Darcy emerged from her room the next morning at a time closer to lunch than breakfast. Limmond was standing at his post in the hallway and gave her a look full of judgment. She wondered what Captain America had said about her. She wondered what Captain America had thought about her.
She was ready to return with a glare of her own, but Limmond turned towards the lobby entrance.
"Good morning, Captain," he said, and Darcy followed his gaze. Captain America was walking through the lobby, back from an early morning run. The morning was unseasonably warm, and he had his shirt draped around his neck like a towel. Despite her anger, Darcy could not help but stare at his bare chest.
He gave her a wary look, as though reading her lascivious thoughts, and removed the shirt from his neck to put it on. He was still breathing heavily from the run, and the shirt clung to his damp skin.
In response, he nodded at Limmond.
"Are we still on schedule?" he asked, walking down towards the elevators. Limmond walked with him, easily matching his stride. Darcy rolled her eyes to hide how small this made her feel, but ultimately relented and trotted after them.
"Hey, Captain!" she called, as he pressed the elevator button.
"Ma'am?" he asked, turning back to her. His face looked like it had been chiseled out of stone. It was cold, his blue eyes dimmed. It was like she was a stranger to him again.
"I—uhm…" Now that she had his attention, she had no idea what to say.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened.
"I expect to see you at the briefing," was all he said as he got into the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone.
They did see each other at the briefing; Darcy made a point of sitting across from him. He did not look at her once. His steady disappointment, a feeling that seemed to radiate from him, made her feel like she should apologize for her behavior. So perhaps she had screamed at him. But she had been provoked. A small part of her mind stubbornly repeated that it was his fault, he was the one who turned her down, who had been so stubborn and high and mighty.
As she stared at him throughout the briefing, at his imposing form, his perfect, statuesque face staring blindly ahead, she realized that he had been right. She was acting like a child, like a teenager not knowing her limit and being irresponsible. After so many weeks of living at SHIELD, she had overcompensated. And the worst part was that she wasn't surprised. As always, Darcy Lewis had fucked things up again.
The more Darcy thought about it, though, the more she realized that he was the one being childish with his silent treatment. She ran into him in the hallway the next morning on her way down to breakfast and he squared his shoulders, crossing his arms. When the elevator came, she stepped in and waited for him, but he didn't move.
"Going down?" she asked.
He huffed to himself.
"Well, are you coming?" she asked. He still had the same scowl etched into his face, causing a crinkle between his brows. He seemed to be debating with himself.
"Fine," Darcy muttered, releasing the door-open button. At that exact moment, the pro-Darcy part of his mind won and he stuck a hand between the closing doors.
He stepped into the opposite half of the elevator, too close to the far wall in an attempt to separate himself from her. She glanced at him, a sideways look, then crossed her arms under her chest. It turned her face quizzical, like she had tasted something sour. Her cheeks grew warm, remembering the way he had stared at her, half naked and yet totally enraged.
They were silent, watching the floors count down to the lobby.
"Just so you know, I don't usually—"
"I know," Steve interrupted. For once, he looked at her, and she just stared. His eyes were an amazing blue color, a clear crystal color that she thought only existed on postcards for the Caribbean. She had forgotten. Was it strange that it made her sad that she had forgotten?
After another moment they both turned back to the elevator walls.
She colored, thinking what he thought of her.
"And I wasn't going to— with him—"
"Of course," Steve replied. He clasped his hands in front of him, staring off into the distance, as though the elevator wall disappeared into a horizon. He was doing that thing, that thing all the SHIELD agents did. He was treating her like a piece of furniture, a prop on the set.
"Of course," she snapped back at him. The elevator doors parted and he placed a hand on the open door. When he didn't move to leave, she snorted.
"Ladies first?" she asked, her voice mocking.
He stared at her, his eyes icy, but said nothing.
The people outside were confused, trying to get into the elevator. Their standoff was becoming a public issue.
But Darcy, stubborn as always, moved her hands to her hips and glared right back.
After a moment he turned his eyes to the floor and stepped through the doors.
"Huh, I suppose you don't think I'm a lady anyway," Darcy muttered, loud enough for him to hear. But Steve pretended not to hear and walked to the breakfast buffet in silence. Darcy was left in the lobby, twisting her hairband and replaying her words over in her head. Somehow they sounded much stupider then.
Steve had a relatively easy time accepting civil rights, what with Limmond being black and all. But Darcy did catch him giving Limmond a weird look, as though wondering about his personal history. She had always assumed that the topic had been covered before: she couldn't imagine anyone disrespecting Nick Fury.
"So what is the correct terminology?" she heard him ask Limmond, standing like a soldier, feet shoulder's width apart and hands clasping wrists.
"African American," Limmond responded. He took this lesson very seriously, she realized; not once did she catch him ogling the captain. "No hyphen."
"Alright," Captain said, mentally processing the information, nodding as though trying to secure the new term in his memory. Darcy had to fight a smile, imagining how Nick Fury would respond to a racial malapropism from the captain. Then she remembered that she was angry with Steve — or, rather, he was angry with her, or maybe even they were angry with themselves — and the smile was gone.
"Dr. King wasn't the only civil rights leader," Limmond continued, "but he paid with his life for his beliefs. He inspired millions of Americans — not to mention others fighting for racial justice around the world."
Steve was glancing up at the statue, still scowling. The expression had become permanent, Darcy assumed, and a small part of her mind triumphed at the idea that she had put it there.
She was standing by the plaque, pretending to read it, when movement in her peripheral vision alerted her that she wasn't alone. He was coming over, walking over from the other side of the monument. She wondered what had triggered his forgiveness, or what had convinced him to finally acknowledge her. She considered how she should respond; should she remain aloof, force an apology from him as she deserved? Or should she be rude, make him squirm, make every moment uncomfortable for him?
She imagined in her head how it would play out. She would leap into his arms and wrap her legs around him, to get closer to him, as close as possible, as close as their clothes would permit, and maybe even she could help him shed some of those layers. Or, instead, perhaps he would take her by the waist and swing her in a romantic dip like the solider in that black-and-white photo, until she saw fireworks. Or, perhaps he was coming over because he sensed some threat, some villain-bad-guy lurked over her shoulder and he was coming to save the day, to fight him off, to protect her from the rest of the world. And do so without his shirt on. After that morning, Darcy was fully convinced that it there should be another amendment to the constitution forbidding Captain America from wearing shirts.
But, no, real life was happening, so Darcy snapped herself out of daydreams, as pleasant as they were. He was looming by her side — she still hadn't turned — and made a show of crossing his arms. He was so close that the edge of his arm brushed her shoulder. And suddenly, she just felt a twinge of terror somewhere in the center of her chest. A small part of her mind panicked, cried out in terror: she didn't want to deal with this. She didn't want to have to interact with him in real life. In her imagination, it was easy to ridicule him, to make him come crawling back, to picture him acting out every genre of her fantasy that she catalogued like her DVD collection. But she knew that, given a chance in real life, she would pick all the wrong words. Her hair couldn't look as perfect, her tone could not be as flirtatious. She was aware that her heart was beating very loudly, that her lips had fallen open and she was all but panting like an idiot.
He cleared his throat and, stupidly — in an instinctual response — she turned to look at him. He was taller than she expected, so close next to hear. She felt her neck craning up to look directly into his eyes. His entire face seemed under shadow from his enormous scowl. His eyes looked darker, although she knew that was just a trick of the light.
"Excuse me," he said darkly, and she took a step back without processing it. He gave her a glare over his shoulder (she realized she had continued taking steps back far longer than required) and he bent over to read the information about the monument.
Immediately she ridiculed herself for being so stupid. Why would Captain America want anything to do with her?
Darcy ate her dinner — Chinese takeout — alone in front of her hotel room's flat screen. She couldn't bring herself to be in the same room as him, and meals had deteriorated into awkward, silent affairs. She was opening up her second take out box of lo mein when a knock came at her door.
In response, she made a loud noise that somewhat resembled a dying moose.
The door opened; it was Limmond, taking full advantage of his SHIELD-issued master key. He took one look at her, wrapped up in her comforter and struggling with a pair of disposable chopsticks, shook his head, and waltzed right in. He picked up an empty soup bowl and gave her a judgmental look. After digging through the "thank-you" bag, he found an unopened box, pried it open, and took a cautious sniff.
"Hm." He sounded impressed and helped himself to a plastic fork so he could begin munching on the chicken and cashews.
"Nu-uh," Darcy replied.
"Mm?" Limmond made an inquisitive noise through a spoonful of fried rice.
"Nope," Darcy said stubbornly. "No, no, no."
They sat as the jangling theme song to Sex and the City blared; Darcy pretended to be transfixed by the introduction to the show and fought to remain silent.
Carrie Bradshaw had begun her monologue when Limmond cleared his throat.
"Do you have any soy?" he asked.
"Dammit Lemon!" Darcy shrieked. "I am not falling for into your trap!"
He looked at her, blinking innocently. She glared right back.
"I just —"
"Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me," she huffed, coiling herself tighter in the down comforter. "I'm not just going to spill my secrets because you look at me funny."
"Shh," Limmond said. "I'm trying to watch the show."
"I bet Captain America sent you in here to check in on me."
Limmond was silent.
"I bet he thinks I'm in here screwing another drunk off the street."
A commercial break flickered on; Limmond helped himself to an egg roll.
"I bet he's wondering what Stupid Darcy Lewis could have gotten up to this time."
An advertisement for citrus-scented soap blared with an annoying salesman and lots of large numbers in red with slashes through them. The phone number scrolled at the bottom, a 1-800 number.
"But it's not going to work," Darcy continued. "I don't need him. I don't even want him. In fact, I want nothing to do with SHIELD, at all."
The program had returned; Limmond sighed.
"What?" Darcy growled.
"You're talking over Mr. Big," he replied.
Surprise registered on her face; then Darcy offered a small smile, even though Limmond wasn't looking.
"Thanks, Lemon," she said quietly.
"Shhh," he replied.