AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I am not gonna lie - this story is hard. It's been very difficult to write, due to it's content and direction, and I jump off the deep in in the first chapter. There are triggers in this chapter and in this whole story.
TRIGGER WARNING. PLEASE READ TAGS.
This story feels very vulnerable to me and I feel raw after writing this chapter. It hurts. It's painful to write, so I'm gonna guess it's not an easy read either.
This is a story that has weighed heavily on my mind for a long, long time. I'm using this fic to somehow finally put some words to some emotions I've been carrying with me.
I do not condone the actions of rape or abuse in this story. This is a hurt/comfort fic.
I encourage anyone who is triggered or has gone through rape and/or abuse - please reach out. Please get help. Feel free to message me, even, I'm very happy to listen and help in any way I can. You are not alone and you are strong. I'm on tumblr - blog/jdramione - feel free to reach out and send me a message.
A HUGE thank you to my Beta, whose name I don't have permission to use as of yet, but still want to give a huge THANK YOU to. She's completely amazing and I'm so thrilled she volunteered to help me.
She was so fucking cold.
Freezing actually. The kind of icy chill that Darcy had never felt before. At first it had been an uncomfortable tightening of skin, goosebumps covering her body, causing her extreme stress and tension. Anxiety flooded through her when she realized there hadn't been a way to warm up, causing full-body shivering that she couldn't stop.
She'd been held captive in this…place for weeks.
Cold and alone.
They tied her up in a new, more awful position every time. Her restraints getting tighter, her chains shorter, her discomfort greater.
Sometimes they'd position her hands in front of her body, and she hated that she felt gratitude when they granted her any measure of comfort. When they hoisted her hands upwards with the chain, the weight of her body pulled the cuffs into her wrists, bruising and cutting. Each agonizing pull reopened wounds and refractured limbs. She was never able to turn her head to see what had been going on, what they'd be trying to do in that moment, but once she'd heard the resounding clang of chain against the concrete wall. the finishing tug echoing through her brain like a gong, screams forced their way out of her.. Each time. Her wrists seared in agony, her body screaming, her mind crying out for them to just stop.
It hurt so much.
Numerous times in an attempt to escape, she'd twisted her wrists as they were pulled upwards, the metal cuffs cutting past the thin skin of her wrists until she'd bled. The first time, she had watched the small trickles of blood making their way down her arms, like syrup from a maple tree.
She'd been to a maple tree farm once when she was young. She remembered the tour guide showing her how they would drill into the tree to tap it, creating a tap hole big enough to insert the spile. At the time, she'd thought it cruel to stab the trees so harshly, to drill into them and plunge something deep to pull something out. She had felt sorry for the tree.
When the blood had first dribbled down her arms, in that moment, her mind went back to that time, and once again and more empathetically, she felt sick with sympathy for the harshness in what people did to maple trees.
Being forced to hang from the metal cuffs around her wrists had been truly terrible, especially that first time, and she had wept furiously. At the unfairness of it, from the pain of it, the torture - she couldn't understand.
What had she done?
But the worst of it had been in the most recent of days, when they'd taken to keeping her hands bound tightly behind her.
There was no way to give herself any semblance of heat or warmth, not even the tiniest ability of friction by attempting to rub her hands together and taking away the ability to cross her arms to contain any body heat she could possibly have left.
There was nothing she could do.
She'd been left in this position of horrible discomfort, chest forced forward, arms bent tightly behind her, wrists locked together and chained to the wall so close she wasn't able to even shift or move. Couldn't stand up or even attempt to get her legs under her.
So she shivered, uncontrollably, constantly, unable to do anything else.
Her teeth chattered, lips probably blue, numb with cold and chapped so badly they were cracked in multiple places and burned with every breath. She couldn't even open her lips very wide or else the skin would crack and bleed, again, another small but painful reminder that nothing was her own, and they had taken everything from her.
Darcy's skin had broken out in hives after the first two or three days into her captivity, that had swelled and itched to no end, and burned as if she'd been stung by a hundred bees. She had originally thought it was simply her body reacting to the stress of the situation.
After that, the hives had become painful blisters, festering and seeping. She had attempted to feel at them with her fingertips at every opportunity given, those precious and traumatizing moments when they would release her from her bonds; those few, short moments that left her overwhelmed and confused, where they'd finished their "interrogation" for a moment and she could breathe, or cry - but be left alone for a few blissful minutes, before they'd drag her to the next round of torment.
And then they would lock her in the cell for hours at a time, left alone, and she'd be safe in the dark for a little while. And those little specks of time alone kept her going, kept her alive. A reprieve from those men who enjoyed hurting her so, and she would be able to breathe - just breathe, in and out, for a little while.
Always desperate to get a good feel of her body in the dark after each session with them, when she was finally left alone, in the cell, she had taken to running her fingers carefully over the painful blisters she could reach at the time. She'd kept a running tally of the damage inflicted to her, always causing a fresh agony that had sent her mind reeling and her body flinching, wishing she'd just go numb all over instead. But keeping her aware of her wounds, of the severity of them, of the nearness of her impending death.
It was these thoughts that spiraled through her mind; her desperate attempt to not focus on what had been done to her, but instead, how her body was responding to it.
Always wondering if she would survive that passing night, or the terrifying fear that when she finally closed her eyes, that would be it, and she wouldn't ever wake up again.
They covered her entire body now, these sores, and she didn't know what to do about them. But truly, practical thinking seemed more difficult by the day. A haze fogged over her brain like a thundercloud covering up the moon before an evening storm hit, taking over her daily thoughts, making these specific worries spiral continuously on one single thought before blanking out, unable to form a coherent thought or feeling other than the single focus of pain - constant pain.
The blisters were the least of her real concerns at present. But in those moments when she could think of nothing else, the knowledge that they were there haunted her. The simple knowledge of their presence - they bothered her, not knowing if she was going to die from the blisters, from infection, from blood loss.
These fearful thoughts continued in the back of her mind, constantly. She longed to know. So far from everything she knew, her mind clung to the few dreadful certainties of her captivity. Light meant pain. Dark meant peace. Well, comparatively speaking.
She felt herself brushing up against the spectre of complete helplessness. They're not coming. You're holding on for nothing. This is the room you will die in.
The part of her brain whispering those things was at war with her conscious mind, which gathered up the fractured pieces of her hope and gripped its sharp edges. Giving in was not an option. If she let herself implode into true despair, there was no coming back.
Hope is like food, in survival situations.
That's what the instructor in that first aid class had said anyway. She was really putting that knowledge to practical use here. Was there anything else of use? Couldn't do CPR on herself. No sign of a defibrillator on the wall anywhere. She glanced up at her wrists and then immediately away. Even if she could remember the right first aid for those wounds, she couldn't make a bandage out of stagnant water and moonlight.
Darcy let her mind drift away from the looming horror of the present, back to the conference room where she'd practiced pretending a plastic man needed saving.
She really hadn't wanted to take the class; she had no plans to be a medic or a field agent. But when she realized they would get to play with the fake dead guy? Worth it! She'd sung "stayin' alive" at the top of her lungs, pumping his plastic chest until the song ended, then enjoyed lingering moment of mouth to mouth, smacking one last kiss on the poor plastic dude with no legs or arms or hair, before standing up and sadly declaring the dummy dead.
Jane, in desperation to not laugh out loud, had kept a hand tightly over her mouth, a huge grin hidden, but bright eyes sparkling as she would try and fail numerous times at begging Darcy to stop and pay attention because, "in her most Captain America impression voice," she would declare hissingly "this is serious, Darcy." She'd repeated it over and over again until she could do nothing more but wipe the tears from her eyes in full-on laughter. The instructor had not been impressed, nor amused, which made Darcy push all boundaries just a little bit further and caused Janie to laugh all the harder.
Somehow, they'd "passed," although Darcy had felt sure it was only because of the fear the instructor probably felt in having to teach them again. And besides, Jane already knew all this stuff. So Darcy had felt it her duty to get through the burden of being forced into CPR and First Aid class by being as distracting and humorous as humanly possible. She'd felt sure, from the grins and laughter of the other classmates, that they had enjoyed the class much more than they would have had Darcy not participated.
You're welcome, class.
And of all people who had made them do it, it had been Steve who had insisted she and Jane go.
STEVE.
"We're not even Avengers, Cap," she'd told him pointedly.
"And yet you just called me Cap," he'd answered smugly, "instead of my actual name."
Darcy had rolled her eyes as hard as possible, hands on her hips, and was still somehow able to see Steve raise his eyebrow at her. And run his eyes down her body, at the jutted out hip and how it emphasised the curves of her form.
"I'm taking a moment to find my inner patience," he'd said, and the longer he spent looking, the more she'd wondered if it was actually self-restraint he was seeking. But there was no way he'd ever look at her like that.
In her dreams, maybe.
Of course, he'd already launched into one of his safety speeches again, though this time she did notice he had a certain glint to his eye that she hadn't seen before…
It hadn't distracted her enough to become and 100% focused on her irritation again as he continued berating her.
Classic Cap. At least his voice was nice to listen to. Even when he was pissed (and right now he was only slightly irritated), he never lost his temper with her, but also never backed off.
Neither of them ever backed off. They were made for each other, as far as arguments went.
They'd gone back and forth on this issue for days, Jane refusing to participate in it and Thor basically eating popcorn from the sidelines, watching the two of them volley back and forth, as if they were playing tennis.
And when arguing didn't work, Darcy had quickly reverted to begging and pleading.
To her dismay, Steve had ignored her whining, puppy dog eyes, frowns, and stinkfaces. Even her most mournful pout had only drawn a sparkle of mirth into his eyes. He'd looked down at her mouth for just long enough that, after he had walked silently away, she'd frozen in place.
Did he really just do what I think he just did?
Holy shit.
He wasn't completely immune to her charms, then. He'd looked like he was torn, too professional to really linger but too attracted not to.
Everyone in the tower could take care of themselves because they knew things. Natasha was the most kick-ass spy ninja in the world, whom Darcy admired, worshiped, and feared - all in one collective conglomeration of women empowerment (yay feminism!) and utter respect to all Natasha could do even with her little pinky (seriously, she could actually KILL someone with her little pinky - what the ever fucking fuck!?). Befriending Natasha was incredibly humbling because Natasha simply being Natasha meant that one always knew where one's place was in the food chain of life. The Soviet trained Black Widow was at the TOP and Darcy was… at the bottom. And in Darcy's opinion, even with close Avengers competitors, Natasha was the absolute bomb.
She could kill a man with her thighs.
With her THIGHS. What even the fuck?
Darcy could barely get her 10,000 steps on her fitbit per day, much less have enough thigh power to kill a person. Natasha was kick-ass, and Darcy's hero.
It didn't hurt that Natasha had some form of the serum that Steve had, although in reality, hers was probably closer to the version Bucky had. Not that Natasha ever spoke about it. Darcy had actually stumbled across this tidbit of information one day while she was cleaning Bruce's workspace and had casually scanned a few pages as she was organizing them and came across Natasha's medical file.
She hadn't meant to spy, it was just right… there. In front of her. And she read and then a lot of things suddenly made a lot more sense to Darcy.
Another unexpected side to Natasha was that she was very… motherly, in a way that no one would ever suspect unless Natasha allowed them to see that side of her.
Darcy had only witnessed Natasha being this way with her, Clint, Steve, and strangely Bucky… who might be the only equal to Natasha's bad-assery, in regards to both serum and training, but he also had this very fragile, vulnerable side that popped up more often than with anyone else.
Usually, it was Steve who noticed first when Bucky was about to lose his shit, and he dealt with it. But, Darcy had also witnessed Natasha gently grab onto Bucky's hand and quietly lead him away when he'd stumbled into a room full of people once, his face immediately losing all color..
Or that other time when Steve had gone out for a run in the very beginning, and hadn't told Bucky he was going or something, and Bucky had freaked the fuck out in their apartment. Natasha had been the one Jarvis had called, the one who had caught Bucky about to dash out of the tower, and somehow calmed him down in a soft russian voice before he allowed her to lead him back to his quarters.
Oh yeah, and that one scary time Tony got slammed under water in a fight and came up having a huge PTSD moment,and Natasha had been the only one around. She had eased him so carefully, so gently back to the present, never making mention of his red-rimmed eyes or the way he couldn't seem to move his hand off of his chest. Darcy had watched via intel video, scared for her friend but so, so glad Natasha had been there. Natasha had actually tugged Tony to her, just as Tony had looked as if he was about to have a real break down, and held him close to her, like a mother would a child - so uncharacteristic of her - and weirder, watched Tony allow it, tears streaming down his face as he crumbled against her breast. Natasha had even run her fingers through his hair, murmuring softly to him, until about half an hour later, when he'd finally gone lax against her, finally coming back to himself and the present.
Natasha had helped him up, they'd both brushed it off, and as far as Darcy knew, never spoke of the incident again.
But Darcy had seen it.
Clint was fun, goofy, and the most relatable to Darcy - and Darcy loved him for it. Perhaps it was simply because he was the most human amongst all of the avengers and she felt more of a kinship to him in that regard, but also because she knew firsthand how easily he could get hurt compared to the others, and it humanized him to her in a way the other's would never be.
He could also easily be her favorite person, any day of the week.
He was fucking hilarious, and seemed to enjoy Darcy's type of humor as well.
They just… clicked, in a special way no one else ever had with Darcy. He got her and she got him, and together, they were the most awesome of any pair of friends that ever was.
Clint, on the other hand, was also incredibly focused, protective, and even fierce when he needed to be. What she particularly found fascinating about him was the fact that he often hid how brilliant he actually was behind a persona of being silly or acting simple. She saw right through him, though. She would watch others around him and be astonished that they all seemed to buy it. Well, with the exception of Natasha, of course.
Darcy had always read people well, to the point that she considered it a superpower. Not that she would ever admit it out loud considering the actual superpowers her roommates possessed. But the way she could read body language and emotions, know whether or not someone was telling the truth? She knew it was important enough to count as a superpower, if only privately.
Clint hid behind different personas because he was spy-like and ninja-like, like Natasha.
Nat had trained him well. But where she could just glance at a person, read them, and create an immediate character to fit the individual, Clint's special power was better suited by befriending people to find truths by acting the way that individual needed in order for them to loosen up and feel comfortable. Thus, making him seem very relatable.
He was like this to everyone, of course, but she liked to think especially to her. She loved the persona he put on with the Avengers and he was easily one of her best friends; she related so much to him that it was often scary at times. Or perhaps he simply created this particular persona based on her.
Or maybe this was really the real Clint.
Darcy liked to think so. She couldn't imagine how she would feel if she found out he wasn't being real with her, and that it was all put on.
Darcy also didn't doubt for a second that he could be just as scary as Nat. Where Natasha was street smart, the smartest and deadliest, for that matter, Clint was actually academically brilliant. He could do amazing maths in his head to calculate the angles of his arrows before he shot even just one. Smart enough in those areas to rival even Tony and Bruce. Not quite Janie level, as she was in her own kind of special genius category and truly none of them could compare.
Darcy often laughed whenever Jane would drag Darcy up to Tony's lab, also dragging Bruce by his purple sleeve with her, because she needed help with something. She was stuck on some equation (and had a gum wrapper in her hair - oh Janie. What even.) - and the three of them would just stare at a digital board for hours. Usually right whenTony started unpacking hidden snacks to hand out to the crew, Janie would jump up, elated, and twirl about the room, papers flying and laughing joyously with exhilaration that she'd finally solved it before running out of Tony's lab back to her own.
What had Darcy laughing, as she walked around picking up the papers that had slipped from Jane's grasp in her enthusiasm, was watching the mixture of confusion and frustration on both Tony and Bruce's face. They would look at each other, look back at the equation, then go stumbling and yelling after Jane, each trying to catch up with her first to beg her to explain what the solution had been!
What bothered her most, she mused, in regards to Steve being the one to force her into the First Aide/CPR class was the question that always lay in the back of her mind - what were his real motives in forcing this upon her? Was he trying to push her into the superhero group she would never truly be a part of?
She was only human, after all. A sidekick at best, who liked to feed people, and poke at them until they gave her their attention on random things.
Her second to last resort with Steve - or as she currently referred to him as "Captain" now, had been to approach him in the gym in her tightest and most borderline-inappropriate yoga outfit.
He may be obliged to behave professionally, but she was not.
When she was deep in a pose that made the best use of her physique, she'd used her best, most sweetest voice asking him to reconsider having to take the class because, obviously, she had him around to protect her.
He had given her a once over - no, make that twice, a look of appreciation he either couldn't or just didn't try to hide (finally) and had walked over near to her, squatted next to her, and said,
"I know what you're doing, but it's not gonna work. Not with me.
You're going. And that's final."
What. The. Fuck.
She'd dropped out of her King Pigeon Pose completely insulted.
It had pissed her off but it was also so fucking hot that she didn't even know what to do but blink owlishly up at him, laying flat on the mat, mouth dropped open from shock like a gaping fish as he gave her a slow wink as he stood, and strolled calmly away from her - back to where he was benchpressing a bazillion pounds like it was two cans of creamed corn.
She hadn't been able to move a muscle.
She had wiles, damn it! And he hadn't fallen for any of them.
What the hell!
Fuming, but still in the game, Darcy had begun her final attempt at simply trying to bribe him with treats. This was her last resort, of which Clint had been very supportive and even offered to help - although Darcy felt his motives were more selfish in nature than supportive.
She'd baked him a pie.
The most amazing apple pie that ever existed. Clint agreed to help, sticking his finger in it and grabbing an apple slice before she could stop him and sticking it in his mouth with an appreciative "mmm…. - the BEST, Darce. Make me one."
And when Steve came into the communal kitchen for dinner that night, she surprised him by whipping it out with flourish.
He'd been surprised for a moment, his eyes widening as he glanced at her and then quickly narrowing, strategically - seeing right through her plight, and seeing the bribe that it so obviously was instead of something goodhearted and earnest (she'd been determined - this was war!), but the bastard said nothing but simply telling her it looked delicious, cut himself a slice, and took a bite.
She'd watched him carefully as he closed his eyes to the first bite, his expression going blank, then distant, his eyes sad - which had confused her to no end - hello, pie!
Why are you sad eating pie, Steve?
And when he had finished, he got up, thanked her with sincerity so sincere that she could only blink at him when he told her it was delicious and that it made him think of home, and then lastly, his voice breaking ever so slightly, in a way that made her do a double take - because it wasn't Cap's voice all of a sudden, and wasn't Steve's voice - she didn't know who this person was. And then he looked at the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets, and told her that it had reminded him of his mom.
His mom.
He'd never even mentioned family to her before, or to anyone else as far as Darcy knew.
"She made a pie like that for me, once…" he trailed off. "Bucky'd found apples from somewhere and brought them home, and she'd made a pie just like this, and it was so special because it was just so rare…"
He'd stopped talking, abruptly, and hunched his shoulders in further.
Fuck.
She'd been unable to reply. No sass coming out of her mouth. He'd shocked her into silence.
He'd said it all so quietly and then walked away, hands still stuffed in pockets, head down, and it stunned her. She hadn't even been able to tell him this was a bribe to get out of the dumb class.
He'd ruined the whole plan by being all sad and… vulnerable… over the damn pie.
Shitballs.
She felt ashamed.
She waited a while, to give him (and her) some needed space from that unexpected heart-to-heart before trying a different tactic, meeting with him later that evening in Stark's massive library as he perused the tall shelves for a book to pull (seriously, it put HOGWARTS to shame), asking him if he'd take a moment to speak with her.
He acquiesced, although his shoulders were still tight and his expression shuttered.
She told him how happy it had made her that he liked the pie. How that pie in particular was very special to her, and that it had been an old family recipe that she knew was from World War II (he clenched his fist for a short moment, she noticed) and that's why she'd made it just for him. That she hadn't meant to take him down memory lane and certainly hadn't meant to make him sad.
His face hardened. "I'm not sad," he said, almost defensively.
Right.
She looked at him sympathetically for a moment, trying to get a read on him - it was near impossible. His stoicism was very good.
"You don't use actual measurements for a pie like this," she'd explained. "It's all about the feel. And I only know what the feel is by watching my Nana make it over and over and then having me make it over and over. I'm not sure a real recipe of this even exists anywhere, actually…" she drifted off.
"Ma cooked that way," he said, his voice quiet. "I guess everyone did back then. You just used what you had, and if you were lucky, something edible would come out of it. If you had any real talent at it, you got something delicious to eat." He looked sad. "Meals were harder to come by then, too. It's why Bucky learned to cook after…"
He shook his head.
"After what?" she asked.
He leaned back in his chair, momentarily caught up in memories from the past.
Like she was now.
She didn't want to die.
Don't let the cold in. Back to the warm kitchen. To her friends. Her team. She would stay here with her memory of them and keep fighting. They would come for her.
They would.
Not so long ago for him, she had guessed She hadn't thought of it often; it was hard to wrap your brain around the concept of the mass loss he'd experienced. He hid his feelings on it so well, kept them close to the chest. They were the kind of things her 'superpower' was supposed to help her see, and was this yet another way he was stronger than regular humans?
A deep frown had tightened his face, a strange and sudden contrast to the sadness he had worn moments ago.
"My Ma had gotten sick," he said quietly. "Bucky'd moved in with us to help cover the rent." He pushed a hand through his hair, his frustration suddenly palpable. "I was so sick all the time - useless, really. They both always went out of their way to make sure I was taken care of.
"This pie…" he trailed off. "I remember her making this pie."
She'd felt like a horses ass and also began to embrace the feeling of total defeat. It was just there, she on the precipice.
"Bucky'd like a piece of this," he'd told her, finally looking up at her. "It'd remind him of her."
"I could do that," she began slowly. She paused a moment. God, why couldn't she stop herself? "Would that possibly get me out of the class?"
"No." His voice dull as he stood up. She had been left alone in the library, and accepted defeat.
And that had been that.
She'd left the pie in the refrigerator (it's not called an icebox anymore, Steve) with a note that it was for Steve and for Bucky, if he wanted to share.
The next morning, she'd returned to the kitchen to clean up, the pie pan was clean and washed, as well as the entire mess she'd made.
And a note lay next to it saying, "Of all the bribes, this was the closest to winning. But if you'd ever like to make this pie again, Bucky and I would very much appreciate it."
She'd felt sad for him in a way she hadn't before. She'd understood a new side of him, one he didn't let many see, if any. Bucky just… always knew - because he'd been there, living that life with Steve. But Bucky talked even less than Steve and as curious as she'd been about SO. MANY. THINGS, she'd actually done exceptionally well at keeping the questions to herself because it had seemed… cruel, in a way, to bring it up.
But maybe this opened a door to where she could begin to poke at him about what things were like back then. She didn't want to make him sad, but it would be so fascinating to know, and who else could really tell her in a youth's perspective of a different era?
Maybe it was the 40's in him that made it easy for him not to give into her. Some kind of gentlemanly long-lost gesture of protectiveness. He hadn't even tried to pursue her - not once!
Was it because she didn't have super powers?
In all honesty, though, his refusal to back down had impressed her.
She was a force of nature, and proud of it. No man ever stood up to her, they always backed down and won... but Steve, he gave no leeway. He'd even… opened up to her in a whole new way. She'd seen a new side of him and...it was…
New.
She liked it.
Oh God. She liked him.
Until he decided to be a troll.
He'd taped a post-it note to her door with the time, date, and location of the class the next morning. With a fucking smiley face.
A smiley face, Jane.
"It won't be that awful," she promised. "Over before you even know it. And besides - I'll be there too."
"If you are going to live in the tower, you will never know when you could need first aid survival skills," Steve had said as he walked them to the dumb class a few days later. In his most Captain-esque voice, his blue eyes so very blue in that moment and although she'd tried to listen to what he was saying, she mostly got sucked into studying his long eyelashes - that was just unfair, how long they were…
Did the serum give him super eyelashes as well as super abs? What the shit.
Fuck, they even matched his shirt. Did he purposefully color code his outfits to pull out the color of his eyes?
He probably had. Which in turn made her want to roll her eyes.
And climb him like a tree.
And he'd been smirking at her, the bastard, through his entire speech.
Such. A. Troll.
Jane had finally dragged her into the CPR classroom, Steve waving to them like the damn Queen of England as they'd entered, a triumphant grin upon his stupid, handsome face. Darcy'd allowed it, suffering the entire time, mostly because she understood she had lost the battle.
But not the war.
And... Darcy being Darcy hadn't taken the CPR/First Aid class too seriously. What was Steve expecting from her, really?
She lived with the Avengers, for God's sake. When would she even need these skills? She had Thor! She'd tased him and had been fine. She was bad-ass. And he was the God of Thunder! Hear him roar and all that. She liked to remind him he was supposed to roar every once in a while, just so he'd know to remember.
He'd always just smile gently at her, similarly as a parent would a young child, but instead of it feeling condescending in nature, it always made her feel precious, and important. She meant something to him, to all of them. She felt special amongst them. Liked. Loved, even.
They'd so quickly become her family.
They weren't here with her now, though. She wondered what they were doing.
Maybe if she'd paid more attention to that class… maybe if she'd just listened...
In her current situation, however, it wasn't as if she could actually use any of the skills she did remember. Being tied up the way she was, and thrown away in a cell like a piece of garbage. She struggled to justify herself.
She hated not being smart.
She didn't know things like Bruce, like Jane, like Tony. All geniuses on a level and height she would never achieve, no matter how tall her amazing heels were to give her those extra few inches and amazing calves.
She longed to know things, had always wanted that, especially now.
She was probably going to die here, and never get a chance to know things she should have had a chance to learn.
Even Steve and Bucky, from the 1940s, had been in World War II, and knew all kinds of first aid tricks and how to treat injuries, even ones that seemed as if they couldn't be treated at all. Even if everything according to them, could be treated with alcohol, ammonia, or safety pins.
Darcy had just blinked when Steve started looking around and asking her for safety pins one day after a training session with Tony, because he needed emergency stitches in his upper arm.
Safety pins.
Just. What.
After investigating and figuring out WHY Steve needed safety pins, Darcy took it upon herself to rescue Tony from Steve's ancient medical practices.
Tony had looked relieved when Darcy had shown up with her car keys dangling from her hand, dragging him to the hospital before Steve could "safety pin" him up. Or something. Whatever crazy World War II nonsense. She'd felt bad that Steve had looked so offended, but… what could you say to the man? The joys of modern medicine was an actual thing.
That thought brought her crushingly back down to reality.
Darcy, personally, as a person in this moment in time - she didn't know anything. She didn't even have safety pin knowledge.
She did, however, need a real, modern medicine doctor. And rescue.
And fast.
...
She was all alone.
…
Were they coming for her?
...