Spoiler alert for most MCU films.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Decade From Hell: Season 3, in progress. Please stand by…
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 89
Button-front shirts, jackets, and sweaters were discarded. The writing on the t-shirts stirred strong feelings in Morita. It took all his will power to keep from facepalming while laughing himself silly.
From what he'd seen on the security cameras, this show of rebellion was a long time coming and long overdue, in his humble opinion, and he was content to let it run its course. And like an overdue library book, someone would have to pay.
As the principal, he was tasked with keeping the peace and enforcing the rules, among other things. How he personally felt about the issue was irrelevant. Though, he did have some leeway on whether to stick to the letter or the spirit of the rules. It was a family trait to achieve the desired results by employing unconventional means he'd learned at his infamous grandfather's knee.
Stories told by his Grandpa Pat recalling his contribution to World War II had inspired him to think in and out of the box, proving that you don't have to be a by-the-book a-hole to get exceptional results. That had been proved time and time again by his school having one of the highest percentage of graduates in the district that went on to excel in university as well.
Morita shoved his hands in his pants pockets, leaning forward, and turning his head to read what was written on the fronts, and in some cases, backs of the shirts worn by the rebellious crowd.
The back of Violet Cameron's shirt enumerated, handwritten with bullet points, what was wrong with the mandated school dress code. Well, just the high points:
The school dress code:
Promotes the objectification & sexualization of young bodies
Blames the wearer for onlooker's perceptions and actions
Perpetuates rape culture
Is BS
He allowed his eyebrows to twitch upward a fraction of an inch, barely noticeable. Hmm…
On the front of Violet's shirt were the words Dress Code with the red circle and slash. Personally, Morita believed that there should be a code of conduct and dress for schools, but it should be universally applied to all genders, not just women or those who identified as female.
In the back, Morita heard several of the female teachers whispering approval. Pursing his lips to keep from grinning, or God forbid, laughing out loud, he turned to look in the other direction in order to view Peter's missive, no doubt at the suggestion of his inamorata, Felicia.
As he suspected it would, Peter's shirt came from the male point of view:
OMG! She has skin and bones and I can see them! Now I'll never pass this test! said no guy ever!
Ned Leeds joined his best friend in calling out the system:
Women need more sleep than men because fighting the patriarchy is exhausting
He turned his attention to the ringleader, Felicia Hardy, and her visual contribution to this little protest:
My education is more important than the material of my pants! was on the back. On the front, he was greeted with Girls just want to have fun bodily autonomy!
Benedict and his accomplices had slunk away with their tails between their legs, like the beaten dogs they were. Hopefully, they learned a valuable lesson or two, but Morita wouldn't count on it. He expected to hear from the young man's parents by lunch, sending his plans to meet his wife out the window. As much as he wanted to punish Benedict and the others, he felt the humiliation suffered at Felicia's hands was more than sufficient.
The bell rang, startling everyone. Some moaned and others simply sighed. To remind the students who was in charge here, Morita clapped his hands and raised his voice loud enough to be heard by all, "Okay, that's enough. Get to your classes or take detention. You're choice."
The hallway emptied so quickly, you'd have thought he'd just told them they had the rest of the day off.
Several of the teachers who'd been skulking around the periphery without commenting surrounded him, varying expressions of agreement or squint-eyed scowls in an attempt to keep from laughing.
Morita gazed in the direction he'd seen Felicia, Violet, Peter, and Ned disappear, Felicia flashing him a cheeky smile over her shoulder, to which he'd given her a single nod of approval. "To quote a cultural icon, 'New topic: women. Delightfully mysterious or bat-crap crazy?'"
Vedat Kalyal and Wayne Finch, computer science and shop respectively, chuckled politely.
Carol Stein, AP English, and Denise Osgood-Peek, AP World History, rolled their eyes so hard, he was surprised it didn't hurt. This was followed up by three words from Denise that, under less formal conditions, would have brought the house down, especially as it was delivered in her unabashedly upper-class British accent.
"Nevertheless, she persisted."
Carol and Denise went into their classrooms and closed the doors, leaving the men standing in the hall. Wayne turned a confused expression on Morita and Kalyal, "What'd she mean by that?"
Budapest, Hungary
Sam unbuckled his seatbelt, but didn't get out when neither of his companions moved. Leaning between the seats, he glanced at each in turn. "Isn't this the part where we knock on the door and demand an explanation?"
A dual slow head shake was followed by Natasha's deep inhale and slow exhale. She breathed in again, her eyes not leaving the street-level windows for the basement flat.
"He sees us coming, he'll rabbit, and we're back to square zero dark thirty," Clint added to the conversation.
Naturally, Natasha agreed with her partner, "Clint's right. We need a well thought out, carefully timed, and flawlessly executed plan, not only to keep him from escaping again, but…"
Sam caught on quickly. "…to make sure he'll listen to what we have to say." Fighting a scoff, he added the next thought, "What if he won't? Listen, I mean." Softening his features and tone, he continued, "What if, despite his obvious affection for you, uh and Steve, of course, he goes all Winter Soldier on us? Or worse, on the innocent people unknowingly harboring a dangerous assassin in their 'hood?"
Turning in his seat put Clint's face too close for comfort, forcing Sam to back off. No doubt that's why he'd done it. "There've been no reports of any negative activity that could be attributed to Barnes, Winter Soldier or not. Maybe whatever HYDRA put in his brain's taken a powder and he's back to being who he was before they got ahold of him."
Abruptly, Natasha got out of the car. Sam and Clint followed her to the trunk where she'd opened a secret compartment under the spare. The men took the hint and armed themselves with non-lethal weapons, mostly tasers that had been supercharged. If Friday could be believed, and Sam had no reason to doubt, one zap would take down an elephant, a small one. Barnes should be a cinch.
Natasha strapped on the Widow's Bites and knelt to shove knives in her boots, as did Clint. Knowing not to question, Sam pulled the cover off the wing pack, hefted it over one shoulder and vanished down the nearest alley. "Call me when you've got a real plan." He pointed waved a finger between the two friends. "Talk among yourselves. You know where I'll be."
Inside the Flat
Taking off the jacket, the man tossed it over the back of the small, sagging, too short sofa, and lay down with a groan, feet propped on the arm. It felt like heaven to lie on a soft surface with his feet up instead of the hard ground or a cot in the shelter. Well, now that his stomach was full and he had a wad of cash in his pocket. He pulled the cap down over his eyes and drifted off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by the crash of the front door slamming into the wall, followed shortly by the tinkling of breaking glass at the other end of the flat.
Instincts honed over years of living on the streets kicked in. He rolled to the floor in a crouch, one hand grabbing at anything that could be used as a weapon, ready to cause as much damage to those breaking in as possible before he escaped.
~~O~~
Eschewing the stairs, Natasha leapt the railing, landing in a crouch with barely a sound. She blew the lock with a Widow's Bite, kicked the door open, and dived into a roll, coming up on one knee, both arms poised to deliver a jolt of electricity designed to stun the flat's only occupant.
Glass breaking signaled Clint coming in the back, and a moment later, he was standing in the kitchen doorway, his bow collapsed into a shorter version of a quarterstaff, suitable for engaging in hand-to-hand combat within the confines of the underground flat.
The man rolled off the sad looking sofa, scooped up the nearest weapon, holding it out in front. He swept the air side to side, eyes wide, his breath rasping in his throat, daring them to attack. He swallowed hard, apparently deciding that Natasha was the lesser threat.
He charged her with his weapon, a rickety umbrella that popped open when he thrust it in her direction. Upon hearing the snicker Natasha didn't even try to stifle, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. She stepped aside when he threw the umbrella and ran past her toward the door.
Clint came up beside her, sharing an eye roll before following their now-absent host.
~~O~~
The man grabbed his jacket as the woman danced out of the way. He took the stairs three at a time, coming to a stumbling stop at the sight of a winged man floating several meters above the sidewalk, a pair of handguns pointed in his direction, his forehead creased in confusion. "You're not Barnes."
Though he recognized the flying man's speech as English, his grasp of the language was sparse. Hands above his shoulders in surrender, he told him so, "Nem beszélek angolul."
The pair who'd broken into the flat now stood behind him, the woman a step in front, marking her as the one in charge, and the most dangerous. He would pay dearly for his mistake.
"Hol van James Barnes?" she asked in Hungarian.
~~O~~
Natasha's eyes flicked to Sam, who shrugged, returned the weapons to their hiding place, and lowered himself to the sidewalk, the wings quickly folding into the pack.
"That's not Barnes," he stated unnecessarily. "Kinda looks like him though."
Ignoring Sam and Clint, Natasha softened the glare, and produced a small smile, speaking in halting Hungarian. "I am Natalia." She pointed at her teammates, "Sam, Clint. Who're you?"
"Akos. Why are you here? Who is Barnes?"
The man was scared, that much was obvious. All three Avengers were dressed in black head to toe. That would frighten most of the population, especially in a place like this, where authority figures were seldom seen and not to be trusted when they were. Natasha told him, "We're looking for a friend who's been missing for some time. We were informed that he lived here." She held a hand over her shoulder and Clint placed a photo in it, which she showed to the man. "Have you seen him?"
Akos took the photo, glanced at it, keeping his eyes from meeting hers. Not always a sign of deception.
"I have not."
A crowd had gathered, making Akos even more nervous. Natasha didn't want to get the police involved in their missing persons investigation, so it was time to cut their losses. She exchanged the photo for a card. "My number. Call and leave a message if you see him." She waited, and eventually, Akos finally looked her in the eyes with misgiving. "There is a substantial reward for information on his whereabouts." He nodded, shoved the card into a pocket, and returned to the flat while Natasha addressed the crowd, raising her voice, and holding up the photo. "Same goes for all of you. If anyone sees this man," a nod at the flat where Akos had disappeared, "let my friend know and he will contact me."
To Clint and Sam, Natasha whispered over her shoulder, "Let's get out of here before someone calls the police."
Sam's relief was palpable. "I am so down with avoiding the cops."
Together, Natasha and Clint said, "Not so fast."
Clint continued alone, "That Akos guy was lying like a wall to wall carpet."
"Damn! I knew you were gonna say that." He paused a beat, "Well, one of you." A long-suffering sigh deflated his lungs and he shook his head. "How do I keep getting myself into these situations?"
Natasha regained some of her humor, saying with a half grin, "Hangin' out with the wrong crowd, Wilson." To the third member of their trio, she murmured, "You know what we need, Hawkeye."
"On it," Clint responded. Breaking into a jog, he crossed the street, and vanished down an alley.
She pointed at Sam, who sighed. "Right. On it." He walked away powering up the wing pack and muttering under his breath, "You could be sittin' pretty in your air conditioned apartment back in D.C., totally oblivious to all this superhero crap, but no-o-o. You just had to help Captain America, become an Avenger, and now you're stuck in Budapest with your stomach growlin' 'cause someone," he looked everywhere but at Natasha and Clint, "won't say who, thought we just had to bring Barnes home. But did we find him? No, we did not…"
~~O~~
Long before being given the word, Clint had chosen a perch which afforded as close to 360 viewing of the area as possible. People who lived in this type of neighborhood tended to keep to themselves, so he had no worries about the cops getting all up in his grill for trespassing. According to the info he found online, the ownership of the building was up in the air since the death of the owner of record passed away more than a decade ago. From the looks of it, no one had bothered to keep up the property in all that time, making this a nearly perfect place for a stake-out. All it needed was a fully stocked bar, an on-call chef, a hot tub, his family, and as the song said, life would be a dream.
As he often did, at home and on the job, Clint sang under his breath, picturing the faces of his wife and kids.
Oh, life could be a dream
(Sh-boom)
If I could take you up in paradise up above
(Sh-boom)
If you would tell me I'm the only one that you love
Life could be a dream, sweetheart
Hello, hello, again, sh-boom
And hopin' we'll meet again
Oh, life could be a dream
(Sh-boom)
If only all my precious plans would come true
If you would let me spend my whole life lovin' you
Life could be a dream, sweetheart
He was just getting into the swing when a rock came flying out of the darkness followed by an angry voice shouting, "Shut the **** up, a**hole. Some of us gotta go to work!"
Later that Night
Few of the windows had lights on, telling Clint it was time to hit the bricks. He settled the quiver in its accustomed place on his back, added the bow, and stood, cracking his neck on both sides. After a quick stretch to warm up his muscles, he climbed down the fire escape, jumping the last few feet to the ground. Making no sound, he crept down the alley, looked both ways, and darted across to the other side.
Keeping to the shadows, he tracked up one alleyway and down the other until he reached his destination. At the corner where the alley made a zig-zag, he went into a crouch, scoping out the scene ahead, working out the logistics and calculating the odds, finding in his favor, of course.
Clint's breathing settled into that slow and steady rhythm he'd learned at Carson's, his chest barely moving, eyes fixed on a point where the blackness was nearly absolute. If asked, most people would say there was no one and nothing hiding there, but they would be wrong. And Clint wasn't most people. SHIELD's doctors had given him thorough medical check-ups twice a year as long as he'd been an agent. Each time, his eyesight had passed with better than flying colors, the doctors noting that his hand-eye coordination was exceptional.
Then, there it was. The moment he'd been anticipating and dreading at the same time.
A deeper shadow separated itself from those under the fire escape. Clint slowly unfolded his body, stretching his shoulders and flexing his fingers. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, and removed what Wanda called his resting bitch face, replacing it with his patented half-smirk. Lifting his chin as if running into an acquaintance on the street, in his most non-threatening tone, he greeted the other man, "You know, Mehmet Murat ildan once said, 'When the night comes, streets welcome the lonely souls because they alone can fully understand the lonely streets.' Profound, don't you think?"
At the edge of his vision, Clint saw the man's hands clench, as if preparing for a fight. What little light there was glinted off the metal of his left arm as the plates shifted. Deciding it indicated the intent to attack, he crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall, relaxed, yet vigilant.
"It's always so awkward running into someone you've been actively avoiding for months. Nat, not me. Most people lose themselves in the crowd, don't make eye contact, or duck into the latrine." Bucky's eyes, ever watchful, finally met his, showing no emotion. "I know you didn't invite me to this movie; you didn't make popcorn or bring a blanket to share. Not even sure this is a good idea, 'cause Nat will not be a happy camper when she finds out, and she will. Still, you and me," Clint motioned between them, "we need to talk."
"Talk?"
Bucky's voice was rough, raspy, as if he hadn't used it in a while. "Yeah, talk. Conversate, discuss, palaver, powwow, parley, chat, bullshi…"
The flesh and blood hand came up, halting Clint's ramble. "Where?"
Clint made an after you gesture, "Lead the way." Bucky's eyes flicked over the landscape, such as it was, showing hesitation that was more than simple wariness or uncertainty. Without a word, Clint made an about face, and headed in the direction of his lookout. At first, it seemed as if he'd be making the trek alone. Then, soft, barely there footsteps paced his until they reached the decrepit building. "Make yourself at home on the roof while I get us something to eat and drink." Again, the hesitation, prompting Clint to reassure him, "Won't call Nat, Steve, or Sam. You have my word."
Seemingly weighing Clint's words, looking for booby traps or hidden meanings, Bucky nodded once, pushed the plywood covering the rear door aside, went in, and pulled it back into place.
~~O~~
True to his word, Clint returned within the hour carrying two full shopping bags. He passed Bucky several bottles, one of pálinka, and a variety of beers in bottles and cans, followed by disposable containers, the scents reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning.
"Let's see… we got stuffed cabbage, poppy seed pasta, stuffed peppers… is everything stuffed in Hungary? Uh, what else? Ah, potatoes with cheese and eggs." Holding the last container up with a triumphant grin, he set it next to the others. "And no trip to Hungary would be complete without, you guessed it, Chicken Paprikash. Got dessert too."
For a brief moment, Bucky felt he needed Clint to know that, even though he could kill him, or anyone else, in less than a heartbeat, he wouldn't. Taking a beer bottle in his right hand, he used his thumb to pop the top off, passed it to Clint, and did the same to the next one. In the past, when he and Steve were still civilians, before the war, they would tap bottles or glasses, and drink down their first round in one go. He was okay with not doing that now, but then Clint held out his drink. They tapped bottles, Clint adding with a sad look in his eyes, "Here's to love, the only fire against which there is no insurance."
Bucky wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment, considering that he'd come to the conclusion that he loved Natalia, and had for some time. Even before they engaged in battle on the streets of D.C. But nostalgia was for another time. He didn't want to get into this particular memory with Clint before speaking to her first. One day, he would tell her what he remembered from his time as the Winter Soldier and that all his memories going back to when he was a small child had come back, the good, the bad, and especially the ugly. Even those he couldn't consciously recall before, he now could bring to mind with perfect clarity.
Both men sat waiting for the other to begin eating. As Bucky was sort of the guest in Clint's "domain", he chose a food container at random, and pried the lid off. The smell made his stomach growl loud enough to be heard by Clint, who chose not to make a comment, for which Bucky was thankful. Instead, he passed over a fork, took another for himself, and gazed expectantly at Bucky until he finally scooped up a bite, shoved it in his mouth, chewing slowly so as not to seem overly eager.
A roll came flying toward his head and was easily caught. Dunking it in the gravy pooled in the bottom and biting that part off reminded Bucky of Norman, and he couldn't help a sentimental smile, wandering how the old Rabbi and Lucy were getting on. Norman was elderly, well into his eighties, if not older. It was likely he'd passed since their last meeting. Or he could still be giving his sleep-inducing sermons every Saturday.
A hiss-pop was followed by another; Clint opening more beers. No bottle tap or toast this time. Clint wiped his mouth, swallowed, swigged the beer, then reached for the pálinka, pouring a generous amount into paper cups.
He leaned against the parapet, one knee up, the wrist of his free hand resting on it, a faraway look coming into his eyes that contained more than a little pain, and not just physical.
"A couple years ago, I'd rotated to Selvig's lab a few weeks before Loki appeared through the portal powered by the Tesseract." He stopped to take a sip of pálinka, peering into the cup as if the secrets of the universe could be seen in it, the other hand rubbing the center of his chest. "My service weapon had barely cleared the holster when Loki touched my chest with the scepter. Every nerve burned like fire and my world, my entire existence, turned a bright, electric blue." Clint swirled the contents of his cup again, giving the sense that he was gathering his thoughts. "When the initial pain stopped, he'd done to me in less than a second what it took HYDRA nearly twenty years to do to you…"
Bucky pushed food around with the fork, glancing at Clint and away. "Twenty years?"
The other man shifted position as if sitting on the hard surface made him stiff. "You supposedly died in what, '45? According to the intelligence community, as Nat calls it, the first assassination attributed to the Winter Soldier didn't happen until the 60s."
~~O~~
Clint regretted mentioning Natasha and the Winter Soldier at the look on Bucky's face, profound remorse and regret for that first, and all successive lives, taken.
"President Kennedy, Dallas, Texas, November 22, 1963, from the Grassy Knoll."
"You remember killing Kennedy?" Clint asked, shocked.
Keeping his gaze averted, Bucky poured himself a full glass of the pálinka, tossing back the entire thing in one quick gulp. He wiped his mouth and sighed, "I remember all of them."
Safe House
Morning
Sam awoke to find Clint passed out on the sofa and Natasha nowhere in sight. Her need to locate Barnes was so strong she was probably doing a house to house like a cop looking for suspects in a homicide investigation. Whatever. He was done with this shit.
Grabbing his duffle, Sam shoved his stuff in it, zipped it closed, and deliberately dropped it next to the sofa, startling Clint.
Rolling to his feet, a knife in one hand, and fully awake, Clint scanned the room. Seeing no one and nothing out of place, he relaxed. The knife disappeared and Sam let out the breath he was holding.
"What the **** is goin' on, Wilson? Where's Nat?"
Huffing, Sam set the wingpack next to the duffle. "Taking her turn in a monumental act of futility." The front door of the safe house opened and closed, Natasha returning to their little group. "Oh, good," he told her with a heavy dose of sarcasm, "you're here. Well, just to keep you both in the loop, I am done, finished, through wit ya'll and your ******* snipe hunts. Ima head back to the quinjet and fly my ass back to the States. Ya'll can join me, or be left behind."
Natasha took the cup of coffee brought to her by Clint. "You're not a pilot."
Sam hooked the duffle over one shoulder and picked up the wing pack, speaking on the way to the door, "So, I'll look it up on YouTube. They got videos for everything these days."
Seeing that he was as serious as a heart attack, Clint and Natasha rushed to gather their belongings, and the trio made their way down to the rental car.
~~O~~
Once the quinjet was airborne, Sam unbuckled his harness and slumped down in his seat, mentally composing his resignation, undecided if he should just moon everyone on the way out or be professional and send a letter addressed to the Avengers as a group listing all his reasons for returning to the private sector. Should I make an outline, use bullet points, or alphabetize?
He'd only gotten up to the C's when a foot tapped his. Cracking one eye showed Clint leaning a shoulder against the wall, giving the appearance of someone with nothing better to do than hang out at the convenience store on the corner with his homies, smoking and cat-calling the girls. His resting bitch face was resting less bitchy than usual. "What?"
Clint finished off his coffee, tossed the cup in the recycle chute, and crossed his arms. "Flying lessons. Got a special going, buy one get twenty free. You interested?"
Suspicious of the archer's motives, Sam squinted, looking for booby traps. "What's it gonna cost me?"
Shrugging, Clint pushed off the wall, and returned to the cockpit, "Burgers, beer and basketball at the sports bar. You in?"
Excitement Sam hadn't felt in a while surged through him as he rolled to his feet and followed Clint. "Did you seriously just ask that?"
Avengers Compound
Upstate New York
Saturday Night
Party Time!
I don't drink coffee, I take tea, my dear
I like my toast done on one side
And you can hear it in my accent when I talk
I'm an Englishman in New York
See me walking down Fifth Avenue
A walking cane here at my side
I take it everywhere I walk
I'm an Englishman in New York
Oh, I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien
I'm an Englishman in New York
Oh, I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien
I'm an Englishman in New York…
Due to a last minute change in his schedule, Sting hadn't been able to attend the party in person, but naturally, that wouldn't keep Tony Stark from his goal. He set up a satellite feed and one of the biggest plasma screens Darcy had ever seen, giving the attendees a larger than life view of Sting and his band.
She'd never been a big fan of The Police or Sting, but they were her mother's favorite, so she endured. Steve, not so much. During Roxanne, he stood as far from the speakers as possible with his fingers in his ears, and she suffered along with him. It was a bit loud, even for the average human's hearing. Seeing the look on Steve's face when Sting segued into Synchronicity, Darcy decided to do something about it.
While Tony was distracted talking to a group of people whose names would be known to anyone who had access to television, movies, or life in general, Darcy ambled around the room carrying a glass of ginger ale with cranberry, nodding and smiling, but not allowing herself to be drawn into conversations.
Tucked away in a corner, she found a holotable. The moment she touched the screen, the hologram of a conservatively dressed redhead popped up, startling her.
"Good evening, Ms. Lewis. How may I help you?"
Darcy cast a glance over her shoulder, but no one was paying any attention. "You can start by shushing and then tell me who or what you are."
The hologram smiled blandly. "My name is Friday. I am Mr. Stark's AI."
"Oh. Right. So, here's what I need." Friday waited patiently while Darcy gathered her thoughts. "Captain Rogers' hearing is being assaulted by the music. We need to lower the volume and maybe ask Sting to take a break."
Friday's expression didn't change. "Done. Mr. Sumner will play one more song then beg off. He's agreed to thirty minutes every hour until Boss calls a halt. Will that suffice?"
Relieved, Darcy nodded. "For now. During the breaks, play some tunes Captain Rogers would like. Thirties, Forties, maybe some soft rock, a little light jazz."
"As you wish, Ms. Lewis. Will there be anything else?"
"Yeah. Did Tony design your avatar? 'Cause I would've expected something a little more…"
The bland smile widened. "Like this?"
In an instant, the shoulder length auburn hair was replaced by bright blue, shaved in the back and falling over her forehead in the front. The conservative pantsuit was replaced by ripped jeans, a tight black corset with a white filigree design, her ample breast nearly escaping the front. Her black flats were replaced by black ankle boots with four-inch heels, and wraparound straps and buckles. The look was completed by a leather jacket with chains, fingerless gloves, and enormous dark sunglasses. Gold dangly earrings sprouted from her lobs, and bangles jangled on one wrist. All her weight shifted onto one foot, thrusting the opposite hip out. Dark red lipstick and dramatic eye shadow completed the look.
Startled again, Darcy gave her a wide-eyed stare then smiled. "Perfect!" At the edge of her hearing, Darcy heard someone say her name. "Between you and me, if Tony asks, say you wanted a change."
Friday winked and shot finger guns at her. "You got it, sista" and vanished.
A few seconds later, Tony came up beside her where she was now staring out at the view and sipping her drink.
"Bored already? I must be losing my touch." He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. "Sting's taking a break, and I think the Old Man wants to take you for a terpsichore around the floor."
The music changed to a forties tune Darcy recognized only because it was one of Steve's favorites.
Tony opened his mouth, and Darcy interrupted with, "We're not sleeping together." She rolled her eyes upward. "Well, not yet." Taken aback, Tony shoved one hand into his pants pocket using the other to rub the end of his nose, prompting her to add, "You were thinking it, weren't you?"
"Fine, you got me."
"And when we do, 'cause it's gonna happen sooner or later, probably later, knowing Steve, it's none of your business." Darcy drained the last of the drink and shoved the glass into his hand. "You gave up that right when you left my mother pregnant and alone, so cut us both some slack and we'll do the same for you."
She flipped the end of her wrap over one shoulder, spun on her heel, and lost herself in the crowd just as the intro to It Don't Mean a Thing filled the air.
~~O~~
The band on the screen took a break, much to Steve's relief. Sting was an exceptional musical artist, but a bit too loud for his taste, with or without the enhancements. Then, when Ella Fitzgerald's smooth alto filled the air, he knew it had been Darcy's doing, probably with help from Friday.
He moved through the crowd, watching with nostalgia as some of the older folks, and a few of the younger ones, took to the dance floor. Thanks to Darcy, he now had at least a working knowledge of dancing, hoping she came back soon so he could show off a little in front of his friends and colleagues.
Seeing Darcy making her way through the crowd, Steve took a step in her direction, stopping at the annoyed look on her face, the one she always got after speaking to Tony. When their eyes met, the scowl turned into a sunny smile that didn't fool him one bit, but he let her think it did.
Steve returned the smile with one of affection, laying a hand over her smaller one where it wrapped around his elbow. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, though it was Friday who convinced Sting to give up the floor for a while."
Sam, Bruce, and Natasha joined them, all noticing their somewhat intimate stance. They all shared a glance, with Sam taking the lead. "So, guys, how long you been dating?"
Darcy's grip tightened though her smile stayed in place, telling Steve she'd just spotted Tony coming their way. "Not long."
"Her dad's been busting my chops over it though," Steve told them with a small sigh.
Natasha exchanged an empty glass for a full one as a server passed, taking a sip before remarking, "Ignore him the way you do Tony."
"Not as easy as it sounds, Nat."
Scanning the room, Sam pointed out, "Since you haven't introduced us, I'll take a guess and say it's…" he aimed his chin at a senator who appeared to be the correct age. "Him?"
"Nope. Try again," Darcy told him, the scowl that had come back when Tony appeared morphed into a smirk. "Wanna give it go, Bruce?"
The soft-spoken scientist raised both hands in surrender. "I'm no good at guessing games…"
Tony snorted, grinning, "That is literally the definition of a scientist, Banner."
To which Bruce reminded Tony, "Plus, I have the inside track. It wouldn't be fair."
During the byplay, Sam had continued to scan the faces of the men present. "Oh! I got it." He pointed at one of the scientists. "Him."
With each guess from Sam, Darcy shook her head again and again, and Steve clamped his lips together to keep from laughing at his friend's frustration. "Please tell me it's not Thor."
"As cool and mega weird as that would be, no. Besides, he'd never been to Midgard before we met him in the desert the same year Steve was found in the ice."
Finally, Sam sighed, his shoulders shifting inside his tailored suit. "Well, I'm stumped. Who is it?"
A filled glass of bourbon replaced the empty in Tony's. He raised the glass in salute, saying with pride, "That would be me."
Natasha had already figured it out, which didn't surprise Steve at all. Just how long it took.
Before Sam could ask the thousands of questions Steve knew he had, Tony's phone pinged at the same time Steve heard the same from another whom he couldn't see because of the crowd.
Tony took out the phone, puzzled squinting causing deep frown lines in his forehead and around the eyes.
Steve looked over his shoulder, reading the highlighted portion. "No, Tony. You're not her father."
Also stunned, Darcy squeezed Steve's arm even tighter, her voice soft and disbelieving, "No, that can't be. I did the test and everything. Twice."
Tony reminded her, "We had SI's lab redo it at your insistence, as I recall. It has to be true."
"Yes, but…"
The three of them huddled around Tony's phone, looking over the results and all talking at once.
Sam whistled to get their attention. "What's the buzz, Steve?"
Steve skipped down to the important part, reading out loud, "Anthony Edward Stark and Darcy Lewis are not genetically related."
TBC
Hungarian:
Nem beszélek angolul = I don't speak English
Hol van James Barnes? = Where is James Barnes?
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