Sunlight filters in through the long windows in the living room, warming Darcy's face. She's tucked firmly between the back of the couch and Steve's chest, with a soft fleece blanket draped over their entwined bodies. It holds in the warmth, creating a cozy little nest.

She never wants to leave.

Unfortunately, a full bladder dictates other things.

"Steve." She says his name softly as she presses against his chest, trying to rouse him out of sleep. He's dead to the world, head is tipped forward so that his hair sweeps across his forehead in a messy fall of gold. A few strands stick to his forehead, dark from sweat. He's so deep in that he doesn't move, his lips parted as he breathes deeply, in and out.

He's not an unknown entity now, but he's still ridiculously intimidating with his polish and perfection, but also incredibly endearing in his earnestness. It's a fascinating dichotomy, the mashup of take charge, man in command and adorable nerd who's too awed to talk to the girl, making his admission about how badly he wanted to kiss her last night all that much more powerful.

Darcy stares at his mouth, remembering it all – the combination of innocence and pure desire that had only grown with contact. Her skin is still raw, tingling in the best sort of way. It's been a long time since she's woken up with someone, and even longer since she didn't actually regret it.

God, to kiss him again, to touch him, to recapture the high that created a magical little bubble around them. There were no problems, no issues to be solved, no bogeymen lurking around the corner. She was just Darcy, not a special agent, and he was just Steve, and the hand warm and firm against her back was just a hand, not a weapon.

"Steve," she says again, a little bit louder. Her bladder is not as warm and fuzzy as the rest of her body, and the demands of relief are bordering on flat out mutiny. "Steve, I need to go to the bathroom."

That big, strong hand, which had held her close last night is on her hip now, and it moves slowly, fingers gently digging into her skin to squeeze a gentle hello.

"Just lean to the side, I'll crawl over you," she says, head angled down to spare him a painful relay of morning breath. "I really need to go to the bathroom."

"Come right back," he mumbles, eyes still shut.

"Keep my spot warm."

She clambers over him, trying not to think inappropriately sexual things with one foot on the floor, one leg hooked around Steve for balance. Never has the idea of climbing someone like a tree been so compelling.

Simmer down now, she thinks. Bathroom. Leak. Pilfer toothpaste. Then resume inner horn dog.

Steve doesn't move - his shoulders rise and fall, and it's so easy, so comforting, so normal. There's no bullshitting, no playing dumb on what she does or doesn't know, just Darcy Lewis with her own idiosyncrasies and needs.

It's been a long time coming, but it feels damn good.

The bathroom, bright and sparkling white in the light of day, is way too cold. Darcy takes care of her body's needs, then scrubs her hands and face. There's only one toothbrush, so she spreads some Crest (would it be too much for Steve to have some old-ass obsolete brand of toothpaste?) over her index finger, scouring away the fuzzy tongue syndrome that comes from drinking too much wine. Her cheeks are flushed, and there are red patches across her neck and chest where Steve's scruff roughed up her skin. It's sensitive to the touch, but her touch isn't enough. It's a pale image of what the man in the other room can do.

"What am I doing?" Darcy says softly. She sinks to the cold tile, her back pressed up against the wall for support. She's spent months chasing someone who didn't want her, and is just now digging herself out of that one-sided train wreck. Sinking right into another relationship is probably the worst thing she could do, but at the same time, she can't imagine not being here.

What's that lovely old adage? It finds you when you're least looking for it?

It.

There's no way. She hardly knows Steve; hell, she hardly knows herself. Her life is a mess, and getting into a relationship may be the stupidest, most unreasonable thing she could do. But then Darcy touches the tender skin on her chest, and she remembers the conversation in the kitchen last night, along with the honesty of their conversations. This isn't about controlling or manipulating, and it's not lopsided. No one has more power here.

They are equals.

It's been ages since Darcy has been anyone's equal. Not here in New York, not in New Mexico, hell, not since elementary school. She's always been the sidekick, the runner up. That's why this is all so comforting. It's not that she's rushing in too fast – if anything, she's going too slow.

She scrambles up off the floor, ignoring the mirror as she flies back down the hall to the living room. Steve's shifted, moving over to her side of the couch, one arm extended lazily across the cushions, hand dangling off the edge. His eyes are closed, but he smiles as she approaches.

"I thought you ran away," he says. His words slur together, sleep and the simplicity of the moment removing all inhibitions.

Darcy stretches out on the couch next to him, her arm slipping around his waist so that she can pull them tight together.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says.

O-O

The first chill of fall has settled in, and they walk the few short blocks to Darcy's apartment hand in hand, shoulders pressed together.

"You're sure?" she asks, yet again. "Five days is a lot of time to spend with someone you don't really know."

"For normal people," Steve says. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, and people glance at him as they pass, no doubt wondering who he is. It's hard not to stare, and yet they have no clue, they're just drawn to a guy who's impossible not to look at. "We've already made it five days together with no problem and the one night break in between was lousy for sleep."

"That's true." Darcy sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying in vain to hide the smile. God, he makes her feel so good with those goofy little comments. The warmth blooms up from inside her chest, radiating all the way to the tips of her fingers. She wants to turn and kiss him, right there in the middle of the street, but this is still too private. Putting it on public display doesn't feel right, at least not yet.

"Besides," Steve says, gently hip-checking her, "we're safer together."

"That's a relative term."

They turn the corner, Darcy's head pressed against Steve's shoulder, hands still entwined. A familiar form sits on her apartment steps, his dark hair streaked with strands of gray.

"Bruce-" Darcy automatically pulls away. Her hands fly to her front, smoothing imagined wrinkles and hiding away imagined layers of guilt. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't stand, his dark eyes darting between Darcy and Steve. Bruce is the king of bottling up his emotions, and this isn't any different - he's mellow, almost laconic. No, excitement is saved for the things he holds dear – the big discoveries, the girl who got away. She's only experienced his guard dropping once, and the memory of how that ended is carved deep in her soul.

"I got a phone call this morning," he says, voice soft. "Apparently you have a new job. I thought we should talk about it, maybe understand why, but seeing is believing, right?"

Bruce addresses Steve, not Darcy, his eyes narrow. Steve moves faster than Darcy can speak, stepping in front of her to block any onslaught.

"It's okay," she says softly, placing a hand on his arm. "Can you give us a few minutes?"

Steve turns sharply, and there's that little furrow between his eyebrows again. He reminds her so much of a puppy when he's confused or disturbed, everything right there on the surface to read. Darcy drops her hand to his back, rubbing gently.

"Plans aren't changing," she says softly. "Just give me a little bit."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go home. I'll call you when I'm done."

Steve glances back at Bruce, who's not left his perch on the steps. They're both coiled, ready to act. The former's motivations are understandable and endearing; the latter, well, that's a mystery.

"Call when you're ready," he says. He doesn't touch her, just turns on his heel and walks back up the street.

There's an awkward silence that extends with each of Steve's steps. It's not until he's around the corner that she can even turn to look at Bruce. He's the lion to Steve's puppy, unpredictable and deadly, but she still refuses to believe that he would ever unleash that intentionally.

Then again, she's never really experienced him at the edge of rage, either. At least, not until now.

"I deserve better than this," he says.

"So did I, Bruce. Let's not waste time comparing who's compiled the bigger pile of wrongs, okay?"

He sighs and stares at his hands. There's a deep scar at the base of his right index finger, which he rubs absently with his thumb. How many times has she watched him get lost, with nothing but the repetitive motion of his thumb over that scar to ground him?

"Why are you leaving me?"

Darcy sits down on the steps next to him, achingly conscious of her rumpled clothes. Somehow, this makes any collegiate walk of shame look like an afternoon in the park.

"Why do you think it's about you?"

He snorts and shakes his head, pausing long enough to push hard on his knuckle. It cracks, and then he resumes rubbing his scar, unable to look her in the eye.

"You know," Darcy says, weighing her words carefully. "I planned on telling you myself. I didn't realize things would move so fast."

It was the truth. Steve had just laid out the offer last night, and he'd texted her acceptance to Ms. Potts after they finished their sandwiches. Somewhere in the last twelve hours, the proverbial ball started rolling, bowling over everyone in its way as it picked up steam.

"You still haven't answered the question."

"I did. It's an opportunity to do something. I don't want to be a lab assistant all my life, you know."

"You don't want to be my assistant, you mean."

"God, Bruce, will you stop?"

She's louder than intended, drawing the attention of a woman passing by. Darcy takes a deep breath, grappling with the right words.

"Look, we both know that this is the right thing, especially after everything that's happened."

"And you think that by not working with me, you'll be safe?" Bruce looks up the street. Steve's long gone, but his presence lingers on. "You think that he'll be able to keep you safe? You hardly know him."

"I know him a lot better than you think."

"I doubt that, very much."

Of all the things she's put up with over the past months, it's this cheap shot, the insistence that Bruce knows better, that finally digs deep enough to force her to break. Fucking her and running, thinking that she could act as a cheap surrogate for the woman he still loves, locking her out when all she did was try, she suffered all those slights. Maybe it was because she didn't know who she was, or what she wanted, but this was too much.

"What do you want me to say, Bruce?"

"That you won't go." He can't look at her when she asks, and that's more of a tell than if he had.

"No, you don't want to lose," she counters. "It's not about me, it's about you. It always is. I'm sorry that I couldn't be enough. I'm sorry that Betty is with someone else. Most of all, I'm sorry I'm not going to see you every day, but I need to take care of me."

She stands, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

"You have a special place in my heart, and I'd like to think that you'll always be my friend, but-"

"You've moved on with someone else," he says.

"No, that wasn't what I was going to say. It's time to do what's good for me."

She squeezes his shoulder, then leaves him sitting on the steps. It's hard turning away; in fact, instinct is screaming at her to go back, to keep him from flaring up or losing control. That's been her job for so long that she's lost sight of the bigger things. She can't save the world if she doesn't save herself, and taking these little steps are the moving her in that direction.

"Goodbye, Bruce," she says softly, and unlocks the door to her building. She waits for a beat, waiting for an acknowledgement or a return of some sort. When it doesn't come, she lets the door fall closed behind her, closing out a chapter, and hoping what lies ahead is worth the loss.

Equals, she reminds herself. No sidekicks, no not being good enough. This isn't about having someone to fill the spot that Bruce is vacating, it's about demanding more, and deserving better.

I'm figuring out who I am, she thinks, and begins climbing the stairs.