Chapter 8: Wings

Summary: In which things are getting angsty and tired.

Notes: Hey, guys! I'm back with Chapter Eight. I hope you guys had a great weekend. I don't think any of us wanna go back to work, so I figured maybe the next best thing would be to post a chapter. The only thing that I've been looking forward to is Sherlock finally being back, and yet the only downside of that is that it's on Sunday night. I think PBS did that on purpose. Anyway, here we are, Chapter Eight. This one's chock full of more angst and more flashbacks. I know at least one of you mentioned (maybe that was on FF) that this was getting long. I hope that's not the case for most of you. I figure, if you're gonna do a kidnap fic, unless there's going to be a substantial development, you've gotta take your time and make it count. It there's a rescue right away, then what's the point, right? But, that being said, don't worry, those of you who are feeling impatient. We are, in fact, getting there. Then there's some other stuff I wanna do. I didn't set out with this already written, so this is kind of taking me on it's own ride, just for fun. So, after that long-windedness, here we go. Please let me know what you think! Your feedback is helpful, insightful, and wonderful! Chapter title taken from the song by Birdie. It's just such a bittersweet, melancholy, wistful sort of song, it seemed appropriately angsty. Have fun! MLChick

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The blond doctor appeared, deceptively small, Natasha thought, unconcerned overall, but perfectly willing to add her to her list of threats. Perhaps she was just threatening in other ways—like that needle she was brandishing, easily the size of a pen. "Is she stable?"

Killian shrugged. "You tell me—you're the doctor."

The woman crouched in front of Darcy, and Natasha had to ignore the impulse to attack her while her back was turned, such an easy opening—just there, right at the base of her skull

"Pulse is weak and thread-y."

"Go ahead anyway."

Natasha's heart lurched. God, if Bucky could see her looking like this, he'd black out, he'd be so furious. She idly wondered if he could be strong enough to rip someone's heart straight out…He could just claw under the sternum with that creepy metal hand…

But the doctor didn't argue, sticking Darcy in the crease of her elbow. "If I'm right, and I've isolated the strain as sensitive to the release of adrenaline, this should act as a catalyst."

Killian was grim. "I do hope you're right."

For a few moments, nothing happened, and Natasha tried to calm her rapid pulse, the spike of fear and foreboding bearing down on her. She still hadn't been able to ferret out just what they were doing and why, but this…this was a major clue.

They clearly thought to utilize what had happened to her, what amounted, in the long run, to an accidental needle stick. She shuddered, but luckily Killian didn't notice.

Then Darcy jerked, her eyes snapping open emptily and landing on Natasha.

She jumped—this time Killian noticed. "Little nervous, there, Widow?"

She didn't reply. Not because she was frightened, but because she didn't trust her mouth to conceal her cover, didn't trust herself not to sucker punch him with sharp consonants and a hook to the throat, knew she didn't have the cover or the strength to drag Darcy—chair and all—out of the house and gone.

Not for the first time in her life, she felt like a caged animal.

Darcy blinked, once, twice, zeroing in on Natasha's face, the open shock visible to all three of them. But she was silent.

"It's working," the doctor said, fingers on Darcy's pulse.

Killian took a step back. "Good job."

Blushing, the pretty blond dipped her head and straightened. "I'll be in back—I'm monitoring her vitals remotely."

Aldrich nodded, then took another step back, and another, his face on Natasha. "Here's your chance. She's all yours, Ms. Romanoff."

She gave him what she hoped was a skeptical look.

He smiled, then, a long, slow, predatory smile. "Don't worry. Now that we have a game plan, you can't do worse to her than we will later." And he winked, and walked out.

Natasha stared after him for a moment, totally and completely shocked—which was saying something for her.

Then Darcy whimpered, low and keening, face squeezing into a pained scowl as she turned her head away.

When she was absolutely sure that Killian and the doctor were gone, she was very careful to take her time to the back table, where the doctor had placed a bowl of water and a washcloth that morning after cleaning the cold sweat off of Darcy's forehead. Whatever they'd given her overnight had made her feverish, and she'd watched from a dark corner until she couldn't stay upright anymore as her friend drifted on dreams and hazy hallucinations. The knowledge that Darcy hadn't been trained to resist or withstand any sort of torture—even working for SHIELD in her capacity—was heavy in Natasha's mind.

She very carefully wandered back over, digging deep to keep from rushing desperately, twisting her stubborn, fear-stricken face to look vaguely vindictive, unsure what she could possibly risk saying, if she should say anything at all, if Darcy would even hear or comprehend.

She set the bowl down on the floor and soaked the cloth, wringing it out, and setting it to Darcy's right hand first, the skin on her wrist red and splotchy where she'd struggled futilely against AIM's futuristic cuffs.

She gasped, jerking against the rough washcloth, looking up at her. "Tasha…" she whispered.

"It's me," she murmured back, under her breath, just barely low enough to hear, but she knew Darcy's senses had sharpened over the past few months with her strange, half-assed serum. She took a breath, trying to calm her temper. "Sshhh. I don't want them to hear us."

Her breathing was shallow and low. "He's…he's dead, Tasha. He's supposed to be dead."

Clearly, she meant Aldrich Killian. Working for Tony had only made the curious girl more curious. "I know." She hoped the doctor wouldn't be back, and kept her ears alert. "Clearly, Stark and Potts didn't do a thorough enough job."

Darcy winced, then scowled, then winced again at the facial expression. "Oh, God, Tasha…" she groaned.

Natasha clenched her jaw shut, wishing to Hell that Bucky was here—Steve for that matter—someone big and strong, predictable and level-headed, someone not her. James Barnes was seriously better equipped to handle this situation. "Can you tell what they're doing to you?"

Her head tipped forward and her friend's dark hair obscured her face. She swallowed. "Not sure. They're hunting and pecking for a trigger for my episodes. They…keep triggering them on purpose." She swallowed again, and shuddered. "Each time is worse than the last—oh, God, it feels like my skin is melting off…"

Natasha was glad at least one of them was partially hidden. "I know, Darce. I'm gonna get you out of here, but you've got to play along, okay? You just have to wait."

She shuddered again. "Where's Jamie? I need Jamie."

She flinched. The question she didn't want to answer. And the pet name that made her heart hurt. No one else dared call him that. "I'm not sure. Around." She couldn't lie, not to that aching vulnerability in Darcy's voice. Natasha—having had more than enough experience with Steve—knew that Bucky likely had just a certain soothing way of coaxing her through these moments that she just couldn't possibly have now.

She suppressed another shudder, her back arching along the chair. "Around where?"

She huffed silently. "I don't know, Darcy. They've got a force field around the property. But he's out there, on the other side of it. You know how he is. He won't be kept down for long. He's coming."

A silent tear slipped down her face. "If he's not dead."

Natasha reached up to quickly brush it away, knowing it had more to do with her silent physical suffering than any real fear for her husband's life. "The Winter Soldier's hard to kill, Darce. He'll tear a hole in reality to get to you if he has to."

"Tear down the fucking world…" she murmured.

Natasha switched to her friend's other hand. "What?"

But Darcy was lost again in the pain. "Mm…" She tightened her hands into fists—

And the clamps shifted.

Stilled in place, Natasha could only crouch there, like an idiot, wide-eyed. "Darcy…?"

If her friend could've curled into herself anymore, she'd have been a tiny ball. But she didn't respond.

And as Natasha watched, Darcy's manacles held tight.

But nothing more happened.

She narrowed her eyes. "How you feeling Darce?"

She received another groan of pain.

Natasha stroked the cloth along her forehead, smoothing the hair that had become stuck by the sweat on her brow. "I'm doing my best. But I can't make a move yet. I have to bide my time. But while I'm here you have to make sure you play along okay? Seriously. It could be life or death."

A small whimper that sounded in the affirmative.

Movement caught her out of the corner of her eye. "Like right now."

Another shudder.

Wincing internally and bracing herself, she pulled back her arm and drew it viciously across her friend's face in a violent backhanded slap.

Darcy's head jerked to the side as far as it could go, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth where she'd likely caught her teeth.

Guilt flooded her, but she suppressed it as best she could, sliding her persona back on like a cold cloak. "Bitch," she snarled, dumping the water at Darcy's feet and stalking off, past Killian, lurking in the hallway with a guarded look. "She's all yours," she added sharply, shouldering past him roughly as she spilled out—finally—into the open air of the front drive, taking a deep, desperate breath of fresh beach air.

Another memory overtook her, then, with surprising ease, the first time Natasha had felt more than a passing interest in her friend.

Hoping to hunt down Steve while he was alone and commandeer him for lunch, she'd been skirting along the lower levels, puzzling out that he must have been working near the labs that day for whatever reason. Unable to find him, she'd wandered for a while, up and down corridors, hemming and hawing the pros and cons of just flat out asking someone if they'd seen him and whether or not it would be worth raising potential curiosity.

…"Wait, so you're really, like, seeing each other?"

A long pause from the room that usually housed Foster, the astrophysicist, and her loud, boisterous intern, Darcy, Steve's friend. "Well, we got lunch. I thought that was sort of implied."

The clank of machinery. "Well, I mean, lunch is just lunch. I mean, it doesn't mean there's, like…dating going on, like going steady…?"

Darcy snorted. "'Going steady'? What are you—fourteen?"

A chuckle that sounded distinctly like Steve.

"Yes. We're dating. There. Happy?"

Another long pause, and Natasha wondered if Steve was trying to edge out of the room. Captain America didn't do awkward girl conversations. "Well. No. Not particularly."

Another snort, this one more feminine in tone.

"What?" Jane's voice sharpened.

Darcy chuckled. "Nothing. It's just that that's awfully rich, coming from you."

Natasha, curious by nature, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned against the hallway wall, letting her serum-enhanced hearing do the work for her.

"'Coming from me?'"

Darcy sighed loudly. "Yeah, coming from you, Jane-y—"

"Don't go all 'Jane-y' on me! You're seriously dating him?!"

"I didn't know I needed your permission."

"What happened to Ian?"

Another snort. "Oh, puh-lease. He went high-tailing it back to Greenwich to finish his degree."

"So?"

"So, what?"

A loud, long-suffering sigh. "Oh, my God, Darcy, how is this so hard to understand? Do you know how dangerous he is?"

"Sure. When you piss him off or end up on the wrong end of SHIELD."

"You mean HYDRA."

"No, I mean SHIELD—or what's left of it, anyway."

"Darcy, he's a brainwashed assassin!"

"Correction: he was a brainwashed assassin."

A derisive hiss. "And what does that make him now?"

"A seriously damaged teddy bear with gorgeous eyes and a really tight ass."

A long, long pause. Then another sigh. "Darcy…"

"What?" There it was. Just an edge of…no, it wasn't defensiveness. Something else…possession? "I work for you, remember? I graduated, and you're finally paying me enough from your grant that I can eat more every night for dinner than Ramen."

Steve cut in. "Darce, why didn't you say something? I've got enough back pay to go around…"

But he was ignored. "That makes you my boss, Jane. Not my mother."

Jane sighed again. "I just worry about you, Darcy."

"Why? I'm perfectly safe with him." She made a 'pshaw' sort of sound, like she was waving her hand carelessly. "He's a softie—you just can't tell because he doesn't say much."

"To you?" asked Jane wryly.

Darcy made an impatient noise. "No, to you, you Grumpasaurus. He talks my fucking ear off when he feels like it. Maybe he'd do that more often with other people if they didn't all treat him like a goddamn pariah. Take a Xanax and chill, girl. So my boyfriend's a mercenary. We can't all be perfect astrophysicists, now, can we?"

Another, lower, scoff. "God, you're so impulsive and naïve."

Now, the silence wasn't a pause so much as a pregnant zap of electricity.

"Wait. Me—impulsive? Naïve?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Maybe we should all take a coffee break?"

Natasha smirked at his shaky, nervous tone.

"You're calling me impulsive? You?"

Natasha edged closer and ducked into the room, out of notice on the far end.

"You remember that one time where you made out with a Norse Space God after knowing him for two days, right? I'm not imagining that, am I?" Darcy stood at the other end of the steel lab table, arms crossed over her ample chest, staring at Jane.

Foster was hunkered down at the computer in the corner, desk chair turned to face her, but she hadn't bothered getting up.

Both women wore looks of anger and challenge.

Natasha would have to put the edge on Darcy. The girl was tenacious, if nothing else, and Steve described her as thick-skinned and tough, level-headed, if prone to mild flights of fancy.

"Darcy—"

"I mean, am I wrong in thinking that Thor could tear the building down on top of us, or no? Because if I am—if you're German boy toy isn't deadlier than The Winter Soldier—I concede the argument."

Jane—usually so flighty and distractible in Natasha's memory—rolled her eyes. "Oh, please—at least Thor is sane."

Steve turned, frowning. "Hey!"

"Darcy."

Even Natasha jumped as they all turned to find the man in question standing in the doorway. It sent a chill up her spine that she hadn't even heard him approach. He was silent as a panther when he wanted to be, and since he likely could hear their conversation clear as a bell from all the way down the hall, he'd likely approached with caution.

"That's debatable," Darcy said, turning back to Jane. "I love him, Jane-y, but let's be honest. His brother was a few crayons short of a box and Thor just up and let him out of Asgardian prison so they could gallivant across the known universe like it was nothing."

Now Jane stood, rounding on her friend with a dark look. "To save me. You weren't there, Darcy. You didn't see how that stone worked."

Darcy threw her arms up. "No! No, I wasn't there! I was in London, cleaning up after you, just like I always do! I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to figure out what happened to you, if you were okay, and what the fuck I was supposed to do next! And don't forget that I was there, in Greenwich that day when you all came storming back in, minus Loki. I saw the Aether at work, I placed those rods for you, I almost died, too, Jane! All because you had to be impulsive around dangerous science-y things!"

Jane stared. "There was a magnetic anomaly!"

"Which means we call for backup, we don't go running around like it's an episode of Doctor Who!" She huffed. "This is beside the point. The point is, I am not the only impulsive person in this room. I think all of us—all of use—could be called impulsive at certain points in the past."

Steve pulled a face, but Natasha raised an eyebrow at him and Bucky snorted. "Not on your life, Rogers."

Jane rolled her eyes again. "So this occasion requires you to make out with any crazy HYDRA mercenary you meet?!"

Darcy put her hands on her hips. "Again—not my mother, Jane, and never mind that that phrase makes me sound like a teenager."

Jane snorted. "Well, you're acting like one."

"By doing what?"

"Putting yourself in danger for a little childish fun!"

"Darcy," Bucky cut in again, his voice pitched low and soothing. "It's no big deal. Let's just go to lunch, doll."

Jane winced at the pet name.

Darcy held up a hand. "No. No, this is a big deal. Apparently I'm grown up enough to handle your complicated equations and algorithms, but not grown up enough to have an adult relationship. Stop the presses. Jane, you do know I'm a hacker, right? You do know that I could run circles around all those clerks upstairs, right?"

Jane sighed. "Yeah. Why do you think I wanted to keep you around? You're my friend—you're fantastic at your job!"

"Well, which is it, Foster?! I can't be both."

The doctor pulled a hand down her face. "I just want you to not be stupid."

Darcy jerked her head back. "Oh, and now I'm being stupid?"

In an uncharacteristic show of anger, Jane slammed her fist down onto the metal lab table, her voice rising. "Yes! You're being stupid! He's unstable, he's crazy, he's an enemy spy, he could snap you in half like a twig and I think you're dumb for tangling with him for a little attention. I will not be there to scrape you up off the pavement the next time he snaps!"

Darcy took an involuntary step back, her face open and shocked, like she'd been slapped.

It was silent. The large room echoed for a moment.

"Jane."

They turned.

Thor stood, filling out the doorway rather well, in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid flannel, open over a white t-shirt, his hair tied back in a neat bun with a strand loose beside his bright blue eyes. His face was disapproving, like he'd caught a child in his care climbing the kitchen counter to dump a plate of cookies all over the floor. "That is unkind."

Jane didn't look half as mollified as Natasha thought she should've, personally. She wasn't sure what she thought of James yet, either, but it was clear he was well on his way to recovery, even if he mostly kept to the skirts of their groups, visibly uncomfortable and a little grouchy. She rather thought he'd earned the right to be a little grouchy and he hadn't done anything threatening in the entire time he'd been there.

"James is healing. You have no place to act as judge and jury, and he has shown nothing but strength of character since his arrival, nor have I noted him acting in any way untoward with our fair Darcy."

Jane's mouth dropped open. "You knew?!"

But Thor was staunch. "It has not been a secret, my love."

Jane huffed, looking away.

And Thor's voice fell just a little, losing its hard, scolding edge and softening as he glanced at Bucky, leaning against the wall beside the doorway, looking, for all the world, casual and uncaring. But his eyes were tight, ruining the illusion if you paid close attention. "A warrior's battles do not stop just because he has stepped off the battlefield. I might suggest a touch of empathy, my love."

Now Jane flushed, swallowing hard.

But Darcy had heard enough, snatching her purse from the shelf under the lab table and turning on her heel, already heading for the door. "Lunch. Right. There's a Thai food truck just a couple blocks down, if you want? They do a great fusion taco." she addressed Bucky specifically, forcibly not looking at anyone else.

Bucky straightened, placing a hand at the small of her back. "Sounds good." And they maneuvered around Thor on their way out, Darcy reaching out subtly to brush a hand along his shoulder in acknowledgement of his determination and support.

And they were gone.

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"So, this guy is just some crazed lunatic inventor with a hard-on for Stark Industries? That's what you're saying?"

Wanda frowned reproachfully at the new Mr. Scott Lang. "Must you be so crude, Mr. Lang?"

Scott flushed and looked down, but his mouth refused the maneuver, and a small smirk appeared. "Sorry. Habit. I'm not…usually around…many other women…" he finished, flagging off lamely.

Tony rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Everyone here?" He glanced around the table. "Rambo, Psychic, Legolas, Mantis Bait, Sane Brother, Jolly Green…okay. Let's get started." He shuffled his papers and gestured up at the slideshow display of the eel bots they'd defeated earlier in the week. "Yeah, this one Mr…"—he frowned at the top paper—"Matthew Lukasic, he's a nut job. I don't think there's anything there to worry about. I checked out his tech. Low-grade, total amateur."

Maria—sitting in the corner—flipped a few pages in her file. "So…moving on to other matters?"

Tony barely suppressed another eye roll. "Yes, Ms. Hill. Flyboy?" He gestured at Sam, sitting at his left. "You've got the floor."

Sam sat up. "Right. Uh. So, by now, you've all met Scott."

Scott waved. "Or 'Tic-Tac', I guess." He shrugged.

"Why 'Tic-Tac'?" Clint inquired.

Scott chuckled. "Well, it's actually kind of a funny story—"

"That we don't have to tell today," Sam cut him off with a tight smile. "No big deal, really, guys. Scott here said he could lend us a hand for a little while, while Darcy and Buck are gone. He's in town with Pym for a conference on molecular shifts and thought he might have a little spare time."

Scott smiled again. "Just think of me as 'on call'."

Tony smiled back. "Good."

"Wait—Pym. Like, Hank Pym? Doctor Hank Pym?!" Clint cut in again.

Scott knew he'd caught their attention. "Yep—that's him."

Steve sat in the very corner, beside Maria, his concentration flagging. He hadn't been able to sleep the night before at all, some gut feeling telling him that things with Natasha were about to come to a head, and he didn't dare miss her call.

But she hadn't called.

And now his head was pounding as he tried to focus, a strong memory drifting through his exhausted mind.

"So, you and Natasha?"

He looked up from Darcy's threadbare couch, balancing his beer on his knee. "Huh?"

Darcy snorted indelicately. "Oh, like you didn't hear me, super soldier." She nudged his propped knee on her way past and flopped down next to him, snatching up the remote as she took a pull off her own beer. "Come on, Stevie—spill."

He winced at Bucky's nickname. "Ugh, God, I should never have introduced you two."

She rolled her eyes. "You didn't. Don't take all the credit, Rogers. I introduced myself the day he came in."

His brows rose. "The day he came in? Was someone there with you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Puh-lease, Captain Tightpants, he's not a chainsaw wielding serial killer. He looked sad, so I sat down. Good thing I did too—how else was I gonna find out how great a kisser he was?"

He bristled. "See, that just makes me uncomfortable."

She gave him a funny look. "What—us dating? Why?"

He shrugged. "I…I dunno. It's just…it's just weird. He was never held down—by anything, Darcy. That's just the kinda guy Buck is."

She gestured with her beer bottle. "You mean, the kinda guy he was. Right?"

He hesitated.

She sighed, softening. "Steve. Come on. You can't expect him to be the same guy."

He hesitated again, shrugged.

"Steve, you know what he went through—Hell. That brand of awful leaves a mark. He's not the Bucky you grew up with anymore. I mean, deep down, he's still the same, but…you can't expect the small things to still be there."

He looked down at his beer, the lime bobbing lazily around. "I know."

"Doesn't mean he's not still your best friend. That much hasn't changed."

"It's just weird—I've never seen him…attached." It'd been odd, too, not spending Christmas with a huge crowd. He and his mother had always spent the holiday with his extended family—a total circus of people—and it was strange, him being here, but in…what felt like the wrong context.

Just him and Natasha and their little fake tree in his apartment.

She smiled. "He's takin' me to the museum next week."

"The Met? I hear that's fun." His friend had always been a bit of a geek underneath it all—not that there'd really been a word for it then. Maybe that was why they'd gotten along so well. After all, Steve still had a drawing he was working on of Natasha back at his apartment. Then he grinned. "We doubled for the Stark Expo, once upon a time."

She gave him a wry look. "Wasn't much of a double, from what I heard…"

He huffed, shifting uncomfortably. "Oh, God…See—this was what I meant."

She giggled, shoving him in one shoulder, not that it did anything to move him. "God, Steve—a few months ago, you were talking about us being good together, and now it makes you uncomfortable?"

He flushed a bright red and studied his beer bottle again, wondering if she'd patched things up with Doctor Foster. "…I know. It's just…saying it is different from…seeing it."

She snorted. "God, you talk like I'm climbing him like a fucking jungle gym, Rogers!"

He eyed her, dressing her down with his gaze.

Finally, she huffed, broken. "Okay, fine—but only in private, you jerkface."

He grinned. But it slowly slid off his face as he thought of Natasha's words on New Year's. "It seems serious…"

Now it was her turn to blush, looking away, her demeanor shrinking and softening, warmth in her eyes. "I don't know if it is for him…"

Steve studied her. "But it is for you." It wasn't a question.

She shrugged, a clear indicator. "He um…" She chewed her lower lip. "He…he said it."

He cocked his head. "Said what?"

She just looked at him.

His brows went up all on their own at the implication of three little words that, strung together, had a way of making up the entire world. "Really?"

She nodded.

He blinked, trying to sort it out. Lord knew why Bucky had ever bothered with him; Steve had never discovered why Bucky had ever given him the time of day.

But he didn't mention that; he also didn't mention his suspicion that it was serious for his friend in return, especially if he'd said that. Bucky never said that—Steve wasn't sure he'd ever heard the words leave his mouth. Only the implication. Actions spoke louder than words, after all. But a certain expression the other day—movie night—had been a dead giveaway, something Steve had spent that night hemming and hawing while Natasha slept beside him, facing him on her side, one hand on his belly, the dark polish on her nails glinting in the shaft of moonlight streaking in through the drapes.

Bucky only reserved that expression for two people. A soft tilt of the brows, warmth in the eyes, a little rueful curve to his mouth.

Steve, to a certain capacity, in that—contrary to what the recent blogs were saying—they were not gay lovers.

And Becca.

Steve tried not to think about Becca—or the idea that she might still be alive somewhere—very often. It made his heart ache, a solid reminder of who they'd been, before HYDRA, before SHIELD, before Peggy, and Hitler, and Zola, and…

Bucky had only looked at the two of them that way.

They'd been a tight little group, the three of them. The various girls Bucky was casual with had never succeeded in breaking through the hard molding that surrounded them, especially when Buck's pop was drinking and Sarah was sick, especially during the coming of the War.

But Darcy.

He'd turned to give the girl a chiding look as he brushed thrown popcorn missiles from his collar, and caught Bucky with that look on his face, walls down, expression open, warm, tender in a way Steve hadn't ever recalled seeing.

And it gave him pause.

Bucky, for all his suave smoothness, for all his bravado, his skill, his confidence, was guarded. He always had been, and it had always seemed to Steve to stem from his father and their tumultuous relationship. He'd never trusted easily, never—Steve suspected—truly even trusted himself.

George Barnes had been cantankerous at the best of times, a reluctant and bitter undertaker, but when he drank, he was a cruel beast, using sharp words where he wouldn't use his fists, and Steve had always been acutely afraid of him.

Bucky hadn't, had only met fire with fire. But that had taken its toll as well.

Only Winnie had been able to calm him from those moods. And it had shown in later years, never more clearly than when Bucky had moved out, after Sarah's death, after that awful afternoon, the funeral, Bucky's little white lies…

We can put the couch cushions on the floor like we did when we were kids…C'mon…

You could hardly have a nostalgic sleepover when you had no home.

HYDRA had done him no favors in the years since the War. They'd plucked a particularly sensitive string and promptly frayed it further. He wondered how much Darcy knew, how much he'd told her.

But he hadn't looked guarded the other night.

He wondered, not for the first time, just what Darcy had done to so thoroughly turn him around.

Maybe, he thought, she hadn't done anything, really.

Maybe the powers that be—no matter how his faith had waned—had done it for her.

"So…you and Tasha? All this time, you've been tapping that?"

He winced again, pulled from his musings. "You sound like a guy."

She snorted. "Sorry, was that unladylike of me?" She nudged his foot again. "Spill."

He sighed. "No."

She looked sneaky and entirely too mischievous. "'No', you weren't tapping it or 'no', you won't spill?"

"Take your pick, Lewis." He was relieved that they'd decided not to get rings yet.

She threw her head back and laughed, loudly and in that boisterous, Darcy way. "Oh, man, he wasn't kidding. You so are."

He scowled as he felt the blush rise up his face, betraying him. "What?"

She got up and went to the sink, filling her empty beer bottle, swishing it around. "He said you couldn't lie for shit. He was totally right."

He huffed, glad to be distracted by more frustration. "Shut up, Darcy."

She gasped, hand to her heart. "Oh, that's just vulgar coming from Captain America."

He snorted.

She pulled out a cabinet and dumped the beer bottle into the recycling bin inside. "Whatever. You two are perfect for each other. She's the bad cop, and you're the good cop."

He understood this reference, and so only had to roll his eyes again. "Darcy…"

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him as she crossed back to the couch, her eyes lit up. "Imagine how badass it would be if you switched it up?!"

Taking the probably-not-on-purpose bait, he cocked a brow. "What?"

She flopped down next to him again and set her feet across his lap. "You know—if she, like, went undercover, all 'good guy' and you went in and freaked the shit out of people and went all, 'Creepy Captain America'? That would be fucking awesome!"

That was it.

He shot up out of his chair, lunging from the memory and back into the present. "Bad cop," he said, out loud, jumping when he placed himself back in the conference room—

Where everyone was staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Uh."

Tony raised a brow, all pretense gone from his usually snarky face. "You okay, Steve-O?"

He blinked, jerking his thoughts back into order, and promptly blushing. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm good. I'm good. I just…" He gestured, already moving for the door. "There's just something I remembered I have to do."

((()))

He was watching them.

She knew he was.

He was out there, somewhere, watching them, hidden in the shadows, melting into the deep dark of the in-betweens and becoming part of them, watching them, waiting.

Even knowing him the way she did, Natasha shivered in her black gear, clenching her jaw shut as she stood later in front of the window. Killian—like all the rest of the nefarious bastards out there—underestimated the Winter Soldier for the formidable foe he was. They all thought he was a dog that could be brought to heel, when really he was a vicious fighter. And when he was scared—in this case, desperate to protect Darcy—he was even more ruthless. Having all his faculties almost made him scarier than he'd been without them.

He was sharper, had laser focus.

Natasha wasn't sure why that was—perhaps motivation had done the trick. After all, if someone had taken Steve from her, she had no doubt she'd sink into her alternate persona, blinders on, tunnel vision, ready to kill whoever got in the way of her retrieving her mate unharmed.

And Bucky was easily twice the fighter she was.

Motivation to get himself back—all of him—motivation had driven him to right the balance he'd struck out at, snapping its supports in the name of an organization he'd sworn to fight nearly eighty years ago.

She blinked. Good God, Pearl Harbor was seventy-five years gone.

She sighed internally, not daring the sound out loud, where anyone might hear.

This was precarious. All of it.

Bucky, in an unquantifiable condition after being zapped by whatever digital wall the blond doctor had been maintaining was especially worrisome. She didn't know her name; she hadn't been introduced to anyone.

She trusted Bucky, though. She liked him. He had become her friend over the past year. The four of them had settled into a strange, surreal sort of domestic normalcy. She and Steve would bring takeout and they'd watch a movie. They'd meet at a random little pub in Manhattan. She'd come to know him very well, his mannerisms, his sense of humor, his facial expressions…the way he loved Darcy. Quietly. But desperately. Without limit, despite his reservations. With humor, and enthusiasm, with loose, carefree happiness—finally, carefree. Or, mostly so, anyway.

Still.

All the same, she couldn't gauge his mental condition any more than Bruce could, totally clueless back in New York. He could be huddled under some patch of molten outcropping there, on the shore, shuddering and amnesiac all over again.

She had a feeling, though…she could feel him out there, feel his presence. They were of strangely like minds, she and Bucky, in a different way than she and Darcy. She understood him—sometimes she thought she understood him better than Steve did. At least, she knew she understood this Bucky better than Steve understood him. Steve, of course, had known the Other Bucky, the Before Bucky, the Then Bucky. This Bucky—he wasn't the same man—and while no one seemed to understand him better than Darcy did, Natasha could tell he was out there, just awaiting his moment, gathering information, forcing himself to think of all this as just another set of striking maneuvers.

It was what she would do.

She felt guilty, though, just standing here, letting Steve dangle.

And Tony.

She swallowed again, pushing down on the widening sense of that guilt in her gut for wanting to do this her way.

Tony would be blinded, too blinded to be of use.

Then again, maybe she underestimated him, underestimated his genius and how it might apply to someone he thought of as…as a daughter. She realized, then, that maybe she'd slipped. Maybe she didn't understand this new Tony as well as she thought she had, or as well as she had a few years ago, when she was no one but Natalie Rushman and he was just another spoiled billionaire, running around, doing whatever he wanted. When really, he'd been dying, staring his own mortality in the face.

Something in her panged at the thought and again, she fought the urge to crawl into a hole, cry, and call Steve just to hear his voice.

God, if this was even a fraction of what Darcy was feeling…she couldn't stand it.

Couldn't bloody stand it.

So she stepped out of the house with trepidation but more relief than fear. Finally, after her show that afternoon, appearing torn and furious, Killian had given her the go-ahead to check the area for the other part of their prey.

Smirking at the assumption that he'd be easy for them to bring in—and not like a provoked African bull elephant, considering they were currently torturing his wife—she began down the rocky Hawaiian slope.

((()))

His head hadn't pounded like this since—he blinked—since March of '43, when Zola had had him strapped to a table. The fact that he could now pinpoint the exact moment in time with a relatively smooth, ordinary amount of clarity was a little arresting, and he sat for a moment, lost in the mire of memory, touch, and smell, a time so long past, he felt it slip by all over again, his chest going tight with loss.

He clenched his jaw shut at the sharp spiking pain in his throbbing temple, keeping pace with his pulse. He hoped it cleared up by dark. He was looking to make a move of some sort. Full dark and he'd be safe to go in and work on taking out their exterior support, drop the guards and wait for their reaction, see if he couldn't find a way into the house.

Of course, this was assuming that, upon taking out the ground support, he'd be able to ferret out the device that kept up the force field around the house.

If his head kept at it like this, though, he wouldn't be able to move, let alone get his girl out of that fucking house.

For a moment, he let himself turn bitter with the idea that they could be in the Hamptons right now, relaxing poolside and watching the sun go down on their private beach.

But he snorted. He wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself. He knew better. Hadn't he learned after all his decades of service? The bad guys were everywhere. There was no escape, no matter where you went or how fast you ran.

Sighing, he let his head tilt back against the little cave surface of his hidey-hole. Never. He'd never be free. And now, neither would Darcy.

Something shifted outside.

Raising his head, he paused—holding his breath—waiting.

There it was again.

Moving. Someone was moving on the sand outside, not making much effort to be quiet.

Well, damn it if they thought they'd get the jump on him just because he was a little worse for wear. Scowling, he curled his hands into fists and carefully shifted his body out of the shore pocket he'd found, counting down in his head and slowing his breathing, just the way he'd been doing for what felt like forever.

3, 2…1—

He lunged out onto the shoreline in one fluid whip, making clean contact with whoever it was and throwing them back a few steps, although—he noticed—not off their feet.

Or rather…her feet.

He blinked. "Tasha?!"

The tangle of red and black managed to straighten with a gasp, then a small grown, until Natasha's pale face caught the gathering moonlight and she looked up at him with a certain amount of trepidation. This caused him to mentally backpedal a step or two. Natasha hadn't ever looked at him like that, not once, not batted an eye at any of it, any of him or their shared past in DC.

"Jesus, you pack a punch, Barnes."

He brushed it off, too distracted to revel at the familiar sound of her voice—strangely comforting—and a sign of the times that she had used an American term of exasperation and not sworn in Russian. "Yeah, well, you know better than to sneak up on me."

For a moment, she studied his face. Then she smirked and shrugged demurely. "Eh, I managed it on a Norse God once, thought I'd see if it worked on you."

He cocked his head. "Is there a compliment hidden in there somewhere?"

She took a step toward him, darting a glance around as she crowded his space. "It'll be our little secret. How you holding up?" She studied his brow. "Headache to end all headaches, I assume?"

Turning away, suddenly so fatigued he felt like he couldn't stand a moment more, he sighed. "I don't wanna talk about it."

She stepped after him, dropping down onto her knees to avoid being seen from the house. "You okay?"

He didn't answer.

She plowed ahead, undaunted. After all, when something bothered her bone deep, she didn't like talking about her feelings either—not that James even needed to vocalize for her to know what they were. "She's holding up."

His broad shoulders tensed.

Again, she plowed on. "It's Aldrich Killian and his flunkies from AIM."

His flinch made it clear his photographic memory had all the files he'd reviewed upon his arrival from the cold neatly sorted.

"Not sure what the endgame is just yet. Still working on squirming my way in." She sighed, pulling her hand through her long hair. Steve liked it, sure, but sometimes it just got in the way. "Think he's looking to make more of you, only…more efficient." She shrugged. Not that she needed to tell him any of this. Bucky was too sharp to not have realized the details of what was going on, even without a clear line of sight. "Just…give me a little more time and I can get you a way in. Okay?"

More silence.

Worry pooled low in her belly, and she tried to push it down, out of notice. When he got quiet, it was always a good idea to just leave him be. He wasn't a danger, no, but all things considered, he was still working on coping mechanisms and she didn't want to intrude on him. He'd been…intruded on enough over the past few...decades.

"She's strong, Buck. You taught her well. She'll be alright. She's got a lot of fight in her."

He looked away, his blue eyes reflecting the shadowy waves, his jaw clenched.

"Just trust me. Stay here. I'll find you a way in, and then I'll help you mow them all down. Give me a little time. I'll throw out a signal."

She didn't expect a response and so she wasn't surprised when she didn't get one. He was clearly lost again in his own head, as unpleasant as that sounded to Natasha.

Nodding to his peripheral vision, she began back up the slope.

"What sort of signal?" he asked then, his voice low and rough, held on by a bit of string.

She turned to give him a smirk. "I'll figure something out. You'll know it when you see it, Barnes."

And she was gone.

((()))

"Stevie, you've got to eat. Now, come on to the table."

He looked up from the window seat in his room, where he'd been shivering in his blanket for the past hour.

His mother stood in the doorway, looking as pretty and frail as ever, delicate and fragile, her blond hair piled into a neat bun at the back of her head, loose strands framing her face. She had her hands on her hips, studying him from the doorway, a softly stern look on her small features. "Come on now. Don't be silly. Those boys are blockheads, just like Jimmy said. There's no call to sulk like a pup."

He dragged himself off the seat and tossed the scratchy wool square reluctantly down after him. "I wasn't sulking."

"Yeah, you were!" a voice called from the front room downstairs, and a moment later, there came the sound of the door shutting.

As he followed her out onto the loft landing and down the stairs of their apartment, a cold, wintry breeze hit them, blowing in from Bucky's arrival. "Shut up, jerk," Steve mumbled.

Bucky laughed, hooking his blue scarf on a coat peg and pulling his hands through his freshly shorn hair, blown in the icy wind, even on the short walk from his place. "You were sulking, punk, don't deny it. Those jackasses think it's funny, but you ain't the only fella in that art class. Just let 'em heckle ya, it ain't your problem." He glanced at the woman's wryly disapproving face. "Sorry, Mrs. R. Slipped out."

Sarah Rogers chuckled and shook her head. "Jimmy, what am I gonna do with you?"

Bucky brightened considerably and smiled sweetly—too sweetly. "Piece a cobbler?"

Steve's mother wagged a finger good-naturedly. "After supper."

Bucky shrugged. "Why you think I came over?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm sure it had nothin' to do with your no good daddy, drinking himself to death. Now come, sit. You're both too skinny. Don't know where all that food I make goes with you two—s'like you're both made a rubber."

Steve chuckled and pulled out a chair and sat down, skipping his father's empty setting for the next space over. "It's all the boxing he does, ma. Burns it all off every week."

Sarah filled two bowls with thick, hot chili, and set them in front of the nearly grown men. She stroked her fingers through Bucky's chestnut hair, sighing in gentle frustration as she straightened his collar. "I don't like you going over there, Jimmy. You're gonna get yourself hurt one day and the place ain't filled with forgiving types." She filled her own bowl and sat across from him, sliding the two full glasses of milk she'd poured earlier in front of them as well.

Bucky shrugged. "Gotta earn my way out somehow."

She shook her head. "Well, you got two jobs, dontcha?"

Another shrug. "Don't pay well enough, Mrs. R."

Sarah sighed, reaching across the table to still his hand there. "I know you wanna get out from under his thumb, sweetie," she murmured, her expression hardening into one of worry. "But you gotta be careful how you do it. You hear me?"

Bucky, sobered, nodded. "I know."

Steve spoke up, swallowing a mouthful of chili. "He's good, ma. He'll win the welterweight yet."

Sarah sighed, going back to her food. "You're gonna beat up the whole world, huh, Jimmy? Who's next—that Hitler fella? He's no good news, just you wait and see. Nobody should have that kind of power."

Bucky smiled. "Yeah, I'll go beat him up for you, eh, Mrs. R?"

She shook her head yet again, tsk-ing him. "When are you gonna start calling me Sarah like a good boy?"

He winked. "When you stop bein' Mrs. R, Mrs. R."

She sighed, smiling. "You are a bad boy, Jimmy Barnes, and you got a mouth on you, too."

He only got up, grinning, and went to the sink, turning on the faucet and filling a glass—

Just in time for the woman to start coughing, slowly and softly at first, then harder, rasping and wet.

Steve set a steadying hand on her shoulder, though he was no stronger than she was in the long run, and gave his friend a questioning look. "How'd you know?"

Bucky shrugged, hovering over the woman's chair, frowning. "Her voice always sounds funny before she starts. Haven't you noticed?"

Steve shook his head.

Finally, she finished, taking the offered glass and gulping from it desperately before clearing her throat. "Oh, my Lord. Thank you, boys. I don't know what it's been lately, the coughing is just awful."

Bucky took up his seat again. "You should go see the doc again, Mrs. R. I need help keeping this one in line." He nodded at Steve.

Steve scowled. "Jerk."

"Punk," he answered.

"Boys…" Sarah cut in, waving her hand. "I'm fine. It's just a winter cough."

Steve sighed. "We'd feel better if you went anyway."

"Yeah, you can't keep running if you're sick, Mrs. R."

She rolled her eyes, flapping her hand at them both. "Alright, alright. My little worriers." She pointed at Bucky. "You started it, young man. This is your fault. He never used to be so pushy before the two of you started running together, making trouble."

"Trouble?" Bucky repeated, smiling mischievously. "Me?"

"Yes!"

"I didn't have long to be an angel, then, by your memory, ma—we met over ten years ago!" Steve added.

Sarah sighed. "Just the same."

They ate together in silence for a while, bowls emptying, milk disappearing. Sarah brought out the cobbler and set it on the table. She'd saved up berries all week to have enough to make it, borrowed sugar from the Jones' next door in exchange for getting a particularly stubborn stain out of Ellen's dress.

"Another masterpiece, Mrs. R," Bucky said, scooping a spoonful out for her to spare her sore hands.

"Thank you, Jimmy," she sighed, slumping tiredly down in her seat again. "How's Becca, by the way?"

Bucky only half succeeded in hiding his flinch. "They kept me too late at the garage for me to get her over here before pop got home. They were already sitting down for dinner when I looked in the window."

She clucked her tongue. "And they couldn't wait for you for supper? Unheard of."

Bucky shrugged. "Nothing new, Mrs. R. Anyway, I hate sitting at the table with him. He's half-drunk before he gets up again."

"So she's doing well, then?"

He shrugged again, not meeting her eyes. "She's got a bruise on her shoulder. Said she walked into her dresser."

Sarah smiled. "She's being clumsy again, then, eh?"

"Ma," Steve admonished.

But Bucky didn't laugh. "Her dresser's a half a foot shorter than she is."

Silence.

"She's got spirit, Jimmy. She'll be alright."

He finally looked up with a breath. "If this gets bad, with Germany, and I gotta go, I need you to look out for her for me, alright, Mrs. R?"

She opened her mouth for a moment, as though to argue against the idea somehow, but then shut it, and nodded, eyes downturned. "You just make sure, if that happens, that you come back, you hear me, baby?"

He nodded.

Steve spoke up. "And what about me, huh? I can go, too. I'm not that weak."

Sarah just sighed and patted his hand. "I know, sweetie. But you can't always get what you want—right?"

"I said, I need to know what kind you want—is that alright, Sir? Sir?"

Steve jumped, blinking himself back to the present to find a stewardess standing in front of him in first class, giving him a rather quizzical look. Her eyes were large and bright in a heart-shaped face, framed by elaborately pinned dark hair. She reminded him of Darcy all over again. "Right. Sorry. Been a long day. Uh…" He glanced at the choices on the flyer in front of him and handed the sheet back to her. "Just, uh, the fruit plate."

She nodded, scribbling it down. "And to drink?"

Couldn't get drunk; that didn't mean that going through the motions didn't sometimes help. "Scotch." Then he winced at the reminder of Bucky's father's drink of choice.

She nodded, continuing to scribble. "Straight up?"

A grim foreboding was slowly filling him, and his voice was low. "On the rocks."

"Thank you, Sir." And she was gone, strutting off in her skin-tight blue uniform skirt, and he was relieved at her businesslike attitude, not flirtatious in the slightest.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. What he wouldn't have given to be able to enlist someone to help him, for a way to sneak a Quinjet off the Tower roof and have no one notice. But a flight directly out had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, as he'd careened out of Avengers Tower on his bike, flinging himself into traffic and eliciting at least three angry honks in his haste.

Somehow, it still surprised him that he found Darcy at the forefront of his mind, rather than Bucky.

He supposed he'd done enough worrying over his friend over the past year or so. Besides, he'd more than learned that Bucky could take care of himself.

But Darcy.

His little Darcy.

They'd become such a little pair by the time Natasha had happened—by the time Bucky had happened—that he could hardly remember a time when she wasn't one of his best friends, when she wasn't a large part of his life.

Part of him felt awful that he'd not spotted the warning signs with her sooner, last winter, while Bucky had been gone.

Tony had noticed her flagging, all the signs that she was holding up to an even lesser extent than she let on.

Tony had given her assistance.

Tony had given her an ear.

Tony had been there, caught her, kept her calm.

Tony had realized the signs of her panic attack just a moment before he had.

He felt like he'd dropped the ball, let her down.

He knew she'd smack him for feeling guilty, but the feeling was there anyway.

She'd been almost single-handedly responsible for pulling him back into the world, getting him up to speed on social and cultural norms, pop culture, language. They'd taken an entire week to work out all the different technologies out there—his laptop, the internet, his Starkphone, his tablet, everything.

She'd seen his own flagging ability to cope and forced him to get up, shoved herself stubbornly in his face and demand they get lunch to 'chat'.

And then she'd proceeded to use that foot in the door to lambast him back into the present.

At first he'd hated it, been exceedingly offended at her implications and presumptions, been angry and shy, uncomfortable and uncertain.

But she'd patched him up fairly quickly.

Of course, now that he thought about it, was it really such a surprise that she'd managed twice the amount for Bucky?

Just, with the addition of romantic interest.

He stared out his window, mulling it all over.

And now she needed him. She'd been suffering too much for words for the past few months. That much had been clear each and every time he and Natasha had made plans with them, her eyes red and tired, sunken, her movements slow and deliberate, not at all the bouncy girl he'd met. She'd very subtly leaned on Bucky the few times they'd actually gone out, and Bucky had kept his watchful gaze on her, drawn in worry, his arm around her waist. It had been even more obvious the handful of times Bucky had called to cancel, his voice deep and low and tired. They'd closed ranks, the two of them, shut themselves in, a little pair, secure in each other against the dark outside world.

Steve wondered just what was going on. But he was never one to pry—at least not too much. And besides, no one could do much about it at present, so why beat a dead horse asking, right?

Who knew what position Bucky was in, too. After all, if he'd been in a good one, they'd have heard something by now.

Of course, he hadn't really heard anything from Natasha, so it was all open to speculation at the moment, and that seriously made him itchy. He was going in blind.

Totally. Fucking. Blind.

He just hoped he could be as useful to Darcy as she'd been to him.

He pulled out his phone and fidgeted with the settings, pulling up the WiFi hotspot controls and searching the map he'd hurriedly looked over in the airport lounge.

It came up and he dragged his fingertips over the screen, zooming in on his intended destination and chewing on his lip, not even looking up when the stewardess brought him his drink.

He should've grabbed a thicker coat, whether or not he was less affected by the cold nowadays.

After all, though it was summer in New York, it was bound to be at least cool in Barrow, Alaska.

((()))

The next time Darcy woke, she was completely clear-headed.

This discovery didn't make her feel any better about her situation, of course; it made her feel worse.

She immediately set about mentally cataloguing all that had happened in the past 48 hours. She wasn't entirely sure how long it had been, but she was going with her gut. She'd learned, in her time with Bucky, the Super Soldier, that guts were usually right, and since she resembled him somehow now—at least in the very slightest—she decided to see where that took her.

He'd woken her up. Told her he was going for a swim.

She'd called Tony and they'd talked.

She'd taken her coffee out onto the deck and drooled over the guy she was still getting used to calling her husband.

And car doors—the noise of car doors had roused her from her thoughts, pulling her back into the house in time to see Aldrich Killian approaching.

He'd used whatever that shit was in his blood—the shit he was using to try to create uber-healthy, creepy super soldiers of his own that Tony had thwarted. Project Centipede and Extremis. That was it. He'd melted the door handle and pulled it straight off one hinge, come into the house, grabbed her, then dosed her with something nasty in a huge—

Well. That explained the awful pain in her neck. That needle had been the size of a pen. What the fuck had that bitch doctor stuck her with?

Erwin.

Right. That was her name. She remembered one of the black clad henchman talking about something called a…TMS blast? And an—

EMP.

Her blood ran cold with shock and realization crashed down on her.

They were separated.

Hard.

They'd gotten to them while Bucky was out, on the beach. While Darcy hadn't the foggiest what a TMS blast was, she damn well knew what an EMP was. She did plenty of reading, she'd seen The Matrix.

His arm was useless. Or, at least, without internal power. He hated that arm. If its technology went offline, he was perfectly capable of using it, but he'd said it was akin to driving a car without steering assist.

And Natasha—Natasha was here. In what context, Darcy wasn't sure, but it was surely covert or she'd never have slapped her across the face and called her a 'bitch'. Likely, she'd gone with some scorned lover storyline.

She snorted—out loud. The day she slept with Steve was the day Hell froze over. She loved him, and he was precisely like the sweet older brother she'd never had, and while he was seriously, ridiculously yummy and gorgeous—he was…Steve.

Lovable goofball. Clueless, yet tactical genius Captain America.

Sweet and loyal, smart and headstrong.

They'd never danced near anything even remotely like sex.

Whereas with Bucky, she was fairly certain they'd both noticed the strange, underlying sexual tension the moment they'd met. All they'd done, really, was spend an inordinate amount of time dancing around it. Her memory drifted again…

"You know that you sort of walk around like a Thirties pinup, right?"

She spun, finding herself alone in the lab, Jane wandered off, muttering math equations under her breath, and that Bucky had taken her place, leaning one jeaned, sexy hip against the doorway. On top of that, his hair was all soft and tossed across his forehead, his eyes contained a certain humor that she was pretty sure had been missing a few days before, and he wore a rather roguish smile on that full mouth. "What?"

He gestured with his chin. "Really. If I hadn't already asked you out, you'd have suitors lined up out the door."

She flushed—something she never did—and turned to face him, sticking out a hip and tapping her high-heeled foot. "Don't you think you're Casanova."

He shrugged one broad shoulder. "Nah. Just something I noticed."

She raised a brow. "'Already asked me out', huh? Do three lunch dates really count?"

He winked. Winked. "I dunno. You tell me, dollface. You're the one with all the modern rules. I'm a little behind. You'll have to take pity on me and fill me in."

She laughed, hand on her hip. "Take pity on you, huh? You wanna be a pity date?"

He slouched his way into the room, tugging a hand through his hair. "Well. I didn't say that."

She approached the lab table and leaned on it, extremely conscious of the fact she was wearing a low-cut top and that her pencil skirt and red heel combo probably did give the effect that her curves were something out of his time, laid out on the nose of a fighter plane. "So what are you saying, Winter Soldier? Got something else in mind?"

He flitted a glance around, checking Jane wasn't in sight, the smile evaporating and replaced with a more serious expression, soft and warm. "Dinner?"

She smiled coquettishly, not sure where the bravado in her was coming from, her heart hammering in her chest. Oh, God, he was really going for it this time, she hadn't read his signals wrong. She'd done that from time to time. "Where at? There's a nice Italian place down the street—"

He shook his head. "Hm-mm. My place."

A brow rose and she jerked her head back, eyeing him. "Your place?" That was...intimate.

He nodded. "My place."

She smirked. "The Winter Soldier can cook?"

He shrugged. "I remember a few things."

"Hm." She made a show of studying him for a moment. "Well, then, I think you've got a deal, Soldier Boy."

But he didn't smile. He just pulled his hands from their pockets and approached, slowly, as though half expecting her to bail.

She didn't.

"Seven?" he asked, his voice softening.

She nodded. "I haven't got anything else planned."

And he stopped just a step from her, expression searching, but intent. "Now you do."

"Now I do."

He'd kissed her already—a soft, sweet thing the second time they'd met for lunch—caught her by surprise as they were coming back into the Tower, and she'd nearly dropped her soda at the smooth move, his hand at the small of her back, tugging her in closer. And again—the same kiss—last week, when they'd gone out on her hour break for Chinese, her knees going shamefully weak.

But neither of them had been like this.

In a move she was too nervous to really trace, he was in her space, his pretty eyes close enough for her to pick out the little threads of sea glass in them, bright blues and turquoises.

And then his mouth was on hers—really, truly—and it seriously was all she could do to fold her hands around his collar and tug, pulling his mouth more firmly against hers, dragging him closer down to her level.

His mouth was so lush and soft, it took her a second to even realize what was happening, took her a moment to remember how to enjoy this part.

But that was all it took her, her mind swept totally clean of anything but the feel of his mouth, his five o'clock shadow scratching lightly at the soft skin of her face. She'd never experienced that before either. Where she'd thought it would hurt and annoy, she found the opposite was true—at least for him—and the sensation sent a bolt of heat straight down, deep, strumming in her belly and tightening her core in a flash move that had her blushing down to her toes.

She might've made a soft noise then, a mewl of pleasure, because he closed the gap, stepping closer and deepening the embrace, reading her signal with perfect exaction.

He had flawless technique though, no matter his spotty memory. It was too early to get too…naughty, and there was no tongue, no wandering hands. Just the wonderful, euphoric sensation that she'd never been kissed like this before, sweetly, and softly, but with an underlying passion that made her weak at the knees.

A kiss that telegraphed a level of seriousness that hadn't been spoken, a kiss with intent and purpose.

"Darce?" a voice called.

Jane.

Gasping, they pulled rapidly apart, staring at each other, wide-eyed.

Then he darted right, throwing himself behind the huge storage shelf in the corner, piled high with Jane's thingamabobs, cords and metal parts obscuring him fairly fully.

"Darcy?"

She managed to snatch up the binder she'd been working out of just as Jane finally entered the room, but in her haste, she missed the back of it and piles of papers came loose, and as the astrophysicist rounded the corner, miscellaneous pieces were drifting lazily to the floor and landing with little hisses of protest in the silence.

She swallowed. "Hi. What's up?"

Jane blinked at her, taking in the scene. "Uh. I had a…question."

Darcy was fairly certain she was blushing hard, and she wondered if her hair was mussed. She was sure her mouth was red and she hoped with everything she had that her face wasn't showing the signs of his stubble—or that her pulse, echoing in her core with a bright aching need wasn't clearly visible on her face.

God, most of the sex she'd had hadn't been as intimate as that kiss.

"Question. Right. What can I do ya for?" She winced internally at the loud brightness in her voice. Do ya for? Really?

Jane blinked again. "…Everything okay in here?"

Banking on Jane's distractibility, she stuck a hand to her hip, setting the binder back down and intently ignoring the papers littering the lab tiles. "Yep. Totally. Totally okay. Just me, you know, being me. Clumsy Darcy. Right?" She laughed shakily. "What's up, Jane-y?"

The scientist bent down and flipped a sheet over. "I was looking for my calculations from last week—and my Tone Synthesizer, so I could measure those…" she drifted off. "Oh. They're right here. What were you doing with them?"

She swallowed—hard—and darted a glance over to the shelf, where Bucky was crouched, very still, his eyes dark on her, but a curl of humor turning up one side of his full mouth. "Uh. I thought you wanted them put into the system?"

Jane shook her head. "No. Not these. The ones from yesterday."

She nodded, her pulse hammering in her throat. "Oh. Right. Okay. Must've gotten them confused."

She hadn't.

Jane went over to the shelf—the shelf—and started rummaging around. "You're acting weird. Are you okay? I mean, you went out to lunch again, which you, like, never really did before last week. Was…Bucky there?"

Darcy plainly heard the suppressed disapproval in her friend's voice. "Uh. Yeah. We checked out those food trucks and then sat in Central Park. Why?" She left out that it was probably the most romantic meal she'd ever had, burgers and fries by the duck pond, laughing at the geese as they harassed the general public for food. An entire hour away from numbers and scientific theories, away from judging eyes. An entire hour to just be and laugh. She didn't think she'd laughed that much since before Thor had stormed into their lives—literally.

Jane sighed, pulling out a machine and studying it a moment. "Because the only thing less safe in New York than lunch with the Winter Soldier is lunch with the Winter Soldier in Central Park…" She snorted.

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Don't start that again, Jane. Think of it this way: he can protect me from those notorious purse snatchers."

Jane shook her head, but said no more on the subject. "Where did I put it? I thought I put it up here…?"

Darcy sighed, trying not to look in Bucky's direction.

And Jane bent and pulled off another, smaller machine, revealing the assassin's face.

Bucky flinched, turning his head so just the back of his jaw and ear were visible, obscured by his soft, dark hair. But Jane was studying the machine instead and hadn't noticed him.

"Ah. Here it is." She turned back, reaching up to tug the cord off the shelf—

Darcy held her breath— "Jane—"

"Jane?" another voice called, just then. "Jane, my love?"

Thor. Thank the Gods—or God, in this case.

Jane turned.

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief, and Bucky slumped back against the shelf, visibly so.

"In here, Thor."

The big Norse God filled the doorway in his jeans and t-shirt, his hair messily secured in a knot behind his head, and he looked like a model out of an H&M ad. "Are you quite ready for our early dinner, Jane?" He waved at Darcy cheerfully.

Darcy waved back, struggling to clutch her binder closer.

Jane slung her machine into one arm and gathered her notes in the other hand. "Sure. Let me just toss this stuff in my apartment and we can get going. You wanted to show me that Ramen place in Times Square, right?"

Thor nodded. "Yes. I thought we might take in a film after."

"Ooh, you thought of everything!" Jane smiled, ducking out in front of him, her lab assistant totally forgotten.

But Thor paused in the doorway as Jane continued on down the hall. He smiled again, hand up in another brief wave. "Darcy." His gaze flicked right, his mouth curling mischievously, and she was sure she didn't imagine the sly gleam in his eyes. "James."

And he was gone, jogging to catch up to his astrophysicist, who was already in the elevator, nose buried in her notes.

Dinner that night at his place had been nothing but laughs at the whole misadventure, and after an episode of Sherlock and a half hour of making out on his couch, he saw her into a cab and waved goodnight.

The image of him, standing under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, face just a little wistful, shoulders hunched a little to make him less conspicuous as people milled around at all hours of a New York night filled her mind now, as she sat there, aching, in her chair, scowling down at her robe, rucked up her thigh. They hadn't even let her get dressed, hadn't given her the opportunity to be free long enough to slip on anything else. She considered herself extremely lucky that the cinch had held over the last two days, and hadn't bared anything she'd rather not have bared—to anyone other than Bucky, of course.

So much had happened that it all seemed so long ago, now. It was just last summer.

Her heart tugged painfully hard in her chest and she winced, biting her lip to combat it. "Goddamn," she murmured, letting her head slump tiredly and squeezing her eyes shut to stop the sudden tears cramping in the back of her throat.

She'd just wanted him.

She'd wanted him, and wanted him to be happy, and at peace, and to find a way to accept himself and what he'd been forced to do.

She'd wanted to be that person that helped him get there, helped him remember how to breathe and how to smile and laugh and let go.

She'd wanted him to remind her why it mattered that she still did those things, too. Her own sense of self had gotten lost, too, somewhere along the way, lost in all the science! and the mathematical equations, and the Norse God gobbledegook and Greenwich temporal anomalies and world ending aliens, and she'd just wanted someone to make her feel alive.

Alive, but not on the brink of space God death—that kind of alive.

She loved Jane. She did.

But she wanted to be first to someone.

She'd never been first before.

She'd been last to both her parents.

Second—at best—to Jane.

Something not quite definable to her previous boyfriends.

Somewhere in the middle with Ian.

But she'd been first with him. She was first with him. He'd made that abundantly clear in the time since they'd met, abundantly clear that he treasured her.

It broke her heart in a way she hadn't really been prepared for.

And it had been so nice, that short space of time between New Year's and Valentine's Day. They'd taken a day and corralled Steve and moved all her things across town and that short little bank of time had been so wonderful and she'd not even thought for a second it could be so viciously interrupted.

She'd been foolish to think for even a second that they could have anything resembling domestic bliss.

That was all she'd wanted, in a surprise move. A little peace and quiet, a little domestic bliss, even if it was interspersed with super heroes and covert ops and HYDRA garbage.

Just them. In his apartment. With the TV at night and sleeping in the same bed with someone, warm and close.

Someone who put her first.

"Too fucking simple," she muttered under her breath, clenching her hands into fists within their secures.

She wondered where he was, hoping against hope that it was out there, on the beach somewhere, hidden and going through tactical maneuvers, and not somewhere in the house, tied up like she was—not that it would be easy, tying up the fucking Winter Soldier.

"God, you gotta get me outta this, baby," she sighed. "God, please…"

"I don't think he can hear you, sweetheart," came a casual voice, and Aldrich Killian came waltzing in like it was 'Singing in the Rain', Natasha at his heels, face shuttered like it usually was when she was in her own head. "At least, in my experience he can't."

Darcy sighed, relinquishing control. "What the fuck do you want with me, you freak? Seriously. Let's just dispense with the villainous soliloquy and get to the boss fight, okay? I mean, really. This is getting old, dude. I was having a really great time before you came melting your way in here. So what gives?"

Natasha's lip curled and only someone who knew her well saw it for what it was—a smirk of humor, rather than a sneer of indifference.

Killian sighed. "Aw, I'm just funning ya, kiddo. We can't get to the good stuff yet. That would ruin the anticipation I've built up, don't you think?"

She sighed again, rolling her eyes. "Sure, yeah, right, whatever. What do you want with me? If you're looking to use me to make more freaks like you, you might find you'll have a hard time. I'm broken, remember? I'll even tell you everything I know. Okay? How's that sound?"

He quirked a brow. "Oh?"

She heaved another sigh, grimacing as she focused on the ceiling, and shifted to try and work a kink out of her back. With an internal groan, she had the errant thought that Bucky could work that knot out in a cool, methodical sixty seconds, moving right along. "I don't have the same serum as the other Winter Soldiers. This one's different, it's modified, or it's watered down, or some shit. It doesn't work." She shrugged. "Well, it does work—sort of—but it's sporadic and totally unpredictable and let me tell you: it's so not worth the side effects."

"There are other Winter Soldiers?" he asked, his tone cool, his attention apparently peaked.

She snorted. "You lie for shit, Killian. I'm calling your bluff. You already knew that."

Another smirk from Natasha.

"Where are they?"

"Hell, I'm thinking. They're all dead," she snapped. "I've got the only collectable edition. He's an original," she sneered.

Natasha turned her head away from the villain as a full smile stole her expression away from her careful control.

"And?" he prompted.

"I can heal people. Sporadically. Take their injuries into myself. But we don't understand the mechanism or what its attached to. And it's not adrenaline—you're doctor bitch is a dumbfuck. That's a rookie move that mine took care of first step off the block."

Natasha started coughing and turned her head to cover her mouth.

Killian's brow went up.

"Unless I can control my side effects, I'm useless to you—and in case you were wondering, I have no interest in blowing people up. It's really a shame Stark didn't manage to keep you dead. You're such an ugly bastard."

"Ooh," he crowed softly, whistling. "We've got a l1ive one here. That's it then? You wanna bring out the big guns, fight fire with fire? You're done playing games?"

"You rolled the dice, Killian," she snapped.

"So you're packing it up, then?"

She sat forward as far as her restraints would allow. "You wanna kill me, kill me and have done with it. I'm getting impatient. That's always been a flaw of mine."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, really?"

She sneered again. "But you won't kill me; you can't kill me. You need me, don't you Aldrich? You've got some nasty little plan all folded neatly in your back pocket, and you need me, but you want to play with me first, like a twelve-year-old boy who just figured out what's in his pants."

Natasha started coughing again.

But Killian was only mildly ruffled and cocked his head. "Oh? And that's all stuff I don't know, or is it stuff that you already know, or—I'm sorry, could you run that by me one more time? I'm afraid I lost track…"

She smiled. "Wanna know something else?"

He leaned forward, mocking her with his enthusiasm. "Oh, do tell, Ms. Lewis. Do tell."

"I've seen a few things that you haven't. Bruce Banner's not the only one you wouldn't like when he's angry."

Killian took a step back—and laughed.

Laughed. He opened his mouth, threw his head back, and laughed, gesturing at Natasha and nudging her shoulder as though it was so great that they could share the joke together. "You hear this, Romanoff? Oh, God, she's sweet, huh?"

But Natasha wasn't laughing, or coughing, or even smirking anymore. She was giving Darcy a hard look, her signal that pointed scowl that conveyed everything and nothing at once.

Darcy just smirked, unfazed by his mockery. "You're all the same, all you bad guys. You think in one of two directions. You take the route that he's the Big Bad Wolf and beef up your security, not realizing that he'll come at you sideways. Or you go the opposite route, and assume, now that his memory is restored and he's no longer HYDRA's puppet, that his talents are somehow diluted. But you miss the bigger picture."

Killian smiled at her. "And what's the bigger picture, sweetheart?"

She curled her mouth up in a ghoulish grin. "When he's angry, he's not a Howling Commando. He's not Bucky, he's not even just plain James Barnes, from Brooklyn. He's not thinking about HYDRA, and he's not thinking about the War, and he's not thinking of being a nice guy, he's not the Dark Knight, and he's not Steve Rogers, following a rule not to kill. All of that falls away and he's stripped down raw, his control entirely relinquished. He lets it fall away—lets it go."

Killian was still smiling, but it had faded just a little. "Let's what go? Stripped down to what?"

"I hope you've battened down the hatches. We don't come as a matched set, Killian, you can't put us in pretty display cases to take out and play with whenever you want. And you certainly won't get nearly that far, even if you abandon the notion that you can bring him in out of the cold. Because you're not dealing with a Howling Commando. And you're not dealing with Bucky Barnes. You're dealing with all three. And if you thought one was scary, you're in for a long night. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when. And when he finds his way in here, there won't be a blood bath." She smiled, showing all her teeth. "There will just be silence. Silence and a trail of bodies."