Bygone
Chapter 14: Welcome Distractions

It took far too long to convince her legs they were capable of taking her weight. Despite the odd looks that she was getting from the men filing past, she continued to lean against the Jeep. Anything was a better option that entering the Colonel's small office, facing the questioning glances of Stark, having to stand too near him in the tight quarters afforded by the tent. He would look at her with those dark, concerned eyes, and she couldn't have that.

As she stood, fighting the conflicting thoughts in her head and the still-rapid beat of her heart, an officer ran from the Colonel's tent.

"Jimmy!" she called, making the man skid in the mud. "What's up?"

"New orders. We're getting out of this shithole," the man replied, too excited to bother filtering his language in front of a lady, not that he ever bothered with that around Darcy.

"I'll go pack," she said with far too much enthusiasm. She hated packing, but it was an absolutely fabulous alternative to standing awkwardly by Stark's side. Her legs agreed and held her weight as she hurried to Stark's tent and started packing up the man's affects. She had finished and moved on to packing up his papers when his voice startled her in the silence.

"Word travels fast."

"Good news does," she replied tightly, refusing to turn and face him.

"Lewis, I—"

"I've already packed up your clothes and liquor. I'd like to get my things finished if we're flying out today. You got this?" She gestured vaguely to the remaining blueprints and files remaining.

He sighed, and she tried not to read it as dejection. "Yeah, Lewis. I have it."

One trans-channel flight and three days later, Darcy was making an occupation of pretending the events of November 4th never happened, save the return of Captain America and all that jazz. If Stark mentioned that day, she developed spontaneous deafness in both ears or an all-consuming interest in the work being done in another section of the bunker. Being a smart man, he learned after the first morning back in England not to mention it, so whatever he had to say about their strange encounter at the Jeep was kept firmly to himself for the betterment of all.

Just because neither one acknowledged it, didn't mean things hadn't changed. Darcy could not stop herself from being aware of Stark whenever they were alone, and no matter how often she told herself it was her imagination, she knew that he was watching her.

The added workload of outfitting Captain Rogers and his men was a welcome distraction, one that kept Stark from staring at her and her from thinking overly hard about him.

"Lewis," Stark called.

"Hm?" Darcy looked up from the file on her desk to see Stark elbows-deep in his latest shield modification.

"Allen wrench," he demanded.

"On the table," she informed him.

"I know. My hands are full. Come on!"

She sighed and considered throwing it at his head but decided that would be childish. She grabbed the tool and slid it into place where he was working, pointedly ignoring the fact that their bodies were pressed together as her fingers fumbled to turn the wrench in the tight space.

"Don't you have grunts and technicians for this sort of thing?"

"They're all busy. You're all I've got," he said, his breath warm on her neck. "Besides, I don't think any of them could fit their hands in there."

"Good to know I don't have man-hands," she quipped. "Got it."

"You sure?" he questioned, his breath warming her neck and causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. He leaned into her, every inch of his frame fitting into her curves as his hand slid against hers to claim the wrench. Darcy tried to breathe normally, but her lungs refused to work.

Stark finally stepped back, turning the shield over and admiring the work and apparently oblivious to the affect he was having on her. "Not bad. I think this might be my favorite."

Darcy nodded to buy time to catch her breath. "Lots of fancies."

"Rogers is coming in tomorrow to choose his equipment," he informed her, wiping his hands on a towel. "You might want to make sure he knows. Eight o'clock."

She nodded and left the lab, forcing her feet to keep a normal, I'm-so-totally-not-eager-to-get-away-from-you pace. As soon as she was free of his stare, however, she all but ran through the bunker, slamming into someone as she rounded a corner too fast.

"Balls, I'm sorry," she groaned and rolled up to sitting. "Agent Carter! Please, don't shoot me."

The woman laughed. "It's fine. I'd be anxious to escape Howard's company, too, if I had to spend all day with him."

Darcy hoped she wasn't blushing. "Actually, I'm on an errand. I'm supposed to find Captain Am—Rogers. Captain Rogers."

"I believe he's left to recruit his team," the woman said slowly as if verifying the facts even as she spoke them. "There was talk of the Rose and Crown."

"That's a bar, right?"

"A pub, actually," she corrected. "Just down the street from Whitehall."

"Right," Darcy said uncertainly. When she and the techs went for drinks, it was always to the Scot's Pony, a bar –pub – just across the street from the entrance to the bunker. It was as far from the safety of the underground installation as she had dared to venture.

She knew London, had lived there for close to a year while working with Jane; most of the places she had frequented in that time had been founded well before the war, but, despite knowing those shops and pubs were out in the wider city, she was still reluctant to stray far from the bunker. This London was somehow entirely different than the one she had known. New York of 1943 had not terrified her like this London did; mainly because New York wasn't under constant threat of being bombed to hell by Nazis.

The fear of travelling so far must have shown on her face because Peggy had a hand on her arm. She smiled as she offered, "I can tell him, if you like. If it isn't classified."

"No, it's just about the weapons selection tomorrow at eight," Darcy said. "You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all," she said. "I've been wanting to get out." She smiled a kindly and sympathetic smile as she added, "You really ought to get out, as well. It's not healthy spending all your time with Howard. You might develop a distorted view of men."

Darcy considered her advice, wondering if that was the problem. Sure, Stark had surprised her by being secretly selfless, but he was still a jackass and a man-whore. While she might not be in possession of the greatest track record with men, she was still able to avoid the total jerks and was smart enough not to fall for a known womanizer. That had to be the reason for the growing awkwardness; it was equal parts clinging to a known factor in a strange land and a complete lack of options, for he was the only unattached man she spent any time with who she could speak freely and be herself.

Well, no wonder I was starting to get warm fuzzies for him! she realized.

She looked to Peggy and repeated the brief directions. "Rose and Crown. Whitehall."

"I can walk with you if you need a friend."

"Okay," she agreed, probably a bit too quickly. "I should probably clean up. I've been working in the lab all day."

"Yes, you've a bit of a Hitler moustache," the woman said, gesturing to her face.

Darcy swiped a hand across her lip. Her fingers came away with a smear of grease. "Asshat could have said something," Darcy muttered under her breath.

Peggy pretended not to hear her. "I'll tell you what," she said slowly. "I have to finish a field report for Colonel Phillips. I will meet you at the stairs in half an hour. I'm sure the Captain and his men will still be drinking by then."

Nodding her agreement without pause, Darcy hurried to her quarters, a tiny closet of a room that barely managed to contain the two metal-framed beds and two trunks to hold the occupants' effects. Darcy's roommate, Margo, was a boney blonde woman from Kansas, who had grown shakier with each passing day; she expected to have the room all to herself after another air raid or two.

She managed a sponge-bath in the communal ladies bathroom to remove the grease and grit of Stark's lab, then totally stole Margo's perfume because the soap she had available was atrocious. With some makeup, she looked pretty okay, hardly the knockout she usually was when she went clubbing with the girls, but it would have to do. Thanks to Jarvis' skills, her Hildy-approved blue dress was as pristine as it was the day it went into her trunk; she smoothed the dress down one last time before heading out to meet Peggy.

A hand closed around her arm before she made it five feet from her room. "There you are. I have been looking everywhere," Stark groused. "The last shield modification isn't right, the sight is off and the gun keeps firing to the left. I need y—what are you wearing?"

"A dress," she said, though it hardly needed stating.

He blinked his confusion. "Why?"

"I'm going out."

"But we're working."

"No, you are wasting time on things that don't need doing. I already told you, Rogers won't pick one of your bells-and-whistles shields. Simple. Round. That's what he'll want." She pulled her arm free. "I need to go. Someone is waiting for me."

"Who?"

Somehow he managed to sound wounded, defensive and possessive within that single syllable. It was enough to stop her in her tracks, to have her turning to face him with every ounce of righteous indignation a single human was capable of containing. "Last I checked, my employment contract did not read that you are allowed to dictate the company I keep, Stark."

"I didn't—"

"You did. And you will never do it again. Are we clear?" She was being uncharacteristically hard, she knew, but that possessiveness in his voice had felt like a slap to the face. Despite all the evidence she had accumulated to the contrary, she was not Stark's wife. He had no right to speak to her like that. Not ever, if she had any say.

"I just—"

"Are. We. Clear?"

He looked away, his face contorting as if he had a foul taste in his mouth, but he agreed. "We're clear."

"Good. Now let's hope Peggy hasn't left without me."

"Oh, it's Carter?" he said, relief taking over his face. "Why didn't you just say?"

"Because, asshat, it's not your business." She might have intentionally clipped him with her purse as she walked past him, but she would totally deny it if someone called her on it.

Peggy was not by the stairs.

Darcy checked her watch. Her little encounter with Stark had made her nearly fifteen minutes late. Would the woman have left without her? She hurried up the stairs and through the lobby of the building that guarded the entrance to the bunker. There were a few guards, but no sign of Carter. She walked on, peering through the door cautiously, terrified the air raid sirens would begin their deafening whine the moment she set foot outside.

Slowly, much more slowly than was strictly necessary, she set her foot on the sidewalk. Her high heel clicked, but that was the only sound that met her ears.

"One small step for Darcy," she muttered and stepped the rest of the way onto the pavement.

Again, no sirens.

There was, however, a bombshell.

This bombshell came in the size and hourglass shape of Agent Peggy Carter in a little red dress, walking purposefully down the sidewalk toward Whitehall.

Darcy didn't want to shout. Despite their bunker being housed beneath a ministry building, she got the impression they were not supposed to draw undue attention to the place, so she kept her mouth shut and hurried to follow Carter. The woman was in the pub before Darcy could catch up, but it was obvious which way she had gone by the stunned silence that followed her. She was more than a little envious. The stunned silence that usually met Darcy was born out of confusion and not any sort of admiration.

"0800, Captain," she heard Peggy say before turning and walking toward Darcy. "You're late," she chided when she saw her.

"Sorry, Stark happens," she apologized. "Did you want to get a drink?"

"Actually, I think I'm going to head back to base," she said, glancing over her shoulder where Captain America was still staring at her with a gaping mouth and enormous eyes.

"Yeah, sure," Darcy replied absently as she looked from Carter to the Captain. She moved closer, totally eavesdropping and not being in the least bit ashamed of it.

"I'm turning into you," a dark haired man said, hands flying out and dropping ineffectually to his sides. "This is a nightmare."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Captain Rogers said, laying a hand on the man's shoulder as he steered him back to the bar. "Besides, she's got a friend." He looked up and met Darcy's eye, those blue eyes that had been huge with consideration and worry last time they looked her way were now alive with a merriment that bordered on mischief. A smirked pulled at the corner of his mouth, and she knew he was trying not to laugh.

She put on her best supermodel strut and walked over to meet him. "Did Agent Carter talk to you?" she asked.

His posture shifted to slight unease. "Uh, yes, ma'am. 0800. Stark. Weapons."

Darcy nodded, her face pulling into a frown as she did. "She got all dressed up just to tell you that?"

"Ah… well, I, uh… yeah."

"Makeup and all," she observed.

He offered a string of unintelligible sounds that might have been a 'yes'.

"And she didn't stay for a drink," Darcy noted.

Again, more awkward noises.

"Or a dance."

The nervous gibberish that started to escape his mouth was brought to a stop when his friend snorted into his glass. The trademarked Captain Glare was sent his way, but Sergeant 'I'm So Sexy' Barnes just laughed before turning his own blue eyes on her. "Stop torturing him and just say it."

"She is totally into you," Darcy said, speaking each syllable slowly and precisely.

"No, she...she just… dames like to – women – women like to get all… that wasn't for me…"

"Is he not the cutest thing when he stutters?" the man grinned and threw an arm around Captain America's shoulders.

"Shut up, Bucky," Rogers groaned and threw that arm off, stealing his glass off the bar and stalking from the room.

"I thought when they turned him into that, the dumb kid I knew would be gone," Bucky admitted. "Glad I was wrong."

"Too much fun to sass?"

"Hell, yes." He offered her a grin, one that on someone else might have come across as leering; on him it just looked damn good. "Do you drink?"

"Hell, yes," she echoed, happily leveling him with a so-not-leering look of her own. This was a bad idea, and she knew it. But after half a year with Stark as he only male company, 'I'm So Sexy' Barnes was looking like one incredibly welcome distraction.

A/N: I admit that I haven't written anything new to this story in quite some time. I'm hoping that being away for so long will mean being able to see the issues bogging down chapter 15, which has been the cause of the delays. ::cross your fingers::