A/N: Long time, no see. Sorry about that. Life and school forced this baby to the back of my priorities list, but here's the next update. Lots of backstory.

Enjoy!


My body tells me no

But I won't quit,

'Cause I want more

My Body | Young the Giant


Part Three | Wesley, Heal Thyself


"At the hometown hero's ticker tape parade! No confetti for the boys who stayed! Hometown hero's ticker tape parade! You win a war, you pick a wife, you get respect your whole damn life! You're a hometown hero, who gets a motherfuckin' ticker tape parade! Da, dat, da, da, dat, da, da, da, da, da!"

Darcy wailed at the top of her lungs the finishing lines of "Hometown Hero's Ticker Tape Parade" as she drove, trying to block any and all thoughts about where she was heading from entering her mind. Musicals did that for Darcy—they were a sort of escape from the world. With her show tunes playing, she was no longer Darcy Lewis. Instead she was Judas from Jesus Christ Superstar, lamenting how blind Christ's followers were becoming. She was Elphaba from Wicked, chanting that no good deed went unpunished.

More often than not, though, she was Rose Fenny from Dogfight, struggling with her self worth and falling for a marine who was shipping out in the morning. Darcy couldn't imagine Broadway (or even Off Broadway) hiring her for any role, but she imagined if she could get on any stage in New York, she would be up there as Rose with some handsome, boy-faced actor playing her Eddie Birdlace.

San Francisco loomed in the foreground as "First Date/Last Night" started playing. Grey and purple clouds were painted across the sky. It was always this way when Darcy visited. She had checked the weather before setting out and it had told a charming tale of sunshine and rainbows. She knew it had been too good to be true.

Dread filled her stomach the further she drove into the city. Familiar street lamps and restaurants taunted her in their welcome. Instinctively, Darcy turned up the volume and hummed along to Eddie's solo. Anything to distract her from her surroundings.

Soon, those familiar street lamps turned to familiar flower beds and mailboxes, and Darcy pulled up to her father's large house at the end of a clean road. She switched off the car. Rose's voice went silent. Darcy's ears rang. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come all the way to San Fransisco. Work needed her—she was the best cashier they had. She wanted to be there when Jane got home, too.

Nearly a year had passed since she last saw her dad. She had no idea what state she would find him in, and she wasn't so sure she wanted to get out of her car just to see nothing had changed since they last were face to face. The phone call on her birthday a couple of months ago told her nothing at all except his new chef quit, which did not take Darcy by surprise at all. He had the highest standards when it came to cuisine. Darcy was handed down that particular gene to the dismay of everyone who ever had the pleasure of dining out with her.

Darcy pulled out her phone and quickly found Loki under the Recent Calls tab. He answered on the second ring.

"You can do this," he said before she could start saying what a horrible idea it was to show up at her father's house unexpectedly. "Just take some deep breaths and think of happy things."

"Like what?"

Loki paused only for a split second. "Like James Buchanan Barnes! Kissing on you, loving on you, sexing you up. Think of those beautiful eyes. Those big hands. That big"—

"Okay, enough!" Darcy squealed. "I am more disgusted right in this very moment than I have ever been in my entire life."

"What? I was going to say big heart. That big heart-on he has for you."

Darcy laughed. "You watched The Bronze Statue after I left, didn't you?"

The Bronze Statue. Four years old, in which an Indiana Jones-esque character discovers a Greek statue in peak condition. Sounds boring, but then the statue comes alive.

AKA, it was the film where James Buchanan Barnes went full-frontal. Unsurprisingly, it was Loki's favourite JBB movie. Darcy was loathe to admit it, but it deserved all of the hype it received. James Buchanan Barnes somehow managed to make a lousy-sounding plot work incredibly well.

"You were gone, Jane isn't here. I couldn't help myself."

"You need a boyfriend," Darcy said. "Thanks, Loki. I feel better."

"I told you all you needed to do was think of James."

"You're so off the mark," Darcy insisted. "You're the one that always helps. I should probably go. I think I can hear Freddie barking and I don't want my dad to come at me with his shotgun again."

"Right. I remember that. Not a fun day for anyone, as I recall. I'll talk to you later, Darce. Sending love your way, from both me and James."

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Bye, Loki. Oh, and don't forget to clear out Tibbs' litter box!"

"Have I ever let you down before?"

Though he couldn't see her, Darcy could not stop her dramatic eye roll. "Several times. Se-ver-al."

Loki smacked his tongue. "Fine. I'll try my best to remember. Au revoir."

"You better not forget!"

Darcy ended the call and pressed the phone against her chest. She took in some deep breaths and, when she felt like she would pass out, opened her door and exited the car.

Upon nearing the house, she knew something was off almost instantly. Freddie continued barking, aware a stranger was outside of his home, but her father did not come rushing to the door with a gun in his hands. Darcy peered in through the window strips either side of the door. Everything was quiet inside of the house except for the yapping sheepdog.

This wasn't good. Her dad's car was in the driveway, which meant he was for sure at home. She had to get inside to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, she knew where he hid the spare key. She kept saying to him that someone would find it—it was far too obviously hidden in a fake rock collection surrounding some dying flowers—but he never moved it. With the key in hand, Darcy stuck it in the doorknob and entered the house. Freddie ran to her, snarling. Once he got a whiff of her, he transformed into the doting puppy dog she so adored to visit.

"Where's Daddy, huh, Fredster?" she asked him in a high-pitched voice. Darcy looked around the entryway. Her dad's palace of a home would be difficult to search without Freddie helping. "Where is he, bud?"

The dog took off, going in circles to make sure Darcy was still following. They clambered up the spiral staircase and came to the master bedroom. Freddie clawed the door. He whined, grey eyes on Darcy. She scratched his ears to soothe him, wishing someone were there to soothe her.

Darcy slowly opened the door. "Dad?" she called. No response.

The room was pitch black. Her father's blackout curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking any natural light from entering, but Darcy didn't need to see the room to know her dad was inside. The overpowering scent of alcohol gave that away. The vapours in the air managed to sting her eyes. She searched for a light switch on the wall. The magnificent chandelier above her father's bed lit up, revealing a room the size of her entire apartment.

And there he was. Sprawled on the satin bedsheets, an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"Dad!" Darcy cried, rushing over to him. He was shirtless. Vomit clung to his chin. The smell was horrid, but Darcy dove onto the bed anyway. She shook his body over and over. "Dad! Please wake up. Please."

Slowly, Wesley Lewis' eyes slid open. He was completely out of it, but he was alive. Darcy stopped shaking him. Tears dripped down her face and she gasped in relief.

"Darce?" he said, groggy. "What're you doin' here?"

Darcy didn't care that he was covered in sick and alcohol, she bent down and hugged her father. She held onto him for dear life.


Wesley Lewis was a drinker. Darcy remembered that about her childhood. With every meal, whether it was mac and cheese or sirloin steak, he had a drink in his hand. It was never much of a problem. He typically stuck to one drink a night. Before she was seventeen, she had never seen him drunk. Never tipsy or giggly or angry.

But then It happened.

(It. Not a terrifying, demonic clown attack, but rather a life-altering event that pushed Darcy's father to the liquor cabinet night after night, morning after morning.)

Everything changed after that. How could it not.

One drink a night became two. Then three. Then, before Darcy had time to catch her breath, her father was downing an entire bottle a night. What a thing for a high school senior to witness: the absolute destruction of the man meant to protect her and provide for her.

Her eighteenth birthday didn't provide much solace. There was no way she could abandon her dad to live out her dream of being an actress in Los Angeles. At the time, she wasn't so sure that was even the path she wanted to take anymore. Doubts swarmed her mind. Whenever she thought of auditioning for local theatres, her chest tightened and the world spun.

Instead of shipping herself down the river to LA, Darcy stuck around in San Fransisco. She became the bread winner when the money from her dad's trust fund started disappearing to maintain his drinking habit. Starbucks had never hired a better barista before she got there. When she wasn't working or checking on her dad to make sure he was alive, she was taking small acting classes at the local community college where her professors helped her to get over the anxiety she had been experiencing in relation to performing.

Two-and-a-half years after It happened, Darcy finally left San Francisco. There was nothing left for her in the city. Her father's drinking was out of hand, and he was sucking all of the joy out of Darcy's life. The joy she was already struggling to preserve. Hard though it was knowing she was essentially abandoning her fragile, vulnerable dad to wallow in his depression, she had tried so hard to fix things to no avail. It was time to leave. Time to realise he was not going to get better.

She visited every now and then, but the trips up were very few and far between. A girl could only take so much.

Darcy finished putting her father's sheets in the washing machine and came into the large kitchen. He was sat at the island in the centre of the white and gold room, a glass of warm water in front of him. Outside, it was raining. Darcy had opened the doors leading to the back garden. Splatters of rain skidded on the wooden floor.

Approaching her dad, Darcy scanned his face. Silver scruff ran across his jaw. His long, square face was sallow and sunken. The bags beneath his blue eyes were purple and looked like they weighed a tonne. She had never seen him in such a state.

"Don't look at me like that, Darce," he said groggily.

"Like what? Like I just caught you passed out in your own vomit? I'm allowed to look like this, Dad," she said, deepening her frown to further her point. She banged the marble island top. "Damn it! How many times have you woken up like that?"

Darcy's father attempted to scoff, but the noise turned into a coughing fit. He cleared his throat and scowled up at his daughter. "Hey, young lady, you're the one who left to start a new life. You can't come here out of the blue and be angry at me for not changing when you've been off trying to become famous. Life doesn't stand still when you're not in the room."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Darcy clenched her fist to stop herself from blurting out something that could set her dad off. "I'm your daughter," she said, surprised for the second time that week at how level she was able to keep her voice. "I am allowed to come in here and be angry at you. You're killing yourself. What if you don't wake up next time?"

"And what if I don't?"

He said it.

Darcy had been waiting for those words for almost six years, but hearing them knocked the wind out of her. She grabbed the edge of the island to keep herself upright.

From beneath the curtain of hair covering her eyes, Darcy stared at her father. Drunk, still swaying in his seat.

Enough.

"Then I'll be alone."

"What, like me?" he spat. Through the haze in his eyes, Darcy saw tears welling. "You're not here anymore, Darce. What's left after that?"

One of her professors taught her a very primitive technique to stop herself from crying too hard during an emotional scene. A tight, scratchy throat meant you couldn't deliver lines properly.

Standing in front of her bleary father, Darcy pinched the soft skin of her forearm. Her throat opened in response to the pain.

"I'm here, Dad," Darcy asserted. She kept her fingernails around that piece of skin. "I know you hate the expression just as much as I do, but the phone works both ways. If you wanted me here, you wouldn't hang up every time I try to call."

Darcy's father reached out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. Darcy's fingers slipped from her arm. "I want you here," he said, desperate. "You're my Baby Girl."

It wasn't an innovative nickname by any means, but her father hadn't called her Baby Girl in a long, long time. The small throwback to when life was easier and happier clipped Darcy's throat shut completely.

"I'm going to run you a shower," Darcy said when she managed to relax. "It'll be cold because of the washer. Is that okay?" Her father nodded his head slowly, nostrils flaring. Darcy put her palm against his rough cheek. "We can talk some more when you get out."

Leaving him to finish his water at the island, Darcy took in deep breaths as she headed towards the master bedroom. With the large windows open, the acrid scent had wafted out, replaced by the smell of rain. Darcy started the shower and pressed her head against the cool glass of the square-shaped stall.

The trip, Darcy had to admit, was going about as well as she could have hoped.


He had the shakes. Already, he had the shakes. He had been apart from his alcohol for less than two hours and it was too long.

She felt partially responsible for the way things turned out. After It, she was too consumed by her own grief—too stuck—that she allowed her father to slip into the whiskey bottle. He drowned in that stuff. But it wasn't too late to do something about it. She would try to fix things.

They sat in the lounge on the biggest leather sofa in the world. Darcy frowned when she saw it.

("It was too good of a deal to pass up," he said.

"Tell that to the cows that died to make this couch," she challenged.)

He got straight to the point. "So, why are you here?" His teeth chattered as he spoke. The chills had set in as well. Freddie licked at the sweat gathering on his arms.

Believe it or not, but Darcy had forgotten her reason for travelling all the way up to San Francisco. It was bound to happen. Bound to slip her mind when she thought, for five terrifying seconds, that her father had choked on his own vomit and died.

"I have news," she said. She was nervous. She had the shakes too.

"What kind of news?"

Darcy weighed the pros and cons in her mind. "Good news, I think."

"You think?" Her father, through the side effects of withdrawal, sounded concerned.

"It is good news," she said. "I'm just not sure how you'll take it."

He understood. It was written all over his slumped face. "Work-related news, then," he figured. "You've got a part?"

Wesley Lewis did not approve of her decision to pursue acting. He thought there was no future in the business for her, and she shouldn't waste her time going to auditions. He never outright said these things, but Darcy knew how strongly he felt about her career choices. The world deserved her. She was destined for greater things than a coffee shop.

She never listened to him. Never gave his disheartening looks a second thought. They fuelled her almost. She went to those auditions hoping to prove her dad wrong.

"Not a part," she said, "but my last audition went okay. I screwed up in the beginning big time, but they let me start over. The more I think about it, the more I want the job." Maria's talk had done wonders for her self-esteem.

Her dad nodded his head slowly, digesting her words. "What's the role?"

"There's a new miniseries in pre-production about the Vietnam War. I'd play a nurse. It's one episode, but I'd have lines and everything."

"Who else is in it?"

Ugh. Freaking James Buchanan Barnes had managed to slip her mind for the majority of this trip. And there he was, sneaking his smug little way back in.

Darcy winced. "James Buchanan Barnes. He's the lead."

"Who is he?"

For someone who had the biggest TV known to mankind, Darcy knew her father hadn't watched many movies in the years since It occurred. "You know," she said, trying not to gag, "he's in that film you really like. He's got a square jaw. A big forehead. His brow bones kind of jut out like an apes?"

"Mhm. What movie?"

"What's the only movie you've seen in the last six years?"

And it dawned on him. His eyes widened. "Porter's Civil War? That guy? He's amazing."

Wow. Even her alcoholic, entertainment-deprived father managed to appreciate James Buchanan Barnes.

"He's . . . okay," she said defensively. "But yeah, that guy."

"Take the part. The moment they offer it to you, take it," he said.

Darcy was taken aback. Shocked. Flabbergasted.

Never in her life did she think she would hear her dad encouraging her to take an acting role.

What a sad life.

"Because James Buchanan Barnes is going to be in it?" she asked. That had to be it. Why he was essentially giving her permission to throw away any chance of a proper career.

Her father turned his head to the side, contemplating what to say next. His eyebrows quivered. The shakes had stopped. "I can hear it in your voice," he said, his own voice cracking. Darcy knew where this headed. She wasn't ready for it. She hadn't come prepared. "You're excited about this. She—I know she, uh, she would have been excited too."

Tears rolled down her father's cheeks. They gathered beneath his chin and dripped onto the leather sofa. In the quiet house, with her father's quiet sobs, she could hear them as they splashed.

Was this it? The moment he decided it was time for a change? Odd timing, but she would take it. She would take it and run wild with it.

Please, God, she chanted in her mind. Please.

"Oh, Dad," she said, sounding as though her mouth were full of hair. She careened forward and gathered her father in her arms. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."


Wesley Lewis was asleep. As soon as he disappeared into his room—from which Darcy had cleared all of the remaining alcoholic beverages—she got to work on the rest of his house. The rest of his mansion. A maid kept everything neat and tidy, but she didn't know about all of the secret hiding spots. Darcy did. She had watched her dad create them years ago. As she poured the bottles down the drain, she kept thinking of that old saying: a leopard never changes its spots.

She crossed her fingers the saying only pertained to her dad's alcohol stashes.

When she was positive all of the alcohol was gone, she searched online for local AA groups. Finding one she liked that wasn't too far away, she located a sticky note and pen, and practically superglued the information on the fridge door.

Darcy retreated to her old room, where nothing had changed in the time since she left, once she was satisfied with her cleanup. Hers was the only carpeted room in the entire house. She insisted it have carpet when her parents were remodelling the home. She liked the softness beneath her feet. The fibres between her toes. Decorating every inch of wall space were movie posters, the biggest and most prominent being L.A. Confidential, the first film Darcy saw that had her so caught up in the mystery and plot she forgot to be a know-it-all and guess the ending.

In the centre of the room, up against the wall, was her adoring queen-sized bed. Two fluffy pillows awaited her head, and she gladly slumped on the mattress. Knowing she wasn't going to be able to get much sleep, Darcy pulled out her phone and dialled Loki's number.

"Darcy?"

Darcy sat up. "Jane! Oh my God, I've missed you. The apartment has been so . . . Loki without you in it to even things out. What are you doing home?"

"Funny you should say that, because Loki said things had been too 'Darcy' without me," Jane said with a laugh. Darcy had missed that laugh. She needed that laugh to get her through the day sometimes. "And we were supposed to get back two days ago, remember?"

"You and Thor always extend your trips. I was expecting you guys to stay longer," Darcy said. "Speaking of, where are the prodigal brothers."

"Oh, you know them. They immediately got into a drinking competition and are currently passed out on top of each other on the sofa. Sergeant Tibbs is not impressed."

In her head, Darcy could see the two brothers drunkenly cuddling each other as her cat debated whether or not to stab them both with his claws.

"Hey, speaking of drinking"—

—"Yeah, that was probably in bad taste," Jane cut in.

"No," said Darcy quickly. "Not in bad taste. Not at all."

"How is he?"

"Asleep. It was a rough evening, let me say that much."

"Tell me about it."

And Darcy did. She told Jane everything.

Darcy was wiping away some tears from beneath her glasses when Jane dutifully and cleanly changed the subject. "So, what's this I hear about you and James Buchanan Barnes?"

"Oh, Christ. What has Loki told you?"

"Nothing in particular," Jane said. Yeah, like Darcy believed that. "I want to hear it all from you."

"There is really nothing to say," Darcy maintained, though the mention of his name had woken her up a little. But she was sure that had everything to do with how angry he made her.

"Nothing? You ran into the guy two times three years after he tried to get you fired, are potentially starring alongside him in this new miniseries, and he's madly in love with you! Is that nothing?"

"Loki literally told you everything, didn't he? That guy cannot keep his mouth shut about this."

"Not when his best friend is destined to be with the greatest actor of our generation, he can't," Jane proposed. "This is exciting, Darce! What if he's right?"

"What if our pothead roommate is right about me and the asshole actor who, like you mentioned, tried to get me fired? You think he's right about me and that guy being perfect for each other?" Darcy could not keep the disdain out of her voice. She didn't want to.

"Our pothead roommate is the most romantic person on the planet. He has an intuition about this stuff. He set me and Thor up all that time ago, and look at us now."

"Yeah, you guys make me want to throw up every time I'm in the room with you. And from what I recall, Loki mistakenly gave you Thor's number when he was trying to set you up with his old college buddy," Darcy said.

"That is besides the point."

"That is exactly the point. It was an accident. Loki's not got some sixth sense about this shit. He's just so mesmerised by James Buchanan Barnes' face and dick that he can't think straight."

Jane giggled—like a child—on the other end. "You're just mad because you think there's a possibility he might be right."

Making a gagging noise, Darcy said, "Why would I think that?"

"Because, Darce. You're bitter and single and, let's be real, James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly hot."

"Says the girl dating the human embodiment of a god."

"Please, I'm allowed to find other men attractive. And you're not listening. Loki said he was nice to you the other night. Like, really nice to you."

"And then the next night he was horrible to me," Darcy interjected. "Did Loki tell you he almost killed me?"

Another giggle. "He told me he saved you from almost dying after you walked into him."

Ugh! This was a pointless endeavour she was pursuing. Jane had already made up her mind. She was to follow Loki into the deep.

Screw both of them.

"He walked into me," Darcy insisted. "I swear it on my life."


Come morning—the sun broke through the clouds at six o'clock, only three hours after she and Jane had ended their call—Darcy was ready to face her father about his problems. She cooked breakfast, a quick French toast recipe that required no knives, and they spoke as they ate.

Their conversation was strange. Darcy kept feeling as though things had not changed an ounce. As though she was still sixteen, or perhaps even younger. She saw her father's face as it was when she was a child. But then the lighting would shift inside the kitchen, and she would remember how different everything really was.

He agreed with the things she was saying, though. That was the important part. That was the part that lifted the thousand pound weight from her chest and made her feel like she could float away into the sky.

She hugged her dad and placed a kiss on his rough cheek. One trip would not change everything. She would visit more. Not just to check up on him (or so she said), but to further mend their severed ties. She would phone when she couldn't travel, or phone just because there was news.

Baby steps.

They were trying.

"Drive safe, Baby Girl," her father said as she climbed into her car. Freddie was off in the distance, running after some birds.

She looked at him through the open window. "I will, Dad," she promised. "I'll talk to you soon."

There were no declarations of love. Not yet. They weren't there—wouldn't be there for a little while longer. But he tapped the hood of her car and she drove away as Rose Fenny started to sing.

Seven hours later, Darcy trudged from the elevator to her apartment and opened the door. "I'm home!" she called tiredly.

Immediately, she was greeted by Sergeant Tibbs weaving around her legs. Jane, Thor, and Loki came to her soon after.

"News," Jane screeched, "I've got news!"

Darcy recoiled from the loud noise. The trio were standing in a line in front of her, all wearing giddy smiles. Unless James Buchanan Barnes had died in the night, they had no reason to be looking so damn happy.

"What is it?" she asked, closing the door with her foot. Jane stuck her hand out. Her left hand. Darcy dropped her bag. Sergeant Tibbs ran, tail bushy and sticking straight up. "Oh my GOD!" Her eyes didn't know what to focus on: the ginormous engagement ring on Jane's finger or the Hercules that gave it to her.

"It's why we extended our trip!" Jane squealed.

Darcy pulled her into a tight hug. "Why didn't you tell me over the phone?"

"I wanted to tell you in person," Jane said, ending the hug. She realigned herself with the brothers.

"You knew, didn't you?" Darcy accused, poking Loki in the chest. "You knew this was going to happen."

"He is my brother," Loki defended.

"Aye, Darcy," Thor said, "he is my brother. I asked him not to tell you."

Darcy pouted. "Why not?" The three of them shot her a Don't-You-Know look. "I can keep secrets!"

"I know you can," Loki said, "but this was a big one. We didn't want to risk it."

Darcy was about to open her mouth and complain some more—how could she be the only one left out of the loop; without her, there was no fucking loop!—when the ancient landline started ringing. Four heads turned to the black phone standing upright in its dock.

It rang. And rang. And rang. No one touched it.

After several rings, it clicked to the machine. "Hi, you've reached Loki, Jane, and/or Darcy. Either none of us are here right now, or we don't care to speak to you. Leave a message after the terribly annoying beep to find out which option it is!" BEEEEP.

Nice one, Loki, Darcy thought. She had forgotten he recorded that.

"Uh, Darcy, this is Erik Selvig from the production of All Dead, All Dead. We'd love to have you back for another audition. Call me when you can at"—

The message went on, but Darcy's ears were ringing. She didn't hear Erik Selvig leave his number. She only heard her heart as it pounded like one of those vibrating trucks used to find oil underground.

She got a callback.


A/N 2: Any other Dogfight fans in the audience? It's really one of my favourite musicals of all time (which is saying something). Shame it never made it to Broadway.