The beat of the drum reverberated through the floor and up through Darcy's body, joining in with the sound of her heart. She moved swiftly, each shift of her stance in time with the beat of the drum. It was monotonous, but soothing at the same time. Instead of putting her to sleep, it seemed to settle a part of her that she didn't know had been wild and flighty. With each beat she took up a new stance, a new move that had been taught to her by the Widow. It was an exercise in muscle memory, and Darcy was starting from the beginning exactly like a kid taking martial arts—only her teacher was a lot less indulgent when it came to distraction.

"Tuck your elbows in," the Widow barked suddenly. Darcy felt fingers lightly jab at her lower ribs. "You leave yourself open here. If you are hit here," another light jab of her finger, farther back, "and these ribs break, you may puncture your kidneys."

"That'd suck," Darcy said, slightly out of breath. The drum beat at a fairly quick tempo and she had to keep up with it, even if her body had started to ache.

"It would," the Widow agreed, stepping back to observe once more. "Resume."

Darcy did as she was told, moving seamlessly into the next position. When she wasn't doing her cardio or lifting weights she was being put through her paces like a show horse, but it was starting to pay off. She hardly had to think about the next position before her body was moving into it and that, she supposed, was pretty much the point of the constant repetition.

"I don't understand how this is going teach me to fight," Darcy confessed after a few more beats of the drum. "It's not like my opponent is going to agree on a fighting pattern before he or she wipes the floor with me."

She was, fortunately, facing the Widow as she spoke and was able to catch the lift of her lips as she smiled slightly. "No one will wipe the floor with you when I am done teaching you," the other woman promised. "This is to teach you the proper form for each attack and offense."

Romanov stepped into Darcy's pattern like a trickle of water joining a flood, it was seamless and in perfect sync. She began countering each of Darcy's moves, falling into the same rhythm as the drum. "This is to teach you to bring your arm up in a certain position when you see an attack coming at your head," she said as they moved, her hand making a graceful arc towards Darcy's skull just as Darcy raised her arm. They didn't make contact, but it was clear how they were meant to.

"What if I forget?"

"You will not forget if you always practice," the Widow assured her. "It will become instinct."

"You do these patterns?" Darcy asked sceptically. "When you're not teaching me, that is."

The Widow smiled that little smile of hers again. "I practice in other ways."

Darcy huffed a laugh. It was an awkward sound, considering that she was kind of out of breath and even talking was a bit of a challenge. "You mean you beat the shit out of people."

That little smile grew wider and became distinctly more mischievous. "Yes," Romanov admitted, with a slight tilt to her head. "It is practice."

She stepped out of the dance they were doing just as smoothly as she'd entered it, making Darcy's mock kick hit nothing but thin air. "You may stop," Romanov said, peeling her gloves off finger by finger. "We are done for today."

Darcy let out a relieved breath. Her body was slowly getting used to the work, but it was an uphill battle considering she'd spent most of her life doing nothing more strenuous than the occasional move from apartment to apartment or a mad dash for the bus. She tried not to drag her feet as she walked over the bench and picked up her towel and water bottle, using the former to wipe the sweat off of her face and neck. It bothered her to no end when her hair stuck to her sweaty skin.

She looked up at the Widow as she took a swig from her bottle, noting that the redhead looked like she'd been lounging about all day despite the fact that she'd gotten in a fairly good workout as well—she always did during their sessions.

"It's unnatural how little you sweat," Darcy said, wiping her face with her towel again. "Is there something in the water over in Russia or am I just a beast of a woman?"

Romanov looked up at her and flashed a small smile, but it wasn't the one that Darcy was used to. She was used to the one that was almost shy and bashful, as if not sure that smiling was allowed. This one looked hard and forced.

"There is much about me that is unnatural, but my sweat is not one."

She turned away from Darcy, gathering up her things, and Darcy was suddenly struck with the feeling that she'd stuck her foot in her mouth—although how was a mystery.

"Hey, Agent Romanov—I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" Darcy asked tentatively. "I didn't mean to offend."

The Widow turned, her face wiped clean of any and all emotion. "You did not," she said, her tone just as blank as her face. She swung her gym bag over her shoulder and gave Darcy a nod of the head. "I will see you in two days."

Darcy watched her leave the gym, still feeling like she'd managed to shove her foot in her mouth. Perhaps both of them. With a sigh, she peeled off her gloves and ran a hand over her face. She felt disgusting.

Grabbing her own gym bag, she headed for the change rooms and the showers that lay within. She'd stopped being shocked and mildly offended by the luxury that Tony Stark surrounded himself with in absolutely every respect and had instead started to enjoy it. This was particularly true when it came to the showers in any part of the Tower. Normal gyms had stalls that had a door with a lock and a shower head that gave enough pressure if you were lucky. Stark's showers were made of frosted glass and had no less than six shower heads positioned all around so that the bather could enjoy a full body aquatic massage if they so pleased, or stand under a gentle waterfall if it tickled their fancy.

Decisions, decisions, Darcy mused, peeling off her sticky clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor.

She lingered under the spray, rotating sore muscles that were learning the hard way just how many exercises could be done with a 25lb dumbbell, and thinking of all the things that needed to be done. Jane's spectrometer required a new calibration after she'd changed the program's parameters again and while Jane was a brilliant woman, hardware was not her forte. Her last blunder with causing the spectrometer to overheat not withstanding, Jane couldn't be trusted to not put windshield wiper fluid in the transmission of her car. Never mind the fact that Darcy couldn't figure out how Jane had even accessed the transmission in order to drain the fluid and replace it with the car version of Windex. Jane had skills when it came to breaking machines, and Darcy was none too inclined to let her anywhere near the beautiful creature that she'd spent the better part of three months designing and building.

Then there was the anchors for the Einstein-Rosen bridge that Jane wanted to build to get Thor back, if only so she could punch him on his perfect jaw for having her shipped off to Tromsø and Darcy along with her. Not that Darcy would complain. Norway was a beautiful country and it was cold enough that she could wear her gloves most of the time without looking out of place. As much as Darcy wanted to see her favourite Nordic god again, the anchors had taken the back burner in her mind, if not in Jane's.

Sergeant Barnes—James, as she'd been calling him in her mind—had suddenly become the focus of her days, and was that really healthy? She didn't even know the man, and yet here she was, spreading herself thin to try to pull him out of his head. She was way out of her depth with him, and she felt like she was stumbling around blind. Stumbling led to tripping, and that's how people got hurt. She tipped her face back into the water to rinse out the last of the conditioner, and then shut everything off.

"JARVIS?" she asked, reaching for a towel.

"Yes, Miss Lewis?"

"Is there any way for me to contact Professor Xavier myself?" She wrapped the towel around her body and stepped out of the shower. "I know one of the Avengers has reached out to him, and that he's on some sort of personal thing, but I was wondering if I might send him some sort of message myself?"

"That can be arranged, Miss Lewis. Would you prefer a voice message, or a transcript?"

"Oh. Um…" Darcy sat down on the bench in front of her locker and thought about it for a moment. "A voice message is more personal, isn't it? Let's do that."

"Of course, Miss. Would you like to do it now?"

She looked down at herself. "Just voice, right JARVIS?"

"That is correct. There are no video cameras in this room, nor in the showers."

"Really?" she asked, intrigued. "I thought you saw all?"

"I do see all, Miss Lewis," JARVIS replied, and if it was possible he sounded just a tad affronted. "Heat sensing cameras track your movement without violating your privacy."

"Well, that's a relief," she said honestly. "Okay, so…do I just start talking?"

"Correct."

"All right. So, um…Hello Professor Xavier. My name is Darcy Lewis, you might have heard of me already, and I'm sorry for bothering you." She paused, feeling awkward. It was odd, almost like talking to herself but…not. She hated leaving normal voice messages, and this was especially uncomfortable. "I know that you're dealing with some sort of personal business right now but I find myself in need of some serious help. I'm afraid that I'm going to make things worse than they already are and…" She paused again, unsure of what she wanted to say. "I don't want to hurt anyone, and I'm scared that I might. I don't know what I'm doing, I've never done this kind of thing before." Once she had started, the words began rushing out of her. "What if I screw his head up even more than he already is? I don't even know if that's possible, because he's pretty fucked up as is, but what if? I've spent most of my life trying to not use my powers and now… now it's like I'm being thrown in the deep end and it's sink or swim but sinking isn't an option because it could ruin not just his life, or even my life but Ste—Captain America's too." She dropped her head into her hands and took a deep breath. "This isn't the kind of message I planned on leaving but…I need help, sir, and I'm not above begging so please, if you can spare any time at all, I just need some advice."

She looked up at the ceiling, a reflexive habit when interacting with JARVIS. "Uhm, that's it JARVIS."

"Your message has been recorded. Would you like it played back to you?"

Darcy snorted. "God, no."

"Would you like it to be sent then, Miss?"

Part of her wanted to say no. It wasn't exactly a dignified message, but then again, perhaps her growing desperation would be evident in that rambling mess and he'd take pity on her.

Cause she knew she needed help. Massive help.

James Barnes was dealing with a hell of a lot more than she was equipped to handle, that much was evident from her short trips within his mind. She remembered his emotions, the disorienting tumult of guilt and a confusion, of his inability to recognise it when she tried to show him love and affection in order to calm him. He needed someone way more qualified than her. Hell, he deserved better.

"Send the message, please, JARVIS. Thank you."

"Of course, Miss Lewis."

The A.I. was always so formal with her, he reminded her of Steve sometimes. He still called her Miss Lewis, as if they'd just met. Though, she reminded herself, Steve was from a different era. Perhaps he needed her permission to call her 'Darcy'. It was a thought to ponder.

"Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"You know you can call me Darcy if you want, right?"

There was a pause, only really noticeable because JARVIS was usually so prompt, and then he said, "Do you wish for me to call you Darcy?"

She shrugged, even though he probably couldn't see it all that well. "It's up to you. I don't mind either way."

"Duly noted, Miss Darcy."

She smiled to herself. "Cheeky," she muttered.

xXx

Darcy was shocked to find the area in front of Sergeant Barnes' room lacking a certain superhero. She approached the window beside his door and peered in, fully expecting to see Steve sitting next to the bed or something, but the room was conspicuously empty of anyone except Barnes who lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"You want some coffee?"

She let out an inhumanely high-pitched yelp and spun around. Steve stood there, a paper cup in each hand and a mildly shocked expression on his face.

"Sorry," he said, his lips curling into a smile. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"How a man your size moves without a sound is honestly beyond me," she said, her embarrassment making her tone sharp. "You need a bell."

Steve just smiled wider and held out one of the cups for her. "I only put a little sugar in it."

Darcy took it from him. "So you mean a regular amount instead of that diabetes inducing syrup you usually drink?" she asked teasingly. "You know, your pancreas probably hates you."

He shrugged with one shoulder. "I think I'll be fine."

She had no idea what being a super soldier entailed, but if he could live to talk about getting shot, dropped out of a crashing Hellicarrier, and nearly drowned in a river then he could probably eat all the sugar he wanted and skip the whole diabetes thing.

Darcy took a sip of the hot coffee and hummed with pleasure when the flavour of coffee and not just sugar washed over her tongue.

"Good?"

"I'd give you a gold star," Darcy sassed, "but rumour has it that you've already got one."

He chuckled. "Mine isn't gold."

"Well, then we'll just have to get you one, won't we?"

He shook his head, smiling, and took a long sip of his coffee before he responded. "You're not what I expected, Miss Lewis."

She arched an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what you expected?"

Quite abruptly, he looked uncomfortable. Darcy watched as colour crept up his neck and into his face. Her other eyebrow went up, intrigued. "Women are…Well, I'm not used to…" He trailed off and rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, looking mighty awkward. "I like you," he blurted out, and then immediately looked horrified. "I mean, not in—I just—Ah, hell."

Darcy clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing at him. She had a good idea of what he was trying to say, but he was fumbling all over his words like a football player with butter on their hands.

"I've never had a dame for a friend," he tried to explain, his face flaming red. "And, I just…Women are so different from what I'm used to and…"

"I think I know what you're trying to say, Steve," she said smiling. "But friends call each other by their first names, you know. So how about you call me Darcy, and I'll call you Stevie or something equally awful?"

He managed to look immensely relieved, whilst simultaneously wincing. "I suppose it's better than 'Capsicle'," he said.

"Anything is better than that," Darcy agreed.

His shoulders relaxed as he laughed with just a touch of embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit of an idiot."

"Nah," she reached out and gave him a gentle shove, making sure not to touch his bare skin. "I think of you as a friend, too."

"Yeah?" he asked. "Even after I…Well, you know."

Darcy shrugged. She wasn't interested in rehashing that. It had quickly become clear to her that what had happened that day was an aberration and not in Steve's usual nature. "Even after all that," she agreed.

He relaxed even further, and a smile played about his lips. "Good," he said. "That's good."

She glanced into the window to see Barnes lying there, still staring at the ceiling, as expected. She knew that she ought to go inside there and do what she came down to the medical floor to do, but she didn't have the heart for it. Instead, she turned her attention more firmly towards Steve.

"You know," she hesitated for a moment, and then decided to plough on with her thought, "you'd have more lady friends if you went out a bit more often."

Steve grimaced suddenly and shook his head. "I'm not very good with dames and women are…" he shrugged, "they're very…different."

"You mean modern women?"

He nodded and looked down at his coffee. "I'm not used to…to any of it. Modern or…old fashioned," he said with a tone.

"Well, I suppose purple hair and septum piercings are a bit much for a man like you," she said lightly.

"That's an understatement," he said laughingly. "Nat is always trying to fix me up with someone."

Darcy's eyebrows went up again at the casual mention of Agent Romanov. "I didn't realise you guys were at all close."

"She's a good friend," Steve said.

"I thought you said you didn't have any lady friends."

"She's not a—" He stopped mid-sentence as he realised what he was about to say. "I mean, she is a dame but—" He broke off again and gave her a helpless look. "Anything I say is just going to make it worse, isn't it?"

Darcy laughed. "I'm not sure if it's a compliment to her or an insult that you seem to forget that she's a woman."

"I don't forget," he corrected. "She's just…She's Natasha."

"She's more than a friend or a woman," Darcy surmised. "She's a comrade."

Steve turned to the window to look at Barnes. "She is," he said quietly.

Darcy fell silent and watched him as he watched his friend, his comrade. She couldn't imagine what it was like inside his head—or any of their heads for that matter. She knew that they all came with a back story, with baggage. The Widow's reaction to her simple teasing earlier was evidence of that. Clearly Darcy had said something that hit a nerve, and she had her suspicions that it was the word 'unnatural'. It had to be lonely, she realised, for all of them, but especially for Steve. He was always apart from everyone around him in practically every way. With his pressed khakis and his button up shirts tucked into his belt he couldn't blend in with contemporary men on the street. His uniform set him apart from other S.H.E.I.L.D operatives—or former S.H.E.I.L.D operatives, she corrected herself—and it was only when he was with the Avengers that he didn't stand out quite so much. Mentally, well, that was a whole different ball game.

In a way, she wanted to tell him that he had to move on, adapt to the new world, but that was probably a lot easier said than done and who was she to judge?

"I spent so much time looking for him," Steve said suddenly. "Almost two years. Now that I've found him…I don't know what to do with myself."

"Well, what did you do before you knew he was alive?" Darcy asked.

"Trained," he said. "Did missions for S.H.E.I.L.D."

She shook her head ruefully. "You don't necessarily have to get out and socialise, but you do need to get a life, Steve."

He smiled slightly and dragged his free hand through his hair. "I know, but there are only so many books I can read before I don't know what's going on. It seems like there's an endless amount of catching up to be done and…I just don't have the heart for it.

"What about meeting new people?" she suggested. "Not for dating, but just for friendship. The easiest way to learn about a new culture is to immerse yourself in it, and this," she gestured with her hand at the world around them, "is a new culture to you."

"It's kind of hard to make friends when it always means lying right from the beginning."

Darcy wrinkled her nose at that. "Point," she conceded. "But what about the rest of the team, and people like Agent Hill?"

He looked thoughtful for a second. "I spend time with Sam."

"Every time I see you, or any time I ask JARVIS where to find you, you're up here, Steve," she said, nodding her head in the direction of Barnes' room. "When was the last time you had an actual conversation with Sam?" Steve opened his mouth to respond. "One that lasted longer than five minutes and covered more than the basics of 'How you doing, Stevie?'" She put on her best deep, masculine voice to imitate both Sam and Steve and held her arms out as if she were loaded with muscles. "'Not bad, brah. You?'" Darcy dropped her arms and gave him a look. "Because that doesn't count as a conversation."

Steve was eyeballing her like she'd just sprouted a couple more heads. "Why on Earth would I call Sam a brassiere?"

Darcy clapped a hand over her face and shook her head. "It's a colloquialism and it means 'brother', not 'brassiere," she explained with a smile. Steve still looked immensely confused so she held out her hand. "Phone, por favor."

"What are you going to do?" Steve asked warily, even as he reached into his pocket.

"Install an app that will help you look up terms you don't understand, whether they're slang or not," she said, plucking his phone out of his fingers and letting her thumbs fly. "It's a user based thing, so you'll get multiple answers but usually the top one is the most correct."

"How do you…?" Steve moved closer, peering over her shoulder and watching as she pulled up the app program on the phone and began searching for Urban Dictionary. She quickly found it and clicked 'Install'. The StarkPhone, being made by a Stark, downloaded the application and opened it up in record time.

"There's a word of the day feature," Darcy said, using her index finger to point it out to him. "Be careful though, they're not always PG-13, so don't just whip it out while you're on the bus. Well, not unless you want the tiny little old ladies to judge you."

"Duly noted," he said, taking the phone back as she handed it over. "So I just type in the word I'm looking for?"

Darcy nodded. "As long as you're spelling it correctly, it should come up. If you don't know how to spell it, open up Google and sound it out. Google knows pretty much everything; it'll figure it out. If all else fails, you could always ask JARVIS."

Steve looked up the ceiling. "Pretty sure there are some things I'd rather not ask JARVIS."

Darcy patted his arm consolingly. "Yeah, well, at least you never asked your middle-school French teacher what voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir means."

She could tell by how his eyes widened slightly that he knew exactly what those words meant. "Why would you ask your French teacher that?"

"Look up the song 'Lady Marmalade' later," Darcy advised. "Make sure you're alone though."

"Am I going to regret this?" Steve asked.

Darcy dipped her head from side to side, making a 'maybe' face. "Quite possibly. It might actually ruin you for the movie Moulin Rouge, so watch that first and then look up the song." She swigged the rest of her coffee. "Remember, Google is both wondrous and terrifying and should be used with caution."

Steve made a face. "I'm not very fond of computers," he told her. "The last one I met tried to kill me."

"You met a—I'm sorry, what?" Darcy gaped at him, all thoughts of Mya, Christina, and the gals scandalizing poor Steve fled her mind.

"True story," Steve said, giving her a lopsided grin.

"Ew." She wrinkled her nose. "Don't start talking like Stark. It's wrong on so many levels. In fact, delete that Urban Dictionary app. Stark talks exactly like that."

"Apologies, ma'am." He gave her a nod of his head and tipped an imaginary cap, making Darcy roll her eyes at him.

"Smart ass," she muttered. "Seriously, though. How does one meet a computer, and how does said computer try to kill you? Last I checked they were relatively inanimate, unless designed by Stark."

Steve's face lost some of its humour and Darcy immediately felt like kicking herself. She hadn't thought about the fact that if a computer was trying to kill him, it probably wasn't a happy story. She watched as his lips twisted into a sour expression and his gaze shifted to the window next to them. "How about I tell you another time?" He nodded his head towards Barnes. "We should probably go in."

Darcy followed his gaze. As far as she could tell, Barnes hadn't moved. He lay on his back, eyes staring vacantly up at the ceiling. Darcy felt the levity of the moment leave her as she contemplated going in there and touching the Sergeant again. There was an undeniable part of her that was starting to regret offering to help, and that made her feel guilty as hell.

"You're right, we should." She forced a smile on to her face for Steve and opened the door to the room before he could realise that it was fake.

She dropped her empty coffee cup in the bin next to the door before approaching the bed. Steve grabbed a chair and dragged it over for her.

"Thanks," she said, pulling it closer to the bed before sitting down.

"Hello, James."

As expected, there was no response. Darcy cast about for something else to say. Making small talk with strangers was awkward enough when all parties were capable of actually talking. Deciding to just bite the bullet, she cast one last look at Steve's anxious face, before she reached out and slipped her hand under Barnes'.

She was ready for him, ready for the pounce that she'd experienced before, but her caution turned to shock when she realised that, too, was ready for her.

He'd been waiting.

Unlike the last time, he reached out gently, his consciousness brushing against hers instead of trying to swallow and consume it. She could feel his confusion, and his lingering fear, but also a sense of curiosity. It made her heart skip a beat with excitement.

'Becca?

Darcy barely had the time to register the sound of his mental voice, a deep, smooth masculine sound, before an image flickered across her consciousness. It was dim, and the background almost non-existent, but the face of a young woman stood out so clear, so colourful, that Darcy knew that this face was important. Before it could disappear back into his mind, Darcy reached out for the memory and pulled it forward, forcing them both to view the memory.

"Mama's gonna whoop you."

"Only if you tattle on me."

She laughs, throwing her head back with exuberance. People glance at her, drawn in by her brightness, and her beauty. Her hair is loose and flowing, catching the sun and reflecting reds and golds that don't usually show in the normally deep brown. It's not very fashionable for a woman to leave her hair untouched or styled, but 'Becca has never really cared about acting like a lady should.

He links his arms with hers and he can feel the warmth of her body through the cheap coats they're wearing.

"I won't tattle on you, James, but you know Mama. She goin' to find out no matter what you do."

He grins at her, confident in his ability to smooth-talk his way out of trouble with his mother.

"You let me worry about that, doll."

The memory ended as abruptly as it began, and Darcy knew that there had to be more, but when she reached, she only found darkness and his growing confusion

James?

She reached out for that part of his consciousness that was him and not his memories, or the lack thereof. She was relieved when he reached back.

'Becca?

The woman's face flashed through their minds again. Blue eyes, long dark hair, and a sweet, crooked smile.

Darcy could see how, on a most basic level, he might confuse her with whoever 'Becca was. They both had long dark hair, blue eyes, and imperfect teeth, but what the memory really told her was that Sergeant Barnes was at least a little bit aware of his surroundings. He'd seen her and made the connection to this woman in his fragmented memory.

Who is 'Becca, James?

The face flashed through their minds again, but it was a different memory. This one was dimmer than the other, more deeply seated in shadows, as if he couldn't recall the details. 'Becca's eyes were the focus of his thoughts, though, how tears welled up along her eyelids, and how her gaze darted distractedly from side to side. There was no emotion attached to either of the memories, only a sense of general confusion. Darcy knew then that he had no idea who 'Becca was either.

'Becca?

I'm not 'Becca, James. My name is Darcy.

His reaction was instantaneous, and not at all what she expected. He withdrew so quickly that Darcy scrambled to hold on to him, to follow him as he retreated within his own consciousness. The fear reappeared, surging up within both of them, and with it came the anger that seeped from him to her. It crouched deep in her belly, cloying and thick.

James, please calm do—

He pulled away again, harder this time, but Darcy was determined. She followed him deeper into his own consciousness, deeper into the darkness that was his mind. She felt like Alice traipsing down the rabbit hole, and just like Alice, she got a surprise when she reached the bottom.

Another memory welled up, this one sharp and clear, and saturated with emotion.

He knows the room, though he can't remember where or when he's been there, only that he has. His skin crawls with awareness, his ears picking up the minute sounds of cloth brushing against cloth, of a set of lungs quietly breathing at rest, of a man adjusting his grip on his gun.

He knows, without a doubt, that there are guns trained on him. There always are.

When the man enters the room, he is not surprised. He was expecting him—or he ought to have been. He knows this man's face, just as well as he knows the room. The sight of him brings a sense of anticipation, though he doesn't know why.

"It is time. You are needed."

He doesn't nod, doesn't say a word, but he follows the man with his eyes as he waits for instruction. The man will tell him exactly what needs to be done, and he will do it. Because that is what he does.

He tosses a folder down on the table nearby. It is thick with papers and photographs, some of which spill out, showing the edges of surveillance shots. He is familiar with this, too.

"This is your target," the man says, gesturing at the folder. "It is to look like an accident."

At that, he does nod, acknowledging the order. He reaches for the folder, flipping it open to see a pretty, smiling woman looking back at him. He will hav to read the file in detail to determine how best to kill her but from the quick skim that he does of the first page it seems to be an easy mission. The woman is a rich man's housewife, and those women do not often pose much of a challenge. Their luxurious lives presented many variables with which to kill them and his mind begins to flick through them. A boating accident, a fall down the stairs, a previously unknown drug addiction. He glances over the name and feels a spark of recognition

"Stark?"

The man, who had been about to leave, pauses. He turns back, his expression no longer relaxed.

"Yes. Stark," the man says, his words sharp.

He frowns slightly, trying to remember where he knows that name from.

"You've heard of them before. They are an enemy of Hydra," the man informs him, as if he can read minds. He looks up at him, reassured by this information. Of course he would know the name if they are an enemy of Hydra. "Which makes your mission all the more important," the man continues, walking back over to place a hand on his bare shoulder. Warmth unfurls in his stomach, and he knows that he will do everything in his power to make sure that the mission is a success. She will—

— "done well, my son," the man is saying, but he has not been paying attention. The word 'son' catches at his attention though, and his head tilts to the side unconsciously as he contemplates it. He knows what it means, technically, but he does not know if he is the man's son. Before he can think on it further, the hand on his shoulder squeezes gently and he dismisses the thoughts. It does not matter. He is the asset, and he will make the man proud of him.

He watches as the man turns away and nods at a woman in the room, one wearing a long white coat. This, too, he recognises, and it sets his body on edge as she approaches.

"Wipe him, and reset. Call me when it's done."

The woman approaches with a piece of black rubber in her hand, and instantly he knows that something is wrong. He jerks back from it instinctively, his eyes darting to the man as the piece of rubber is pushed into his mouth, between his teeth. The warmth disappears, replaced by terror that bleeds through his entire body. He makes a move to get up, but then there are hands on him. He struggles, and the man watches for a moment, his lips tight and his eyes hard, before turning around to leave the room. He starts to thrash, crying out, but the man never turns back. He watches the man's back retreat, his gut churning, as the machines around him begin to hum. The hands are replaced with metal, but before he can test his strength against it, pain screams through his body, making his teeth clench around the rubber over his tongue. He knows, now, why they put it there, and why—

Pain lanced through Darcy's head and she fell backwards, grabbing her skull with a scream. The pain was not hers, not really, but for a moment the memory of it was enough to completely debilitate her. It ricocheted through her body like lightning, and before she could even think twice about it, she was vomiting all over herself and the edge of the bed beside her.

"Darcy! God, Darcy! JARVIS, get medical in here, now!"

She pressed her face against the soft bed, trying to drown out the sound of that frantic voice. Her body heaved once more, and she gagged at the burn of bile being forced out. Hands pulled her backwards, pulling her into a warm embrace. The world rapidly began blurring around the edges, and she could feel the darkness rising up for her, but the one thing that remained crystal clear was the pair of icy blue eyes that were watching her.