Archive of Our Own

For a pre-Christmas Christmas party the mansion lacked a surprising amount of decorations. No Santa Claus, no decorative nuts, not even a strand of golden lametta. Darcy squints at the one thing in the expansive living room that is red and gold.

"That’s a picture of you,“ she says to Tony who at this point is more alcohol than water and is leaning on her shoulder currently, probably drooling. Definitely drooling judging by the wet spot growing on her sweater. A christmas-y sweater, thank you very much.

"What?“ he slurs the mead catching up to his verbal skills.

"The only Christmas-y decoration in this room is a picture of you.“

"It’s November and it’s a good decoration.“

"It’s vain and this party isn’t a Christmas party without Christmas decorations.“

"What are you gonna do?“

"Do you have any?“

"Any what?“

"Decorations, Mr. Grinch.“

"I’m sure there are some in basement, Cindy Lou.“

"Cindy Lou, who?“

"Ha!“ Tony says, giggling, his head lolls of her shoulder and bounces onto the armrest of the couch when she extracts herself from his grip. The others, lounging about don’t even look up when she stumbles past them towards the basement stairs. Steve has his eyes closed with an angelic smile on his face and Sam has his head on Steve’s lap from the looks of it he’s fast asleep. Clint and Natasha are either puppy piling or doing yoga.

The only ones who are doing anything productive are Bruce and Pepper in the kitchen, since they both opted out of Thor’s generous but lethal Asgardian Mead offer. Both Thor and Jane had bid their goodbyes hours ago, presumably to hump the living daylights out of each other.

Good on them , Darcy thinks as she pries the oldest door she’s ever seen open with all the strength she’s found at the bottom of her tumbler.

"Oh boy,“ she mumbles at the sight of the narrowest staircases she’s ever seen. The best part of drinking Asgardian mead is that it makes everything seem just a little…more. The worst part of drinking Asgardian mead is that it makes everything seem just a little…more.

Gingerly, Darcy grabs the railing and slowly takes each step as carefully as she possibly can. By the time she’s at the bottom she’s glad no one has witnessed her pathetic attempt at using her legs.

The basement, like the rest of the house, is unnecessarily grand, it stretches so far that Darcy is a little scared that’ll she’ll be stuck down here till Christmas day. Tony probably already forgot that she’d decided to go down here.

"Christmas,“ she mumbles as she begins rooting through the boxes and shelves to her right.

Hours later, or what feels like hours later, she’s only just on her fourth box of Howard Stark memorabilia. Annoyed to the core she grabs a wall and uses it to slide to the floor

"Make a noise will you!“ she yells, finally giving up.

And then miraculously it does make a noise, a weird, rustling noise. And boy, Darcy Lewis wouldn’t survive the first thirty seconds of a horror movie because her whole body leans towards the noise and then for some reason decides to investigate. As in gets up off the floor and crosses the room on it’s volition. Thor did say his mead would make them either brave…or stupid, she couldn’t really remember by the end of his little speech she’d already downed a shot.

The noise leads to nothing, it must’ve been a mouse, she decides, despite the chill from earlier still raising the hairs on her neck. Dead even before the couple having sex. Worthy of Valhalla, for sure.

A red, velvety looking piece of fabric catches her eye just as she turns to go upstairs to see if Steve’s lap is as comfy as Sam makes it look.

"Santa?“ she exclaims, drunkenly delighted she lunges for the first box she can find but as she lifts it a boot clad foot appears. A human foot. Before she can rationalize it, the foot, honest to god, moves.

A high pitched, embarrassing, scream escapes her. The leg is attached to a person. A real breathing human being. Terrified, Darcy almost collides with a metal contraption that looks like it would send her back in time, she only barely catches herself by grabbing onto a, in hindsight, very suspicious looking lever.

"Shhh!“ The hobo yells, gesturing wildly and Darcy can see the headlines: ’ Young promising friend to many died at the hands of New York City hobo by being stabbed multiple times with a sharp Santa Claus.‘ and ‘ Tony Stark very sad ‘ will be the byline. Maybe ‘ Avengers inconsolable‘  would also be sufficient.

"I’m not going to do anything.“ Hobo tries to soothe but Darcy is not convinced. Who hides behind Christmas decorations? With good intentions?

"Who are you, villain ?“ He flinches. What the fuck? Outraged all Darcy can think to do is to challenge Inigo Montoya, the only thing missing is a sword in her hand and by the looks of it, if she was given a little more time, she’d find a bunch down here. Hobo-boy remains silent as if the question is a little too hard.

"At least tell me what you want.“ Stark family secrets? To kill the Avengers? A big budget fight?

He shrugs, anticlimactic, in her opinion. Not that she wanted a fight or anything, seeing as she is the first instance to go through.

"What?“ she mocks. "You break in but you have no master plan?“

"It was cold,“ he says after a moment of contemplation.

"Yeah no kidding, it is November ,“ Darcy says, not entirely sure if he’s actually a homeless person

She gets a good look when he leans forward again, he’s got brown, unwashed, shaggy hair ‘framing’ his face. His face is something for the ages though, it’s very handsome.

"You look familiar,“ she observes, he flinches backwards. Darcy tries not to make it too obvious that she is ogling...then it clicks. "You’re the Winter Soldier .“ Suddenly all the terrified emotions leave her body. She sags into the machine behind her, strangely relieved.

And then she watches the Winter Soldier , honest to God, pull a strand of gold tinsel right back over his face.

Darcy didn’t even know the guy and yet…it doesn’t even seem odd at all when he tries to pull the tinsel back over his face.

“Hey now-”

“Look,” the tinsel moves an inch so he’s got one eye fixed on her. Without the copious amounts of wine and the two shots of Asgardian mead in her bloodstream right now it would probably be incredibly intimidating. “‘M’not bothering no one.” And boy, he sounds like a kid whining like that.

“Well you’re kinda bothering my Christmas spirit, I want those decorations.“

"It’s November.“

"Why does everyone keep reminding me of that? I know! I own a calendar,“ he remains skeptical. "Well I own a phone with a calendar on it but same diff.“ Darcy really doesn’t know why she is explaining herself to the Winter Soldier.

"Christmas isn’t for another 29 days.“

“I’m not going anywhere,” Darcy underlines her statement by grabbing one of the chairs that Howard probably had used for seating politicians and luxury ladies of the night, and plopping into it, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll sit right here and I’ll go through all the stages of grief for my decorations. I may even cry.” She begins blinking rapidly trying to trigger her tears.

“Fine.” Bucky says and gets ready to leave, he appears to have nothing but a backpack and a baseball cap, he crosses the room and disappears behind a row of suspiciously normal looking vintage pots and pans. She watches him survey the ceiling from her throne of prostitution.

“Are you gonna climb through the vents?”

“Yes,” he answers tersely.

“Better not, Clint sometimes goes up there for a nap after he’d had his sip of mead.” Fucking lightweight. That was better than Sam crying hysterically about a bird documentary and Steve deciding to finally start figuring out how to bake. Fruit cake is an abomination without Captain America getting experimental on it.  

"I’ll be fine,“ he says as he flips the vent cover open. Darcy shrugs, his fault if he gets jabbed with one of Hawkeye’s arrows.

"Wait, where are you going?“

He freezes midway through his pull up, eyeing her suspiciously. "Why do you care?“

"Don’t question it, just answer, Edgelord.“

"Steve isn’t gonna be at his apartment for a while,“ he admits, sheepishly, Steve won’t be making it home to Brooklyn tonight. Of course he won’t, alcohol and Steve Rogers? A good combo for a Captain America coma sequel.

"No bridges free?,“ Darcy asks, a little too proud of her joke thanks to the mead, judging by the raised eyebrows he’s still in the realm of social niceties, "okay look, since it’s Christmas,“ He gets ready to object to that but Darcy holds her hand up unsure of what to say next she spends a moment squinting heavily. "You can crash at my apartment.“ Her hand involuntarily flies to her mouth like she can retroactively revoke her strange spur of the moment offer.

Never again will she say yes to Asgardian anything. Her mouth and brain are not making a connection. More so than usual.

He looks at her, incredulously. He looks undecided and a little like she’s made the suggestion only to take it away immediately. Which yeah...he’s not entirely wrong.

“What? It’s a nice pre-war building, you should recognize it,” her mouth is still not catching up.

“ Why are you doing this for me?” he’s suitably suspicious, peeking at her through two brass pots that look like they’d be good for stew.

“It’s Christmas and I had about two shots of Asgardian mead too much, so sue me for trying to do something nice,” she drops her keys in his lap and spins on her heel, as much as that is possible with three boxes of baubles and gaudy santa pillows in her arms. “912 Saratoga Ave. Apartment 3B.”

"It’s November, “ he calls after her.

*

Darcy wakes up to a tinsel boa choking her, with her face on Steve’s crotch or what she thinks is Steve’s crotch, she can’t exactly see his face in her position. Frantically she tries to loosen the tinsel.

"Lemme help,“ Steve rasps from above her and if Darcy were able to talk she’d tell him to do less talking and more life saving. He gets his fingers between her skin and the tinsel and rips it in one swift movement.

"Thanks,“ she says her voice matching his. Sitting up makes it easier to breathe for obvious reasons.

"You okay?“ he asks, concerned in such a Steve Rogers fashion that Darcy feels the urge to put her face into his crotch again.

She nods as she massages her throat. "I now know what the burglars from Home Alone must’ve felt like.“ He doesn’t get it, if the look of utter confusion is any indication. "I’m okay, just humiliated,“ she clarifies.

She looks at his crotch for just a second but he definitely understands what she’s getting at.

"Oh,“ he says, the tips of his ears color a lovely red. Before his blush can give her any ideas, she cranes her injured neck to look around the room to see if anyone has fallen victim to the mead like Steve and her.

Frankly, it looks like Buddy the Elf personally has thrown up all over the room. All the sofas are covered in tinsel and there is at least two dancing Santas (that she can see) on the window sills. And one dancing Rabbi by the fireplace.

Her stomach grumbles unfortunately not in a way that suggests that she needs food. A toilet, preferably with a nice rug under it so her kneecaps don’t bear the brunt of last night’s stupid decisions, would be good. Swell even.

In preparation for what’s to, possibly, come she scoots further down the sofa, away from Steve.

“ Are you okay?” he asks.

“No, I think the mead is really catching up to me now,” Steve makes a face that conveys a deep understanding and utmost sympathy. “ I know ,” she says.

“Can I do anything?” He asks, attentive as ever.

“Oh sweet Stevie the only you can do is beam me to my apartment.” Tony’s rugs are always lush but she does believe in preserving a little shred of dignity, everyone in this building already knows that she wears Kermit underwear they do not need to know what she sounds like when she’s puking.

And yes , by everyone, she specifically means Steve - she wants to get into those smedium t-shirts without him having to associate the moment with her coughing over a Stark mansion toilet.  

“I’m afraid the serum didn’t turn me into a winged super soldier.” Too bad and then one guy with wings is probably lost somewhere in the east wing cuddled up to some unsuspecting person. Cough, Natasha, cough. He’d be in no shape to fly her anywhere anyway.

Her stomach begins to bubble uncomfortably. She needs to go home ASAP.

“Ughhhh,” cradling her pounding head in her hands she groans: “I need to go home.”

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Steve asks, skeptical. She too questions her ability to last the whole five blocks she has to walk to her subway station without vomiting.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot to bring a toothbrush.” That burp threatening to come up is gonna taste like last night’s lo mein, whoever thought greasy food should go down clearly never thought about how it would feel doing the reverse.

“Okay then I’ll walk you to the subway.” He kinda looks like he expects her to argue. Not today and not right now. Also. Literally, Captain America is walking her to the subway, this is just about any woman’s dream.

*

“There is no way for me to convince you to stay with me for Christmas is there?” She drops the green leaf juice (i.e concentrated chlorophyll) that Dum-E had handed to her on her way out in a garbage bin next to the 68th Street subway entrance. Better to keep it as far away from the mansion as she can, Dum-E has a tendency to get cranky if he finds that a gift has been rejected. And Jarvis hasn’t shown signs of disloyalty and Darcy fears he’s got CCTV on even the filthiest smoothie dumpers (i.e her ).

For the sake of her stomach and her motor oil levels she decides to take the risk though.

“We’ll do the gift exchange next year, yeah?” Steve says, barely holding his little smug smirk in.

Darcy makes a face at him. “Okay, old man.“

Steve shoves her a little, laughing. "Come on!“

“Your present isn’t quite finished yet, anyway,” Darcy admits, sheepishly.

What do you give someone who has a grand total of three hobbies and enough money to get the supplies? An Amazon gift card? A spa gift card? A gift card for a shield shining?

"I’ll stop by your apartment before I leave for DC, okay?“ He pulls her in for a, what he probably thinks will be a quick and that she turns into an awkwardly long, hug.

"You’re a good friend, Steven Rogers,“ she mumbles into his leather jacket. Sniffing his leather jacket is entirely selfish, Manhattan doesn’t smell half as bad when you have a layer of thick designer goods covering your face.

*

The good fifty minutes she spends in the metal underground tube, which has scary likeness to a fast, underground sardine can, going at a high velocity hanging precariously on a bar, trying her hardest not to knock over early Christmas shoppers and tourists alike, is expectedly tough on her fragile stomach.

If her arm strength would have permitted it she probably would’ve tried to take a nap standing up, as it is Darcy has a hard time reaching the metal bar to begin with. A nap is out of the question.

A lady to her right keeps giving her weary looks like she knows that Darcy is doing a nauseous version of the walk of shame. (Subway ride of shame?)

At least no one will be surprised if a rough looking twenty something starts puking on the subway and on the bright-side she’d get to have the whole row of seats for herself.

To distract herself from becoming a New York City cliché, Darcy opens her purse with her left hand, she has to brush a wad of red tinsel aside to finds her iPhone. It’s out of charge, of course. "Damn it.“ She curses under her breath and tosses it back into her purse. Then she begins to rummage around for something, anything to make her feel less nauseous, possibly the Tamagotchi she’d had in 8th grade it had to be somewhere after all, why not in this bottomless bag of Christmas?

"Fuck!“ She exclaims after a full minute of blindly fondling the dusty, surprisingly sandy bottom of her purse.  

"Are you okay?“ The lady from earlier asks, a look on her face full of trepidation that screams 'please do not puke on me‘.

"Uhh, yes,“ Darcy says, hurrying to calm her. "I just lost my keys.“ The look on the woman’s face changes to a very composed 'I could not give less fucks about your situation‘. Ah, New York, thank Frank Sinatra for romanticizing this place.

The dilemma is that she’s already on the third train away from Manhattan about three minutes away from her Brownsville apartment.

As a last ditch effort she begins to pat herself down, hoping that maybe drunk her had done what she usually does and put her keys into her bra or back pocket. No luck, she comes up with nothing.

*

Of course her landlord isn’t home, why would he be? He’s ninety-five and a little kooky but very spry so of course he’s never home. One last kick to his door and she decides it’s best to just take a nap in front of her own door until someone who’s got a key comes to rescue her.

Counting on a ninety-five year old WW2 veteran seems very reasonable. Haha.

She barely resists the urge to fling herself out of her three story walk up apartment.

"You’re never getting back in, Darcy Lewis,“ she despairs, dropping to the floor next to her door opposite of her neighbors apartment, she should’ve given a key to someone on this floor. Like a grown-up would.

Frustrated, she lets her pounding head fall forward onto her knees. She looks up only when the door opposite hers opens.

"Is your boyfriend not opening up?“ Her neighbor Kelly, who she suspects is severely allergic to human contact, spies through the gap between chain and wall.  

"My what now?“ Darcy asks, dropping her head again to tired to deal with nosy Kelly. She suspects Kelly spends a lot of time looking through her peephole. Darcy can’t fathom why, the only people living on this floor are her and a College-Casey who is clearly a small time drug dealer. Nothing unusual.

"There was this guy earlier, long hair, just your type, he had a key,“ As she suspected, Kelly would watch someone break into her apartment but she wouldn’t report it. And know what her 'type‘ is. "He hasn’t left yet.“

"Hold the fucking phone! Someone has my key and is in my apartment?“ Darcy exclaims, panic surging through her, her hangover forgotten. It must’ve dropped out of her pocket at some point, some fuckweed had her keys and was probably rummaging through her fridge right now. She should’ve listened to Natasha’s raised eyebrows when she had seen the tag with her address on Darcy’s keychain.

"I thought you gave him your key,“ Kelly says, now rather meekly. Serves her right.  

"Why would I give some stranger my key, Kelly?“ Darcy scrambles off of the floor and begins pounding on her door.

"He’s not your boyfriend?“ Kelly asks, still well protected by her door.

"No, Kelly! I don’t have a boyfriend!“ She begins pulling on her doorknob. "Open up, imposter!“ It doesn’t budge.

"What’s going on?“ Apparently the ruckus has woken College-Casey, his curly head appears around the corner of his door-frame, just as she’s started kicking her door.

"Someone broke into my apart-" She’s cut off by her door swinging open. Her mouth drops as she watches Bucky Barnes appear in her doorway.

Hazy memories from last night come rushing back. As does her hangover.

The first thing Darcy notices is that he’s had a shower. His natural hair is very wavy. Fascinating information. Important information.

There is silence between the three of them for a good two minutes.

"There was so much tinsel. I forgot,“ Darcy admits. Bucky smiles at her a smug little tick of the corner of his mouth.

Behind her Kelly’s door falls shut with a loud bang. Unnecessarily loud considering the lock chain.

"I’m sorry, Kelly, I think I was just veeery drunk.“ Darcy calls, just to up the odds of Kelly calling the fire department in case there is ever a fire instead of just watching Darcy’s apartment burn down.

*

Bucky closes the door behind them, he holds out his hand.

Darcy stares at it. "What?“

Bucky keeps his fist outstretched. Darcy only just suppresses the urge to give him a fist bump.

"Your keys,“ Bucky explains, takes her wrist and puts her keys into her open palm.

"Thanks,“ Darcy says, biting her lip, unsure of what to do next. It’s not an everyday thing to have a - hopefully retired - assassin squatting in your apartment.

"Okay, okay, okay,“ she mumbles, beginning to swing her keyring on her index finger, nodding her head absentmindedly she ventures into her kitchen, tea would be good. “What-what is that?” There is a microwave on her counter.

“A microwave,” Bucky replies.

“I can see that. But, why?”

“You don’t have an oven,” he says casually leaning against the doorframe like it’s not super weird that he’s brought a microwave. Usually guests bring a bottle of wine or some chocolate not kitchen appliances.

“Barnes, this is a microwave with…buttons and a handle, you’re not explaining anything.”

He shrugs.

Darcy looks across her little kitchen, sweeps her two kitchen counters and finds nothing unusual except a little pile of QuestBar wrappers.

“Did you microwave protein bars?”

“Tastes like warm cookies,” he licks his lips. Yeah, she doesn't need that right now.

“You know what else tastes like warm cookies?” she asks, to distract herself she begins dumping the wrappers in the trash. “Cookies.”

"You don’t have an oven,“ he reminds her.

"Ah, but I have the directions to the bakery.“

*

“I can go,” he announces. They’ve been sitting on her futon eating discount sugar cookie turkeys. Which is Darcy’s definition of a perfect post-binge-drinking afternoon.

“You don’t have to,” Darcy says, petting his hand. "You just got here.“

"I’m imposing.“ He’s not looking her in the face, he’s playing with his leftover cookie turkey beak.

"You’re not imposing. I invited you, besides where would you go?“

"I’ve got places to go to. And you were drunk.“

"Steve isn’t out of town until the sixth. And it’s gonna be cold,“ he makes a face at that. "You’re not seriously thinking about hiding in Tony’s basement again.“

He shrugs. Again.

"Oh my God, Barnes. What are you gonna do? Find the Easter decorations and hide behind lamb figurines?”

Bucky refuses to budge and remains unconvinced and not even the most pathetic pleading on her part makes him want to stay.

"At least stay and watch Home Alone with me.“ Last ditch effort and all that. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll get some sort of info out of him. What is she gonna tell Steve? ‘Hey I found your best friend in a pile of Santas and decided to take him home with me. Also I forgot to tell you about it and he decided to find another hiding place. So I don’t know where he is right now.’

"What’s Home Alone?“ Oh yes, Bucky probably has only seen ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. Darcy can not wait to unleash her whole collection of American classics on him.

"Only my life story, Barnes,“ she pulls Clint’s Netflix up. "Only my life story.“

*

Barnes decides to leave approximately thirtyfive minutes into Home Alone: Lost in New York. Which is a travesty.

Such a travesty that Darcy shakes her fist at him.

"This is a national treasure and you’re turning your back on it,“ Darcy says as she watches him pull on his boots. "This is the only time you’ll ever enjoy seeing Trump’s face and you don’t even appreciate it.“

It has no effect, Barnes shrugs, shoulders his backpack and then goes to leave.

"At least don’t freeze to death!“ She yells after him, pleading.

She hears a quiet 'Night, Darcy‘ and then the door closes and she’s alone in her apartment once again.

"Just me and you, Kevin,“ she says to the TV, on screen Kevin is currently meeting future Darcy Lewis. The Pigeon Lady is her favorite character for many reasons including finally having presentation for awful hair. (No thanks to movie Hermione Granger).

Darcy picks up her duvet and wraps herself up.

*

As Rizzo slips through Scrooge’s gate she hears the clatter of trash cans downstairs. Any other night she would’ve blamed it on typical Brownsville background noise and yet, tonight, it just gives her different feeling.

Okay, so maybe it's a crazy spark of hope in the pit. What's a lonely girl to do when she longs for company?

Even if it's a raccoon resembling guy with the muscles of a god. (She should know, she's seen Thor naked more than once).

"Screw it.“ She unwraps herself and gets off of her futon.

She hopes to God she’s not making a fool out of herself as she leans out of her bedroom window. “Barnes? If that’s you, the door is still open,“ Another clatter and some muffled swearing. "If you are a thief, burglar or murderer the door is not open.“

With that she closes the window and goes back to her cozy blanket hill. If it is Barnes he’ll come up, she’s sure of it.

She’s not disappointed. A good ten minutes later her door slowly pushes open, horror movie style.

"Hi.“ Darcy says hoping she appears unbothered, flippantly picking her cuticles, she doesn’t want him to know that she’d hoped he’d come back.

"You should lock your door.“

"You shouldn’t fight raccoons.“ He raises one shoulder as if to say 'point taken‘. He then seems to wait for something, awkwardly he stands in between the hallway and the entrance to her bedroom, again like he expects her to tell him to get out.

He’s clearly out of his element and it’s strangely adorable.

“You can sleep in bed with me or take the couch.” She pets the space next to her invitingly.

“You don’t have a couch.”

She nods, grinning smugly. “My side is the right side.”

With a put upon huff he settles in next to her. Still in boots. Little steps, Darcy reassures herself. She presses play.

"Just so you know,“ she says, breaking their comfortable silence. "You’ll have to stay until at least Christmas now.“

*

"I’m not having this conversation with you again,“ Darcy says around her microwaved brown-sugar oatmeal. It’s some heavenly shit after not having anything to make oatmeal on for the past five months she’s spent in this dump of an apartment.

Bucky sits opposite her, a cookie turkey and some oatmeal on his plate.

"You don’t have-" He begins. "Enough space?“ " A lot ,“ he ends, not even sheepishly or anything.

“You were living in a basement covered in tinsel,” she reminds him, spoon pointed at his head. "Besides kicking a girl who’s already on a futon? That’s rough Barnes.“

"You don’t even know me and you shared your bed with me.“ The frustrated look on his face would be hysterical if they weren’t talking about him leaving again.

"I’ve shared my bed with people I’ve known for far less time than I have known you,” she gestures around her sad apartment. “Mi casa es su casa, Barnes, sorry that I don’t have any tinsel.”

He gives her another look full of doubt.

“Okay, listen, if you don’t wanna stay for your own sake please stay for mine,” she shrugs. “Everyone is gone for Christmas and I don’t want to be alone.”

Puppy eyes on full blast. She contemplates clasping her hands but before she can finish that thought, his shoulders drop in defeat. Ha!

On the inside Darcy cheers, on the outside she portrays a picture of smug, cool indifference. She hopes.

*

He fixes stuff. And not just the stuff he accidentally breaks. About two weeks in he unhinges the bathroom door by ripping the hinges off the doorframe so Darcy has to put up a curtain just so she can shower, he also fixes little things, the creak in the floorboards in front of the hallway cupboard, the barely insulated window, the fridge light, the list is endless.

At first it felt like a silent critique of her living situation which…he used to live under a bag of fake, golden walnuts and plastic Christmas tree tinsel!

Except one night when they are both sitting on the futon that she realizes what his Bob the Builder spiel is all about. About half an hour into the Muppet Christmas Carol he begins to fidget, first his leg starts to bounce, soon both legs bounce and Darcy begins to vibrate in sync with him.

"What’s up?“ Darcy asks resisting the urge to place her hand on his bouncing knee. Boundaries and all that. It’s not like they share a bed every night.

He shrugs and then begins, honest to God, twiddle his thumbs.

It clicks suddenly. Of course there is a reason why he’s so obsessed with fixing stuff. Of course he isn’t MacGyver reborn. Of course…

“You know…the light above the front door has been flickering for a few weeks now...” She starts, trying her hardest to sound casual and not like she’s directing him towards work like he’s her maid. He’s out of his seat within seconds. And if he gets something to do and Darcy gets something fixed, then how wrong can it be?

*

Except you know at some point Bucky inevitably runs out of things to fix.

It’s Sunday afternoon, they’ve just returned from getting LaCroix (Bucky), some whole wheat Eggos (also Bucky) and Cliff Bars (also, also Bucky).

As Darcy tries to force the Eggos into her tiny freezer compartment the sound of wood splintering makes her turn around. Bucky stands with the whole front part of a drawer in his right hand, not even sheepish.

"What? The? Fuck?“ she gets progressively more high-pitched with each word, she isn’t even sure if Bucky can hear the fuck.

"It needs fixing,“ he explains. Yeah, no shit. He drops the drawer front onto the counter. Her silverware, colorful, plastic forks and knives from Ikea, dangles in what’s left of the drawer.

“Bucky…did you just break that?”

"Yeah of course I did. It’s old ,“ he says, again no remorse.

*

Next it’s the bathroom doorknob. Then a day later mysteriously the window sill breaks off. Then it’s the air vent in the bedroom. Then it’s the fridge door.

It’s becoming a pattern. A very suspicious, incriminating pattern for one certain so-called assassin.

Darcy vows to keep a closer eye on Bucky.

So far she’s been unable to prove anything. He’s sneaky. Not surprising, considering his training and reputation. She has a ghost in her home that has made it his mission to destroy whatever seems fixable later on. A poltergeist. Except at this point Darcy’s kinda wishing to get sucked into the TV.

But then Bucky makes a mistake a few days after her groundbreaking pattern discovery.

The mistake? Assuming Darcy is not listening in on what he’s doing, also doing it in plain sight of her. He probably assumes that the knitting she’s doing, yes a scarf for Steve - shut up- distracts her enough to not notice him subtly shifting in his seat next to her. Out of her peripheral she watches Bucky’s fingers inch towards her floorboards. Oh hell no. Within seconds, she watches her floorboard pop up.

"Put it back.“

Wide-eyed, like he didn’t expect her to see he stares at her. The floorboard clatters back into place.

"I want my security deposit back when I move out. You better not interfere with that.“

She hands him the knitting needles and the yarn.

*

It’s three weeks to Christmas and just about everyone has either left the state or the country. Bruce is the last one to leave, he’s got a romantic getaway planned with Betty in Aruba.

Subsequently Darcy spends her days drooling onto stacks of lab reports or sleeping on Bucky Barnes newly made scarfs and then hauling ass home.

Spinning her office chair is her favorite thing to do when Jane isn’t around and when Jane is around. Doesn’t even matter as long as she gets to do something other than play Solitaire.

A knock on the door almost knocks (ha!) her off her chair. In the doorway stands a young God incarnate. The tightest of black shirts clinging to a chest for dear life it seems is the first thing she notices. Embarrassingly, it’s the only thing she notices for a good thirty seconds.

“Hi Steve,” she says when she finally manages to pull herself away from that glorious chest and onto the face that hovers above the shirt, tucking a stray lock behind her ear trying to appear marginally collected and not like she needs a change of underwear stat.“I thought you’d be gone by now.” Smooth.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,“ he explains, the brightest obnoxiously knowing grin on his face. "I was hoping you’d be up for grabbing a bite.“

"A bite?“ Of you?

"To eat.“ That shit eating grin grows more.

"I figured,“ she replies, trying to regain her composure and find her dignity on her cluttered desk. "That sounds…nice.“ His whole face lights up.

"Anything in particular?“ Steve asks, as he picks up Darcy’s coat from the coat rack. You , Darcy thinks and swallows it just as quickly, before her traitor tongue can betray her.

"Ramen? There is a place near my apartment that does the best cheap, inauthentic ramen in all of Brooklyn.“

*

The Ramen people are, for sure, delighted to see Darcy bring Captain America into their place.

They were even more delighted when they finally left the hole in a wall place. Darcy’s Japanese is very limited, as in she infers what is being said by the wild pointing of the owners, but from what she can gather after Steve’s fourth order of Ramen they were running low on noodles for the Ramen.

As they walk out through the door Mr. Nara claps Steve on the back with such force that it would’ve knocked a normal customer out of the restaurant, Steve to his credit doesn’t notice at all. He’s sporting a big, puppy grin as he buries his hands in his pockets.

About a block from her apartment does Darcy realize that they are going to her apartment. The apartment that currently houses Steve’s internationally wanted best friend. But more importantly, Bucky Barnes is probably in her kitchen right now microwaving QuestBars and drinking literal buckets of fresh squeezed orange juice from Whole Foods.

Oh goodie.

And yet for some reason Darcy can’t find it in herself to not let Steve into her apartment. Or into her building. Or onto her stairs.

Panik begins to bubble in the pit of her stomach. She needs to come up with a way to warn Bucky and quick.

"So Steve Rogers, what’s it like to be Captain America?,“ smooth, Darcy mentally berates herself. She runs through her options.

Maybe if she tripped down the stairs? No, Barnes would for sure come to see if she was okay. "Is it hard to Captain America? In our country, America, as a Captain?“

"Huh?“ Steve looks at her likes she’s lost his mind, little does he know how close she’s scraping to a full on mental breakdown.

"What’s it like to be America’s Captain?“ she asks, now louder.

"Uh-" A crash from the inside of her apartment interrupts him, alarmed he zeros in on her door. "What was that?“

Darcy barely resists the urge to facepalm. An internationally wanted assassin’s chops apparently do not include stealth.

"Just my apartment doing it’s thing,” In Darcy’s defense; she used to be better at this. This being the deliberate befuddlement of others as well as the uncanny talent to con even the smartest of people into believing her over their own eyes. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but in the grand scheme of things Darcy Lewis used to be whole lot less lame.

Steve looks like he’s grand ‘tactitioning’ a way to storm her apartment. Damage control needed ASAP.

“I have a…,” Poltergeist? Assassin? Assassin-poltergeist? “Big cat?” “A big cat?” Steve repeats.

“A very big, old, hairy cat.” With any luck Bucky is using his skills to listen in. “It’s not mine, it’s my...neighbor’s cat.”

*

“You don’t have an oven. Or a stove.” Steve notes, critically eyeing her barren kitchen. He’s holding a microwaved instant coffee. Which is way below Darcy’s usual coffee standards but her kitchen, like he’s so politely noted, does not yet have the machinery for properly brewed coffee. And Bucky has noted before. And Jane has noted before. And Natasha has noted before and Clint…never-mind.  

A coffee machine was going on the top of her amazon wish-list stat.

In the meantime Darcy can’t help but roll her eyes. “I think I’ve had this conversation before.”

“Well yeah, you don’t have an oven.” It’s like he thinks if he just puts enough emphasis on 'oven‘ then one will magically appear.

“It didn’t come with the place and an oven costs money.” She hopes this is the end of the conversation what else is there to say? 'Would you like to take a look at my bank accounts to confirm that I can not in fact afford an oven with a stovetop?‘

“Okay…” he trails off, she can definitely hear the but.

“But?” He takes a deep breath and then hesitates.

“ But , it doesn’t seem like you not to have a functioning kitchen.”

“I have a microwave.” Thanks Bucky. And no money. But that’s not exactly first date talk.

“I see.”

“I could get an easy bake oven,”  Steve does not appreciate the joke. “I’m working on getting one.”

“Let me know if you need any help.”

“Well, I could use some help right now.” He perks up.

“Yeah? With what?” Naturally the first things that comes to mind are in line with the staring from earlier. Steve doesn’t indicate that that is where he wants this to go though, so what comes out is: "I have started a new show and I need a companion to watch it with.“

Steve nods eagerly. Trust Steve to always be up for some pop-culture education.

*

At least Bucky’s had foresight to stage a believable scene.

Conveniently there is a trail of dirt and sad cacti bits strewn across the floor, the window is cracked.  

Steve seems disappointed by the lack of feline company.

Steve leaves on episode three of Miss Fisher’s Mysteries. Darcy admits he’s got better stamina than Bucky and more enthusiasm and he doesn’t fall asleep on her thigh and he doesn’t snore in her ear and he doesn’t drool on her shoulder.  

He does have one annoying quality. He has a job - unlike Bucky - and a phone -unlike Bucky. Said phone rings at the least convenient time (who is she kidding? anytime is inconvenient by Darcy’s standards) just as Miss Fisher is about to reveal the murderer’s motive.

The only good thing coming out of Sam’s name flashing across Steve’s screen is that he is cut short on making another comment on just how inaccurate the makeup, of all things, is.

One of Steve’s best qualities is probably the sincere guilt and remorse that crosses his face when he answers the phone.

“- thanks, Sam.“ Yeah, thanks Sam.

"You’re leaving?“ It sounds like a question but it’s a statement.

"Yeah,“ he scratches his neck. "Sam’s got a lead on a Hydrabase in Queens.“

" Queens ?“

"I know .“

*

Five minutes after they’ve said their goodbyes she hears her bedroom window slide open.

“I need to get a stove,” she tells who she hopes is Bucky and not some Hydra loon.

“We’ll get you one, I got a guy.” Bucky drops down on the mattress next to her and begins to untie his boots.

“Wait… a stove guy?”

*

About week later a shiny, plastic wrapped, stove appears. Bucky stands proudly by it, toolbox already in hand. “Your guy is Ikea.”

“At least I have a guy ,” he huffs and then, without another word, goes to install their shiniest and nicest possession.

Her kitchen ends up looking like a real kitchen.

*

They have two days of peace, occasionally Bucky will disappear out of the window for a few hours (he claims he’s got work down at the docks - the smell he comes home wrapped in supports this - but ‘work at the docks’ just sounds obsolete to Darcy’s millennial ears), other than that they heavily indulge in the benefits of having a working stove and oven.

It’s the first time she’s felt home in her dingy apartment and it’s all thanks to a bright blue stove and a geriatric assassin with shaggy hair and a bad attitude.

Darcy’s even given up on pretending and doesn’t bother going into Manhattan for work anymore. Who needs a lab manager when there is no one to be managed in the lab?

When Bucky deems it time for yet another brooding solo adventure and climbs out of the window onto the fire escape, Darcy decides it’s time for another Christmas movie, Bucky’s gotten a bit tired (read: resigns himself to fixing stuff and borrowing her headphones whenever she deems it’s time for another film) of jolly carols so this is a perfect opportunity.

She settles in with A Charlie Brown Christmas, she suspects if Bucky were he he’d see the glaring similarities between himself and Peppermint Patty.

An hour later the window slides open, Bucky slips in looking like the abominable snowman, he’s slower and less graceful than usual. By the way he’s clutching his chest a panicky foreboding feeling overcomes Darcy.

“Are you hurt?” The crack in her voice gives away just how much she’s come to like him. Embarrassing, Lewis!, she scolds herself. If she wants to keep up her devil may care spiel she needs to stop letting people know just how much she cares about them.

Bucky opens his mouth. “I -”

A tentative meow escapes Bucky’s chest. For a shockingly long moment Darcy stares at his chest trying to figure out what that noise is and if Hydra put in some extra, special features that she isn’t aware of.

"Heck no,“ she says before she has a chance to see the undoubtedly future love of her live. "Get it out of my apartment.“ Their apartment she mentally corrects.

"I can’t leave her out in the cold,“ he argues and boy, he’s got a pout that could compete with a room full of six year olds.

She shakes her head, trying to stay firm.  It doesn’t last long. Another pitiful meow.

"Her?“ Darcy asks and in that moment she knows the he knows that that little ball of fur will be a permanent addition to their apartment.

Freddie the feline is the furriest fleabag to ever have come out of a dumpster. After the shortest moment of inspection Darcy and Bucky both decide that their new friend will need a good bath before they can even think of letting her into the bed. Freddie tries to fight but against Bucky’s metal appendage she stands no chance.

"Thank God for your metal arm.“

"No thank Hydra for it.“

"I will thank Hydra with my fists,“ Darcy says darkly and means it.

"In the meantime you can get some more soap,“ Bucky instructs but he cracks the first real smile she’s seen since they’ve, for lack of better words, moved in together.

“I like you too,“ Darcy says in moment of boldness. Aftershocks of the mead most likely.

He grins again, it’s beautiful, all crinkly corners and sparkly eyes. "Soap, doll,“ He reminds her. Freddie meows pitifully.

When Darcy returns with the Dawn dish soap in hand, Bucky is standing in the middle of the room, shirtless bouncing the little black, meowing kitten like a toddler.

“You don't even know how hot you are.” Darcy blurts, awed.

There is, she's learned, nothing quite as hot as a half naked guy with a small animal pressed to his chest.

“The cat?” He gives the demon spawn of Darcy’s heart a gentle squeeze. “I think she's probably cold.”

“No Bucky. Not the cat .”

He smiles again.

*

"I want a tree.“ Bucky says as he tries to get Freddie to suckle on a cloth soaked with kitten milk.

"You wanna plant a tree? Are you trying to get with the Hipsters again?“ Not that the skinny jeans were a bad idea. The skinny jeans were certainly something but not a bad idea.

"A Christmas tree, doll.“

"Oh!“

"Can we get one?“ he asks, temporarily abandoning his efforts to get their kitten to eat to use his big sad eyes on her.

"Where would we put it?“ Darcy Lewis professional hope crusher.

"In the corner by the window,“ he suggests.

"That’s where my furry footstool is.“ Darcy points out.

"We can move it.“ He insists.

"Yeah, Bucky,“ Darcy says, giving up. "We can move it.“

*

Bucky takes his time picking out the perfect tree. "As a kid I never got to have one.“ He explains as he rejects yet another premium tree, Darcy hopes that it won’t burn too much of a hole into her wallet. After all your Christmas tree shouldn’t be worth more than every single thing in your apartment, including your apartment.

"What about that one?“ Darcy asks, pointing to a smaller, scraggly tree that leans in between two massive, lush firs. "It’ll fit right in.“

"I suppose you’re right.“ After a long time of contemplation he reluctantly agrees. They pay the vendor, who seems extremely surprised that anyone would pay even a penny for the tree they selected. Darcy can’t blame him.

Unfortunately dragging the Christmas tree back to the apartment is not even half as romantic as Sally and Harry would like the general public to believe.

“I don’t have gloves, I’m gonna get blisters.” When he doesn’t react: “ Bucky , I don’t have a metal hand.”

“ Bucky , I’m cold.” No reaction.

“ Bucky , who will feed me when I strain my hands beyond repair?” A sigh, Darcy grins smugly.

“ Bucky- ”

And there he goes, cracking, another pained sigh and then he shoulders the tree singlehandedly.

Now that’s romantic.

When they are done decorating and Freddie is curled up on Darcy’s lap and the tree’s lights dips the apartment into a lovely Christmass-y orange color, Darcy decides it’s time initiate some physical contact.

Tentatively she rests her head on Bucky’s shoulder. For a minute he freezes solid, no movement registers.

When he realizes she won’t let up anytime soon he relaxes. Slightly.

*

Steve appears on her doorstep on the night of the 24th. He’s got a nice flush to his cheeks that distracts Darcy for the longest moment. From both the giant box next to him and the fact that not minutes ago Bucky Barnes had been lounging on her mattress fully asleep.

"Need some help with that?“ Darcy asks with a look to the box.

"No, I got this.“

Of course he does and Darcy really does not mind watching Steve carry the box into her kitchen.

"Oh,“ Steve says when he spots the shiny stove Bucky bought (stole?) for her.

And then it clicks. "You got me an oven, huh?“ Darcy asks.

"Yeah.“ Steve confirms and looks so crushed that Darcy can’t help but step close to him and wrap her arms around his middle.

"Thank you.“ She says and means it.

"Well it’s useless now, isn’t it?“

"A little bit,“ he turns to her and wraps his arm around her shoulder.  

"I’d take a second oven. How many cookies do you think I’ll be able to make till tomorrow?“

"A. Lot.“ He says and doesn’t look all too turned off by that idea of endless cookies. She bets that Bucky listening in isn’t all that opposed either.

“Well how nice of an oven is it?“

"Tony, well Jarvis , recommended it.“

"Oh boy.“ That stove probably costs more than her apartment.

"It would’ve been too much.“ Steve concludes by the look of terror on her face.

"It is a generous present,“ Darcy says, staring at the box like it’ll self install any moment now. "You could return it,“ Darcy hurries to suggests. "or you could donate it.“ He nods but his face drops.

"Now I don’t have a present for you.“

"Your company is present enough.“ Darcy says.

“I could watch another episode of Miss Fisher?”

“Uh...yeah.” That might pose a problem, Bucky’s probably gone but then again he had been snoring so chances are that he’s still draped over her futon. Darcy didn’t even want to think about it. She hadn’t even wrapped him yet!

“Well then let’s-” He awkwardly points to the bedroom.

"We can of course, because we have legs, go into the other room but I-" Steve’s got the door open before Darcy can come up with anymore explanations.

"Why didn’t you tell me?“ Steve asks sounding outraged. Oh boy. Oh fuck .

"Tell you what?“ Playing stupid? Much harder when you are actually stupid. Darcy Lewis? Case in point.

"About your little friend here?“ There are many words to describe Bucky with little certainly isn’t one of them.

"Oh, Freddie?“ Darcy asks, masking her relief by trying to casually lean against the doorframe.

Steve’s down on his knees cradling the kitten to his chest.

"Hello Freddie.“ Steve coos and Darcy melts, Freddie wiggles until Steve gets the hint and loosens his grip then she slips out of his hands and up on his shoulder.

“She was hiding behind the garbage downstairs,” Darcy explains. “Took a little to convince her but now she’s a pain in the butt.” Freddie gives her look that Darcy interprets means she’s highly offended.

*

"How about I exchange the oven for a bed frame?“ Apparently Steve is uncomfortable on her futon.

"Okay, hold your horses are you turning into a personal decorator now?“

"I’m making plans for my retirement.“ He’s stroking Freddie on his lap. That’s one kitten that is getting all the attention Darcy wants.

"Well ‘Captain America; Interior Design’ does have a nice ring to it.“

"It would be Rogers Interior Design first of all, second of all, take it a little more seriously.“

They grin at each other.

"Merry Christmas, Steve Rogers.“ She says quietly. Steve takes her hand in his and squeezes it fondly. "Merry Christmas, Darcy Lewis.“

Tentatively he places his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his chest, they settle in for a watching of the classic Miracle on 34th Street.

"You’ll have to wait for my present till tomorrow. It’s a little...stubborn.“ And also probably sitting on the roof, in the snow, freezing his cojones off.

"You didn’t have to get me anything.“

"Oh don’t gimme that, you just got me a thousand dollar oven.“

"Actually, it was 3000 dollars.“

"Oh. My. God. Shut up.“

Of course nothing good can last forever.

It’s his phone again, just when Kris Kringle proves himself by speaking Dutch to a little girl, it cuts obnoxiously through the moment.

Darcy sighs internally. You can’t have Captain America without the Captain and the America and you can’t take Steve Rogers out of Captain and America either.

Two for the price of one. Plus a shiny shield.

Steve disappears into the night ready to fight crime on what is supposed to be the most coziest and least criminal night of all.

As he heads out of the door, Darcy calls after him: "Can’t you give them criminals a break?“ Darcy begs. "it is Christmas after all.“

Steve just grins at her. And Darcy realizes that this is Santa personally giving a gift to him. This is his idea of fun.

With a sloppy salute he bids her goodbye for the night. With a groan Darcy falls back onto her mattress.

*

Darcy’s idea for Steve’s epic Christmas present is not received well.

“I’m not going in that box.” Bucky says, vehemently.

“We’re trying to win Steve’s love. Be more of a team player.” Darcy swings the cardboard flaps invitingly.

“I already have his love.”  

“Wow. Rude.”

“You do too.” He sighs, like that’s reassuring.

“How about you get naked and we put a red bow on you.”

“Put a red bow where ?”

“Wherever you want to,” She gestures along his body and eyes him suggestively.

He catches on remarkably quick. “I’m not putting a bow on my penis, Darcy.”

“It’s for the team!”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“It’s for Steve?” she tries.

“Not on my penis.”

Eventually they settle on the head. He looks like an overgrown, murderous toddler. And it’s hysterical.

*

"They’re here.“ Bucky’s standing by the window peeking through the curtains like someone who really likes to make his messages sound ominous.

"De who ish now whe?“ Darcy asks around a mouthful of delicious baked sweet potato mash. She’s got a plate of delicious Christmas dinner on her lap, all thanks to her amazing oven.

" Hydra is here.“ Her fork clatters onto the plate. With great difficulty she gulps her potatoes down whole. "Say what?“

Darcy gets off her chair and joins Bucky by the window. And yep, there are two ominous looking dudes on the other side of the street under the light of a streetlamp. The softly falling snow makes them look deceptively peaceful.

"Hydra has been slowly regrouping,“ Bucky explains.

"Right here in this state? In this city? In my neighborhood?“ Of course they would get together in the birthplace of Captain America. "In front of my(it) building?“

"Amongst other places.“ What is with these organizations and their insistence on bringing their ugly Nazi culture back whenever and wherever they can? The only question is; how the fuck does Bucky know these two rejects of functioning society are from reborn Hydra?

"How do you know?“ He looks down for a moment before brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Oh my Thor. "Bucky, how do you know that Hydra has been basically having alt-right tea parties in our backyard?“

"I’ve been shadowing them for a few weeks.“ There is few things that will give Darcy an immediate splitting headache including Tony’s 'explosive experiments‘ or Jane’s forever long and reckless benders and yet this is certainly at the top.

"Retired assassin says what?“ He turns away from the window, a look of grim foreboding on his face. Bending down he pops one of the wooden panels up to reveal a hole. Probably full of grenades and such.

"There is a warehouse by the docks-" he starts to explain, poorly.

"You said you were working!“ Honestly he could’ve made up anything, he didn’t have to roll in fish stench and come home at ten in the morning. A simple 'I help with logistics‘ would have fully sufficed.

Darcy sidles up to the window and tried to be as stealthy as possible as she peaked through the blinds just like Cillian Murphy. Outside, Darcy spots two black clad figures (or her imagination sees them as black clad - couldn’t fault a girl for watching too many movies) outside right near a streetlamp. They, unlike her, were not overly concerned with stealth.

“Well yeah. So were they.“ Angry, Darcy turns on her heel. Assassin strangled? Possibly the best headline.

Bucky shrugs.

"Oh my Thor. You can not be serious!“ It appears he is dead serious. He’s got a gun in his hand. Hence the dead.

Sighing, she asks:"Why are mini Goering and Goebbels here?“

"I think they want me back.“

"Oh. Oh, no,“ she says matter of factly. If there ever was a call for action this was it. "I have superglue and endless rage.“ She declares and marches towards her hallway cupboard.

"Darcy! No! Wait-" Ignoring Bucky’s pleas, Darcy makes short work of assembling her supplies. Who the fuck does Hydra think they are?

Her cupboard is home to an array of things including superglue, pillows, a Costco-sized soap bottle and a jumbo sized box of tacks. Hydra is going down.

"Doll, you can’t be serious.“ Bucky says, helplessly standing behind her with a gun in his hand.

"Oh boy, I am dead serious,“ Rummaging through her closet she finds a gift wrapped in dancing Santa paper behind a stack of linens. "it’s good that for Christmas I bought you a nail gun.“

"You did?“ Bucky asks, clearly touched. Darcy holds the parcel up as proof.

"Yeah, your two favorite things combined? How could I resist?“ Methodically she unwraps the beast that would even leave Jesus impressed.

Nodding to herself she gets up, various supplies tucked under her arms, the nail gun in her right hand, ready. Bucky eyes her warily.

"That’s right I’m a crafty bitch and I’m not gonna let some wannabe Himmlers get to me.“ She beckons him to follow her.

*

As she runs (i.e. walks moderately fast) down the stairs, praying to any and all deities that tonight is not the night that she gets killed, Bucky hot on her heels and a giant tub of soap under her arm she realizes that this the first time in her life that she does not curse the fact that she lives in a three story walk up.

No matter how fit the Hydra idiots are they still will take some time to get up all those rickety stairs.

Hopefully enough to rig the house Kevin McCallister style.

Since ’tis the season and since it’s Christmas most people who live in their squalid building are out celebrating with their families.  

Of course, except for Kelly. Hopefully this will be as interesting to her as a strange man disappearing into Darcy’s apartment.

Darcy begins pouring the soap down the stairs.

"Do you really think they’re gonna fall for this?“ Bucky asks, ever the sceptic.

"They fell for Nazi-ideology. Of course they’ll fall for this.“

Bucky looks at her like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it.

With that they get to work.  

The supplies? A fully loaded and reloadable nail gun, strategically placed at the top of the stairs. A bucket of soap for the first two levels. A tub of tacks. A sad amount of superglue that’ll just do. Combined with the tacks a good last measure for the last set of stairs.

Pillows filled to the brim with very ugly, very heavy trinkets, good for swinging and smashing faces. And a bucketload of baubles, excellent for throwing.

Also possibly multiple guns. And to her absolute discomfort probably also seventeen grenades.

Satisfied with their work Darcy and Bucky stand at the landing, looking down at the slightly shiny steps and the steps riddled with tacks.

With a smile Darcy turns to Bucky. "The only major problem I see here is that I don’t have a tarantula.“

"That is not how real life works.“ He says, another gun has mysteriously appeared on his belt.

Looking at it, she says: "If one of them grabs me by the leg do shoot them.“

*

The waiting game is both blessedly and unfortunately short.

For all the preparing Darcy did by watching Home Alone multiple times, just in the month of December, every year since it came out, nothing really prepared her for the real thing.

Especially not when your life isn’t directed by Chris Columbus.

The two Hydra agents come in guns blazing. The lock of the front door splinters, they can hear it all the way up on her floor. She flinches involuntarily.

Darcy hopes her hand won’t become too sweaty. The nail gun falling from her hands would probably just confirm Bucky’s obvious anxieties.

He’s already put himself slightly in front of her. Which Darcy appreciates. She isn’t really the charge forward type, except this time her home is threatened. And her boyf- assassin , is threatened, there are some things Darcy just can not stand for.

When they hear a yell and then a satisfying crash, which makes Darcy grin with glee, Bucky turns to her. "Are you sure you don’t want to take Freddie and leave?“

Darcy scoffs. "You’re basically telling me to take the child and go. What is this? The Titanic?“

"Promise that if I tell you to leave, you will,“ he asks, urgency written across his face.

"If I think it’s time to leave. I will.“ And that’s how far she’ll go with her promise. With her free hand she reaches out and squeezes his palm, in what she hopes to be a reassuring gesture.

Another thud, this time closer, she grips her nail gun tighter.

" Soldat !“

Bucky flinches.

Apparently they figured out that in order for them to come up the stairs in one piece they have to hold on to the railings.

Two skills. Following dumbass doctrines and being a step above being able to breathe. Unfortunate for them, Darcy thinks, as they are about to be in a world of pain.

There is something to be said about exposed piping, mostly that it’s excellent for hanging things on.

The rope that the two pillows are secured with is taped to the wall hidden from the two idiots. Darcy takes great pride in unleashing that world of hurt on them.

"Ahh!“ One of them yells and knocks the other one over thanks to the force of three Thor figurines and a life size Mjolnir replica.

The problem? Their boots are still firmly attached to the rapidly dried layer of superglue that Darcy had squirted all over the steps.

They go toppling beautifully.

For good measure Darcy throws another ornament.

"Fuck!“ Hitler’s wet dream yells. Unfortunately their prone position does not last long.

These two baboons have spent a considerable amount of time pumping in the gym - and therefore have a mad abs - instead of reading a book or two and working on their empathy.

" Soldat, wir sind hier um dich Heim zu bringen. “ Goon Nr.1 says as he audibly battles with his stuck on combat boots.

"What the fuck is he saying?“ Darcy stage whispers. Bucky shakes his head.

" Soldat !“

Darcy is getting tired of it.

"Shut the fuck up, man.“ She yells and leans just enough around the corner to fire her nails.  

The resounding pained groan is a little too satisfactory.

" Sput -!“ He gets cut off by, what Darcy thinks is her best athletic achievement since High School Badminton, a bauble to the head.

“Thank you.“ Bucky breathes, visibly he shakes off his stupor. Watching him spur into action is a work of absolute beauty. He gets off the floor, gun in hand.

"Remember take 'em alive.“ She whispers after him, leaning forward she gives his passing ankle a light, encouraging slap. Also a reminder to not kill.

Darcy watches, careful not to get hit by a bullet, from around her spot by the corner. It’s both hilarious and - frankly - terrifying. The look of abject horror when Bucky stalks around the corner, murder face and skinny jeans and manbun, is priceless.

They really don’t know what’s in store for them on top of being superglued to a set of steps like the couple of idiots that they are.

Bucky does what he does best, he fires one shot (and one shot only - the showoff) it travels from his gun to the thigh of guy who has managed to free one feet from his boot and then goes clean through only to hit the blond idiot in the shin.

Shot right through them is what he did, cheering is probably inappropriate.

The pained yells and groans really shouldn’t be music to Darcy’s ears.

"Remember the superglue.“

"I got it, doll,“ Bucky says, which is very reassuring. "Throw me the nail gun would you?“

"Err, okay.“ With a heavy heart Darcy parts with her severely neglected friend and weapon.

Then Bucky, beautifully, manages to incapacitate the two groaning and writhing men. Nailed like Jesus to the walls and ground, unable to reach even a rock for throwing, never mind throwing anything.

Darcy comes out of her hiding spot, feeling smug. Meanwhile, Hydra Goon Nr.1 and Nr.2 are knocked the fuck out. Unconscious and nailed.

"Turns out I didn’t need a tarantula after all,” she says and leans forward into Bucky’s arm, the one with the gun in it.

She stays at the top of the stairs though mindful of tacks and probably dried superglue.

Bucky puts his gun into his belt and moves his arm so he’s got it around her shoulders. Bye bye security deposit.

“This is looks like a lot of stuff to fix,” she says, surveying the damage. He hums in agreement.

They look at each other for a moment. Maybe it’s the adrenaline but Darcy finds herself leaning closer.  

Suddenly Bucky’s got his hands around her face, gently, he pulls her closer until their lips meet. It’s better than Darcy could’ve ever imagined, he’s got the softest lips and the rhythm they move in together is so synchronized and right that Darcy melts right then and there.

Or would, if he wasn’t holding her up with his hands tangled in her undoubtedly sweaty hair.

She sighs into the kiss, feeling like this has been work in progress for months now, even though it’s been barely a month. The enthusiastic way in which Bucky responds makes her think he agrees with her.

A throat clearing and the moment is over. Startled they jump apart.

He pulls her along with a strand of hair stuck in his metal plates. Darcy hangs with her head halfway across his chest.

"Oww! Fuck!“ Darcy complains, again startled, Bucky grabs her with his hair pulling hand and presses her to his chest like a newborn baby.

Through his fingers she can see…Steve. Standing below Hydra’s 'finest’ soap stains on his tactical pants.

Darcy stares open mouthed, shocked. This was not how she had planned the Super Soldier reunion. For one it is less bow-less than she’d hoped.

Steve just stares, he wears a look so absolutely floored astonishment..

When no one says anything - and judging by Bucky’s iron grip he is not planning on saying anything any time soon - Steve clears his throat again.

"J-jarvis…notified me that your neighbor called the police.“ Steve announces awkwardly.

Darcy holds on to Bucky’s hand one because she can feel him moving away from her and two because she is really fond of that strand of hair that is currently threatened with being ripped out.

"It’s time, Bucky.“ She whispers from the corner of her mouth and muffled by his chest.

"Hello, Buck.“ Steve says, taking the cue.

She smiles at Steve reassuringly, as best as she can through Bucky’s metal hand.

"Merry Christmas, Steve Rogers.“

The End.