Work Text:
Sometimes he can piece these things together, but right now, Bucky’s pretty sure he’ll never know which of the Winter Soldier’s missions required him to know exactly how much diazepam it takes to sedate a 55-pound miniature pony.
Truth be told, though, in this instance he kinda likes the mystery.
The pony—TABITHA, proclaims the engraved bridle, and ain’t that just fuckin’ precious—barely notices when he buckles her into place inside the tiny cockpit of the next-door neighbor’s crop duster. So really, it’s only right that he pull his Christmas-present goggles from his pocket and snap a picture on his StarkPhone with the other hand once the rhinestone-covered purple leather is in place.
That way he’ll have pictures, if nothing else. God knows the girl loves her damn Facebook.
“Shh,” he soothes as the pony stirs, trying to wobble to its feet as he climbs into the pilot’s seat. The AT-501 is oddly familiar; the goggles are tight as always around his eyes but overlaid with the smell of craft glue and grape bubble gum (and now the hay-sweet earthy scent of horse). It’s just different enough to work for him, especially since he left the payload of chemical spray in the barn.
Well, and a few other parts too, but really, the guy will thank him later.
The phone rings just as he starts up the motor and, having lived more than once, Bucky decides he can probably survive answering it, especially when he sees who’s calling. “Barnes,” he yells into the phone as the motor really starts to whir.
“Where is it?”
“Can’t hear you,” he shouts back, which is a damn lie. The pony, stirred by his yells and the whirring motor, makes a sleepy attempt at a neigh.
“And what the hell was that?”
“Co-pilot,” Bucky replies, baring his teeth in a savage grin as he begins his ascent, cradling the phone between his good shoulder and his chin.
“Co-pi—” Sam begins to curse like only a serviceman can, so Bucky spares his tender sensibilities and hangs up on him. It takes some maneuvering to get his leg high enough to steer with one foot but he manages it, freeing his arm to snap a close-up shot of the pony in its (well, technically the Falcon’s) special harness and text it to him. Even with the flash, it’s dark enough that trying to figure out what’s going on just from the picture should take up most of the four-hour flight, depending on who they bring in.
“Time for an adventure, doll,” he tells Tabitha, who promptly proves that whoever invents a diaper for ponies will make a goddamn mint.
* * * * * * * *
“He’s with someone, you know.”
Rolling his neck up to look at her hurts, but the Soldier welcomes the pain because it cuts through everything, even Natalia’s tucked-away lies. “Playing me only works if I give a damn, zajka,” he rasps, and the sliver of memory he just drew from is a sound one, if the way her eyes go tight is any indication (it always is, a flicker of truth just before she forces her gaze wide and bright).
“You were close.”
“So were we.” He leans in, gives her a big sniff that tells him nothing new but plucks at her nerves. “What’s his name?”
“Her name is—”
“Yours,” he says, and her posture straightens, a flinch from anyone else but the best.
“That’s irrelevant.”
He studies her then leans back, spits blood off to the side like the gentleman he isn’t. “Hell of a name.”
“It has its moments,” she says, and her quiet half-smile inspires his fuck-or-fight instinct more than anything she or her new friends did when they finally brought him in. He knows that smile, made of wonder-bright shards tangled with the child she never got to be.
“So the punk’s got a dame,” he says, the words distant and cold. “Wonder if they’ll go to Coney Island?”
Natalia’s eyes widen and he hasn’t even thrown a punch. What the fuck have they done to her here? “James,” she begins, inching toward the door, and it’s the way her voice trembles on the strange name that finally turns everything red.
* * * * * * * *
Color spills across the table in a wave of artificial scent: blueberry, grape, black licorice and a hint of lime. James tries not to look like he’s looking.
“These are not a comment on you,” Darcy says, “though you might consider some Old Spice.” Today she’s cheerful as the sun, dressed in the sort of sloppy-chic that stands out here at S.W.O.R.D. HQ but makes for great cover out on the big city streets. Except for the hat, of course: this one’s a fresh affront to taste, hot pink shot through with silver glitter. It’s the kind of hat a girl would wear to stand out in the snow, or maybe a boy with a mom on a hand-me-down budget and way too many sisters. “Take one if you want. They’re nontoxic.”
He waits for her hand to inch toward the pile before he strikes, snatching the red from beneath her grasp. It’s cherry, smells kind of weird.
Tastes even worse.
“Cute, Barnes,” she sighs, picking up a dark pink marker that fills the air with the smell of raspberries when she removes the cap.
From the messenger bag at her feet she pulls out a stack of official-looking documents, setting them on the table amidst the tumble of markers. Giving him a once-over, she slides a few sheets his way. “Margins only, though if you find a spelling error then by all means, go nuts. Simonson relies on spellcheck way too much.”
He looks at the heading atop the page, looks back up at her. “Ain’t these above your pay grade?”
“I’m in time-out,” she sighs, glancing around his beige-on-beige quarters. Bucky mentally amends the last word to hiding. “Also, the gods have decreed that I owe Abigail a favor.” She pauses. “Not the Asgardian ones, though man, Thor is good at guilt trips. Disapproving Bunnies don’t have shit on him.”
He arches an eyebrow but stays silent. Grumbling beneath her breath—she’s never quiet—Darcy bows her head to her task, circling and slashing with aplomb until the air is redolent with raspberry, watermelon, and grape (she likes to switch it up, keeps the markers trapped between her fingers like throwing knives).
Bucky could throw a fit, have an “episode” that gets Darcy removed. But after about the third time, he started to realize just how bad her sense of self-preservation really was, and getting taken down is less fun when it’s done by Stark’s people and not by Sam or Steve. So he doodles, secure in the knowledge that Darcy won’t be able to resist being nosy.
It takes longer than he expects, which is fine, because it’s always nice to have more time to work.
“Oh my God, of course,” she groans when she snatches up his defaced paper, and Bucky can’t help but smirk. It’ll be fun to see which not-kid-friendly illustration she latches onto. “Not that kind of bunny—here.”
...Okay, he kind of expected everything but the Rabbit Head to catch her eye.
From the depths of her scarf Darcy digs out a phone, fingers flicking on the screen as she mutters under her breath. For all of their insistence that he’s not a prisoner, nobody in Stark’s tower has been keen on letting him near modern communication devices, save for the in-house phone bolted to the wall in all of its boring, touch-tone glory. Darcy’s phone is so new he can smell the plastic, and for a second he wonders if she’s a plant, sent in to tug the string that’ll bring him down and out of here.
“Look,” she demands, thrusting the phone in his face, and he peers at the screen. Damn, it’s actually a rabbit.
“Looks tasty,” he says, looking Darcy up and down with a lick of his lips. “Plump, well-fed. I’ve had better, though.”
Innuendo had worked beautifully on Hill, or more accurately, the weird-looking lady who had come in with her and got pissed on her behalf. Darcy just rolls her eyes. “Yep,” she sighs, “you’re definitely twelve.” But she slides his sheet of drawings back across to him. “Rabbit Head, huh? So when you went to the Mansion was the Grotto installed yet?”
Darcy, he realizes later that night, gets by because she’s artless, from her hat to her pathetic attempt at stick figures. It makes people trust her, makes them let her in (whoever lets her in to see him is a damn fool).
It also means that when he doesn’t realize she talked him through his past without triggering a flashback, she’s kind enough to let him know the next time she visits. And then to explain the modern-day cultural connotations of the fist-pump and its close cousin, the fist-bump.
* * * * * * * *
The theme song from Jem and the Holograms starts to play somewhere over Indiana but Bucky ignores it, steering the plane through rainclouds and wind. Tabitha has succumbed to the inevitable and is sleeping it off, though not after making a horrific mess and all sorts of smells. Maybe it’s finally a good thing that he’s been through worse, because the close quarters are making this kind of a rough flight.
Five minutes later, a new ringtone with an oddly familiar melody buried in its dubstep rings through the cockpit.
When he made the decision to come back to New York for good, James knew what that really meant was coming back to Steve and never letting go. Not to mention the big dope still gets upset if James even looks like he might go off the grid. So, he answers the phone. “Sad day, when Captain America won’t trust his own men,” he drawls.
“Jesus, Bu...”–the phone fuzzes out, which kinda makes sense considering where he is–“...are you?”
“Calm your tits, Steven,” he says, using one of Darcy’s favorite expressions, and speak of the devil, that must be her he hears yelling in the background. Wait, is she trying to get Stark in on this? “I’ll be back in a coupla hours.”
“Back from where?” Steve manages to demand before static fizzes through James’s ears, making him wince. He’s tempted to yell through it but knows that it won’t improve the reception (and it might wake up the unholy terror behind him, and to hell with that). He ends the call and tucks the phone back into his pocket; after all, James has a ways to go yet.
* * * * * * * *
“So which one do you think it is? The beard, the grump, or the blond?”
“Thor didn’t say,” Steve replies, punching in the floor number for New York’s latest visitors. Tony and Pepper had each insisted that Thor’s guests stay in the Tower. Pepper had said something about heading off intergalactic incidents; Tony mentioned pictures. Apparently they both were rather familiar with Asgardian social experiences after the Warriors Three’s last visit.
Speaking of experiences… “You know what the tradition is, right?”
“Not this again,” Steve mutters, which is a bit rich for the guy who punched Hitler 200 nights in a row.
“Best man, maid of honor…” Bucky waggles his eyebrows. Steve doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes this time. Fortunately, Bucky’s got fresh inspiration. “Hey, what if he chose all three of ‘em?”
When the door opens Steve looks thoroughly revolted, and apparently the look doesn’t fade fast enough to please the woman waiting in the lobby. Darcy is the picture of a resigned girlfriend, taking her man’s arm with a long-suffering sigh.
“It won’t be that bad.” To Bucky’s shock, she grabs his wrist as well, fingers wrapping around the cool metal as she slides her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Or it’ll be worse if you try and run, I mean, it could be either.”
“Think you could catch us both?” Steve asks, arching an eyebrow at Darcy’s hand on his best friend’s arm. No doubt he’s remembering what happened when Special Agent Wilson tried to land a friendly punch on Bucky’s bicep. (Well, Ramirez first. And then Stevenson. He’s pretty sure someone sent out an e-mail after Wilson got out of the hospital, though.)
“Outsourcing, Rogers,” Darcy’s saying as she leads them down the short hallway. Bucky can already hear voices, along with a familiar four-count beat. “You’ve got legs, but Thor can fly and they call Fandral ‘the Dashing’ for some reason.”
“They do, huh?” Steve eyes his girl, and she eyes him right back because God knows Darcy doesn't do shame. “Which one is he again?”
“Oh, you’ll know,” she says, and opens the door into the guest suite’s living room, where Thor’s blond friend and the guy with the kind of beard he ain’t seen since Russia are pounding out a waltz. Well, they’re trying, at least; the beard’s got a bit of a left foot and the blond keeps forgetting he’s supposed to be following. It probably doesn’t help that the one who looks like he’s from Japan is busy figuring out the stereo system through trial-and-error, though to be fair, he seems to be thinking before he acts.
The blond notices them first and promptly spins the beard into the sofa, where he lands with a howl. “Hogun!” he calls out over the music (honestly, how the hell did the guy add thumping bass to fuckin’ Chopin?). “The Lady Darcy has returned!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy, no,” Darcy yelps as Hogun, brow increasingly furrowed, fails to turn the stereo off and moves for his sword. Darcy dashes over for some strategic button-mashing and the music cuts off, which is a hell of a relief to at least one of the guys here with super-hearing. Make that two, Bucky adds when he sees Steve let out a tiny sigh. “Seriously, we have talked about this might-makes-right bullshit.”
“But it is effective,” Hogun points out, his voice low and perfectly measured even when he’s obviously befuddled.
“Do you deny the Lady Darcy's wishes?” roars the bearded one (who must be Volstagg), lurching to his feet. “We are guests, Hogun!”
“Lecturing Hogun on manners, oh, that’s rich,” snorts the blond dandy, looking sublimely bored with it all, and Bucky can’t resist leaning over to Steve and whispering, “It just me or does this seem familiar?”
All at once, the three men in the room turn to look at them, and both Bucky and James know damn well what it feels like when someone’s assessing your threat level. No wonder they ain’t too worried about anyone crashing Thor and Jane’s wedding. “Is this your intended, Lady Darcy?” the blond asks at last, looking way too serious for a guy who waxes his mustache (he used to know a guy like that).
“Boyfriend, dude,” Darcy says with a roll of her eyes. “Different social norms, yeah? We talked about this.” Shoving her hair back from her face, she turns the gesture into an awkward wave that encompasses all the testosterone in the room. “Steve, Bucky, this is Hogun”–the guy giving the radio some seriously dark looks–”Volstagg”–yep, he was right–”and Fandral. Warriors Three, Steve and Bucky, Steve’s the one who gets haircuts.”
“Cute, doll,” Bucky snarks, but secretly he’s pleased. Darcy’s the only one who doesn’t use the arm as a way to introduce him to people. Something about “always being the girl with the braces,” though he suspects that “braces” might be code for “rack.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Steve says with one of those fuckin’ regal nods that he only gives to people he might need to punch in the future. He offers his hand and they shake, and he’s guessing that Fandral, at least, tests his grip, if the impressed look on the guy’s face is any indication. Bucky hangs back, which doesn’t seem to faze any of them. Darcy probably told them what would happen, though come to think of it, Foster’s pretty observant herself.
Speaking of Foster, here she comes from the back room, looking ridiculously short next to… well. The black-haired woman is tall and walks like she owns the room. Where Natasha has a way about her that lets you know she knows intimate ways to hurt you but it might be worth your while to try anyway, this lady just looks like she dares you to try, no risk-reward balance (or intimacy) implied.
“Sif!” Darcy squeals, stepping forward to hold her hand high. When the woman cocks her head at Darcy, brow furrowed, Darcy taps the upraised palm with her other hand, looking expectantly at her frowning apparent-friend. Then the woman smirks, gives Darcy a high-five, and Bucky might have just fallen in lust.
Looping their arms, Darcy strolls all ten feet of space over to where Steve, who’s doing that thing again where he so obviously thinks his girlfriend is the cutest fuckin’ thing on the planet, and Bucky, who’s giving Steve an eyeroll as a result, are patiently waiting for the dog-and-pony show to commence. “Steve, Bucky, here’s Sif. She's gonna be Thor’s best woman,” she proclaims.
And really, it’s just to save Steve from having to blush like a schoolgirl that makes him step forward and say, “Breaking with tradition–I like it,” as he offers his hand for her to shake.
* * * * * * * *
“You can’t hold him here any longer,” the lawyer’s saying, and the rest of his words are lost in the high-pitched buzzing that fills Bucky’s ears, the rattle of the train from high up as it echoes through canyons filled with snow and ice.
They’ve finally managed to come for him; not HYDRA, not Lukin, but Russia itself.
Citizenship he hears them say to him, and asylum, and the two guys at the door look distinctly uncomfortable. He used to love it, how reluctant some of the alphabet agencies were to cause diplomatic incidents; now he wishes that these assholes would go cowboy already and bust him out.
The fact that nobody around here is going to stick their neck out for the assassin who helped tear down their last place of employment gets logged under irrelevant. Practice makes perfect, and practice in making things irrelevant makes conditions perfect for him to do what he does best.
It’ll be a shame about the carpet.
"Excuse me,” a voice says from the doorway, and he turns out of reflex because even as everything he learned since the last time he went under slips away, something tells him he knows that voice. It belongs to a woman, mid-20s, brown hair caught up in an elegant French twist, and with those tits her suit’s gotta be custom-made because it actually covers them up. “This just doesn’t look friendly at all, does it? Gentlemen, please,” she murmurs to the agents, and at her bidding they leave the room.
The lawyer cuts a glance to the ambassador while the agents depart. “Break the American whore,” he replies in Russian, and James’s fists clench even though he doesn’t know why.
“American Whore, Esquire,” the woman replies with a bland smile as she turns back around to face them. “Tell me, Mr. Dmitriyev, are you actually arguing that my client is both non compos mentis and should be set free to ‘wander’ the streets of St. Petersburg?”
“To a safe place in his homeland,” Dmitriyev argues, brandishing a sheet of paper like a shield, and with a flick of her gaze she all but tears it down.
“Except that we both know this is a dummy institution set up to filter all sorts of charming individuals into Russia.” From her briefcase—chocolate brown leather, perfectly normal, so why does he expect anything different?—she produces a sheaf of documents. “You did a wonderful job with the tax falsification but the purchase forms are a joke. You aren’t related to the Mikhail Dmitriyev who filled those twenty orders for 10,000 beds each, are you?”
Whatever is in the papers, it has the power to turn the man the color of old milk rather quickly. The ambassador must not be privy to the details, though, because he slides forward, snake-oil charm and slicked-back hair tasting like rubber and blood on James’s tongue. “Your business audit is no doubt charming, madam, but the fact remains that Stark Industries–”
“S.W.O.R.D.”
“–is holding a Russian national against the will of those to whom he has already signed over his legal rights. You may argue the point after we get him home.”
The woman smiles again, and it is both lovely and terrible. The slight gap between her front teeth sends a jolt of confusion into James, or is it the way she almost bites her lip? “You’ve dealt with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the past.”
“A time or two.” The man’s smile turns into a leer. “To my great satisfaction.”
She steps closer to James, her left hand scraping against the exposed skin of his weak arm. James freezes. “Splendid. Then you ought to be familiar with these.” Her briefcase opens again and sheaves of paper spill out, rife with tiny color-coded flags. “You’ll find everything you’re looking for there. Please, take a look while I speak with my client.”
He lets her pull him over to the corner because he needs to see, needs to know who in the hell took the ring. The ring he retrieved and held on to for years until the fact that it was almost a memory wasn’t enough anymore, trading it at a pawn shop for a box of bullets. The ring with its simple pearl clasped in gold, a tiny but elegant twist of metal that’s since been restored to its better days.
He still doesn’t remember much about Steve’s ma.
He remembers that ring.
“Bucky, it’s me,” she says, and he realizes that her voice is so breathy because he’s squeezing her hand hard enough to grind the metal band against delicate bones. “It’s Darcy.”
He looks up at her face, the lack of thick-framed glasses, the polished makeup job that hides her smattering of freckles. Her lips, painted into pale neutrality. A slight breeze passes between them and he leans close, sniffing, ignoring the sideways glance of the Russian lawyer. “Rarity?” he croaks, relief sweeping through him even as the artificial grape of her My Little Pony lip gloss makes his stomach twist.
A slow, wide smile stretches her features. “Attaboy,” she murmurs, patting his cheek. “Brony’s en route but with any luck, we can do this my way.”
“Your way’s a hell of a surprise,” he replies. She rolls her eyes.
“I told you I had a big-girl job,” she whispers. “You know what to do?”
“Always do, ma’am.”
He’s been watching the ambassador’s face, seeking out the hidden tics; watching him go from annoyed, to grudgingly impressed, to furious, to resolute. The man rises to his feet, adjusting his cuffs, and it’s a well-used ritual to settle his nerves, if the smile he’s wearing when he lifts his head is any indication. “You’ve done your homework,” he says.
“You haven’t.” Darcy steps forward, plants herself in front of Bucky. “Special Agents Brand and Hill will be here any second, and I’m sure they’ll have questions for you. I don’t.”
His eyes flicker, the tiniest tell. “No?”
“I don’t care who put you up to this, how much they’ve paid you, what benefits you hope to reap by coming here. Though I do look forward to our interrogation division finding out.”
“You dare to threaten—”
She cuts off the Russian’s protests by the simple yet effective tactic of slamming her hand on the table. “James Buchanan Barnes is an American citizen irrespective of his age, his actions, and especially any absurd paperwork you think you have where he signed his life away under extreme duress. He’s also an employee of the Stark World Observation and Response Division, effective two weeks ago as soon as he signs the remaining forms—or verbally assents in the presence of a S.W.O.R.D.-endorsed witness—”
“I do,” he says, hoping like hell that Darcy knows what she’s doing, knowing that she does.
“And finally, he is a member of my family.” The words should sound wrong, coming from Darcy’s sarcastic mouth with so much conviction. He doesn’t doubt a word. “And that, Ambassador, is what you should have learned before you came here today. Because while you’ve been waiting for spandex-clad heroes or men in black to barge in and save the day, I have a JD in international law, a ton of resources and time, and extensive paperwork skills, and with the proper provocation I will use them all to completely and utterly fuck. Your. Shit. Up.”
This is, of course, when the door opens and Steve comes in, resplendent in suit, tie, and shield.
“You had it right up to the last part, honey,” he says, and the ambassador makes an involuntary sound. Dmitriyev, still staring at the papers, barely lifts his head. “’S that how they talk in courtrooms these days?”
“You must’ve missed that episode of SVU.” Her eyebrows arch, the picture of calm once more as she straightens. “Which is it going to be, Captain?”
Steve’s free hand reaches toward the shield, the ambassador squeaks—and he produces a rolled-up stack of papers from behind its surface. Overdramatic punk. “Fresh off the fax line. Guess they had some connectivity issues across the way.”
Darcy’s smile is slow and sweet as she unrolls the paper. “Keep this up and you might get a promotion, coffee boy.” She waves him off, spinning on her heel, and now the Russians are gaping at her.
“Call if you need anything,” Steve says affably, and pops outside, but not before he tips Bucky a wink. It’s hard not to laugh, so Bucky doesn’t bother with restraint. He only gets louder when he sees how offended the ambassador looks.
“There.” Darcy tosses the sheet before him. “We’ll be taking care of this more thoroughly later, but for now, this should take care of any obligation on your part. With this new information, I’m sure your associates will understand when you leave empty-handed.” She smirks. “Or not.”
For a long time, the ambassador looks at the array of materials in front of him, the spill of pieces so deceptively, meticulously planned. Bucky can’t stop grinning. “Very well, Mrs. America,” he says at last, rising to his feet, tucking the paper in his pocket. “For now, we go.”
The door opens again, and Bucky catches a flash of red-and-blue lurking in the hallway just before two women in sharp black suits fill the frame. “I wouldn’t go that far,” says Maria Hill, wearing her second-scariest expression according to the list Darcy and he had made last week.
Abigail Brand, whose green hair still makes him do a double-take when he passes her in the hall, adds, “In fact, I don’t think you’ll be going very far at all, gentlemen.”
Darcy pats Dmitriyev’s shoulder, even as he tries to shy away. “I’ll send you boys a wedding picture,” she promises, closing her briefcase with a quick snap. She’s all business when she looks over at him, but Bucky can still smell her lip gloss. “Mr. Barnes?”
“Ms. Lewis,” he says, and follows her out to where Steve waits.
* * * * * * * *
“So this is what they think?” he asks affably, like he’s not poised and ready to take her out, like he doesn’t know exactly where the five nearest likely locations for a firearm are in the building. “Send in the fluffy little co-ed, tame the beast with colors and sunshine? Did they even tell you who I am?”
“Did they tell you who I am?” she tries to deflect.
He snorts. “You’re disposable. A future blip in someone’s backstory. Poor girl, couldn’t save her in the end, was going to ask her for coffee someday.” He cuts her a dismissive glance. “You go on a lot of coffee dates.”
“I don’t have much choice,” she mutters, and he laughs even though he’s not amused. She, however, looks horrified.
“Little hipster honeypot, huh? Guess not everyone’s into redheads.” He pushes back from the table with a harsh scrape of metal, rises to his feet, running through the minute movements that equate to stretched and limber muscles. “They send you after the programming geeks most of the time, I bet.”
“Actually,” she blusters, “my boyfriend is just about your size.”
“Sure he is.” He leans across the table, invades her personal space. Her nose wrinkles but she stays seated. Too bad, it’s more fun when they run. “It’s a bit late to tell me how much I remind you of him, honey.”
“Not how you think,” she grits out when he moves in, close enough that he knows she can feel his breath on her cheek. “You mind backing off? Not to be rude, but you really have no clue what’s going on.”
“I know enough,” he says, and strikes.
Just as he suspects, the instant he lashes out the door bursts open. What he doesn’t expect to see is Captain America himself bursting in at full tilt. The shield arcs into the space between James and the girl with deadly force, and the best he can do this time is deflect it. However, it gives the agents who followed Steve in like a spill of puppies the time they need to pin him down, face on the table and arms pulled out to the sides.
All James wanted was the answer to a question, so the girl’s still standing. Hell, he barely touched her. No reason for Cap to treat her like a damn princess except–
Well. That’s interesting, he thinks as Steve pulls the girl close, laying a kiss atop her head as he wraps his arms around her. She’s rolling her eyes, but Bucky notices how she relaxes into his grip.
Then her gaze falls on Bucky, and it’s his second surprise of the day. Fear he recognizes, but there’s also determination the likes of which he hasn’t seen since the back alleys of Brooklyn (or a helicarrier plummeting to the ground). James realizes that this is it, the part where he goes away for good–Steve might be fond of his old pal, and he might be chock full of second chances, but even a saint would kill for a gal like that.
He closes his eyes but James had been trained to go in blind if need be, so he hears the rustle of clothes, Steve’s sharp whisper, her own quiet tones as she pulls away from her lover. Her boots march toward him, rubber on tile, stopping right next to the agent who’s pinning his weak arm. “Three things,” she says, and her voice is a bit husky but he’s pretty sure it’s not his fault since he made sure that damn scarf was in the way. “You listening?”
James bares his teeth. “Nyet.”
“Konechno,” she retorts, and he chuckles. The agents who are touching him tense, which shows they aren’t as dumb as they look. “I’m here because I want to be. I have never lied to you. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. And you need a shower.” She pauses. “Technically that’s four, but whatever, the point still stands.”
“That true?” James says, rolling his gaze upwards to meet Steve’s. Her finger flicks a precise point on his ear and Bucky can’t help it, he yelps. He’s not sure whether the shocked look on Steve’s face is because of Darcy or because of him.
“Chauvinist,” she murmurs, tart yet… genuine. “Oh, and my name is Darcy. Call me ‘honey’ again and you better be bringing me waffles, coffee, or my very own pony.”
* * * * * * * *
The plane runs out of fuel just past Allentown, Pennsylvania, and he wings the landing, setting down in a freshly-mowed hayfield and just barely avoiding the rows of trees that bracket it.
It’s pretty impressive flying. Tabitha, however, is not amused.
Within five minutes there’s a big-ass black plane hovering over the grass, thanks to Tony Stark’s ridiculous obsession with shiny toys and flying and, he’s willing to bet, Darcy’s willingness to break laws for her friends, especially when it’s “just” a little hacking. Down comes the hatch, and a flash of red hair catches his vision. “Don’t tell me this is some sort of Asgardian courting ritual,” Natasha’s droll voice carries past the high-pitched whir of the engines.
“Think I shoulda got flowers?” he calls back as Tabitha makes it damn hard to keep her contained. She’s a sassy dame for sure.
“Only so I could watch Sif beat you with them,” she retorts. “Hurry up, we need to leave.”
The Quinjet’s much faster than the duster, but not nearly as fun. Natasha doesn’t even ask, though, just looks at James with his goggles on his forehead and the way he strokes the pony’s trembling body, murmuring soothing words to it. He’s going to get a lecture on this from her tomorrow for sure–Sam and Barton too–but she knows when to keep quiet.
When they reach the Tower’s main hangar, Steve and Darcy are waiting, hand in hand by the door. The lights catch the glint of gold on her ring finger, turn the simple white of Steve’s T-shirt into a bright blaze, and he’s no expert but he’s pretty sure those kids are gonna make it. Darcy’s heart is big enough for Steve and anyone who comes along with him, and Steve’s always been good at knowing when to hold tight but knows when to let her go all-out (or just run forward) to help out a friend.
Her eyes go wide when she sees the sleeping pony at his side, the reason he stays seated. “Bucky,” she breathes, and at that tremble in her voice Steve is there in a flash, following her gaze. It was worth it for the look on the Captain’s face alone.
“Bucky, what the actual fuck,” he says, but Darcy starts to laugh, even before Bucky tips her a grin and says, “Honey, I’m home.”