"Put on something nice, Rogers, we're hitting the town!" Darcy cried as she pounded on Steve's closed hotel room door with her fist.

He opened the door, startled.

"Ma'am?" he asked. "I mean — Darcy?"

She was dressed in a tight bandage dress that left very little to the imagination. He reddened just looking at her. In fact, he could hardly look at her, as every inch of her seemed inappropriate, from her false lashes and thick eyeliner to her pedicured toes, and especially everything in between. She was even almost his height in her ridiculous, stiletto shoes.

"C'mon, Cap, it's about time we did something fun. Something off-curriculum." She smiled lasciviously at him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Darcy, it's past midnight." The worry — worry at what she wanted to "do" with or to him — colored his voice.

"Obvi," Darcy replied, pausing to twirl her hair. She glanced down at him; he was wearing khakis and another button-down shirt. He looked as though he had pressed his clothing while wearing it, it was so perfect. "I assume you weren't sleeping?" she asked dryly, indicating his clothing.

He reddened even more. "I was sketching."

"Let's feed that artistic creativity," Darcy insisted. "We're going out."

"I get the feeling that arguing with you is futile," he muttered.

"Think about it this way," Darcy offered, forcing her way into his room and plunking down on the bed. Already she walked with a limp. "If you don't go with me, I'll go alone and terrible things will happen to me. So really, you have to go and protect me." She grinned, baring all her white teeth.

Steve gave her a look.

"I don't think I have anything to wear," he admitted.

"That's fine," Darcy said, indicating his blue plaid shirt. "Just… c'mere."

He looked around as though the furniture was going to provide advice or warning, and then warily paced over.

"There," she said, unbuttoning two buttons so the collar didn't come up under his chin quite so much. "Club ready."

He still looked worried as they headed for the door.

"Really I'm doing you a favor," Darcy added. "This is part of a college experience."

"What now?" Steve yelled over the music. He could barely see her face to read her expression under the flashing lights, and the thumping bass coupled with the darkness was more like a warzone than the downtown DC he knew.

"Let's get a drink," Darcy called back. When Steve didn't respond, she mimed drinking. She yelled over to the bartender and reappeared with two glasses that smelled strongly of alcohol.

"No, I don't drink," Steve tried to yell.

"What?" Darcy cupped a hand to her ear.

"I don't drink," he repeated.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned into him so she could whisper-yell in his ear, "I suggest you don't talk, Captain! Just have a good time!"

"What is this music?" he tried to ask, but she was downing her drink and forcing the glass into his hand. He sighed — not that she could hear it — and took a sip, feeling wasteful. He knew he couldn't get drunk, and the last time he had tried…

"Let's dance!" Darcy called, grabbing at his wrists. He could tell now that the one drink wasn't her first, that she had probably already had a few when she knocked on his door.

And the taste of the alcohol reminded him of his last time at a bar, when another woman had reached out to him. It had been quieter then…

"I— I'd rather not," he called back, shaking his head. "I don't really dance."

"C'mon!" Darcy yelled, pulling harder on his wrists.

"No!" he cried, more sharply than he would have wanted. The idea of his first dance, the first dance he had promised to Peggy, going down in this strange, dark, loud room: it felt painful in a visceral way.

"Not like this," he added, but he wasn't sure if she could hear. She just registered the expression, the head-shake, the refusal. For a moment she just looked hurt, withdrawing as though burned.

Then her eyebrows twitched and she mouthed "fine."

"Are you going to drink that?" she yelled at him, pointing to the drink.

"I think you've had enough—"

But before he could stop her, she had downed the drink and tossed it aside on the bar. Unsteady, she wobbled off in her too-high heels.

"Where are you going?" He reached out after her, but the crowd and the lights and the pulsing of the bass were too much.

She whirled, stumbling in her shoes, her dress sliding up. It was tight, too tight to be comfortable, and too tight to stay put at she walked. She yanked it down angrily.

"I'm going to dance!" And with that she stamped off towards the dance floor, leaving a contrite Steve standing alone at the bar.

"Darcy!" he yelled, pushing through the crowd. "Excuse me, excuse me." People didn't listen as he politely asked to get through and he found himself trapped, claustrophobic in the wall of people gyrating to the low-tones of the bass.

And then he saw her, across the room. She was up against another man, his hands running down her thighs, tearing at the dress. The fabric skirted up, higher and higher as she danced, pressing into him. His lips swooped down her neck, down her shoulder, greedily tasting the flesh.

Before Steve knew it, he was next to them, watching her eyes close in that same cat-like look she had when she was eating the ice cream, the same curls bouncing off her perfect skin.

"Get off of her!" he yelled, ripping the man away.

"Steve — no!" Darcy stumbled; with the man gone, she had nothing to balance against.

"That is no way to treat a lady!" Steve was yelling, but the music was too loud for anyone to hear him and the flashing lights were confusing everyone. Darcy was dizzy, her heels too high, her stomach unsettled, the bitter after-taste of alcohol still burning her mouth. Without the steady motion of grinding, she felt unstable. The dip of the floor was more obvious. She stretched out her arms, searching for something, anything to grab onto.

Meanwhile, her dance partner had taken a hasty swing at the captain, either too drunk or too stupid to comprehend his size and strength. The punch was easily deflected; Steve was more worried about what he might do to this man than the other way around. He clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt — this man was not an enemy, he just had bad manners and had had too much to drink — and resisted the urge to strangle the stranger. Instead, he shoved him up against a wall.

"You need to learn some more respect," he heard himself growling into the man's face.

"Whoah, man," the guy said, wide-eyed. "We were just dancing. I didn't realize she was your girlfriend."

Steve didn't bother to correct the terrified drunk, but instead reached out for Darcy, who was wobbling quite obviously.

"We're going," he said, his voice a loud command.

"No, no, no. I'm having fun," Darcy said, speaking every word carefully, trying to avoid his steadying grip. She was so off-balance, though, that she fell towards him. Steve shot another look at the man and shrugged out of his jacket. He covered her in it, to hide the curves that her dress showed off so well.

"You've had too much to drink," Steve replied. She walked alongside him through the club, still unsteady. How many drinks had she had while he wasn't looking?

"You're angry," Darcy whined. "Why are you angry?"

They had made it to the club's door and Steve nodded to the bouncer there. He felt a camaraderie with this other gentleman in charge of order and justice. They both were there to protect people from the dangers of drinking. For once, Steve was glad that alcohol could no longer affect him.

Steve hailed a cab but Darcy refused to get in.

"Darcy," he began, his voice iron control. "You have to go home—"

"But not with you!" Darcy shrieked.

"It's my job to make sure that you get home safe," he continued, and without any warning picked her up and deposited her safely in the cab. He then closed the door, walked around, and got into the front seat where he ignored the curious glances of the driver.

The cab ride was silent, except for Darcy groaning in the back seat. Steve sat with his arms crossed, his shoulders almost too wide for the small seat.

When they arrived at the hotel, he almost had to carry her into the lobby.

"I cannot believe you, Captain America," Darcy whisper-screamed, annunciating each word carefully to keep the syllables from running together.

Steve smiled politely at an elderly couple checking in at the front desk, the expression somewhat strained.

"I just wanted to have some fun, do something fun for a change—"

"That was not fun, Miss Lewis," he snapped, losing his patience. "You have had too much to drink and I'm making sure you get back to your room alright."

They rode the elevator up. Darcy filled the silence by muttering, and by her expression and tone Steve gathered that she was mocking him.

"One of us has to be responsible," he muttered as the elevator doors opened on their floor.

"Well, this is me," she slurred, jerking a finger toward her door at the end of the hall.

"When I said I was getting you back alright, I meant all the way," Steve replied, his voice dangerous. Darcy gave him a look of pure hatred, her mouth falling open. She stomped down to the door.

"You are so terrible!" she cried, struggling with the key-card swipe of the door. After another aggravated groan, she got it to work and angrily threw it open. "Fine! Come into my room, lecture me!"

"If that's what it takes!" he replied, equally angry.

"You are not my father, Steve Rogers!" She stumbled in her shoes and angrily tore at them with her fingernails, ripping them off and throwing them violently across the room where they collided with the wall with a resounding thunk. "I can take care of myself! I'm an adult!"

"Well you sure as hell aren't acting like one!" he replied.

"We can't all be as old as shit!" she cried, stumbling in her too-tight skirt. "Take your fucking coat!" she yelled, throwing it at him. He caught it, red in the face.

"And y'know what, Steve, Steve," she continued, ripping at the zipper on her dress. "No matter how many fucking times you give me your coat I am not going to fuck you!"

Steve's face was tempestuous.

"You seem to be misinformed," he replied, his voice quiet. "Because I would only ever lie down with a lady."

He emphasized the word, his lips curling. Darcy struggled with the zipper on her dress, pulling at it. It was so tight, so uncomfortable, why had she worn this stupid dress? To impress him? All she remembered what him shaking his head and his beautiful lips saying, "no" over and over again. No. No. No. As she struggled with the stupid garment, she only felt herself growing more and more angry.

"A lady! A lady!" Darcy shrieked, breaking off into a wordless yell. She stumbled around, cursing her clothing. "This isn't the 1940s, you sexist jackass!"

"You are a child," he replied calmly, spitting out the words. "And a brat."

She ripped off her dress and threw it aside, her face twisting in anger.

"Is that what I am, Captain America?" she asked, her voice dangerous.

But something in his face had changed; his eyes drifted down, surprised to find that she was undressed.

"What?" she asked. She had meant it to be angry, but her voice failed her, and the challenge came out like a sob.

"I—I" He glanced down at her body, stuttering to himself. She was paler than he had expected, and the bared curves of her body seemed impossibly perfect. He felt like he used to, before the serum, when he had run and run and run until his lungs hadn't worked anymore. Asthma, the doctors had called it, but he knew that couldn't be what was making him breathless before a lingerie-clad Darcy. Part of him was embarrassed that he felt this way, that they were arguing and the mere sight of her, half-naked and staring longingly at him, could make him feel so strange.

"What?" she repeated, her expression softening. She even sounded close to tears.

"I'll see you in the morning," he replied, wrenching his eyes away from her body. He turned and left, closing the door behind him. It took him a few minutes to let go of the handle his hands were trembling so badly. He felt his knees grow weak, a strange feeling, because this new body was so strong. He closed his eyes as his knees folded beneath him and he slid down the door until he felt the ground under him.

Darcy Lewis. Impulsive, foolish, flirtatious Darcy Lewis was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Maybe if he had learned this earlier, they could have been together, and shared ice cream and cherry blossoms and he could have sketched her perfect form every day for the rest of forever. But after tonight, he just saw a scared child, one who drank too much and pressed herself up against strangers in the dark, flashy loudness of clubs. One who yelled curse words and threw her clothing into walls. It was a pity that she was completely wrong for him, because he realized just then that she was exactly what he needed.