Two and a half years was a long time live apart from the world.
It was, by far, one of the hardest things Darcy had ever done- to leave everything she'd ever known and all the people she'd loved. All of her life, she had been a social butterfly who had thought the very best of everyone, no matter what. Even her time at Culvers had been nothing short of amazing, and the internship with Jane and ensuing adventures were experiences she would forever appreciate.
Even if it meant having 'died' because of them.
And now, to be around someone who knew of her, who had lived within the same circle of chaos, was to court a certain kind of heartache. Darcy would be forced to brave through her tumultuous thoughts, to converse openly about a time she both loved and hated. All of the good, the bad, and the very worst memories would be laid out on the table with no ice to hide behind. Steve would see her in a way no one else could.
And yet, Darcy still wasn't going to use this as a valid excuse to get him to leave; to keep him away.
Instead, against all sense, she was quietly preparing a simple meal inside the small kitchen as the peculiar man sat watching her with intelligent blue eyes.
Darcy had found early on that keeping her hands busy with menial tasks helped her to think with a focused clarity. She did so now, working over the rusty gas stove, running through the lists of things to be said. Scents of garlic and bacon lingered in the air, bringing with it faint memories of her childhood, watching her grandmother cook large and complicated meals for the Lewis brood.
She pushes away the stinging pang of sorrow at the thought of her family, though she knows her death would have been a minor blip on their radar. They were too great and fast paced to be bothered by the young girl who got caught up in the dangers of New York and all of the pandemonium. The rebellious woman, with a wild streak and a fast mouth, who thought she was safe amongst heroes and God's. No, they might have been saddened, but not surprised.
There is a pointed shifting inside of her heart, a longing that had been kept tucked away for all of these years. Darcy recognizes it for what is it. The desire for something that was no longer an option for her, not after leaving the game.
Friendship. Companionship. An attachment.
The gusts that whip at the old house is barley loud enough to cover her frustrated sigh as she reminds herself that it was ok to be forgotten. That this death was better than the other, more permanent kind. Safety was important. Living was important. That's why she had spent the last two and a half god-damned years keeping away from everything! And still, the heart that had been cold and hard, now ached with painful longing and would not let up, no matter her logical reasoning's.
Minutes ticked by as Darcy stood, unmoving and tense, in front of the pot of water, watching it slowly come to a boil. She knew Steve would be analyzing her in that calm and unreadable way he had, steady and meticulous and all the things she had hated. But it wasn't quite a stare, not uncomfortable in that sense. More like thoughtfulness. Pondering.
Still, regardless of the ever observant eyes, she forced herself to continue with the food, letting the monotonous preparations calm the inner turmoil she knew would be obvious. It was an extraordinarily easy dish, one that would serve as the buffer needed for such an emotionally demanding discussion.
Darcy's frustration is evident, marking her movements with jerky agitation, and it's made worse by the closing steps in the recipe. The time for talking was fast approaching, causing more mayhem within her mind, as negative thoughts buffeted her. Curse words are muttered under her breath, hopefully quiet enough to go unheard.
The large pot is awkward and heavy, but she still manages to hoist it to the sink to empty its contents into the strainer. And if her hands are shaking again, well, that's to be expected so she willfully ignores them.
Without a sound, Steve stands with practiced grace. Darcy tilts her face to watch him curiously, taking his movements as a distraction from her thoughts. He is a large man- that she's always known, but his presence in the small kitchen makes her heart stammer at the frankly intimidating mass of him. Both solid and fluid, like a well-oiled soldier, but there's a quiet honesty to him that somewhat quells her nerves.
Thoughtfully, and with no sense to hide it, she eyes him.
His face is softer now, in the warm glow of the overhead lights, though there are still shadows that sit inside his blue gaze, telling her of a wall that's been built there. She has one of her own, colder and with none of the softness, and Darcy finds herself unexpectedly envious. Softness and kindness and faith in people were things she could no longer claim, and hadn't thought that she'd ever want to again, but here they were. Among other, thought to be forgotten, sentiments.
Steve still has the manners of a man from his time as he sets the table slowly, moving carefully around her as she finishes with the food. Darcy knows she should be troubled about the domestic way they were working in her kitchen, with the sounds of a crackling fire drifting in, along with gentle hush of mountain winds passing outside the old windows, and yet she simply wasn't.
The process was quiet and warm, a comfort in the way neither spoke as the table was set and food served. She wonders what he had seen in her to make him stand and help, but too soon they were done and it was finally time to begin the hard part.
The questioning and conversing.
Her lips twitch at the sudden look of concern that crosses his face when he notices there is only one chair. It takes a moment to grab the spare, metal and folded, tucked away inside the pantry closet, and it gives her a second to try and steel her heart as much as one can. She tells herself it's to make sure he doesn't misconstrue the purpose of the evening, but she knows that's not quite honest.
Darcy promptly sits in the second chair before he could say otherwise, knowing full well he'd want to let her have the better one. Even this knowledge, as mundane as it was, made the situation a little more… real. She knew him in a way most normal people couldn't claim, and yet, she knew almost nothing about him. About who he was behind the mask, behind the history lessons and tabloids.
Who was he, if not a hero? Who is the man?
There's a knot inside her stomach that has little to do with her anxiety about the upcoming questions, because maybe…If she were being truthful with herself, just maybe she doesn't want to spoil this. Maybe Darcy, despite all reason, likes having him here.
But then where would that leave her life? Back in the hands of people who cared nothing for it, back in the game. Back in danger. There was a small pain building behind her eyes at the mental and emotional whip-lash, but before she could address it, he starts to speak.
"I had thought of a hundred reasons why I shouldn't come here tonight." His voice, though quiet and deep, is tinted with confusion. He is looking down at the still steaming pasta dish with a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there a moment ago. The table is small, their plates almost touching, and she thinks that maybe it would have been better to eat in the living room, to give them space. Before she could suggest it though, he shakes his head ruefully and looks up.
It takes a surprising amount of effort, but Darcy holds his gaze, asking him without words why he still chose to come. The solid thud of her heart is background noise to his expression and the way he speaks with such sincerity.
"I didn't want…" He starts only to stop abruptly, a large hand roughly scrubbing his weary eyes. It's one of his tells, a tick he does when he can't find words. "It's probably safer if I just leave, but I didn't want you to think I was…" He pauses again, searching.
"Still involved with everything?" Darcy supplies dryly as the fork in her hand twirls mindlessly in the forgotten food. Steve nods stiffly, an internal battle raging behind those sapphire eyes. She thinks it might be whether or not to let down that wall he's built, and the feeling of longing inside her is so strong right then that she's certain her life has just gotten a million times more complicated.
"I thought about it. Among other, unpleasant things. It's why I was, you know…," She waves her hand to the floor where he had once again found her, helping in a way no one else had. Guilt flashes across his face quickly, causing a sharp pang inside her heart, before the strong jaw clamps down, a muscle ticking steadily. He was mad at himself- that much was obvious. But for having unknowingly caused her attack?
The shift inside her was grounded suddenly, no longer precariously balanced between what she should do and what she wanted to do. A side had been picked.
"Thank you." Darcy whispers softly and with great effort. There are unsaid words there and she hopes that he recognizes it for what it was.
An offer. An understanding.
Two and a half years is a long time to be without any sort of companionship. And perhaps that's why Darcy decides then, that her surplus of fears and worries would be put aside for another day.
Because when Steve looks at her with those intensely blue eyes, she sees a hollow loneliness as well as a devastatingly raw hope. The decision had been made within her heart, and if there was one thing Darcy knew about herself, it was that when she made a decision, she stuck to it through hell fire.
It's a fragile thing, to hope for something that was never planned nor wanted. But here they were, two dead people, having found some sort of comradery in unlikely places. And it felt so… good. God, did it feel right.
For the first time in two and a half years, she smiles. It's not soft, not really, but it's full of all the things she couldn't quite say. It's a chance. A risk. And maybe it is reckless and stupid to welcome this sort of connection, but Darcy has always been wild; being dead doesn't stop that.
Her heart is thundering now, but this time it's with eager anticipation; pumping hard with a sort of electric optimism that she hadn't felt in so long. Like perhaps, after all of the cold and bitterness and ice, she still might be allowed to have this one thing. This one real connection.
"So, you're really not… still in the game?" The question is stuttered and weak, falling out of her mouth abruptly. It's the last remaining piece of her defense against the possibility of betrayal.
Steve replies without hesitation with a solid 'absolutely not', and she believes him. It could be, and probably will be, the worst thing she'd ever do, but Darcy knew herself enough to know that she wanted this. Desperately wanted the warmth and talking and the understanding.
All she can do is nod and she can see right then that the wall he'd built was crumbling. It wasn't all the way down, but it didn't need to be, not really. Darcy had her own walls, not as tall as they had been, but neither of them needed to be defenseless.
She can feel her lips lift slightly, as he lets out a heavy breath, sounding like a burden being let go. He runs a hand through his over-long hair and smiles back at her, small and uncertain.
"I hope you don't mind, Darcy." His face is soft again, a little light that couldn't be smothered by the darkness in his gaze. "But I am really hungry. I gotta eat whatever it is you made because, seriously, it smells like heaven."
It's comfortable after that, the tension being washed away with food and small talk. He asks about the food, how to make it, and tells her how he's yet to really learn how to cook. Darcy listens and explains and feels the void inside her chest begin to shrink as the minutes pass.
Cat weaves through their legs, casually letting her know he's accepted the strange man who's made her smile. The cold winds are but a whisper, as the house in which she's spent so long being alone, is filled with the sounds of life.
They move to the living room after all of the food is eaten, in large part thanks to Steve and his apparent appreciation of a home cooked meal. The fire is weak, logs having turned black with red and gold embers drifting up towards the outside.
Darcy adds more wood and takes a second to watch as the flames flicker back to life. It's a habit now, to force herself to not take her eyes off of the growing blaze, even as the panic and bile rises with it. She pushes it down easily, easier now with years of practice. She would not let fear take this from her, not after taking everything else.
If Steve notices her pause, he doesn't say anything, to which she is grateful. Tonight wasn't meant for such serious conversations.
Her couch isn't terribly large, but it fits them both comfortably as she lounges with Cat on her lap. Everything is so distant right then. The bookshop, Henry Jr, the world. Here it was just the three of them, talking about food and cooking and about how you can't quite find all of the ingredients so you make due.
"It's actually like how I grew up," He mentions after she explains how hard it was to find fresh fruit this far north. "There's way more kinds, now, but yea, being this far removed makes it harder."
Darcy nods, because he's right but more than about just food. She doesn't say this though, in fear of ruining the calm that they have somehow created. She also files away that bit about his past because it's new information about who the man was outside of the mask.
The conversation lulls after that, both of them quiet in thought until Cat uncurls himself, stretching dramatically. It's only then that Darcy realizes the time, surprised at the amount of hours that had passed.
He notices as well, and from the corner of her eyes, she sees him frown. With a small effort, she ignores the flutters that stir inside her stomach, instead focusing on the way he moves.
There isn't an easy joke on her lips, nor an expectant goodbye as he makes his way to the front door. She follows but only because she wasn't sure what else to do or what to say.
The large brown jacket, padded and insulated, is pulled onto his broad shoulders with a seeming reluctance, but she knows he's got to go. They both had lives to get back too.
Darcy can feel the terrifying truth of her longings of companionship. That it might not be more than this night. That their previous encounters were all there was going to be, and while that might have been what she had wanted before, it certainly wasn't now.
"I um… I'm going back to work tomorrow." Her voice is disturbingly meek and there's a noticeable uncertainty in it, but she powers through because she really doesn't want to end this thing. Not after feeling normal. Not after feeling safe and comfortable and not like the coldhearted woman she had to be with others. "If you're still in town, maybe… I've got some cook books. Or…" She shrugs then, unable to look up at him, instead focusing on his hand that's wrapped around the door handle.
There's a pause and she's sure that he can hear her thoughts, they were so loud, but then he speaks, just as uncertain and quiet.
"Yea, I've got a few days left on this job. I'd like that, to uh, to stop in."
She's not sure if she hides the relief as well as intended, nodding with a small tilt to her lips. The thundering of her heart is slowing down and when he finally does leave with a small 'see you tomorrow' before closing the door behind him, Darcy finds sleep is harder to find more so than normal.
It might have something to do with the shift in her world. That there is something to actually look forward to, rather than fear.
And she knows her life is being disrupted again, but this time…
This time it's with hope.