Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m gonna have the biggest slice of chocolate cake that I can find.”

That was the thought going through Darcy’s mind when the elevator went ding, signaling her stop: one of the upper-level R&D floors of Stark Tower. She was tired, her throat was dry from all the talking, and she was hungry— really hungry; she’d only picked at her continental breakfast at the hotel earlier that morning, too frazzled by nerves to eat.

But she was happy, now. Couldn’t wait to celebrate.

It was already well past noon— late for their lunch— by the time she made it to the bio lab where Jane said she’d be working most of the day. It looked like all the other staff had already skedaddled; all of the desks up front were vacant. Kind of odd, really: in Darcy’s experience, lab people had a tendency to work straight through lunch, surviving on tanks of black coffee, microwaved leftovers, and protein bars.

She dumped her nice purse— the one she only used for interviews— and the heavy folder she’d been carrying, onto one of the less-cluttered tables, and headed over to the vestibule that granted access to the actual labs. Went through the first door and stopped to wash her hands and grab a pair of goggles, but didn’t put them on yet. Stepped through the next door and into the BSL-1 area.

“Jane?”

“Back here,” came the faint reply.

Darcy made her way around the corner, and spotted her friend at the bench all the way in the back. Just like up front, the rest of the lab was empty of other people; Jane was back there alone, in a white lab-coat and safety goggles, her dark brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was crouched down a little, peering at the nuclear-green contents of a large Erlenmeyer flask, which was sitting on the elevated platform of a digital hotplate. The flask was beginning to emit some fine wisps of opaque white smoke.

“Hey,” said Darcy, when she was close enough to speak in a normal voice. And then, bursting to share her news, she just blurted it out: “I did it: I got the job.”

There was no immediate response, but that was no surprise; she knew that Jane might not have even heard her. Should probably wait until her friend wasn’t in the middle of something. She slipped her own set of goggles onto her face, fitting them over her plastic-framed eyeglasses.

“So where is everyone?” she said, as she crouched down to get her own look at the stuff in the flask. “They having a taco special in the cafeteria or something?”

“Huh?” said Jane, without breaking her concentration. And then, after a moment: “I cleared everyone out for a bit. Probably unnecessary, but…”

“What is that stuff? Is it dangerous?”

“Not exactly,” said Jane. “More like…” Her words trailed off, forgotten, as she reached out to turn a dial on the hotplate, slightly lowering the temperature. The smoke coming from the flask immediately lessened, and she straightened up, apparently satisfied. She checked the temperature again, and then punched some numbers into the unit and flipped a switch. “What’re you doing here so early, anyway?” she said, finally turning her full attention to Darcy. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be done until around lunchtime.”

“It is lunchtime,” said Darcy, also straightening up. “I’m a little late, actually. Interview ran long.”

“How’d it go?” said Jane. She pulled off her goggles— apparently unconcerned about any vapors the mixture had left in the air— and pushed back a stray piece of hair that’d escaped her ponytail.

Darcy almost laughed as she pulled off her own goggles: amused, rather than offended, that—just as suspected— Jane had completely missed her announcement, earlier. It’d been such a long time since they’d worked together, that all the old, familiar behaviors, which might have irritated someone else, only stirred up a feeling of fondness in her— like a favorite but forgotten recipe, its memory brought back to life by an instantly-recognizable aroma...

“You feeling good about it?” pressed Jane. And then she frowned. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?” said Darcy, glancing down at her outfit. Sure, the knee-high dress-boots, pencil skirt, and tucked-in, silky blouse, buttoned up over an actual, from-the-lingerie-section camisole, weren’t exactly her go-to style, but she’d wanted to look professional. “Do you think I’m showing too much cleavage?” She plucked at the blouse, as she looked down at the neckline. It wasn’t that revealing, but then her figure wasn’t exactly… subtle.

“You know you don’t have to dress like that, right?” said Jane. “I mean, not in R&D at least.”

“Yeah, I know. It was just for the interview. Which, by the way, went great.” She paused dramatically, and then announced the news for the second time: “I got it,” she said. “I got the job.”

“Really?” said Jane, her face immediately lighting up, and when Darcy nodded— her expression breaking into a wide grin— their next move was automatic, the sharp smack of their high-five as satisfying as it’d ever been…

“So,” said Darcy, doing a happy little shimmy with her shoulders, once they’d lowered their hands. “Celebratory lunch? With extra dessert? I’m starving.”

“Crap,” said Jane, her smile flagging. “I wasn’t kidding; I seriously thought it was only like… ten o’clock or something.”

“You need a little more time?” said Darcy. “I can wait.”

“You just said you were starving,” said Jane.

“I’m not gonna die,” said Darcy. “As long as, you know, it’s not like… three hours or something.”

“You sure?” said Jane.

“Yup. I got a whole packet of Stark-Industries legalese to read through, anyway. I’ll just hang out up front until you’re done. No biggie.”

Jane relaxed, looking relieved, and then glanced back at the flask one more time. “I’m actually all done back here— just need to track down a few people, make a couple of calls, while the mixture rests.” She started pulling off her lab coat, and gestured toward the vestibule: “I’ll follow you out.”

“Is it okay if that stays on?” said Darcy doubtfully, looking back at the hotplate as they headed over to the airlock. “Unsupervised?”

“Oh, sure,” said Jane. “I just need to hold it at this temperature for a while. I don’t anticipate any issues. I’ve set it to shut down automatically if it gets too hot again.”

Technically, it was against safety protocols to leave something unattended like that, but if Jane was okay with it, then Darcy wasn’t worried. She punched the big circular button to open the door to the airlock, Jane hitting the one on the inside to close it, once they were both through. They got rid of their goggles and washed their hands, and then exited on the other side.

“So… I’ll just hang out here while you finish up,” said Darcy, pulling out a chair at the table.

“Okay,” said Jane. She was already heading toward the main entrance to the lab. “I shouldn’t be more than… twenty minutes? Forty, tops?”

“Yuh huh,” said Darcy, and then she grinned as she sat down. “So I’ll see you back here in an hour.”

“Hardee-har-har,” said Jane, but she paused at the door. “Hey,” she said, and her voice was different now: almost serious.

“Yeah?” said Darcy, looking up.

“I’m so glad you got the job.” She took a moment, and then added, almost shyly, “I missed you.”

“Likewise,” said Darcy— took a few seconds to enjoy the genuine warmth between them— and then made a shooing gesture with her hand. “Now go— do your thing. Sooner you finish, the sooner we can go pig out.”

“Okay, okay,” said Jane. She was halfway out the door when she turned around again. “Don’t, uh… don’t touch anything, all right?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know the rules.”

“Right,” said Jane, though she didn’t look entirely convinced.

“Go on,” said Darcy, as she scooted up her chair a little. “I mean it; go. I’m just gonna sit here and read. Promise.”

“Okay,” said Jane. “Be back as soon as I can.”

The stack of paperwork from HR was significant. They’d sent it to her electronically— “for your lawyer,” the woman had said, and Darcy had nodded, like, yeah, sure… my lawyer— and when Darcy had asked for a hard copy (she didn’t have her own printer, either), the woman had given her a look, but had obliged; had vanished for almost ten minutes, and then returned with what looked like a couple hundred pages of paper with a heavy-duty binder clip holding it together. Plunked it down on the desk.

“There you go.”

Darcy looked at it for a second and said, “Don’t suppose you’ve got an envelope, or…”

Another look— but the lady swiveled in her task-chair and opened a drawer; pulled out a big manila mailer, and dropped it on top of the stack.

“Thanks,” said Darcy, gathering it all up, and then added, apologetically, “Didn’t want to lose any of it; it’s a long subway ride back to the fleabag I’m staying in.” It was a lie— SI had actually put her up in the fancy hotel right next door— but she was sick of this woman’s attitude.

The woman, whose stack of business cards on her desk said her name was Allison, had finally softened, then. “No problem.” And then: “They’ll want an answer by the…” She glanced at her computer screen. “The tenth.”

“Yeah, it’s not gonna take that long,” said Darcy, as she opened up the mailer and made room in it for the stack of papers.

“Great,” said Allison. “Oh, just so you know: once you return the contracts, it may take up to twenty-four hours for the signing bonus to be wired to your account.”

Darcy had looked up then, halfway through sliding the stack into the envelope. “Signing bonus.”

“They didn’t tell you?” she said, looking surprised, and then she actually smiled, like a regular human being. “Well. You’re in for a nice surprise, then.” She gestured to the envelope. “Section three-point-nine,” she said, helpfully.

It’d taken all of Darcy’s willpower not to pull the paper back out of the envelope and look it up right then and there, in HR, but she hadn’t wanted to look that desperate in front of Allison… or the people in the hallway, or the elevator…

Now, alone in the lab, Darcy finally flipped through the papers, going straight to section three-point-nine. The number— the signing bonus— wasn’t hard to find; it was right there in the middle of the page, in boldface.

Darcy stared at the number. Read it again, just to make sure she hadn’t had some kind of brain-fart…

And then she pulled her phone out of her purse and made a quick phone call, leaving a message for the property manager she’d spoken to the day before, even though a one-bedroom had seemed like a long-shot at the time.

And then, because there was nobody in the room to complain, she opened up her Spotify and scrolled down to her Dance Like Nobody’s Watching playlist. Paired her phone with the front of the lab's speakers, and then cranked it up, feeling even better when Curtis Mayfield started singing Move on Up…

She flipped to the beginning of the HR packet, her body already moving to the music— lips pursed as her head bobbed to the rhythm, her ass already wiggling in her seat— and then gave up after two sentences and pushed the papers away; she was way too keyed-up to read. And her stomach was growling.

She checked the time, on her phone— knew Jane was gonna be a while, no matter what she’d said. She turned the music up even louder. Reached back and unfastened the uncomfortable clip that had been holding her thick hair back for the interview, feeling some instant relief as soon as it was free. Pushed her chair back from the table and got up; left her stuff on the table while she grooved her way over to the little coffee-break room attached to the lab, knowing there’d be some free snacks in there.

She’d just have a little bite of something, to tide herself over. Listen to some music. Chill.

Six-and-a-half minutes later, she was headed back to her chair, stirring a steaming-hot styrofoam container of chicken-flavored Cup O’ Noodles: ramen to the rescue.

She was about to sit back down, when something caught her eye: a yellow light, above the vestibule door, that hadn’t been there before. It was a warning light: something in the environment that needed attention.

Hmm. Jane’s experiment? But she’d said it was set to shut off automatically, if it overheated.

She looked at the yellow light again. Better check, just in case.

She was already through the other side of the vestibule, skipping the goggles in her haste to see what was going on, when she realized she still had her ramen in her left hand. Damn. There wouldn’t be any serious bio-hazards back here, in the level-1 lab, but she wasn’t about to take her chances. The noodles would have to be dumped.

As she made her way past the empty benches, she began to pick up a strange smell, and it wasn’t coming from her noodle-cup. It was acrid and chemical— a something-is-definitely-burning smell.

Oh boy.

She could see it from a several yards away: the flask, which was definitely smoking again— and not only that, but the color of the liquid had changed: from nuclear green, to a deep blue-violet. What the fresh hell did that mean? And why hadn’t the hotplate shut itself off?

The smoke was increasing— becoming more voluminous, even as it seemed to thicken; if the smoke got any worse, it was going to trip the sprinkler system: a disaster waiting to happen.

She should really do something. Turn off the hotplate, for starters. And yet Jane had been adamant: don’t touch anything.

As she stood there, trying to decide what to do, the liquid began to change color again— right in front of her eyes: fading from the deep blue-violet to a softer lilac, and then to a pale, watery blue— until, in what seemed like only a matter of seconds, it had become completely colorless.

Yeah, this was definitely not good: there was some kind of major chemical reaction going on. Something unexpected. And as much as Darcy wanted to heed her friend’s admonition, she was pretty sure that Jane hadn’t counted on any of this happening.

Fuck it: she had little choice, under the circumstances; needed to do what she could, to prevent what could potentially be a much bigger problem. Safety first.

Decision made, she set it all in motion: was stepping forward, reaching out with her free hand to turn off the hotplate...

And then it all went south.

Later, when it was all over, she would blame it on the boots. Those stupid dress boots, with their stupid high heels, which she wasn’t used to...

One of the heels got caught on the hump of some taped-down cabling on the floor— made her stumble— which was bad news for the Cup O’ Noodles. Unfortunately for Darcy, she overcompensated in her attempt to keep it from sloshing forward onto the experiment, and wound up dumping most of the steaming-hot chicken broth, and all of the noodles, straight down the front of her body.

“Shit!”

She didn’t even think; reacted instinctively: dropped the cup entirely— it was pretty much empty now, anyway— and yanked the silky-wet fabric of her blouse away from her body, so it wouldn’t burn her skin... and in the process, bumped into the still-smoking flask with her elbow, tipping it right off the stand it’d been balanced on. Over it went, right onto the floor, where it shattered on impact, right next to the pile of spilled noodles.

“Oh, criminy,” she said, quickly stepping back— but then just as quickly stepped forward again, to turn off the hotplate, before she could forget. And then looked down at the mess by her feet.

God, Jane was gonna kill her. She couldn't even try to mitigate the situation by cleaning up; she had no idea what that stuff could do— what kind of precautions she needed to take. Only thing to do now, was own up to it: go call Jane, and tell her what’d happened. Make sure nobody else went into the lab, in the meantime.

She brushed off the few wet noodles still clinging to her soaked blouse, and then turned to go…

Or at least, she tried to. Her right foot was stuck: wouldn’t move.

She looked down, confused. Tried to move her foot again, but it was no good: the sole of her boot seemed to be fused to the floor, like it’d been nailed there.

“What the—”

She peered at the boot, and then pulled up with her leg once more, trying to free herself. Had a brief moment of panic when she realized that whatever had been in that flask— Jane’s mystery substance, which, now being colorless, was almost invisible— had spread out from the point of impact… and that her right boot was definitely within the radius of the expanding puddle.

She said it out loud this time: "Oh boy.”

She reminded herself to remain calm. Pulled up on the boot again— hard— but it didn’t budge. She found herself thinking about that old, silly, TV ad for Krazy Glue: the one with the construction worker who’d glued the top of his hard-hat to a steel I-beam, and was just hanging there in mid-air, legs swinging freely.

It’d never made much sense, that ad. She could accept the glue gripping the hard-hat easily enough, but what was keeping the hat on the guy’s head? Surely his tenuous finger-grip on the thin plastic edges of the hat wouldn’t be enough to support his entire weight…

At least the memory gave her an idea: her boot may have been stuck, but her actual foot, inside the boot, wasn’t. She’d just slip her foot out of the boot, and voilà: freedom.

Steadying herself with her right hand on the bench and her left foot safely outside the range of the spill, she tried to wiggle and lift her right leg out of the trapped boot. Unfortunately, the boot was such a good fit— firmly encasing both her foot and her calf— that it wasn’t going to give her up easily.

She carefully reached down with her left hand— planning to grasp onto the ankle and hold it steady, to see if that would help— and immediately realized her mistake, when her fingertips touched something wet on the suede.

“It’s just chicken broth,” was the fleeting voice of optimism that sparked in her thoughts, only to be dashed a split second later, when she tried to pull her hand away.

It was stuck.

Some of the mystery liquid must have splashed up onto her boots, when the flask shattered on the floor.

“Well, that’s just great,” she said. She was now positioned in a rather uncomfortable pose, not to mention an undignified one: half-folded over, ass in the air, her legs bent just enough to be uncomfortable— the angle unsustainable. Her long, loose hair was hanging down, the ends of it dangerously close to the sticky floor…

She pictured it for a second: the rescue people cutting several inches of her hair off on one side, to free that part of her, but then shaking their heads when they got to her hand, still fused to the boot. “Sorry,” they’d say. “Can’t exactly cut off your fingers, now, can we?”

She imagined her hand forever stuck to the boot, even after they cut the sole of it away from the floor. “Yep, that’s me,” she would say, when people’s eyes went to the boot on her desk, still connected to her hand. “Boot-hand Lewis.”

She let go of the bench with her right hand— made sure she had her balance— and reached for her hair, gathering up as much as she could, one-handed, so that she could hold it up away from the floor.

Her knees were already starting to hurt.

“Hey!” she yelled, even though she knew she was very much alone, and that it was unlikely she could be heard through the airlock, even if anyone was walking by the lab. She yelled it anyway. “Anyone?”

She wasn’t expecting an answer, so she actually flinched when a voice drifted down from above— a female voice, with a soothing neutrality about it: “Are you in need of assistance?”

Right: the AI. Darcy had no idea what this one was called; she’d lost track. “Uh, yeah,” she said. “I need you to get a hold of Jane. Jane Foster.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “Doctor Foster is not in the building.”

“What?”

“I said, Doctor Foster is not—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Darcy, cutting her off. “I know what you said; I’m just—” She winced, trying to shift a little. Her hamstrings were starting to shake, from the awkward position. She tried experimenting with a half-squat, but that was worse; straightened up again, to the other position, still holding onto her hair.

“Are you injured?” inquired the AI, politely. “Should I alert the medical staff?”

“Um… not yet,” said Darcy. She was still hoping to avoid an incident report; if she could just get Jane here, she knew they could deal with it on their own. Probably. “Did you try Jane’s phone?” she said. “Can you even do that?”

Another pause. “I’m sorry, but Doctor Foster isn’t responding. Would you like me to leave her a message?”

“Fuck,” she said emphatically, to no-one in particular, and then, quickly, pitching her voice louder, for the AI: “That’s not the message. I’m just… I’m thinking…”

“Of course,” said the AI, patiently.

“Are there any other techs around?” Darcy said hopefully. “Like... who’s that one guy. The one with the long hair and the tortoiseshell glasses?”

“I’m terribly sorry, miss, but you’ll need to be more specific. There are several members of staff who meet that description.”

“Really?” said Darcy. “Huh. Well, are any of them nearby?”

“There are currently no bio-lab staff nearby.”

Right— because Jane had told them all to go away.

“Well, who’s the closest?”

“There are seven technicians in the fifty-eighth-floor cafeteria, two in the mid-level fitness suite, four in the underground parking, one in the ladies’ locker room, and the remainder are off-site. Would you like me to notify one of them of your… situation?”

“Um… I guess if…” She was spinning her mental rolodex, trying to think of someone else she could ask for, but was coming up blank— had been out of the loop for too long. “Is there anyone else around? On this floor? Or close? Maybe someone… I dunno. Strong? I think I’m gonna need someone smart, or strong, or both.”

“Mister Stark has just entered the easternmost elevator outside his workshop, three floors above you, and has selected the penthouse lounge as his destination. Would you like me to halt his ascent?”

“God, no. Don’t do that. Isn’t there anyone else?”

“Mister Barnes is exiting the men’s restroom on the southeast side of the workshop level. He is currently the most proximal individual with enhanced strength.”

“Barnes?” said Darcy, ignoring everything else the woman had said. “You mean… Bucky Barnes?”

“Yes, miss. He seems to be heading toward the elevators now. Would you like me to request his assistance?”

She actually thought about it for five whole seconds. Of all the people…

She’d had a very secret, long-distance crush on Mr. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes for some time— pretty much ever since he’d come back to New York, following his rehabilitation in Wakanda. He’d been big news for a while, but she’d never had the pleasure of meeting him in person— never thought she’d have the opportunity to, even with her connections. But now that she actually had her chance, she wasn’t so sure she wanted it. There was no dignity in this situation…

“Miss?”

“Sorry, I…” She was still hesitating, but it was pretty clear: the choices were shitty, shittier, and shittiest. Shittiest being Mr. Stark finding out. She considered the remaining options, and decided that Bucky Barnes getting a nice look at her ass wasn’t the worst thing that could happen in her life.

“You know what?” she said finally. “Yes. Yes, please. Tell, uh… tell Mister Barnes that, uh… that—” God, what should she say? What would make it less embarrassing?

“If I may suggest, miss, I can simply advise Mr. Barnes that his unique capabilities would be of great assistance, if he’s not otherwise engaged.”

“Yeah,” said Darcy, grateful that Stark’s computer was programmed in the art of casual bullshitting. “That sounds good. Do it.”

“Right away, miss.”

There was a longer pause this time, and Darcy felt her heart pounding a little, waiting for the answer. Part of her was almost hoping for a “Mister Barnes sends his regrets, but…”

She was already trying to come up with a contingency plan, when the AI startled her again, with its way of speaking up without any warning:

“I’ve notified him; he’s on his way.”

“Oh. Okay. Uh… good. That’s good.”

“In the meantime, would you still like me to leave a message on Doctor Foster’s mobile device?”

“Jesus, yes! I thought you already had.”

“I apologize, miss, but you never gave me your desired message.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Okay, um… tell her that I accidentally… no, wait— scratch that; don’t tell her anything specific. Just… let her know that she’s needed back in the lab, pronto.”

“Understood, Miss…” This time, the artificial voice inflected the word in such a way that Darcy could actually hear the ellipses at the end of the phrase: clearly fishing for her surname. It was the most human thing the AI had done in the conversation, other than the bullshitting.

“Lewis,” she said feebly, praying she hadn’t just doomed herself: going on record as a promise-breaker, a protocol-transgressor, and a plain-old klutz, on the property of her new employer— and she hadn’t even signed the contracts yet.

“Thank you, Miss Lewis. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

She briefly considered pleading with the machine: asking it to keep this on the down-low. And then realized how much more embarrassed she’d be, if that got out.

Ah, well. May as well own it. Everyone was gonna find out, anyway.

“Yeah,” she said, finally answering. “Call me Darcy.”

Chapter Text

Bucky was rolling his shoulder on the metal side as he exited the men’s room— still feeling out the improved action of the plates near his underarm, post tune-up. He'd put it off for too long, and was glad he'd finally made time to stop by and see Stark.

He'd come up to the bank of elevators and was just reaching out to push the ‘down’ button, when a woman’s voice started speaking to him out of nowhere, like an invisible angel. He actually yanked his hand back, thinking for a split second that it was the elevator talking to him, before he realized it was just the Tower’s latest AI.

"Pardon my intrusion, Mister Barnes,” it said, “but a request has been made for your assistance, if you have the time.”

“What is it,” he said warily. “Someone need me to lift something?”

It happened: when you were a known super-soldier, you were as likely to be asked to help someone move heavy furniture, as you were to be recruited for a multinational covert op.

The AI seemed to sidestep the question: “You are currently the most conveniently located to assist,” it said. “But if you are unable or unwilling to—”

“Is it serious?” he broke in. “Someone hurt?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” it said, which was an odd sort of answer for a machine. “Miss Lewis is in need of… an extra hand, in bio-lab seven.”

"Miss Lewis," he said, repeating the name back. “Don't know who that is.” He paused, one hand on his hip, considering it. “I don't know how much help I'll be in a lab,” he confessed. “Isn’t there anyone more qualified around?”

"It's not that kind of assistance,” said the voice, smoothly. "The lady in question is... well, she seems to be, for lack of a better word… stuck.”

“Stuck."

"Yes. Quite literally. She requested the assistance of somebody, quote, ‘smart, or strong, or both’.”

He chuckled at that. “Can’t make any promises about bein’ smart,” he said. “But yeah, I guess I got the time. What floor is that on?”

“Bio-lab seven is now on floor seventy-six.”

Three floors down. “Is it urgent?” he asked, wondering if he should just take the stairs.

“Hard to say, sir. The lady does seem to be… uncomfortable, but has declined my offer to alert medical.”

“Probably more a case of bruised pride, than bones, then,” he muttered, as he reached out to tap the ‘down’ button. The light above the right-most set of doors almost immediately lit up with a ding.

“Sir?

“Nothing,” he said, as he headed toward the opening doors. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

He’d followed the signs to the labs, and as he turned the corner to the hallway he needed, he thought he could hear music, faintly (if you could call it that; it was mostly just a beat: something modern, pulsing, insistent.) He hated that stuff; it was like a condensed bout of high blood pressure, via the radio. Not that anyone still used radios…

He could tell he was getting closer to the beat, as he went past a long row of doors— checking the brushed-metal signs along the way— until he found the one marked ‘BL-07’. He took a moment to peer through the long, fixed-frame window next to the door, but didn’t see anything unusual inside.

He pushed the door open, and was immediately assaulted by the full force of the music. Couldn’t help being impressed by the sound-dampening that’d been built into the place; that window had to be made of some kind of high-grade laminated glass.

The music was oppressive, distracting; and though it was coming from all around him, Bucky’d gotten familiar enough with modern electronics— Bluetooth and all that— to suspect that the actual source was something more personal.

Sure enough, he spotted a smartphone lying face-up on a table, next to a sleek, burgundy-leather purse, and a thick stack of papers. It looked as though someone had gotten up for a moment, but hadn’t planned to be away for long; left their valuables just sitting there.

He picked up the phone— confirmed that it was outputting data from some music app— and tapped the ‘pause’ button on the screen, cutting the music off. In the sudden silence, he set the phone carefully back down on the table, and made another quick scan of the room: no sign of life anywhere.

“Anyone in here?” he called out.

There was another door in the back— some kind of controlled-access point— and an open doorway off the main room, past a bunch of computer desks. He was about to go check the doorway, when he heard something: a far-off human voice, coming from somewhere behind him.

“I’m back here!” it said. "In the lab!”

He could barely make it out— probably more reinforced glass in the way— but faint as it was, he could tell she was yelling it.

“You gotta go through the— the thing.”

Based on that very vague description, he was guessing she meant the serious-looking door in the back, so he jogged over to check it out. It was covered with all kinds of colorful stickers and signs: warnings about potential bio-hazards, safety regulations, and emergency procedures. He ignored all of that, punching the big round button to the right of it, and stepped through once it opened. Inside was a contained area, with a hand-washing station on one side, and cabinets with protective equipment— gloves and goggles and face-shields— on the other. He ignored all of that as well; went straight over to the next door and pushed the button for that one.

This time, nothing happened— but he noticed a light above the door, glowing red. He swiveled around and found the button to close the first door, sealing himself in. The light was green now, and after pushing the button again and stepping through, he was finally in the lab-proper.

It was like any other lab he’d ever seen: rows of benches and workstations, cluttered with equipment; task chairs and rolling stools; sinks and cabinets and shelves and all kinds of stuff that he didn’t know the names for, all under the glare of painfully-bright lights. It looked like a place that should be bustling with activity, but this area seemed to be just as deserted as the other.

“Where you at?” he called out.

“Back here!”

She was close; he followed the direction of her voice, past the workstations and around a corner— and then he could see her. She was all the way in the back, by a bench that was covered with a mess of mad-scientist-looking stuff: some kind of experiment-in-progress.

She didn’t look like a scientist. No lab coat, no protective clothing of any kind— at least not that he could see. She was bent over double, facing away from him— seemed to be grabbing onto the ankle of one of her boots, while her other hand held a thick hank of her long brown hair, which was dangling toward the floor from her upside-down head. She was looking back at him through the space between her legs, below the hem of her skirt, through a pair of plastic-framed glasses that had slipped off the bridge of her nose a bit, toward her forehead.

He was a little bit confused: couldn’t see what the problem was: why she needed his help. Unless she’d thrown out her back or something…

“Hey,” he said, as he walked toward her. “You all right? You hurt?”

"I'm fine," she said. "I mean, not fine— this is super uncomfortable— but I'm not hurt. Though I have a feeling I'm gonna need a professional massage after this.”

Now that he was closer, he could see that there was some kind of mess on the floor, by her feet. Broken glass. A styrofoam cup, and… were those noodles?

“Don’t get too close,” she warned, as he neared her.

He couldn’t see why, but did as she said— stopping about six feet short of her position— and then realized maybe she was afraid of him: afraid of the arm. He did his best not to sound menacing. “The, uh… the AI lady said you needed someone strong.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I need someone to push my glasses back up my nose.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” she said dryly. “Look, I don't really know how to explain it, but… this stuff I’m standing in, it’s… I’m stuck. Glued to the floor.”

“Glued,” he said, skeptically. “How—” And then he had a sudden thought, and sighed, exasperated. “Okay, you can drop the act.” He put his hands on his hips and glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if he was being filmed. “Barton put you up to this?”

“What? No!” She sounded a little pissed off, now. “I’m totally serious. I can't get up. I tried to pull my leg out of my boot, but—”

“Whattya mean, you can’t,” he said, stepping closer. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was planning to do; maybe just pick her up, and—

“You better keep your distance,” she said. “Or find something to stand on, or—”

“Here, lemme just— can you grab on, or—” He was holding out his metal hand, still not entirely sure what he was was trying to avoid: the broken glass wasn’t even near him— not that he was actually intimidated by it.

“Can’t,” she said, and gestured with the handful of hair. “Can’t let go— don’t want my hair to fall into it.”

"I mean your other hand," he said. "You can let go of the boot, now.”

”Uh, no; actually, I can’t.”

"What?" he said, getting impatient now— ready to just haul her up and get out of there. “All right, I’m gonna—”

"No, don’t—" she started to say, her voice rising, as he moved in close to get her, but it was already too late. “… step in it," she finished, feebly.

“Step in what?” he said, irritated. “I’m gonna get you outa here. Just hold still, all right? I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He was butted up against her now—leaned over a little, so he could wrap his metal arm around her waist, from behind… and then he tried to lift his right foot.

“What the hell?” he said, as he released her. Looked down at the boot as he tried to lift it again.

“Told you,” she said, and then she sighed. “I guess we’re both gonna die in here— and in a ridiculously compromising position— all because someone didn’t believe me.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he said. He tried his left foot: that one was still okay, so he put it back where it’d been. “Pardon my hand,” he said, as he steadied himself by resting his left hand on her hip; “This’ll only take a second.”

He pulled up on the stuck boot— really gave it a good yank— but it was no good: it wouldn’t budge. “Okay, I see what you mean,” he said, grudgingly, as he dropped his hand.

“You believe me now?” she said, her voice floating up to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. And, uh… sorry for the, you know. Familiarity.” He was doing his best not to bump into her ass again, but it was difficult; there was only about an inch between her rear and the front of his jeans. He decided that not calling any more attention to it was the best way to go, as he glanced around their immediate area, looking for anything he could use.

“So,” he said. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Something spilled,” she said.

He waited for more of an explanation, but she didn’t elaborate.

“What kind of something?”

“Well, it used to be green, and then it was purple, and now—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I mean, what the hell is it? Some kinda chemical?”

"I wish I knew," she said. “It’s something Jane was working on.”

"Jane. You mean Doctor Foster?" He’d never met the woman, but he’d heard plenty about her; she was some kind of genius.

“Yeah. She's an old friend of mine. I used to work for her.”

"And you got no idea what this stuff is?”

"Nope," she said. "I only just got into town a few days ago, so I don't know what she's been up to lately." She paused and then added, "She said it wasn’t dangerous. Probably.”

"Probably?" he said. He was still tugging on the boot, hoping he wouldn’t have to resort to crouching down to unlace it, which would be tricky under the circumstances. Or maybe… if he held onto her hair for her, maybe she could do it for him, with her free hand. Might take a while, but…

He gave it one more try: yanked up extra hard, not caring if he wound up ripping off a piece of the floor in the process.

It was a mistake: not only did he fail to free himself, but the momentum caused most of his weight to rock into her, knocking her over like they were a couple of dominoes. His own body followed, his metal hand shooting out instinctively to break his fall, the palm of it slapping into the floor, hard. Where it immediately stuck.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” he said, taking stock of their new position: she was half on her side, beneath him, while he braced the full weight of his body about a foot-and-a-half over hers, willing himself not to fall completely on top of her. His metal palm was planted just to the left of her waistline, while his remaining free extremities— left foot, right hand— were hovering in the air. His right ankle was being forced into an uncomfortable angle, with that foot still stuck flat in the boot.

“Good going, Baryshnikov,” she said, and then she smothered a bit of a laugh. “How long can you hold a plank?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” he said, his voice clipped, as he looked back at his right foot. He noticed, then, that the tumble had freed her from her own boot, at least; it was standing up straight on the floor, empty. “You all right?” he said. “I thought your hand was stuck.”

“It was.” She lifted her left arm, which was free, so that she could show him her hand, which had a jagged scrap of suede stuck to the fingertips.

“Ah, shit,” he said. “Hope those weren’t expensive.”

“Well, they weren’t cheap,” she said, shifting herself a little. Her right leg— the bootless one, now just covered by some kind of hosiery— was definitely stuck to the floor, on its side, while her other leg— stacked on top of it— appeared to be free. The skirt afforded her some leeway, allowing her to move her hips as much as the stuck-down leg would allow. “I’m just glad it was the leather that tore, and not my fingers.”

“Right,” he said, and then pressed his lips together— turned his head to the side, not wanting to breathe on her, and exhaled through his nose.

“You doing okay there?” she said.

“Yup,” he lied. “You?”

“Peachy,” she said. “Though my hips don’t really wanna go this way.” She shifted again— as much as she could, with some of her hair stuck to the floor— until she was mostly on her back. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind where to rest the leg that was still free. Finally she sighed and said, “Screw it; I’m just gonna commit”—stretched out the leg, letting it rest flat on the floor— and let out a long breath, like it was a relief. “At least I can relax a little now,” she said, and then she grinned, looking up at him. “And the view is a lot nicer, too.”

It took him a second, but then he realized what she was saying, and it threw him off a little. Was she… flirting with him? Or just fucking with him.

Now that he could really see her face, he was struck by how pretty she was. Not too young for him, either, like a lot of the women he’d seen around the Tower. She had big, full lips, touched with a blush of red, and a slight gap between her front teeth that somehow made her more attractive, rather than the opposite. He’d already noticed her figure: curves in all the right places. Hell, if he’d met her under better circumstances, he might have even had the balls to ask her out.

This was kinda weird, though. The way they’d wound up positioned together on the floor was awkward, to say the least. Maybe even a little salacious, considering they’d just met. It made him want to apologize again, but instead he just turned his head again, avoiding her eyes. He was still balancing on only one foot, one hand. He supposed it was lucky it’d been his metal hand to get stuck; it could support his weight a hell of a lot longer.

“You doing okay?” she asked again. “That can’t be comfortable. Even if you’ve got, like, abs of steel.”

“It’s not too bad,” he said. “If I could just… change the way my ankle’s goin’…”

“Would it help if you just… let go?” she said. “Put your other foot down. Or your hand.”

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe.”

“It’s not like we’re playing Twister or anything,” she said. “There’s no prize for being the last one to fall.”

“I hate to say it, but I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s a game,” she said. “Like… a party game. There’s a spinner, and a floor-mat with big colored dots, and you have to put your hands and feet on the matching circles…”

“Sounds kinda stupid,” he said. “People really play this game?”

“I mean, it’s mostly just for kids,” she said. “Or, you know, horny teenagers. An excuse to get all tangled up, in a way you’d never have the balls to do otherwise…”

That made him chuckle. She was kind of sassy— had a mouth on her. It would have put him more at ease, if he hadn’t been trying so hard not to fall on her. “Don’t need a game for that,” he said. “That’s what they invented dancin’ for. And dancin’s gotta be better than… whatever you called it.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it,” she said, and when he met her eyes for a moment, he saw that hers were twinkling up at him, through her glasses. She grinned at him again. “I’d totally play Twister with you, if you were game for it.”

The way she said it— like some kind of innuendo— made something stir in him... and he found himself wondering if she was still talking about the party game. And then he checked himself: Jesus. Get your mind outa the gutter, Barnes. In spite of how it might have looked to any theoretical bystanders, now was not the time, or the place…

He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, looking away again. “Sorry. For, you know… makin’ this worse than it already was.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” she said, but her tone had changed a little— lost a bit of the playfulness that’d been there before. “Guess it was your bad luck to be around today, huh.”

“Guess so,” he said, even though he wasn’t feeling that way at all. It’d been a while since someone had flirted with him— even longer since he'd wanted anyone to; he’d forgotten how good it felt. Made him want to return the favor. But they had to get out of this situation first— and then, maybe, if she didn’t take off right away, he could assess whether she’d actually wanna spend time with him— if she weren’t literally stuck, with no choice in the matter.

"Any idea when your boss is supposed to get back?"

"She's not my boss," she said. "Not anymore. But... I think she said twenty minutes? Forty, maybe? So... translating that from Jane-speak, I’d guesstimate maybe an hour? Hour-and-a-half?"

"Jesus," he said, averting his eyes again. "Guess it's a good thing I made a pit-stop before comin' here."

"Oh God," she said. "I didn't even think about that."

He chuckled a little, then. "Sorry for bringin' it up.” And then, “I’m gonna try something,” he said. “See if I can get into a better position. Don’t know if it’s a good idea, but… I’d be lyin’ if I said this was workin’ for me.”

“Hey, go for it,” she said. “You may as well get comfortable— or try to; I think we’re stuck here alone until Jane gets back.” She raised her voice then, pitching it to be heard beyond their immediate vicinity: “Unless that stupid AI can track down someone else who knows how to deal with this stuff…”

The AI spoke up instantly, startling them both: a reminder that technically, they weren’t alone. “If you like,” it said, “I can attempt to access Doctor Foster’s digital notes, and run an analysis on the substance.”

The woman almost snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that,” she said, still addressing the AI. “Unless Jane’s gotten a whole lot better about transcribing her own notes. But, you know, knock yourself out.”

I would still be happy to request Mr. Stark’s assistance, if you—”

“No!”

They’d said it together, in unison, and now they were both laughing a little.

“Well,” she said. “At least we’re in agreement on that. I’m Darcy, by the way. Darcy Lewis.”

“Bucky,” he said, looking down at her. “Bucky Barnes.”

That smile of hers was dazzling.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Now that Darcy was lying mostly on her back, and had a very up-close-and-personal view of her unwitting companion, she could see that he was even better-looking in person than he was in his pictures, which was… painful? But also thrilling.

No: not thrilling; more like… mouthwatering. It was like being on a strict no-sugar diet, and seeing the most amazing-looking dessert being delivered to the table next to you in a five-star restaurant— knowing you couldn’t personally partake, but feeling privileged just to get a look at such artistry.

It wasn’t that she was selling herself short; Darcy was perfectly confident in herself. But the Bucky Barnes of the twenty-first century— unlike his 1940s counterpart— was famously not in the market. He’d been tight-lipped with the press as to why; whenever they managed to corner him for a statement at some Avengers’ event— bugging him about his personal life— he’d made it pretty clear that dating was not on his list of priorities.

Still, a girl could dream…

She was doing her best to play it cool, in spite of her mental drooling— didn’t want to harass the guy. But man… this was just unfair— like some kind of god-level test of one’s self-control— because in spite of his attempts not to crowd her, she was literally being soaked in a sensory bath of Eau de Barnes.

She could feel the warmth of his breath; hear the rumble of his words in his throat... the whir of the plates in his metal arm, adjusting and settling. And he smelled good: some undeniably-masculine blend of machinery and soap— oil for his arm, maybe, along with a touch of detergent, from his simple, black T-shirt— and something else: clean, but spicy— like cedarwood. She wanted to huff it; get high on it.

And then there was the way he was holding himself above her: the sheer focus required…

The quiet concentration, as he held himself steady, with just one foot, one hand, and the strength of his core. All of that solid deliciousness, practically draping over her— just inches away from her stretched-out body. I mean, come on…

She truly hadn’t meant to flirt with him so openly. God— that crack about playing Twister with him…

He’d closed off a little, after that. And yet he’d chuckled a couple times, too; seemed to enjoy her snark. She couldn’t get a solid read on him. Almost like he wanted to join in, but something was holding him back. Maybe he’d relax a little more, once he gave up on that ridiculous (but very sexy) super-plank.

“So,” she said, “You gonna do your thing? Get comfy? Or did you come up with some diabolical plan in the last thirty seconds, to get us out of here.”

“No plan,” he said. “Other than tryin’ to get my ankle outa that boot.”

“You want me to push you over?” she said. “It worked for me.”

“Not a good idea,” he said, as though she’d been serious. “If I land wrong, it’s not gonna go well for you.”

“You can’t be that heavy,” she said. “Even with all that muscle. What are you, one-eighty? One-eighty-five?”

“Two-sixty,” he said. “Last time I checked.”

“Good lord,” she said, impressed. “Where’re you hiding it? In an alternate dimension?”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s the arm.”

“But I thought the arm— this one, at least— was made of vibranium. How the heck is it adding so much—”

“You been readin’ up on me or somethin’?”

“No,” she said, failing to sound convincing. “I mean… that’s just common knowledge.”

“Yeah, well, less-common knowledge is that there’re all kinds of alloys, depending on the application. And anyway, there’s a lot more to it than just a bunch of shiny plates.”

“Right,” she said.

“And then there’s all the rest of it…”

“The rest of it,” she said, not understanding.

“Inside. You can’t see it, but it’s there. Structural stuff, to support the arm. So it doesn’t, you know… rip right offa me. And that stuff— that’s heavier. Pre-Wakanda.”

It was a euphemistic way of saying Hydra-spec, so she figured it was time to change the subject, but he beat her to it: “Anyway, I’m gettin’ tired: probably best if I try to put a knee down, or…”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Go for it.” And then, considering his options, based on the way her legs were arranged: “You gonna go left? Or right.”

“Right, I guess,” he said. And then, “Wait— your right? Or mine.”

“Whatever works for you,” she said. “I don’t really see how you can go right, though. Your right, I mean. Unless you wanna end up with pretzel-legs.”

“Yeah…”

He still wasn’t moving, though, and if she could hazard a guess, she’d bet he was struggling with some kind of etiquette thing: if he put his knee down on her right, he’d basically be straddling her— dissolving any possibility of pretending that they weren’t miming a close-encounter of the intimate kind…

“You could go middle,” she said. “There’s room.” It was true: with her right leg slightly bent, it left a gap between her legs that a knee could fit into just fine.

He seemed to consider it. “I wouldn’t wanna wreck your skirt,” he said doubtfully.

“I think we’re past that,” she said. “I don’t know how Jane’s gonna get us out of this, but I’m guessing my outfit’s gonna be a casualty, no matter what.”

He still seemed hesitant— maybe just using the skirt as an excuse— so she started to tug at the fabric with her fingertips, trying to bunch it up above her knees.

“What’re you doin’?” he said, uneasily.

“Getting my skirt out of the way, so you can get this over with, and relax.” And then she couldn’t help teasing him a little, for his apprehension. “What, are your old-fashioned eyes gonna burn out, if you catch a glimpse of my thighs? Don’t worry, grandpa; I’ve got tights on…”

He didn’t respond to that, so she gave him an out: “Seriously, you can just put it on the skirt, if it makes you that uncomfortable. I swear, I don’t mind. Maybe you won’t even stick, with the fabric in between you and the floor.”

“With all my weight pressin’ down on it? Unlikely. That shit’ll probably soak through, an’ then I’ll be stuck to you, and the floor.”

“Well, make up your mind,” she said, still holding onto the bunched-up fabric. “Up? Or down. It’s not that big a deal.”

He turned his face to the side again, exhaling through his nose. “Fine,” he said, and began to move; drew his left knee up, but then paused: “Last chance…”

“Hey, you were the one who said I was gonna get squashed like a grape, if you fall. I guess I’ll take my chances with the perverts monitoring the security cameras getting the wrong idea about us.”

“Yeah, all right.”

He was just starting to lower the knee, when she barked out a command: “Wait!

“What is it,” he said, freezing. “You okay?”

“What about your boot?” she said. “I mean, aren’t you gonna have the same problem, if you’re like… kneeling on that side? How’s your boot gonna bend like that?”

“Shit,” he said, after thinking about it for a second. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“You think you can get it off? With your free hand?”

“Maybe.”

He tried it: moved his leg up again, keeping his calf parallel to the floor, which allowed him to reach down with his right hand— diagonally between them— to tug up on the leg of his jeans, exposing the knot on his hi-top leather boot. It took him a while, doing it by feel alone, but he managed to get the double-knot undone. Took a quick break— still maintaining the plank— and then reached down again; quickly loosened all the laces one-by-one— teetering a little in the process— until he was able to slip his stockinged-foot completely out of the boot, which he tossed aside, out of range of the spill.

“Yes!” she said.

“It’s not that exciting,” he said, but he was smiling at her enthusiasm.

“Hey, we gotta get our kicks where we can.” She grabbed onto the skirt fabric again— holding it up, out of the way: “So let’s try this again: get that knee over here.”

This time he didn’t hover or hesitate; just lowered his left knee all the way down, into the space between her legs, allowing the entire front of his calf to touch the floor, followed by the front of his sock-covered foot.

“Better?” she said, but she already knew the answer, by the way he shut his eyes and let out a breath.

“Much,” he said, opening his eyes. He was basically just kneeling now, with most of his weight supported by his left limbs, his right leg extended back: like someone doing a simple calf-stretch before a workout. He had access to a far greater range of motion now, and he wasted no time taking advantage of it: rotated his upper body sideways, reaching his right arm up toward the ceiling, which gave him a good stretch through the ribs.

Naturally, her eyes weren’t at all drawn to the strip of skin that was exposed by his T-shirt pulling up. She could see the dark line of hair that traced down from his belly-button, to disappear below the waistband of his jeans. She caught herself staring, and averted her eyes, before he could catch her...

“I ain’t afraid o’ thighs,” he said dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on his right hand while he held the stretch. There was a pause, and then: “Kinda the opposite.”

“Oh really,” she said, as she looked up at his profile, and she was pleased to see him crack a smile then, in spite of himself.

“So what’s the verdict?” she said. “How’s that ankle now?”

He released the stretch, returning to a more neutral position. “Pretty much the same,” he said. “But I think I can—” He reached his free hand back again— this time, straight down the line of his extended leg; found he could just reach the top-most laces on the stuck boot. “Yeah,” he said, relaxing his arm. “Might be able to get that one off, too. Gonna take some time, but…”

“Well, that we have,” she said. “Gotta pass it somehow.” She grinned a little, still basking in his comment about thighs. “Or, you know, you could tell me all of your deepest secrets.” Like when you plan to start dating again, she thought— but kept that part to herself. “It’s gonna happen, anyway,” she said. “When all of our personal boundaries break down, after hours of captivity together.”

"Hours," he said, playing along, as he reached back to start working on the knot.

“Yup,” she said. She was watching his profile, his head turned to extend his reach. God, he was pretty. He had a nice jaw. Little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, when he smiled. “You may as well just spill your guts now,” she teased. “Your secrets are safe with me.” And then she added, with mock-formality, “What happens in bio-lab seven, stays in bio-lab seven. I mean, other than the pervs spying on us on the feed, but—”

“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

She had no idea what he meant by that— for all she knew, he was planning to talk to them politely— but she couldn’t deny that it turned her on, regardless…

“Anyway,” he said, “sounds like you already know all my secrets. I’m the one should be gathering intel. Like, how do you know Foster, anyway? You use to work here or somethin’?”

“Not here,” she said, pleased beyond measure that he wanted ‘intel’ on her, even in a joking way. "Me and Jane go way back. Before she met Thor, even." She paused, for effect. "I was there, you know. When she met him. I zapped him with my Taser."

"No kiddin’," he said. He stopped working the knot long enough to look back at her— saw that she was serious. "Do I wanna know how that turned out?"

"Oh, it was fine," she said. “He’s super nice. Didn’t hold a grudge. He didn’t have his super-powers then, because his dad put him in, like, Time Out on Earth. So when I gave him the full whammy, it knocked him out, just like any normal guy. Well, any normal guy with an insanely buff, thirst-worthy body…”

He went back to working the knot, but he was grinning again. “Thirst-worthy, huh?”

"Yeah, you know— all muscly and strong and—” Her cheeks pinked a little. “Never mind.”

He didn’t drop it though, his voice teasing: “You’re sweet on him, huh?”

“God, no,” she said, as though the idea were ludicrous. “I would never— he and Jane— No. I mean, even if they weren’t… he’s like a brother or something. Ew. No way.”

“Uh huh,” he said, and he was grinning a little. “I can tell you’re real disgusted by him.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she said, good-naturedly. “I do not have the hots for Thor.” After a second: “I mean, not anymore.” And then, in a deliberately-obvious swerve, “Say, how’s that boot coming along?”

“It’s comin’,” he said. “Sorta.” He paused for a second, resting his arm. “Can’t reach the lower laces to loosen ‘em up.”

“Well, I have full confidence in you,” she said.

“You oughta,” he said. “I’m pretty good at tyin’ and untyin’ shoes.” He reached back again. “S’why they give me the big jobs…”

She giggled— happy that the laces weren’t the only thing loosening up…

“So if you don’t work here…” he said, going back to the other topic.

“I was here for a job interview, actually. I mean, not here here. Same overall department; different floor.”

“An interview, huh? How’d it go?”

"Apparently, I knocked it out of the park,” she said proudly. “Didn’t even make me wait for the offer.”

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," she said. “I just hope I haven’t screwed it up.”

“Why would you screw it up?” he said. He took another break— rotated his right shoulder a few times, like it was getting stiff.

“I mean, this mess here isn’t exactly a great way to start off my employee record at Stark Industries.”

“Ah, it’ll be fine,” he said. “You got any idea the kinda shit Tony pulls around here?”

“I can guess,” she said. “But that’s different. He’s Tony-fricking-Stark. I’m just… nobody. A replaceable cog.”

“I highly doubt that,” he said, as he got back to work. He’d said it without a trace of snark, and something about it warmed her inside…

"So," she said. "What about you?"

“What about me. Seems like you already read the wiki, so—”

“I mean… what brings you to the Nerd Wing?"

"I was summoned here by the lady in the ceiling, remember?”

"No, I mean…"

"I knew what you meant," he said. "What makes you think I ain't a nerd myself?”

She almost snorted. “Guys like you are kinda… out-of-place in the Nerd Wing.”

He laughed a little at that. “Not sure I wanna know what that means, but I’m guessin’ it’s an insult.”

She made a scoffing sound. “You kidding? Far from it.”

“Oh yeah? So what’d you mean? ‘Guys like you’…”

She realized she’d walked into a trap of her own making, but she was getting to the point where she didn’t really give a fuck. Still, she almost said it shyly: “You know. Thirst-worthy.”

She was aware of her heart beating, as she waited for his response. Would he close off again?

She didn’t have to wait long; he glanced back at her, his hand still working the boot, and winked at her. “Could say the same about you, dollface.”

For once she was speechless, and before she could muster any kind of reply, he sighed and relaxed his arm, and said, “Think this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

“Huh?”

“The boot. Don’t think it’s gonna get any looser; still can’t reach the bottom rows…”

“Oh— right: the boot.” Her brain was a little scrambled. “Well, give it a whirl anyway; why not.”

He gave his foot an experimental tug, and then reached for the boot again, trying to loosen it up just a little bit more.

“Hey, you never answered my question,” she said, as he worked. “What brought you to R&D? Shouldn’t you be off bench-pressing a zillion-pound stack of weights or something? Or polishing your gun?”

He smirked back at her a second, a twinkle in his eye: “Already did that today.”

She couldn’t help laughing: "Well, okay then." She honest-to-God hadn’t meant it like that, but she loved that he’d actually gone there...

He answered her seriously, then: “Nothin’ major. Just gettin’ a tune-up on the arm. Been havin’ some issues with some of the plates not slidin’ smoothly like they’re supposed to.”

"Everything worked out okay, I hope.”

"Yeah, it's fine now. Just hope this future-glue, or whatever it is, hasn’t messed up my hand.”

“Oh, man… I didn’t even…” She actually got worried for a second. “You’re not gonna sue Jane, are you? If your hand needs a— a refit?”

“Nah,” he said. “Wouldn’t do that.” He looked back at her again, with another one of those cheeky smiles. “I’ll sue Stark.”

She laughed again: who knew the former Winter Soldier had such a snarky sense of humor? She was enjoying him so much, it was almost going to be a disappointment when they got out of this mess, and he had no reason to talk to her anymore.

“So,” she said. “You ready to give it try yet? Wouldn’t want you needing a refit on your ankle, too.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, giving up on the rest of the laces.

“Where’re you gonna put it?” she said. “Your foot, I mean. If you get it out.”

“I dunno,” he said, looking around. “Seems like it’s gonna get stuck, no matter what.”

“True, but at least it’ll be stuck at a better angle.”

He gestured to the right of her— on the other side of her straightened-out leg. “Somewhere over here, I guess.” He was planning it out; visualizing it. “Maybe if I bend at the knee, and put my foot flat on the ground…” He reached up and idly scratched at his neck, just below his ear. “Guess it’s worth a try.”

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” she said, doing her best impression of a nine-hundred-year-old Jedi, and then immediately regretted it. God, could she be any bigger of a dork?

“Star Trek, right?” he said, to her surprise, and then immediately corrected himself: “Wars, I mean. Star Wars.”

“Oooh, you dodged a bullet there, Mister,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

“’Nother one of my talents,” he said. And then, “All right, Yoda; here goes…”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, not more than ten seconds later, as he gritted his teeth in pain, and tried to freeze anything that wasn’t already touching the floor. “You okay?”

“Are you? she said, through barely-stifled laughter.

He’d failed to free himself from the boot at first, when he was going slow— his foot barely even moving inside the stiff leather— and Darcy had joked, “If at first you don’t succeed, do it the Lewis Way: with force and violence.”

He’d taken her advice— had tugged on his trapped foot, hard: once… twice…

“C’mon, God dammit…”

The third time did it. His foot popped out of the boot with as much force as he’d put into it, which meant he didn’t have any time to calmly position his freed limb as he’d planned; the right side of his body simply surged forward like it’d been fired out of a slingshot, his momentum stopped only by the limbs already fused to the floor.

He narrowly avoided landing right on top of her: managed to twist just enough for his elbow and thigh to hit the floor to the right of her, which meant that her left knee, which was bonier than he’d have figured, got him right in the balls.

She wasn’t answering his question— ‘you okay?’— but she seemed to be just fine, judging by her reaction to the new situation. She was still laughing— breathlessly saying, “I’m sorry— I’m sorry”— but the more she tried to stop laughing, the worse it got.

He was pretty much straddling her left leg now; managed to shift his hips a little— though the position was still less than ideal, as far as his junk went. Even more mortifying was the fact that his final position had situated his face about eight inches away from her bosom, and there was really nowhere else to look. He felt like a cad.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to turn his face away, even though it hurt his neck. He could at least try not to stare right into her cleavage. “God’s sake, I—”

“You know if you wanted to ask me out,” she said, still trying to calm her laughter, “there are subtler ways…”

“Fuck’s sake,” he said. He could feel his face heating up. “I swear I didn't try to—”

“You know, you’re pretty cute when you blush,” she said. She was finally calming down: took a deep, shuddering breath in, and then blew it out, slowly. “Oh, man. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. I’m like, crying…”

“Guess I’m lucky you got a sense of humor about this.”

“You don’t?”

“Not really," he said. "Hate to say it, but this is even worse than how it was before.”

She sobered up quickly. “Oh, shit— really? What’s hurting now?”

He didn’t mention his nuts— figured she didn’t need to hear about that, if she hadn’t already figured out which part of him had rammed into her knee— but admitted that keeping his neck like that for another ten minutes— much less an hour, if it really came to that— was gonna be a challenge.

“God, don’t kill yourself,” she said. “Just go ahead and rest on the girls. I’m not gonna sue you. I know you didn’t… engineer this.”

“Fuck, no,” he said. “I ain’t about to—”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Take a load off. You’re stressing me out.”

He closed his eyes again and let out a breath. “Okay, fine. But I wanna state for the record that this isn't me tryin' to…"

"To what?" she said. "Play Twister with me?”

He relaxed a little, his face softening. ”Yeah, that. Don’t want you thinkin’ I’m some kinda creep, takin’ advantage of—”

“Don’t sweat it,” she said, and then she raised her voice to speak to the AI: “You hear that?” she called out. “Bucky Barnes has my express permission to use my boobies as a head-cushion.” She dropped her voice again, speaking to no-one in particular: “You know, that’s not a bad slogan. I should have T-shirts made.”

"Aw, Christ," he said, but he was finally laughing a little. “All right; lemme—” He did the best he could to get a little more comfortable first, knowing he probably wasn’t gonna have much more leeway to move again, once he committed, and then carefully, gingerly, lowered his head so that he was resting against her chest, his cheek pressed into her softness. And as awkward as the situation was, he had to admit: it was pretty damn comfortable.

“I swear to God,” he said. “If this turns out to be some kinda— if Barton’s filming this—”

"Aw, he wouldn't do that," she said.

She could feel him chuckle against her body. "You ever spend more’n five minutes with the guy?"

“Hey, if it turns out Barton set this all up, I’ll beat him up myself,” she said, even though, privately, she felt the exact opposite would be in order: maybe a lifetime subscription to the dessert-of-the-month club.

“Promise you’ll let me know if I get too heavy?” he said.

“Cross my heart. How’s your neck now? And the ankle: better?”

"Yeah," he said. "Definitely better. Thanks.”

"My pleasure," she said, automatically, and then almost laughed again because it honestly was, more than he could know. If she’d been able to move her arms, she would’ve been tempted to card her fingers through his hair…

“Why do I keep smellin’…” He paused. “I’m probably just losin’ my marbles, but I could swear somethin’ smells like… chicken-noodle soup.”

“Uh… yeah,” she said. ”That would be me. Sorry. I, uh... I spilled my ramen. Mostly on myself, like a total klutz. That's how I got into this whole mess in the first place.”

“Ah, it's all right,” he said. “Just... not what I was expecting.”

"Oh yeah? What were you expecting? Baby powder and flowers?”

"Shit, I dunno," he said, laughing a little again. “Women still wear perfume, don’t they?”

“Sure,” she said. “I put some on this morning, but I guess it got washed out by the Eau de Ramen.” She paused, and then: “What’s yours? Auto-Body Essence for Men?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair," he said, chuckling.

“Didn’t say it was bad,” she clarified.

“You’re probably smellin’ the stuff Stark was usin’ on the arm, earlier. And, uh… aftershave, I guess.”

“Ah, that’s the woodsy note I detected earlier,” she said, and then felt a little embarrassed that she’d admitted to already taking a hit of his scent. “It’s nice,” she added.

There was an awkward pause then— like they were both feeling the heightened state of intimacy, inadvertently generated by the new arrangement. At least the impossibility of eye-contact now made it a bit easier than it would have been otherwise. Talking like this— sending their words out into the air, instead of directly toward one another— had that feeling of a sleepover: everyone laid out on the floor in the pitch-black, divulging their truths to the faceless void— safe to share one’s secrets, when nobody could see you.

“So,” he said— the first to break the silence. “If we'd, uh... if we'd met under less crazy circumstances…” He paused and then pressed on: “What if I had asked you out.”

She couldn't help smiling, even though he couldn’t see it. "You mean like... a hypothetical-type thing?”

"Sure," he said. “Hypothetical.”

“Well," she said. "Hypothetically, I would have said yes. In a heartbeat.”

Chapter Text

She was grateful that he didn’t make it weird, after her oops-not-a-joke admission that she would basically drop whatever she was doing, at a moment’s notice, to go out on the town with him.

Maybe it helped that things were already beyond weird. The entire situation was so ridiculous, that entertaining a scenario that would normally seem banana-balls (Darcy Lewis— an unknown, D-list-at-best tech nerd— dating New York’s hottest ex-assassin introvert) didn’t sound so far-fetched. In theory, at least.

In any case, she was glad he didn’t leave her statement hanging in the air, which would have given it far too much weight for what had been, so far, just the right balance of friendly banter, and test-the-waters flirting. His voice floated back up to her, from where his head still rested comfortably against her chest.

"So what, uh— hypothetically-speakin’— do twenty-first-century girls like to do?”

Before she could answer, he quickly amended his choice of words: “Women, I mean.” And then, “Sorry; old habits.”

“It’s okay,” she said, amused by his attempt to be politically correct. “I’m not gonna cite you for language crimes.”

He chuckled a little. “Yeah, well. Word of advice: don’t ever call Romanoff a ‘girl’. Woman’ll rearrange your spleen.”

She laughed at that, making his head jiggle against her chest. “Is there a story there? Because that sounds… entertaining. No offense.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “I ain’t that stupid.” Another pause. “So…”

“Yeah, I’m still thinking about it.” She let out a long breath. “What do women like to do…” It was an impossible question; too many variables. “Do you mean in general? Or…”

“No, I—” She felt him try to shift his hips a little; her leg was probably cutting off the circulation to his thigh. “I meant… for a date. I, uh… I haven’t exactly been too social— ‘least not when it’s been optional. But from what I seen, I get the impression it ain’t quite the same as it used to be. You don’t even have dance halls anymore…”

“Sure we do,” she said. “Only we don't call them that.”

“Oh yeah? What do you call ‘em.”

“Clubs? I guess?” She snickered a little. “It sounds stupid now: like some group of lonely singles with a shared love for jigsaw puzzles; meet up every Wednesday night with their matching tote-bags…”

“That’s not what you’re talkin’ about?” he teased, making her giggle. And then, more seriously: “I know what a club is. It ain’t the same as a dance hall. There’s a lot more drinkin’ involved, for one thing. In clubs, I mean.”

“Okay, fine: it’s not exactly the same, but it serves the same purpose, right?”

“Which would be…”

“You know. To dance, mingle, blow off some steam. Scope out the hotties. It’s not really a date thing, though. More like something you do with friends, or maybe if you're looking for a hookup, or..."

"A hookup," he said, a little uncertainly. "Is that like... a drug thing?"

"No," she said, laughing a little. God, he was cute. “It’s, um… it’s a sex thing."

"Right," he said. "Got it.” And then, moving right along: “So: no dancin'. Not for a date, anyhow. So then…"

"Jeez, I dunno," she said. “You kind of put me on the spot. I’m not exactly the spokesperson for twenty-first-century singles, you know.”

“No? Why’s that.”

“I mean… I’ve been told that I’m not... typical."

"Wouldn't think so," he said, and something about the way he’d said it made her smile.

“Anyway, my point is, I can't speak for anyone but myself.”

"Fair enough," he said. They were both quiet for a minute, and then he spoke up again. “So tell me, then... what would Darcy Lewis wanna do?”

There was something intimate about it: his using her name like that. It felt like something had shifted: like it’d been his turn to drop the safety of banter momentarily, and it threw her for a second. Was he implying that this date might actually happen at some point?

She supposed it didn't really matter; she could answer him honestly, whether it was real or not.

"Something low-stress, I guess. Nothing too fancy. I don't want to have to worry if I'm dressed right, or put-together enough for— " She stopped herself, not wanting to blow it by sounding insecure. But now that she was actually thinking about it— even hypothetically— she realized that stepping out with a bonafide (if reluctant) celebrity might have consequences she wasn’t prepared for. Would people follow them? Try to take their picture? Splash unflattering shots of them all over the pages of some seedy tabloid, with speculations about their relationship? From what she already knew of him, it didn’t seem like he would want that, either.

“How would that even work?” she said. “I mean… can you even do regular things around town without, you know, the press bugging the shit out of you?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, easily. And then explained: “I ain’t no Steve Rogers, you know; people aren’t wearin’ my face on their shirts or givin’ their kids toys that look like me. S’long as I put on a ball-cap and cover up my arm, nobody’s gonna recognize me.”

I would, she thought, but she didn’t say so. “Okay then, so… hm.” She gave it serious thought, finally. “Maybe a movie? Coffee, afterwards? Could you do something like that, without blowing your cover?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds all right.” She could feel him take in a deep breath. “Man… been a long time since I been to the pictures.”

“Well, then we definitely gotta go,” she said, and she meant it sincerely— even if they just went as friends; it sounded like the guy was way too shut-in for his own good.

“All right then; it’s a plan,” he said, and it kind of threw her again: were they still joking? Or had they just agreed to an actual date?

“So: movie and coffee,” he said— not clearing it up at all. “Anything else?”

“Hell, yeah,” she said, grinning. “If this is a real date, then I expect to be walked all the way to my door, afterwards. Could be my only chance to go out with a real-live dude from the past, with old-timey manners. I mean… unless the night’s a real dud, and I jump in a cab the first chance I get.”

“Ouch,” he said, but she could tell by the sound of his voice that he was grinning. “And what if it ain’t a dud?”

“Well, then there may or may not be some awkward groping outside my hotel-room door,” she said.

She was expecting some kind of chuckle for that, but instead he almost sounded disappointed: “So you ain’t local, huh.” Before she could answer, he said, “How’s that gonna work? With your new job, I mean. You gonna commute every day?” And then he lowered his voice, teasing again: “You ain’t from Jersey, are you?”

"Hey," she said. "I happen to know some completely stand-up human beings who live in West Orange. Okay, one. And actually, she doesn’t live there any more, but—”

"I'm kiddin'," he said, but he was chuckling again.

"Yeah, I know."

"So you ain't from Jersey," he said. "Where ‘bouts—"

"I was in Ohio for a while," she said. "Finishing up my degree. But I was looking at a place in Bay Ridge, yesterday. A few blocks from the R. It’d be about an hour, one way, and it’s tiny, but… I can actually afford it, which is kind of shocking.”

“Brooklyn, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “If, you know, I'm not still glued to the floor for another eight hours, and they rent it to someone else."

"Hey, don't you worry about that," he said. "If Foster doesn't show up soon, I’ll—”

She never found out what he was going to say, because he was interrupted by the distinct sound of the airlock opening and shutting in the distance, followed by the sound of footfalls, coming toward them through the lab. Just a few seconds later, Jane rounded the corner, and quickly skidded to a stop, a safe distance away from them.

“About time,” said Darcy.

"What the hell happened?" said Jane, managing to sound incensed, even as she struggled to catch her breath— had obviously been running a good distance. “For God's sake, I told you not to touch—“

"It was smoking!" Darcy shouted, making Bucky wince: his right ear was less than a foot away from her mouth, completely exposed to her verbal assault. She lowered her voice a notch, while still attempting to defend herself. “I thought the sprinklers were gonna go off, and wreck all the equipment— not to mention land your ass in a whole crap-load of paperwork, and possibly some kind of disciplinary action, for leaving that shit unattended. You should be thanking me!"

"Uh, no," said Jane, emphatically. "There was literally no danger of it setting off the alarms, and if you would’ve just trusted my—” She cut herself off abruptly, as though it’d only just sunk in that her friend was tangled up on the floor with a metal-armed super-soldier. “Um. Do you guys need... help?"

"Yeah, no," said Darcy, sarcastically. "It's all good. We're completely fine; this is just our life now." She could feel Bucky snicker at that, which got her going too, making his head jiggle against her body again…

"Is that ramen?" said Jane. "Wait a sec. Are you guys actually.... stuck?"

“Whatever gave you that idea? Bucky here was just showing me some new wrestling moves, and—”

"Oh my God, so it actually works?" said Jane, ignoring Darcy's snark; her anger was quickly morphing into simmering excitement. "This screw-up could be the best thing to happen to me in month," she said. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

"Uh... if you mean that you've invented a new and embarrassing way to meet someone, then... yes?"

"This is going to save me mountains of paperwork," said Jane, breathlessly. "Months of waiting for approval from the ethics and safety committees, clearing the way for the human test-subjects, and—”

Bucky finally spoke up, his voice clipped: "Test subjects. Are you tellin' me this stuff is dangerous? Is Darcy in any kinda—”

"No, no," said Jane. "Nothing dangerous. I mean... probably not. If nothing's happened to you guys so far, then..." She was already stepping backwards, away from them. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"You're joking, right?" said Darcy, her voice rising again, but her friend had already high-tailed it, vanishing around the corner. "Jane?!?"

They could still hear her voice, getting fainter as she got further away: "I just gotta make some quick calls... round up some people to take notes... I'll be back, I promise… fifteen, twenty minutes..."

The last thing they heard, before the airlock opened and closed again, was "Thirty, tops…"

"Hey!" yelled Bucky, but there was no reply; the woman was already gone. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

"Actually, it's... entirely believable," said Darcy.

"Your friend is…"

"Yeah, I know," said Darcy. "It's part of her charm, though.”

"I'll take your word for it," he said. He took a breath and let it out. "She is comin' back, though... right?”

“Sick of me already, huh?” she joked, and then, "Don't answer that. And yeah, she'll be back. You heard how excited she was. It'll probably only take, oh... triple the time she estimated.”

"Triple," he said. "You mean we could be here another hour? Christ, maybe we should take our chances; get Stark down here, or—"

"Trust me; if she doesn't come back in half an hour, I'll be calling for Stark myself, consequences be damned. I'm not gonna make it any longer than that.”

"You all right?" he asked, and she could feel him trying to twist his head so he could get a look at her, but it was no good. "You promised me you'd tell me, if I got too—"

"No, no— it's not that," she said. "I'm fine. I mean, you're fine, where you are. Don't worry.”

"So then—"

"Nothing; never mind. Less said about it, the better." She could feel him trying to adjust his hips a little. "What about you? You doing okay there, Buckster?”

"Fine," he said, but she could hear the slight strain in his voice.

"You don't sound fine.”

"And you're not tellin' me what's bothering you, so…"

"Nope," she said. "Too embarrassing.”

He breathed out, and then winced, trying to shift his hips again. "Sweetheart, I got my cheek pressed into your, uh... bosom, and your knee's been diggin' into my left nut for the past twenty minutes. I think we're a little ways past ‘embarrassing’.”

"Oh God, I'm sorry," she said, immediately trying to move her knee, her thigh, anything— and then stopped when he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Probably better if you, uh... don't move your knee at all, at this point," he said, and when she burst out laughing again, he joined her…

"God," she said, and then held her breath, trying to control it. “Fuck, don't make me laugh."

"You gonna tell me what's so embarrassing now? Can't be any worse than—"

“Okay, fine," she said. "You know how I fell over? When you—"

"Don't remind me," he said.

"I think I ripped out the entire ass of my skirt, in the process.”

“Is that all?" he said.

"And I have to pee," she said— giving him the real answer. “Badly. Like, we’re getting into seriously dangerous territory, here. I only had about five cups of coffee before lunch…”

He started laughing again, which got her going again too, grimacing and protesting her way through it: “No— God... don't do that. I'm serious… Bucky, stop…”

One hour and twenty-two minutes later, Bucky was sitting shirtless on the paper-covered cushion of an examination bench in medical, grudgingly holding still while the on-call doctor— a thirty-something guy with a short, high-fade afro and stylish, horn-rimmed glasses— took his vitals and a sample of his blood for analysis.

Bucky had removed his T-shirt, knowing Foster would be by for it eventually— leaving him in his stocking-feet and the plain, white-woven boxer-shorts he'd put on that morning. Like the T-shirt, his jeans had survived the solvent that Doctor Foster had used to release them from the floor, but she'd asked him to hand the denim over immediately, for analysis. She’d wanted the T-shirt, too, but when he'd given her a sour look, she'd rolled her eyes and told him he could just leave it in medical, and she’d collect it later.

Foster had assured them that the solvent shouldn't harm their skin; it was designed to attack only a specific type of bacteria— which, along with a secret ingredient she’d brought back from Asgard— was the most important component of the glue… but there'd been that caveat of hers again: ‘probably’. So Bucky had insisted on being the guinea pig: had her swab the flesh of his arm with a concentrated form of the solvent, before trying even a tiny drop of the dilute version on Darcy.

His skin was still a little red, in the patch where she’d tested the concentrate, but it was nothing that wouldn’t heal before the end of the day. His metal hand was fine: no worse for wear.

Darcy, for her part, had had no patience for the tests— had insisted that she was willing to take her chances with some temporary dermatitis: that the bigger problem she was facing was her dire need to pee. Foster had finally agreed, when, after twenty minutes, Bucky's skin showed only mild irritation— but not before she secured a promise from Darcy to hold out until she made it to medical, so she could pee in a cup: providing Jane with yet another sample to analyze.

The doctor had just finished sealing the third and final vial of blood from Bucky’s arm— giving him the routine (if unnecessary) cotton ball to press against the puncture point— when they heard the muffled sound of a toilet flushing, and then a sink running. About ten seconds later, Darcy emerged from the little bathroom off to the side, looking far more relaxed than she'd been upon arrival.

She'd lost the majority of her clothing, too: she'd been right about her skirt ripping up the back, and her delicate, silky blouse hadn't fared as well as Bucky’s cotton and denim— had torn in several places, in her haste to sit up, once Jane had freed her hair. She was now dressed in an extra-large, poly-cotton lab coat that Jane had procured for her, which served as a boxy sort of shirt-dress on her petite, but curvy, frame.

"Oh my God," she said, to nobody in particular, as she drifted slowly over to the exam bench. "That was the most satisfying pee of my entire life.” And then, to the doctor, “I left the cup in the little door thingie.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’m just about done with Mr. Barnes, so I’ll be ready for you in a minute.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I’m just gonna chill and enjoy the simple bliss of not having to—”

She stopped— feeling like she’d been hit with a shovel— when the doctor moved out of the way to stow the vials of blood, and she realized that Bucky was just sitting there in his boxer shorts. She’d been too agonized over her exploding bladder earlier, to fully appreciate his stripping off his jeans in the lab, but now she could see his entire upper body, too: his muscles, the full length of his metal arm... everything. Well, almost everything.

“Hoo, boy,” she said, averting her eyes—not wanting, but also very much wanting, to stare. “Give a girl a warning…”

“Ah, jeez,” he said, misinterpreting her reaction. “Sorry. So used to bein’ in the field, where nobody gives a shit; didn’t even think…”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. Hey, if he was comfortable being practically naked, who was she to discourage him? “I was just… caught off guard, and—” She stopped herself there, before she could say anything truly stupid; fixed her eyes squarely on the doctor, for her own sanity.

“So,” she said. “How’s it looking? Are we gonna melt? Break out in suppurating pustules? Give it to me straight, doc.”

The guy laughed, enjoying her sense of humor. “Nah,” he said. “So far, so good. Mr. Barnes is pretty much clear to go, and I’ll release you too, once I get some blood and re-check your vitals. He’d just turned to grab a stack of papers from the counter behind him, when Bucky slid his ass off the exam bench and made a beeline for the exit, clearly intending to leave.

“I gotta do something,” he said brusquely, as he pushed his way out the door.

"Hey!" called the doctor, pointlessly. “I’m not done with you yet!" He shook his head, and dropped the papers back onto the counter. “Avengers,” he muttered. He puffed out a breath and then snapped back into professional mode, giving her a friendly smile. “All right, Miss….”

“Lewis.”

“Lewis, right,” he said, and gestured politely to the exam bench. ”Take a seat."

She hopped up onto the crinkly paper; pushed up a sleeve on the baggy lab coat so that he could slip the blood-pressure cuff onto her arm.

“So,” he said, conversationally, as he pumped up the cuff. “You think he's coming back?"

"Beats me," she said. “Maybe I made him self-conscious about his attire. Or… lack thereof.”

She was trying to sound nonchalant— but inside, she was already riding the disappointment. The realization that this was it: the anticlimactic ending to her weird and wonderful, inaugural encounter with James Buchanan Barnes. She’d been almost certain there, towards the end of their time on the floor together, that there’d been some real chemistry happening— something just as exciting as whatever Jane had cooked up in that Erlenmeyer flask. But now, with the way he’d just left like that, without so much as a ‘see you around’…

Oh well. It'd been good while it lasted. At least she had some nice memories for bed-time fantasies...

She sifted through a few of them right then, while the doctor finished up his exam and took the blood samples he needed for his tests. She was a million miles away— remembering the feel of Bucky’s cheek pressed into her boob, the sound of his laughing at her stupid jokes— when the doctor’s voice startled her back into the present.

"All right," he said, turning to put some identifying stickers on the vials. “If you could just verify your information…”

He waited while she checked the stickers— verified her name and date of birth— and then he turned and stowed the vials carefully in a rack, before grabbing the stack of papers he’d picked up before. He divided the stack into two, individually-stapled sets, and handed her one of them. It was thick— thirty pages, at least— and had Jane’s name and credentials printed at the top of the first page.

"I can give you yours, at least," he said. "Doctor Foster would like you to keep a log of some basic data, for the next seventy-two hours. Temperature, appetite, sleep patterns, mood— that sort of thing. You have a decent thermometer?"

"Yeah," said Darcy, as she flipped through the first few pages, skimming the text. There were pre-printed tables to fill out, annoying questions to answer. "Do I need to be... worried? I thought you said we were okay…”

“From my understanding, these logs were prepared earlier, for her… well, her eventual test-subjects, I guess, so she figured she may as well follow through with collecting the data, even if the, uh... experiment wasn't intentional or controlled."

"Uh huh," she said, flipping through a few more pages, and then sighed. What a pain in the ass. Maybe that was why Bucky had skedaddled; he probably got saddled with this kind of crap all the time.

"All right then," said the doc. "I'm releasing you, with the understanding that you notify me immediately, if you notice any unusual or… unnerving symptoms."

Just then, the main door pushed open, causing them both to look over: it was Bucky, returned from wherever, still clad in his just his boxer shorts. "Oh good,” he said. “You're still here.” And then, to the doctor, "What's this about... symptoms? She all right?"

“While I can’t give you any guarantees, of course, I have no clear cause for concern at this time," said the doctor— one of those carefully-worded, I-accept-no-liability-for-someone-else's-fuckup, kind of statements— “But you should notify me, or another on-call physician immediately, if you experience anything unusual.”

Bucky folded his arms over his chest. "Unusual, like..."

"Oh, you know," said the doctor absently, as he turned to tap the spacebar on his keyboard, checking on something. “Chills, rash, blurred vision… dizziness, swelling, vomiting, loss of consciousness. The usual stuff. ” He clicked on another screen. "Looks like I have a broken arm to set next door, so... if you have no further questions or concerns..." He straightened up and grabbed the other set of papers; held them out to Bucky. "Here's your log," he said. He pulled off his blue nitrile gloves and tossed them into a trash, and headed over to the connecting door that led to another exam room. "You two okay to see yourselves out?"

"Sure thing, doc," said Darcy.

Bucky was silent— was paging through the packet, skimming it like she’d done. The doctor nodded to them, and then pushed through the door, leaving them alone in the quiet little room, which suddenly seemed a lot smaller, though there were fewer people in it.

He was just inches away from her, paging through the packet. She could smell him: the same mix as before, with a dash of sweat added in— and she was still doing her best to ignore it: not just his scent, but the general landscape. All that skin. The arm. The contours of his muscles; the pattern of his body hair. She could see his nipples, for God's sake. Bucky Barnes' nipples had not been on her list of expected sightings that day, and she’d been in no way prepared for it.

"Please tell me this is optional," said Bucky, as he flipped to another page, oblivious of the power generated by his naked man-boobs.

“I mean... I doubt it'd be illegal not to do it?" said Darcy. “Like, I’m sure you could make a case that you never agreed to participate, and therefore you’re not bound by any contract to provide any personal data, blah blah blah. But I should warn you: you really don't want Jane bugging you about data for the next six months. She can be… persistent.”

"Dunno," he said, looking down again. ”I'd say it's a toss-up, lookin' at these questions."

"Where'd you go, anyway?" she said. "Before."

"Security," he said, as he flipped to another page.

"Oh no," she said, stifling a giggle. "What did you do..."

"Nothin'," he said. "Asked 'em to delete the footage."

"And they did? Just like that?"

He finally shut the packet; tossed it on the bench next to her. "Guess showin' up unannounced, in my skivvies, was enough to scare 'em into compliance."

"It would have an effect, all right," she said, and then grinned as she bit her lower lip a little. "Not sure 'frightened' is the right word for it, though..."

It took him a second, and then he averted his eyes— maybe a bit embarrassed, finally— but she could see the little smile there, trying to sneak out. He cleared his throat. "You, uh... you ready to go?"

"Yup," she said. She hopped off the bench and tugged the lab coat down, and then grabbed up the packets, for both of them. Was about to go get her purse from the chair off to the side, when she saw that he’d already picked it up; was holding it out to her, like a gentleman. God, this man was gonna kill her…

He pushed the door open and then held it there with his hand high up, over her head, so she could walk through in front of him; let it swing shut behind them. And then they were just standing there in the corridor, with nothing left to do but go their separate ways.

“You goin’ back to your hotel?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Definitely gonna take a shower. You?”

“Yeah. Probably shower here, at the gym.”

“Well,” she said. “Don’t forget your homework.” She held out one of the packets, waiting for him to take it… her mind trying to cough up some excuse to drag this out, make it last…

"Shit," he said, with a boyish grin, as he took it from her. "Almost made a clean break of it..."

And then it was awkward again... neither of them making any move to leave, but not really making eye-contact, either…

They both spoke up at once: "So," she said, just as he started in with a "Hey, I...."

“Jinx,” she said, with a smile, and then, “You first.”

"Naw, that's okay," he said. "What were you gonna say?"

"I mean..."

God, this was awkward. She felt like she was about twelve years old, trying to muster the nerve to ask David Feinberg, the dork in her advanced math class, to the school dance.

"I just... I was thinking. Like, if you weren't already at the limit of my company or something, I was gonna suggest we could... you know. Buddy-up for a few hours? Just for, um... safety reasons. Keep an eye out for any of those unusual and terrifying symptoms."

He looked off to the side for a second— rubbed the back of his neck with his hand— and she was momentarily mortified; braced herself for the polite rejection... and then he said, "Ain't a bad idea." He looked down at her again. "You got your phone on you? Any idea what time it is?"

She dug into her purse, to fish it out, and while she was clicking it on, he added, “We could, uh... catch a movie, or somethin'. If you feel up to it. Maybe, you know… get some coffee after."

"God, it's almost five o' clock,” she said, as she stared at her phone’s home-screen, and then what he’d said finally reached her brain. She looked up to meet his eyes— saw that, to her surprise, he actually looked... almost shy? Holy shit, was he worried she was gonna say 'no'?

She thought back to the rest of the hypothetical date she’d proposed, and then teased him a little: “You’re forgetting the best part,” she said. “You know, where you walk me home, and then—”

"Who says I forgot?"

He was still looking at her— his eyes moving over her face— and honest to God, she wanted to grab him right there, in the hallway: plant one on him, as ridiculous as they looked, with her in that stupid lab-coat, and him in his undies…

"I, uh... I gotta get cleaned up first, though,” he said. “Won’t take long.”

“Same here; just need to wash my hair and throw on some clothes. Maybe shove a protein bar in my face. I don’t know why I’m not eating my own hand; I was already starving, hours ago— that ramen was supposed to tide me over 'til lunch."

"We could, uh... go get somethin' together," he said. "Before the movie. There’s an okay place just a block up from here. Nothin’ fancy; no-one’ll give us any trouble.”

She smiled up at him, unable to stop it. "Sounds like a plan.”

"You wanna meet in the lobby? Say, in..."

"An hour?" she suggested. "My hotel's right next door. Unless... you gotta go far?”

"Nah," he said. "I keep a couple changes of clothes here, at the gym. Hour's good."

"Or forty-five minutes," she said. "I could be ready in forty-five. Thirty, even. I'd say twenty, but... honestly, that's unrealistic, even if I run."

He was grinning openly at her now, his eyes sparkling down at her. "Let's make it forty-five."

“Okay.”

"You gonna be all right? Walkin' to your hotel like... " His eyes moved down the lab coat and back up.

"Pffft," she said, dismissing his concern. ”It’s New York. I could probably walk the block buck-ass naked, and nobody would look at me twice."

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then shut it again.

"What," she said.

“Nothin’.” He shook his head a little, with a half-smile. "Never mind.” He licked his lips and glanced toward the east elevators, which would take him back up to the VIP levels. “Well, I better uh... I'm goin' this way."

"Yup," she said. “Cool beans. See you in a bit."

He turned and was walking away, while she just stood there like an idiot, watching him go— and then one tiny sliver of uncertainty got the best of her, and she called out after him, before she could stop herself.

“Hey!”

He stopped and turned; looked back, a question on his face.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but are you, um… are you going out with me because I’m the only person who’s flirted with you in seventy years?”

His eyes softened again. “Nope.” And then he paused, grinned. Licked his lips. “Just the first time in seventy years I actually liked it.” He turned to go again— this time for real; looked back once, as he neared the bank of elevators: gave her a cheeky grin when he caught her checking out his ass.

"See ya soon, dollface."

One casual dinner, romantic comedy, coffee-shop debrief, and leisurely-walk-home later...

"Well, this is me," she said, as she turned around to face him. They were alone in the quiet hotel hallway, no other guests in sight. "I had a really good time,” she added, feeling a little bummed that the date was already over, even though they’d now spent hours together— most of the day, really— ending with his insisting on escorting her all the way safely to her door, in case there were any creeps around.

"Likewise," he said. He glanced away— pulled the glove off his metal hand, in a fidgety kind of way. She figured he was searching his memories for an appropriate way to call it a night— but then she realized, as she picked up on his body language, that he was nervous... and it was absolutely adorable.

"I'd love to do it again some time," she said, hoping to help him relax.

"Guessin' you don't mean all of it," he joked, as he managed to meet her eyes again. “Next time, we could skip the part where we're glued to the floor.”

She was already smiling at him, and she bit her lip, debating whether or not to just go for it.

Fuck it.

"I got a confession to make." Her hand was reaching out, her eyes dropping to watch her fingertips touch one of the little buttons on the placket of his henley— and now she was getting nervous, too.

"Oh yeah?" he said softly. "Well, lay it on me."

"I, um..." She was tracing the little round button, and then dropped her hand and looked up at him again. “I didn't really mind being glued to the floor with you."

She could see him studying her face— making sure, maybe— and he gave her a fleeting little smile before licking his lips.

"In that case," he said. "I got a confession to make, too."

"Yeah?" she said, and now the nerves were getting the better of her, making her babble a little, in self-defense: ”Is it that you've had a God-awful Huey-Lewis-and-the-News song stuck in your head for the past three hours? Because—“

She realized he’d gotten a lot closer, just a second before he leaned down to kiss her— shutting her up with the soft press of his mouth, his hand reaching up to hold the side of her face. He opened her up gently with his lips, revealing himself through his touch: the warmth of his mouth, the taste of his lips, the rush of his breath— all sinking into her, sliding down through her chest and into her legs like liquid heat… pulling a little noise from her throat, as she melted…

Her hands were on his chest— her fingers curling into it, grabbing little fistfuls of his shirt, her purse sliding off her shoulder to hang off the bend of her arm. She wanted to drop it— wanted to free her hands; tunnel them under his shirt… feel his warm skin against her palms— but they were already skirting the line of ‘appropriate’ for a public hallway, with the heat of the kiss alone…

They were both trying to deepen it, but her glasses were in the way, and finally he pulled back, breaking the kiss, both of them breathing heavy as she reached up to pull the offending plastic frames off her face.

The pause seemed to shake something loose in him: maybe made him second-guess his own boldness…

"Sorry," he said, as he took a step back. “Am I— is this—“

"Perfect," she said, cutting him off. “But—"

"What," he said. He was panting a little, his lips wet from the kiss, and God, that was hot. "You all right? Who’s Huey Lewis? Some relation o’ yours?”

She laughed at that, feeling unbearably happy. “No. He’s, um… you know what? Never mind. It’s not important.” She dropped her glasses into her purse—zipped it up again, and returned the looped handles to her shoulder. “And yeah, I’m all right. Better than all right. But... you do realize you're deviating from the plan, right?"

"How so?" he said— playing along— and he stepped in close again… crowding her into the door, his flesh hand lifting to loop a lock of her hair around his finger.

"Well, for starters," she said, “there was nothing awkward and fumbling about that. I mean, aside from my nervous hyper-babble, and my stupid glasses, but if—”

He cut her off again with another kiss— his hand sinking deeper into her hair, to hold her steady— and they took it further this time, without her glasses in the way: sighing together, as they learned each other's rhythms...

Her own hands were roaming… down his broad chest to his sides, around to feel the meaty muscles on either side of his spine, through the soft fabric of his henley… and then took a chance, and slid them down more, to the curve of that gorgeous ass: was about to give it a good squeeze, when her purse slid down her arm again— to her wrist this time— the weight of it interfering with her attempts to grope him…

"God dammit," she said, after breaking the kiss. "Just gimme a sec.” She let go of him, and unzipped her purse; rummaged around inside for her key-card, her lips still buzzing from the delicious press of his mouth…

She didn't even ask him if he wanted to come in; just turned around and swiped the card across the sensor a couple times, until the little light turned green; pushed down on the silver lever-handle to open the door. When she reached back to grab his hand and tug him inside, he went willingly— without a word— and then the door shut behind them, leaving the hallway empty: no movement, and barely any sound; just the muffled tones of a couple of televisions, tuned into the news behind other closed doors.

All was still for a minute or two— nothing to see but the long stretch of hallway, its dense, low-pile carpet taking on patterns and shadows in the glow of regular intervals of soft, recessed light.

And then there was the sharp sound of a latch releasing: Darcy’s door cracking open again, just a few inches… enough for a small hand to snake its way through. It was holding a door-hanger, trying to feel its way to the handle. Its owner must have been distracted, because the hand tried, and failed— several times— to hook it on…

There was a giggling and a shuffling as the hand retreated, and a quiet, but masculine “Here, let me…”

The door opened a bit wider, and a different hand— this one made of shiny metal: gunmetal-grey, with lines of gold— slid through the gap, holding the little sign. Managed, on its second try, to hook the looped top successfully onto the handle— and then it withdrew, mission accomplished: giving all who approached fair warning that interruptions were most unwelcome.

The door was pushed shut, and a sigh was heard, with another bit of shuffling… a few bumps against the door…

And the last thing to be heard from room twelve-oh-nine— until the call to room service, three hours later, for a decadent spread of provisions— was the sound of the bolt, as it slid itself home, with a smooth and satisfying click.