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Chapter 8
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Steve Rogers really is amazing at giving himself a guilt trip. He'd thought that doing the right thing, that pushing Darcy to leave would negate some of the things he regularly beats himself up over...her safety being the big one, him being fully distracted by his best friend the other. But of course, it helps precious little, much as he maintains that it was the right thing to do. He's still worrying about her, all the time. And he only attempts sleeping in his bed alone once.
Nope, Cap is definitely not feeling any better with his fiance (God, if she'll still have him, one day) far away from the action, and with very limited contact. Part of him both hopes and dreads that she won't come back to New York, of her own accord. He never wants Darcy Lewis to face a psychopath with a weapon and a plot for world domination ever again. And if that means she leaves him...
...But no. He might be known as a good man, a hero all around, but even Steve Rogers isn't that selfless, that good. He wants her to always be his, and he wants her to never be in danger again. He knows one or both of these things are completely irrational.
He misses her something awful before even forty-eight hours have passed. She didn't pack much, clothes, a few books, and her laptop, as if fully expecting to be back in a week. Steve almost can't handle it, sliding a hand over the candlesticks on the table, a cardigan left hanging off the back of a chair. She's everywhere in his apartment, their apartment, her presence lingering.
He rereads the pink and yellow post-it she left over and over.
'Sorry I yelled. I'm still pissed and you're still being a big ol' dumb. But I love you.'
It's all making him very unpleasant to be around, Steve's aware of this. He's torn apart half the gym, cracked his knuckles on Iron Man's faceplate, and is getting progressively more surly in the interrogation room. Finally Tony snaps at him, because the man can only remain understanding of such jerkery in the wake of sad things for so long.
"Look, we get that things kinda blow for you Ken-doll!" he shouts across the gym, retracting the somewhat dented armor he'd been training in, as Steve sees to his bleeding hand, "But you're the one who kicked her out, not any of us, so kindly stop taking it out on the people who actually like you. No, like is too strong a word right now," Tony raises a hand, in response to Cap's half-hearted glare, "We lovingly tolerate you, at the moment."
Steve tries and fails to shoot back anything in his defense. He knows the only person he should be beating up is himself.
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"Lookin' like hell, Cap," Bucky notes, sitting back on his plain metal bunk in his cell, twiddling his thumbs. Seated across from him in the one chair in the room, Steve watches with a deep frown. The bionic digit dancing with the natural one, his voice touched with a slight accent that echoes Natasha's. "You know I'm willing to play nice, why d'you keep gettin' angry that I can't remember a life I'm supposed to've lived, mm?"
"Because no, we -don't- know for certain that you'll play nice, not yet," Steve reaches up, rubbing his eyes. He's going on four days without sleep now, he's going to need to force himself to rest sometime soon. "Nat says you were getting unpredictable, the last time you two worked together." His friend shrugs.
"I barely remember that mission...so maybe," Bucky turns his eyes to the ceiling, thumbs still twiddling. He doesn't like talking about Black Widow though, which Steve had thought, at first, might be a chink in the armor, but all poking that particular wound does is make the Winter Soldier ornery, and no less forgetful. The subject unsurprisingly changes, "Is this about that girl who was yelling at you last week?" Bucky grins, and it's so familiar, Steve can't help the way his gut churns, hopefully.
"Guess so," Steve notes, evenly, smirking a little, "Never was one for understanding the dames, though. That was always your area of expertise." James Barnes' grin goes wide.
"Yeah? Sounds right," He nods once. And then pauses, his eyes losing focus, frowning. "...Until the serum." He says, slowly, his voice dropping an octave. Steve blinks, leaning forward slightly, "...After that damn serum, I was invisible next to you, Steve..." A corner of his mouth turns upward, right before he doubles over, clutching his skull as if it were trying to split in two.
"Someone, get Widow in here!" Steve barks toward the closed door, reaching for his buddy.
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If circumstances were different, Darcy would fall head over heels in love with the site in Alberta, at least from the outside. The unassuming cabin is tucked between high mountains, the snow thick, the nearby lake frozen solid. Sure, there are SHIELD agents in the picturesque evergreens, and if one were to yank on a shelf in a certain closet inside, the elevator down to the massive bunker would show itself. But the cover is pleasant. It'd be a lot more pleasant if Steve were there, of course, but, if wishes were horses...
"This is way more nature than I'm used to," Darcy notes that night, piling on three sweaters, while Logan starts an honest-to-Thor fire in the stone fireplace. The cabin is tiny inside (there aren't even bedrooms, just a living room and kitchen, they all sleep in the bunker), so it heats quickly, but still. "Nature needs to be warmer."
"This? This is nothing," Wolverine snorts. Darcy rolls her eyes.
"Says the mutant." She goes back to taking stock of the cupboards, while the handful of agents who've been stationed there for ages, keeping this area clear, move in and out the front door with Stark equipment. Down below, Betty is setting up her corner of the lab, and Darcy leaves her to it. She's been around scientists for long enough, she knows far too well how they like their everything just right. "...So how did you really get stuck out here playing guard dog for a couple of SHIELD damsels?"
Logan pauses, giving her a look. Darcy knows she still looks like shit. Her eyes are still red and raw behind her glasses, her face splotchy, hair in a messy ponytail, her layers making her a shapeless lump. His smile goes downright soft, and the big mutant lets out a long sigh, "...Jubilee's having a hard time, comin' back from the shit they put her head to. And for once, I'm the last mug she wants to see right now," He gives Darcy a wince, "Kinda...has jumbled memories of me havin' to stop her with a well-placed claw. Actually asked Chuck myself, if there was any work needed doin', far away."
"Damn," Darcy nods, leaning back against the kitchen counter, watching the logs catch, "Way you talked about her in the briefing, she sounds really special to you."
"She is," Logan nods, also looking into the fire, his eyes guarded, but his voice easy, "Kinda got a soft spot for obnoxious orphans," He smirks, looking back her way, raising a brow. "You really enough of a brain to fix Foster's machine?"
"I know stuff," Darcy says flatly, "But no. Not by myself. Steve...wanted me away from the fight." At that, Logan laughs, smacking his leg.
"Ha! Bet you loved that," He tapers off with a chuckle. But noticing the way she looks down at her sneakers, anxiously spinning the ring on her finger, he presses his lips together. "Hey, kiddo," She glances up at him, through her hair, and hey, Wolverine's not such a bad guy, looking at her steadily,"It might've been a dick move, but I can't say I haven't done things just as stupid to protect someone I loved."
"...I feel...marginally reassured," Darcy smirks.
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"He's remembering so slowly," Natasha murmurs, nursing a vodka-tonic on the couch. She's wearing Clint's pj pants again, and has her feet tucked under the sharp-shooter's legs, which Steve takes as a good sign. He's not one to ask about the details of their strange, convoluted relationship, that's Darcy's forte. At that thought, he cringes.
It just isn't getting any easier.
"He's remembering, though," Steve reminds her from the other end of the couch, eyes on the screen in front of them, only half-absorbing this episode of Band of Brothers. Darcy had left the discs, still sealed in their plastic, by the tv. He reaches up, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "It's like every time I see him, there's so much more he knows about, recalls."
"Yes," Nat nods, "However, in the past, when the conditioning would weaken, it would be like a traumatic torrent. Winter Soldier did some damage at those times," She winces, "And then James Barnes would feel bad about it. And then he'd be gone again."
"Maybe this time something was different," Clint suggests, quietly, resting a hand in her hair, "He did say he didn't remember being activated."
"Just coming aware in the middle of the woods in Europe about a year ago, mhmm." Steve squints.
"A year without a relapse, until he came here," Nat takes a long swig of her drink, "I want to know who's been at his head."
"After we find out who's trying to get at everyone else's, and killed Jane trying," Clint reminds them both, and there's a collective sigh of resignation, and frustration.
"...God it's been gloomy around here lately." Hawkeye points out. Nat smirks, without humor.
"It's because Thor's back home, smacking around Loki, let alone still mourning," Black Widow fixes Steve with a hard look, "Also, -someone- got our daily dose of sunshine sent to the middle of nowhere." Steve tries to send her a dirty look back, but...it kind of fizzles out and dies, and he just buries his face in his hands.
He ends up watching four hours of the series that night, eventually left to the screen and his thoughts and the light from the city seeping in through the windows. Steve's mind travels between the cell below, and somewhere in Canada, nowhere in between. He never thought it would be easier on -him-, having Darcy far from the carnage. No, he's still worrying about her constantly. The reality of it though is just so much to bear. And now he's still got someone he's trying to take care of at home.
And there's no Darcy at the end of his day anymore, with her easy smile and soothing hands, wry humor as a balm, to take care of him. To wrap her arms around him, kiss everything better, and listen to him ramble himself to sleep.
Steve reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out the drawing he keeps on him at all times. He unfolds the thick paper, torn from his sketchbook, staring at the face smirking up at him. There are plenty of actual pictures of Darcy around, but this is his favorite. His talisman, his lucky charm, the day he'd sketched her in the gym, pinup style, in her boxing gloves and shorts. Back against the ropes, she gives him that tough, pouty mug, her hair tousled.
He still stubbornly believes he's done the right thing by her. But...Steve sighs, tucking the drawing back away, close to his heart. That girl he drew is anything but helpless. And he needs her.
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Darcy's always been good at distracting herself from unpleasant things by keeping busy. Granted, in highschool when her gran was getting sick and her best friend went away to rehab, busy had meant writing a lot of Star Wars fanfiction and making a decapitated Jar-Jar Binks costume for Comicon, but still. It was something. Now, keeping busy means trying to reserve and rebuild her best friend's legacy, and while she mightn't be the best person for the job, nobody in the world is more dedicated to the notion.
Jane's notes are backed up on Darcy's laptop, organized by date, easily cross-referenced, and even color-coded according to which function they referred to on the generator. Betty lets out a long whistle, scrolling through the files. "I mean I knew you were more competent than you let on," The older woman smirks, "But this is truly impressive. You really will make my job easier."
"It's still a thread-bare justification for actually sending -me-," Darcy grumbles. Betty shakes her head.
"You'll have to forgive him eventually, Darcy," Betty looks at her over her glasses, "You're not the only one in this room who's engaged to a bonehead. You get used to it."
"If he even wants me to come back..." Darcy swallows, not wanting to address that irrational fear. Betty doesn't push, and the two of them poke at their respective computers for a few moments, before Darcy blinks, looking up, "Wait. You and Bruce are engaged?" Betty takes pause, tilting her head.
"...Well, we were ten years ago, anyway," She amends. Darcy's jaw drops. The ethereal scientist just smiles, "Like I said. I am so used to forgiving that man for being a bonehead, you have no idea."
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Even with all of their resources and brilliant minds, though, the work is slow, tedious, and painstaking. Betty is the one bent over a pair of panels all day, that look like plain ol' hard-drives to Darcy, but which she knows are actually key tools in ripping holes in time and space. Darcy is the one constantly flipping back and forth through Jane's research, parroting what needs to happen next, until her eyes start to ache behind her glasses.
They're in touch with SHIELD, but it's very scant, and slow, messages traveling in and out of a billion and one codes to get to Jarvis and, eventually, the labs. They've been told its safer for both them and the research that way, but Darcy isn't an idiot. Protocol hasn't stopped Tony from sending them a few words, along with the data, now and then.
'Equation 2901 enclosed. D your bf broke his hand on my face.'
She didn't feel all that guilty about having a little swell of satisfaction over that news.
Tedious work, the same few faces every day (The agents kind of kept to themselves. Darcy got the impression, from the beards and the preoccupation with Hockey, that they'd been stationed here a while), and limited contact with the rest of their lives resulted in high tensions, they found, unless regular breaks got taken. Against advisement, Betty goes for a long walk at least twice a day. Logan becomes something of a lumberjack, felling trees and whittling at night with one long claw. And Darcy begins studying physics.
She wasn't supposed to start school again until the coming fall, but she'd already bought pre-homework homework back in New York, and brought it with her to the middle of nowhere. Darcy would bury herself in a chapter or five every night, after leaving the lab, curled up in front of the fire, Logan somewhere behind her in a pile of shavings, Betty giving her eyes a rest on the scratchy old couch. It was like some weird parody of a nuclear family, only with men in black patrolling outside with rifles.
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On the first evening of March, Darcy's reading by the window, because it's snowing outside and she loves watching it snow. She starts thinking of the first snow they'd had in New York though, after a bit. They'd been in Central Park for it, and she'd laughed at Steve for going total little-man-boy on her, trying to catch snow flakes on his tongue.
That twists something in her heart, hard, and she finds herself rummaging in her jeans, until she finds the poor, abused piece of paper she's carried on her for almost a year now. It's that same old self-portrait he'd done so long ago, back before the serum. She smooths it down onto the open book in front of her, his tentative eyes meeting hers. The skinny kid she fell in love with first. Darcy feels her chest tighten up, tilting forward and resting her face in her hands, trying to hold in a sob.
"Better to let those out," Logan's voice startles her, as he comes in from the snowy night laden with paper grocery bags. Sometimes he further pissed off their guard dogs by driving the hour into town for food all by himself. He rationalizes that hey, nobody expects the Mutant Inquisition. "You'll give yourself heartburn."
"We've got TUMS," Darcy maintains stubbornly, rising to help him put away the food. Logan shrugs, shaking his head. There's a fair amount of booze, as usual, which they both opt to leave out on the counter. Darcy goes through the boxes of snack foods automatically, shoving them into the cupboards. She pauses, though, staring at the package of cookies she's just grabbed.
She's fairly certain there's a way to figure out what the odds are, of finding that obscure Mexican brand of chocolate cookies in the asscrack of snowy nowhere, Canada. Right now though, it's the last straw, and for the first time since the flight to Alberta, Darcy doubles over and has a good hard cry.
Logan freezes, coffee halfway into the cabinet, blinking at her for a long moment. And then he's letting out a rough sigh, moving over and wrapping her up in a tight hug.
A hug. Darcy hasn't had a good and proper hug since Thor said goodbye. She wraps the poor man in a bear hug, pressing her face into his chest. Luckily, Wolverine is used to hugs and crying females, wrapping his big arms around her loosely.
What to do -after-, however, he's hit or miss on. Which is apparent when, having cried herself out, and Darcy pulls back, hands still bunched in his leather jacket ('Why do they all have to smell the same, whether in the frozen north or fresh out of a sealed box from 1943?'), a grateful little smile on her full, far too adorable lips, he decides that kissing her is the correct response.
Darcy's taken by complete surprise, freezing for a beat. And then she's almost letting herself indulge, because he's warm and rough and willing and...tall...and not Steve...and that's about when she pulls back and lands a punch to his adamantium jaw.
"OW, JESUS, FUCK!" She yelps, clutching her hand, and Logan busts out laughing, long and loud. "Seriously, dude!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He winces, pushing a hand through his wild hair, "It's just...you were crying." It's the worst excuse ever, but it makes Darcy laugh, even as she's cradling her poor fist.
"...Do you always comfort your friends with makeouts?!"
"Or booze," Wolverine smirks. Darcy shakes her head, landing a much softer fist on his shoulder, before reaching for the tequila. And then very quickly changing her mind, Logan chuckling behind her, and grabbing the gin instead.
"Laugh it up, fuzzball."
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Betty joins them on the floor before the fire after a while, and two bottles of gin later, between the three of them, the night doesn't feel as horrible as it had before. The dull ache is still in Darcy's chest, though, and all she wants in the world is Steve, there, now.
"Thing is," Logan murmurs, from the other side of the hearth, "Rogers hasn't seen the space of peace yet." He smirks, "Long, boring peace." Darcy squints, drunkenly inquisitive,and Wolverine goes on, "See, you got crazy fuckery right now. So did we. Just watch, though. Bad guys get the hint, you get oh, five, ten years of nothin'? Then they try again. And fail." He tosses back another shot.
"Welp," Darcy sighs, following his terrible example, "Here's to that distant day, I guess."
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