladly just sit with him and talk, talk, talk, but one week might not be enough even for this.

The wind carried rustle of leaves - and much more distinct patter of someone's steps. Darcy stopped, out of habit reaching for a small gun she carried with her. No one was allowed to wander around Bletchley Park at this hour. Not even her, but she decided not to bother herself.
'Who's there?' She asked with all her confidence, pulling out the gun.
She doubted it would be useful in her hands. She'd never shot anyone, and definitely wasn't good at aiming at shadows among the trees. But at least she didn't feel defenseless.
'I said: who's there?' She repeated, now mostly irritated.
A few more steps.
'Wouldn't you put that down?'
Darcy stifled a gasp. She recognized that voice - and obeyed, quite gladly.
'It's you,' she said.

Steve stared, making sure that the semidarkness didn't deceive him. But it definitely was her, the eavesdropping stranger; even in these eerie shadows, with her hair tucked in a loose bun, she was so unmistakable he couldn't believe he didn't spot her earlier.
'It's you,' he repeated after her. 'The impudent spook.'
The girl laughed, muffling it by pressing one hand to her mouth.
'Before you ask,' she said, 'nobody hired me. I was looking for you.'
Rogers couldn't decide whether he should be curious, disappointed or alert. Gradually, disappointment won.
'And now you've met the legend, what next?' He asked flatly.
She hesitated.
'I'm not interested in legends,' she said, offering her hand.
Strangely enough, he clasped his hand with hers and followed her into the night.