((This one gave me a headache, as filler chapters generally do. Not that this is truly filler...more like, some less interesting bits, that only feel as such because they're leading up to something I'm way excited to write, which are the last two chapters. And those always feel like they take forever. If you DO find yourself awash in filler, though, better it be filler involving werewolves and selkies! That is always the best kind of filler! Also I totally make a shameless jab at one of the lamest Marvel story-arcs for Cap, guilty .))

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Chapter 11

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"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

– 'The Bene Gesserit 'Litany Against Fear', Dune

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"I don't know if I can do this," Steve sucks in a long breath, standing by their rental car as Darcy smooths the front of his button-up. They're parked outside of a small cottage on the outskirts of Fenit, Ireland, and inside, Steve's honest-to-gods first cousin Rebecca is waiting to meet him. Darcy can understand why he's nervous, or at least, she thinks that she can.

"I know it'll be strange, seeing her so old..." He shakes his head though, looking down.

"That...that I can kind of deal with," He admits, eyes flickering to her face, "...I got up the guts to see Peggy, once, before...well, before she passed away," Darcy pauses in preening him, biting her lip as she listens, "It wasn't easy, but. It also wasn't as bad as I expected." He pushes out a breath, "No, this is. This is the last person I've got, 'sides Bucky, who knew me before. She's family, even," Steve winces, suddenly chuckling, "Call me an ass, but I'm kind of worried about being a huge disappointment."

"...You're kidding me," Darcy can't help herself, tossing her head as she laughs, before coughing, trying to stop herself for his sake. But no, she's made Cap grin too, and maybe he's a little red in the face as well. It twists something inside of her. Darcy gives his shirt a little tug, so that he bends down and she can kiss him properly, light and quick. "She'll be crazy about you, handsome. Now, go give that smokin' Irish dame a hug!" The smile now firmly on his face, Steve goes, and Darcy gives herself a little pat on the shoulder.

After a polite knock, the front door of the stone cottage is opened by a woman who looks to be in her late 50's, though Darcy knows she's actually closer to 70. It turns out that Rogers women age very well, and Chelsea Ryan beams wide as soon as she looks at Steve, opening her arms. "Jesus an' Mary, Alison wasn't lyin', you're as big a dish in person as ye are on the television, Steven!" And then Captain America is being yanked in to hug his cousin's widowed daughter, and Darcy grins like a Cheshire Cat.

Becca Ryan, formerly Rogers, turns out to be a willowy, wispy women, and still rather tall. Her hair is white and her skin lined, but when she sees Steve her blue eyes light up, brightening her whole face. Darcy's never seen someone this old who was this present and spry, the 90-year old lady standing right up and reaching out for him. "...You look so much like -my- Steven did," Becca sighs, taking his face in her worn hands, and Darcy can tell that her guy's getting a little choked up, looking at his cousin.

She glances away, giving them their private moment, her eyes falling to the mantle. Rebecca was a stunner in her day, and so were her kids. And yeah, Steve Ryan -had- looked a lot like his namesake, with darker hair. Captain America had definitely gotten the blonde from his mother's side; everyone in the pictures has dark brown or faintly ginger hair, judging by the newer, color photos. But much of his face, his eyes, those were all Rogers.

"Sorry it took me so long to come and visit," Steve manages to get out, and Becca just takes both of his hands in hers, bringing them up to her lips.

"Better late than never, my old pen-pal," Becca smiles, looking around him and spotting Darcy, "And you must be the young lady who called Michael." Darcy ducks her head, sudden-onset shyness kicking in.

"Yes, Darcy Lewis," She offers a hand, getting a surprisingly firm handshake when she does, "Um, Steve and I work together." And like that, a wry smirk breaks through the kindly, grandmotherly persona.

"Oh, so that's what you're calling it these days, aye?" Becca gives her cousin a nudge, "Chelsea saw you two through the window, I approve. Girl's got fine hips! Now, get over here and tell an old woman new stories about New York City, cousin."

Yes, Darcy decides that she loves this woman.

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It's all she can do, not to make every Harry Potter reference, when they slip into the Werewolf pub that night with Michael. Both because she's started to feel guilty about leaving Steve out with said references, and because she's pretty sure Michael would be the only werewolf present who'd appreciate the comparison. This place looks like a proper, sketchy bar, and though Steve's cousin had assured them that only a handful of his fellows would be there, the ones all right with talking to them, they still looked pretty menacing to Darcy. That is, until Michael says hullo, moving to a table in the center of the room, and then everyone's grinning and raucously returning the greeting. Except for one guy in a trench coat at the bar, Darcy distantly notes, but she's too distracted by all the beards and arm hair.

"Well Michael, boyo, ye weren't lyin'," The eldest of the three men at the table booms, clapping two big palms around Steve's hands, "Cap'n, good t'meet ye. And t'learn that yer blood is Irish!" He chuckles. All three men are large, really, looking like the dock-workers Darcy's seen plenty of around the coasts. There's that profusion of body hair going on as well, and she wonders if that comes with the curse, or if it's a personal choice. Michael is clean-shaven, anyway.

"Glad of that myself," Steve is saying, much more at ease with this kind of crowd, even if he knows they're wolves. He pulls out a chair for Darcy before sitting, which is when the table at large notices her. She gives a little wave.

"Sup."

"Tol' ye the agent with 'im weren't any kind of menacing," Michael grins, sitting on her other side, and earning a sharp jab to the ribs.

"Hey now. I'll have you know that I can terrify the god of thunder himself, with just a taser," She grins, "...And yes, I'm with SHIELD, Darcy Lewis. Hi."

"Are they all this pretty, at SHIELD?" A large ginger fellow, who kinda reminds Darcy of her new pal Volstagg, asks Steve with a wide grin, lifting his mug of ale, "Cause I'll sign up in heartbeat." Steve chuckles good-naturedly, but still slips an arm over her shoulders. Ahh, her old-fashioned hero, through and through.

"Yep, each and every one of us," Darcy winks. The trenchcoat werwolf at the bar rises, then, turning and tapping his cigar. Darcy's pretty sure Steve's with her, when she blinks a few times to make sure it's not their furry pal Wolverine. It isn't, but he sure is one hell of a dopple-ganger. And he still approaches their table, leaning on an elbow and looking directly at Darcy, ignoring everyone else.

"SHIELD," He notes, smirking, his accent all New Yorker, "Your people have been trying to get in touch with mine for months. Now you're in Tralee, of all places, when me an' the Missus are. I dearly hope I'm not bein' stalked, for your sake..."

"Oi, Bigby, so fulla yourself," The oldest of the werewolves chuckles, "The superhero an' his pretty lass are here t'see -us-."

"...Yes we are, but, you're Bigby Wolf?!" Darcy can't believe her good luck, as the gruff man winces, "The hell are you doing here?!"

"I WAS on vacation, thank you," He scrubs a hand over his face, "...Damn my paranoia, coulda walked out of here without you noticin', couldn't I?" Darcy smirks, nodding, and Bigby sighs again, "Right. I feel like a good and proper ass now. ...Well, me an' the wife an' pups are here for the big Halloween Party out in Fenit. Bug me there, if you still mean to." He pauses, "...Anyone who's really and truly going after allies in these corners, is maybe someone whose pulse I'd like to keep a finger on." And like that, the man leaves, chuckling Irish werewolves slapping their knees behind him.

"Oi, he's a grim 'un," The big, black-haired man at Michael's right laughs, outing himself as actually being from Northern England. "Yank wolves always are."

"He's not actually American though, originally," Darcy grins, and before Steve can ask the question that is obviously on his tongue, she answers him, "He's sheriff to a whole hidden community of supernatural beings, most all from Fairytales, in New York. Like he said, SHIELD has been trying to contact them for like, ages. He's uh, actually the Big Bad Wolf."

It's a fine testament to how far Steve has come, that his only response is, "...Huh. Neat."

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"I'm getting bored of this," Desire tilts it's head, as the lean, lithe figure leans back against a food cart in the Troll Market. Across the way is the dingy tavern wherein Darcy Lewis and Steve Rogers are treating with a clutch of werewolves. "It's moving too slowly. Why do living beings always feel this strange need, to move so slowly?"

"You know why," His hands in his pockets, looking no different from any youth leaning by his brother-or-sister, Dream shrugs, also watching the building thoughtfully, "You ask that question every age, and still the answer is unchanging, as is the nature of what we are. You are the start, Sibling. The rest of us...Delirium, Despair, and even Death...we are there for the rest of a joining, a shared journey."

"Yes yes, but none of it starts without me," Desire winks, "And I'm seriously antsy for a good and proper start, with or without your approval..."

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Despite warnings from just about everyone, Steve finds himself trekking into the wild corners of the countryside of County Kerry, over the next week. He's firmly at Darcy's side, as she hunts down the various, removed registered werewolves of Ireland. They like the area, apparently, as it's at the crossing of many magical forces, or so she tells him. Also, it's the boondocks, with plenty of hard labor to explain away thick arms and gruff personalities.

Yet despite her persistence, everything they were warned about regarding the more isolated wolves turns out to be true. At best, the men and women shrug their offers off, with a gruff "no thanks" and a kindly reminder of where the road out of the woods or away from the rocky shore lies. Other times, they're met with hovels barely fit for human habitation, and individuals gone near-feral. Darcy seems more thankful for Steve's old fashioned, protective instincts than ever at these times, because seriously. Tough as she is, a seven-foot, burly Irishman shouting in her face, barely keeping himself from turning furry, would make a saint grab for Steve's hand.

"I think he almost bit me," Steve tries to make light of their last, and perhaps worst encounter, when the werewolf in question had actually lunged for Darcy as soon as he'd scented fresh blood on his property. Cap had jumped in front of her, as hero or not, he'd hoped anyone who cared for someone would, and wrestled the wolf to the ground. Negotiations hadn't lasted much longer.

It helps, he's pleased to see, at least a little. As they sit on the rocky shore before the sea, Darcy gives him a shaky grin, reaching out and touching the rip in his sleeve. She's bundled up against the chill sea wind, but he's still a little over-heated from the fight. "Thank Vishnu he didn't get his teeth in, I don't think I'd ever hear the end of it, if Captain America became a werewolf on my watch," She sighs, "Seriously, picture trying to stuff all that fur into the suit. Nightmare, man."

Steve chuckles, and wraps an arm around her as they watch the spectacle happening across the way, on an outcropping of rocks in the gray sea. Darcy had murmured some spell from her book, to wards she said were lingering here. Now they were able to watch, without any complaints from the players, as the Selkies of Fenit shucked off their seal-skins and sunbathed on the rocks, in the cold. Steve finds himself far from uncomfortable with all the naked female flesh on display...somehow, after watching them go from seal to human, it's the artist's side of his brain that is far more aroused, and he's wishing he had his sketchbook with him.

"You tried," He says at length, and Darcy sighs yet again.

"Yeah, and failed," She grumbles, "I should have listened. Maybe I was feeling cocky, after all the success we'vr had. Like, 'Who the hell would say no to Cap and his fun-sized partner?'. Plenty of ornery werewolves, turns out."

"Hey, we've still got plenty of folk on board," Steve reminds her. "I don't think anyone expected it to go this well, in fact. You've convinced tricksters, demons, a vampire..."

"...You've got a point there," Darcy allows, smiling a little, and Steve feels a bit of triumph, "We -are- kind of awesome at recruiting, Cap."

"...Which is a little ironic, considering," He smirks. Out on the rocks, the Selkies croon. "...Let's go to Becca's. S'just about tea time." Darcy's smile widens.

"Goin' native, Cap," She murmurs, kissing him lightly when he pulls her up off the ground, "Looks good on you."

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"I see that you've consolidated rooms," Coulson notes, when he calls them later that evening on the SHIELD-issue cell-phone. Glancing toward the bathroom, where Darcy's belting out Kelly Clarkson songs, Steve smirks.

"It's not what you think," He says steadily, his voice barely betraying his amusement. In fact, Steve schools his tone toward military, professional and precise, "Battle fatigue doesn't spare civilians. We've found, after a late night talking, that we sleep sounder in close proximity. It seemed unnecessary for SHIELD to continue paying for two rooms." The silent beat on the phone is short, but palpable.

"Understood," Phil Coulson says at last, not even the faintest trace of disbelief in his voice. "Though, with your levels of clearance, if it -were- more than that, Captain, SHIELD doesn't have terribly strict policies on fraternization."

"...No?" Steve is genuinely surprised by that, and curious. He can almost hear the agent shrug.

"Perhaps at the lower, office-setting-levels, more fuss would be made, but in all honesty..." And that's when Steve can hear the slightest threads in the man's voice, of exhaustion, of those things that seep through and make the agent seem all the more human to Steve, "...At our level of in-the-know, Captain, there are very few options for personal relationships. Even if you two are simply up against PTSD together? You've picked an excellent person to befriend. Someone who will understand, the risks and the unreliability, of being who your are."

"...Yeah," Steve clears his throat, "Um, in that case, yeah. I mean, everything I've said is still true!" He hastens to add, because something about admitting to wanting, so very badly, someone who'd experienced what Darcy had, makes him feel vaguely like a dirty old man. She'd probably have something hilarious to say to that. "We're just. Seeing where it goes."

"Understood." Phil Coulson replies, "Either way, SHIELD appreciates the smaller bill," The man totally smiles, "Especially since you've decided to extend your stay 'til Halloween."

"...When among Witches and Werewolves, sir..."

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