"Hello, Ms. Lewis and Mr. Jefferson, I'm Tierza Finch, and I'll be your instructor and guide as you learn and navigate American Sign Language. Now, before we begin, my information tells me that you are both beginners. Is that correct?"
They both nod in the affirmative. "Never done it before, to be completely honest, Ms. Finch," James adds. His eyes are a soft brown from special contacts and his hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail. A pair of plain black, semi-wide framed glasses adds even more to the simple disguise. Wearing a nice pair of dark jeans and a simple, gray button up, he looks a little less like James Buchanan, the Winter Soldier, decorated war veteran, and the oldest prisoner of war, and a little more like Max Jefferson, his cover story. As for Darcy, since she really hasn't been very active outside of the Tower in years and isn't really that high on hydra's shit list, gray eyed contacts and her hair down in waves are the only things she's had to do. She's even been able to use her last name, making her Katerina "Kat" Lewis on the papers.
"Well then, we'll start with the basics and work our way up from there. Sound good to you?" Ms. Finch asks. Again, they nod.
Tierza looks to be about a few years older than James' outer appearance. She's got short, mouse colored hair with a few highlights, warm gray eyes, and a kind, patient smile. Thanks to the very thorough background check both Tony and Nat had done before even setting up the first private lesson, Darcy also knows that the lady in front of her isn't and never was hydra (they didn't deserve the acknowledgement of capitalization in her head anymore and never should have in the first place.)
From there, they begin to learn the ASL alphabet. They're finally here! Finally learning after what seems like forever looking for a reputable school, then letting Nat and Tony and Friday comb through each potential employee's background thoroughly, and then actually choosing a date and length (only about an hour and a half each time, twice a week), they're here! And it's awesomesauce! It's truly fucking amazing. Sure, it's totally the bare basics of the basics and slow-going, like what you'd teach a baby really, but she fucking loves it. She has fun while she starts to learn the barest bit of American Sign Language.
By the time the session end, she can safely sign the first half of the alphabet without help or even a prodding in the right direction, and she'd damn fucking proud of it. James, the unintentional show-off, has already figured out nearly the entire alphabet with only a few letters stumbled on. When she'd shot him a questioning, accusing stare, he'd shrugged and said that the serum, even his botched-up batch, had heightened and enhanced everything about him, which apparently included really boosting his ability to learn shit. After receiving homework for the next session in a couple days (pretty much just keep practicing and see if they can get the alphabet even better), they leave the building to start walking (something he'd actually suggested strangely enough. Something about being able to scope out the place and its surroundings on the way there and back) back to the Tower.
They walk in silence down the street with her on his left side, his less "strong" side when it comes to shooting (as if anything about him wasn't strong). As they walk, she watches the people goings by with a curious gaze while he watches them with a hesitant, calculating stare. About a little less than halfway between the Tower and the school, Darcy spots a tiny café that truly looks to be nothing more than a hole in the wall between bigger shops. When she sees it, she finds James' hand and gives it a squeeze. At his confused inspection of her person, she graces him with a small smile and tilts her head towards the fun little café sign, silently asking if he'd be alright going into the place or if he'd like to just keep walking. He spares a glimpse at the sign, its crooked letters in various shades of purple spelling out the title "Cheshire Cat Café" with a purple cat tale one on end and a wibbly, wobbly teacup and saucer with cat ears sticking out of it on the other. After a moment's deliberation, he looks back at her and nods.
Together, they enter the curious establishment.
What they find greatly amuses and confuses James, as far as she can tell from the small frown pulling at his lips and the crinkling of his brow, but it seriously fills Darcy with so much joy. The walls are old brick, smattered with holes and lined with various paintings and photos for sale, many of them sticking the Alice in Wonderland themed café name. Along one wall, a station for straws, napkins, and other such things, like a spot for placing dirty miss-matched dishes, sits proudly. On the opposite wall is the counter for people to order and for the baristas to make the various drinks and food. In the center of the long room runs an almost equally long table that has mismatched chairs of many different colors and patterns. Of course, in a few corners and nooks of the room sit couches and chairs that look well-loved and squishy and comfy as hell and about as uniquely mismatched but charming as the rest of the place.
It's not packed but still full with chairs and tables to spare. Perfect.
By the time they reach the counter to order, Darcy has already decided that she loves the place. In a display case off to the side, cakes and cookies have "eat me" iced on them in fun colored icing. A heart-shaped selection of cookies even says "very happy unbirthday" next to a sign that says "or" and points to a small cake, "very happy birthday" written in bright pastel blue. On the menus, even the names of the various selection of drinks fit the Wonderland theme. There's Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Tea, Jabberwocky Java, Mad Hatter Hot Chocolate, Caterpillar Cappuccinos, Lory lattés, March Hare Macchiatos, Dodo Doppios, and even a few more specialty drinks.
After a moment's consideration, she types out her order on her Starkphone and hands it to the barista. A 16-oz. Mad Hatter hot chocolate with whip and caramel drizzle, please, it reads.
The barista, a lovely person with spunky coils of black hair and a bright mauve lipped grin, nods. "Would you like that for here or to-go?" they ask. At the unexpected question, Darcy glances around to see the various patrons with mismatched, colorful, whimsically painted mugs and then at James. This was supposed to have only been a nice little stop for a drink, but at seeing the comfy, cozy atmosphere of the place, she kinda really wants to stay. After another little look at James' bewildered reaction to the café and reasoning that he's probably reached his limit of social interaction for now and is ready to go back to the Tower, she's about to answer that she'd like it to-go when James cuts in.
"For here," he says with confidence in a rough, gravelly voice. "Please" is added quickly to the end. Normally, Darcy wouldn't fly for someone answering for her, but in this situation, she doesn't mind since the ball had technically been in his court, being that it ultimately hung on how well he was coping with being around others.
Their barista smiles while Darcy holds back a gaping look of amazement. "Alright, love, will that be all?"
"No, actually, could I please get a 20-oz. of the sugariest hot drink you have?" James asks.
"That would be our caramel Jabberwocky Java with cream and caramel drizzle," the barista says.
"Sure, I'll take one of those," James says.
A jab of jealousy pokes Darcy. Sure, it took all of college and all the years leading up to that for her to finally, actually learn to love her body with all its quirks and rolls and squish and everything else that makes it unique, but still, it must be nice to have a super enhanced metabolism. Thanks to his super awesome metabolism, even with his major sweet tooth, he can basically eat as much sugar and carbohydrates as he could damn well possibly want to eat and pretty much never gain weight in cellulite, especially if he keeps working out like he does.
She's brought back to the present by the sight of James reaching into his wallet to pay for their drinks. She grabs his hand, causing him to look at her with a questioning eye. She shakes her head and pulls out her own money instead. He nods and gives her room to pay for her own drink and nab her Starkphone back in the process before he pays for his beverage.
Once they've both paid for their drinks, they find a nice little nook in a spot where he has a good, unhindered sight to all the exits and isn't in a direct line of sight should someone less than friendly decide to appear and has a pair of pretty fantastic smooshy chairs to sit in. Sinking down into the cushioned chair, she lets out a very content and probably overly dramatic sigh, reveling in the comfiness. Next to her, she can see James is enjoying his chair's comfortable disposition as well, but with a much more hesitant, reserved acceptance. When they hear their drinks being called, they get up, grab their liquids, and then return right back to their spots to enjoy their spoils. Because they had decided to get their drinks "for here," their drinks are in ceramic mugs with fun, fantastical designs. Her mug is a violet purple, wide mug with little black top-hats and yellow bowties speckling the sides. His mug is a large, tall black mug with happy little gray and light blue whales, some with water sprouting out of their blowholes and some without, but all of them with happy little cartoonish smirks painted all over the exterior.
They sit there for a while, content to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere of the place. Darcy finds herself simply enjoying people watching and breathing in the unique decorations. There are a few others like them, just there and soaking up just being. However, the majority of the patrons have an electronic device or even two or more lit up and are staring at the technology intently. If Darcy had to guess, judging by the fact that the majority of those here have laptops of some brand or just have devices out and on, coupled with the general age of the customers being around the age of an average college student, and some people having multiple empty multi-colored mugs at their seat, she'd say that this place is a hotspot for college students to study and research and do papers at, as well as being just a fantastic place in general.
After a nice bit of time has passed, the overhead, soft-beating Alternative music filling what would've been complete silence between the two now-ASL students, James speaks, breaking her out of her people watching the various patrons, "You can laugh." It's a statement, but more than that, it's a question, almost an accusation.
At first, as she opens her notes on her Starkphone for a fresh page to type on, she thinks to answer with a joke. Something snarky, like "well, everyone can laugh, but that doesn't mean everyone does," but then she thinks no, she won't do that. Not to him. He doesn't deserve that. He deserves the truth straight from her and not from some second-hand, maybe half-assed maybe truth from someone else who knows the actual truth, like Clinton, or a best guess from someone who hasn't cared to look that hard into her past, like Steven, both of which he could get if she doesn't tell him herself.
Message typed out, she hands him her Starkphone and waits as he reads.
Yes, I can laugh. I can laugh and giggle and sigh and whistle and pretty much do any other sound a human can make. When I got hit by that wave of energy thing while holding that stupid stick thing back in London, it, well, it didn't damage my vocal chords. Those are just fine, honestly. It's all up there in my brain or something. I don't really know. Some call my brand of mute something known as Aphasia, but then others don't. No one's really agreed since my symptoms don't coincide perfectly enough with one or even two diagnoses. Basically, what I know and understand is that I can hear and understand words just fine, but the connection between my brain and mouth is broken or disconnected or something because I can't speak. I can't say words. I hear them and even think them just fine and dandy, but I just can't say them. It's kinda like how babies can hear and understand and probably even think fine, but they just can't get their mouths to form the words, except I'll never be able to learn, or even relearn as is my case like they can," her message reads.
For a while, he doesn't speak, doesn't react at all. Not even a little hum of understanding escapes his mouth. And Darcy's not really sure what to think or feel. It's not like he or anyone else can change her situation really. She's already tried that and it didn't work. This is just how she is now. She's still Darcy, though. Sure, some parts aren't exactly whole and working and all there or even there at all, but at the core, she's still Darcy, just a little different. She's still Darcy at her center. Among everything that's changed, at least that hasn't, and she really hopes that that never does.
So why does she feel as though a heavy, crushing weight has been lifted off her shoulders when he just nods and says "okay?"
Because in mere months, James has quickly become one of Darcy Lewis' people.
Because as one of her people, she cares about his opinion, his view of her.
Hearing confirmation of his acceptance that she'll never be able to speak again feels goddamn relieving. She's not broken, there's nothing to fix, that can be fixed, but knowing he's alright with her never having an actual vocal voice, that he's not looking at her with pity or a losing hope that she can somehow be fixed, it just feels so fucking good.
And in that moment, something kind of just clicks. Yes, he's already told her himself that their Thing has helped keep the bad shit away, but maybe that isn't everything.
He may not be a mute, if you can really call what she has that, and she may not be an ex-World War II veteran/POW taken by hydra/ex-Winter Soldier, but they're the same in a way that the others aren't, she thinks.
They don't have any expectation of the other.
She's not Steve, she never met the pre-hydra Bucky-now-James and doesn't expect any of his past personality to suddenly show up. She doesn't expect anything out of him other than whatever she'd already seen herself. He's not Jane, who still looks at her with a never-ending look of guilt, wishing that, even now after years, fucking years, have passed, that she could reverse the damage she did and fix it, fix Darcy like there's something wrong with her. He's not her old friends from before Thor's touchdown who she's lost pretty much all contact with and doesn't expect a snarky as hell comment to fall from her lips because he never knew her when she could speak with a voice. She's not Nat, who watches him with a hesitant, analyzing eye that's ready to take him out at any possible time because she remembers training with him when he was fully the Winter Soldier. He's not Clinton, who met a mouthy college student in the fuckmiddle of New Mexico and took her in like the annoying little sister he never got and became like the brother of a feather that she never knew she didn't want until she got him (like is there a retail store for siblings? A drop-off maybe?), but even now, though resigned to her silence, still looks at her with a sympathetic sadness behind all his jokes and various pranks. She's not Tony, who grew up hearing stories of James and the Howling Commandos from a father who never looked at his own son with half as much affection as he put into the stories he told, only to learn that the James in the stories is the one who was also forced to kill the very man who remembered him with such a fondness and looks at James like a puzzle, one that doesn't make sense but he still wants to figure out because maybe then things will actually make sense again. He's not Thor, who dearly loves his little Lightning Sister who felled him with her lightning stick but still blames himself for allowing the fight, his fight, to deal such a swift, irreparable blow to her when she should never have been in the battle in the first place. She's not the Maximoff twins, who stare and watch him with such awed looks of fear and amazement hiding in their eyes whenever they see the man who used to be hydra's favorite puppet, the esteemed and deadly Winter Soldier. He's not Bruce, who fears being too close to anyone in fear of accidentally hurting them, especially humany, squishy Darcy, who he doubts could call for help or diffuse the situation because she doesn't have a voice. She's not Sam, who tries so fucking hard to be accepting of him but still watches him with the analytical eye of a therapist. Neither of them is Vision, who's just new to having a body and humany feelings in the first place and looks at both of them like they're anomalies to be studied and understood, even if it's just a quick glance every now and then.
They're different.
They're special because they don't and have never had any preconceived notions about what the other was like in the past.
Sure, she read about him in History class and heard all about him when she was told Steve was bringing him in, but she didn't know him before actually meeting him. Sure, he'd heard about her when he was being introduced to everyone that lived full-time in the Tower and interacted with the Team on a regular enough basis to be considered part of the Avengers and Co.™ and Thor has most likely told him various tales of their hang times together, but he didn't know her before meeting her. When James came down to the common room that night to watch the stars with her, neither one of them knew the other more than any hearsay they'd already been privy to, so they really didn't have any real expectations of the other. Sure, they'd figured that they probably wouldn't be having huge amounts of conversations even if they got to know each other more since she knew he doesn't really talk all that much and he knew she couldn't speak verbally, but they didn't expect the other to be someone they weren't and never will be again.
They didn't and still don't terribly care about who they were in the past nearly as much as they care about who they are now.
When they've finished their drinks, they only stay a few more minutes before leaving the café. Only a handful of moments into the remaining three minutes to the Tower, something quite unexpected happens. A hand, specifically one she knows is metal underneath the leather glove, finds hers and holds on. Cheeks warm and a smile tugging at her lips, she squeezes his hand, receiving a soft squeeze in return only a moment later. Neither one of them look dramatically down at their grasped hands, not needing to make a big deal of out it, but if she notices out of the corner of her eye the gentle upward curl of his lips, then that's no one's business but theirs.