Summary: In which our characters have an anti-honeymoon.

Notes: Wow, guys. Okay, so this one is seriously giving me some trouble. Like, hard. Really stubborn, but I think I've FINALLY found my stride. Hopefully. Fingers crossed. So, here's the next chapter. I'll admit, this one is pretty fluffy and mostly setting up for what's coming down the road, so it's a little shorter than my gargantuan chapters of the past. Also, I've decided to make this work a bit of a story told in flashbacks. You'll see why pretty soon. So just a warning, you guys might not see them coming right away, but you'll soon understand why I've set it up this way. Kind of curious what you guys might mistake for reality and vice-versa, so that'll be interesting. It'll all make sense later. I don't think there are any in this chapter, but I felt the need to forewarn that they're coming, but I won't be making it immediately clear what's a flashback and what's not, just to keep things fun. The theme of this work just seemed to gel with the concept of seeing how we got to Date Night Dash, The BackUp, some of the early stuff that I started with and how these characters became established for the purposes of my early story fun. But more on that later. For now, a little fluff. Let me know what you guys think. I love hearing from you guys. I really, truly do. I sincerely apologize for the delays in replies. When I'm really in my groove (or having trouble finding it) I tend to get behind on things like that. I do see every comment and I adore you all for them, they seriously help and I feel like my writing is validated, which is really all I can ask for. I'm glad you guys are enjoying the wibbly stuff coming out of my brain, especially on the characterizations I'm trying to keep up with here. I often worry that my characters aren't in canon. Wow, I'm more long-winded than I thought. I'll shut up now. Love you all! Note: Chapter title taken from the great David Bowie. It'll make sense later.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

((()))

Chapter 3: Changes

It took a grand total of two days before Darcy felt more like herself again. Slowly, the fatigue cleared and her discomfort eased.

But the restful calm of their trip had been irrevocably shattered.

Bucky was as attentive as ever, and even though Darcy loved the security blanket, she wished he didn't feel like he had to dote. What made it worse, of course, was the fact that he didn't see it that way at all.

She'd married a man from a completely different era; that meant completely different values and morals, in any other number of areas of life.

Where he came from, it was expected that the man take care of the woman.

He was, of course, thoroughly open-minded and modernized, and he knew when she would want to skip all that. But the instinct was there, deep in him, and it wasn't like that could be erased.

They hung close to the beach house that day, and she lazed around on the deck for most of it, reading. Bucky went for a swim in the early morning light, Darcy waking to a note from him in his neat scrawl and she enjoyed her coffee on the deck, watching his powerful body propel him back and forth in the water, getting in a good workout. His metal arm glinted in the light of the rising sun and he moved fluidly, leonine and…perfect. She told herself—out loud—to get it together as she stared at his distant form. She struggled not to let her mouth hang open as he came up the beach to meet her, smiling when he saw her, his shaggy hair dripping over his shoulders. He caught her in his towel, drew her near, and, laughing, kissed her, his mouth warm and sharp from the salt.

She'd have hauled him down to the wood slats of the deck, had she thought he'd let her get away with it. She nearly tried it anyway.

He went into town for a few things, and returned soon after to join her.

The next day, they went into the market again, the air between them tense, as Bucky wasn't sure she was up for it yet. Darcy, though, was determined, and stubborn, and she got her way, even though, halfway through, she had to admit—only to herself, though—that he was right. She wasn't up for it yet.

Whatever was causing her episodes, whatever it was that triggered them, and whatever it was that was making them worse each and every time, her body was ravaged. Her heart routinely reeled, and she knew she was powerless to keep it from him, not when he constantly had a hand at her back and could probably hear the traumatized, rapidly racing muscle every time it decided to run a 50 yard dash.

The walk back to the house sapped her already weakened stamina, but he said nothing. She made it as far as the front walk before he finally looped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.

"Go ahead," she said, a little breathless.

"What?" He unlocked the door and maneuvered their odd shape through the doorway.

She took a deep, shaky breath and pressed the heel of her hand to her sternum. "Go on and say 'I told you so'. I know it's teetering on the tip of your tongue." She rolled her eyes.

But he only sighed, twisting to lift her easily into his arms, chewing on his lip as he settled her on the couch. "Don't want to." He pressed a kiss to her temple and left her there to close the door behind them.

She slid off her sandals and settled back into the cushions. "Oh, sure you do. You're thinking it, there, Winter Soldier. I can read your face too, you know."

He smirked as he toed off his Nikes, tossing his baseball cap on the kitchen counter. "Darcy. In no way does your suffering make me petty or vindictive."

She flopped back, boneless. "Uh-oh. The full name. Am I in trouble?"

He smirked, shaking his head as he opened the fridge and started rooting around for something to make.

"Don't suppose I could get some TLC over here, by any chance…?"

He set something on the counter and went to work, his broad back to her. "And would that TLC you have in mind be sans clothes?"

"Is there any other kind?"

He snorted. "Then, no."

She rolled her eyes, sighing like a petulant teenager. "Ugh. You're no fun."

He shrugged. "Sorry, babe. You being weak and vulnerable doesn't really turn me on. In fact, with my checkered past, it pretty soundly turns me off. That's a no-go area."

She sighed. "Well, if you're not gonna have your way with me, could you at least grab me my book?"

((()))

The uneasy feeling in Darcy's gut refused to evaporate. The whole beach house felt unsettled and crooked now, as though the very supports were shifting beneath them.

Bucky was sweet and tender with her and put her to bed early, reading in the corner of the bedroom by the moonlight until it was late, and he joined her, easing in beside her sleeping form.

She stirred. "Jamie?"

He fit her body along the shape of his and slid his arm around her middle, twining their hands together. "Just me. Go back to sleep."

She settled in, her brain straddling the line between fuzzy and content and half awake confusion. "Where were you?"

His breath was warm against the back of her neck and she sagged into the pillow, melting against him. "Eight feet to your left. I've been right here the whole time."

She snuffled into the pillow. "You sit sentinel too often. You should've joined me earlier."

A puff of air against her neck where he laughed. "Just sleep, Lewis."

She grumbled. "Hmph. Lewis. I'm ditching Lewis soon as we get home…"

She was out again before she heard his reply.

But she jerked awake—fully aware—not long after.

Bucky was asleep beside her, on his stomach, as usual, both hands hidden beneath his pillow and his soft hair obscuring part of his face.

Watching him sleep always eased her discomfort; perhaps only because the sight of such a ravaged person as her Jaime in peaceful slumber should've made her content and comforted.

But this time it didn't; the stinging in her gut propelled her from the bed and down the hall into the living room. She pulled on her silk robe and stood in front of the huge picture window and watched the low tide roll in, the gentle waves crashing on shore, and tried to find her center.

She wished she could at least pinpoint the reason for her unease.

She was safe.

She was loved—cherished, actually—and in a way that usually made her blush.

She had no work to get back to; nothing that couldn't wait or Tony couldn't handle in a crunch.

The world wasn't in danger of coming to a fiery end while they were gone.

So why did she feel such heavy dread in the pit of her stomach?

Maybe she should wake him. He wouldn't mind—he never did—and usually a long talk with him in the dark did the trick. Contrary to most guys she'd met—let alone had a relationship of any sort with—he was good at the heart-to-hearts. Probably another callback to his era, when people were more connected by words and ties than emails and texts. And he was so hands-on with her, in a way she still wasn't quite used to. Open. Warm. And a ridiculously good listener.

She sighed, turning from the window—

Just as a shadow on the beach caught her eye.

She paused, her eyes focusing.

A dark figure, just there, what seemed like it amounted to a handful of clicks—in Bucky speak—down from their position.

A man.

In a suit, well-tailored, she could tell, even from this distance.

The unease in her gut prickled and she paused, locked in place as she watched him.

He was staring out at the surf, perfectly still.

She stared. He seemed eerily familiar, and her gut gave a warning pang, like a sixth sense. Unsure why, it seemed important that she watch him, and she stepped closer to the glass, her eyes glued to him. What the fuck was he doing on their private beach? There was only one way in, after all, and one way out, and it wasn't as though the volcanic terrain around them was easily traversable, let alone friendly.

Then he turned away and began up the beach.

She gaped, her hands fumbling blindly to slide open the door to the deck. Not really sure what the hell she was doing, she went out and down the stairs to the sand, picking her way, barefoot, along the soft terrain toward his rapidly retreating form, mindlessly compelled.

As she moved, it seemed like he grew further and further away, the coat of his suit flapping slightly in the gentle breeze off the sea.

And it was actually surprisingly chilly out near the surf.

"Darcy?"

She spun, gasping, to find Bucky out on the deck, watching her with concerned, confused eyes. He was also much further away than she thought he should've been, and realized with a start that she'd gone much further than she thought, following her shadow like a drone.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

She blinked at him, confused.

"Come back inside, baby," he called, his hair blowing in the ocean breeze.

"I…" she began, her voice low, and she turned, dazed, to find their strange visitor—

Was gone.

She spun around, disoriented, her gut burning, now, harder, and she wasn't sure if it was the wind on the water she heard or the blood rushing furiously in her ears. "What…?" she murmured, turning again, staring down the beach. It continued for some distance, finally culminating in a dramatic cliff face.

So he couldn't have disappeared. There was no way.

She spun again, rapidly scanning the landscape. "There's…there's no…way. There's no way," she whispered to herself. Not unless he walked into the surf and drowned, for god's sake.

She spun again, her vision darkening, the rushing in her ears rising into a buzzing, an awful ringing, and she turned, searching, compelled to find him. She was suddenly sure she needed to follow him, her heart pounding.

"Darcy!" Bucky called again, behind her, his voice closer now, and she knew he'd followed her down to the sand. "Darcy, what's wrong?"

But she ignored him, turning, turning, turning, her head falling behind her body, the night clouds closing in around her vision—

Until it winked out entirely and she slithered down, her knees buckling.

Bucky broke into a run; she watched him from the dizzy slits in her eyelids, watching as he realized something wasn't quite right, and he darted to catch her before she hit the sand.

((()))

The next day was a haze of uncertainty. She woke up in the early, gray light of pre-dawn to find Bucky in the recliner, watching her with a worried frown.

Her head was pounding, and she groaned, curling into herself on the couch. "Fuck."

"You care to explain to me what the fuck that was last night?!" he snapped.

She winced. "Okay, you're gonna start in right away, then," she muttered, turning over.

He stood, looming over her in a way that would've creeped her out if she hadn't known him backwards and forwards. "You're damn right I'm gonna start in right away! Jesus Christ, Darcy! I wake up in the middle of the goddamn night and you've disappeared—what the fuck was that?!" His Brooklyn was showing, a pull in his words clearly apparent in his emphatic tirade.

She grimaced at the sheer sharpness of his voice. He didn't often lose his temper, but when he did, he really managed to make it count. "I—"

"And I find you wandering like a zombie down the beach—do you know how many times I had to call to you before you heard me?!" He began pacing, rapidly, back and forth, gesturing.

"Zombie jokes. I think your pop culture education is nearing its end."

"I'm not done!" he snarled.

She flinched, unable to continue looking at him. He really knew how to use that voice of his.

"Six! Six times, Darcy! Now, I know you're not suffering from hearing loss, and I know you're not a sleepwalker, since we've been sleeping together for the past fucking year! So what the bloody hell is going on?!"

She grimaced again. "'Bloody hell'? What are you—British?"

"And you pass out?! You've been acting weird this whole trip!" He dropped heavily down at her feet, tugging his hands roughly through his hair. "So, please. I'm begging you to explain this to me, because you're scaring the hell out of me. I thought we were done with the weird, serum shit."

She tried to sit up, but gasped and fell back again, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't know."

"Well, you need to figure it out, then, because I'm freaking out."

His hands were shaking and he was pale and hollow-eyed, like he'd been too terrified to go back to sleep and let her out of his sight after he'd brought her back inside.

He likely had.

She wanted to grab him and she wanted to fold him in her arms and tell him she was fine, and she wanted to explain the previous night.

But she couldn't do any of those things. She could barely move. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He sighed roughly. "I don't want you to apologize. I just want you to explain what—"

"I can't.

His jaw snapped shut and he stared at her. "'Can't' or won't?"

She took a deep, uneasy breath. "Can't. I can't explain it."

He sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees and pulling his hands through his hair again. "Darce, listen—"

"I can't explain it. I want to. But I can't. I don't know what that was."

He gave her a long, helpless look.

She struggled to sit up again, grimacing at the pain bursting in her head. He folded her wrist in his big hand and tugged her up. "Thanks."

He sighed, his eyes softening. "I'm feeling a little lost in all this."

She combed her hair back out of her face. "All what?"

He gestured. "You."

She shrugged. "It's probably just the serum. There are probably lingering effects, right? You said that there's no way for us to know how this will be for me, right?" She could hear the betraying nerves in her own voice and wanted to curl up in a ball in his lap and pretend none of it had ever happened. They were supposed to be on a honeymoon. That meant sightseeing and shopping and laughing. Time spent sleeping in and getting drunk—or at least going through the motions. They were supposed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in bed—not sleeping.

She was exceedingly grateful that they were a strong unit and not one that turned out—in the long run—to be dependent on their physical chemistry. Much as it frustrated her, she at least didn't have to worry that the strain would kill what they had. She'd managed that at least, to have a successful, emotional connection with someone.

Imagine that it was the very last person she'd expected.

"I just…I woke up feeling…weird."

"'Weird' how?"

She shrugged. "Just unsettled. I've been feeling like that since we got here. Unbalanced. I don't know what it is. And I saw this…guy."

He frowned. "Guy? What guy?"

Another desperate shrug. "A guy! I dunno. He was on the beach, just standing there, in a tailored three-piece—"

"Darcy, there was no guy. This is a privat—"

"Beach, yeah I know! And I just…I had to follow him." She knew it sounded lame, but there it was.

"Follow him? Why?"

Yet another shrug. "I don't know, Jamie! I just did! It was like a compulsion or something."

His face changed—completely. In fact, she couldn't recall ever seeing the color drain from his face so fast before. "Compulsion?" he murmured, his eyes boring into her.

She swallowed, biting her tongue and wishing she could take it back. Of course he'd latch onto that, damn it to Hell. Too late. "I dunno. Yeah. And I didn't realize how far I'd gone, and then you were there, and I just…I got dizzy and disoriented. I don't know."

"Dizzy and disoriented…" he repeated, frowning.

She nodded. She could see the wheels turning—and turning and turning—in his head.

He swallowed, meeting her eyes with a bracing look. "You're not…late…are you?"

She snorted. "Haven't we already established that I'm impervious to the Super Soldier Effect?"

He rolled his eyes. "Stranger things have been known to happen—you're looking at one."

She sighed, swallowing, and looked down at the blanket he'd draped over her at some point during the night. "I haven't…bled…for a long time now." Convenient. Wonderful, in fact. And, yet, also strangely stripping of her pride, if it made any sense at all.

He flinched. "But, that could—"

"It's been months, Jamie. That's why Bruce was running all those tests."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

She smirked. "I'm not pregnant."

He let out a deep breath. "You'll pardon me if I breathe a sigh of relief."

She snorted. "By all means, Barnes. I'm right there with you."

His hand slid over the blanket and folded around hers. "That doesn't solve our other problem."

She chuckled. "Which one? We have a whole handful."

He didn't let her get up from the couch much all day, only letting her move around when she whined that he was being ridiculous and that she really, seriously, had to pee.

She couldn't help but feel the entire trip had been shattered. One measly week in, and the whole thing was a bust. And it was her fault because she couldn't shake the melodrama in her head. She felt guilty but when she tried to apologize or explain herself, Bucky waved his hand and told her to shut up.

And the sex was off the table—again.

She grumbled as he slid in beside her. "You're being overprotective again."

He sighed, turning over to face her, one arm bent under his head on the pillow. "Darcy. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't want to find out what I would do if something happened to you. Okay?"

She slumped against the headboard. "Oh, sure—just totally take the wind outta my sails! Nice job, Barnes!" She flopped gracelessly over onto her side to face him. "I can't be angry about that."

He smiled. "It's only been a week, babe. Relax. We've got plenty of time."

He was out like a light ten minutes later and Darcy was left alone, wide awake. And the weird feeling was back, the restless one, like they were being watched.

She couldn't shake it, and it was creeping her out. She wasted an hour staring up at the ceiling and listening to the peaceful, even sound of his breathing before sliding out of bed again, rolling her eyes as she slid on her robe. "For fuck's sake." She stomped into the kitchen and glared at the ceiling. "What do you want from me?!"

An owl called out the window as if to answer and she jumped, shaking her head as she went over and stared out at the surf. "Great, Lewis, now you're talking to the wildlife."

Lewis.

God, she'd grown to hate that name over the years.

Lewis.

She scowled.

She'd spent so long running from it and running from what she'd left behind, that it had crystallized around her like a dull, crusted shroud, the Titanic after sitting for a century under water. She wished she could say that it had been so long that she'd forgotten why she'd run in the first place.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been true.

And she hadn't told a soul.

Until Bucky.

Whenever someone had asked her, a college friend, an acquaintance, a blind date, Jane even, she'd gotten so good at acting flippant and silly, words flowing from her mouth in such rapid succession only Jane and her Science! talk had put her to shame, that people had stopped asking. And she'd wanted it that way. It was easier to just pretend it wasn't there, her cracked and misbegotten past, her mismatched family. It was easier to tell people that she'd come from a family of silly people just as carefree as she pretended to be. It was easier to tell them nothing at all and put them off. It was easier to let them shrug her off as 'that crazy Darcy' than to see the look in their eyes when she told the story.

An asshole father.

A drug-addled mother.

And Darcy. Somewhere in the middle.

She'd run as soon as she could and she'd never looked back.

It felt so much longer ago than it really was.

She'd made it a year this time, since her father had called to badger her about the life he didn't think she had.

If he only knew

A year since Jane had cocked her head, and Ian had frowned and pushed until she snapped, a year since Thor had very tactfully—for Thor anyway—said that family was not always the family it should be, after all.

And no one had asked since. And that was okay. She'd gone years without talking about it, without telling anyone the truth. It was easier that way.

Until Bucky.

Bucky, who never pushed. Bucky, who never laughed or suggested, Bucky who never stepped where he somehow—some way, she still didn't understand how the fuck he always knew—understood he shouldn't. Bucky, who murmured that she had to stop comparing her hurts to his ridiculous, out of the this world plotline, had reminded her that just because they might not be what he'd gone through, her hurts were still large to her.

Bucky, who somehow always seemed to know just what to say.

Bucky, who let her come to him.

She'd curled up in his lap and told him small bits and pieces, the little nibbles she could work out without crying like the idiot she was. The little chunks she felt she could say out loud, if only to relieve the guilt she felt at marrying a man that seemed to be okay with her dishonesty.

And the worse guilt in the knowledge that he would wait her out, that he didn't view her inability to talk about it as dishonesty at all.

And thankfulness that he hadn't immediately suggested she go talk to one of the SHIELD shrinks.

Lewis.

God, she hated it. Why had she felt the need to hang onto it? It certainly held no sense of self for her, she certainly didn't need it to define who she was.

She hated everything that name stood for.

It was long past time to shed it. Like a skin. Finish her metamorphosis, finally.

She owed him that much. For all his patience and care, his careful nurturing, she owed him that much, at least. Maybe Tony had a point. She'd held back from him, somehow, just a little, without even knowing she was doing it. More guilt crept over her, such a contrast when she really thought about it, compared to how very much he'd let her see all of him, and for what he really was.

And Barnes had a nice ring to it, a good, solid feel to the weight of the word.

She should make a note in her phone to remind her to make a few calls in the morning. She turned to retrieve it from the counter—

And stopped. For a long moment, she stared out the window, past the glass and past the deck, the sand, the midnight dark—

At their visitor.

He was back.

And this time, he was staring up at the house, and—Darcy could swearstraight at her. A chill ran through her.

"Darce?"

She jumped, looking up as Bucky shuffled sleepily in, pausing in the living room. "Hm?" she squeaked.

He rubbed groggily at one eye with one hand and pulled the other through his soft, sleep-tousled hair. Clearly, she wasn't the only one to have become reliant on a body beside her in the bed. "You okay, sweetheart? What are you doing up?"

She glanced back up out the window, unsurprised to see the empty beach, bereft of everything but the ever churning waves. "Um…" she began, feeling foolish, but drifted off as her belly began its telltale sting. She pressed her palm to her gut, wincing. "Fuck," she bit out, leaning on the counter and squeezing her eyes shut, the sensation seeping through her at a more rapid speed than it ever had before. Just as it began to ease, another stab jolted through her, and she bent over slightly, pressing her hand to the damnable spot. "Oh, Jesus."

He didn't speak; he just crossed the room to her and swept her up into his arms again, carrying her back to the huge bed, that concentrating frown back on his now alert face.

"I thought honeymoons were for sunsets and romantic dinners and sex—lots of sex. Not…this," she ground out.

He sighed as he set her gently on the bed. "Well. We're not what most people would call ordinary, so I guess we can't have an ordinary honeymoon, hm?"

"This is so fucking ruined," she gasped out, curling in on herself in a shape that was becoming all too familiar, as far as she was concerned.

He curled himself around her, his hand running large, soothing circles along her back. "It's not ruined. Nothing is ruined. We're here and we're together and that's good enough."

She bit down on her lower lip, determined not to cry. "No, it's not."

He sat up, reaching for a hair band, and tied his shaggy hair back in a loose knot at the back of his head, most of it falling loose again around his face, some caught in the tiny pony. "You know, this isn't the end all-be all. We can take another trip, Darce." He curled up again and resumed his slow, methodical circles across her shoulder blades.

She gripped at his metal fingers and shook her head. "Won't be the same," she murmured.

"Sshhh…" he soothed. "It doesn't matter. It feels important, but it's not."

Whimpering, but keeping the worst of it at bay, she curled into a smaller shape and set the crown of her head to his chest.

"It doesn't matter."

She drifted mercifully off sometime later, his voice murmuring low, sweet things to her in Russian.

((()))

By the time he finally got her back to sleep, it was dawn, the early light splashing in the windows in gray, watercolor streaks, and he was wide awake. Sighing, he palmed his Starkphone and hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "God damn it," he muttered. His finger hovering over the contact button on the screen, he looked down and studied Darcy again, all curled up against his front, head ducked and a frown tugging on her features.

Coming to a decision, he carefully pulled back from her slumbering form to slide off the bed, tapping the screen as he went, swiftly and silently out of the room.

It only rang once. "Winds of Winter, how's it hanging?" Tony's bright voice trilled in his ear.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to make a Game of Thrones reference," he muttered.

Stark snorted. "Staring me in the face. Almost called you the Night's King, but thought that might be too obtuse. What can I do you for, Buckeroo? I'm working on this stupid drone, and it has yet to cooperate, so I'm all yours."

He narrowed his eyes at the pale light just edging over the shoreline. "You're one of those morning people, aren't you?"

"Always have been." The sound of the socket wrench in the background paused in its clicking. "You're a grumpier grumpy cat than you usually are. What's up?" If he tried to hide the slightly sharp, nervous edge to his voice, he failed, but Bucky didn't bring that up.

He threw himself bodily into the suede couch and heaved a sigh. "They're getting worse, Tony."

Naturally, Tony didn't need any clarification. "Yeah. I gathered that."

He pulled a hand tiredly down his face. "I'm running out of options, here, Stark."

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a deep sigh. "…I know."

He swallowed thickly, watching the sun finally break the surface and begin its ascent. The thick line of gold broke in and began creeping stealthily across the carpet. "I can't keep doing this, Tony. I can't keep watching this. If it's getting worse, there's gotta be something we're doing wrong."

"Like what?"

He sighed heavily. "I don't know. But I was outta the woods by now, so she shouldn't still be languishing, and definitely not in so much fucking pain. I can't…" He swallowed again, harder. "I won't keep watching this." He cursed the catch in his throat.

Tony paused, making it clear he'd heard it and was giving him a moment. "Bruce has been burning himself out, studying her blood chemistry, trying to make sense of it, find a pattern."

"And?"

"There might be something there, but its flimsy. He's not confident enough in it to take the next step."

He chewed on his lower lip. "They're totally debilitating at this point, Stark. She woke up last night and I found her, half asleep in the living room. Normally, so far, they come on slowly, but lately, they've been hitting her like a ton of bricks, and out of nowhere. I'm tearing my hair out. It's even starting to damage my calm, and we both know what that means."

"Means we're in deep shit, yeah, I know." The socket wrench started clicking again; Stark could never sit still for long, especially in the face of turmoil. "He said her white blood cells are increasingly high. As far as he can tell, they drop drastically immediately after a surge—that's why she passes out so hard afterward and sleeps for hours. But…he isn't sure what it is that's setting off the chain reaction, so he can't do anything about it yet."

"Well, we've gotta think of something fast, because she's miserable, I'm a lying asshole, and I don't wanna find out what happens when these things become constant, Tony. I don't." He heard the thin tininess of his own voice and worked to take a deep breath.

Tony was silent again, the only sounds in the room the crashing of the waves outside and the clicking tick-tick of his socket wrench through the phone. "…I shouldn't have been so pushy. I should've insisted you guys postpone this until she was feeling better."

He let his head tip back and he studied the ceiling. "Don't start doing that, taking blame. She hates that."

A low laugh. "Yeah. I know. Bitches about you once in a while."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it."

"She asleep?"

He let out a deep sigh, feeling his own exhaustion. "Finally got her down, yeah. So tired, she didn't even question what the hell I was saying to her in Russian."

"Ooh…" Tony winced. The line muffled, and then there was another voice, another conversation. "…Yeah, it's Buck…Not so good, no…You sure? You look like you need another cup of coffee, I don't need you Hulkin' out in my lab, no offense. Oh, yeah—offense? Well, sorry, not sorry." Some wilted laughter. "…Yeah, he's right here…"

He let his eyes slide shut, sinking deeper into the couch.

"…Yeah, he doesn't sound too good, himself. You know it's bad when the fucking Winter Soldier's falling apart…"

He rolled his eyes. "I can hear you, you know…"

"Totally aware, Grumpy Cat," Tony shot back before muffling the phone again.

He huffed.

"…If you're sure…Here…" Some fuzzy noises.

"Bucky?" Bruce's soft, gentle voice.

He hadn't been aware until that moment just how soothing the doctor was, ironically enough. "Hey, doc."

"How you holding up?"

He sighed again. "She's not so good."

There was a pause, then he spoke again, his voice even softer. "I didn't ask about Darcy. I already heard about Darcy. I asked about you."

He blinked. "Um…" It was infrequent that someone asked how a super soldier was; especially how he was.

Bruce chuckled, but he sounded tired and strained. "This has got us all worried. Tony won't stop working, which is, you know, Stark language for—'I'm worried'. Steve stopped by to ask how it was going and was wearing a path in the floor."

He pulled a hand down his face.

"You're obviously losing sleep. I don't need to ask to hear how tired you are. You and Steve can go for quite a while without rest, but the mental stress will still take its toll, Buck."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, but couldn't speak.

"You're worried about her. I know. We all are. And if we are, then it's a miracle you're not tearing your hair out. No one likes to see their significant other suffer. And Darcy's been through the ringer, just this past year alone. She's a tough girl, but we've gotta double down."

He took a deep shaky breath. "Tell me there's something I can do."

Bruce heaved a tired sigh. "Without knowing exactly what's setting it off, I can't begin to prescribe her something that will combat it. The best you can probably do is to head into town. The pharmacy should have pain patches. Now, Darcy is small, so make sure you follow those directions to the letter, don't apply too many, no matter what she tells you. I know you're just as stubborn as she is," he instructed, wryly.

He smirked.

"Those last about a day or so. Watch the clock. She'll feel it wear off. Give it an hour or two and apply the next dose. That might—might—stave off the worst of it. Hopefully it'll get you through the next few days, and I can…perform a miracle over here."

"We've got enough technology in the damn tower, Bruce—we should at least be able to manufacture a false one. Might fool the man upstairs for a few minutes," Tony called in the background.

He stood. "Pain patches. Right."

"Call me a little later, let me know how she's doing, okay?"

"You got it, doc."

"And Bucky."

He stopped at the hard tone of Bruce's voice. "…Yeah?"

"As soon as she's comfortable, I'm ordering you to sleep. No excuses. Got it?"

He sighed. "Got it."

They parted ways and he set the phone on the coffee table and went about getting dressed. By the time he made it into town, it would be after eight and stores would be opening for business. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, slid his feet into his slip-on sneakers and turned back to Darcy.

She was still asleep and his photographic memory told him she hadn't moved an inch in the last half hour, since he'd gone to call home. She was still curled in a defensive little ball, a sad little shape that twisted his heart in his chest, her face pinched in discomfort.

He stood watching her for a long moment, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the shadow of her long, dark lashes on her cheeks. He hated to leave her, even if it was only for a little while. He bent over her. "Darce?" he called softly.

The crease between her brows clinched tighter and she curled in on herself.

He reached up to brush her dark, silky hair out of her face. "Solnishka…"

"Mmm…" she murmured, shifting.

"Lapochka…"

She unfurled, cracks appearing in her eyelids. "If you just called me your little rat, we're gonna have a serious problem," she groused, sleepy and husky-voiced.

He smiled, continuing to brush the loose hair from her brow. "Think you've got your Russian terms a little mixed up, there, honey."

She groaned drowsily. "Mm, the Russian is fine, but 'honey' makes me sound like an ancient housewife."

The smile widened. "Dually noted. Is 'baby' permissible?"

Groggy, she sat up, rubbing at her eyes. "Perfectly allowable."

But he pushed her gently back down again. "No, no, I want you to keep resting. I just didn't want to leave without telling you I was stepping out."

Murmuring sleepily, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't go."

He sighed, his heart tugging harder. He hated when she pleaded. She did it so rarely that he found himself powerless when she decided to use her powers for ill. "I have to. For you."

She flopped back onto her back. "Where are you going?" She was already slurring her words again, her eyes drifting shut, sleep pulling hard on her.

"Just out to get something to help you feel better, okay, dorogaya?"

She sighed out a sleepy breath, turning onto her side to curl up again, her hands sliding beneath her pillow. "Mm…the Russian's really working for me."

He smiled as he straightened. "Well, in that case, somewhere up in my tangled head, there's some German and Romanian, too, you wanna hear it."

"Mmmm…" she hummed, already back to sleep.

He sighed and leaned over once more to brush her hair out of her face and press a kiss to her temple. "Ya tebya lyublyu." He stood and silently left the room. He paused at the counter, thinking of her grogginess and her need for coffee so strong in the mornings. Likely, she'd not remember their exchange. So he scribbled her a quick note, turned on the coffee maker, checked his wallet and grabbed the keys, locking the door behind him and heading down the long, private lane.

((()))

FYI

Solnishka: sunshine

Lapochka: sweetheart

Dorogaya: darling

Ya tebya lyublyu: 'I love you'