Chapter Text
2014
It’s been months since Alien Invasion 3.0 happened and Jane’s machines still go a little haywire from time to time. The Foster crew decided to remain in London so Jane could continue her research and Erik could teach at the local college. The small apartment houses their crew plus Thor so it’s crowded and Darcy could really do without seeing Eric naked every now and then—but it was nice. It was surprisingly like family.
With Thor’s return, Jane no longer spent so much time on her work—meaning Darcy was able to let go of The Intern soon after the Tolkien Takeover of 2k13™. That had been an interesting conversation of convincing Ian there was nothing between them while simultaneously firing him and keeping Bucky from strangling him. She’d had to keep hold of his left hand inside her sweatshirt pocket so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it on the poor, misguided kid.
Things went back to kind-of-normal. The sort of normal Darcy was used to from New Mexico. Jane did work, Darcy helped, Thor walked around shirtless and distracted Jane from time to time, Erik found the beautiful eye-saving blessing that is kilts (sometimes), and Bucky continued to be Darcy’s adorable cinnamon roll. Too good. Too pure for this world.
Hell, things even improved.
Jane never uses even half of the funding money allotted to them by Stark Industries—being so attached to her duct-taped machines and all—and so Darcy is able to actually start paying herself instead of living off small jobs in whatever city they were in (something Bucky had never been fond of her doing). She even promoted herself from intern to assistant. Congratulations, Darcy.
Besides that, Darcy and Bucky seem to be doing pretty well. When she’s not working, Darcy usually lounges around with him, letting him pet her hair or holding his hand or what-have-you. Bucky hasn’t not-kissed her again, but he often traces her lips when they’re alone, now. Touching Darcy seems to be one of his favorite pass-times. It’s pretty far up there on Darcy’s list too.
Jane has turned the entire living room of the flat into a lab space; littered with papers, a white board, empty coffee cups, and sticky notes of random equations. The couch had been pushed up against a far wall and the TV was moved into Thor and Erik’s bedroom—sleeping arrangements being that Jane and Darcy shared one room and the boys shared the other. Because, let’s face it, Darcy’s not bunking with Erik and she’s not going to suffer listening to Jane and Thor bump uglies all the time. Also, the machines wouldn’t fit anywhere but Darcy’s room, anyway and Jane’s scary attached to those monstrosities.
Darcy’s responsibilities remain much the same: keeping the scientist fed and watered, organizing (by subject and then date, Jane) and transcribing notes, cleaning up the empty coffee cups, and generally being Jane’s voice of ‘hoe, don’t do it’. Keeping up with Jane can get highly frustrating at times but girls’ nights spent bonding on the (restricted access) roof of the apartment building keeps them both sane.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Jane says one night, handing the bottle of tequila back Darcy’s direction.
“Shoot,” Darcy answers, taking a swig. It’s the cheap stuff, so it’s pretty much like swallowing gasoline, but it does the job it’s made to do; it warms her belly and gets her drunk pretty damn fast.
“How does the relationship between you and Bucky even work?”
Both Jane and Darcy are highly intoxicated by this point in the evening, meaning that very little is off the table as far as conversation topics go. Darcy figures Jane wouldn’t have asked otherwise; she’s usually good about steering clear of anything concerning her assistant and their resident ghost.
“In what sense?” Darcy grabs one of the crackers and a slice of cheese from the pre-made platter between them, popping them in her mouth in one bite. Manners are for the weak (and the sober).
“I dunno. I can’t even fucking see him, for one,” Jane slurs. Darcy nods somberly.
“A true tragedy.”
Jane tries to shove Darcy’s shoulder and nearly falls over.
“Maybe we should slow down with the tequila,” Darcy says as she takes another big gulp.
“Maybe you should slow down your face. Stop changing the subject.”
Darcy sighs as Jane grabs the bottle back from her. She takes a cracker and lays it on the ground, smashing it up with her finger piece by piece.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s for my homies—the birds,” she answers, continuing her gruesome dismantling of the wheat product.
“You don’t know any birds. Isn’t he dead, though?” Jane hops from subject to subject even faster drunk than she does sober.
“I do too know a bird,” Darcy mumbles, “Bucky is dead, yes.”
Jane scrunches up her face.
“Isn’t that necrophilia?”
“No, because that would mean there would have to be a body that I could fuck. Which there isn’t. So, I haven’t. Also, I wouldn’t.”
“Ephemerilia?”
“You made that up.”
“Wait, why do you know a bird?”
“You know him too, Jane.”
“What? When did I meet a bird?”
“Agent Barton, Jane. Codename Hawkeye.”
“How does Bucky even touch you if he’s a ghost?” Jane asks switching back again.
“Well, for the most part he doesn’t,” Darcy sighs, prying the bottle out of Jane’s hand as she tilts sideways reaching for the platter. Darcy rights her (or tries to) before taking a long pull of tequila.
This conversation is dragging up a lot of things Darcy didn’t want to think about. Like how much she loves her guy. Like how he’s stuck with her since she was seven but there’s nothing she can do to return that to him. Like how fucking inadequate she feels as a person, not even able to touch Bucky, to give back that crucial contact. How she can’t give him his history. Can’t tell him they’d loved each other once—that she still loves him. How he’s a ghost and whatever they’ve got, it can’t end well. Not for him and not for her.
“It fucking sucks,” she says after a moment, staring at the bottle in her hands. Jane scoots closer at her dejected tone, gracelessly leaning against her side and slinging an arm around her shoulder. They sit like that in silence, sharing body heat in the chilly March night until Jane’s brow furrows and she looks at Darcy confusedly.
“Wait a minute, Agent Barton’s not a bird.”
One hour later, the tequila and the cracker platter are both gone. Darcy and Jane are stumbling around the roof in a mockery of the foxtrot that Bucky had tried to teach her so long ago, arguing as they make fools of themselves where no one can see.
“Agent Boxcart is too a bird! He sits in high places and runs away when people try to get close to him!” Darcy says loudly as she stumbles back, Jane in her arms (Darcy’s the lead because she’s taller—though not by much).
Jane shakes her head, listing dangerously to the side in Darcy’s arms.
“He’s not! And even if he was, you dork, you don’t know him.”
“I do too!”
“He talked to you once! To introduce himself! That was it! Whoa—!”
They trip in the blanket and crash to the ground in a pile of limbs, giggling and pushing at each other as they try to sort themselves out.
“We’re a mess,” Darcy says as she lays back on the ground, staring at the night sky. It’s cloudy and chilly but they don’t feel it, warmed by the alcohol and the dancing.
“S’okay,” Jane mumbles into her arm. She’s lying on her stomach next to Darcy, eyes falling closed as she tries to speak, “we can be whole people again tomorrow.”
They remain silent for a bit, drifting in and out before Darcy hears the door to the roof swing open.
“Jane? Darcy?”
It’s Thor and Darcy tries to sit up and nudge Jane but her limbs are heavy and she’s just so tired right now. Jane is passed out, lightly snoring.
“We’re here!” She calls at least.
Thor comes into view with a concerned look on his face followed by none other than her beautiful blue-eyed boy.
“Bucky!” She says, grinning. He smiles back.
“Hey, doll.” Her smile grows.
Thor reaches down and picks Jane up gently, cradling her in his arms in a way that makes Darcy’s heart ache. She’s struck with a sudden mix of grief and envy, smile falling off her face. She wants that. So badly.
Her eyes start to water as Thor starts to carry Jane off, throwing an assurance over his shoulder to return for Darcy afterwards.
“Take your time,” she croaks, trying (and largely failing) to keep the emotion out of her voice. Thor doesn’t seem to hear it but Bucky’s so close (he’s always so close) that it’s impossible for him not to.
He crouches down next to her with a mild look of panic on his face. Darcy looks at him and sniffles. His eyes widen and the panic seems to mix with concern.
“Darcy? You alright?” he asks her. Darcy bites her lip and shakes her head. Bucky’s concern grows.
“Doll, c’mon, what’s wrong. Are you hurt?” He reaches for her with his left hand.
“I’m sorry,” Darcy blurts and Bucky freezes.
“I’m so sorry,” she starts to cry and the panic returns to Bucky’s features in full force, “I’m just—I’m sorry—,”
“Sorry? What are you sorry for, Darce?” He asks gently, contrary to the look on his face. He reaches for her again but this time Darcy pulls away. She doesn’t look at him because she knows the look of hurt that’ll be painted on his face so well and she said she wouldn’t cause it again but she did. She lied. She’s awful.
“You’re not awful, doll. Don’t do this to me, tell me what’s wrong,” he demands and Darcy’s crying turns to sobbing.
“I-I’m s-so sorry, Bucky. I l-love you s-so much and I’m so sorry that you have to be s-stuck w-with me and I’m sorry I c-can’t touch you and y-you deserve someone who can give you m-more than me and I’m sorry I’m jealous of J-Jane and Thor and that I’m g-greedy and I want you s-so bad. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Tequila is absolutely not her best friend. If tequila was her best friend, tequila would not have let her bombard her unstable ghost boyfriend with all that unnecessary emotional bullshit. Tequila would not have made her cry and move away and hurt him again. Tequila is not her best friend.
“You realize I can leave anytime I want, right?” He says and Darcy’s sobbing gets harder.
“Okay, no—fuck—that wasn’t—that’s not what I meant!” He runs his hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face, “I’m not stuck with you, doll. I want to be here. And if you’re greedy then I’m greedy too because I guarantee you I want you just as much.”
He grabs her hand with his left, squeezing it tight enough to hurt but Darcy doesn’t fucking care. She just squeezes back.
“I really thought I didn’t have to say any of this,” he whispers hoarsely, “I thought you knew but now my best girl’s crying so I guess not. Fuck, that’s on me, Darcy, not you. I need you to listen carefully now, okay?”
Darcy nods, sobs subsiding to tear-streaked sniffles in light of Bucky’s intense stare.
“Fuck what anyone thinks I deserve, I’m choosing you. I’m choosing you because I love you, Darcy. I love you.”
Darcy starts to cry again and pulls his hand closer, kissing the back of it and repeating that she loves him too probably way to many times. By the time Thor comes back, she’s cried herself out and passed out clutching Bucky’s arm to her chest. She would never know it but Bucky looks just as wrecked.
Getting Darcy back to bed is quite the exercise. The entire time Thor’s carrying her she refuses to let go of Bucky’s hand, as stubborn in sleep as she is awake. Jane’s dead to the world when they get to the room the two women share and Bucky extricates his arm from Darcy long enough to turn down the covers of her bed. Once Thor lays her down, Bucky focuses his energy on removing her shoes and pants. He hears Thor leave the room as he works and when he’s done he looks up to see Thor holding a glass of water and pain pills, sitting them on Darcy’s bedside table.
Thor claps him gently on the shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look before he leaves. Exhausted, Bucky sinks down to the floor by Darcy’s bed, leaning his head back and giving her his hand again.
In the morning, Darcy wakes with the hangover from hell, groaning as she tries to open her eyes. Despite the pain in her head, she smiles when she sees Bucky watching her and squeezes his hand with more than a little embarrassment when she realizes she’s still got a hold of it. He smirks at her.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you, too,” he whispers back.
“Fuuuuuuck,” Jane groans from across the room, “Science is cancelled for the day. Everyone can stay in bed.”
Darcy huffs out a laugh but winces when it aggravates her headache.
“Tequila is not my best friend,” she says. Jane agrees whole heartedly and Bucky tries not to laugh too loudly at their pain.
She squeezes his hand once more.