They return to an empty house, lights glowing in the entry the only greeting. Darcy leads the way back to the kitchen, takeout bag held high, out of the reach of wet puppy noses.
"You can't handle spicy," she chides Jekyll. "Been there, done that, stained that t-shirt."
The dogs prance around her, tails wagging as they whine and chuff for treats. Steve hangs back, out of the way, as he watches Darcy transform. There's something about this house, the way she moves around the kitchen, bumping doors closed with a hip or licking sauce of her thumb, that's so uninhibited and carefree. It's like there's a giant dome over the entire building, shutting out all the bad. Or maybe the bad isn't gone, it's just softened by so much good.
"Dig in," she says when all the food is out spread out on the table. "I'm going to go change. I've had enough of high heels and designer labels to last me a life time."
Darcy runs a hand over the front of her dress, smoothing a nonexistent crease. There's a small indentation between her eyebrows, the tiniest little chink in her armor. She can't look at herself and see what he sees – all that's there is the backhanded compliment from the woman in the restaurant, subtly pointing out non-existent flaws as a way to make herself superior.
"Hey," he says, catching Darcy by the hand. "I kind of liked the shoes." His cheeks burn - compliments still don't come easy, even when deserved. "I like everything, actually."
There's no easy way for Steve to say what he's thinking – that he wishes that she'd wear the red lipstick more often, or that he likes the way she moves in high heels. If there had been time today, he would have inked out a rough outline of her walking down the path. It would have been one long line, not much more, contoured to match the way her hips swung back and forth.
He pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her close. Darcy is stiff at first, but then quickly relaxes, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing her face into his chest. For all they've been through together, the euphoria, the fear, the peaceful moments in between, this is different and completely removed because everything is finally there. The good and the bad are all rolled together, intertwined in a way that makes going back to easier times impossible, while teasing of the future and all that is to come.
"You okay?"
Darcy nods her head, but she doesn't release her grip on Steve. "I'm sorry."
"What are you apologizing for?"
He feels the sigh, the heavy rise and fall of her back, and the pressure against his chest. "Today wasn't…well…" the words are muffled, and Steve has to strain to hear what she says. "I'm not proud of the way I acted today."
He combs his fingers through Darcy's hair, content in her warmth and the way their bodies meld together. He knows now that he'll do anything for her, even if it means fighting all the demons she's never been strong enough to conquer.
"Why don't you go change clothes," he says, "and then we can eat and talk. Okay?"
She nods again, but doesn't let go. It kills him to do it, but Steve slowly pulls away, his grip loosening so that he can force space between them.
"Go on," he says, tipping his head toward the stairs. "I promise I'll be right here."
That little ripple is still there, between her eyebrows, a single crease. He runs his index finger over it, coaxing the tension free. Her expression softens, curiosity and contentment relaxing the line until it's barely visible. Steve turns his hand, his knuckles skimming along her cheekbone.
"I'm not going anyway, Darcy. I promise. You and me - team. Okay?"
It's only then that she is finally willing to let go, leaving Steve alone in the kitchen with a pile of food and a strangely vacant spot in his chest that will be empty until she's back.
O-O
"Come on, you big sissy," Darcy says. Her lips are swollen, her eyes glassy. "Or are you not man enough?"
Empty takeout containers litter the surface, filled with chicken bones and empty mussel shells. A pile of oyster crackers lies between them, flanked by four plastic cups filled with a garish orange-red sauce deceptively titled wing sauce, but Steve calls stupidity. Darcy leans lazily against the table, one arm bent to support her chin. She's been downing sauce on crackers like there's no tomorrow, daring Steve to keep up.
He dredges the cracker in the hot sauce and pops it in his mouth, trying to ignore the searing pain in his mouth. When it's finally unbearable, Steve grabs the carton of milk, popping the spout open and drinking deeply to dull the pain.
There's a metallic click. Steve lowers the carton – to star right into the lens of Darcy's cell phone. "Not only can Captain America not handle spicy, I got him to drink straight from the carton. Somewhere, hell is freezing over." She's laughing at him, her nose wrinkling like a little girl.
"Well, Ms. Lewis, I guess we know what your super power is," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Hmm, yeah, if we ever have an invasion of evil chili peppers, I'm your girl."
"I thought we established that a while back."
Steve leans forward, arms braced on the table, milk carton long forgotten. He's discarded his uniform jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up, safely away from the wing sauce.
"How do you do that?" she says.
"Do what?"
"Consistently give me warm fuzzies."
Steve leans his head to the side, studying her. "Can't say I know what a warm fuzzy is."
"We need to fix that!" Darcy jumps up, snagging her foot on the chair as she runs to grab a pen and paper off the counter. The alcohol is wearing off, replaced by the endorphin high of super spicy food and a day of emotional turmoil. Her crash is inevitable, Steve knows that, but he's still not sure how to ease into the conversation. Until now, he's been content to let this ride, even if it does mean burning away half of his esophagus in the process.
She plunks paper and pen down on the table in front of him, narrowly missing one of the sauce cups. A chair is jerked back from the table, legs screeching against the hardwood floor. "You, my friend, need a bucket list."
"A bucket list?"
Darcy collapses dramatically into the chair, her arm draping over the surface of the table like she's preparing for a photo. "From now on, when I use a reference that you don't know, or we talk about something you want to do, write it down, that way we don't lose track."
Steve stares down at the paper. It could cover anything and everything, where to even begin?
"Number one - watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. You've used Island of Misfit Toys a few times, but you don't know what it means."
"That's just something Natasha said -" Steve protests, "I didn't realize - "
"Exactly, now write it down." His inaction is rewarded by a sharp nudge with Darcy's barefoot. "Write!"
"Okay," he mutters and picks up the pen. "You are so bossy."
"You don't know the half of it. Now keep writing. I want ice cream."
She's up again, digging through the freezer and muttering to herself. While she complains about too much green and not enough cream, Steve glances around the kitchen. Heckle's stretched out on the floor, eyes closed. Keys lay discarded on the counter, along with a pair of sunglasses.
He laughs, shaking his head, and for the first time in…well, in forever, he starts to make a plan. Each bullet on his list is brief, just one or two words, but each one builds on the other, foundational pieces that can expand out infinitely.
"Whatcha got?" Darcy's hovering over his shoulder, a small container of ice cream and two spoons clutched in her hand. He grabs her gently by the hip and pulls her into his lap, careful to keep a hand between her back and the table. She's earned enough war wounds, she doesn't need more.
"I'll tell you, but you have to tell me something, first." Steve holds her firmly in place, preventing the ability to squirm away.
"Okay, fine," Darcy sighs melodramatically. She drops the ice cream and spoons on the table and drapes her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers are cold as she rakes them through the hair at the base of his neck, and Steve fights the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch.
"What were you thinking about today?"
Darcy's mouth opens and closes and she tries to turn away, but there's nowhere to go. Steve tightens the arm wrapped protectively around her, pulling her closer, hoping that she'll trust everything he's said and done, even if her instinct tells her to do otherwise.
"You realize you're stuck with me," he says, filling in the gap when she can't seem to get the words out. "I'm not going to promise you that everything will be perfect, because that would be a lie. You know the world I-" he hesitates, then corrects, "that we live in. There are no guarantees. Gigantic chili monsters could swoop down tomorrow and who knows what could happen."
The joke draws a little smile, but it's not enough to erase her doubt. Words aren't going to displace that, but actions will. It's going to take time, but Steve's finally at peace with having plenty of that at his disposal.
"Number two on my list," he says slowly, tapping twice on the flat of her back, "Is getting out of Brooklyn. It's where I came from, but it's not where I belong."
He smiles and chews on his lower lip while the silence stretches out.
"Number three," he says, drawing the words out. "Number three is find a good park, one with lots of trees that's walkable."
"Walkable to what?"
"My new place. Practical says it needs to be Manhattan, but other than that, I'm open."
"How are you going to pull that off?" She's doing the math in her head, figuring out the difference between Park Slope and the Upper West Side. "That's a pretty serious jump in cost."
"I have a little leverage," he admits, thinking back to the conversations with Director Fury during his re-acclimation. "I've never been selfish, but I think it's time I take advantage of a few of the perks. Within in reason, of course."
"Is this an 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you' type of thing?"
He just smiles and shakes his head. "Five is come up with a good name."
"I told you, I want to be Chili Chick. It's got licensing potential. Besides, I look great in red."
"I don't mean for you," he pauses, letting the silence add fuel to the fire of her impatience. "I meant for the dog."
"Whose dog?"
"Yours. Mine. Or is it just easier to say ours?"
She's stringing together the pieces now, leaving Brooklyn, the park in Manhattan and a place to live…all the little bread crumbs that lead her to the answer, but she doesn't react as Steve expects. Instead, she twists violently in his lap, grabbing a pen and scribbling furiously. When she's done, the pen is discarded, and the ice cream forgotten.
1. See Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer
2. Out of Brooklyn
3. Good Park
4. Apartment – good light
5. Names
6. Watch Indiana Jones Trilogy (the dog's name was Indiana!)
O-O
Later that night, somewhere after midnight, she sneaks into bed with him. The floorboards creak under her weight, but he's half-asleep and not quite prepared for the cold hand that slips up, underneath his shirt to press flat against his chest.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice thick. "You're cold."
"You're warm," she says, pressing so close that her body molds to his. "So about this new place, do I get a key?"
He lets out a long, sleepy sigh, and squeezes her hand. "Is that all you want?"
"That and a drawer are good for now, but I get to amend terms. Fair?"
Steve smiles and squeezes her hand, "I'll even let you put your name on the mailbox if you want, Chili Chick."
"Night, Steve." She kisses his shoulder. "See you in the morning."
"Next hundred thousand," he says, already slipping back down into sleep. "But who's counting?"