Notes: As a disclaimer, it will probably become obvious in this chapter that I could really care less about the background plot in this; it's mostly just about Darcy and Bucky with some random S.H.I.E.L.D.-y stuff thrown in the background. Hope you all like it anyway. Reviews are very appreciated. Many thanks to all readers and reviewers.
The pair of them make their way silently towards the building's entryway. Darcy follows Bucky as he dips in and out of shadows, trying to pretend she's as sneaky as he is. They get inside easily, because one of the (many) illicit things Bucky keeps on his person is a lock picking kit, and make their way through the spacious flat, planting cameras and microphones as they go.
They're almost done when Bucky pulls her into a bedroom closet, just a second before she hears the front door open. His hand is heavy over her mouth and she glares at him mercilessly (because she knows she has to be quiet) until she hears someone rattling around in the apartment and her blood runs cold.
Bucky's arms wrap around her waist, pressing them flush against each other, and she jerks and gasps in surprise. But then she feels his hands at the holster at the small of her back. Her response makes him roll his eyes and give her a withering look. She's glad they have to stay quiet; she doesn't even want to think about the shit he wants to give her for even suspecting that he was trying to come on to her in the middle of a mission.
He pulls out her pistol, turns off the safety, and presses it into her hand. He pulls out his own Glock, and a long, mean-looking knife out of sheath strapped to his leg. They both stand together, still and ready, barely breathing. Darcy tries to mirror the serious, dangerous look on Bucky's face as he stares out of the door's wooden slats.
Despite the tension, the situation comes to nothing. Whoever it was leaves quickly and they tuck their weapons away. Bucky finds a service stairway in the kitchen and pulls her down it, his (real, warm) hand closed tight around hers. He fights hard not to show her how nervous the idea of her in danger made him.
He doesn't let her go until they're back on the street, walking back to the car on sidewalks that have gotten rain-slicked while they were inside.
They're only a few paces down the sidewalk, only a few paces away from the car, when Bucky spots two dark-clad men coming towards them. Darcy barely has time to recognize them from their photographs in the S.H.I.E.L.D. briefing file she read on the plane, before Bucky's fist closes around her arm and pulls.
Bucky yanks her into the first open door he sees, into a discotheque that has mingling crowds and thumping music pouring out onto the sidewalk just feet away. For a moment, the world is a blur of colorful neon lights, deafening music, and the hot, humid press of bodies. Bucky pulls them through the herd, onto the dance floor. Darcy pushes away a rush of claustrophobia as the throng pushes in against them on all sides, but then, nestled in the crowd, Bucky's arms wrap around her. The solid, stable press of his body against hers is grounding and reassuring.
Bucky's hand is at the small of her back, pulling her against him and swiveling them until her back is to the door. His hips roll against hers in time with the languorous beat of the music, like he's been on the floor for hours like everyone around them, and she struggles to catch up with him.
"Hide your fucking face," he growls against her neck, and she turns into his chest, winding her arms around his shoulders, her hair falling across her face. He can feel her stiffen and tense in his arms. He'd feel bad for snapping at her if he weren't so damn keyed up himself.
Bucky scans the room and picks out the men following them immediately. He keeps one hand on Darcy's hip and one hand on his holster as he watches them survey the room. Darcy's moving against him, but tentatively, and he slides a hand up and under her the back of her shirt, not sure if the skin-to-skin contact will make her more nervous or less.
"They're not lookin' at us," he murmurs, close enough to her ear that she'll hear him over the music, "Just relax. You'll blend in better."
Her feels her take a deep breath, her chest pressing against his. Her arms, which had been lashed around his neck, hanging on for dear life, loosen. Her hips press into his and she looks up at him.
"Good girl," he tells her, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her back.
He watches as their pursuers turn to each other, shouting over the music, then turn for the door. Bucky knows he should get them out of there and back to the hotel, but Darcy's rocking her hips against his, her hands on his neck, her gaze dropped between their bodies. Even though she's lit up in pink and green neon, he can see a flush high on her cheeks.
Bucky knows what this is; he's seen it so many times, it's almost predictable. He knows it's easy to get caught up in the danger, the adrenaline and excitement. It's easy to project that onto your partner. What he doesn't expect is the shudder that goes through him when she licks her lips, or the semi in his pants that's growing with each brush of her hips.
"Lewis?" His voice already sounds too husky and strung out. His hand drops down to the curve of her hip and he curses his own weakness. "What're you doing?"
Her gaze shoots up to his and she puts a few inches between them. She looks at him with wide eyes, pupils fat and dark.
"Nothing. What? Nothing."
"Hm," he nods, then brings both hands to her hips, pushing his knee between her hers and pulling her towards him until their bodies are fitted together, his thigh pressed tight against the cleft between her legs. Through the din of the music, he can hear the little gasp and moan she gives as his hips roll into hers. Her hands move to grip his shoulders.
Bucky's jaw clenches. He should know better – should know better than to be rutting on a dance floor with a junior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But she's so damn beautiful, and earlier, in the car, she talked to him like a person, like a man, and it's been so long since anyone treated him like anything other than a machine.
And now she's looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and he can't think about what this is, what he's doing or where this is going. What is knows is this: that this (she) feels good (amazing), and like everything he needs right now. He knows he's damned, he knows that people like him don't get happy endings, so how can he be blamed, really, for taking one good thing that's offered him?
His head dips and he catches her mouth with his. She surges up against him, her hands flailing for a moment before she buries her fingers in his hair. His tongue slides against hers. He can still taste his vodka on her, and it sends a jolt of electricity down his spine. There's no mistaking that she wants him. And it's not exactly his style to leave a beautiful, het up dame wanting.
Bucky's eyes skirt around the room until he finds a back door, and he pulls her through the crowd towards it.
Darcy follows him out of the club and into a dark, rain-soaked back alley behind it because she's a goddamned idiot, that's why. She's not (normally) this easy, but this isn't easy, it's casual. Totally, totally casual. And she's an adult, dammit, and doesn't she get to have casual sex sometimes? And if the guy she's having casual sex with happens to be reasonably respectful and have cheekbones for days, well. But all of her rationalizing as they make their way through the crowd can't shut out the mini-Jane on her shoulder, railing at her to be responsible and not fuck the dangerous hit man in a dark, vacant alley.
But then he has her outside, pressed up against a brick wall, his erection a hard ridge against her hip. The scent of him, the heat coming from him, the feel of his mouth on hers, is heady and strong. He makes her feel dizzy and delirious.
"This is crazy," she gasps as he sucks at her collarbone, "S'crazy."
"You want me to stop?" he hums near her ear.
He reaches down, rucks up her skirt and curves his palm over her sex, covered by nylon and underwear, and gives her a challenging look, like he just wants to see what she'll do if he goes just this far.
Her hips jerk reflexively against his hand, her fingers fist in his hair. "No. Fuck no," she manages to rasp, because even the thought of him stopping sounds fucking awful.
He kisses her again – hard and fast and dirty – and drops to his knees. When his metal hand tears open her tights and shreds her panties, she feels her jaw drop. It was, frankly, the last thing she expected. The bionic arm pulls one of her legs over his shoulder and slides around her waist, holding her up like a mast.
Bucky's stubble-covered cheek leans against the inside of her thigh where the tights have been torn away, scratching against the delicate skin there as his fingers brush against her folds, first in gentle exploratory strokes, then more deliberately. She watches him with her mouth hanging open, and his blue eyes slide up to hers just as he presses two thick fingers inside her.
Her jaw clamps shut as she swallows a moan, because she's just wanton enough to let Bucky finger her in this alley, but not enough to let anyonehear them. Bucky's eyes slide shut and she hears him swear under his breath. She's not sure if it's in English or Russian. His head turns and he presses a warm, close-mouthed kiss to the seam between her thigh and body.
He leans forward then, eyes dark and hungry, and presses the hard flat of his tongue against her clit, his fingers curling inside her. Every muscle in her body pulls taut; her hands fist involuntarily and slam back against the brick wall behind her. Something clenches in Darcy's chest, making it impossible to speak or think or breathe. She's had this before, from boyfriends who treated it like a favor, but never from anyone with Bucky's fervor and commitment.
With the hard point of his tongue, Bucky spells out the alphabet, spells out a litany of things he'd like to do to her, spells out his full name on that tiny bundle of nerves, valiantly ignoring the fact that he's straining hard against the fly of his jeans. He feels her come apart under his mouth and hand, soaking his fingers as she flutters around him, her fingers clenched in his hair, holding him against her until she's spent (as if he would leave her).
When he stands again, smoothing her skirt down and wrapping his arms around her waist, she clutches at him wildly, her mouth hot on his. He knows his face is a mess, that she'll taste herself with every swipe of his tongue, but he's pleased to see she shows no traces of squeamishness.
Darcy reaches down to cup him though his jeans, and he almost bucks against her hand, but he pulls her away by the wrist. He wishes to God he could do this – let her give herself to him in this alley, no doubt against her better judgment – but he just can't.
So he grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back to the car. She comes willingly, still dazed and stumbling. Bucky tries not to think about the aches in his chest and between his legs.
On the drive back to the hotel, Darcy keeps her eyes straight ahead, on the road. Absorbing everything that's happened over the last couple of hours is more mind fuckery than she's used to dealing with, but she tries to focus on what she knows: that he wants her, that she wants him, that none of this is wrong, just unexpected. And maybe it isn't a bad thing to feel a little out of her depth; maybe this is what she needs.
In the hallway in front of their rooms, she pulls out her room key with shaky hands. As she shoves it in the lock, a plastic fob with her room number dangling from it, she notices that he isn't behind her anymore – he's unlocking the door to his own room.
"Hey," she says, quietly and a little indignantly. When he turns to her, she tilts her head towards her room suggestively. God, she wishes she was better at seduction.
Bucky smiles at her, a little ruefully.
"You got enough to regret in the morning, doll."
And then he's gone. When she hears his lock click, it sounds like being shut out.