NOTES: You know how I said last chapter that this story would continue for a while? Don't freak out-it still will, but Kate and I figured out a better way to organize it. There will be one more chapter after this, and then we will mark 180 Days and Counting as complete. That will let us kick off "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" where we, as the uncreative title says, spend a chapter on each character or pairing to see how their summer went. Once that's done, we will start a third story for year two. Sound good? Hope so.
Bucky and Steve were putting the last of the dishes away when someone started pounding on the front door. Steve shot Bucky a confused look while he felt his stomach twist forebodingly. There was only one person who would beat on his door like that, and she only made such a racket when her head was a mess.
"I'll get it," Steve announced before walking away. Bucky knew he should warn him, but at the moment, he was too busy fighting the urge to sneak out the back door.
"Leave, Rogers," Natasha demanded as soon as the door opened.
"Um," Steve sputtered, turning to look at Bucky.
But Bucky instead gave his attention to the redhead who was letting herself into the house, paper-bag-covered bottle in hand. "You don't get to kick him out of his house."
She arched an eyebrow his direction, and her smirk set the hairs on the back of Bucky's neck on end. "His house? Not yours too?"
Bucky watched Steve grind his jaw, and he quickly closed the space between them. "Probably safer if you ran away for a bit," Bucky said quietly as he rubbed Steve's lower back. "Let me quell the banshee. I'll text you when the coast is clear."
"Yeah, okay," he replied, looking not-at-all happy about the situation—not that Bucky could blame him.
Bucky gave him a quick kiss goodbye. "By the way," he added before Steve slipped out the front door, "odds are good she's going to get me drunk."
"Yup," Natasha agreed from the kitchen where, from the sounds of things, she was rummaging the cabinets for shot glasses.
Steve sighed, but kept his mouth shut. Bucky gave him another quick kiss before nudging him out the door. He watched Steve start a walk around the neighborhood before he turned back towards his old friend. She harshly set a full shot on the counter without managing to splash a drop. "Drink," she ordered before downing her own vodka.
Bucky ran his fingers up and down the little glass while staring at her. "You will never do this again. I'm sorry you're upset, but you don't get to walk in here and order people out of their home. I don't care how good of friends we are."
Natasha's stony expression didn't waver one iota. "Drink," she repeated as she refilled her own glass and took another swallow.
Bucky swore under his breath before taking his shot. He kept his hand over the top of the glass to keep her from refilling it. Ignoring her glare, he did his best to get her to use her words. "What crawled up your ass?"
Natasha looked out the window over the kitchen sink, lost in thought. Bucky felt his patience grow increasingly thin. Without a word, she grabbed the bottle of vodka and headed for the small back yard; Bucky followed. She took one of the two seats around the little fire pit Steve built a few weeks ago and looked at him expectantly. Obeying her silent command, Bucky got a little fire glowing—nothing too big, since the May heat and humidity was still oppressive, even at dusk.
"You're not mixing your vodka with fire," he warned. "This isn't going to be a repeat of that one time from junior year."
She smiled briefly at that before taking a swig from the bottle. Passing it over to him as he took a seat, she kept her eyes on the flame. "What do you know about Bruce's past?" she asked quietly, barely loud enough to carry over the crackle of the burning wood.
Bucky's eyebrows rose. "He likes science and doesn't drink?"
"You know why about the no drinking thing?"
"No," Bucky answered quietly. "What happened to letting people tell their own story?" he asked, remembering back to his first day where he begged for background on his new coworkers.
"Apparently his story is mine now, too," she muttered. Bucky didn't say anything, just watched her stare into the fire. "His wife was killed by a drunk driver."
"He was married?"
Natasha nodded. "Happened a while ago." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Honestly never thought much about it. I mean, I knew it might make him skiddish about some things, but that was fine."
"So what changed?"
She took another swig from the bottle and passed it over to him. "Jessica Cage had a baby."
Bucky squinted at her. Maybe it was the vodka that was starting to burn in his gut, but for some reason that answer didn't make sense. "How does that affect you?"
"Because Bruce smelled baby, and it reminded him about how he was supposed to be a dad by now."
"Ahh," Bucky replied.
"Yeah," she said before taking another drink from the bottle. "Apparently, they had some timeline set up, and their kid would've been old enough for kindergarten next year. He started talking about looking at his students come August to try and see what their kid would've looked like." Natasha sighed and shook her head. "He wants kids."
"Did he actually say that?"
"He didn't have to. It was written all over his face."
Bucky shrugged lazily. "At one point he wanted kids, but you don't know if he wants to have a kid now."
Natasha looked at him like he was an idiot. "Trust me, James, he wants kids."
"And you don't?"
"I'd be a terrible mother."
He smiled at her. "I've seen you with our students. I think you'd be just fine."
Natasha shook her head. "That's different. That's…short-term. And they're not actual babies, even though they may whine like it."
"I still think you should do it."
She turned to him, face hard. He knew this game, how it took a second for the words to penetrate her walls and sink in. But her expression just turned sharper. "I shouldn't have come here," she said as she stood and turned to leave.
Bucky leaned over and grabbed her by the wrist. "Nat, what are you talking about?"
She laughed, something quick and bitter. "Look at your life, James. You got the fairy tale. You aren't able to understand things like this. Not anymore."
"Nat," he called as she pulled away from him and began to walk around to the front of the house. She never turned around, and Bucky stopped chasing her once he reached the driveway. Natasha climbed into her jeep and drove away without another word.
A couple minutes later, Steve ambled up to Bucky's side. Dollars to doughnuts said that he was lurking behind the big tree in the neighbor's yard to know when the coast was clear.
"Everything okay?" he asked, his hand finding Bucky's hip.
He shook his head. "And I don't know how to fix it. It's like… She doesn't trust me anymore."
Steve's mouth creased into a frown, but he didn't say anything. Just nudged Bucky back toward the back yard so they could enjoy what was left of the fire and vodka.
"I'm going to fucking kill him," Clint muttered, and Birdie snuffled his bare feet.
He stood in their kitchen at the ass-crack of dawn, one hand buried in his hair while he waited for the coffee maker to finish burbling and spit out some glorious caffeine. Outside, the first couple fingers of sunlight'd already started to push over the horizon—too early, as far as Clint was concerned—but Birdie'd started half-barking at her own shadow ten minutes ago and he'd decided to roll out of bed. Roll out of bed, shoo the dog down the hall so Phil could sleep, and at least start the coffee.
Except when he'd stepped into the living room, it was just in time to watch Barney climb into somebody's ancient rusted-out SUV and disappear down the street.
Ten minutes later, he was still half-awake, but now, half-awake and pissed.
And Birdie kept snuffling around where her favorite "Uncle Barney" (Barney's name for himself, the asshole) had fallen asleep on the couch last night.
Once he woke up enough to function (so, after two cups of coffee and a hot shower where he stewed like an asshole), he found his phone and texted Barney a quick we need to talk when you get home. He tossed his phone onto the bathroom counter and stared at himself in the mirror until Phil wandered in, sleep-mussed and mostly naked.
He pressed himself to Clint's back. "Should I ask?" he asked, slow enough for Clint to read his lips in his reflection.
"Can't you guess?" Phil smiled ruefully, and Clint relaxed into his grip. He felt warm and familiar, and he smelled like their sheets. "What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"
"I thought you were trying to talk to him."
"Yeah, sure, we talked. And then this morning, he jumps in some ancient piece of shit car and disappears to god-knows-where." Phil quirked an eyebrow, and Clint twisted around to scowl at him. "What?"
"You can't always assume the worst." When Clint rolled his eyes, Phil caught him by the arms and held him tight. "Your brother isn't any of the people you knew when you were younger, Clint. He's not your father, he's not the people who hurt you and made you feel—" He paused and rolled his lips together. "He might not be doing everything the way you'd choose to do it," he finished, "but he's trying."
"You can't know that," Clint retorted.
"Since he's related to you, it's a fair guess."
Clint left Phil in the bathroom after that, and they got dressed and headed to school like any other day. Clint tried harder than he'd ever tried before to put Barney out of his mind and focus on the important things—his students wrapping up their final projects of the year, his first steps in tearing down his classroom for the summer, the finishing touches on his part of the fifth-grade promotion part of their end-of-the-year assembly—but he kept thinking about the rusted-out SUV and Barney with his hand hanging out the passenger's side, cigarette in his fingers.
It reminded him a lot of back when they were kids, Barney hanging out of somebody's old car, smoking and laughing, fearless through-and-through.
And look how well that'd served him over the years.
When he and Phil pulled up after work, the windows were already open and Birdie was yapping happily inside. Clint ditched his work bag in the car and discovered his brother on the couch in the same shitty clothes he'd worn that morning playing tug-of-war with the dog. He dropped the "rope"—an old tube sock of Clint's Birdie stole years before—when Clint walked in the door, and Birdie waggled her whole butt as she brought it over.
Clint ignored her to stare at his brother.
Barney just leaned back against the couch. "This the part where I get the lecture on flying right from my little brother?" he asked, stretching out like the smuggest cat Clint had ever met.
Clint felt his jaw tighten into a hard line. He almost flew right toward Barney, dragged him up by his shirt or something, but then Phil was there with a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'm taking Birdie down to the park and back," he said, his voice the kind of neutral he saved for really badly behaved students. "We'll be back soon."
The park was three blocks, tops.
A limited window, Clint knew, and a warning.
He waited until the door closed behind Phil to wet his lips. "Where are you going?"
Barney shrugged. "Out."
"No, not out," Clint snapped, and his brother rolled his eyes. He jabbed a finger at him. "No, 'out' is what you do when you need a pack of smokes or a roll of toilet paper, Barney. 'Out' isn't leaving at the ass-crack of dawn or skipping out on appointments with your P.O. 'Out' isn't heading for a 'walk' after dinner and not coming back till after Phil and I are in bed."
His brother snorted and shook his head. "You're like somebody's fucking dad," he grumbled, and Clint felt his whole body tense up. "Is that your problem? You and your guy, you don't have kids, so you parent me? 'Cause last I checked, I covered your ass when we were kids. I kept you out of trouble. I was more a parent to you than any adult we knew, so if this is payback—"
"You stopped being a parent to me a long damn time ago," Clint cut in. His voice sounded rough, angrier than he expected, and he swore that the only reason he didn't haul Barney off the damn couch himself was because Barney pushed himself up onto his feet the second Clint rounded the coffee table. That didn't stop him from shoving Barney's shoulder hard enough that the guy had to take a step back. "You want me to treat you like a fucking adult? Then act like one! This isn't jail anymore. You don't get three hot meals and a bed and get to bite the hand that feeds you. It doesn't work that way, not here. Not anymore."
For a second, Barney just stared at him with this weird, wide-eyed expression, one that looked like hurt and shock and anger all rolled into one big, ugly ball. Then, finally, he huffed out a breath. It wasn't a laugh, exactly, more this scoffing sound like he maybe wanted to roll his eyes. He dug into his pocket, Clint staring the whole time, and pulled out a wad of cash.
"No free ride from the kid brother, got it," he said, peeling off a couple twenties. He tossed them onto the coffee table. "Sixty bucks enough? You want eighty? I can give you eighty." Another twenty fluttered down. Clint blinked at him, not really understanding, and Barney snorted. "You want to test them for coke or something, be my guest. Since I'm sure you don't believe I earned it the old-fashioned way."
He shoved the rest of his cash back into his pocket and headed straight for the door. Clint shook his head hard, trying to clear out the cobwebs, but found himself still staring at him like an idiot. "What the hell is going on with you?" he managed, and his voice sounded all wrong to his own ears: confused and frustrated, a little angry and a lot worried.
Barney glanced over his shoulder. "Maybe next time, you'll ask like you give a shit," he returned, and he shoved out the front door without looking back again.
"Okay, pro-tip: don't look like you're going to throw up, it's just gonna encourage them."
Peter Parker jerked his head up from his fiftieth recheck of his résumé to find that Darcy'd stopped painting her nails and started blowing them dry. He'd arrived for his interview a good twenty minutes early. He'd felt crazy for it—over-eager—but Aunt May'd rolled her eyes.
"Nick likes a punctual interviewee," she'd said over the tops of her glasses. She'd been reading the newspaper like every Sunday morning. "If you're late, he'll remember."
"You call him Nick?" Gwen'd asked. She'd come for breakfast super early and in no way spent the night in Peter's room after climbing in through the window, because that'd be weird and break one of Aunt May's "tenets of happy living with your old and decrepit aunt, Peter." Peter'd sent her a look, and she'd laughed. "What? I've seen that guy. He looks like he'd murder you at ten paces just for thinking his first name."
"After you've worked for someone for as long as I have, you come to certain understandings," Aunt May'd replied cryptically before snapping the paper back up.
Darcy'd rolled his eyes when Peter'd walked in twenty minutes early. He suspected then (not for the first time) that his aunt might be trolling him a little.
"I'm not nervous," he lied as he closed his faux leather portfolio with the pad of paper and the (six) extra copies of his résumé. "I'm just trying to be prepared."
"Yeah, except you look like you want to hurl," Darcy replied. She dropped her hand back onto her desk. "You worked here all fall. You know all the people in that room better than any of the other potential teachers. And I think Fury might actually kind of like you."
Peter felt his eyes widen. "Really?"
"No, but at least you don't look so pale now." He screwed up his face at her, and she laughed. "You'll be fine," she promised.
"I'll believe it when I see it," he muttered.
Jessica Drew emerged from the hallway that led down to the conference rooms a couple minutes later, terrifying in these red heels that no second-grade teacher wore normally. She shook hands with a pretty redhead—the competition, Peter thought bitterly—and then locked eyes with Peter.
He swallowed and pushed himself out of the chair. "Miss Drew," he greeted, reaching forward to shake her hand and—
"Oh, come on," she grumbled, and as he watched, she stepped out of her shoes. She rotated one foot, cringing. "These were a mistake. The next time I follow Ororo's patented 'break them in by wearing them around once all the kids leave' advice, find me and hit me in the head."
Peter blinked. "Uh," he said. Eloquently, of course.
Drew rolled her eyes. "We already know each other, Parker," she reminded him as she bent to pick up her heels. "I'm not going to go easy on you, but the 'never met you' song and dance is a young woman's game. Not that I'm old. Just too old for these." She dangled her shoes from her fingers. "Save the shake-and-stammer for Jasper and Fury."
Peter felt his throat grow thick. "Assistant Principal Sitwell's joining us?" he asked.
Jessica shrugged. "That a problem?" she asked as she started leading Peter down the hallway.
Peter shook his head. He considered stopping her, explaining about the payday Friday incident that she'd missed for one boyfriend or another (Peter didn't know this from experience, he'd just heard Miss Danvers—always and forever Miss Danvers, no first name permitted—complaining about it), and running back down the hall. But he also wanted a full-time job, one where he wouldn't need to live with Aunt May anymore, and—
Well.
He put on his bravest face and stepped inside the conference room.
Fury immediately stood to greet him, offering him his hand first and then bottled water and a chair, but Sitwell— Sitwell just smirked. Peter forced a smile and shook his hand as warmly as he could before settling down in his assigned seat. He opened up his portfolio, clicked his pen, and pretended not to feel the heat of Sitwell's gaze bearing down on him.
"I'm not gonna waste our time pretending that we don't all know one another," Fury explained, and Peter released a half-relieved puff of breath. "Hard to have you introduce yourself when we've watched you calm down a nervy first-grader who wet himself. Let's just start right in on the important parts."
Next to Fury, Jessica Drew grinned as she started scratching something down on her own pad of paper. Peter managed to smile for real this time. "Sure," he said, and the interview began in earnest.
The first couple questions felt mostly like softballs, things about what classes he'd taken in this last semester, his long-term plans, and his hobbies. He talked a lot about his photography—look, everyone needed something besides work, okay?—and a little about how he thought he'd like to do curriculum design in the future. "The way future," he clarified when Drew raised an eyebrow. "I just think that there's not enough really good science curriculum for younger kids. I think a lot of the basics end up sort of glossed over, especially with all the standardized tests and stuff, and it'd be fun to bring that to the surface."
"Doesn't sound much like a bed of roses," Sitwell said conversationally, and Peter felt his blood run cold. Across the table, the man smiled at him. "Curriculum design's no pleasure cruise."
"Maybe not," Peter admitted as heat started climbing up the side of his neck, "but I'd like to try."
"Actually, that sort of brings me to my next question," Sitwell continued, leaning back in his chairs. "Can you tell me about a bad mistake—or a few—that you've made while teaching?"
Peter rolled his lips together, watching as Drew stopped writing to send Sitwell a confused glance.
"Or a time that you've had your share of sand kicked in your face but came through? A time you've faced a challenge before the whole human race but not—"
"Are you quoting a Queen song?" Drew cut in.
Sitwell coughed like he wanted to burst out laughing. Next to him, Fury pressed his lips into a tight line, and Peter resisted the urge to groan. Fury never attended happy hour, but of course he'd heard about it. He'd probably seen video, since Stark'd had his camera out and—
"I'm pretty sure that's 'We are the Champions,'" Drew continued as Peter felt his whole face turn a sort of crayon-box crimson. "Why the hell are you reciting 'We are the Champions' at—"
"You know, I think I'd just like to answer the question," Peter broke in. Fury raised his eye at that, and Peter forced himself to swallow. "I mean, I've made a few bad mistakes during student teaching. Who hasn't? Like, this one time, we were working on some sight word stuff in reading circles . . . "
By the end of the story—involving IEP accommodations, a missing beginning reading book, and a horrible misunderstanding about apples—even Sitwell looked impressed. Fury nodded the whole way through and picked up the questioning from then on out, and at the end of the interview, he shook Peter's hand extra-fiercely. "You'll hear back by the end of the week," he promised, and his voice sounded so certain that Peter wanted to throw up all over again.
Better yet, Peter made Sitwell crack up when he shook his hand and asked, "Should I take my bow and my curtain call?"
Out in the office, Drew stopped him by planting a hand on his arm. "Okay, seriously, what gives with the song lyrics? Because I thought he was trolling you, but now—"
"Peter got drunk at the only payday Friday he ever attended without his aunt, stood on a chair, and belted out the whole of 'We are the Champions' in pretty impressive falsetto," Darcy volunteered. She was leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed under her, uhm, feminine wiles. Her smirk sort of promised the death of mankind. "Stark's got video, and Sitwell almost pissed himself laughing."
Peter's whole face turned bright red. "I'm not usually like that," he admitted, "but it'd been a rough day and—"
Out of nowhere, like a firework, Drew burst out laughing. She squeezed Peter's arm so hard it hurt, but in what he guessed was a friendly way. "Okay," she declared, "you're my favorite. Like, even if we don't pick you—not that you're in bad shape—you're my favorite." Her grin dazzled him. "You'll fit right in."
He scratched the back of his neck. "I hope so," he admitted.
"I know so," she said, and patted him on the arm before she disappeared back toward the conference room.
Clint loathed field day. He'd had too many crazy moments in his life for him to feel at ease with sheer chaos, and that's exactly what this day was. The entire fifth grade would head outside to the playground. Thankfully, the event was held in the morning when it was still cool outside. Unfortunately, that meant the afternoon would be spent indoors with a bunch of sweaty pre-teens who had yet to realize that deodorant was their friend.
The entire playground was overrun with little games and challenges for the students to participate in: a hole-in-one putt-putt thing, foot races, crab walk relays, a free throw contest, and more. There was a rule that each kid had to take part in at least five events, and the teachers made sure that they weren't all athletic in nature. The little nerds on their way to middle school were appreciative of this.
It took a god-awful number of parent volunteers to pull this thing off. They were needed for water stations, to man and keep records for the individual events, and also to just meander about and make sure the kids weren't terribly misbehaving. Normally, it was Jessica Cage's job to coordinate parent volunteers. Clint dreaded having to make calls in addition to being the one to organize the kids into playing games, but Wade made the offer to take care of parents. Clint wasn't the smartest man on the planet, but he wasn't that dumb. He immediately signed off on the idea, but made Wade promise to keep him updated on things (complete with evidence of e-mails to prove the sub wasn't lying about numbers). To Wade's credit, this year was the second highest turn out for parent volunteers. Clint discovered why the morning of field day: Wade made sure each helper received a doughnut and large cup of coffee, and there was a heavy amount of flirting with all of the moms (and even a couple of the dads).
Whatever worked.
There was a tradition to this thing, as dumb as it was. The fifth grade teachers went over the rules, for the millionth time, in their classrooms. Once the students at least pretended to listen to everything, they all headed outside. The first event of the day was not for the students, but rather the teachers.
"Bring it!" Tony bellowed as he led his fellow specials teachers out to the kickball field. He waved both his hands in the air, grinning wide and sporting one of his limitless pairs of ridiculous sunglasses.
The tug-of-war contest between the fifth grade teachers and the specials teachers was a tradition that predated Clint's time at the school, which pretty much made it ancient history. Victories were pretty evenly split between the two teams, which made competition all the fiercer. It, unsurprisingly for this particular staff, resulted in a lot of trash talk and side bets. Added to that was the private competition ongoing for the better part of a decade between Clint and Phil: loser had to do most of the work during their next sexcapade.
Whenever that could happen. Clint just considered it extra motivation to get his brother back on his feet and out of the house as soon as possible.
Stark led the students in a chant of "Specials! Specials!" Clint heard Carol, considered part of the fifth grade team since it was one of the two grades she serviced, mutter something more than likely inappropriate under her breath, but couldn't make out the exact words.
Jasper, who'd trailed behind the specials teachers, waved the kids quiet. As he did so, a handful of the fifth graders raised both of their arms in some sort of salute. If the assistant principal noticed the act, he ignored it. Quickly, because the kids weren't going to tolerate a huge speech, Jasper explained the rules. As he did so, Clint found himself distracted by Phil rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His husband caught on to this, and the bastard had the nerve to lick his lips.
Game on.
Clint turned his back to Phil and proceeded to run through a series of stretches that emphasized his ass. He only stopped when Tony started whistling at him. The technology teacher then began to complain about how his team was at a disadvantage because they were wearing their usual business casual, but all the fifth grade teachers got to wear athletic wear. Carol yelled at him to stop his whining.
Jasper told the teams to take their spots. Normally, Clint anchored the end of his team's side of the rope, but Wade had all but offered sexual favors to take the spot. Clint was reluctant at first—he had a reputation to maintain and a sex bet to win—but then Wade had stripped off his shirt. While awkward, it did prove the point that he was capable of the strength needed.
Clint took the position closest to the opposition, and Phil broke tradition to do the same. Normally, the librarian stayed towards the middle to shout encouragement to the team, but not this year. It spoke to how pathetic their love life had become when having eye sex during the tug of war contest in front of the entire fifth grade (and a number of parents) was the highlight of their day.
Jasper made sure everyone was ready, and once Tony got in one last heavily censored jab, things got going. The assistant principal used a whistle he'd borrowed from Natasha to signal the beginning of the contest. The air was filled with screaming kids cheering on their favorite teachers to victory. It took a lot of grunting and heaving—and not the fun kind—but after a minute of struggling, Carol ordered them to give one huge pull. It resulted on Clint falling back on his ass, but his team secured victory.
Tony immediately began his usual litany of excuses while Steve, their team's anchor, helped May pick herself up off the ground. Clint caught Phil's eye and gave him the largest shit-eating grin he could manage. Phil may have rolled his eyes, but Clint didn't miss the way his husband's shoulders shook with a quiet laugh.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in."
Carol Danvers nearly tripped off the track at the local community college as she whipped around to face—and then, was promptly passed by—one James Rhodes. He grinned at her, his whole face bright (if a little damp from the heat), and turned around to jog backwards. A few other morning joggers, all training for the same godforsaken 5K that Jessica'd signed Carol up for, glared at them before jogging right past.
Carol regained her balance and promptly flicked James off. "You're not supposed to see me when I'm sweaty."
He laughed. "Except for all those times I helped you get sweaty, you mean."
"That was glistening, thanks," she sneered in response, and she pretended to ignore the spike of heat in the depths of her belly as she jogged right past him and left him grinning in her dust.
All things considered, she and James had done pretty okay at the casual-friend thing. Carol'd tried to stay good to her word—no incessant text messages, no date-like interactions, no drunk booty calls (and Jessica'd stolen her phone the one time to make sure of that)—and she'd hung in there. Sure, some evenings felt pretty lonely, and sure, she hated watching hockey playoffs alone in her apartment instead of out with James, but most the time, she landed on solid ground.
As solid as the mushy track under her battered sneakers. She glared at where Jessica—dressed in black jogging pants and a strappy red tank-top—flirted with the scruffy groundskeeper.
"So much for training," she muttered to herself.
"And here, I thought you just missed me," James joked. Carol jerked her head over to find that he'd caught up to run right next to her. He flashed her another easy smile, and she felt her stomach turn to jelly. "Though stalking me to a charity 5K feels a little desperate, even for you."
"Yeah, well, after I stole all your dry cleaning and rooted through your garbage, I needed something to keep me going. Figured it was this or smashing my face against your window in the dead of night."
"You know, I was wondering about how the outside of my bedroom window got so greasy," he mused.
"Hey!" she protested, and he laughed when she smacked him on the arm. She sped up, a stupid form of punishment, and he somehow kept pace. She blamed his long legs in his shorts. She definitely did not look at those legs. "Just for that, I'm telling Tony to come to the race with the biggest Go Rhodey sign money can buy."
"You assume I haven't already convinced Pepper to keep him very busy on the morning of the race."
"I have it on good authority Pepper can be bought with shoes," she retorted.
He snorted. "And she can be better bought by guys taking their best friends to all-day car shows on the other side of the state, so unless you're gonna spend a whole day with Tony . . . "
Carol pulled a face at that, and James laughed warmly. They fell into a companionable silence, their sneakers beating the track as they looped back around to the start line. Despite the fact she'd sworn to only do a mile—"Because I have things to do, Jessica," she'd griped at her best friend before she'd realized the training day would become flirt with unwashed strangers armed with rakes day—she started into another lap just to avoid leaving him.
A lovesick puppy bullshit thing to do, maybe, but he kept flashing her a smile as they rounded the first bend, and how could she not fall a little for that?
"When I first started working at my office, a whole big group of us did this 5K every year," he volunteered at one point, and Carol twisted to glance over at him. He shrugged slightly, still easily keeping pace. "Over time, people dropped out, and now, I'm the last one. It's kind of nice to be able to run with a familiar face, instead of all the serious racers who meet up at every track day to run each other like cattle dogs."
Carol grinned. "And you'd know cattle dogs?"
"Hey, I've watched Babe more times than any grown man should admit to, and sheep aren't much better than cows," he returned, and she laughed. He laughed too, a little softer, and knocked his elbow against hers. "What I'm saying," he pressed, "is that if you want somebody to run with, right up to this race, you let me know."
He sent her a quick look—hopeful, maybe, though Carol refused to call it that—and she felt her stomach twist and turn. She swallowed around it and, at least for a minute or two, dropped her eyes down toward the track. "I'm technically supposed to be training with Jess," she finally said, "but I kind of think she has other ideas."
"Do I wanna know?" James asked. She nodded in the direction of Jessica and Mister Scruffy—Jessica was gripping his arm and laughing at this point—and he snorted. "Flirting with the guy who rakes the grass around the track sure puts a whole new twist on the concept of 'speed dating.'"
"Don't let her hear that, she'll ask if he has a brother."
"You could do worse than the guy who mops the floor, or whatever his brother does," James offered, and Carol tried to smile even as her heart sank deep into her gut. Whether James sensed this or not, she couldn't tell, but he nudged her lightly in the arm. "Run with me in the mornings," he encouraged, his voice light but full of something like promise. When their eyes met, Carol's stomach twisted all over again. "I mean, it's better than the alternative, right?"
She frowned. "The alternative being?"
"Running with Rake Boy over there," he replied, and he laughed when Carol purposely ran her shoulder into his as they rounded the next bend.
In the car, Jessica—sweat-less and smiling, the little shit—kicked her feet up on the dash and sighed happily. "Saw you talking with the former boy toy. You work something out?"
"I'm certainly not working out with you anymore," Carol returned, but she couldn't help her smile as she shoved Jessica's feet off the dash.
Loki took in a deep breath and counted to ten before pasting an obviously false smile on his face. "There must be some mistake," he said as calmly as possible. Which was not all that much; his words were as tight as his fake grin. "I made the reservation two days ago, and I called to confirm this morning. It is under the name Laufeyson. Will you please check again?"
The young woman serving as hostess sighed and made a show of running her finger down the list of names. She shook her head and offered an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, I don't see it. If you want me to put your name down, the wait will be about three hours."
Darcy scoffed behind him. "Yeah, we're not doing that. Are you sure the name isn't under something else? Odinson maybe?"
Loki ducked his head in an attempt to hide the flush in his cheeks. He didn't think Darcy knew that it was Mother, wife of a bank president, who'd sweet-talked his name onto the reservation list, and he wanted to keep it that way.
"Sorry, I don't see that name here, either," the hostess apologized.
Loki sighed. "If you could just look one more—"
"Excuse us for a second," Darcy interrupted. She grabbed Loki by the arm and pulled him off to a quiet corner of the swanky waiting area, her stilettos clicking on the granite floor. "What are you doing?" she whispered.
Her tone was mean, but her eyes spoke of her confusion. "I'm trying to get them to remember that I absolutely—"
"Loki," she sighed with an eye roll. "I've seen your apartment, and I'm well aware of your status as a grad student extraordinaire. There is no way you can afford a place like this."
He felt his features harden at her words. "I'll have you know, that I am completely—"
She waved him quiet. "Whatever. I'd just end up ordering a side salad out of guilt and be hangry in twenty minutes flat. Let's go."
Loki rolled his lips to keep from responding, sensing there was no way he was going to win the fight. He looked around the upscale restaurant, taking in the warm and rich ambiance. He had plans for tonight, grand plans. And they were melting away, drops falling through his fingers.
"C'mon," Darcy said again as she tugged on his arm. The restaurant was nice, but it was nothing compared to the sly grin she threw over her shoulder.
He was so very much in trouble.
She took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together. The contact made him flush all over, and he was grateful for the dark night out so that the blush wasn't blatantly obvious on his ridiculously pale skin. Darcy pulled him along for several blocks until the scenery changed from "rich people swank," as she'd called it when they arrived at the restaurant, to a younger and artsier vibe. Loki had no problem seeing Darcy in this environment, the kind with the green coffeeshops, vintage clothes stores, and tattoo parlors. That last one intrigued him greatly.
He got lost in watching her brunette curls bounce along behind her and didn't realized they'd arrived at their location until they'd stopped moving. There was an obnoxious noise coming from a jukebox, and the neon lighting from signs hung everywhere—walls and ceiling alike—was harsh on his eyes. The blaring oldies music was interrupted by the sounds of crashes. Loki looked to his right to see a dozen bowling lanes, but there was something slightly off about them.
"Duckpin bowling," Darcy announced with a wide grin. "Like regular bowling, except the balls and pins are smaller and you get an extra turn each frame. C'mon."
She pulled him forward once more until they arrived at the counter. The man working it recognized Darcy on sight and was grabbing for her shoe size before she even said hello. Loki gave his shoe size and tried not to look too grossed out when he was handed a pair of well-worn bowling shoes that looked older than he was. Darcy paid for two games and then shoved Loki off in the direction of the bar to secure them a pitcher of beer and whatever food he found acceptable.
When he joined Darcy at their lane, she was lacing up her shoes. She'd managed to pull out a pair of socks from somewhere. "One must always be ready for bowling," she told him solemnly.
He couldn't help the smile that overtook his face. He was sure they looked ridiculous: him in his one good suit that was reserved for defending dissertations and for when his mother tricked him into nights at the opera, Darcy in a maroon dress that clung in all the right places. Her bowling shoes clashed immensely with the look, but Loki suddenly found himself appreciating them more than the stilettos.
Barely.
Darcy went first, flinging the softball-sized ball down the lane to leave her with a seven-ten split that caused her to mutter a string of curses. She arched an eyebrow when she realized he was staring at her. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"Just admiring your skills," he answered.
Darcy jabbed a finger into his chest. "I was going to kick your ass anyway, but now I'm definitely going to do it."
"We'll see about that," he challenged.
She absolutely kicked his ass.
They spent two hours bowling and gorging themselves on greasy food. When they meandered back to his car, it was done once more hand in hand. And when he pulled into her driveway, she leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth. "We're never going to be Jane and Thor," she told him quietly.
Loki sighed. "I've lived in the shade of my brother my whole life. It can be quite intimidating attempting a relationship when I have that to live up to."
"Please," Darcy snorted, "I literally live in their shadow. I can see into their bedroom from mine, which can be mortifying and highly entertaining all at the same time. But look," she said with a serious tone. "We're never going to be like them, as much as it will bug us—or at least, as much as it will bug me. We're not the perfect-fancy-dinner kind of couple. We're going to fuck things up."
Loki felt the corner of his mouth pull upwards. "We're the duckpin bowling type?"
"Exactly," Darcy beamed.
He couldn't help himself. He leaned in closer, but thankfully, she closed the distance. Her lips—full and sweet—felt amazing, and the baser parts of his mind couldn't help but imagine how fantastic they would feel on other parts of him. He pulled away with a slight shake of his head. "Thank you for a lovely evening."
"Anytime," she grinned before climbing out of the car. Before he could pull away, she stuck her head back in the door. "You should use the money I saved you tonight for buying me flowers. Send them to me at work tomorrow," she instructed with a wink.
Oh yes, Loki thought as he watched Darcy enter her home. So very much trouble.