It's always amazed Darcy how diverse New York City is. Growing up in the suburbs, her town had been homogenous – traditional middle class with nice front yards and late model American sedans in the driveway. Diversity was only available by driving at least twenty minutes, and even then, it was too extreme, too opposite and not enough mix. Red Hook isn't like that, as witnessed by the difference in her apartment and Steve Rogers.
Four blocks and a world apart.
Although she's exhausted when she lets herself in, Darcy can't resist the urge to explore Steve's home. He said apartment, but that's as deceptive as thinking Central Park is just a small green space. This is an honest-to-god loft, with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and crown molding that isn't lost under layers of paint.
She wanders slowly around the living room, taking in all the details. The furniture is heavy and masculine - arts and crafts tables and shelves mixed with oversize leather seating. Deep, heavy chairs and a couch easily eight feet long. There are no movie prints on the walls, no stacks of video games or sports equipment piled in the corner. This is the difference between temporary and permanent, and it's more than being a certain age or having money. Bruce has both, but the wreck he calls an apartment could qualify as a level one biohazard.
The living room gives way to a large, sleek kitchen, where modern appliances mix with dated pieces – a microwave next to a vintage refrigerator, a bag of Starbucks coffee in front of a stainless steel percolator. The pantry and refrigerator are full to capacity – fresh produce, milk and cheese, eggs, and an endless supply of shortbread and ginger snaps.
"Guess who has a sweet tooth?" Darcy singsongs. She can see him, stretched out on the gigantic couch, a book in one hand and a bag of shortbread in his lap. In between turns of the page, Steve would shove cookies into his mouth – whole - oblivious to the crumbs collecting on his shirt.
"Stop it!" Darcy digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, forcing away the image. She's romanticizing images of a man she hardly knows, just after digging herself out of a lopsided relationship that ran her straight into the ground. Maybe obsessing over unobtainable men is her lot in life – smart, capable men who do amazing things. Some women, they're attracted to power, but this is ridiculous. "God, I'm pathetic," she says. "I'm turning into a superhero groupie."
Digging her palms deeper into her eyes, Darcy presses hard enough to see stars. She doesn't need a man to define her; she never has. Bruce was a weakness, with his brilliant mind and absent-minded ways. She fell for him because she thought she could save him, but the reality is that he didn't want it. As for Steve, well, that's more confusing. Everything about the past week has been confusing, but he's been the one, perfect, annoyingly consistently constant. After ages of uncertainty, she's beginning to appreciate the power of confidence.
"You, Darcy, need a drink." She drops her hands, and turns slowly around the kitchen. A small wine rack sits on the counter next to the refrigerator. Six dusty bottles, neatly lined up for selection. While it's not a stiff shot, it will take the edge off enough to think slow down and actually think.
It takes a firm swipe with a paper towel to clear away the dust that's collected on bottles of French and Italian red wines. Who buys wine, and then doesn't drink them? A bottle may last for a week in her house, but it's usually open the minute the door closes behind her. But then again, Darcy lives in a closet of an apartment with mismatched furniture and a plastic novelty shower curtain.
It takes a bit of searching to find a corkscrew, which only reinforces Darcy's suspicion that wine is here as a courtesy, and not a regular consumable. Glasses are an easier find, although it does take a bit of climbing to reach the top shelf. A friend in college used to joke that she would marry the first man who asked, so long as he was over six feet tall and had a decent last name. In a place like this, Darcy could see where the height advantage would come in very nicely, but she'd always planned to keep her own name, thank you very much.
With wine in hand, Darcy resumes her exploration of what she's dubbed Steve's Very Grown Up SpaceTM. The alcohol is working its way through her body, working loose knots and tight muscles. She knows that she should slow down – it's been hours since lunch and, while her tolerance has always been good, it's nowhere near what it was in college.
Darcy can't stop thinking about college and all the things that led her to this point as she moves slowly down the hallway. A semester away and the promise of six college credits really did change everything. She'd been on the path to life in the corporate world, LSAT's and law school and maybe even business school, too. She'd had plans, all of which had been knocked off path as easily as a Norse God being hit by van. The study guides, the applications, had all gone up in a puff of smoke the minute that Coulson called. After the hint of adventure, she needed more – she needed to spread her wings and make a mark on the world. That wasn't going to happen in school.
The pictures in the hallway tell her that Steve's story isn't all that much different. Faded black and whites have been lovingly matted and framed: shots of men in uniform, their arms draped casually around shoulders as they smile for the camera. Scattered throughout are beautiful pencil drawings – a bell tower with a tall spire, a thicket of pine trees, a man with a head of thick dark hair and a broad chin with an arrogant twist to his smile.
What captures her attention, though, are the photos where Steve is smiling. It's a sweet, awed sort of expression, like he can't quite believe his luck. He's usually in the center, with the same five men clustered around him, but he's not the focus, just the keystone.
Darcy remembers what it's like to feel that way, back in the days when she believed in what she'd signed on to do. The excitement had been so vivid, and her desire to do good so strong. She stepped in, convinced that she was doing the right thing. For a while, she believed it, and then, once she was accepted into the inner circle, she knew it. Like Icarus, she flew high, basking in the warmth of inclusion, and, when she crashed back to earth, there were only memories of what the light felt like on her face.
She sits down, right there in the middle of the hallway, and pulls out her phone. It's new, a replacement provided by SHIELD, encrypted and untraceable. Her contacts haven't been loaded yet, but that's okay, this is the one number, other than her parents that is, which she knows by heart.
When the phone starts to ring, she taps the speaker button and sets the phone down on the hardwood floor. The sound echoes along the hallway, high-pitched and oddly metallic. In the lab, the synthetic materials that make up the floor and the walls soften the sounds. Here, in the middle of the real world, the manufactured and the organic couldn't be any more different.
Bruce picks up on the seventh ring, "Banner." He always answers the phone the same way, distracted and out of breath. There's the familiar low hum in the background, the whir of servers and high-powered generators. He's in the back of the lab, in what Erik calls the cave, no doubt hunkered down with his precious scientific discovery.
"Hey there," Darcy says. She forces her voice to level, hoping that the lack of usual fawning isn't noticeable. "This is your daily reminder to turn the coffee pot off, absent-minded professor."
He chuckles, and she imagines him rocking back and forth in his chair with stains on the front of his shirt and ink spots on his left sleeve. He never cares about these details, not when there are a million other things to be captured. "I'll have you know that I actually remembered. Consider me house broken."
"It only took a year, but hey, this is progress." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching how the liquid clings to the side before slowly sinking back down the bowl. "I got the all clear. No lasting damage."
"So you're released for duty?"
His ambivalence is a knife, twisting slowly in her chest. Some things never change - situation normal, all fucked up.
"No," she says, and takes a sip of her wine. It's warm as it slides down her throat, liquid courage to power her forward. "They want me to take a few days off, get rested up and all that." It's a bald-faced lie – she was all but ordered back into the lab, post haste. "I think they're worried about a lawsuit."
"But it's only Wednesday," Bruce says. "And we're making so much progress."
Progress. He and Erik are making progress. It has nothing to do with Darcy's presence or absence. Three months… even three weeks ago, she would have spliced those words, twisting them to mean something different. Now, well; now she's finally beginning to realize that it's never been about her. The affection showered on her the other day? It's legitimate, but it's not romantic. That's all it's ever been, affection. It just took enough distance to see it for what it is, and surprisingly, the realization doesn't hurt, at least not in the way she expects.
Last Friday, she'd been ready to spend an evening at home, eating chocolate and watching movies. She'd set herself free before this ever began; all that had been missing was the ability to see it.
"Sorry, boss," Darcy says. She's firm, but more importantly, she's confident in her decision. She's not going to run back into the lab, and she's not going to bow down to the pressure from SHIELD. Adventure, yeah, she'd still like that, but lies and deceit aren't a necessary component. "I'll call daily, though, and remind you to turn the coffee pot off."
"No reminders to eat?"
"You're a big boy. I think you can figure that out."
There's a series of pops and hissing as Bruce shifts the phone around. He's already drifting back into his work, the sound phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder betraying his defection.
"Go back to work," she says. "I'll check in with you later."
He doesn't say goodbye, but then again, he never has, and, for the first time, Darcy doesn't try for both of them. She hits the end button, and takes another sip of wine, a little bit sad, but otherwise okay. The end came a long time ago, this is simply the proverbial closure that will allow her to move on.
It's hard, she thinks, being an adult and looking at the big picture. Suddenly, exploring the apartment and freezing underwear feels like something that a different Darcy would do. She stays seated in the hallway, drinking her wine and staring at the photos until it's too dark to see anymore. Only then does she get up, using the wall to guide her back to the kitchen.
It's well past nine, and the rumbling in her stomach has grown to a steady roar. Darcy refills her wine glass, then turns her attention to the pantry, debating what she can manage to make without setting off the smoke alarm.
"Hello?" There's the clink of metal on wood, followed by the gentle click of the door. Hardwood creaks under the hard soles of Steve's shoes, a sort of prelude as he works his way through the apartment.
"Back here," Darcy calls. "I was just about to start making dinner."
It sounds so domestic - make dinner - more like burnt grilled cheese. Too bad there isn't any scotch or bourbon, she could have fun with the riff and have a drink waiting for the man after a long day, and then follow it with completely inedible food.
"Hi honey," she says as Steve enters the room, "How was your day?"
He drops a bag on the island, and heads for the refrigerator. "Long. Endless paperwork and boring meetings. How was yours?"
There's a protracted silence. Darcy's smiling so hard that her cheeks ache.
"We sound ridiculous," Steve says, shaking his head. His smile isn't as big, but it's there. She's noticed that, when he does smile, it never lasts for very long. He's not the brooding type, but on the flipside, exuberance isn't in abundance, either. Fortunately, she has enough of that to go around.
"Speak for yourself." Darcy hooks a finger in the edge of the large brown bag, tipping it toward her. "What did you bring me?"
"Hope you like pastrami," he says. "I know I we could order pizza, but sometimes-"
"You just get a jones," she says. "And I love pastrami. You have any spicy mustard in that icebox?"
Steve pulls open the door, disappearing inside the giant white box as jars clink against each other. "Spicy mustard, horseradish, you name it, it's probably here."
"The only thing I'll need after this is a toothbrush."
They spread their feast out on the counter, Steve unwrapping sandwiches as Darcy retrieves cutlery and paper towels. "I hope you don't mind, but I opened a bottle of wine. It was beer-thirty and I needed a drink, you know?"
"That's fine. Tasha likes red, so I keep a few here for when she drops by." Steve's head is bowed, his gaze fixed on something in his hand. His comment about Natasha Romanov is so completely off the cuff and relaxed, that Darcy somehow skips the need to fixate. She knows the Russian spy, and has great respect for her. Natasha was actually the one to tell her that not every relationship has to evolve into a romantic one. It wasn't advice Darcy chose to follow at the time.
"Listen, Darcy…" Steve's head is still bent, and he's refusing to make eye contact. "After we split off, I went back to the tower."
"Yeah, you said you were going to do that. Can you slide me the mustard, please?" She pulls her sandwich apart, removing the tomatoes and picking off the fatty pieces of pastrami. "I took care of some things, too. Nobody's going to unstick me if I don't try myself, so I called Bruce and told him I'm taking the rest of the week off."
Steve's head jerks up, and his eyes are wide. "And what did he say?"
"Nothing, really. He was in the lab, which means the rest of the world doesn't really sink in. Why?"
Something out of sight rustles – heavy plastic – but whatever it is, Steve won't set it on the counter. Something is eating at him – his cheeks are flushed, and he's doing whatever he can to avoid eye contact. "I did some things to try and help unstick you, too. It felt like the right thing, but now, well…I'm not sure." He's so visibly uncomfortable, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.
"What'd you do?"
"I called in a few favors. There's a spot on the clean energy project, that is, if you want it." Steve's all but mumbling now, and he refuses to look up. "All you have to do is say the word."
"And if I don't?"
His cheeks are completely crimson, and, even with the five o'clock shadow that darkens his jaw, Steve Rogers looks so incredibly young. Without the guard up, the high sheen of clothes and carriage that makes him seem so much more mature, he can't be much older than she is. But he's got it all together, all figured out, where all she has is a bunch of mismatched glasses in the cabinet over her sink – every single one of them with beer logos on them.
"Then you don't have to." He sighs, and when he finally looks up, she gets so much more than she was expecting - fear, weariness, hope, even a tiny bit of cynicism. Steve places a small bag on the counter, never breaking away. "I promised you one of these when we got out," he says, and there's that inflection from before, the elongation of the O. It's a small cellophane bag, stuffed full of suckers, the kind that bank tellers gave out when she was little.
Darcy nods, her sandwich completely forgotten. She's overwhelmed by the gestures, both big and small. There's no demands, no preening, just simple presentation – here's what I've done, it's your decision what you want to do with it. No one's ever done that for her before, which may be part of the reason she's been so hell bent on doing it herself.
If Steve had walked in here saying 'this is what you'll do,' she would have rebelled, her back up at the inference that he knew better. But he didn't do that, and it makes all the difference in the world.
"Best gift ever," she says softly.
"You were pretty passionate about your lollipops, but you were also pretty high," he says softly. "Wouldn't want you to think that all the blood draws and immunizations were for nothing."
"That's the great thing about these." She reaches across the island, gently grabbing the bag and sliding it toward her. "They're only sticky if you let them."
The reference is subtle, but Steve's smart enough to pick up on her meaning.
"I thought you'd be angry," he says. "I didn't realize until after how I might be making things worse."
Darcy stares at the bag for a long time, trying to remember what each flavor tastes like. The names bring back memories from a simpler time and place, when sitting in the backseat of her mom's car with a strawberry lollipop and the sun on her face was the greatest thing ever.
"Not worse," she says softly. "I just needed to be the one to make the first step."
"And now?"
She looks up. Steve's watching her, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
"With God as my witness, I'll never get stuck again." She peeks up at Steve, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "Too much?"
The smile that creeps across his face is dazzling, bright and full of optimism. "I saw that movie twice in the theater. You'd make a great Scarlett O'Hara."
O-O
"Why am I not tired? What is it, like one in the morning?"
"Almost," Steve says. "Try twelve forty-five."
They're in the living room – Darcy stretched out on the giant sofa like a cat, while Steve sits on the floor, his back pressed against the leather mere inches from her reach. Empty plates and discarded wrappers litter the table, along with the bottle of wine, which is three fourths of the way gone. The hours have flown by as they've talked about everything and nothing, meandering here and there as whimsy dictates. No one judges, and, therefore, there's nothing to hide - laughter, whispers, shouts of joy, they merge with smiles and the errant tear to create a landscape that is pure and innocent and completely theirs.
"What color is it now?" Darcy demands. The sucker is almost gone, the candy shrinking down to almost nothing. She rolls to her side, propping her head up as she sticks out her tongue for inspection.
"Blue. So are your teeth."
"Let's see yours."
He opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out to the side, eyes crossed.
"Oh that's lovely," she says, drawing out the words. "Makes you look so intelligent."
"Says the girl with the blue teeth."
"Red white and blue. I'm just doing my patriotic duty, Captain." Darcy bites down on the remnants of her sucker, scraping off the last of the hard candy with her back teeth. It will be stuck there for hours, pieces to savor long after the favor fades.
She leans forward, tossing the stem on to the table, In doing so, she leans a bit more to the left than necessary at just the same time that Steve turns around. They meet in the middle, so close that their noses touch, but not hard enough to collide. Steve's eyelashes are impossibly long and thick, and up close, the ring of blue at the diameter is so much darker than the actual iris - Indigo and cerulean with little flecks of steel gray.
He reaches up slowly, hand coming to rest at the base of her neck, warm and solid as he guides her closer. Their foreheads press together, and Steve's breath is sweet, reminding her of the grape scratch and sniff stickers she'd loved in third grade. That's what this is like – pure and full of innocent joy.
"I don't want to be presumptuous," Steve whispers, just barely loud enough to be heard. He's so close and so warm, and as much as Darcy wants him to move, to do something, there's magic in being so close and reveling at the thrill before the magic hits.
"You're not." He doesn't want to be presumptuous, but Darcy is torn between caution and bulldozing ahead.
"I've wanted to kiss you for such a long time." He's staring at her mouth, oblivious to the fact that she's watching at him, completely lost in wonder. This isn't something she's chased, but it fell into her lap all the same, with all the heady joy that previous relationships have lacked. "But I-"
Darcy's the one to break the spell, or maybe cast a new one. She catches his lower lip, which is soft and slightly sticky from the candy. It would be easy to attribute the action to autopilot, to say that her hormones kicked in or that it was a combination of alcohol and exhaustion, but that's a lazy answer to an easy question. As they lean closer together, moving in fractions because they don't know what the other will do, it's a perfect, awkward balance. There's no one in a position of power here, even though Darcy is above Steve, and his hand is on her neck. They're equals in everything.
But, when she hesitates long enough to catch a breath, Steve takes control, his tongue grazing her lip, and suddenly everything is on fire. Her hands have a life of their own, raking backward and forward through his hair, ruffling and smoothing, then ruffling again. Steve makes a noise, similar to a growl, that's lodged deep in his throat. He's not perfect here in the low light with creases in his shirt and his khakis, his hair shooting off at odd angles, but he's so right.
"Can you do that again?" Steve's voice is husky, but the uncertainty rings through. She understands that: needing someone so much that being rational is only a fleeting memory. Want has driven her for so long, but it's masked something deeper, the need for a connection with someone who actually wants to connect back.
She rakes her fingers through his hair again, scratching her nails lightly over his scalp. Steve's eyes flutter closed, and his cheeks are flushed and rosy. It's like she's seeing him now, not through the filters that are a byproduct of her own insecurities. He's just a guy, one with his own issues and hopes who wants to connect with the world.
The reality is so much more attractive than anything her imagination could have ever painted.
"Come here," she says, abandoning the hair abuse long enough to grab his shirt and haul him up on the couch. It's shallower than the cot in the cell, but there's no desire for distance here. "What is it about us and small spaces?"
"Nice, isn't it?" Steve nuzzles into her neck, his scruff burning her skin so that it tingles. "Had a hard time sleeping last night."
"You and me both," she admits. "You're good at keeping the nightmares away."
"I could say the same about you. Does that make us a matched set?"
Darcy smiles and Steve's arms wrap tighter around her. As much as she fights it, sleep wins, and she drifts off into a deep, interrupted slumber, where dreams don't haunt her, and everything will be okay.