TRIGGER WARNING. PLEASE READ TAGS. I don't want to spoil anything that is to come in a chapter, as I don't enjoy trigger warnings that spoil chapter plot lines at the beginning of certain stories I read, and have decided to make an active choice not to do that. HOWEVER, I want every reader to beware. If you have triggers of any kind - assume they ARE included in this story and be careful making the choice to read it or not. I'm on tumblr - blog/jdramione - I love meeting new people and would love to talk to you! A HUGE thank you to my Beta, Etherea, whom I love and could not have made it this far without. She's completely amazing and I'm so thrilled she has held my hand through this amazing process. She just came into my life through this story and has been a powerhouse. She has encouraged and supported and helped me process. She takes me as I am and has been such an enormous part of this process, making me not only a better writer, but helping me in ways I didn't even know to ask for help. She has been the greatest soundboard ever, listening to me go on for novel-length emails and offering the most amazing insight and helping me narrow down plot points and story arc, when all I could feel was a jumbled mess. She's incredible and I will be FOREVER grateful that she's with me on this journey. Please leave a kudos and a review. I have worked so hard on this story, and hope you are able to connect to it on some level. Let me know what you think! Please note that I take all reviews to heart, so please be constructive in your criticism.
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Chapter TextIt took a little longer to be released from the hospital than anyone thought. Darcy's doctors questioned Tony endlessly on the facilities available at the tower, to which he responded easily with a plan for every scenario. What few things he didn't have immediate answers to, he was on the phone with Pepper, as a third party intermediary between doctors and Pepper, sorting out the few things they hadn't already prepared for, talking a mile a minute until she finally huffed at him and demanded that he hand the phone over and she would take care of the rest of it. By the time he had allayed their practical concerns and Pepper had sorted the nightmare amount of paperwork, two days had passed.
Despite having theoretically been part of the conversations leading up to her release, Darcy wasn't exactly sure where she was headed or what was happening. She had awareness that they had told her one more than one occasion, repeating even when she was groggy and had shown confusion, but when trying to recall what had been said, all she could remember was static. Not that it had mattered to her much. When it became clear she wasn't in a state to answer questions or follow much of any conversations directed towards her, or show much of an interest in said discussions surrounding her, everyone had stopped expecting responses from her.
In all honesty, she found anything regarding "what comes next" taxing and abstruse. It wasn't that she didn't fully understand or care, per se, but rather couldn't find the energy to expend on focusing on it. As long as she wasn't going back to her quarters. That had been the only question she'd had a response to, or rather, that she'd had a visceral reaction to that someone had picked up on.
"Do you want to recover in your quarters?"
She had felt vehement with a response of no, but unable to communicate that to them, her fear like ice in her veins that they would make her go despite her refusal. Or potentially worse, that they might respond negatively to her for saying no.
She was terrified of being left alone.
It had been Bucky, closely watching her during the one-sided conversation, and only because he had been paying keen attention to her escalating panic at every mention of her apartment, partitioned himself between Tony, the doctors, and Darcy. His broad shoulders momentarily sheltered her from the inquisition, as he put a hand up, halting the discussion without so much as a word. He glanced back at her and tilted his head towards her, as if to ask her permission to speak on her behalf. When no response came, as she had been unable to do more than stare back at him, trembling, he took it upon himself to deliver her answer.
They had accepted Bucky's response for her easily, and the topic hadn't come up again. Maybe it was because they'd seen what a toll it took on her to express a preference. Maybe they just didn't want Bucky's glare aimed at then again. Whatever the reason, she lapsed into grateful exhaustion, unable to follow the back and forth as everyone else debated her post-hospital needs.
She'd go wherever they took her, so long as it wasn't home.
You will never go home. You will die here.
The details of her home were fixed in her mind like a snapshot. She could recall exactly where she had left her Captain Crunch cereal box on the coffee table of her living room, next to her Pusheen purse, her Lydia Davis book, and her new Haley Reinhart CD.
When she'd moved in, Tony had waved a hand at her and told her she could decorate, construct, remodel, as she so desired. "Just tell Pepper what you want, she'll handle the invoices," he said generously as he reached for another cup of coffee. Permission from a billionaire to construct the apartment of her dreams? Darcy had been thrilled and had taken full advantage of that offer. And disgusted with Jane that Jane didn't seem to care what her's looked like.
"It's fine, it has everything already."
"Builders grade," Darcy complained.
"And furniture that looks like it belongs in a hotel lobby. And it's all… shiny and bleak and hard and not homey. Like, at all, Jane."
"I won't be here other than to sleep anyway and I don't have time, anyway. I've been working on a new theory I dreamed up last night and have to go build a thing to make it work. Besides, I'll probably end up bunking with Thor anyway," she'd smirked.
Darcy had grinned hugely back at her.
"I'll see you later," Jane had rushed away from her, waving a hand at the apartment.
The apartment wasn't the biggest in the tower, not by far. Those quarters were reserved for the Avengers - but her apartment had been perfect, in Darcy's eyes. Especially after she'd had contractors build bookshelves along the walls, to be filled with books and things she'd collected throughout her life, and she'd been thrilled to have the kitchen redone so that she had two ovens instead of one, and had absolutely insisted on a bathtub when she realized Tony had only installed a shower in her bathroom.
She knew there had been dirty clothes in her laundry basket in that bathroom. She usually did laundry on the weekends, and it had only been Friday when…
She was going to die there, in that cell. She would never see her home again. No one was coming.
The sink in the kitchen would still be full of dishes, left dirty because she had never gotten back to wash them before movie night began. She thought of her two fish, Gus and Floyd, who were surely long dead by now. Another loss to mourn.
She thought of her bright yellow knit hat, hanging on the hook by her front door; Jane had surprised her with that hat for her birthday and Darcy had been delighted with it. Her brilliant friend had learned to knit and everything and it had become one of Darcy's most prized possessions. The effort behind the gift holding much more value than the gift itself in her eyes.
The idea of wearing that kind of color seemed like lunacy now.
And what about her paintings, the whole wall of color splashed with her emotions. Her grandmother had first gotten her hooked, ever since she was a child after she'd first come to live with her. It had begun with coloring. They would sit at her grandmother's card table, the one in her downstairs living room, walls covered by bookshelves, containing depression cobalt glass figurines and vases. Darcy cherished that room, with it's double rocking chairs, and sewing corner.
She hadn't spoken much at first, when she'd come to live with her Nannie when she was so young. But they had colored together in the beginning.
The introduction to a love of art was enormously special to her, and she remembered her grandmother being such an incredible colorer, teaching her shading and going so far as to create patterns of flowers and zig-zags within her art. Darcy thought she was the most talented artist she'd ever known.
It was when they moved to painting, following the long, standstill moment as she sat staring at her first blank canvas that her grandmother carefully suggested she simply paint how she felt instead of any definitive thing. That in creation and in art, there was no such thing as right or wrong, or good or bad. It was all interpretive, and as such, Darcy had all of the freedom to do as she wanted. Not knowing what to do and without any specific plan in mind, a color of paint was chosen and the brush moved under her hand, beginning a secret therapeutic outlet; an outpour of feeling and emotion.
Whenever she got in a specific kind of mood, she would sit down and try to paint that feeling. She had a wall splayed of her mood paintings, now grown like a collage of color, and it was one of her most favorite things in her home. Dark blues, grays, and empty whites for when she felt sad, and swirly greens and cobalt blues when she felt smart. Light pink and yellow when she wanted to dance with joy and black, streaked with red when she was so angry she couldn't do more than grit her teeth and cry in frustration. The paintings weren't more than blobs of paint at times, not even anything as specific as impressionistic or abstract, but they were colorful, and they defined her in specific moments, and they felt important.
Her living space would have been unchanged since she was last there. She wasn't sure what would happen when she stepped back into her quarters and breathed in her home. Would it seem like she hadn't gone? As if time had stood still and… nothing had happened? Like she hadn't been taken, and… hurt? Would the time - her missing weeks - catch up with her all at once? Could she pretend everything was the same and she was back to normal?
She wasn't in a hurry to go back home. While she understood she could, she didn't believe for some reason that she could go home. It was as if she hadn't been rescued from that place, because a part of her remained there. She had believed, near the end, brokenly, that she would never be rescued. Had understood that she would die there.
She had wanted to die.
They had taken so long.
At some point, when her heart was as broken as her body, she had stopped hoping for rescue. She had laid down the last of her hope on the cold, wet floor, and had waited for either her captors or death to come for her.
Even now, staring at the ceiling of her hospital room, she felt the all-consuming agony of that wait. Everyone kept telling her she was safe, but she still had no real say in what would happen next. It would hurt less if she didn't hope.
She couldn't feel it.
Couldn't feel anything at all.
Was she safe?
She would never be safe.
Bucky and Steve didn't seem antsy or tired cooped up in her small, dark hospital room. Her eyes hurt terribly when the lights were turned on, and the medical team had warned everyone to keep the lights dim as she adjusted to the light again. It would take time, they'd said, but her vision would return to normal in time as she adjusted to light again. Just take it slow, they'd recommended.
Everything will take time.
Wait.
Darcy kept glancing at Steve and Bucky, waiting for them to grow bored of sitting in the room with her, and leave her, but they didn't.
She would be alone if they left.
The single thought terrified her. She didn't want to be left alone.
They stayed.
They just settled into the space like they'd belonged there the whole time; Bucky guarding Darcy and Steve keeping watch over both of them. Bucky rarely stepped out of the room outside of bathroom breaks, and Steve didn't question him on it or hint at him to leave. Both men seemed equally determined to take care of her, and refused to leave her alone.
Bucky's unerringly accurate translation of her body language resulted in their constant, careful presence. How he knew what she wanted even when she herself wasn't sure, was a mystery, and surely there were much more important things they could be spending their time and energies on. But she didn't protest and was grateful when they didn't leave.
At the same time, she wasn't sure they would leave even if she asked it of them.
Am I safe?
And the fear of her wishes not being respected kept her from speaking out. If she didn't ask, they couldn't trample on her choice.
No one could know.
There was a strange block within her when she thought about speaking at all, in general. Did she want vanilla or chocolate pudding? Did she want a lozenge to suck on?
Negative feelings surrounding any attempt at talking that spun around her in a dizzying jumble of chaos that she was painfully aware didn't make sense to her. In some ways, speaking words felt enormously big, like a balloon one puff of breath away from popping. In other ways, it was as if pieces of her had completely shut down, now that the immediate danger had been taken away. The fear wasn't erased, but something inside her, like a window closing, had shut and she felt done in a closed-off way she hadn't remembered feeling before. It was numbing, that feeling, and yet, she was painfully aware of its existence. The numbness created a hole within, a dark abyss, that she knew was full of hurt and grief; a well filled to the brim with water, awaiting her toe in so that something below could latch on and drag her under into the darkness, into the deep.
She would be lost. It was despair - in that numbness. The panic of looking in at what darkness waited below too overwhelming to contemplate looking too closely to what had closed within her. The numbness was there, but it was only the latch, almost like a bandaid, flimsy and rickety, yet holding somehow, protecting her from what was beneath.
If someone asked her to speak, in all honesty, she wouldn't even know where to begin, anyway. The thought of having to talk stressed her out. She had broken out in hives already as it was just thinking about having to talk. About it. About anything at all, really. She simply didn't want to think. She didn't want to remember. She didn't want to make any decision. She didn't want anyone to ask her questions, or look at her in sympathy, or ignore her and leave her alone.
She desperately didn't want anyone to know.
But she felt enormous fear that they already knew. That they could see it on her, as if it covered her, like a blanket of shame for all to see.
Plaything. Whore. Pet.
She was desperate to not be found out. Desperate, clawing, hope barreled through her, swelling up, whispering sweet falsities that she could keep it hidden. That they would never find out.
When they look at you, they see it, plain as glass on a window.
You'll never be able to hide it.
They can see what you did.
She couldn't speak, and so she didn't.
Bucky and Steve seemed to understand the chaos she was feeling, and were good not to push and hover. They just shared the space with her, and kept it so she wasn't alone, helping her when she needed a hand, but other than that retreating to the other side of the room and simply allowing her to rest.
Bucky's weirdly accurate intuition extended to her physical needs. She was beginning to be awake a bit more and sleep a bit less. She was still sleeping the majority of the day, mostly due to the drugs they were giving her - for both pain and anxiety. She wasn't sure what the exact cocktail was, but it kept her drowsy and kept the worst of the pain at bay, and so she didn't argue about it.
She had taken to waking up coughing and choking, her hands rushing to her neck, chest tightening with anxiety. So many of these wakings left her trapped on her back, struggling against the ghost of everything that had weighed her chest down, awaiting rescue from something that wasn't there anymore, something heavy and weighted and hurtful — and Steve would cautiously walk over to her and help raise her bed a few inches into more of a sitting position, setting a small cup with a twisty straw in front of her so she could drink a few sips. He would gently push her hands away from clawing at her neck, down to the covers and wait patiently while she took in a few swallows of cool liquid in between gasps of panicked breath. It felt so good on her parched throat, to drink as much as she wanted — clean, fresh, ice water — before turning her head away with a grimace, remembering what she had been forced to do in order to drink… to survive. Her hands had balled up into fists, tight until her knuckles turned white. Steve, his blue eyes frowning in concern as he took in her clenched fists, had simply sat the cup back on the table near her hospital bed, and reached over to cover her hands with his in a quick, warm squeeze until she unclenched her fists. Their eyes had met, and the look he gave her made her want to release her fear and curl up in his arms. When he looked at her like that, she felt safe. She had breathed, one breath, and then another.
He didn't say anything to her, which was odd. No motivational speech nor sympathetic murmurs. His eyes softened at her, seeing something in her expression that made him give her a tender look in return.
The moment passed, and with a soft squeeze, he let go of her. Nothing grand had happened, no loud noises of surprise or shock. It had been a bubble of safety in that single moment, and she had felt held, without being so. Steve returned her bed down to where it had been previously and then went to ease back down in his chair across the room beside Bucky, watching her protectively until she fell asleep once again..
She'd woken up screaming once, terrified and kicking the covers to the floor with her good leg. Her body had been sweaty and shaking, and she'd felt disgusting. Her stomach churned and she clamped down on the urge to vomit.
Seeing her clammy and shivering, Bucky had quickly but calmly grabbed a small pink bin from one of the cabinets and filled it halfway with warm water. He'd squirted in a few drops of liquid soap and stirred it around with his metal hand until it made small bubbles.
With a few long strides, he'd stalked to the door, opened it, ignoring Darcy's flinch, and called Natasha in from the hallway - apparently she had been standing just outside of Darcy's room - to come and help Darcy clean up.
Darcy hadn't been given much say in the matter. She'd told herself she hadn't felt like talking anyway. She'd gulped in short, trembling breaths.
She wasn't sure what Bucky wanted from her, and not knowing made her feel vulnerable and scared, she retaliated by turning her head away from him, refusing to give him a response when he neared the bed.
He didn't comment as he approached her, quietly assessing her distant posture as he slowly raised Darcy's bed, enough that she could sit up more than lay, and gently grasped her ankles to help swing her legs to the side of the bed, forcing her head to turn and look at where he was turning her. She'd had to reach onto the bed with her good arm, to hold on to keep her balance as she turned, and she'd frowned at him, unsure that she wanted to be sitting up at all, and very sure she didn't want him anywhere within her vicinity at that moment. When he had Darcy carefully sitting of her own volition, he reached towards her again and she flinched, letting go of the bed and almost losing her balance before grabbing onto the side of the bed once more. Her breath became labored.
She heard Steve in the background, a soft warning, "Buck…"
"We'll keep watch outside," Bucky told her seriously before he stepped back away from her. He murmured something Russian to Natasha and she responded with a quick, single nod, before he grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him from the room, shutting the door firmly with a soft click.
Natasha looked Darcy over, her face softened, and suddenly, Natasha became more warm and approachable than Darcy had ever seen her. Why had they closed the door? "You will feel so much better with a wash, Darcy," she said. "We can't take a shower yet, but I can help you here in bed. Do you want to do this by yourself, or may I help you, lyubov moya?
Darcy stared at the closed door behind Natasha. She trembled with the unexpected exertion of sitting up.
Natasha turned her head, following Darcy's gaze to the door behind her, before she looked back at Darcy.
"They won't come in. They will respect your privacy," she said.
Natasha frowned slightly, as if not quite believing that was what Darcy was fearing as she stared at the door, but pretending as only Natasha could that it must be the more obvious of issues, as she picked up the rag, her motions slow and cautious as if to prepare Darcy of every movement, and began to wash the good side of Darcy's face.
Darcy flinched sharply as her hand came near the cut on the other side. Natasha didn't touch it, or the stitches on Darcy's neck, but tutted softly as she smoothed the rag over Darcy's clammy skin.
Darcy didn't even want to think about those cuts, those stitches. Her breath caught and her chest tightened. Her hand hovered over Natasha's as she came near, barely restraining the urge to grab Natasha's hands, to stop her. But Natasha only carefully washed around the areas, cleaning behind Darcy's ears and wiping her forehead into her hair, the back of her neck and Darcy allowed it. She couldn't look at Nat though.
She kept her eyes trained on the door behind Natasha. It wasn't safe.
They stood outside of the door, taunting her with shadowed silence. Waiting, waiting… they would come in and hurt her, but until then, she had to wait for it.
It had been an added cruelty.
Had the waiting been worse than the pain?
At times, so much so.
Natasha slowly helped bathe Darcy in all of the places the hospital gown didn't cover. Her arms, her neck, her foot and leg that wasn't in a cast. General areas, Darcy calculated.
She rewet the small rag and handed it to Darcy.
"Now you, Darcy," she said firmly, her eyes soft. "You wash the rest."
The wet rag felt heavy in Darcy's hand, her energy gone with the effort of sitting up a mere five minutes. Her hip burned from her most recent surgery, her leg cramped in the cast and her shoulder ached. Shaking her head slightly, feeling dizzy and sick, she let the wet rag fall to the bed, and watched as the bed started to get damp in the spot beneath it.
"No, Kotyonok," Natasha said, picking up the wet rag and setting it in Darcy's hand again. "You wash the rest."
Darcy's eyes slid from the door to Natasha. She didn't want to touch her body.
"You can do it," Natasha told her softly. "I'll turn my back but I'll be here if you need me."
Darcy watched as Natasha turned towards the wall away from her. Her legs spread, shoulder width apart, and her arms clasped behind her back, at attention. This was Natasha on guard.
Darcy struggled for a moment, trying to put the rag under her hospital gown but not having the coordination on drugs or the strength to sustain even sitting up alone this long. She wanted to sit in a bath, allowing the hot water to boil her skin alive. She wanted to sit in a shower, letting the water fall on her like rain, in hopes that she could follow the water down the drain. She didn't want to wash herself with this soapy hospital rag, in her hospital bed that smelled like sweat and tears and hurt.
Her breath hitched and Natasha peeked around. Seeing Darcy begin to cry, she gently took the rag away from her and set it in the soapy bin. "That's fine for now," she said, "we're done." Helping Darcy lay back down on the bed, she lifted and supported her legs as she twisted, careful not to cause Darcy more pain.
Darcy shivered from the exertion, her breath labored and harsh, tears filling her eyes but not yet trailing down her cheeks. She turned slowly, painfully to her side and pushed her face into the pillow. She wanted to scream, wanted to tear her eyes out. Blinding rage hit her, and she wanted to hurt, wanted violence, wanted to tear.
"Shh," Natasha said gently. "It will come."
Darcy didn't even know what that meant. Her rage boiled up and then dissipated as exhaustion pulled at her. Instead of pounding at her pillow, she sunk, unmoving, into the bed, still shivering. She was just tired and thinking hurt. It made her chest ache and her head pound.
Natasha quickly cleaned up the soapy bin and washed out the cloth in the sink. Darcy shifted into her pillow, anxious and tired.
"When you are ready," Natasha said, walking out of the room, shutting the door behind her and for a blessed moment, Darcy was alone in her room. Her shoulders relaxed, the ache in her chest released, and she let out a trembled sigh.
It didn't last for long. The next moment, Bucky and Steve came back in again, that damned door opening again and Darcy flinched - unable to look away. Steve walked over to Darcy's bed and began pulling the covers up around her, gently tucking her in as Bucky dimmed the lights further, turning the small room dark, and took a chair, coffee in hand. Steve patted gently at her covers once, twice, offered her a drink to which Darcy ignored, and then went to sit on the floor, curled up again at Bucky's feet.
Darcy didn't sleep for a while after that.
"Alright, Ms. Lewis, it's your lucky day. I have your discharge papers here," the new nurse chirped the next day as she came bustling into the room, turning on the bright lights upon entry. She was looking down at the chart as she walked into the room, not even looking up in Darcy's direction as she walked around. "Aren't you excited to get out of this hospital?"
Darcy jumped in fright and whimpered, quickly shifting from a peaceful doze to shaking in her bed in seconds, cowering behind her raised arms.
"Hey!" Steve jumped to his feet, dropping his coffee as he erupted out of his chair, sloshing liquid on the floor. "Turn the lights back down - we can't have it that bright in here. Haven't you looked at her chart? Her eyes are recovering from light sensitivity."
The nurse froze, staring at Steve, her eyes widening in recognition.
Bucky had taken quick strides over to Darcy and covered her eyes with his own hand, gently easing her back down on the bed. "Shhh," he whispered. "Steve's got it handled. Close your eyes. Deep breaths."
Darcy drew in a shaking breath and whimpered, her hands reaching up to hesitantly take hold of Bucky's arm, tightening her grip quickly as the nurse bumped into the foot of the bed, surprised by Steve's reaction. He said nothing, just hummed at her softly, even as her nails dug in slightly.
"Thank you for the discharge papers," Steve said as he reached around the nurse to flick the lights back off and then reached to remove the chart from her grip, "but we would appreciate only staff who are familiar with Ms. Lewis' case enter her room."
The nurse's mouth dropped open. "Of… of course, Mr… Captain… er… Rogers. My apologies," she stammered. "I'll go get the charge nurse for you instead. I'm so sorry, sir."
He held the door open for her as she exited, closing it firmly behind her, turning around to look over Darcy.
Bucky made a move to remove his hands from her eyes, and Darcy, groggy and frightened, clung tightly to him, not letting go.
"Alright, Doll," is all he said. "I gotcha."
Darcy didn't let go of Bucky's arm for a long while after that. He didn't seem to mind. He only reached behind him and pulled the chair closer to the hospital bed as he sat down, leaving his hand covering her eyes. His presence was soothing to her and he sat with her until her shaking eased and she fell back into a light doze.
Bruce came in after a while pushing a wheelchair. "She doesn't have to stay in a hospital bed anymore," he said. "Especially since we are simply relocating her to the tower. She won't be walking on that leg for several months, but she doesn't have to stay laying flat from here on out."
He rolled it over to Steve.
"Just be careful to keep pillows lining the seat and back - she's still got stitches in her shoulder and neck, as well as her hip and side. She's going to be very, very sore for a while yet. I recommend only using this when you have to transport her, or help her go to the bathroom."
Steve glanced warily at Bucky. Bucky side-eyed Steve carefully back, patiently waiting for Bruce to continue.
Bruce scratched his forehead. "Honestly, it may be easier to just carry her, since it's… you know… you two. But with the difficulties she's currently experiencing with… physical interaction we've been having at the moment, use the chair as needed."
He noticed Steve's wary expression.
"Just use your best judgement. The team trusts you and is here to help if you need it as well."
He started pulling pillows out of the cabinet in the room and laying them carefully on the wheelchair. "Really, though, I'd rather her not be in this chair much. It's not going to be comfortable for her at all. Mostly she needs to be laying down in a bed or on a couch and recovering, at least for the next two weeks - take it very carefully. Her stitches will come out sometime next week, but I can take care of that in the tower - no problem."
He pulled the legs up on the wheelchair so they were sticking straight out. "Do this to the chair when you have to use it - she won't be able to move her leg in that cast and I don't want her using the extra energy to try and keep it up. Lay her legs on these pillows here and it will be best for her. Just don't let her lean back on her right side - her stitches may pull and they could break and I don't want to see her back here with another surgery to re-close the wound."
Steve nodded, listening carefully, glancing at Bucky. Bucky nodded, too.
"Alright, we're all set for the move. Tony's got a car on standby outside."
Bruce pulled two medicine containers out of his white coat pocket and a syringe, which he started opening, throwing the plastic wrapping in the trash after he'd unwrapped it from it's protective casing.
"Who wants to do the honors of waking her up and letting her know the plan?" He asked softly. "I've got a pain topper to give to her via IV so we can move her without hurting her."
Bucky stepped forward. "I'll do it," he said. "Steve, start gathering up the stuff for us to take with us."
Steve grabbed the ice cup - a nice, large plastic cup with a handle and lid and a large straw sticking out of it. He took the lid off and dumped the ice in the sink.
Bruce began unhooking Darcy from the machines above her head, the chords a tangled mess, but Bruce seemed to know what was what and organized them quickly as he disconnected them one at a time.
Bucky put a hand on Darcy's forehead, hand gently petting her hair.
"Doll," he said. "Can you open your eyes for a minute?"
Darcy shifted slightly and groaned. Her eyes groggily open, blinking slowly as she looked up at him. She squinted, and a blurry Bucky came into view..
"We're going to move you to the tower, now," he said. "Bruce is going to give you a shot so you don't feel any pain in the move."
Darcy's eyes slowly closed and she mumbled something, her words jumbled and nonsensical.
"You go back to sleep now, we'll take care of everything," he said gently.
She was asleep again in seconds.
Bruce stepped by the bed and connected the syringe to the IV in her arm, and pushed the medication through the tubing. After he threw away the disposable syringe, he removed the IV from her arm.
"Hopefully, we are done with IV," he said. "You'll need to get her to eat when you get her moved - maybe some broth or jello. She hasn't had much and you will need to introduce foods slowly so she doesn't react badly. Start with the liquids and move up. I'll be there to help if you need it and we can always put another IV in if we need to."
He put a dressing on her arm where the IV had left a bruise and a sluggishly bleeding hole, and moved around the bed to repeat the procedure on her hand. "Ideally I'd leave the cannula in her hand just in case, but I worry something will trigger another of her panics and she'll rip it out.
After bandaging that one up as well, he looked to Bucky and said, "It might be easiest if you could pick her up and then we can set her in the wheelchair and roll her outside to the car."
Steve looked down at Darcy, a dubious expression on his features.
Bruce, noticing Steve's expression, said, "I gave her a big dose to help with the move. She shouldn't wake up."
Bucky reached down and pulled the covers off of her, and gently put an arm under her neck - he was careful not to put any pressure on her shoulder - and reached the other arm under her legs and lifted. She barely weighed anything at all.
He adjusted her slightly in his grip and he stood up.
"It'd be easier to just carry her down to the car," he said gruffly.
Steve grabbed the chair from Bruce and set the bag of things he'd collected in the seat. "I'll push this down behind ya, Buck," he said. "Bruce, will you lead us to the car? I'm not sure where Tony has it parked."
"Sure, no problem. Follow me," Bruce replied, as he held the door open for Bucky to walk through, carefully turning Darcy so as not to hit the sides of the door as he walked through them.
When Darcy opened her eyes, she wasn't in the hospital room anymore. The bed she was in was massive, filled with fluffy white pillows, silky white sheets, a thick, cozy, white duvet, and a white cashmere blanket.
The room was…nice. Huge and open with dark brown hardwood floors, a light teal color on the walls, with a large, open window to her left with a beautiful view of downtown Manhattan. The window had white, billowy curtains which rustled softly as if blown by a breeze. The light entering the room was ambient but muted, a window shield of some sort to block out the brightness of the sun.
The furniture in the room was a warm white, with a dark wood top - very farmhouse style - with an old fashioned dresser and vanity with mirror. There was a small two-person couch at the end of her bed, soft leather brown, with white and teal pillowcases. A reading chair sat to the right, creating a small living space surrounding a large TV.
She was on the left side of the bed and looked over at the night stand near her. There sat a large glass of ice water with a handle, a small bowl with three pills - two white and one brown, a TV remote, and a lamp. She wanted to run her fingers along the grain lines of the lamp's wooden base, but didn't dare.
From the view, she could decipher she was back at Stark Tower. It wasn't quite the same as any she had seen before, so she must not have been here before.
The sight of the closed door was equal parts a relief and a source of unease. This place should be safe, she had to have been brought here by the friends she had fallen asleep surrounded by at the hospital. But she couldn't know that for certain. She wanted to call out, to hear a reassuringly familiar voice respond, but the terror that she might be wrong kept her silent.
She sat there in the most comfortable bed in the universe, frozen in fear, sheets clutched around her. Looking down at herself, she saw that someone had changed her out of the papery hospital gown and into pajamas. Her own teal tank top and shorts. From her room.
They had gone inside her apartment. Her home.
It wasn't safe.
She thought briefly that she should be more upset at the idea of somebody changing her outfit like a doll, but compared to being rescued the way they'd found her, it hardly seemed worth worrying about. In truth, she felt strangely more uncomfortable about the fact that someone had entered her apartment when she could not, than worried about the fact that someone had changed her clothing while she was asleep. Or knocked out. Whichever one.
The cast on her leg was new; unlike the solid one at the hospital, this one was plastic and had holes cut out of it, showing bits of skin. Darcy reached out and touched a part of her thing. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't numb. She could feel it. Her hands flew up to her hair next, and her fingers were immediately tangled in its knotted mess. Her hands unconsciously shifted to her sore throat.
The vanity mirror was facing the other wall so she couldn't see herself.
Annoying.
She wanted to see how bad it was, her neck, her face. She knew they had cut her, had made her ugly. As ugly on the outside as she now was on the inside. Her body ached a bit as she looked around and knew that if she tried to get out of bed, she wouldn't make it far, and that was without even thinking of putting weight on her broken leg and recovering hip.
She wanted to walk. The urge to move around sparked in her and she had to squash it down, feeling angry and despondent. She wasn't free.
Her fingers traced her throat gently, noticing that the bandages were still there, almost all the way around her neck.
The collar was there. Had been there.
She could still feel it.
Thinking about it made a shiver go up her spine. A reminder of her throat being slit, of blood dripping down her neck, down her cheek.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and she began to shake. She could almost hear the chains moving as she shifted against the cold wall and wet floor. She could hear footsteps outside, down the hall - coming closer. The room was becoming darker.
She stared at the door, willing it to remain closed.
There was a knock, and she froze, her throat closing up, her grip on the sheets tight and shaking. She whimpered and shrank back in fear.
The door opened and Steve walked in, hands held up in supplication when he noticed her distress. "Hey, it's alright - it's just me," he said, soothingly. "You are in Stark Tower, in Bucky and my quarters. This is going to be your own room for now. Bucky has his own space down the hall on the right and I'm directly across the hall from you."
He picked up the ice water and stuck a straw in it. "It's time for some new meds, so why don't you take these real quick and then we can sit and talk about a few things."
He picked up her pills and held them out to her. She shook as she reached an open hand out to him. He set the pills in her hand and watched as she put them in her mouth, giving her the water to drink and then taking it back when she was done. He didn't make mention of her shaking hands.
Her throat was dry and scratchy, and the pills had felt like huge lumps going down. She swallowed a few more times, coughing slightly.
"Bucky's just stirring the soup - he'll be in here in a minute. Mind if I sit on the edge of the bed here?" He asked, pointing to the corner of the bed furthest away from her. Strangely, though, he didn't make a move toward her or the bed, patiently stationed where he stood as he waited on her to respond.
It shook her.
She looked down at her hands clutching at the sheets, trembling. She couldn't look at him, or answer him. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide under the covers. Her breath caught.
"It's okay, Darcy, if you aren't ready. It's fine, really," he said softly. She couldn't look at him.
"I won't assume to know what you are feeling right now, or try and understand the things you've gone through. I am not here to make you talk, or force you to relive any of what you've experienced. But I want you to know that firstly, you are safe here. We won't let anything happen to you here." His tone was earnest. Darcy dared a peek at him; his eyes were so blue, his eyelashes long.
"With that said, I am here, and Bucky is here if you do need to talk. About anything." He looked at her softly. "It will stay between us, in confidence, always."
God no, she didn't want to talk. About anything. Ever. No. Hard NO.
Darcy turned her head away and shrunk a little bit into a ball. He seemed to take that in stride, almost as if he were expecting that reaction from her. She frowned.
"We thought it best for now, that while you are in recovery, you stay here with Buck and I. We are going to be here to help you stay on top of your meds, help you get around as needed, and be a support system to you while you get back on your feet."
She cringed and he cleared his throat.
"However, I realize that some of the things you've gone through are extremely personal and highly sensitive, and because of that - I want to make sure that we all have some ground rules so that we all stay on the same page. So that we don't…" he paused, carefully choosing his words, "accidentally hurt you…" he stumbled a bit, "…or cause you unnecessary pain or anguish."
He took a deep breath, continuing forward. "It's important to understand boundaries and to respect them."
Her eyes welled up, the tears threatened to fall.
He paused, his expression understanding and sympathetic, but strong as he looked at her.
"I know — I know you've had many of your boundaries trampled on and torn to pieces, and Darcy," he paused and took a deep breath, looking into her eyes seriously. "I want you to understand that while you are in my home, in our tower, that I will ensure that you are safe, and that your boundaries are respected. Do you understand what I am saying?"
She glanced at him before looking back down at her hands. She nodded jerkily.
"Good. Thank you for nodding, that's good," he said.
There was a quiet knock on the door and Bucky pushed it open gently. Steve turned to him with a small smile. She hated that fucking door. What was on the other side of it? Would they pull her out? She trembled.
"Hey Buck," he said. "Come on in. We're discussing boundaries."
Bucky nodded.
"You remember when Bucky first came to the tower?" Steve asked as he looked over at Bucky, his eyes dimming slightly in memory. Darcy glanced down at her hands.
"I was a mess," Bucky inserted. "Hadn't had a boundary respected in…" he trailed off for a long moment, shoving his human hand into his hair. "Hell…I couldn't even remember."
He glanced at Steve.
"Steve's got a therapist friend and he said to set up strict boundaries for me, for him, for us… it started with safety, so I wouldn't hurt Stevie if I got…confused." He struggled before continuing. "Doc gave us some different kinds of suggestions and…it helped. Is helping me feel…" he stumbled again… "safe."
Steve nodded. "We do regular check-ins and it's helped us be there for each other, and also gives us all a chance for a breather when that's what's needed, too, or time to ourselves to unwind and… come back to ourselves with needed space until we can communicate better and try again, maybe in a different way."
Darcy stared at the door. It was cracked open and her nerves were shot just thinking about that fact.
After still getting no response from Darcy, Steve glanced at Bucky, momentarily unsure. Bucky nodded. "For example," Steve said softly, "Buck, what's your color?"
"Green," Bucky replied quietly. Steve gently bumped shoulders with him. Bucky grinned at the floor.
"We like the color system for normal day-to-day check-ins," Steve explained. "Green means all is good, we're happy, we're fine, we can hang…"
"Yellow is for when we aren't sure," Bucky continued. "Sometimes, when I have trouble… understanding what I feel in that moment, or what I need. If I'm just unsure about something - it's a yellow."
Darcy glanced up at him, the door forgotten momentarily, her interest piqued. He smiled gently at her.
"And Red is for when we need to stop," Steve said firmly. "When we need to say no. When we need a moment alone, or are overwhelmed and need a breather. If we're in a crowd and we need to leave - it's a red. Or if something triggers us and sometimes we… lose ourselves or get lost - that's a red."
"I made a promise to you, Doll," Bucky reminded her. "You say the word, no or red, and I will make sure it is respected. Steve will too."
Steve nodded. "Any questions?" He asked. Darcy just stared.
"Doll," Bucky asked, his voice low, "Could you tell us your color right now?"
Darcy opened her mouth, but couldn't give a color. The clock on the wall ticked.
"If you can't say your color, then it's an automatic red," Steve explained carefully, taking a small step away from her, giving her space. Her chin wobbled.
"If you need to be left alone, you can tell us. If you need us to stay, but not talk, you just tell us that, too. But if you say red, or can't give a color, or…" he cringed, his Brooklyn coming out in his nervousness, "don't say nothin' at all, we will stop what we are doing currently and let things settle."
Darcy wasn't sure she believed them, that if she said red they would stop and leave her alone. She just wasn't… she didn't believe they would. She wasn't sure she wanted them to leave… Maybe they would, but it wasn't worth the chance.
They waited, not rushing her, not pressuring her.
She covered her face with her hands.
"Yellow," she whispered finally, into her hands, tiredly, her voice cracking at the end of the word. She couldn't say red, she wasn't ready. Couldn't say nothing or that would also be red. She wasn't ready. She drooped towards the bed, her shoulders sinking. Why was everything - every little thing - so hard?
Bucky nodded encouragingly. Steve's face lit up.
"That's so good, for letting us know. Thank you," Steve praised. "I know that was hard and we are proud of you."
Darcy felt exhausted.
"Doll, you look like you are about to keel over. Let's lean you back down — there you go" Bucky said, his voice husky as he helped her lie back on the bed, "and let rest for a while. We're done talking now, you gave us your color - yellow. So we're gonna pause and take a breather."
"And by breather, we are going to recommend a nap," Steve said gently. "You've had a busy day, moving from the hospital to here."
The color yellow used to mean joy to Darcy. It was such a happy color. And now it defined her unsure state of mind. She wasn't sure she liked the color yellow anymore.
"Just rest up for a few hours and Bucky's got the soup simmering on the stove. It'll be ready in a little while…"
"Always tastes better when it gets to simmer for a few hours," Bucky commented while Steve nattled on.
"...and Nat said she would come around this evening to help you try to take a full shower," Steve continued.
Darcy froze.
Bucky noticed, and gently shuffled Steve out of the room. "She yellowed, Steve," he murmured softly. "Let her be for a while - it's been a long day."
Steve glanced back, his face fallen in apology. "Sorry… I'm sorry. Didn't mean to… Have a good nap… rest... Darce," he said, following Bucky out of the room, and started to close the door behind him. He paused midway and glanced back at her.
"Whatever you need, doll," he told her seriously. "You are safe here, I promise."
She didn't believe him.
Concern flitted across his features before he masked it with a small smile, though it definitely did not reach his eyes. "Do you want this open or closed?" He asked.
Darcy's mind went completely blank and she shut down. Her hands fell against the bed and her eyes filled with tears, blinding her.
Her eyes were open, but she didn't see anything, didn't feel anything.
"Sweetheart?" Steve asked, taking a single step back towards her. "Darcy, what is it? You okay?"
The last thing Darcy saw before she fainted was Bucky scrambling over Steve to get to her before she hit the ground.