When Darcy wakes a second time, it's to low voices arguing right over her bed.
"But if we assume standard conditions…" one voice suggests.
"You're forgetting about Boyle's law," the other interjects. "Calculating the original number of moles would be a question of –"
"Reverse engineering using Charles's law," they both chorus.
Darcy blinks and makes out two brown blurs sitting over her, leaning in over her body to talk more intimately. They both turn to look at her as she stirs.
"It's awake," she hears the first voice say, and her mind tiredly recognizes it as Tony. Logic says that the other blur must be Bruce.
"Ughh," she says in response, sounding very much like an "it." Her face still feels taught in certain places and she figures it must be so swollen and stitched up that she must look like an "it" as well.
"Cap made us promise to watch you," Tony tells her. "Fury's got him for a debriefing."
"It's unnecessary — considering we do have staff here…" Bruce mutters. "Also, she's completely stable."
"Rogers watched you while you were sleeping," Tony says with a knowing nod, ignoring Bruce's rationalizations. "I wonder what that means," he says, extra-loud, and Darcy can hear the wink even if her eyes are too blurry to see it clearly.
"Ugh," Darcy complains at the yelling.
"Did you never hear that story about Coulson?" Tony adds, turning to Bruce. When the other man shakes his head, he launches excitedly into the story, his voice at full volume. Even though Darcy's vision isn't back to 20/20 yet, she can clearly read Bruce's expression: he looks as though he is regretting all the decisions he has made in life that have brought him to this moment where he can't escape more of Tony's stories.
"Is there any chance I can leave here soon?" she asks, trying not to slur her words. Her face still feels weird, and talking is strange. She doesn't even know how long she has been there, but judging by the light it's evening and judging by her hunger, it's the same day.
"Yeah, any chance she can leave here soon?" a familiar voice asks.
"Jane!"
"Hey, Darcy," her boss says, patting her foot through the covers. It's an awkward gesture, but the two men are blocking her and Darcy isn't really feeling up to hugs — and Jane is never really good at showing affection through physical contact.
"You look… normal," Darcy says, her voice sounding like a strangled goose call. She doesn't mean to sound as jealous as she does, and at the obvious affect in her voice, Jane laughs.
"Well not all of us got into a fight with a window," she says kindly, covering her small smile with her hand.
"He started it," Darcy mutters.
"Anyway, Doc, can I take her home?"
"I don't see why not," Bruce replies. "Just make sure to keep her hydrated…"
Darcy zones out as the doctors begin their doctor-speak, vaguely aware that they look ridiculous as they spit out large words and gesticulate wildly with their hands. Even if Jane never officially got her MD, her genius and curiosity means she can throw around large medical terms. Even Tony looks impressed.
Darcy, however, is bored by the long words and lets herself drift back to sleep.
A few weeks later Darcy returns to SHIELD to have her stitches removed. It feels weird to be back, like nothing has changed but everything is different, like returning to high school a year after graduation. She considers putting in her iPod and listening to sad music, but thinks better of it and heads to the recovery room.
"How have you been?" Dr. Banner asks as he clips the stitches and carefully removes them. Darcy winces, more out of squeamishness than pain.
"Chilling at home," she replies when he finishes with that section of her face and moves back. "Fury gave me plenty of sick leave…"
"Catching up your favorite sitcoms?" Bruce asks, smiling a bit as he tugs at the sutures in her face.
"Mhmm," Darcy replies. "I also watch a lot of TV to drown out the noises of Jane and Thor going at it like rabbits."
Bruce pauses and says, "Ah," very quietly, and Darcy suddenly has to wonder if blushing will make the holes in her face bleed more. The idea makes her queasy.
"Did you see that special on the news?" he changes the subject, dabbing at her face. Evidently it is oozing. Darcy looks at the ceiling and tries to name all the US states and capitals in her mind.
"Well did you?" he presses gently, and she realizes he is trying to distract her with polite conversation.
"What special?" she asks, her voice uneven, trying to play along.
"Well, Director Fury had to give a cover story to the news about the missing agent…"
"Missing?" Darcy asks, flinching, and Bruce has to quickly move his hand away so he doesn't rip out her stitches.
"The double agent," he says calmly, steadying her face with a free hand. "The one that hacked Dr. Foster's computer?"
When Darcy doesn't reply, he continues: "Apparently he worked for Director Fury back in the day and was injured when his commanding officer made a bad call. So he founded ARROW and well… was able to use his old credentials."
"Oops," Darcy murmurs, wincing again at the strange pulling sensation across her face. "I bet that got someone fired."
"Well, all set," Bruce says cheerfully, sliding back.
"So what happened?" Darcy asks.
"How do you mean?"
"Did Fury murder him or something?" she asks, standing and inspecting her face in a mirror. It looks almost normal, although she can see some pink marks where her face was cut.
"Oh, those will fade," the doctor tells her, nodding to the lines on her face. "Minimal scarring, if any."
"Did he murder him?" Darcy presses.
Bruce laughs softly, and it sounds forced. "I'm sure he didn't."
Darcy has the strangest feeling that he's lying and he's not sure, and she stands there looking concerned. And wondering if one bad nickname is enough for her name to be next of Fury's list.
As she's leaving, she hears a voice calling her. The elevator doors close on a large hand; they sweep back like theater curtains to reveal Steve Rogers.
"Hey," he says shyly.
"Hello," she says pleasantly, blushing and wondering how stupid her face looks.
"You got the stitches out," he says with a broad smile.
"Yep," she says. He looks perfect, Darcy realizes. Completely healed from their brawl a few weeks prior. It makes her glad to know that such a piece of human artwork remains unmarred by the trials of war.
He stands next to her, hands clasped over his belt buckle like a good soldier.
"So—" they both say at the same time, and then break off, both giggling and blushing like middle schoolers.
"You first," Darcy mutters, laughing awkwardly.
"You look lovely," he replies courteously.
"Thanks," she replies, blushing again and staring at the ground.
"What were you going to say?" he asks politely.
"I'm not sure," Darcy admits. She smiles and looks shyly back up at him. "It was probably something about your ass," she adds dryly.
He laughs, a full laugh that makes her ribcage feel warm.
"Well, as always, I'm glad to be the butt of your jokes," he says. The pun is lame but Darcy smiles anyway.
They stand in silence for a while and Darcy tries not to think about his butt.
"Wow, Fury is really making me pay for that comment," she says wryly, looking at how slowly the numbers go ticking by.
"That may be my fault," Steve says bashfully, ruffling his hair a bit. "I told the techs that I wanted to ask you out, and made them promise they wouldn't open the doors until you said yes."
Darcy's heart flutters and she isn't sure what to say.
"So you're holding me hostage?" she is able to joke with fake hysteria.
"I suppose so," he admits with another wry smile.
She finds this is an acceptable excuse to punch him in the chest and he laughs again.
"This is unacceptable. What happens if I don't say anything? We're stuck here?"
"I suppose we could find a way to pass the time," he says wickedly, his eyes drifting down her body.
"Lord Jesus take the wheel," Darcy murmurs, eyes going wide.
"What?"
"It's a date. You know where I live," she says hurriedly. These are the magic words: the doors open on the lobby.
"How about dinner? Meet me at La Cucina on fifth," he says. "Tonight, eight o'clock?"
Darcy will be there. She will be there if the world ends, if there's a blizzard, is gigantic anteaters take over New York City — which, she considers wryly as she heads to the subway — would not be the strangest thing to happen that week.
Her palms are sweaty. How ridiculous. She always thought that was a thing that only happened in the movies. Then again, she remembers her date: Steve Rogers, Captain America, the Star-Spangled Man with an Ass Sculpted by Zeus. Any normal mortal would be nervous.
She checks her reflection in the kitschy Italian painting across from her booth, going through the checklist of her assets as though it is a pre-mission briefing. Her cleavage could murder a man. Her lipstick is blood red. Her hair is curled like a pin-up calendar. All in all, combat ready. She has to smile at her own hotness; she may not be a super-soldier, but she could still make a few hearts stop.
The bell on the front door tinkles and she sees him walk in, impossibly tall and perfect. He hair combed his hair for her, she can tell. He's wearing a skinny tie and a button-down shirt and she wonders how long he spent picking out clothes, whether he asked Tony or Bruce for help, if Thor made him do a shot of Asgardian mead for strength, if Natasha gave him a condom, if Hawkeye tried to slip him a copy of the kama sutra.
He looks concerned, his brows peaked, and he talks to the maître d' for a few moments. Eventually he is directed towards her booth, and when their eyes meet his face seems to relax, as though he's finally able to take a deep breath.
"Hi," he says, sliding into the booth. It's a u-shape, so she knows that if she moves a little bit to her left, their thighs will be touching. Instead, she swallows and slides a bit to her right.
"Hi," she replies after a moment, smiling. The expression feels a bit manic, as though her lips are too being pulled too wide. She just can't help it; Steve Rogers is sitting next to her at a candlelit booth, smiling bashfully at her through his eyelashes. She sends a silent prayer to all the gods she can think of, half thankful and half asking for the strength not to rip off his clothing.
"So…"she tries, but no words come to her.
They both fade into silence.
"Bunoasera and welcome," the waiter says, appearing at their table. He does a little bow that turns into a strange little jig. "Can I take your order?" He looks like a comic book character and has an Italian accent like someone doing a bad impression. The long mustache, twirled at the ends, completes the look. Both Steve and Darcy look at each other and try not to laugh. Darcy has to cover her mouth.
"Uh…" Steve pauses. He jabs a finger randomly at the menu.
"Ah, the carbonara? Excellent choice. And for the bella signora?"
Darcy giggles and tries to say, "Margherita pizza," with as much dignity as she can muster.
The waiter sweeps away and they both giggle, the tension dissolving.
"Is he for real?" Darcy asks between laughs, wiping at her eyes.
"I guess?" Steve laughs.
"Wow this place is amazing," Darcy sighs.
"Very authentic," Steve supplies, and they both dissolve into giggles again, Darcy reaching out to steady herself.
As her hand falls as his they fall into silence again.
"Water for the pretty lady?" the waiter appears and pours some into her glass before she has a chance to respond.
"Thanks," she says. When she looks up, she catches a look on the waiter's gaze; his eyes narrow.
"I think he has a crush on you," she whispers to Steve as the waiter sweeps away dramatically again.
"Are you getting jealous?" Steve asks.
"Obviously. I mean," Darcy says, deadpan, "I don't think I would stand a chance. My moustache isn't nearly as magnificent."
She pretends to twirl an imaginary mustache.
"Yours suits you," Steve replies with another smile.
"Best compliment I've received in a long while," Darcy says, unconsciously leaning in towards him. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
"You have nice… eyelashes," Steve blurts out.
Darcy laughs a bit awkwardly, unsure of how to respond.
"Sorry," he mutters, staring down at his place setting. "I… I like sketching you and I just have always noticed that…"
He trails off and gives her an apologetic smile.
"You've sketched me?" she asked.
"I mean — not like —" he stutters.
She laughs and he tries to escape from the conversation by taking a drink of water.
"Well, let me know if you need to any studies," she says. "I've modeled for some art students before back in college — when I really needed the extra bucks."
"How was that?" Steve asks, bringing the cup to his lips. He seems excited that they have a found a topic they can safely discuss: art.
"Cold," she says bluntly. "Since they were anatomy studies — and they wanted me to be nude."
Steve chokes on his water.
"More water signor?" the waiter reappears and pours water into Steve's glass; as Steve hasn't had a chance to put it back on the table and is still holding it halfway to his lips, some of the water slops onto his shirt. The waiter sweeps away without another comment and Steve stares at him looking absolutely baffled by what has just happened.
"Here," Darcy says, patting at the wet mark on his white shirt with her napkin. She wonders if this is a sign from any of the religious figures she has prayed to.
He smiles back at her and thanks her sheepishly.
"Costume malfunction," she jokes. "Should I send you back to wardrobe?"
"Part of the job," he replies genially. "Nothing I can't handle."
"You mean you have a wardrobe for your press tours?" she asks.
"Where do you think I got this?" he asks.
She stares. "You asked your publicist to dress you for this?"
He reddens and admits, "I didn't know what to wear."
She smiles again.
"And did this publicist do your hair and makeup?" Darcy asks archly.
"Not tonight," he replies, patting his hair.
"You usually wear makeup?!" Darcy screeches.
The food appears and as Darcy enthusiastically eats her pizza, Steve launches into a story about his latest press tour between bites of pasta.
"And so I've decided that the average baby spits up approximately once every three minutes," he concludes.
"Of course," she smiles. Imagining him holding a baby makes her want to cry hysterically into her napkin. It's worse than a puppy in a cup or those photos of bunny rabbits kissing noses.
"So," he asks conversationally, "how is your work at SHIELD?"
"Hm?" she asks, taking another bite of pizza.
"I just… I wanted to hear how things are with you?"
They're like magic words, and Darcy is struck dumb. It's been so long since someone asked her like this — like Steve, who looks so sincere as he looks at her, his blue eyes locked on hers patiently. He is expecting an answer, an honest answer. Not just the normal "okay" or the small talk explanation of her work that she has prepared for meeting with aunts or talking to hairdressers.
And she tells him, and he really listens.
"Thursdays are my least favorite day," she explains. "Because after my usually coffee run I have to finish the post-bi-weekly meeting recap forms and Jane always forgets…"
When the waiter stops by to silently slide the bill onto their table, Darcy reaches for it. It's a stupid move, and Steve easily beats her to it.
"Can I…?" she asks getting out her wallet.
He looks at her with mock anger.
"Could I possibly convince you that people always go Dutch in the twenty-first century?" she tries.
"Not a chance in hell," he says, removing bills from his wallet and putting them with the check. "I'm a fucking gentleman, remember?"
"Keep up that language, mister, and I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap."
"I'd like to see you try," he replies, raising an eyebrow impishly.
She wonders if this is an invitation to kiss him. Her eyes find his lips at the very thought. To make matters worse, her heart begins pounding so loudly like it's trying to escape from her chest and she hopes that his super-solider powers don't include super-hearing. In her peripheral vision she sees the waiter swoop by to take the money, and wonders if the moment is gone. But a little voice in her head says carpe diem, and she knows that since she looked at those lips she'll never be able to look away until she feels them against her own.
"I'm so glad you asked me," she murmurs, leaning in and closing her eyes.
"I'm so glad you asked me," he corrects her, laughing quietly as he leans in as well.
"No I didn't," Darcy giggles, smacking his chest half-heartedly with a hand. "Own your gentlemanliness," she commands. "It was really sweet of you to make the first move.
He pulls back.
"But I didn't," he says, brows together in confusion. "You stopped by the gym—"
"No," she replies, eyes wide. "You asked me in the elevator."
"You told me this is where your grandfather used to take you."
"You told me that you blackmailed the tech guys."
"What?" he chokes out.
"What are you talking about?"
They stare at each other.
"Where is that waiter?" Steve mutters. "I still haven't gotten my change."
They look towards the door and catch a glimpse of the waiter, leaving.
"Hey!" Steve calls.
The mustachioed chap turns to give them a wink, a mustache twirl — and as the door closes, Darcy sees a flash of green light.
"Was that—" Steve asks, paling.
Darcy's jaw falls open.
"Yep," she squeaks out.
They both stare in shock.
"Well," Darcy begins a bit lamely, "I guess as tricks go that wasn't terrible."
Steve is still staring.
"You gonna be okay?" Darcy asks, seeing that he is pale white.
When he doesn't say anything, she asks again, "Steve? What's wrong?"
"I thought it was you," he says, still staring at the door.
"So technically you agreed to go on date with Loki?" Darcy asks. "Well, you got me instead. Hope you aren't too disappointed." Her joking tone falls flat.
"I said yes," he repeats hollowly. "And then I was so glad that I —"
His voice breaks and he turns to stare at Darcy with wide eyes.
"Oh no," she says. "Not you too."
"Darcy, I've made out with a trickster god," Steve says, horrified.
"There's a worse issue here," Darcy says.
"What could be worse?" Steve asks, burying his face in his hands.
"You still haven't kissed me yet," she replies, grinning at him.
He looks up at her through his fingers, the agony fading from his face.
"Is that something you'd like to remedy anytime soon?" she asks bluntly when he makes no move to do so.
"I could do that," he replies, sitting up.
"I'll be the judge of that," Darcy says, raising an eyebrow.
"Are you sure?" he replies, cradling her face in his hands. "I have to warn you, I am sort of a superhero."
"Shut up and kiss me, Captain America."
"Yes ma'am," he replies, and leans in to comply.
