After the verbal onslaught, there's nowhere to go. For once, Darcy can't bury herself in work, or run back to her apartment and hide away from the big bad world. There is no one to sympathize, let alone empathize with this convoluted path that she's somehow carved for herself.
Fury's words ring in her ears, nasty taunts that hurt more because they are half-truths. As much as she wants to deny the barbs, she can't. There's no fire left, no desire to fight, or even to push back. Every ounce of strength has been drained away, not just by Fury, but by Bruce, and by SHIELD, and even a little bit by Steve, who believes good where none really exists.
Fleeing, she cuts across 78th, skirting around the French Embassy on Fifth Avenue, before cutting across into Central Park. The sun is out, washing everything in a soft yellow light. Children huddle together, hands clasped as teachers lead them toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, promising trips to the third floor to see the giant bamboo structure that dominates the roof.
The longing to go back, to push off the failures of everything post New Mexico is all encompassing. She wishes she'd never met Phil Coulson, never accepted his offer to come to New York. At the time, it had all been a grand adventure.
Funny how far from reality that adventure seems now.
The farther north Darcy wanders, the less people she trips across. Most of the day time pedestrian traffic tends to hover south of the museums, people clustering around the landmarks they know. The higher the street number, the more it becomes locals who jog here every day, or walk their dogs, treating the park like their backyard. Up here, the city feels more personal, a community, as opposed to a faceless thrum of bodies.
It's a good corollary for where she's landed. Her life is midtown, all swirl, and no contact. Very simply, she's lost her connection to the real world and, in doing so, she's lost any sense of who she is, or even who she could be.
All of this because she had to get three more college credits to graduate, and she thought the internship would be the easiest way to get it.
O-O
The sun is high in the sky when Darcy claims a bench by the reservoir. She's passed a couple street vendors, and her stomach growls in protest. Even her simplest loves are corrupted by this whole experience. No more dirty water dogs or sipping sodas through a straw as runners blow past her, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
"The bloom is definitely off the rose," she mutters, shifting on the bench, legs folding so that she can sit cross legged. There's a soft breeze rolling off the water, ruffling the trees and knocking loose the first of the fall leaves. They cascade softly down, scattering across her lap and shoulders.
"You look like something out of a postcard."
A man approaches from the west, a beautiful dog trotting in front of him. Well-worn jeans and a soft, faded sweatshirt blend in well with the scenery, and his dark hair falls across a high forehead. He stops short, and with one quick tug on the lead, the dog plunks down on its haunches, ears shifting restless, as if on alert.
"She's beautiful," Darcy says, leaning forward. "May I?"
The man nods, and tugs gently on the leash again. "Dushka." The dog pops to attention, springing forward, her nose actively sniffing the air. Darcy extends her hand, palm down, knuckles out. The dog glances up at her owner, not moving until he clucks at her. The sound reassures her enough to step forward, her moist nose grazing the back of Darcy's hand.
"Hi, sweetheart," she croons, not moving. The dog sniffs the back of her hand, then drops her head, muzzle slipping easily into the open arc of fingers. "You're a doll."
"She's a flirt," the man says. He has one hand shoved in his pocket, the other hangs limply at his side, the leash wrapped loosely around his wrist. "Never met a stranger, have you, Dushka?"
The dog drops down on her haunches again, arcing her head to the side so that Darcy can scratch behind an ear. Her fur is thick and soft, a dirty, ivory color that seems better suited to a cat than a dog.
"Is she a husky?"
"Laika," the man corrects her. "Similar, but not quite."
"The space dog!"
"You know it?" The man is smiling, his eyes open wide in delight. They're a bright, piercing blue, and full of life. "I'm surprised! When I say Laika, people glaze over."
"Nasty byproduct of a useless degree," Darcy admits. "I might not be able to find a meaningful job, but I'm your worst nightmare at trivia." She digs her fingers in the soft fur at the dog's neck, searching until she finds that magical spot that sends a back leg into overdrive. "You are descended from astronauts, puppy. Oh what great things your ancestors got to see."
"She'd make a lousy space dog," the man says, nodding toward the bench. "May I?"
"Please."
He sits down a few feet away. The dog shifts to fill the space in between them, pressing her haunches against her master's foot. "She gets motion sickness in a car going twenty miles an hour."
"In Manhattan traffic, can't say as I blame her." Darcy stops scratching the dog long enough to extend her hand. "I'm Darcy."
The man takes her hand, his skin is cool to the touch. The leash dangles limply from his wrist like a bracelet. "I'm Jay. And this is Dushka."
"Nice to meet you, Dushka and Jay." The dog's ears perk up with her name, and she scoots forward, nosing Darcy's hand again. The contact is so warm, so innocent, that she wants to sink into it. Losing everything would be so easy right now, no one who knows who she is, with no expectations.
"I hope we're not interrupting," Jay says. When he smiles, his eyebrows go up just slightly. It's impish, almost devil may care, the sort of mannerism for a man who's very comfortable in who is he and where he belongs. "I've been staring at text books for days, and I needed a breather. Constitutional law gets so dull."
"You're a student?"
"I'm in my second year," he says, plucking at the faded Columbia Law sweatshirt. "You?"
"Lab assistant," she says brusquely. "Not as exciting as law school."
"It's not really that great."
"It's better than where I am."
Once she'd thought about law school, but then the world had changed, and she'd evolved with it. After seeing destroyers and legends from other worlds first hand, the minutiae of penal code and inheritance law had lost all of its appeal. Wouldn't it be great if she could be like Dushka, and be perfectly content with a mundane life, even though her ancestors had been launched into space?
Jay opens his mouth, but he's cut short by a shrill digital chirp. Both he and the dog jump to attention, a small silver cell phone materializes out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry," he says, standing and moving quickly away from the bench. "It was nice talking to you."
He walks quickly away, the phone pressed firmly against his ear. The dog trotting attentively next to him, as if Darcy never existed.
"Nice talking to you, too, Jay," she says, and leans back against the bench. "It was nice to be normal and not have a hidden agenda for all of about two seconds."
O-O
Darcy doesn't go back to Stark Tower. She takes another long circuit through the park, making it all the way down to the boat basin before cutting across to hail a cab at Central Park West. While her phone and most of her meaningful possessions are shoved inside a duffle bag at Steve's apartment, she needs to head home and take inventory before moving ahead with what could be a series of momentous decisions.
The building is just as dingy as it always has been, the white trim faded and peeling. Inside the vestibule, flyers and mail are shoved haphazardly into corners, and multiple layers of tape gum up the small metal mailboxes. She doesn't know any of her neighbors, and she doubts that any of them have been here for any length of time. This isn't a place to put down roots, not without soil and constant cultivation. This is just a temporary stop on the way to better things. Now that she knows that, it's easier to see things for what they are.
It's time to call it a day, to pack up and start the next chapter in her life. One without SHIELD, without broken men who need saving. Sure, real life may end up being boring, but it's the world she belongs in. She's not a super spy, nor is she cut out for a life of manipulation and subterfuge. A stable job, a decent apartment, a chance to grab drinks on Friday night with friends…they're simple things, but there's nothing wrong with aspiring to simple.
Especially not when complex hurts so damn much.
She doesn't allow herself time to think about Bruce or Steve, about the needs and the wants of this whole convoluted mess. For once, she needs to put herself first, to focus on what is good for her, and on the future. No need to save people, no need to solve anyone else's problems.
Darcy hikes her bag over her shoulder, and slips her key in the lock. She's flipping the bolt back as the door flies open, the momentum pulling her forward and off balance. The edge of a coffee table, which always hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, jams into her shin. She goes down hard, her hands slamming into the scarred wood floor. She's eye level with a pair of running shoes and faded jeans.
"Hello, Darcy," Jay says. "We've been waiting for you."
She looks up, just as the second man enters the living area. Unlike Jay, he's in business attire, his dark suit a stark contrast to his silver hair and goatee. Without the harsh fluorescent overheads, he's simply pale, and not ghostly.
"Hello, Miss Lewis," he says, his pronunciation of her name awkward, stilted, the W awkward. "I'm sorry our time was cut short, but Dmitri was kind enough to arrange for us to meet again."
At a loss, Darcy grabs for the first thing that comes to mind. "I thought your name was Jay?"
Jay smiles, but this time, when his eyebrows raise, there's nothing but pure malevolence. "Dmitri is Russian for James, Darcy. Don't you know anything?"
"Oh she knows plenty," the man in the dark suit says. "She just needs the proper motivation to tell us."
This time, Darcy is prepared. A white cloth is forced over her nose and mouth, the pungent smell of decay clogging her lungs, and then everything goes black.
Rambo'd, unbetad, but cranking ahead. Thanks for the warm welcome back.