A/N: Happy Friday, everyone.
Sunday in the Apartment with Captain America
There is a misty haze covering Washington DC as Darcy awakens. Bleak, low hanging grey clouds drift across the sky, blocking the sun. Traffic whizzes through the streets regardless. Horns blare, tires screech. Rubbing the dried sleep from the corners of her eyes—she winces in pain as she accidentally rips a couple of eyelashes out—Darcy glances at her alarm clock, groaning when she catches sight of the time. 6:30 on the dot. Is it any wonder that on this ugly Sunday morning in September, Darcy Lewis has been pulled from her troubled slumber at the exact moment her blackmailing, asshole of a boss said her article was to be put up on the Post's website?
Darcy isn't the least bit surprised. Sunday, September 27 at 6:30 a.m. The date and time have been stamped on her brain since she sent in the exposé and received her boss' email. People all over the globe are waking up to pings as their phones announce a top article from the famed Washington Post. Breaking News, it will read, One Hundred Years: The Winter Soldier sits down with one brave reporter to share his life story. They will read the stupidly entitled article—she had no control over it, of course; all of her proposals were shot down—and the Winter Soldier's secrets will be forever unlocked thanks to Darcy and her inability to ignore strange-looking men walking up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial.
She can't help but feel as though she has turned the key on Pandora's Box. That she has unleashed all of the once-contained evil into the world. HYDRA will surely be looking for the article's author, alien machine guns at the ready. SHIELD is no doubt on the hunt, too, three minutes following the article's release.
Darcy could laugh. At first, she agreed to do this story partly to get back the tape from her boss. To help a puppy-dog-eyed assassin too, but she would be a rotten liar if she said her tape had not also played a large role in her acceptance of the article. And now, here she is, sex tape safely destroyed, and she does not give a shit. All of her thoughts are consumed by worry. By fear that men—it's always men—with extraterrestrial weapons are hunting her scent as she lies beneath the thin, soft blanket on her bed. Not just her scent, though. HYDRA and SHIELD aren't stupid. They're going to be looking for him too. That, if anything, scares her more.
This started as a way to steal back her unlawfully made sex tape, but it turned into so much more than Darcy could have imagined.
Anxiety strangling her whole body, Darcy carefully creeps out of bed. Her feet touch the humid floor of her bedroom, and she stretches quietly before standing and walking over the window. The bleak day is fitting. She can sense a drop in the temperature, but there is still moisture riding in the air. Still a heavy weight to the atmosphere. It presses on Darcy's shoulders. Looking out the window, she watches a streak of lightening slice through the clouds. Seconds later a rumbling echoes close by, and in the blink of her eyes a cascade of rain pours from a split in the blanket of grey.
Darcy jumps at the sudden downpour. She takes a moment to catch her breath before turning away from the rain-splattered window. The Winter Soldier is still asleep in her bed. She sighs audibly—clichédly—in relief, watching his bare, sculpted chest rise and fall with steady breaths. Leaning against the window, she folds her arms beneath her breast and simply watches. His hard face softens in sleep. His pink lips are slightly parted. Every now and again, his exhale whistles out between them. As she creepily observes his slumbering form, his eyes roll beneath their lids in a dream. He looks so calm. So relaxed. Like nothing is troubling him. Glancing at her clock, Darcy realises this is the longest he has slept since she took him in.
Of course, it is not true calm. There is no such thing for someone like him. But for now she lets him pretend. There will be enough about which to be concerned when he wakes.
Bucky Barnes has been sharing her bed for the past three nights. Darcy shakes her head in pure disbelief at the revelation. They haven't talked about it. Not in so many words. After he found her crying, after he confessed to her his feelings of outrageous inadequacy, and she let him sleep beside her, the light burning all night long, there was never a discussion on whether they would continue their cohabitation of her bed. Their day would end and together they would wordlessly slip beneath the blanket and sleep. Only one thing had changed: the room's only source of light now comes from outside.
Over the last couple of days, to take both of their minds off of the looming exposé, Darcy has been filling their hours with all sorts of movies. She has shown him a larger portion of her favourites and dipped into the pile of classics gifted to her by her maternal grandfather. Bucky really enjoys the classics. She watched his face as Casablanca played, and she has never seen him so enraptured.
If she didn't know any better, she would easily forget Bucky's harrowing past. She would easily pretend they were nothing more than the best of friends, steadily moving towards something deeper. After all, he kept sliding nearer and nearer to her as they sat on the sofa. He wiped the tears from her cheeks after Ingrid Bergman left Humphrey Bogart. His stares had become lingering and thoughtful.
But she did know better. This is no time to play What If Your House Guest Wasn't Actually a Famed Assassin Trained and Brainwashed by the Baddest of Bad Guys.
But still . . . in his sleep, Bucky is only a man. A tired, tortured man seeking refuge from all of the horrible things stalking his poor mind.
Another crack of thunder distracts Darcy. She eyes her clock. Almost twenty minutes have passed since the article dropped. Abandoning the window, she grabs her laptop from her desk and quietly exits the bedroom. Out in her kitchen, Darcy places her laptop next to the coffee machine and opens it, quickly signing into her account. Her fingers tremble as she types in the Post's website in her search bar. The instant she clicks Enter, Darcy feels her lungs shrivel. Her article is front and centre. An old, blurred image of the Winter Soldier sits beside the headline. Darcy's eyes wander the page before landing on the symbols below the title. The small bubble representing the comments section catches her attention. The article has been out for no more than thirty minutes and there are already over two hundred comments.
Her lungs break off and stab into her intestines.
She does this all of the time. She always checks the comments on her articles. Sometimes she even responds. But she usually writes for the political section. Those comments sections are filled with bigoted assholes and biased know it alls. Darcy can only imagine what sort of people comment on an exposé focused on the Winter Soldier's outrageous past and steady reformation.
Darcy shuts her laptop with a click. There is no need to torture herself by reading the comments. Nobody even knows she wrote the piece. Instead of being consumed by fear, she will cook breakfast. Yes. Breakfast. Waffles, perhaps. She hasn't showed off her waffle recipe to Bucky yet. He deserves her waffles after everything he has been through.
Stepping away from her laptop, Darcy closes in on her fridge. A waft of cold air chills her skin immediately after she opens the door. She recalls the recipe her father handed down to her. Eggs, check. Butter, check. Blueberries, che—
—Knock. Knock. Knock
Darcy's whole body freezes. Her bones, muscles, blood—everything stops.
Shit, she cries inwardly. Shit, shit, shit.
They've come for her. They've come for him. HYDRA is behind her door with their phasers set to kill and Darcy Lewis is dressed in her One Hundred and One Dalmatians-themed pyjamas while the Winter Soldier is passed out on her bed.
Maybe it isn't HYDRA, though. Or SHIELD. Maybe it's Meg. After all, it was Meg last time this happened.
Closing the refrigerator silently, Darcy rises to full height and creeps towards her door. She holds her breath. Through the peephole she sees the rounded upper body of someone who is definitely not Meg. It's a man. It's always a man.
The man knocks again. Darcy's eyes almost pop out of her their sockets.
"Darcy, I know you're in there," the figure says, his large torso clothed in a thin, white t-shirt.
Hang on a second. Darcy frowns in confusion. She knows that voice.
Captain America.
Holy shit. Captain fucking America is at her door. Darcy swallows thickly, unsure of what to do next. He wants Bucky, that much is evident. But how the hell does he know the Winter Soldier is with her?
Must act casual, she warns herself. Darcy shakes out her hair and tries some breathing exercises, none of which seem to work. Her lungs still are not functioning properly. Quietly gasping for air, Darcy ignores the very, very loud voice in her head warning her to keep the door shut, slides the chain out of its bed, and turns the door handle.
"What's up, Cap? How's life treating you?" Darcy asks, moving her eyes up and up until she reaches Captain America's face. He is much taller than she thought he would be. And much thicker. How is one person so muscular? He really is the face of the All-American boy. Blond hair, award-winning lips that spread into the most welcoming smile. Cheeks so smooth, but Darcy knows if he wanted to he could grow a beard better than any lumberjack. She would be in awe if she weren't so terrified.
Captain America's blue eyes soften as she stands in front of him. "He's here, Darcy. I know he is."
It should not be the first thought to enter her mind, but all she can hear ringing around her head is her name coming out of Captain America's mouth. Her name. Take that, anyone who said she would never amount to anything.
But then the second thought that enters her mind revolves around Bucky and it instantly kills her mood. She has to keep him safe.
"Who are we talking about?" she checks, her lips wobbling as she tries to smile nonchalantly.
"Darcy," he says, and nothing more.
"Really, I'm a little lost. I have no clue who you need to find. But whoever it is, they're not here. Trust me; this is a tiny apartment. My only roommate is this pigeon that likes to fly in here whenever I forget to close my bedroom window." Releasing a choked laugh, Darcy feels her heart thrumming against her ribs faster than it ever has before. She wouldn't be surprised if Cap could see her shirt bouncing in time to her heartbeat.
"He has to be here," the giant insists.
Darcy sucks in as deep a breath as her shrivelled lungs can and glances around the outside of her apartment. From above, she hears a door open and close.
Shit.
"You wanna come in?" she offers, stepping back and opening a shaking arm. Captain America does not budge. "Come on, people are gonna get suspicious when they come out of their homes and find the Captain America lounging outside my apartment."
She won't tell him where Bucky is, but he isn't giving up. She has no choice but to invite him inside.
Cap's eyes shift about. He must hear the same footsteps coming down the stairs as Darcy because less than ten seconds later he moves through the doorway. She closes the door fast, resting her forehead against it for a quick moment while she locks up. Turning around, she sees the superhero taking in his surroundings. He focuses on her large DVD shelving unit. Walking up to it, he intently studies all of the titles.
"Um, so," she says after he slides Dirty Dancing out of its slot. He looks over at her, smiling slightly. Darcy giggles breathlessly and goes into the kitchen. "I was about to make some waffles. Do you like waffles? I do. They're delicious"—
"You're nervous," Cap says, returning Dirty Dancing to its rightful place. "You don't have to be. I just want to know where he is, Darcy. I can protect him." He starts walking towards her.
"Pro-protect him?"
He reaches the kitchen counter behind which Darcy stands shivering. "That's all I want: to keep him safe."
"But you're SHIELD," she says, eyebrows bent downwards. "You can't want to keep him safe. It goes against your ethics, or something." Dammit. She shouldn't have said that. Now Cap definitely knows she definitely knows who they're talking about.
Captain America rests his elbows on the bare kitchen counter separating them and bends until they are face to face. "SHIELD doesn't exist anymore. And even if it did . . . Darcy, this is my best friend. If you don't hand him over to me, soon it won't be just be me knocking on your door. Soon, there will be bad guys, and they don't really like knocking."
Darcy is silent for a minute. She picks at a dried spot of caramel on the countertop left when she decided she was talented enough to homemake caramel. (News flash: she wasn't.) What the Cap says is true. There is no doubt in Darcy's mind the bad guys are on their way to her apartment that very second. And yes, they will come at her with machine guns and grenades. But she can't just give Bucky up, not even to Captain America.
It seems like a lifetime ago since she spotted that strange figure running up the Lincoln Memorial steps. And in that lifetime, she has learned to care for the former assassin. Really, deeply, stupidly care for him. Only she could be this dimwitted. Trust Darcy Lewis to wind up becoming enamoured with a living fossil whose job used to be mindlessly killing people for literal Nazis.
That is not him anymore, though, she reminds herself. There is warmth in his eyes now. Fire in his touch. HYDRA do not control him like they used to.
"He isn't here," Darcy says softly, but as the words depart her mouth, a door within the apartment creaks open.
Not just any door. The door to her bedroom.
Holding her breath, Darcy watches everything move in slow motion. Captain America turns around, half-blocking her view of the room. Bucky stops dead in his tracks, a yawn dying before its time. His shirtless physique tightens. His stomach muscles bulge. As do the muscles in his right arm as he clenches his fists. There is a faint sound of scratching metal. He's on the defensive; Darcy watches his eyes turn to slits.
"I tried to get him to leave," Darcy squeaks, but neither of the men pay attention to her.
"How did you know I was here?" Bucky says, the words coming out attached to a growl.
Captain America lets slip a sigh of relief. "It didn't take a genius," he says. "The things in the article . . . they could have only come from the source. You wrote a good article, Darcy. Unless you grew up with him, you wouldn't have known. But HYDRA, they'll know"—
—"No," Bucky says sharply, "how did you know I was here. The article was published anonymously."
"Darcy is the only employee working for the Post who was previously employed by SHIELD. I just connected the dots, Buck. It wasn't hard. And if I can do it, then HYDRA . . ." He trails off. "We need to discuss your next step."
"What next step?" Darcy is surprised to hear her own voice. Both men turn their attention to her, and she repeats her question more confidently. "What do you mean, next step?"
"Him getting out of here," Captain America explains. "Escaping. He can't stay. It's too dangerous. For you and for him."
No. No!
Darcy feels her throat cinch shut.
He can't leave her. Not after all they've been through. Not after all they've shared. She won't let him go. She won't.
"Darcy."
Jolting, Darcy blinks and finds Bucky standing in front of her. His hands gently hold her shoulders. God, is she crying? Swiftly, she rids her warm cheeks of tears and looks up at Bucky.
"Darcy," he says again, "it's okay."
"Yeah," she coughs. Pulling away from Bucky, she walks backwards towards the front door, her mind whirring. "Yeah, it's okay. I'm gonna leave you two to sort this whole mess out. It was nice meeting you, Captain America." She salutes him as she tries to stop her bottom lip from quivering.
"Please, Darcy. Call me Steve," he says, an apologetic smile on his perfect face.
"Steve," she confirms. She unlocks the door and slips outside, the taste of acrid bile on her tongue.
Up on the roof, she can understand why Bucky decided to seek solitude here his first full day in the building. The city below breathes. Cars whizz down one-way streets too fast as pedestrians pay no heed to crossing signals. Everybody takes their lives into their own hands when they step out of their homes. Not enough vehicles have their headlights on. The rain may have stopped, but there is still significant cloud coverage. Through the haze of humidity and fog, Darcy can hardly see the traffic lights. No wonder so many people feel it necessary to press down on their horns.
Wow, she is bad at distracting herself. Traffic and the weather are not good tools to keep her mind from trying to guess the conversation taking place in her apartment that very moment. Fifteen minutes have past since she left the old buddies. She takes it as a good sign that no one has been thrown through any windows yet. But the day is still young.
What could Captain America (Steve! He asked her to call him Steve, like they're equals) be saying to Bucky to get the ex-HYDRA weapon to leave? In all fairness, it makes complete sense. She can't very well keep him locked in her pocket-sized apartment for the rest of time. He isn't some zoo animal, and he has spent enough of his life in a cage being treated like one. So, she understands. He needs to get out of there. Out of her apartment, out of DC, out of the western hemisphere.
But she doesn't want him to go.
Darcy, arms resting on the damp stone wall blocking her from falling to the busy street below, lowers her head onto her folded arms. Her long hair is picked up by the breeze and she can feel the wind trying to pull the strands from her head. Closing her eyes, she tries to rationalise her feelings. Bucky opened up to her, first off. He spilled long-forgotten secrets in their sessions together and allowed her access to the deep recesses of his warped mind. He came with her when she offered him a place to stay, and he didn't even know her then. Sure, she had reason to be wary of him, but she could have been working for the wrong people. He trusted her, just as she trusted him, from the moment they first met. And he wants to protect her. He has been saying it since she found him here and told him about the exposé. Nobody has ever been so desperate to ensure her safety that they jeopardised their own. Then those eyes. Everything about those sad, caring eyes twist and turn every thought in Darcy's head. She can't let those eyes go out into the world again. They've seen too much already.
How selfish of her. They will both die if she is in charge of his whereabouts.
A clap of thunder lifts Darcy's head. Darkness moves over the apartment building. Lightning scratches the clouds, cracking like a golden whip through the blackening sky. Behind her, the door to the roof opens and she turns to see Bucky making his way towards her. His hair blows over his face as the wind picks up speed. He still is naked from the waist up.
"I have to go," he says upon reaching her. He grabs her hands, his face grim.
"Now?"
Bucky shakes his head. Lightning strikes above them and thunder, jealous of his brother's beauty, roars loudly in response. "Tomorrow. Steve will be watching, though, in case that has to change. He thinks keeping me here for one more day is a good idea. Most of the people looking for me probably aren't expecting me to stick around. And he's going to make sure, after I leave, that I'm spotted somewhere far away so no one suspects you've been hiding me. He'll make sure you're safe. I'm sorry, Darcy," he says following a brief pause. There is a small tremor in his deep voice. "I wish I didn't have to go."
"I wish that too," she says, gripping his hands tighter. Look at her, admitting to a reformed killer she wants him to stay. The rain has started up again. It drips over them. Gently at first, but Darcy knows a torrent will reach them soon. "I wish a lot of things, actually."
"Oh, yeah?" he says. There is the slightest air of teasing in his words, but it is almost completely canceled out by overpowering melancholy. "What kinds of things?"
"Crazy things," she admits. She should bite her tongue, but she can't help herself. "I wish we were different people. I wish this was a different world. I wish you had just been some guy I met at the Lincoln Memorial, and I wish there was nothing stopping us from . . . well, from anything."
The rain is coming down harder now. It feels like bullets bouncing off her skin. Her hair glues itself to her face. Before her, Bucky's figure becomes a blur.
Bucky, his metal arm glowing in the rain, releases her hands and moves his own to her face. He holds her cheeks, moving her thick, heavy hair out of her eyes. Desperation and longing flicker in his stare. "Let's pretend, then," he says. "Tonight, let's pretend we're different people. We met at the Lincoln Memorial. I'm a war vet, you're a journalist. Nothing else matters—nothing else even exists."
A gargled laugh trickles out of Darcy. She latches on to his wrists. Bucky's pulse races against her left thumb. "And tomorrow? When you leave? What am I supposed to do after that?"
"I will come back. I swear it," he vows.
Darcy's heart creeps into her throat. She nods, hoping the movement is enough to convey her agreement to Bucky's plan. He nods too. A violent motion as his fingers clutch the back of her head. His fingers tangle in her wet hair. Her knuckles press against her own chin, but she can't feel anything. Not the cold rain lashing her face, not the metal held in her right hand.
No, that's a lie. She feels something. Bucky's breath seeping through parted mouth.
The press of his bare torso against her soaked top.
His barely-there kiss on the corner of her mouth.
His lips twitching, bearing down on hers.
He is real after all. There is so much warmth inside of his mouth. His tongue is fire sweeping against her own.
It is her idea to go into the building again. Away from the storm, hidden in her dark apartment, they move like phantoms, the sound of the harsh rain attacking her window enough to drown out any fears that dare waft through their minds.