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Chapter Text

Of all the dumb lies or exaggerations Darcy told in her twenties, one innocent little white-lie meant to ward off an overly-arduous Asgardian without hurting anyone’s feelings and without causing a diplomatic incident was not the one she expected to come back to bite her in the ass. Because, to be clear, there have been a lot of dumb lies Darcy’s told over the years – (including “I’m totally great at Science!, yeah!”) – and most of those worked out just fine for her in the end. But the one simple little lie that pretty much every single woman tells drunk weirdos on the regular… that’s the one that ends up being the nail in her coffin? Really?!

There’s got to be a Norn out there somewhere that she must’ve accidentally pissed off or offended along the way. There’s no other explanation.

And, truthfully, Darcy’s really not even sure how the whole thing got so out of control in the first place. It started with a little harmless flirting at an Asgardian party… but from there, it quickly took on a life of it’s own.

Several years back, not too long after the whole Dark Elves incident, Thor had brought Jane and Darcy to Asgard to celebrate… shit—someone’s centennial anniversary. (Darcy can’t for the life of her remember whose anniversary it was, but that’s not the point, anyway.) It had been a fun party, and there had been plenty of mead consumed – enough that parts of the night are blurry in her mind. What’s not blurry, though, is the memory of Fandral flirting with her. The blond-haired Asgardian heartthrob had hit on her nonstop, and while that normally would've been the kind of thing she’d be down for, at the time, Darcy had been sorta-kinda seeing Ian and just wasn’t interested.  

Fandral didn’t pick up on the hints she was putting down, so after a while, she’d somewhat-drunkenly grabbed him by the arm and broken the news that she was, unfortunately, already taken. He’d assumed she meant married, and she’d just rolled with it. That should’ve been the end of it, but it turned out Fandral mentioned it to a few people, and when she and Jane went to head home the next day, he very publically and cheerfully wished Darcy farewell and gave his best to her and her husband. She hadn't had the heart to correct him, especially not publicly and as she was literally heading out of the realm.

That really should have been the end of it, but it turns out Asgardians have phenomenal memories, and every time she’s spoken with one in the years since, they’ve asked about her husband. At some point someone must’ve assumed she and this husband of hers had kids – or perhaps someone had seen her that summer she’d gained a few pounds and they’d thought she was pregnant or something? She’s not sure if she should be offended, come to think of it… But, anyway, a few years ago, people started asking about her kids, too. For a while, Darcy’d been meaning to set the record straight, but then it became a whole Thing™, and no one ever asked for details beyond the initial “Uh, yeah, they’re… great. Everyone’s great!” response she usually gave, so… she just kind of gave up on trying to correct it.

…Which is why, all these years later in the weeks before Jane and Thor’s wedding, when Queen Frigga herself leans in toward the StarkPad camera and says that she’s so looking forward to finally meeting Darcy’s husband and kids and absolutely would not hear of her adopted daughter leaving her family behind during such a momentous occasion, Darcy can only smile and nod.

…It doesn’t exactly feel like the right time to come clean, all things considered.

The second the phone is passed back to Jane, though, Darcy tries to scream her panic through her wide eyes and way-too-overly-forced smile. She keeps her mouth shut, unsure who might still be within hearing distance.

A moment passes before Jane finally speaks up, hissing out a whispered: “Darcy!?”

And – yeah – that’s about all she can think to say, too. She returns, equally panicky: “Jane!”

They don’t really need to say more, at this point more than capable of holding a full conversation just in stares and eyebrow wiggles. Which is exactly what they do, just staring into each other’s eyes for a long, stressed-filled moment, before Darcy blows out a breath and nods her head in determination. “I gotta go.”

“Yes, okay… You go. I’ll see what I can do on my end to get your, uh, family uninvited or at least excused.” The tiny scientist does not look particularly optimistic about that possibility, but she at least looks resolved, her own head bobbing once as if they’ve just settled on a clearly workable plan. “We can do this. I’ll be back in a couple of days to help however I can. You’ve got this, Babe.”

…Darcy does not think she’s ‘got this,’ for the record, but she does happen to know the one person who just might be able to get her out of this crazy mess with her dignity intact. The second the call with Jane ends, Darcy’s frantically tapping the screen of her StarkPhone and pulling up the current contact information for her second-closest friend.

She hesitates to hit the ‘call’ button, doesn’t want to interrupt something important and knows this friend of hers well enough to be certain the woman would step out of a briefing or answer the phone mid-mission if there was an incoming out-of-the-blue call from Darcy.

Chewing her lip, Darcy debates for all of a few seconds before holding down the side button and triggering the onboard AI Tony Stark had very generously provided access to for any of the Avengers-adjacent crew. “Jarvis, can you see if Natasha’s in the building and available to take a call?”

Barely a second passes before the redhead’s face appears before her, expression neutral as her eyes flicker over the screen of whatever StarkPad or StarkPhone she must be using. The woman doesn’t look particularly busy, at least. “You needed me, Milaya?”

“Yes!” Relief rushes out of her at the simple sight of her friend, but the crisis is far from averted. Quickly, Darcy explains: “Nat, help! I have an emergency!”

Though there's a readiness in the Russian’s eyes, her clarifying question is calm: “Of the fashion or life-threatening variety?”

The brunette tilts her head back and forth before deciding. “Of the intergalactic diplomatic variety.”

Looking intrigued now, Natasha leans back against a wall and repositions her device’s camera into a more comfortable arrangement. “You have my attention.”

“I need you to find me a fake husband and kids.”

The superspy doesn’t even bat an eye, only gets down to business: “How much time do I have?”

She’s already done the mental math. “Eighteen days.”

Her comment doesn’t even earn a simple nod in acknowledgement before the conversation is moved right along. “Relevant specifications?”

Darcy chews on the inside of her lip, starts with the only actual requirement she has – and the very reason she considers this an emergency and not just an inconvenience: “He needs to be able to pass a SHIELD background check and be trustworthy enough to bring to Asgard without spilling state secrets – here or there.”

That has the Russian’s eyes lighting up on the screen, perfectly painted lips curling into a smile before she parts them to speak.

Darcy beats her to it, rushes to tack on: “And it can’t be Clint. It can’t be anyone Thor works with regularly, that he would have talked about by name to his friends or family.” With a grimace, she realizes Thor’s not the only Odinson who could cause a problem. “…It also has to be someone who can be in the same room with Loki for a week and not resort to trying to murder him.” They both know that might be a big ask for anyone in their social circles, given New York and the whole Chitauri Invasion.

Natasha doesn’t look concerned, though, and simply nods in acknowledgment, eyes bright at the prospect of a challenge. “You do make life fun, Milaya. Have you said anything else about this man? Perhaps given details about his looks or age?”

The brunette blinks, tries to remember. “No?”

“Ages and genders on the rebyátki, then?”

And – gods! – if only Darcy knew where that whole story had come from, she might’ve had an answer for that question. Still, she racks her brain, makes a noise of frustration when it only comes up blank. “Maybe one of each, just to be safe? Any age works.”

“Do not worry, Milaya,” the redheaded assassin instructs. “I will do this for you.”

And then, without another word, the call ends.

--x--

Twenty-six minutes later, Darcy is in the middle of arguing with SHIELD’s Requisitions Department – because personal crisis or not, there’s still work to be done, and how does one even manage to fuck up ordering materials for her and Jane’s next experiment when Darcy literally sent a very clear, item-by-item list with pictures included, anyway?! – when the laboratory door slides open and one of the STRIKE guys strides in, pushing a stroller and tailed by two bickering kids.

It’s such an unexpected sight that Darcy does a double-take, pauses a moment to glance around and confirm that the lab is otherwise unoccupied before looking back at her apparent visitors. It’s not just any STRIKE guy, either, she realizes as he moves closer to the desk she’s standing behind and directs the two still-bickering children to sit down in two of the lab’s swivel chairs; it’s Commander Rumlow – STRIKE Alpha’s former team leader, and the guy currently in charge of overseeing the coordination of all STRIKE teams and running the training program.

…Also Darcy’s one-time-sort-of-Work-Nemesis, because he’d been there in Puente Antiguo and had seemed to take personal satisfaction in denying her every request for the safe return of her iPod. Younger Darcy had held a grudge and taken the opportunity to make his life a minor hell and pull a few harmless pranks on him in response… but once the whole HYDRA Uprising thing went down and it came out that Rumlow had been undercover the whole time, she backed off. She saw the way the other agents ostracized him afterwards – sees the way they still shy away from him as if they think he’s actually HYDRA – and she figures he’s had more than enough cosmic payback for a stolen iPod.

She hasn’t interacted with him in months, at this point, and yet here he is, in Jane’s lab, with two arguing five year olds and a sleeping baby in a stroller.

Did SHIELD recruit them that young, now? Or was there some kind of emergency in the Childcare Center?

There’s a voice in her ear, and Darcy realizes with a start that she’s completely missed whatever the Requisitions Officer just said. Not bothering to ask for clarification – both because she’s completely certain whatever it was was nothing but a bullshit excuse and because she suddenly has far more interesting things to do – she just tells the person on the other end of the line, “I’m going to have to call you back,” and promptly hangs up.

Her eyes take in the waiting STRIKE leader, and she finds herself torn between being intimidated by what looks to be his Mission Face™ and being just hella intrigued by this fascinating development in her day.

Jane’s going to think she’s making this up.

…Why is it that Jane is always MIA when the interesting things happen at SHIELD?

“Can I help you, Commander?” she asks as she meets his gaze, only to look away again when one of the two older kids lets out a shrill cry. The little girl is covering her ears and pointedly facing away from what has to be her brother, who is quick to collapse back into his chair and cross his arms over his chest, kicking out at the air in obvious frustration. …But there’s no actual throw-down happening, apparently, so Darcy looks back at the man.

…Who just blinks at her and tilts his head ever so slightly to the side in a way that makes her think she’s somehow thrown him for a loop. There’s another shout they both pointedly ignore, and then he reveals, “Romanoff sent me.”

This time, it’s Darcy’s turn to blink. Nat sent him? Furrowing her brow, she prompts him to finish that thought: “To…?”

But instead of finishing his sentence, his face falls, and he huffs out a breath, hands making their way to his hips. “Goddamn it, she’s screwing with me again, isn’t she?”

Darcy’s eyes cut to the siblings, who thankfully seem not to be paying much attention. Still, she can’t help but point out: “Children!”

The dark-haired man keeps on going, though, as if she hadn’t interrupted. “There’s no UC mission, is there?” he wants to know, tone full of undisguised irritation. “You don’t need a fake family for some kind of important diplomatic thing?”

“Oh!” She hadn’t expected Nat to work so fast, but then again, she probably should’ve known better than to underestimate the magnificent problem-solving abilities of the great Black Widow. …And she also should’ve known better than to underestimate the obnoxious, inescapable matchmaking skills of a meddling Natasha Romanoff.

One time! The spy catches her checking out the Commander during one of his fancy training exercises one time – because come on! Darcy’s a red-blooded woman and she has eyes, even if she’s never particularly liked the man – and now the redhead won’t let it be. Nat claims there’s unresolved sexual tension between the two of them, and Darcy doesn’t know how to explain that no, there is not – there’s just Brock’s understandable annoyance at Darcy’s prior antics, and Darcy’s nagging guilt about unintentionally making an undercover agent’s life more difficult than it already undoubtedly was.

No matter how many times Darcy insists that she does not need another jackbooted thug in her life – and especially not in her bed! – the superspy keeps offering to introduce them or hinting at which SHIELD or Avengers events he’ll be in attendance for. But Darcy’s happy to appreciate the view from afar, thank you very much, and she figures the STRIKE Commander probably prefers she keep her distance, anyway. One doesn’t usually relish running into the thorn in their side from years ago, after all.

So Darcy brushes off Natasha’s offers, and, of fucking course, Natasha takes the opportunity to force her hand as soon as it presents itself.

…Really, Brock Rumlow fits the bill for exactly what she asked Nat to find; he’s undoubtedly got the clearance she requested, he knows how to keep a secret, and considering he’d apparently done years and years of undercover work in HYDRA for Nick Fury… she figures he’s got to have the good acting thing down, too. …There’s really nothing she can complain to Nat about – meddling matchmaking aside.

“Oh,” she repeats again, her tone more subdued this time as she comes to grip with the situation. She doesn’t really appreciate her friend taking advantage of her genuine cry for help by trying to meddle in her love life, again… but more than that, Darcy doesn’t relish having to explain to the chiseled Commander that their mutual contact had almost certainly intentionally misled him.

…And she really doesn’t want to have to explain why.

Apparently her oh-so-eloquent response isn’t the reaction Rumlow is expecting, because he looks at her funny, lets his gaze do a quick head-to-toe sweep that feels very clinical and not at all flirtatious. “You say that like you’re not surprised, but also not happy about the situation,” he observes, before straightening back up and crossing his arms over his chest. Frowning down at her, he asks, “Which is it, Lewis? Is there a mission, or is Romanoff pulling my leg again?”

And – damn! – that stare of his is intense! Darcy tries not to squirm under his scrutiny, instead clears her throat and admits, “Probably both.” She doesn’t make him wait for elaboration, figures it’s much smarter to cut to the chase and get out from under his watchful gaze sooner rather than later. “I do need a fake family for a minor diplomatic emergency, but I’m almost certain Natasha knew this wasn’t a Commander of STRIKE-level situation.”

“Define emergency.”

With a grimace, the brunette tilts her head. “That’s sort of the thing. You know Thor and Jane are getting married?” She assumes that’s common knowledge among SHIELD higher ups, or really anyone who follows the gossip mill, but the Commander’s a busy man and she figures it doesn’t hurt to double check. When he gives her a curt nod, she continues: “Right, well, as an honorary Princess of Asgard,” – His brows shoot up, but he doesn’t interrupt. – “I’m expected to be there… and, well, long story short, everyone on Asgard thinks I’m married and have a couple kids in a perfect little family, and Queen Frigga herself has insisted I bring them along with me for the wedding. So, you see, it’s more of a personal-emergency-of-epic-embarrassment-potential kind of thing, and not a world-ending,-needs-the-personal-attention-of-SHIELD’s-greatest-strategic-minds sort of emergency. Nat shouldn’t have bothered you.”

He whistles, looks like he’s about to comment on the ridiculousness of the situation she’s found herself in, probably say something mocking, but he’s interrupted before he can get the chance to actually speak up.

“Excuse me?” the little brown-haired girl interjects, drawing the attention of both adults over to where she now stands, several feet away from the chair she was instructed to sit in. But she’s no longer bickering with her brother, at least, and the expression on her face is one of wide-eyed wonder. “Did you say you’re a princess?”

“Ahh…” Darcy blinks, then smiles kindly and admits, “Sort of.” The whole princess thing is the kind of honorific Darcy doesn’t usually take particularly seriously, but seeing the young girl’s absolutely enchanted expression has her relishing the role for a once. “I tasered a prince,” she reveals, sending a wink at the little boy who perks up at that detail, “and he decided to declare me his sister. So: princess. …Kind of.”

The little girl rounds on Commander Rumlow, dictates to him, “You have to help her. If a princess asks for help, you have to help her!”

“It’s true,” the little boy adds, sounding very sure of this fact.

And okay, Darcy’d been wrong earlier. This – two small children standing around telling SHIELD’s highest-ranking STRIKE Commander what he has to do – this is the most interesting development of her day.

Darcy tries not to laugh – takes in the rigid certainty of the little kids’ posture and the brows arched, arms crossed stare-down by the adult man still dressed in tactical gear, and uses every last ounce of willpower to bite back the nearly overwhelming urge to break down into uncontrollable laughter.

“There’s a flaw in your logic, Squirt,” Rumlow eventually informs the girl, a slight twitch of his lips giving away his clear amusement. “I’m no knight in shining armor.”

And Darcy really didn’t know much about her former-work-nemesis-of-sorts, she realizes, because she had no idea know the jackboot had jokes. Or, well, she’d heard he could be a fun guy, but she just hadn’t ever actually seen it, so it catches her off guard, now, makes her lose the battle to keep a straight face.

The wry grin he sends Darcy’s way widens at her laugh, then he uncrosses his arms and waves a magnanimous hand into the room, continues on: “But I’ll help you out, Princess.” – He gives unnecessary emphasis to the word, lets his lips twitch even wider. – “I’ll be your plus one to this thing.”

The pronouncement is met with cheers from the little girl and her brother, but Darcy isn’t quite so quick to celebrate. He did just admit to not being a knight in shining armor, after all, and this isn’t exactly the kind of thing she’d expect an always-swamped-with-work STRIKE Commander to agree to. “You will?” she checks, trying her best to keep the suspicion out of her voice in case he really is just being generous. “Just like that?”

“I’m a nice guy.”

She eyes his deadpan expression, decides without a doubt that he is messing with her, so squares her shoulders back and fixes her own cut-the-bullshit expression in place. “What do you want?”

His lips twist. “I’ll take an IOU for now.”

And that sounds like an extremely dangerous request – because what exactly might a STRIKE Commander demand when he cashes in an IOU? – but it occurs to Darcy that it’s at least safer knowing in advance that he does have some ulterior motive. Better that than being blindsided down the line, after all. And maybe… She steals another glance at him, decides to try for two birds with one stone: “You should request that IOU from Natasha.”

“I like the way you think, Lewis,” he tells her in an appropriately appreciative tone, before flashing a wicked grin in her direction, “but what makes you think I didn’t already do just that?”

And – fuck! – but of course he did!

Recognizing inevitable defeat when she sees it, the newly-minted Doctor of Astrophysics deflates, before offering up a grudging nod of acknowledgement. If he did her a solid with this, she would owe him, after all; it’s only fair.

The dark-haired man’s eyes flash in satisfaction, and he claps his hands in front of him. “Great, then it’s settled. Let’s go.”

“…Go?” Darcy’s confused for all of half second before it finally dawns on her what’s happening: he’s not here because he figured he’d drop by just to tell her he’s on board with the plan – he’s here because he thinks they’re leaving now, and that’s why he brought the kids with them. “No, no; the wedding isn’t until…”

A sense of foreboding growing within her, Darcy trails off and turns toward the children, looks them over with new eyes. The two older siblings are whispering amongst themselves and stealing glances at her, evidently still impressed by the whole honorary princess thing, and the baby, miraculously, is still asleep.

“Rumlow!” she hisses out, rounding back on the once-again-frowning man and trying her best to whisper-shout without waking the sleeping baby. “Whose kids are these?”

The Commander blinks again, then turns to consider the children as if trying to jog his memory. After a second, he waves a finger at the two older twins, declares them “Rollins’.” and then nods to the stroller. “The baby is Garcia’s. We can tell everyone we adopted him.”

Right. Because the issue here is that their little kidnapped family would be mixed-race.

Darcy mentally takes back everything she’d just thought about him being one of SHIELD’s great strategic thinkers.

Pointedly, she stares at the man in front of her and tries to figure out how the hell this guy runs a special tactical team. “Don’t you have nieces or something?” She’s absolutely certain she’s heard that he does – something about a large, crazy Italian family he’s always spending time with when he’s not working himself to death.

He just stares back, seems to process for a long moment, before heaving out a sigh. “Well fuck, Lewis! No one gave me any time parameters on this mission!”

She wants to chastise him for cursing in front of innocent ears a-fucking-gain, but she’s got more important concerns on her mind, this time. She waves her hands emphatically in front of her, gestures to the stolen children and, as quietly as possible, whisper-shrieks, “Put them back!!”

…It’s apparently not quiet enough, because the baby startles, lets out a tiny wail.

The dark-haired man sends her a dirty look as he circles around the stroller and unbuckles the upset baby, shushing softly as he lifts him – her? them? Darcy doesn’t know for certain, but she’s making an educated guess by the little blue hat on the kid’s head. – and starts to rock gently back and forth.

…And oh yeah, the Commander here is definitely an uncle – that’s for damn sure.

Absolutely no need to steal children from who-knows-where.

“How much time do we have?” comes the far-too-calm question from the man still swaying side-to-side. His voice is warm, overly-friendly as he sends a glance her way, takes one of the baby’s hands in his and gives it a little wiggle.

Darcy doesn’t quite pick up on the let’s-try-not-to-upset-the-crying-infant vibes he’s giving off, and instead just stares back at him like he’s lost his mind. “...Before the wedding or before the authorities are notified that there’s been a kidnapping? Where’s my phone? There’s probably already an AMBER Alert.”

His expression is one of disapproval as he glares over the baby’s shoulder at her. “Relax.” And that’s decidedly less warm-and-happy, so he softens his tone considerably before he replies. “The wedding, obviously. The kids are fine.”

As if to demonstrate that fact, the baby makes a gurgling sound and then switches to laughter, raising his free hand and slapping it against the Commander’s jaw. Rumlow only grins, giving the arm another wiggle and making a face when he takes another gleeful slap to his cheek.

Darcy stares.

And then, as if to demonstrate her point, the building-wide intercom system crackles to life and an automated voice echoes in the room. “Commander Rumlow to the Director’s office.” There’s a chiming noise, and then the message is repeated: “Commander Rumlow to the Director’s office.”

She locks gazes with the man in question, suddenly feels three feet small. “What are the chances that—?”

He silences her with a glare, steps closer and hands over the baby – which, because Darcy’s pretty sure it’s actually human instinct to reach for a squirming child when one is passed to you, she actually accepts and pulls in to her chest. He turns to the older children, then, barks out: “Hey! Kangaroo Jacks! You know where your father’s office is from here, right?”

"A baby kangaroo is called a joey," comes the little boy's immediate correction.

The dark-haired man ignores him. "Do you know the way or not?"

With an immensely weary sigh that only a small child can pull off, the boy bobs his head in the affirmative. His sister, however, crosses her arms and demands to know, “You’re going to help the princess, aren’t you?”

And Darcy can’t see the Commander rolling his eyes, but she’s pretty damn sure that’s what he does as he mutters out a “yeah, yeah,” and waves a hand in dismissal.

“Rumlow!” she hisses out again, dodging a tiny grabby-hand and trying to get her maybe-still-nemesis’s attention. “You can’t just let them run around a secure building unsupervised!”

He sends her another of those clearly-wondering-what-the-hell-his-life-has-become looks, before informing her, “They’re eight, Lewis! Jack has them walk to the bus stop on their own, and they practically grew up in the building. They’re fine.”

She takes another look at them, blinks, and then determines she really needs to figure out how to guesstimate kids’ ages if she’s supposed to believably have some of her own. But she doesn’t stop them as they turn to leave – the little girl pausing and giving a wobbly little curtsey before chasing after her brother – and soon enough, it’s just Brock and Darcy in the lab.

…And the stolen baby she’s still holding in her arms for some reason, despite not having the slightest idea what to do with it.

“Stay here,” Rumlow instructs, before pointing a finger at her and starting to head towards the laboratory entrance. “Watch the kid.”

Darcy takes one look at the wiggling infant in her arms and immediately objects. “No!” she calls out, hurrying after him as he strolls into the hallway. “No no nonono no. You’re not leaving me behind to hold this kidnapped child! I’m not taking the fall for you, Buddy.”

There’s a snort that answers her, and then a mocking quip: “Some spouse you are.”

“Fake spouse!” she stresses.

He only flashes a dark grin at her, tells her, “Alright, Lewis. You want to answer to Fury with me? Be my guest.”

And – fuck! – Darcy really isn’t sure which is worse.

Chapter Text

“Doctor Lewis. Why am I not surprised to learn you’re involved in this?” Nick Fury’s voice is the first thing Darcy hears as she trails the STRIKE Commander into the spacious office. Fury’s secretary announced their arrival just before they were ushered in, so she’s not surprised to hear her name from the perpetually grumpy man’s lips before she even catches sight of him.

She shifts the child in her arms, mentally wonders how it’s possible for such a tiny little thing to be so insanely heavy, and steps up to the Commander’s side. Though she’d much rather stay behind him and out of sight, Darcy’s always had a habit of compensating with bravado every time she feels intimidated, and this is no exception. She sends a sheepish smile Fury’s way, tells him, “I swear, this one’s actually not my fault, Director-Man.”

Her usual irreverence earns her the single-eyed stare-down she’s long since grown accustomed to, and she figures the lack of any actual shouting or immediate threats of dismissal bode well for her. Maybe he already knows it’s not her fault? That’s good news, at least.

It gives her the confidence to look around the room and note that they are very much not alone. There are two other men in STRIKE tactical gear – one she recognizes and one she does not. Jack Rollins is off to her right, currently sending some kind of Darcy-and-Jane-style-telepathic-communication look over her head at Rumlow, and on the other side of the room, the man she doesn’t know is standing with shoulders tight and head ducked down. Given Jack’s presence in the room, Darcy has a guess as to who this unknown agent might be, but she isn’t certain, not when he looks like he’s already been or is about to be chastised for something.

The baby in her arms makes a noise, grabs at the neckline of her sweater. She has to shift her focus again, switch him over to her other side and free one of her hands to pry her sweater loose before he manages to make her flash the Director of Shield.

“Director, I—“ Rumlow starts to say from beside her, only to be cut off.

“Leave us.”

For a second, Darcy’s hopeful that that instruction is for her, but when she looks back up, she realizes Fury isn’t looking at her. Instead, he’s looking at the unknown STRIKE agent, who dips his head even lower than before and quickly sidles toward the exit – and where she and Rumlow are standing.

“I’m sorry – so sorry – Commander!” he mutters under his breath, before repeating a couple of quiet ‘sorry’s and reaching out toward the baby.

Darcy leans back ever so slightly – very much would love to hand over the several pounds of wriggling baby that is currently threatening to tear her arms from her shoulders, but isn’t exactly sure she’s supposed to. She hesitates, steals a glance up at the STRIKE Commander, and tries to silently ask for direction… but he’s – of course – not looking at her.

“Give the man his child, Lewis.” Fury finally grinds out in exasperation, as if she’d made them wait several minutes instead of a handful of seconds.

Flushing with embarrassment, the brunette does as she’s told, passing off the infant and issuing a whispered apology of her own. Agent Garcia only shakes his head in dismissal, before ducking around Rumlow and hightailing it for the exit.

Darcy frowns at his hasty retreat.

“Do you want to know what my least favorite thing to do with my day is, Commander?” Fury continues, voice deceptively calm. And apparently Rumlow knows better than to try and answer the rhetorical question – something Darcy sort of thinks is a missed opportunity, but whatever. It’s silent for a few seconds before the Director enlightens them: “Dealing with screaming mothers demanding to know why their child has apparently been requisitioned for some kind of secret operation no one seems to know the details on. That’s my least favorite thing to do. What in the name of all that is holy possessed you to commandeer three children from the Daycare Center this afternoon?”

And the astrophysicist can see the writing on the wall with this one – knows exactly where this line of questioning is about to go. She takes a breath, prepares for the inevitable tongue-lashing and tries to think of how she’ll have to break it to Jane that they’re once again back to 0 Days Without Official Reprimand From Nick Fury.

But, to her surprise, Rumlow doesn’t throw her under the bus.

“I had incomplete information on an emerging diplomatic crisis and I made a tactical error, Director,” he recounts in explanation, posture and tone the picture of perfect professionalism as he keeps his head up high, feet slightly apart in what looks to be a parade rest. “The children were never in any danger but it turned out their presence was not immediately necessary. It will not happen again.”

Darcy blinks, takes a moment to turn her head and consider the man beside her in new light. He didn’t mention her once – though her physical presence in the room already made her involvement clear, to be fair – and he also didn’t mention Natasha. Darcy has zero doubt that he wasn’t just unaware the wedding was still a few weeks away, and she knows the Russian woman better than to think she’d ever just accidentally leave someone with the wrong idea. No, that had Nat’s name written all over it, and yet Rumlow hadn’t so much as said he’d been given incomplete information – he just acknowledged that he’d had it.

Damn. …She has to kind of respect that.

Even she and Jane often throw each other under the bus whenever there is an incident in the lab and an opportunity to point fingers during the inevitable stare-down from Director Fury.

…Then again, Nat is one of Fury’s favorite agents, and there’s probably a negative chance of her actually getting in any kind of actual trouble if named. So, who knows? Maybe this is still part of ensuring he gets to keep that IOU, or maybe there’s some kind of unspoken agreement that any shenanigans between STRIKE agents do not get mentioned up the chain of command. Maybe she’s giving him too much credit.

Still, she feels like he’s forced her hand, now, and she’ll clearly come across as the asshole if she lets him take the full blame for this when the whole thing all indirectly traces back to her own original mistake. She blows out a breath, turns back to the eye-patch wearing man. “He was trying to help me. You see, Jane’s wedding is in—“

“I’mma stop you right there,” the Director interrupts, raising a hand and giving his head a subtle shake in warning. Darcy snaps her mouth closed, lets him continue, “I don’t want to know. Believe me, Doctor Lewis, I really do not want to know. I just want to hear that it won’t happen again.” The older man turns back to the Commander at that, emphasizes that last point: “Ever again.”

The answer from beside her is clear: “It won’t.”

And apparently Nick Fury does want to know a little bit, because he leans forward in his seat, props an elbow on the desk in front of him, and redirects his hand so that it’s aiming more in Rumlow’s direction. “Because you get that that’s kidnapping, right? I don’t have to explain that to you?”

The STRIKE Commander takes in a breath, a muscle twitching in his jaw and his arms tensing, though he gives no real sign of insubordination. Instead, he calmly points out, “…I had parental approval.”

On her right, Jack doesn’t appear to disagree, but Fury’s apparently not having any of that. “It doesn’t fucking count when the guy works for you and is so afraid of you he probably thinks he can’t say no!”

“To be fair, though,” Darcy chimes in, only to partially regret speaking up the second Fury’s good eye pins her with a Look™. Why had she opened her big mouth, again? Still, she perseveres, raises what she considers to be an important factor in Rumlow’s defense: “It’s kind of dumb that they’re still terrified of him at this point. He wasn’t actually HYDRA. This man right here is an actual American hero, and he deserves to be treated as such. People need to stop with the bullshit fear and suspicion!”

And that Look™ is now a Stare™, and Darcy really regrets speaking up.

“Ah…” From beside her, Jack clears his throat, cuts a glance in her direction and interjects: “Fair dinkum, Love, they were afraid of him before, too. That’s not what this is.”

From her other side, Rumlow drawls out a low “Love the speech, though.” He sends a wink her way when she turns back toward him.

And – holy shit – there’s a lot to process there, but Darcy ignores the heat in her cheeks and focuses on what’s clearly the bigger priority: “Jack’s Australian?”

The man in question laughs, while Rumlow just gives her another of those lopsided sorta-amused-and-definitely-at-your-expense smiles of his. Fury, on the other hand, appears far from entertained by the entire exchange.

“Apologize to your goddamn subordinates, Rumlow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

And apparently that’s a dismissal, because both men at her sides move in tandem, and Darcy has to scramble to keep up, not wanting to be the last one in Fury’s office just in case the Director of SHIELD changes his mind and remembers something separate she or Jane have done to deserve a formal reprimand.

The apparently Australian agent gives a low whistle the second the door closes behind them, turning and flashing a grin in Rumlow’s direction. The other man doesn’t seem to appreciate it, but before anything can be said, the agent from earlier steps forward, baby resting comfortably on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Boss!” he insists once again, sounding and looking somewhat rattled by the whole experience. …Which only makes Darcy more confused about why he was the one apologizing when it was his kid that had been stolen. “Mariana didn’t see my text before you stopped by the daycare, and—“

Oh. That’s why; his wife was the one who’d been screaming Fury’s ear off, evidently.

“It’s fine, Garcia,” Rumlow interrupts, raising a palm in front of him. “I shouldn’t have asked you to lend me your kid in the first place. You can tell your wife he never even left the building.” He pauses, apparently considering that enough of an apology. Then, with a hint of a teasing smile, he steals a glance in Darcy’s direction but continues to speak to the agent: “Your stroller and diaper bag are in the astrophysics lab. Lewis, here, forgot them when she decided she didn’t want to be left alone with a baby.”

And so much for not throwing her under the bus!

Before the brunette gets a chance to defend herself, though, the younger agent is nodding, apologizing again, and striding away, evidently in the direction of the lab.

Jack rolls his head to the side and eyes his STRIKE superior, clearing his throat pointedly. When the only response he gets is a stare in return, the Australian dryly reminds: “I believe you were instructed to apologize to me, too, you know.”

“Sorry, Rollins,” comes Rumlow’s clearly sarcastic reply.

“For?”

And it’s a ballsy move, prompting him like that, but the Commander flashes a sardonic smile, looks nothing but amused at the impertinence. “For returning your little hellions to you so soon.”

“Too right!” The more cheerful of the STRIKE agents sends Darcy a little wink at that, fills her in: “Me and the hubby were looking forward to a date night, so now this one here owes me some free babysitting in the future.”

“…Right.” It’s the only thing Darcy can think to say, still mentally trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour or so.

Thankfully, no one seems to be expecting her to keep the conversation flowing. Rumlow steps forward and turns to her, wastes no time before getting down to business: “When’s Foster getting hitched?”

She appreciates the lifeline, has already figured out how she can make her exit based on it, if that’s not already what he’s working toward himself. “Weekend of the 18th,” she informs him.

He nods, reaching for his phone and tapping at the screen for a moment. “Let’s talk on Monday, then. You got time in the afternoon?”

With a blink, she nods, once again appreciative of his continued willingness to help her out… even if he is getting something in exchange. “My schedule’s flexible.”

“Great. Then swing by my office at one, and we can get the details nailed down.” He takes a moment to presumably pencil it into his phone’s calendar, then glances up at her through thick lashes.

His lips do that slight twisting thing that never bodes well for her.

Wryly, he tells her: “This actual American hero needs to get back to work, if we’re not doing this thing today.”

Aaand there he goes!

There it fucking is!

She’s back to hating him again.

With a groan and a face that has to be bright red, judging from the matching grins the two STRIKE leaders are wearing, Darcy turns on her heels and walks away… before she can do something incredibly stupid, like open her mouth and say words again.

Neither man tries to stop her, but their laughter trails after her, echoing down the hall.

--x--

When Jane gets back from Asgard, she brings with her bad news: she wasn’t able to persuade Frigga that Darcy’s family shouldn’t have to attend.

She tried every angle she could think of – suggesting that Darcy’s husband was terribly busy with work, that they weren’t really comfortable taking the kids off of Mitgard, that the wedding wasn’t really a bring-your-kids thing anyway… But no dice. The Queen complained about introductions already being long overdue, and insisted it is tradition in a royal wedding for the full royal family to be in attendance, and that apparently includes Darcy and her completely-invented-by-accident husband and kids.

Jane apologizes, but Darcy doesn’t blame her. After all, it’s her own fault she’s in this mess.

She should’ve just told Fandral the truth as soon as she realized he misunderstood.

…Or pretended to have gotten a divorce years ago. Why hadn’t she done that?!

She suggests the possibility of doing so now to Jane, but Jane shoots it down immediately: “The timing is too suspicious, but even if not, your kids would still be expected to attend.”

Damn. Her tiny boss-turned-friend makes a good point.

“Natasha’s right, though,” Jane muses after she’s filled in on the shenanigans she’s missed. “This fake marriage to Rumlow could work.”

And Darcy thinks that this time, her friend is far from correct. With a scoff, the curvy brunette points out: “We have to pretend to like each other, Jane. For multiple days. Without anyone being the wiser. There’s no way this is going to work!”

A few days of reflection had settled the matter in Darcy’s mind: there was a very low chance of them actually pulling this off. …But was it better than the alternative, of Darcy showing up alone and having to explain that the whole thing about her husband had never been true and she’d been lying to everyone on Asgard for years? Oh, most definitely.

Darcy would take next-to-no-chance-of-success over flat-out-admitting-defeat any day of the week.

She’s persistent like that – unflappably stubborn, really – and this is exactly the kind of hill she’s willing to die on.

Still, it helps calm some of her nerves when Jane points out, “That’s the beauty of it, though! Most married couples fight; they get frustrated with each other over stupid things, or tired of the other’s annoying habits. You don’t have to act giddy and head-over-heels with the guy – you can bicker like you guys already do! Overly lovey-dovey isn’t believable, anyways.”

Jane and Thor are overly lovey-dovey 99% of the time, but Darcy keeps that thought to herself.

Again, Jane makes a good point – an excellent point, really, because sickeningly sweet they might not be able to pull off, but sniping-like-an-old-married-couple they almost certainly can.

It’s a good plan.

--x--

“It’s a terrible plan!” Rumlow declares when she fills him in on her little epiphany during their Monday afternoon meeting.

They’re sitting in his office, Rumlow half-angled toward her in his chair with his feet kicked up on his desk, and Darcy perched delicately on the futon he has off to the side of the room. She assumes he has the thing because he’s a workaholic and undoubtedly needs somewhere to crash on a fairly regular basis when he can’t make it home between insanely long shifts, but she also is well-aware of the Commander’s reputation as a bit of an office playboy, and part of her can’t stop wondering just what else he’s done on this very futon.

Not that she’s slut-shaming the man – Darcy is very sex-positive and fully supports anyone and everyone in their desire to get it on whenever they can! – but she needs to keep those kind of thoughts out of her mind when in close proximity to him.

She’s already hyper-aware enough of his muscles and rugged masculinity as it is.

Keeping on topic, she defends her suggestion: “There are plenty of couples who—“

“Not me, Lewis,” comes the Commander’s blunt counter. He meets her gaze, gives his head a little shake and offers a compressed-lipped smile. He fiddles with a binder clip in one hand, pinching it open and closed and then flipping it between his fingers. “I’m not that guy.”

The brunette’s brows furrow. “Not what guy?”

His answer is immediate: “The guy who acts like a dick to his wife. I’m not going to hold myself ten feet away from you like a shy fucking twelve-year-old. I’m Italian! We’re a passionate people.”

“But this isn’t about you!” she wants him to remember. “You’re just playing a role here, not being yourself!”

“I’m not going to be your emotionally stunted British boy—hear me emphasize the word boy—friend. It’s not happening.”

The brunette heaves out a sigh, stresses something she would’ve thought should be obvious: “I’m not asking you to be Ian Boothby!” She’d filled him in on how the whole Darcy-is-married ordeal had started, and she’s very much regretting it, now, because he’s drawing all the wrong conclusions from this conversation.

“No,” he agrees, but his tone is dark, filled with unhappiness as he glowers at her, “you’re asking me to be a terrible husband and father.”

“I never said you shouldn’t be a great dad!” The frustrated astrophysicist waves her hands in front of her, doesn’t know how to make the point any clearer than she already has. “For fuck’s sake, one of us needs to be good with them, and we both know it isn’t me!”

He continues to smolder at her for a long moment, but has his tone and volume more in check when he finally responds: “Look, I get why you want to half-ass this, okay? And if this was just a matter of convincing a few strangers at an office party that you’re never going to see again, then your plan wouldn’t be a bad one. It could work; most people would look at a random, clearly unhappy couple and think ‘Fuck! I’m gonna keep my distance from that shitshow!’ But we’re not talking about a situation where there’s not going to be any public scrutiny. You’re apparently royalty, and your adopted family wants to meet your husband at a very public, much-scrutinized event-of-the-century for them.”

He lets that stew for a second, and Darcy can’t help but see that he’s got a point, even if it’s not fully fleshed out and without room for critique. With all of the eyes that are on them, they really probably can’t half-ass the whole charade, but instead have to commit to their roles and settle on at least some basic groundwork of a backstory. That doesn’t mean they have to be happy and touchy-feely, though, and yet that seems to be what’s bothering Rumlow the most about this arrangement.

He must see the dissention in her eyes, because he adds on, more softly, this time, “I didn’t agree to be the bad guy, here, Lewis.” And there’s a significance to his words that make them feel heavy in the air, that freezes her objection in her throat. “Don’t ask me to make enemies on Asgard, too.”

And – fuck! – but that’s some top-notch emotionally manipulative bullshit, right there!

But it also fucking works.

Feeling guilty now for ever having suggested something similar, she deflates. “Fine, fine.” And she doesn’t like the somber mood that’s fallen over them, doesn’t like the itchy feeling it leaves between her shoulder blades. She scrambles for anything to lighten things up, goes with the first thing that pops into her mind: “But don’t get mad if everyone still thinks I’m a better wife than you’re a husband,” she goads. “Everyone on Asgard already loves me.”

His eyes flash at the challenge, lips twisting again as he takes the bait. “Oh-ho! So you think you can pull this off better than me, huh? You sure about that? I was undercover for half my life, Sweetheart, and you’re probably the most unfiltered person I’ve ever met.”

Twin emotions of flattery and offense flood her senses, and for a moment, Darcy can’t figure out how she wants to respond. On the one hand, she takes pride in being genuine and unfiltered, so that’s not really an insult at all… but on the other hand, she kind of thinks he means it as one, knows he’s implying she can’t possibly be all that convincing in a role.

And Darcy’s a damn good actor, thank you very much, so it’s irritation that wins out – her competitive drive kicking into gear.

With a sultry smile, Darcy pulls the hat from her head, threads her hand through her hair to give it a bit more life, and then reaches for her chunky scarf. She’d chosen to wear one of her favorite sweater dresses today with bright, plum-colored thigh-high socks, but because this particular dress comes with a rather plunging neckline, she’d decided to pair it with a matching plum scarf. The girls are on display as she guides the scarf over her head then casts it aside without a care, and Darcy knows she looks good. It brings a confidence to her motions as she rises to her feet, steps toward the smug bastard.

But the Commander’s not looking all that unaffected now, as he drops his feet heavily to the ground, sits up straighter in his chair at her approach. His legs are parted slightly – unconsciously, she thinks – and Darcy debates for only a fraction of a second before going all in.

She steps between them, brushes her right leg against his knee and forces them wider, then hitches the same leg up over his, wedges her knee between his thigh and the arm of the chair.

She’s taller than him when she’s standing like she is, partially straddling him, and Rumlow looks up at her with a heated gaze, the tip of his tongue flickering out over his lips before he forces a dry swallow. He’s a moth to a flame – swaying forward in his seat, eyes dipping down toward her cleavage before flickering back up, half-lidded.

And she thinks she’s got him, then, tastes the victory in the air between them… but then he moves – hooks a hand around the back of her right thigh and jerks her knee further back on the seat, holds her pinned in place as his spare hand makes its way to her opposite thigh, fingertips tracing the exposed skin between the tops of her socks and the hem of her dress. Her breath catches, body flaring to life and hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders, and there’s a new awareness in those hazel eyes, now, as she looks down at him – a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Fuck!

She knows she’s been had in that instant, has no doubt in her mind that, while the hunger in his earlier expression had probably been real enough, his whole demeanor had been a ploy – an act of deception meant to lull her into a false sense of control.

She hadn’t caught him off guard at all, had she?

Fuck.

He’s grinning at her now, expression tipping somewhere beyond arrogance into lasciviousness. “Aww,” he draws out rather patronizingly as he watches her own expression fall. Fingers still skimming over the bare skin of her thigh – inching higher, now, dipping up beneath the bottom of her dress – he asks her, “Did you want to play, Princess?”

And – double fuck! – but Rumlow’s voice has no goddamn business being both gravelly and decadent like that! It wasn’t fair!

Making a noise of frustration, she shoves him back against the chair, breaks out of his hold and storms back over to collect her scarf from where it landed. The distance is safer, his presence less electric from the other side of the room, but she can still feel the brush of his fingertips on her leg.

Fuck.

The asshole chuckles, as if he finds her completely non-threatening and simply amusing, and – thankfully! – that’s just what she needs to shore up her resolve, have her switching back from flustered to angry. She tugs the scarf back over her head, grabs at the knit beanie to do the same.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, Wife,” he tells her, and she spins back at him with a snarl that only has his grin widening even more. He leans forward, then, lifts then drops his eyebrows suggestively, and Darcy has the very strong urge to make for the exit and storm out of the room, but she has just enough presence of mind to realize that would only make things worse in the long-run.

She huffs, instead – drops back down onto the futon and fixes a petulant glare in his direction. “I’m not a bad actor,” she feels the need to make known.

“No,” the Commander agrees, finally toning down his amusement and settling back in his own seat. “You’re actually pretty good. I’m telling you, Lewis, we might just be able to pull this thing off and keep your Asgardian reputation intact, so long as you don’t ask me to be anyone but myself.”

And she’s not feeling very fond of him at the moment, but she still nods her gratitude and concession, the motion a bit stiffer than usual.

If he notices the tension, he doesn’t comment on it. “We stick as close to the truth as possible, just spin things in a way that works for the story. We met through work ten years ago, and…?”

The way he draws it out makes it clear he’s prompting her to fill in the blank, so she flashes a sarcastic smile, tells him: “And sparks flew right from the start!”

Her response earns a throaty laugh, absolute delight in his expression, and Darcy has to stop herself again, remind herself to breathe and stay focused.

“Exactly.” He reaches for the binder clip again, plucks it off his desk and points it at her in emphasis, before continuing with his little lesson. “You get the idea. The first rule of maintaining a cover identity is that you don’t break character. You get challenged on something, get caught in a lie and get flustered? You don’t break character. It’s ‘That’s right! I forgot.’ not ‘Fuck! You got me!’” Another little flip of the clip, and then he points it at her again. “You’re going to feel like someone can see right through you. They can’t. Nine times out of ten, that person don’t know shit; it’s just your head messing with you.”

There’s an insightful tip in there, and she hears it… but she also hears an important thing that’s being left out. “And the other one time?”

He purses his lips and lifts his shoulders, unconcerned. “They suspect something. You push through and don’t let them know you’re rattled – or give them another plausible explanation for why you might be nervous – and it probably ends there. You give in and confess? You’re dead no matter what.” He wobbles his head from side-to-side, corrects: “Your cover is dead no matter what.”

She thinks he actually means the first one, and is talking from experience, here, so she only nods. She’s curious… but it’s none of her business, really, and she doesn’t know how comfortable he is talking about it. Besides, he seems to be in his training mode, and she figures, regardless of her personal feelings toward him, there’s still a good amount she can learn from this. Best not to interrupt.

“All that said, there are some things you can’t talk your way out of, some things we just really need to know about each other or the everything’s going to blow up in our faces. If you’re allergic to shellfish and I order us the oysters, that’s going to be a problem, yeah?”

The brunette bobs her head in agreement, can definitely see how not knowing a spouse or child’s major allergy would immediately broadcast a ‘we’re faking everything over here!’ signal to anyone nearby. “I’m not allergic to anything,” she informs him – not to dispute his point, but just to share what is clearly relevant information. “Or, well, food-wise, I mean. I do get seasonal allergies sometimes, and I think I’m allergic to latex. I have the doctors use the non-latex gloves just to be safe.”

He returns the nod, shares, “I was allergic to dairy – got hives and everything if I had milk or ice-cream – but the HYDRA serum changed that.”

Darcy blinks, because HYDRA serum? What?? But it’s not her place to pry, she remembers, and besides, there’s a more important topic at stake: he couldn’t have ice-cream as a child?! “Wait… is that why you are the way you are?”

He seems to catch the teasing nature of her question, quirks his lips up into a sideways smile. He doesn’t give her an answer, though. “So we’ll want to talk through stuff like that – get to know each other a bit more. I’ll write down the important shit, too, so you can memorize it.”

“I can do the same,” she offers, because that sounds like a good plan.

“Good.” Before he can say more, though, there’s a knock at the door.

“Hey, Boss?” It’s another agent Darcy hasn’t seen before, leaning against the frame of the wide-open door.

And – holy shit! – the door had been wide-open the whole time! How the hell’d she forget that during her whole seduction-chicken strategy earlier?

Rumlow looks toward the agent, thankfully doesn’t notice Darcy struggling to resist the urge to bury her head in her palms.

What if people had seen?!

“We’ve got a situation with Echo that needs your attention,” the younger agent reports, and now that he’s said that, Darcy can see the tension in the kid’s body. He doesn’t look panicked, but he definitely looks highly alert, his body resting against the doorframe not in a casual or relaxed way, but with a more I’m-just-popping-in-real-quick-and-ready-to-pop-right-out-a-second-later kind of vibe.

Darcy infers that the situation cannot wait, and is already waving off the Commander’s apology as he turns back toward her. “Go, go,” she insists, secretly not minding the opportunity to take a breather and get her head back in the game.

She can only handle him in short doses, right now – knows she’ll have to work on building up a tolerance for that.

“Tomorrow?” the dark-haired man suggests to her. “Bring your lunch and a printed factsheet?”

“Yep. Sounds good!”

She doesn’t think to double check what time lunch is before she grabs her things and heads out.

Chapter Text

Turns out, lunch is at noon. It’s a perfectly normal time… for a perfectly abnormal meeting.

Everything about sharing a meal with Brock Rumlow is abnormal. Everything about so much as sitting across from Brock Rumlow is abnormal. The way he watches her… the fact that he’s got a stupid little healthy-looking, protein-loaded grain bowl thing while she’s got a literal PB&J sandwich and vending machine chips… the way they’re just sitting there and not actively glaring or sniping at each other…

It’s all weird.

She doesn’t like it.

It makes her itchy.

And she’s really not sure when she’s going to start getting used to his presence, when she’s going to build up that tolerance she very clearly needs to work on. Every time she’s around him, she feels… off-balance.

She’s easily irritated by him – still holds a bit of a grudge over the whole iPod Incident of 2011, if she’s being honest, but even setting that aside, she finds his jackboot tendencies frustrating beyond belief and instinctively hates his ridiculous level of organization and self-discipline. He thinks he’s smarter than her – she’s sure of it! – and damn if she’s not still a bit sensitive about being overlooked for so many years.

But then there’s the guilt, too, because she knows he hasn’t had an easy go of it, knows she herself undoubtedly contributed to that. He was a Class A Dick back in Puente Antiguo, it’s true, but he also had to be, and a part of her wonders if her own escalations from aggressive phone calls to formal complaints into full-on pranking didn’t force his hand, make him respond the way he did because the role he was playing required it. She wonders if things might’ve been different had she shown a little more self-restraint back in the day. …Darcy doesn’t like to question herself.

Which is also why these damn nerves of hers are driving her up an absolute wall whenever she’s around him! She knows how to handle attraction – has never had a problem boldly meeting it head on in the past – but there’s something that feels more dangerous about it with him. Brock Rumlow seems like the kind of man who could take her apart in an instant, and there’s an excitement in that, sure, but there’s also a huge risk. She’s not sure he’d put her back together again, afterwards – isn’t sure she’d be able to put herself back together. She doesn’t trust him, not because of his history with HYDRA or his clearly demonstrated proficiency at systematically taking out terrorist targets, but because of their past. She knows the score between them, knows she pranked him a hell of a lot more than he pranked her… She feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, hanging in limbo and blindfolded so she can’t even see what’s coming next.

Which – fuck! – is so not the mental image she needs to have in the moment, because that’s not doing anything to help her keep her libido in check.

Darcy Lewis needs to get laid. That’s the truth of it; it’s been far too long and this drought of hers is absolutely not helping matters.

It’s probably that more than it’s him.

But back on topic: she’s also off balance around him because he’s just so generally unpredictable. Darcy can’t figure him out, can’t guess at what’s going through Brock Rumlow’s mind at any given moment, can’t begin to anticipate what it is he’s going to do or say next. He’s a rigidly structured jackboot yet he has a surprisingly sharp sense of humor, he’s somehow both feared by grown men and loved by children big and small, and, despite being widely regarded as an unrepentant manwhore who is allergic to anything resembling an even-halfway-serious relationship, he flat-out refuses to so much as slightly deviate from what he considers to be his important obligations as a doting husband.

They get into another fight over it while they’re straightening out their story, because he won’t take no for an answer when she says she doesn’t want to dance with him at the wedding – something he apparently considers to be an essential part of any dating or marriage charade. There’s some debating back and forth – a “You don’t understand; I’ve got two left feet!” answered with a “I’d have taught you a basic step in the years we’ve been married!” – before it devolves into a full on argument over whether or not it’d make him a Bad Husband to have not successfully taught his wife how to waltz.

And this part feels comfortable to Darcy – the back-and-forth and the heated voices and the mounting frustration that makes her throw her hands in the air. The fighting feels more normal than the peaceful meal they’d just finished, and so Darcy relishes it, but it’s such a tiny unimportant thing that they’re fighting over, and it’s not an argument that can last forever.

It ends when the astrophysicist finally heaves out an exasperated sigh and demands to know, “If this is so important to you, why aren’t you already married, Commander? I’m sure there’s a woman out there somewhere who’d appreciate being strong-armed into dancing lessons!”

The Italian man rolls his eyes, tells her, “Just because I don’t want to get married doesn’t mean I don’t know the difference between a good husband and a bad one!” Then, because apparently he’s feeling just as snarky as her in the moment, he flips the question right back: “But you… You seem the marrying type, Lewis. Why is it you haven’t tied the knot yet? Why do you need a fake husband for this thing?”

There’s a gleam in his eye as he leans toward her a bit, and Darcy knows he thinks he’s found a sore spot, but it’s not the direct hit he thinks it is. She snorts. “I do want to get married at some point, yeah,” comes her easy confirmation, “but I’ve still got plenty of time left for that.”

He hears her implication clear as day, and, judging from the dark glare he pins her with, her aim was true.

She flashes a victorious grin.

He apparently needs a small win of his own to even up the score, because he comes back at her with a proposed compromise: “Give me one hour to teach you one dance, and if you still look like a baby deer on ice by the end of it, then I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thirty minutes,” she counters, because it turns out she’s exactly as petty as him, “and if I fall even once, we end early.”

His gaze is intense as he looks back at her for a long moment – those far-too-observant eyes of his squinting slightly – but then he finally relents, relaxing back into his office chair. “No self-sabotage on this; you won’t trip and fall on purpose.”

And it’s a command – she hears the decree for what it is – but she pretends to take it as a question, instead – acts offended as she insists, “I would never!”

They both know that’s a lie, but it’s a deal nonetheless: he gets thirty minutes; she gets to call it quits the second she falls for real. …So, truthfully, he’s got, like, five minutes max, but she figures she’ll let him learn that the hard way whenever it is they do this thing.

She wasn’t kidding about having two left feet.

There’s a lull in the conversation again, and Darcy tries to think of something to say – some order of business they need to tackle first – but before she can settle on what to ask first, Rumlow’s attention shifts, gaze settling on something over her head.

“Yes?”

Her current seat has her sitting with her back to the door, so Darcy strains to look over her shoulder and catches sight of a young man she hadn’t heard approach standing with one foot just inside the office. He’s got close-cropped blond hair and is dressed in all black, the light grey patch on the sleeve of his shirt identifying him as a member of one STRIKE team or another.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander,” the young agent says. “I know you’re on lunch, but Charlie is ahead of schedule and requesting permission to depart. The XO is in a meeting and we need someone to clear the team for deployment.”

She turns back in her seat and is unsurprised to find Rumlow’s gaze on her once again. “It’s a pre-mission safety precaution,” he informs her. Then, despite her very much not asking, he continues to explain: “We have an executive officer – usually Rollins – perform a last minute check; we confirm appropriate tech is on board, briefly assess each team member’s physical and mental readiness – things like that. It takes about twenty minutes.”

And Darcy doesn’t know why the STRIKE Commander is telling her this, because she understands that he has an important job and doesn’t hold it against him if he needs to leave. Hell, it gives her an excuse to take one of those breaks from him she so desperately needs, so as far as she’s concerned, he’s more than welcome to head out – no explanation needed!

The reason behind that unnecessarily detailed little monologue of his becomes clear a moment later, however, when he inquires, “Can you stick around?”

“Uh…” She doesn’t really want to, of course – she was really looking forward to the excuse to call it a day! – but she also doesn’t want to have to keep setting up new meetings with him over and over again, and if things continue to go at this rate, she’ll probably have to pencil him in for every day of the next two weeks.

He tilts his head to the side, still waiting on an answer.

“I’d have to see where Jane’s at with our experiment.” She doesn’t think her presence is going to be needed at this stage of their set-up, but she doesn’t like to leave Jane unsupervised for long; the tiny scientist sometimes gets Ideas™, and it’s usually safer for everyone involved if Darcy is present to contain the inevitable resulting fires.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he’s quick to agree, starting to wave a hand in dismissal before freezing mid-motion. His hand curls closed, all but his index finger dropping down, and he keeps that ‘hold just a second!’ gesture in the air as he leans over, opens up a drawer, and pulls out a post-it note. His movements are quick and efficient as he presses the yellow square onto the desk before him, finally drops his free hand and grabs a pen so he can jot down a few numbers. “My office has a secure line,” he says as he finishes his note, sets the pen off to the side. “You need the code of the day to make or receive calls without going through Janet.”

She looks from the post-it note to the Commander’s rising form. “Janet?”

While his superior officer tidies up what’s left over from lunch – snapping closed the tubberware and dropping it in a bag by his desk – the younger agent chimes in, gives a bit of unsolicited advice to Darcy: “You don’t want to go through Janet.”

And okay, noted. She nods at the intel, turns slightly to watch as the two men head out of the office.

Rumlow pauses in the doorway, looks back over his shoulder and promises “Twenty minutes,” then reminds her, “Enter the code before you enter anything else.”

The door closes behind him – Darcy’s making note of these things, now – and the brunette reaches for her StarkPhone, because what kind of a dinosaur even is Rumlow, to assume she wouldn’t just use her cell? Pfft!

Although… she’s never actually had access to a secure government line before. At least, as far as she knows.

…That seems like fun.

Changing plans, the now-somewhat-excited woman hops to her feet and makes her way around the desk, before sliding into the Commander’s fancy ergonomic chair. She pulls the post-it note to her, gets comfortable and then reaches for the phone.

At first, she’s not sure if she’s supposed to wait for a tone before dialing or something, but she’s not exactly keen on figuring out why it is one doesn’t want to go through Janet, so she errs on the side of caution and quickly punches in the four-digit code. A dial tone answers her, and after she taps out the number for Jane’s cell she’s long since memorized, she’s met with the familiar sound of ringing phone waiting to connect.

It takes Jane until what feels like mere seconds before the voicemail’s set to kick in – because it always takes Jane nearly the entirety of the ring cycle to answer her phone – but then the tiny scientist’s voice is in her ear: “Hello?”

With a cheeky grin, Darcy sits forward, props her elbows up on Rumlow’s desk. “Hi, yes, this is Agent Lewis, calling from STRIKE.”

It takes a second, and she can almost hear the gears turning in her friend’s mind. “…Darcy?”

She settles the doubt quickly, explains: “Yes. Janie, listen: I have the power! I have been accepted into the storied ranks few have ever dreamed of, and—“

Jane cuts her off, demands to know, “What are you talking about?”

And it’s so much less fun, but she cuts to the chase as requested: “Rumlow gave me the super secret STRIKE secure line code of the day.”

“…Can we get anything with that?”

Yeah. Access to a secure line without having to go through Janet.

…Which the senior astrophysicist most certainly does not give the slightest of shits about.

Darcy heaves out a sigh, makes one simple request of her friend: “Don’t ruin this for me.”

“I’m not ruining anything for—Hold on.” Jane’s voice disappears for a second, replaced with a muffled crackling sound, and then it’s back. “Hey, Darcy? My phone’s about to die. Can I call you from the lab phone?”

The younger woman can’t help but snort at the suggestion. “…Do you even know where the lab phone is?” Because her friend sure as hell acts like she doesn’t whenever they’re working on an experiment and the lab phone rings. Answering it is one of those Lab Minion jobs Darcy’s kept in her job description even with the new promotion.

“Ha, ha.” Jane Foster does not sound amused. “What’s your extension?”

The brunette takes a look at the clunky phone base in front of her, rattles off the three digit number she sees listed on the display, then hums out a noise of agreement when she hears the number repeated back to her.

“Okay, give me a minute.”

And Darcy figures she should give the scientist several minutes, because Jane really might not know where their office phone is, so she sets the handset down on its receiver and relaxes back in the comfortable chair. Because she’s a nosy person, she glances around, taking the opportunity to sorta-kinda snoop by looking over the Commander’s desk. Or, well, it would be considered snooping on anyone else’s desk, but with everything so insanely neat and tidy and organized in clean little stacks… it doesn’t really feel like snooping.

For fuck’s sake, the only thing that looks out of place was the pen he’d been writing with – and even that was set down in a perfectly parallel position beside his keyboard.

Yuck.

Darcy can’t imagine what his apartment must look like, how stupidly tidy he must fold his even his boxers.

And yet he wants to play the role of this great husband and father figure? When kids are messy, and family life is disorganized? Would he run a family like a tight ship, she wonders? Do that whole Captain Von Trapp thing from Sound of Music? They were both military guys, after all.

But then there’s the memory of him with that agent’s baby the other day, grubby little baby hands all over his face. There was him bantering with Jack Rollins’ kids, him insisting to her that he’d be a great father….

She doesn’t understand him – there is still nothing she understands about the man! – and she’s still pondering the enigma that is Commander Brock Rumlow when the phone finally rings a long moment later.

And it’s a whole Thing™ between her and Jane – Darcy answering calls in ridiculous ways – so she picks up the phone, punches in the super-special code once again, and, without thinking, chirps out a pleasant, “Brock’s phone, this is his boss speaking, a.k.a. his wife!”

She expects a laugh.

She does not expect the sound of a woman’s sharp inhalation, followed by a decidedly-not-Jane voice asking, “His what?”

“Oh!” Fuck! Stunned, for a second, Darcy blinks at the desk in front of her, states the obvious: “You’re not Jane.”

“No,” the woman on the other line agrees, her voice doing a funny thing. “I’m Maria Rumlow – Brock’s mother.”

And fuckity-fuck fuck fuck!

How could Darcy have been so stupid?!

She must take too long to answer, because Maria’s voice is in her ear a second later, tone pleasant but canny. “I’m sorry, Darling, who is this?”

Darcy scrambles to recover. “Oh! I’m so sorry! This is Darcy. I was just joking, earlier. You see—“

She’s interrupted by a clarifying inquiry: “Darcy Lewis?”

And – oh! – but isn’t this an interesting development? Frowning, she can’t help but try to confirm, “…You know who I am?”

Does that mean Rumlow… talks about her? …To his mother?

“Yes, of course, Darling,” the older woman intones, as if it’s a perfectly natural and expected thing. “Oh, I just knew it! When my son wouldn’t stop complaining about you all those years ago, I knew there had to be something there.”

Ah. And – yeah, okay – that tracks; Rumlow most definitely had plenty of reason to complain about Younger Darcy.

Semi-crisis-of-awkwardness averted.

Major-crisis-of-misunderstanding, however, very much not.

“Oh, no no!” Darcy’s quick to rebut. “We’re not—“

“Is my son there with you, by chance?”

“Uh… no. But Mrs. Rumlow—“

“Maria, please. I insist!” There’s a pause barely long enough for Darcy to take a breath, and then the woman is right back at it: “He’s not hiding from me, is he? Do you know where he is?”

“No, no! He’s, uh…” – And holy shit, this was not the important thing his mother needed to know in this very moment, but Darcy’s floundering, here, and she can’t help but automatically answer. – “…doing a quick send-off thing and will be back in a minute. But Mrs. Rumlow—“

“Maria.”

“Right. Maria,” the astrophysicist stresses, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You see, your son and I aren’t actually—“

She’s cut off, this time, by a semi-squealed “ooh!” of excitement, before Maria Rumlow lets her know: “I’m so sorry, Darling, Sal’s on the other line. I have to take this, but we’ll talk more soon!”

“No! No, wait, Maria—!”

The line clicks dead.

Darcy sits there, quietly horrified, for a long, long moment, as she tries to process what just happened.

Eventually, she goes to set the handset back on it’s base, but it feels like she’s watching herself move in slow motion as she does it. She blinks one time, twice… then almost jumps out of her seat when she hears the phone ring again.

She rushes to answer, forgets for a second in her urgency that she needs to enter in that stupid special code thing, and then has to scramble to find the post-it again and get the buttons pressed in the right order. She brings the headset back up to her ear, breathes out a quick: “Maria?”

“No: Jane,” the familiar voice on the other line answers, stressing her name like she’s repeating it to a small child who can’t quite get the sounds right.

It’s not Brock’s mother calling back, realizing she’d so rudely cut Darcy off.

It’s Jane.

Darcy makes a sad moose noise and slumps forward, smooshing her face into Rumlow’s clutter-free desk.

“Wait, why would Hill be calling? Did something happen? …Did they find out about the you-know-what we borrowed from the Weapons Tech department last Tuesday? Because, if so, I can put it back and make it look like Engineering is responsible.”

Morosely, and with words more than a little but muffled by the wood blocking her face, she confesses: “I fucked up, Janie.”

--x--

Because Jane is the voice of reason in their friendship, and because Jane gives Best Friend Peptalks like nobody’s business, Darcy is much calmer by the time she hangs up the phone.

Jane talked her off the ledge, reminded her that, embarrassing as it is to have answered the phone like that to Rumlow’s mother, it’s a simple enough misunderstanding to clear up, with a very easy fix. It’s not like Darcy will ever have to interact with his mother again, anyways, so there’s really nothing to self-pity spiral out of control about. She just has to fess up to Rumlow, and let that be that.

She can take the man laughing at her expense for a few minutes, can play Nice, Apologetic Darcy and just nod along to whatever he says and tell him she’s sorry.

…She won’t like it, but she can manage it.

So Darcy sits there, waiting patiently for his return, even when the clock shows his twenty minutes is up. In another version of the day, where she had done the smart thing and just called Jane from her StarkPhone and never even touched the stupid office phone and it’s bullshit secure line, Darcy might have called it quits as soon as that clock hand passed the twenty-minute mark – might have counted down the seconds and happily skipped off to enjoy the rest of her day, free and clear, the same way she and the other students used to do when a college professor was more than fifteen minutes late and that meant class was cancelled. But that’s not the version of the Darcy’s currently living, and with things as they are, she figures she’s got no choice but to wait; she owes him an apology, and he’ll probably need to know he should call his mother back sooner rather than later.

So she sits in his unfairly comfortable chair and she waits, twiddling her thumbs and mentally rehearsing how she plans to break the news to him when he walks through that door.

Only, she hears him before she sees him – hears the loud, rumbling shout that echoes through the STRIKE suite. She hears it even through the thick, mineral-core office door that’s still firmly shut.

“Lewis!”

Darcy bites back a wince, straightens up to prepare herself, because, evidentially, her carefully rehearsed speech won’t be necessary.

The door swings open a few seconds later, an absolutely incensed STRIKE Commander storming into the small space.

“Lewis, what the—!?” He seems to catch himself – lifts a hand, closes his fist, and brings it up to his mouth as he takes in a deep breath. Then he reaches for the door, brings it carefully closed – nice and easy – and turns back to her. There’s fire still blazing in his eyes and his tone is far from gentle, but his volume is under control once again as he starts over: “What the fuck did you do?”

She takes in a breath, reminds herself she’s supposed to be Nice Darcy – Patient Darcy – Apologetic Darcy, and, whatever she does, definitely not Matches-His-Tone-Of-Voice Darcy. “I thought it was Jane,” she defends, calmly and ingratiatingly. “She was calling me back, and I—I…”

“Well, it wasn’t Jane,” comes the obvious correction, as he crosses to the front of the desk and bends down so his hands onto it so he’s leaning forward. It brings their heads closer to the same height, the motion graceful and fluid yet somehow almost predatory, at the same time. “It was my mother, Lewis. My mother!”

“I know,” she tells him as she looks back at him. And her mind’s supplying her with a very vivid image of a leopard going for the kill on a baby gazelle, so she shifts back in her seat, leans away. “I’m sorry.”

“Lewis…” he grinds out once more, and at this point Darcy’s lost track of the number of times he’s last-named her in the past 90 seconds. “My mother has been trying to get me to settle down for thirty fucking years! You do realize that, right?”

There’s obviously no way she could have known that, but she nods along anyway, tries to placate him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“How do you not mean to tell someone you’re married?!” he asks her, incredulous. And then he’s pushing back up off of the desk, lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose as he paces over to the door and then back along the length of the room.

She tracks his motions with her gaze, but thinks better of trying to answer the question.

“I mean, Jesus Christ!” he exclaims a moment later. “This is the second time you’ve done this, now, isn’t it? How the fuck do you keep doing this? Are you cursed?”

And this situation is absolutely nothing like the Fandral thing – thank you very much! – both because she’d been joking when she’d answered the phone this afternoon, and because there’s a nice, easy solution to this particular problem. It hasn’t been eight years of reaffirming a lie; all it’ll take is a quick phone call and everything’ll be all cleared up, no one but Darcy with anything to be embarrassed over.

Indignation flaring within her, the brunette suddenly decides she’s had enough of his little tempter tantrum. Finally releasing the reins on her tightly-controlled tone and volume, she pins his back with a sharp glare and bites out, “Look, I immediately told her I was joking, but I think she thought I just meant about the boss thing, not the wife thing.”

His expression is somewhere between confused and suspicious when he swivels back around and stops where he is. “The boss thing?”

Darcy immediately thinks better of filling him in on that, so she clears her throat and tries to sidestep the trap. “Anyway—“

“You realize you’ve just ruined my life, right?” he questions, apparently not pleased with her lack of groveling and pleading for forgiveness.

She can’t help but roll her eyes. “You’re catastrophizing.” It’s a word she’d learned from Jane just a few minutes earlier, and it definitely seems to fit now.

But Rumlow begs to differ, however, giving his head a slow shake and revealing, “She told the entire family.”

Darcy manages to avoid scoffing and rolling her eyes again, and just tries to reason with the clearly catastrophizing Commander: “It’s only been – what? – thirty minutes? I’m sure she can’t have told your entire—“

“I’ve got twenty-six new text messages and three missed calls,” he recites, stony-faced. “Do not underestimate my mother, Lewis.”

And – shit! – that was a lot of texts!

Had Maria Rumlow really worked that fast?

Fuck.

With a grimace, she tells him again – more earnestly, this time: “I’m really sorry.”

Judging by the frustrated little shake of his head (tense jaw and all), he doesn’t think that’s enough, but at least he heaves out a breath and drops down into one of the guest chairs opposite her.

The tension in the room starts to drain away, and she finds it easier to breathe.

“You’re going to fix this,” he announces after a long silence.

She has no objection to that – Calm, Nice, Apologetic Darcy back in control for the moment – so she nods. “How would you like me to do that?”

His hand waves out in a helpless gesture, and he gives his head another of those little shakes, suddenly appearing tired. “I don’t know, but you’re going to do it.”

He falls back into silence, and she gives him some time to think. After a few loaded moments, though, she starts pitching suggestions: “I can call her back and tell her it was all a big misunderstanding?”

“She won’t believe you.”

Darcy frowns at him, cuts him an unhappy look. “I’ll make her believe me.” Obviously! She wasn’t just going to half-ass the explanation or anything. “You can say the same thing, tell her this is something we’ll all be able to laugh about together someday.”

The Commander’s expression is grim. “My entire family thinks I’m married, and they think that I’ve been keeping it a secret for who-knows-how-long. We tell them it was just a joke – now, after everything that just happened – and it only looks like we’re lying even more to cover up your mistake.”

Darcy thinks he’s just being difficult, now. She huffs out a breath, paints him a picture of how far she’s willing to go to convince his mother: “We can have Jane tell her, too. I’ll bring Thor in person! She’s up in New York, right? Hell, I’ll even swear to it in some kind of notarized, legally binding document if I need to. I can give you my Social Security Number, have you run one of those stalkery government searches you can do and print out all the important information on me – tax returns, bank statements… whatever shows that I’m not married.”

There’s a funny expression on his face as he eyes her. “…What exactly is it you think I do here in STRIKE?”

“Ugh!” With a wave of her hand, she dismisses the question and tries to keep him focused on the important parts. “Thor. Notarized statement. Tax Returns.”

Rumlow only shakes his head, doesn’t look persuaded. “It won’t work.”

“Well do you have any bright ideas of your own, huh?” she wants to know. “Or are you just going to sit there all growly while shooting down mine?”

He shrugs a shoulder, concedes, “Probably the latter.”

And – for fuck’s sake! – that is not the answer she’s looking for, but Darcy’s fresh out of suggestions, so she just tosses her hands out, lets them slap down against her lap when she’s done. If he wants to just sit there brooding in silence instead of actually solving the problem, then who is she to stop him?

She can wait.

The irony of the situation is not lost on her, as she looks over at the bulletin board and tries to distract herself. She’s the one acting like the adult here, while the fifty-year-old man in front of her sits there glum as a toddler at the dining room table who’s just been informed he’s not allowed to leave until he finishes all of his peas.

...Or was that a child? What’s the actual age cut off, there, between a toddler and a child? Which one’s the one just old enough to eat peas and understand he has to finish his dinner?

Fuck. Darcy really needs to learn a thing or two about children in the next two weeks. Maybe there’s a documentary on Netflix?

“Okay, that’s it, then,” the dark-haired man announces after a moment, drawing her out of her internal musings. He gives another of those helpless little gestures, then admits, still staring off at the office’s far wall, “I don’t see an alternative. There’s no better option.”

And of course there’s not!

She’s glad he’s finally seeing the light.

Still, the astrophysicist tries to keep her celebration in check, settling on a cool, professional tone for her reply. “Great. Do you have a Notary Public here in STRIKE, or do you want me to head down to HR?”

The Commander spares her a cursory glance, looking anything but impressed as he waves his fingers dismissively. “No; that’s a stupid plan.”

And that was sort of her thought on the matter, too, but he’d been the one insisting his mother needed proof. Still, she won’t complain about this new development, figures it only makes things easier for her. She confirms the plan they’ve settled on: “So we just call her back and tell her the truth?”

Incredulous once again, he turns back to face her, slams the book on that suggestion. “Oh fuck no! My mother is a dog with a bone, Lewis. We’re committed at this point. We’ll just actually have to get married.”

“What?!” She gapes, then shakes her head, certain she’s heard him wrong or he’s just fucking with her or something. “You mean tell your mom we’re actually married?”

“No, I mean actually get married.”

“With a fake marriage certificate, though?”

Slower, now, he repeats himself: “No. I mean actually get married. We have to actually get married.”

She’s still not following this plan of his, doesn’t see how this solves any of their problems. Unless he thinks the play is to convince his mother they’re not married by getting married to different people? Skeptical – because that’s still a dumb, unnecessarily complicated plan – she requests further clarification: “To… whom?”

“Lewis, what the fuck is wrong with you? You know I mean to each other.” He has the audacity to look annoyed with her, too, like she’s the one who’s not making any sense here.

She shakes her head, insists, “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead fucking serious, Sweetheart.” And he actually looks it, too – a fact that has ice filling her veins and panic clawing at her heart, because she was so not ready to have actual marriage proposed to her this afternoon.

“Rumlow—!“

He lifts up a palm, apparently anticipating her objection. “I’m not saying we have to stay married forever. Relax.” He says that like it’s such a simple thing – like it’s easy to relax when your one-time-maybe-still-work-nemesis announces that you should get actually married in some kind of official, legally binding ceremony just because he doesn’t know how to talk to his mother properly. “Look, my mother knows me. She’s probably astonished that I haven’t scared you off yet. …No, we give it a few months, break it off, tell her we tried our best.”

Darcy stares, wondering if she’s somehow been teleported into the Twilight Zone or if this is all some elaborate ruse meant to fuck with her.

…Is he trying to get payback for her slipping up on the phone, earlier?

That seems awfully cruel, but she has played worse pranks on him in the past.

“Oh! Then we get a divorce, not an annulment, and the Church won’t let me marry again anyway,” he continues, looking thrilled as if he’s piecing together the final part of a difficult puzzle. He shifts in his seat, pulls his cell out of his back pocket and starts to pull open a browser. “This is perfect.”

And it’s a rare day when Darcy Lewis has to be the voice of reason, but she takes on that role, now – informs him, “No, it’s not. We’re not getting married, Rumlow!”

He risks another dismissive glance up at her, holds her gaze steady as he tells her, “It’s too late for that, Princess,” and then promptly goes right back to focusing on his cell.

“You’re insane!”

Completely unbothered, he continues typing away with his thumbs. “You can tell my mother that in a couple ‘a months, when you tell her that you’re leaving me.”

And because she’s getting desperate now for him to see reason, she concedes to half of his plan. “Okay, fine.” She can pretend to be his wife to his family for a little while – that’s not really all that different from what she’s asked of him, after all. “But we can do that without any actual legal documents, you know. We can just pretend to be married and pretend to get a divorce.”

Her suggestion is answered with a noise of disagreement, but he keeps focused on whatever it is he’s doing with his phone. “That won’t get her off my back long term. No, we do the real thing, forward the appropriate papers to the Church, and then I’m free and clear for the rest of my life.”

And that sounds great and all for him, but it’s still absolutely insane. She draws a line in the sand. “No. No! Look, I’m sorry – I'm really, really sorry – but I’m not marrying you.”

Rumlow finally looks up, but she finds herself wishing he hadn’t, because he does that entirely-too-intense, deeply-scrutinizing look of his that makes her squirm in her seat. “I’m cashing in that IOU.”

She sputters at the nerve of him, but refuses, nonetheless. “It’s not happening.”

He leans forward, fire in his eyes as he grinds out, “You owe me.”

And okay, yeah, she does! She acknowledges that. But – and this is important: “This isn’t even remotely proportional!”

“And yet it’s the price I’m asking,” comes his easy return. Then, with a sudden confidence he should absolutely not be feeling right now, he leans back in his seat – tells her, matter-of-factly: “And it’s the price you’re going to pay.”

She clenches her jaw, glares back at him, and doesn’t feel the need to say anything more, because she’s already made herself perfectly clear on the matter.

“Unless… you’re just… gonna go back on your word?” His brow furrows, a perfect imitation of innocent confusion on his face as he looks back at her. He even goes so far as to tilt his head, the action this time calling to mind the image of a confused German Shepherd puppy. “Even though we had a deal?”

Fuck.

She blinks closed her eyes, takes in a deep breath. “Rumlow…” And she sighs, now, tries to ask without actually asking… “I don’t want to marry you.”

“Okay: ouch,” he starts off, feigning offense – but then his demeanor softens. It’s something she can sense from across the desk, and when she opens her eyes once again, it’s to the sight of a subdued STRIKE Commander, vulnerability written all over his posture and body language. “I’m asking for your help, Darcy,” he entreats her, the sincerity in his voice and the use of her first name tugging at something deep inside of her.

And – fuck! fuck! – but she knows what he’s doing! She tells him as much, calls him out on it: “I know what you’re trying to do. I know this is all an act, that stupid face you’re making and—oh that one, now, too, where you’re pretending I just hurt your feelings. I know what you’re doing, you manipulative little shit!”

Of course, that doesn’t mean it isn’t working, even though she knows it’s all part of his carefully-orchestrated charade.

She did owe him…

And she’s the one who got him into this whole mess in the first place.

“Please.” He doesn’t say anything more – doesn’t have to.

Damn it!

“Fine!” she relents, heaving out a put-upon sigh.

And no sooner is the word out of her mouth than his smug little grin is back in place. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he winks at her, tells her, approvingly, “We already know each other so well, Wife. Look at us, compromising!”

She’d known he was manipulating her – she’d fucking known it – but it’s still brazen of him to so quickly admit it to her face.

She goes to blow out an angry breath, but finds herself laughing instead – the insanity of it all catching up to her. And maybe she doesn’t hate that cock-sure attitude of his, because she has to kind of appreciate that he’s outmaneuvered her, fair and square.

On the bright side: at least now she doesn’t have to wait for that other shoe to drop.

“This makes us even?” she checks, brow lifting with significance. “No scores to try and settle later?” Especially from the past?

Her apparently-soon-to-be-husband dips his head once in acknowledgment, then seems to sense that it’s verbal confirmation she’s after. “We’re even.” Without further ado, he claps his hands on his thighs and gets to his feet. “Now get out of my seat! We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Text

Jane Foster is not amused when Darcy fills her in, back in their laboratory that same afternoon.

“I told you to apologize and play nice with the STRIKE Commander Who Carries A Gun, not give the man your hand in marriage!” Though her voice starts off patient and maybe a little bit patronizing, in that let-me-slow-this-down-so-you-can-understand way one usually reserves for speaking with children, by the end of the sentence, the tiny scientist is shouting, her hands frantically waving at her sides.

It’s quite the sight. …For a Tuesday that hasn’t involved some random SHIELD agent or intern fucking an experiment up.

Darcy drops her head to her hands, slumps forward with her elbows propped on the lab table. “I know,” comes her muffled-out groan. Then she lifts up her head, props her chin on her hand, and declares, “But what’s done is done. I made a deal with him, so we’re getting married for a few weeks. It’s just temporary. My question for you is what do I do now?”

That’s what she can use some advice on: Does she have to tell people at work? Is there some kind of disclosure form she needs to fill out? What’s this mean for her long-term? Could she keep her own name, or is she going to have to be Darcy Rumlow from now on? …Does that name sound stupid? Does she have to change him to be her emergency contact at SHIELD? Wait! If she gets hit by a cab on her way home from work next week and winds up in a coma, would Rumlow be the one who gets to make the decision on whether or not the hospital should pull the plug? Does she trust Brock Rumlow to have life and death decisions over her like that?

…Is that a coma she’s thinking of, or is the whole ventilator-pulling-the-plug thing more than just the average coma?

Darcy has so many questions. It’s why she needs her friend’s help.

But Jane, of course, has questions of her own.

“How much money does he make?” the more petite scientist asks, a contemplative furrow between her brows as she clasps her hands together and sets them down on the table between them. It’s a very official-like pose, for a normally very unofficial-like woman.

“What?” Darcy does a double-take, waits to see if she’ll be given any more context clues for this riddle. But she’s not, so eventually she continues, eyeing her friend as she does. “Why would I know that? What does that have to do with anything right now?”

Jane Foster does not relinquish her line of inquiry. “Does he make more than you?” she prompts. “Or do you think you make more than him? Factoring in royalties we’re expected to make this year, I mean. That’s important.”

And the younger astrophysicist is still bewildered – which is actually an emotion Darcy hadn’t been sure she’d still have the capacity to feel more of at this point… but there she is! – so she squints her eyes, tries to see the conversation’s trajectory, like it’s a perceivable thing, laid out in the air between them. “…Where is this coming from?”

“Well, you have to think about the financial implications of this divorce, after all. The higher earning spouse could owe alimony for some percentage of the marriage’s duration. I think. I mean, it doesn’t have to be the man anymore, you know. It—“

“Jane.” Extending an arm between them, Darcy reaches for her friend’s hand, gives it a squeeze from across the lab table. “Sweetie. I love you and your big brain full of huge amounts of random knowledge, but I am one hundred percent confident that Commander Rumlow is not out to get spousal support from me.”

And Jane Foster doesn’t look wholly convinced of the matter, but she moves on as if accepting the fact, advises her friend, “Well, then maybe you should be getting some from him.”

Darcy gives the hand two quick pats, then pulls back her arm. “Okay. Good talk.”

--x--

Natasha Romanoff is similarly unhelpful.

Darcy manages to track down the Russian in the hallway outside of her office, but the superspy is apparently already well aware of the entire situation. Darcy’s not quite sure how exactly word of this whole ridiculous thing made it out, but she’s long since stopped asking questions about her friend’s abilities to obtain information.

She hasn’t stopped looking to the woman for advice, though, so when the redhead responds to her opening of “Hey, Nat, I was hoping I could get your advice on something…” with two raised palms and an “Oh, no. I am not involved in this, Milaya. You two sort this out yourselves; I have done my part,” Darcy is understandably disappointed.

And it’s times like this Darcy most wishes she had a normal upbringing to fall back on, but something tells her the two foster families she still has a contact number for wouldn’t be that much help – not on this particular issue. Mrs. Georgia Mitchell is coming up on ninety, now, and despite being a very sweet old lady who was always patient and kind with Darcy, there were simply some things they just didn’t discuss – namely, anything that would have the old fashioned Southern Bell clutching at her literal and not just metaphorical pearls. Telling Mrs. Georgia she’s agreed to go through with a sham marriage just to fool the Catholic Church seems like a great way to shock the woman into an early(ish?) grave. The Richardsons, on the other hand, would’ve normally been Darcy’s go to on a thing like this, because she’s always been particularly fond of Diana and Peter… but last she heard, the two were in the midst of a messy divorce. It seemed a little insensitive to ask for fake-marriage advice at a time like that.

So that’s how Darcy ends up sitting at one of the small tables in the ground floor lounge, sharing coffee and talking over this whole crazy plan with a very lost-looking Agent James Woo.

“I’m sorry, you said you’re marrying Rumlow?” the increasingly confused man asks, a furrow to his brow as he leans one elbow onto the table.

And this is not the first time she has had to repeat this information during their brief conversation, so the brunette heaves out a sigh, looks terribly disappointed by her new-ish work friend. “Yes, Jimmy. Keep up. First because of Asgard, but now for real because he needs to get his mother off his back.”

The man across from her nods, brow still pinched in concentration, but then he leans forward again, sets the index finger of his free hand down on the table before them, as in he’s pointing to something on a nonexistent map. “Like, Commander Brock Rumlow? The Head of STRIKE? The guy who was working in HYDRA for something like twenty years?”

The astrophysicist sends a chastising look over their coffees. “He was undercover, on a critically important assignment from Nick Fury himself. I know you know this. Don’t say it like that!”

“No, no, I know,” Jimmy insists. “I just want to make sure we’re talking about the same guy, here. There’s not another Rumlow in SHIELD, is there?”

Exasperated, Darcy groans, flops back into the uncomfortable chair that she’s pretty sure is purposefully made that way just to encourage employees to take shorter breaks. She has to strain to reach for her coffee in her current position, but she manages it, reeling it in to her and taking a deep, blissful sip. At least she can always count on coffee.

Coffee is her true friend.

“So, what do you think?” she prompts as she sets the mug back down. And it’s maybe not really a fair question for a man she’s only worked on one field project with and just recently became office friends with… but what can she say? The man has a trustable face.

And he’s also the only person in the building who lets her literally pluck him out of his office in the middle of the day, grabbing him by the upper arm and dragging him down to the lounge without so much as a vague explanation.

“What do I think?”

“Yes.” She waves her hand in the air, gestures to everything around them. “About the whole thing.”

The SHIELD agent looks distinctly uncomfortable, tugging at his shirt collar and glancing around the room. “I… support you and any decisions you make,” he hedges, giving a firm little head bob and a satisfied smile, as if he thinks she’s going to let him off the hook with something as ridiculously contrived as that.

“Well obviously!” she acknowledges, before pressing him further: “But what do you think?”

“I, uh…” His gaze does a funny thing, furtively glancing around again before locking down on the coffee he’s barely touched. “I think Commander Rumlow’s a great guy.”

Darcy narrows her eyes in speculation, considers her shifty little work friend, and then huffs out in realization. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?”

Jimmy offers a quick nod in confirmation.

And of course the man himself is standing behind her! She shakes her head and once again wonders what exactly she’d done to anger the Norns, but then fixes a falsely wide smile on her face and turns around to aim it at her soon-to-be-husband. He’s looking down at her with a curve of his lips that makes known his very real amusement.

He’s always so proud of himself – thinking he’s a step ahead of her and reveling in her misfortune. Like when he’d just done that condescending gaze-flicking-over-her-from-head-to-toe thing and then laughed in her face when she demanded the safe return of her stolen iPod.

Ugh!

And okay, yeah, she’s supposed to be putting that all behind her, isn’t she? …Whoops.

“Lewis,” comes Rumlow’s definitely-enjoying-this greeting, a twinkle in his eye, before he slides his focus behind her as etiquette demands. He tilts his chin up, acknowledging the other man’s presence. “Woo.”

“Commander.”

The STRIKE officer’s attention shifts back to her, and he sends her a wink. “You ready?”

Darcy blinks, surprised. “Now?” And then she’s a little disappointed in herself for being surprised in the first place, because she really should know better than to think ‘this day can’t possibly get any crazier.’ At this point she really just needs to start rolling with the punches.

“Everything’s taken care of,” Rumlow confirms. “You got ID on you?”

The brunette’s license and debit card are in the back pocket of her jeans, so she gives him a thumbs up, uses her other hand to hold the mug to her lips so she can down the remaining liquid.

Darcy has rules about coffee, you see. Rule Number One: Drink it. Rule Number Two: No drop left behind!

She sets the mug down with a dull clunk, lets out a satisfied noise, and then wonders aloud, “Doesn’t the courthouse close, like…ten minutes from now? And do we need a witness?” She tips her head to the side in gesture, indicates behind her to the man she’d all but stolen from his coworkers a half hour ago. Then, suddenly enlightened, she beams. “Ooh! Or an officiant? Jimmy’s a youth pastor; that’s like the same thing, right?”

“Not for me; not in D.C.; and no, it’s not,” comes the sequential answer of her deadpan soon-to-be-husband. “Agent Woo’s off the hook.”

“Oh, thank heavens.” The man in question sounds like there’s nothing he’d’ve rather done less as he whispers his relief to himself, but when Rumlow’s gaze only locks on him over Darcy’s shoulder, he quickly adjusts his response. “I mean, this is such a happy day for you! …Both. For you both. Congratulations, Commander.”

“Uh-huh.” Rumlow doesn’t buy it, clearly, but he doesn’t look bothered by the false well-wishes, either. Instead, he just looks back to Darcy, arches a brow.

“Okay! Let’s do this.” At this point she figures oh what the hell, so she hops to her feet, grabs her phone, and reaches for the mug only to be cut off.

“I got it,” Jimmy tells her, arm extending to block her reach. He nods his head to her. “You go, uh… have fun?”

“I will not,” Darcy returns in a pleasant tone that sounds like she’s agreeing with him, “but thank you.” Then, leaving the SHIELD agent to finish his drink and handle the cleanup, she turns and heads toward the entrance Rumlow signals, as he steps back and holds out an arm in deferral. Her flats tap against the marble floor, and she notices – because she’s listening for it now, after he’d so easily snuck up on her – that the Commander’s shoes don’t make a sound as he moves.

He does, though. By the time they hit the grand entrance, he’s fallen into stride at her side, that smug little smirk back to tug at the corner of his mouth once again. “So. Talking about me?”

The brunette rolls her eyes as she weaves past one of the people moving to join the backed up line at security. She doesn’t shake him, though – unfortunately! – so she offers a quick explanation: “We’re getting married. …Tonight, apparently. I was just trying to pick people’s brains – get some advice on things.”

He holds the door for her at the front entrance, waits until she’s brushing right past him to ask, “You’re looking for advice on our wedding night?”

His voice is pitched low and a little bit husky, and it’s right there in her ear, the bulk of him so close to her – just a fraction of an inch behind and to the left… She can’t fight the shiver that runs up her spine before she’s even begun to process his words. It’s automatic – instinctive, even.

But then she does process the words and their implied meaning, and it only makes matters worse, because now she’s picturing it – picturing him stepping up behind her and closing the distance between them, one of his hands smoothing its way around the side of her hip before yanking her back, fingertips digging in… and—

A car horn blares from the street up ahead, wrenches her back to reality.

Darcy takes in a breath, mentally kicks herself, and finds herself for the first time in her life thanking the universe for D.C. traffic.

“Fuck.” He just won again, didn’t he? Even though they weren’t officially playing.

The bastard behind her lets out a laugh – a full, hearty chuckle – and there’s no mistaking what exactly he finds so funny.

“I set you up perfectly for that one, didn’t I?” she acknowledges with a groan. And her cheeks feel a bit warm – they do – but Darcy’s a completely normal, red-blooded American woman who has absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, and so she keeps her head up, looks over the porte-cochère and the visitor parking lot that sits on the other side of the street. It suddenly occurs to her that the employee parking garage is on the far side of the building, in the opposite direction to where they’ve been heading. “Wait. Where are we going?”

“Black SUV on the left,” he replies, lifting an arm to indicate an unmarked Chevy Tahoe parked just a few yards ahead of them. It’s completely nondescript, so completely boring, and lacking even the slightest hint of character; there are no bumper stickers, no personalized license plates, and, when she opens the door to the passenger seat, she finds the interior spotless but not overly fancy, not a single personal touch anywhere in sight.

She barely manages to repress her urge to groan, because of course he chooses to drive the most clichéd vehicle possible for a Commander of a special government tactical team! The man is the walking embodiment of that bank commercial where the deployed soldier comes home and decides to apply for a loan on none other than a Hummer.

For better or worse – and Darcy’s really not sure which – not long after they’re buckled in and heading out, the STRIKE Commander saves her from her disturbing thoughts, only to bring them right back to the conversation she thought she’d successfully avoided: “You gonna tell me more about that advice you were looking for?”

And he’s trying to throw her off her game once again, since it worked so well just a moment ago, but she’s prepared for it now. Her mind is a fortress; not a single stray thought crossing it that isn’t directly related to her conversation with Jimmy. So that’s what she tells him about, very purposefully leaving aside his deliberately misinterpreted wedding night comment from earlier. “There’s a lot that comes along with being married. I was trying to get advice on what to do about the legal stuff.”

“Legal stuff?” he prompts.

She sends a hard look in his direction, but his eyes are on the road. “Yes. Because, get this: there’s a lot that comes along with being married.”

There’s a slight delay in his response, as he puts on his turn signal and maneuvers through a busy intersection, but then he picks up right where he left off: “So you go to Woo? Not, you know, anyone in Legal?”

Wait. “Can we go to Legal for personal things?” Because that seems like a good thing to know.

And she’s watching him with rapt attention, now, so she sees him turn and look at her – a confused, somewhat concerned expression on his face. “Lewis, do you have any idea what your benefits are, now that you’re working at SHIELD?”

Gah! Benefits. Those HR meetings were also boring. …Just like this boring old Tahoe.

…Knowing she can go to SHIELD’s legal department on unofficial matters, though – that seems helpful. And interesting, actually, if she thinks about the possibilities. …Could they help advise her of her rights when it comes to recovery of stolen property – namely, her iPod? Or would that be some kind of conflict of interest, since they also represent the organization itself?

“Ask for McNamara if you go,” the dark-haired man advises, apparently realizing he won’t be getting a direct answer from her. “You’d like him.”

She snorts, tells him, stubbornly, “You don’t know me. You don’t know who I’d like.”

And though he clearly disagrees, the STRIKE Commander leaves it alone, steers back to the original topic: “There’s not actually all that much that goes with a marriage if you don’t want it to: a name change requires an extra step; joint bank accounts aren’t automatic; same thing for tax filings, insurance, property ownership…” He sounds completely unconcerned about it all, makes it clear why when he says, “Most things stay the same unless you take an additional, affirmative step. We just keep everything separate, and we’re good.”

She sends another scrutinizing look his way, observes aloud, “That all sounds very technical and thought-out for a man who kidnapped three children last week.”

“I had parental approval!” he’s quick to object. “I’m literally on the authorized pick-up list for two of them.”

She hums out a noncommittal reply. “But not the third.”

“Anyway,” comes the pointed dismissal, his hands flexing on the steering wheel, “I talked to McNamara this afternoon; that’s why I know. What is it you’re worried about?”

It’s a bit of a harsh transition, but she follows the thought easily enough. She answers his question with one of her own: “If I were in a freak accident tomorrow and I ended up in a coma, would you be able to tell the doctors to pull the plug?”

She thinks it’s a rather serious question – one of great importance.

He apparently does not.

Throwing back his head, Rumlow lets out a raucous, heartfelt laugh. “Keep your emergency contacts as they are, Lewis. But if anything were to happen, I swear to you, I will keep you alive until Jane Foster can be located to weigh in on your wishes. Yeah?” There’s a wry twist to his lips as he risks another glance at her, one hand still on the wheel. “Besides… you’re no good to me dead, at least not before the divorce goes through. Widowers can remarry in the eyes of the Church, you know.”

It’s her turn to laugh at that point, and – surprisingly – she feels better.

Even more surprisingly: when they get to the courthouse and Rumlow somehow magically manages to find open street parking, he doesn’t immediately get out of the car. …He doesn’t immediately even turn off the engine.

He hesitates.

And when she asks him what’s going on – after getting back in the car and pulling the door closed, because, like a normal person, she’d already unbuckled and hopped out before she realized he hadn’t moved a muscle – he turns to her, demands to know, “Are you sure we should do this?”

It’s the absolute most ridiculous thing she’s ever been asked before in her life, up to and including the not-question question he’d not-quite-asked when he’d proposed this whole ridiculous arrangement in the first place.

…Darcy maybe loses her cool just a bit.

“What?!” she hisses, hands flailing in front of her. “Are you fucking kidding me, Dude? You’re the one who said this was the only way!”

He doesn’t refute that, but his gaze is searching as he looks at her, wonders, “But was that crazy?”

She doesn’t let him sit in uncertainty for long, shouts out a long, emphatic “Yes!” in answer. Another wild gesture, and she reins herself in – takes a deep breath and twists in the passenger seat so she’s fully facing him. “But it also sounds like your whole family might be crazy, and it sounds like this could actually work, from what you told me,” she admits in a normal tone and volume. “You tell me what you want to do, here, Rumlow. This is your call and I’m not going to talk you into one decision or the other. You asked me to help get your family off your back, and I agreed… but you tell me how we make that happen.”

He’s quiet for a minute, staring off at the steering wheel in front of him, before he seems to settle on something, giving his head a definitive shake followed by a resolute nod.

…Darcy has zero idea what the hell that means.

So she gives him time, and it’s not long before he tells her: “I can’t think of a better play, here – not for me.”

Then that settles it. “Okay.” With a gesture toward the courthouse outside of the car, she inquires, “So what’s the hold up?”

He doesn’t make a move for the door, instead staying exactly where he is and sending her a significant look – the intensity of which is more than a little bit unnerving, considering how close he’s sitting. “It’s not the best play for you.”

Darcy raises a hand, gives an elegant gesture toward herself. “And yet here I am, because I am a saint. Saint Darcy, currently accepting devotees.”

For a long moment, the STRIKE Commander just stares at her, before he takes a breath, tells her, in the most serious of ways, “It’s important to me you understand that one of the most essential components of maintaining a cover story is that you begin by choosing something that is at least remotely believable.”

She snorts in amusement, because he’s got a point, there; they both know she’s not the virtuous type. She doesn’t try to argue that fact, instead decides to give him a more serious response to the question he’s clearly been tiptoeing around: “That’s why it’s called a favor – it’s the best option for you, not necessarily for me. You agreed to help me out for Jane’s wedding, and, in exchange, I’m helping you with your ridiculous family thing I can not even pretend to comprehend.”

His lips quirk at the mild insult, but the way he tips his head back and forth suggests he’s acknowledging the unequal burden of those two favors. “And if I offered to help you with your thing without asking anything in return?”

She sees the offer of an out for what it is, but it’s too late for that. She scoffs at the very suggestion, tells him, “I’m not backing out of our deal, Rumlow. I told you I’d do it, and I will.”

“Okay.” He seems to take her at her word, bobbing his head and finally turning off the car. …Truck? …Darcy’s not sure what category this type of SUV falls into – other than boring, that is. She’s quite certain of that particular categorization.

And Darcy’s always been the kind of person to mask nevers and insecurity with bravado and to use humor as a coping mechanism, so she tosses a hand out, catches him by the arm and prevents him from leaving. “That said, there’s something I need to know now, before we do this.”

He turns back toward her, expression deliberately neutral as he waits for her to continue.

The astrophysicist lets a flicker of a smile slip through her mask, wants him to know she’s mostly teasing now. …Mostly. “This is a very important question, you see. Maybe even a deal-breaker.”

The dark-haired man’s posture relaxes, some of the tension draining from his shoulders and the bicep beneath her arm, but he keeps his face playfully stoic as he bobs his head and agrees, “Of course. I understand.”

She takes a breath – to build up the drama, naturally – then asks, “Do you own this car, or did I just participate in the theft of a government vehicle? Because I need to know if I’m agreeing to marry someone who thinks Secret Service Chic is a desirable car aesthetic, or a criminal who’s either brazen or stupid enough to boost a government vehicle in broad daylight from right in front of a government building.”

The blink she gets in response tells her she’s managed to throw him again – that whatever jokingly serious question he’d been expecting her to ask, it wasn’t this. He huffs out something resembling a chuckle, then wonders wryly, “Why do I get the feeling the answer you’re hoping for is the second one?”

“Because it is.” She pulls her hand back from his arm, shrugs a shoulder when he fully laughs in response, and elaborates, “The Bonnie and Clyde thing always seemed kind of fun. You know, without the dying part.”

“Kind of an important part,” he muses, wry humor still obvious in his voice, but Darcy’s not about to be distracted on this.

She calls him out on the avoidance: “You didn’t answer the question.”

“No.”

She arches a brow, waits for him to continue, and then sighs when he doesn’t say anything more. “Well, which is it?”

“No – the answer is no.”

She’s quick to object to that, informs him, “No is not an acceptable response to a this-or-that question.”

The STRIKE Commander’s lips quirk again. “It is when your answer is no to both options.” With a tip of his head, he gestures with his chin to the dash in front of them. “I’m on call, Lewis. Supposed to have one of these with me in case something happens and I need to report directly to the scene.”

Oh. That’s such a terribly mundane answer that she’s almost sort of disappointed, though it’s still a noticeably better explanation than what she’d been expecting. At least now she’ll be able to breathe easier knowing that he’s not quite Jackboot-through-and-through to be in the next stupid bank commercial.

“…That gonna be a deal-breaker for you?”

The brunette heaves out a self-sacrificing sigh, replies, “No, I suppose not.”

And there’s still amusement in his gaze as he gives her a quick once-over. “No need to look so glum, Princess. I can teach you how to hotwire a car sometime if that helps make up for this one not being stolen.”

“I know you’re joking,” she tells him, “but I just might hold you to that.” Because that does more than make up for her slight disappointment, and Darcy’s always sort of wanted to know how to do that, especially because she spent four years of her life chasing Jane around the world, only to be stranded for hours in multiple remote locations while her sometimes-scatterbrained boss struggled to find their keys. And – oh my gosh! wait! – just think about how useful that would’ve been in London, after Ian stupidly threw the car keys into the portal thing!

“I never joke about life skills,” comes Rumlow’s solemn response, before swearing, “I’ll teach you. It’s the husbandly thing to do.”

And that draws Darcy’s attention back to him. She can’t help but furrow her brow, still trying to piece together what the hell his mental image of a Good Husband actually is. Someone who’s physically affectionate, who shoves dance lessons down throats, and who apparently also passes on criminal skills? What else went into that in his mind?

“I don’t understand you as a human,” she feels the need to tell him.

He just laughs and hops out of the car, leaving Darcy to stare after him for a moment, yet again unsure how she’d found herself in this situation. How had she gone from needing to be wheedled into agreeing to this whole ridiculous charade one minute, to giving him a pep-talk and all but encouraging the insanity only a few short hours later?

Very little in her life apparently makes sense anymore – …if it ever did, because, let’s be fair: political science student turned unpaid astrophysics intern turned Princess of Asgard turned legit Doctor of Astrophysics never really made all that much sense, either – and so Darcy finds herself hopping out of the car, walking up into the slowly-emptying courthouse, and marrying Brock Rumlow.

In jeans.

The whole thing takes a maximum of twenty minutes, since this groom of hers has somehow managed to arrange for the essential courthouse staff to stick around a little after normal hours for them, and has already filled out the necessary forms online. All that’s really left to be done is show some ID, sign a few forms, pay a quick fee, and then do the whole elopement thing with the court-approved officiant that had also been arranged.

And apparently the guy had been briefed on how they weren’t really looking for a whole romantic affair, because the officiant keeps it pretty quick and to the point. The man asks a few questions, makes a few generic comments about wishing them a happy marriage and them looking good together – the latter of which is offered after Rumlow throws an arm around her waist, and Darcy leans into him with a smile, all for show. And then, with an exchange of the world’s most basic of vows, they’re pronounced husband and wife.

While Darcy is wearing jeans.

The court officiant doesn’t ask them to kiss or anything, so Rumlow just gives her a squeeze, looks down at her with a smile that’s definitely for show and a wink that’s very much not.

There’s a little bit more paperwork to do at that point, but they’re married.

It’s official and everything – something Darcy realizes Heimdall can swear to having witnessed, if anything falls apart with their little act while on Asgard and they need someone to back them up.

So that’s a win.

--x--

They’re back in the Tahoe only a few minutes later, Rumlow handing her one of the certified copies of their marriage certificate before stowing the remaining ones in the backseat.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Darcy asks her new husband, unable to think of a single thing she’d need this piece of paper for. He’s the one who has to give some kind of proof to the Catholic Church or whatever, after all, and they’ll have to wait for the real certificate to come in the mail before they can do anything for the divorce, anyways. She’s not really sure she wants this weird memento staring at her in her apartment or burning a hole in her important documents folder.

“Put it in a scrapbook,” the STRIKE Commander advises dryly, before turning on the ignition and setting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear stick. “Where’d you wanna be dropped off?”

“Ugh, work, I guess,” she groans out in reply with a scrunched nose. She would much rather be heading home, especially since it’s just after five, but she’s one hundred percent certain Jane is still in the office, and she knows her roommate-friend-boss well enough to know the tiny scientist needs to be dragged out of the lab or else will still be there working in the morning.

Better to retrieve the woman now and save herself the trip later tonight. Last time Darcy went home without Jane then had to head back to the lab to retrieve her, she forgot to check the metro schedule, and they’d had to pay a pricy cab fare to make it home.

Rumlow nods, goes to shift the car into gear, but then stops when he hears a quiet vibration. He shifts in his seat in order to pull his phone out of his pocket, and with a quick glance at the screen, he informs her, “It’s Rollins.”

She can infer the rest: He’s on call; he has to take it. She gives a wave of her hand, takes out her StarkPhone in case she needs to kill time or figure out the metro route back to the office from her current location.

In the driver’s seat beside her, the STRIKE Commander lifts the cell to his ear, gets right down to business: “What is it?”

Darcy almost starts to tune him out, already beginning to scroll through her social media as a distraction, but he’s speaking again for she knows it.

“Ma?” The word catches her attention, and he sounds exasperated – irritated, even. “Come on, Ma! We’ve had this conversation. You can’t just call Jack at work and have him patch you through to me when I don’t answer. That’s not—“

He’s apparently cut off, and Darcy has to fight back the urge to laugh. It makes her feel a little better about being so easily cut off in her own ill-fated conversation with the same woman that morning, and Darcy decides to set her phone down, paying more attention to this phone conversation now that she knows it’s not boring work-related talk she’s probably not supposed to hear.

“Well of course I’ve been ignoring your calls; I’ve been busy!” Rumlow exclaims, before animatedly shaking his head and using his free hand to gesture in the air. “No.” He emphasizes the word, makes a face as he digs in his heels and insists, “No, I am not going to put her on the phone, because she’s not here. I’m working, Ma! …I don’t care what Jack said! Jack doesn’t keep tabs on—“

The dark-haired man has to bite off whatever more he was going to say, and Darcy sympathizes – really. She also finds it absolutely hilarious to watch the Commander who’s so used to barking out orders at STRIKE teams struggle to get a word in against the unrelenting conversational pressure of one Maria Rumlow.

Darcy settles more comfortably in her seat, leans back against the door at enough of an angle that she’s able to watch her husband’s – and holy fuck does that still sound weird! – facial reactions.

He sends a dark look in her direction, as if he knows she’s taking pleasure in what he clearly considers to be punishment.

She smiles and waves back.

“No. Mother, I’m not— …Well yes I under— …But—“ With a groan, the nearly-fifty-year-old man drags a hand down over his face and gives up on trying to get his point across. He flops back against the driver’s seat, phone to his ear as his mother apparently rants on about something, and just stares up at the roof of the car.

He steals another glance her way, scowls, and then mouths something to her that looks suspiciously like “I hate you.”

“I’m sorry,” she mouths back, lifting her hands up at her sides in a gesture that clearly communicates what the fuck do you want me to do about it? Because, honestly, what more can she do or say at this point? It’s not like she wanted this to happen, and she’s already agreed to marry him – already has married him, actually.

After a long moment of silent glaring, his expression sharpens and he straightens up, apparently in response to something said on the other end of the line. “Mother!” Rumlow barks out, tone suddenly firm and unyielding. “That’s not happening. I don’t care if—“ But his jaw clenches in irritation as he’s evidently cut off once again. A few seconds pass and then he gives Darcy a quick, assessing once-over, before shifting in his seat, turning and facing the driver’s side window and switching his phone to his other ear as he launches into rapid-fire Italian.

Which: Rude!

As far as Darcy is concerned, if he’s going to talk about her right in front of her, the least he can do is have the decency to hold the conversation in a language she’s actually capable of eavesdropping in. That’s like Basic Manners 101.

Abruptly, he spins back around, holds the phone out away from his ear and presses a button on it. For a second she thinks he’s ended the call, but the way he keeps the arm elevated as he shoots a quick question at her makes her revise that assumption. “What are you?”

She blinks, taken aback for a second, and tries to catch up. “Uh, thirty-three?”

There’s distaste in the way his face scrunches up in response, and then he’s waving his free hand at her. “No: religion,” he’s quick to correct, before prompting: “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

Oh! …Well how the hell was she supposed to have guessed that that was what he meant? Shaking her head in denial, she explains: “I’m the honorary adopted sister of a Norse God, Rumlow; I’m not really religious.”

“Neither am I, Lewis,” he sasses back. “But were you baptized or—“ He looks about to continue digging, but then pulls back, his face lighting up with a downright gleeful expression. With another quick press of a button on his phone, he’s got it back to his ear. “She’s pagan, Ma. …Yes, that’s what I— …Well what did you expect when I told you she was friends with Thor?”

And Darcy’s torn between unbridled amusement at exactly how much Commander Rumlow currently resembles a kid in a candy store as he gleefully reports on his new wife and tries to shock his mother into an early grave, and between outright horror at the thought that he might right now be jeopardizing any chance of her ever having a halfway decent relationship with this mother-in-law.

…Not that she actually expects this in-law relationship to last more than the ten or so weeks she’d promised Rumlow they could stay technically married, of course! But… still. Maria Rumlow seems like a nice woman, and Darcy generally tries to avoid being hated by adorable old ladies.

The conversation on the other side of the car flows back into Italian for a few minutes, and the astrophysicist gives up on trying to piece together what he’s saying.

After a few more exchanges, when it seems like it’s once again his mother’s turn to talk, Darcy waves a hand, catches his attention and then holds up her metro card in question. “I can walk,” she tries to communicate, but he shakes his head and mouths something back that she absolutely does not catch.

He must read her confusion on her face, because he tries another tactic to make his point clear, and reaches over to hit the lock button on the side of his door. The resulting click has her rolling her eyes, because it’s not like the passenger seat doesn’t have a similar lock/unlock button right fucking there that she could press if she wanted to spite him and hop out of the car anyway.

Still, she stays put.

And waits.

“How do you feel about a quick honeymoon trip?” Rumlow asks after a few more minutes of back-and-forth in Italian, and it takes Darcy a second to realize he’s talking to her. A glance in his direction tells her he’s apparently already said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, so she deduces that he’s not really asking. He doesn’t have to ask, really, since she did agree to play the part of loving wife, and they’d both known that would include visits to see family.

She puts on an overly happy smile, requests in false excitement, “Ohh, please tell me it’s the Bronx!” because she knows that it is. He’s already told her that’s where he’s from.

“I know how much you’ve been wanting to go, Baby,” he coos as he plays along, pressing his shoulder into the seat and leaning over the center console toward her, gaze adoring.

And it’s been a long fucking day, so Darcy decides to cut him off there – puts a hand to his face and unceremoniously pushes him back to his side of the car. “When do we leave?”

He puts the Tahoe into gear, pulls out onto the road, and sends her a wink.

"Rumlow..." She doesn't like that expression on his face, likes even less the fact that he didn't answer her. So she asks again, "When do we leave?"

The smile that tugs at his lips has her worrying for one absolutely terrifying moment that he might be starting to drive them there right now, but then he finally puts her out of her misery: “Tomorrow. You’ll need to pack for an overnight, tell Jane you’ll need to take off tomorrow afternoon and probably won’t be back until Thursday afternoon.”

And that’s better than tonight, at least, so she figures her luck is finally looking up. …She also figures Rumlow wouldn’t chosen a weekday if he’d had any other option. Her lips part in understanding. “She threaten to come down here if we didn’t visit her first?”

He turns his head to her, expression grim, and confirms, “That’s exactly what happened, yes.”

Chapter Text

At precisely 10:46 am Wednesday morning, Darcy Lewis strides unannounced into Commander Brock Rumlow’s office – the door seems to always be open, whenever he’s present and not in a meeting – wearing large, bedazzled sunglasses and carrying a travel mug of coffee in one hand, a peeled-and-half-eaten banana in the other.

He’s focused on his computer screen when she invites herself into the room, so she takes the initiative to invite herself to take a seat, too. She drops unceremoniously into one of his guest chairs and takes another bite of her banana before he even glances up. When he does, though, he takes one look at her – a look she’s certain was meant to be a quick, cursory glance, but turned into a more thorough perusal when he actually caught sight of her – and laughs.

She scowls, chewing and swallowing before prompting him to get the ball rolling with a “You wanted to see me?” He’d left a note on her desk this morning to that effect, which she’d seen the moment she’d arrived. At 10:38.

The astrophysicist has no doubt in her mind that the STRIKE Commander’s already drawn the lines between the dots – already knows she’s only just gotten in and is very clearly hungover. She doesn’t bother to try and hide it, wouldn’t be able to find the effort to even if she actually cared to try and cover it up.

With a bit of a sly smile, he relaxes into his seat, gives her another once-over before asking, “Rough night?”

“Great night,” she contradicts, raising the mug to her lips and taking a deep sip of caffeine nourishment.

“I drive you to drink, Sweetheart?” he asks in that same tone, sounding oddly pleased with the prospect.

“Jane drove me to drink.” It wouldn’t do to have him thinking that he had that kind of control over her, after all, and – besides! – it really was Jane ring-leading the whole thing. “Or, actually, Jane didn’t drive me to drink, because that would’ve been terribly irresponsible.”

He dips his head, muffles a chuckle as he agrees. “Of course.”

And Darcy decides to keep talking about it, because she’s got a reputation to preserve around here, and gets drunk at home on Tuesdays with her roommate isn’t exactly it. “I’m a little fuzzy on what happened between the second bar and the strip club,” she admits, “but our Uber driver home’s name was Jamal and I think Jane and I made his absolute day. …Month, even.”

Rumlow looks more and more amused with her story until she gets to that last bit, and then he’s raising a hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “You took an Uber?”

“Jamal’s chill,” Darcy attests. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to take us home and murder us or anything.”

“Lewis, there are security protocols in place for a reason. Your research with Foster here at SHIELD puts you at an increased—“

“Blergh!” she cuts him off with an unintelligible noise, scrunches her nose and goes to shake her head only to immediately regret that decision. From behind the sunglasses she has zero intention of taking off anytime soon, she blinks her eyes a few times, tries to fight back the nausea. With a groan, she complains, “Stop, stop! You’re too protocol-y to deal with this early in the morning.”

“It’s mid-day,” he tells her bluntly, but not without a slight hint of his earlier amusement.

And she’s afraid he might continue with his lecturing if she doesn’t ease his mind a bit about the whole security thing, so she sets her mug down on the desk between him and waves the newly freed hand at him, lets him know, “It’s cool. Nat liked Jamal.”

And her stomach currently likes the idea of food more than coffee, so Darcy leaves the mug where it is, sits back and peels the banana a bit more. She has the excellent hangover fruit raised halfway to her mouth before she thinks better of it, glancing between Rumlow and the high-carb meal, before lowering her hand again a second later.

It suddenly feels weird to eat the banana with him watching.

Not to be completely deterred, however, she’s quick to improvise, using her free hand to break off a chunk from the top of it and then lifting that small piece into the air. “This isn’t sexual,” she tells him, before plopping the piece in her mouth.

He snorts, advises her, dryly, “There’s very little I find provocative about a woman nursing a hangover. You’re safe.”

And that kinda feels like there might be an insult hidden in there somewhere, but the astrophysicist doesn’t especially care. She just breaks off another piece and repeats the process.

“Romanoff was in a meeting with STRIKE at 7am this morning, looking perfectly well rested,” the Commander recounts, sounding less like he’s trying to poke holes in her story and more like he’s teasing her for her Puny Alcohol Tolerance. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before, especially around Asgardians.

Darcy simply rolls her eyes. “Natasha is Russian and she wasn’t given free drinks by everyone.” At the bemused look he sends her in response, she grins. “Two words for you, My Dude,” she annunciates, holding up three fingers just to fuck with him a bit. “Bachelorette. Party.”

Rumlow’s face contorts, like he can’t decide if he wants to fight back an urge to laugh or gape at her in surprise. He manages a half-strangled snicker, before confirming, “You had a bachelorette party last night? After we eloped?”

“Last minute thing – Jane’s idea.” She waves a hand, brushes aside that particular branch of conversation. Privately, she remembers drunkenly joking to Jane about how their spur-of-the-moment partying was probably the best wedding night she could’ve ever expected after marrying Brock Rumlow, but she thinks better of sharing that with him now. Drunk, it had been funny, but sober… she thinks the mean might outweigh the funny, unfortunately.

Natasha, naturally, had make some sly comment she was certain that traditional version of a wedding night could be arranged, if only Darcy’d shown up in a trench coat – and nothing but a trench coat – outside the Commander’s door. Nat had even offered to give her the address, but Darcy had, of course, shut that down hard.

…She still gets a kick out of imagining the absolute shock that would’ve been on his face during this scenario, though, but Rumlow – being an at least halfway decent guy as far as these things go – probably doesn’t find much provocative about a drunk woman, either, so it’s a good thing she hadn’t embarrassed the hell out of herself and gone along with Natasha’s plan.

…It’s good for a lot of reasons. Darcy doesn’t want morning-after regrets, and she’d’ve had some, she’s sure. Instead, she has fond memories of Jane attempting to make it rain in the strip club with single dollar bills, Natasha both seducing and scaring the shit out of at least seven different people, and Jamal laughing as he dropped them off at home and proclaimed them to be ‘all right.’

It really was the best wedding night she could’ve asked for, all things considered.

He groans, drops his head back against the headrest in his chair, and the primal sound goes right through her.

Her heart stutters.

For a second, Darcy wonders if she’d accidentally said something out loud, then has a crazy fear that the whole HYDRA serum thing he’d mentioned before had somehow given him the ability to read minds… But when she looks up at him, there’s nothing overtly sexual or even teasing about his expression.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he wants to know, and Darcy’s mind belatedly supplies that he’s talking about having a bachelor party, not about a wedding night and all that might’ve entailed.

She swallows, curses her post-alcohol-clouded mind, and tries to sound normal as she advises, “You can still have one. Ooh! You could even make a big deal out of it, go to Vegas for a weekend with Jack or… I assume you have other friends? Bring those guys. They have cabaret shows in Vegas, which seems like a great way to start the evening…” Her mind swims with the possibilities. …Or the hangover – it’s impossible to tell. “Oh, damn it! We should’ve started mine at a burlesque show; I’ve always wanted to have a Christina and Cher moment.”

There’s a mischievous, almost conspiratorial glint in his eye as he looks back at her, apparently entertained by her slightly stream-of-consciousness rambling. “You have a good time?” that fake husband of hers asks, and when she tips her head and offers a thumbs up in answer, he just smiles and gives his own head a shake. “Good. Because I doubt you’ll have as much fun tonight.”

“Ah, right. That.” He’s maybe got a point there, she thinks, but she’s also low-key looking forward to seeing this fully grown adult man being completely bossed around by what she’s picturing as a tiny grandmotherly woman. Darcy’s also envisioning a wooden spoon being waved theatrically, and Commander Rumlow just sitting there like a sullen little boy. The grin that sneaks onto her face is probably not appropriate for the context, but she can’t help it. “That why you summoned me to your office? I thought we were leaving at two?”

“We are. I swung by earlier to get you to sign this, though.” It takes him less than two seconds to produce the document he’s referring to, because Brock Rumlow is so obnoxiously organized that the form is literally the only thing out on his desk, …aside from Darcy’s travel mug, of course, which is now resting very much not on a coaster.

…She sort of wonders if that’s an issue for him.

Doesn’t care enough to ask if he wants her to use one, though.

Taking a quick glance at the form, she sees that it’s that employee relationship disclosure thingamajig they talked about yesterday. “Got it,” she says, because she thinks better of nodding when her head and stomach are already revolting against her.

He goes to hold out a pen, but after she grimaces down at her hands – one holding the not-quite-finished banana, and the other a bit sticky from having to break it into pieces barehanded – he sets it beside the form instead, tells her, “When you’re done.”

And Darcy’s been hungover enough times to know better than to try and force herself to eat faster than her stomach wants her to, so she takes her time, doesn’t rush to free up her hands. She has other things she wanted to check with him about, anyway, so she pinches off another piece of her fruit, asks, “How do you want to play this thing tonight?”

“How do I want to play it?” he parrots, before arching a brow. “I want to play it like we’re married, Lewis. Like we’ve known each other for a while, got hitched at the courthouse yesterday because we didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but then you accidentally outed us to my mother, so now we have to visit my family against our will. …You know, like the backstory we already planned. Literally yesterday.”

She has to finish chewing before she can respond. “No, I know, I know. But what’s the play? Like, do you want me to make a good first impression on your family, or is it better if I start making a bad impression right off the bat? You know, start setting this up and planting the seeds for when we get divorced in a couple months?”

Rumlow had done all that arguing with her about how he demanded to be a Good Husband, but they hadn’t actually talked about what kind of wife he expected her to be, for this. Did he want to be able to play the whole heartbroken, don’t-even-mention-women-around-me-for-a-year divorcee? Or was she supposed to be obnoxious, make his family happy to see her go when they finally parted ways?

“Although…” She grimaces as the thought of what that might entail, has to confess, “Full disclosure: I’m going to have a really hard time with it if you ask me to make a bad first impression on them. I’m suddenly just now understanding where you were coming from when you said you didn’t want to be the bad guy. I’m sorry. You were right all along.”

“Thank you.” With a quirk of his mouth, he lets her know, “You can keep in mind that I’m always right the next time we disagree.”

She takes another pinch of the banana, pointedly ignores him. “But what should I do, Rumlow?”

He mimics her whiny tone, tells her, “Just be yourself, Lewis.”

“But what if they hate me?” she wonders. “I don’t think I want your mother to hate me.”

Dryly, he repeats his earlier advice, slows it down as if that’s why she didn’t take it last time he tried: “Just be yourself, Lewis.”

And that’s a dumb answer, so she tells him as much, waves a banana peel his way. “I can’t do that, Rumlow, because ‘Myself’ is not married!”

He looks unimpressed with her grammar. “You,” he tells her, “– yourself – are married.” Suddenly feigning concern, the STRIKE Commander lifts a hand, presses it to his chest. “Sweetheart, we signed the paperwork just yesterday. Do you not remember? Are you feeling okay?”

Her only answer is to make a sarcastic face in his direction and refuse to engage. Thankfully, she’s just finished the banana at that point, so she focuses on the task of tossing the peel out then wiping her hands clean on the napkin he’s kind enough to offer her.

“Thanks,” she acknowledges, because she wasn’t raised by wolves. The gesture also reminds her that they’ve been talking for a little while, already, and the semi-getting-along thing they’ve got going doesn’t feel quite as awkward as it had at the start of the week. …Undoubtedly because she’d been more-or-less forcibly-acclimated to him over the past few days.

That bodes well for later.

…And it also makes her feel weird for overthinking it now, so she quickly reaches for the pen, reads over the thing and signs her name at the bottom when she sees that it’s just requiring her to confirm her relationship with Rumlow is separate from work – in that it’s not a condition of either’s job, not between a supervisor and a direct report, and won’t result in issues of favoritism or significant conflicts of interest. It’s a fancy way of saying ‘relax, SHIELD, neither of us will sue you if this thing between us goes south.’ Rumlow’s already filled in the necessary names and employee reference numbers – all she has to do is sign and date.

She sets the pen down when she’s done, asks, “Is there anything else?”

The dark-haired man looks about to dismiss her, but then he pauses, snaps his finger and points. “Actually: yes. What kind of rings do you like?” And, because apparently this is not a spur-of-the-moment, completely random question, he reaches forward and adjusts his computer monitor, turning it so they both can see the screen. He gestures to the catalog that’s open in the browser, row upon row of what are clearly engagement rings.

Darcy’s sure for a second that she’s hallucinating – absolutely certain that must be a new side effect of a hangover. …That, or she’s dreaming.

Surreptitiously, she reaches for her coffee again, takes another deep sip and tries to wake herself up, eyes locked on the unrecognizable man across from her.

He’s scrolling through the page, pointing to a couple of different things, evidently unconcerned by her silence. “I’m not letting you pick it out, just to be clear,” he lets her know, palm up in a gesture that shows the matter won’t be open to discussion, “but things like styles and cuts… I’m very open to hearing your preferences on those.”

She takes another sip, tries that whole close-your-eyes-and-blink-them-open-again thing, to no avail. When he looks back over at her, as if he actually expects her input, she asks him, “What are you doing?”

“Showing you options.”

No.

Because just no.

“You’re not buying me a ring, Rumlow,” she informs him bluntly.

“Rings. Plural,” he corrects, apparently not getting the message. “You get one for the engagement and then another for the wedding. I only need the one.”

And this just so wasn’t happening, so she shakes her head, ignores the double vision it immediately gives her. “You’re not buying any rings.” Because that was crazy and just plain weird!

He apparently disagrees. “Yes, I am.”

With a sigh, she settles in for the fight this is clearly about to become, takes another sip for moral support. “No. This isn’t real; I don’t need a—“

“Lewis.” He pins her with a pointed look. “You realize everyone will find that suspicious, don’t you? If we say we’re married but you don’t even have a ring, that’s the only thing people are going to keep bringing up – over and over again. You think that’s going to fly on Asgard? Foster has a ring; I think they’ll notice if you do not.”

And – damn! – but that was actually a pretty good point…

How had she forgotten about rings? They’re sort of a key component to any marriage – real or fake.

She blanches at the oversight, recognizes he’s right – again! – but also recognizes that she’s really going to have her work cut out for her if she keeps letting him win these arguments. His ego’s well-inflated enough as it is, thanks. …But, unfortunately, she doesn’t have any room to argue here, so it’s just going to have to be the next argument she wins.

Except… “They haven’t noticed before!” Granted, she’s only been there a few times, and wasn’t drawing excessive attention to the fact that she’s married like she will be doing in a couple of weeks, so it could be different... but still.

“Well, my family will notice,” he points out, as if that’s good enough. …And, you know, maybe it is, since they’ve got two groups of people to convince, now, and it’s not just about convincing Asgard anymore.

With a sigh, she relents, “Okay, fine. But,” – She leaves a pause for emphasis. – “I’ll just grab a cheap one, or—“

He doesn’t let her finish the thought. Looking offended by the very suggestion, he gives his head an animated shake. “I’m not giving you a cheap ring.”

And here they go again! Him and that stupid Good Husband inferiority complex thing he’s got going on. How is it even possible for a man who doesn’t ever want to get married to have such a complex about these things?

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Rumlow!” she can’t help but groan out. “We’re not actually married! The entire thing’s just for show; it doesn’t matter what—“

“I,” he cuts off, overemphasizing the word as he holds her gaze in a firm, not-backing-down sort of way, “will not. give. my wife. a cheap ring.”

She wants to scream in frustration, because they’re just talking in circles at this point, but she somehow manages to refrain. Darcy blows out a breath, clenching her jaw and then taking another sip of her coffee.

Coffee usually helps mitigate her irritation.

…It doesn’t really help that much, here, though.

“You’re insane,” she tells him plainly after another sip, her tone a little more under control now that she’s taken a moment before responding.

He furrows his brow, tilts his head as he asks, “Why do you keep telling me that… over and over again… like you’re expecting a different result?”

And – okay! – he’s got her, there. Real cute, using the oft-quoted Einstein definition to make his point.

“Ha ha.”

But maybe it is insane to try and make him budge on this, or on any other issue where suggesting they do things half-way will apparently offend his husbandly sensibilities. Fine. So they won’t do a vending machine ring or a hundred-dollar thing she can order online.

“Look,” she tries again, “can you just not spend that much? I’ll pick something decent out, but… Or I can use my advance from our new book deal, I guess, or—“

“You’re not paying for this,” he interrupts her, his expression on par with what she’d expect from Jane had she suggested they buy the off-brand PopTarts. “I’m paying for this – for all three of the rings. And you can keep yours when we get divorced. I don’t care; sell them or do whatever you want with them.”

“What?” He couldn’t be serious. “No, that’s—“

“Lewis!” He holds up a palm, looks her dead in the eye. “We’re not arguing about this. It’s what I’m supposed to do, but more than that, I’ve been getting SHIELD’s highest rate of hazard pay for longer than you’ve even had a job, okay? The money’s really not an issue for me. And this is mostly for show for my family at this point, not Asgard, so I’ll be the one footing the bill – for the ring, the wedding ceremony… everything else involved in getting my family off my back. You’ve pulled your weight just by agreeing to play along.”

She isn’t about to argue with him there – isn’t going to suggest she isn’t doing more of the heavy lifting in this bargain of theirs. She is doing more – it’s true – but that’s not the part of his impassioned little speech she cares about right now.

“What wedding ceremony?” she demands to know. Because he’d definitely said wedding ceremony, just then. As in: something other than their little elopement at the courthouse yesterday.

“Oh!” He says it like it’s an afterthought, like he’d somehow just forgotten to mention it earlier. “Ma wants us to do a stupid ceremony thing in her church. ‘Bring the marriage into the Catholic faith’ or some shit.”

Darcy’s stomach takes a nosedive, that banana suddenly not sitting well with her. She grinds her teeth, tries to take a deep breath and will her nerves to calm down, but that’s a hard ask when she’s unexpectedly facing the possibility of having to do a traditional wedding ceremony as part of this whole ridiculous charade. Because – look! – Darcy can do most of this fake marriage stuff, though it certainly would’ve been easier had Rumlow gone along with her original plan of PDA-phobic couple who isn’t feeling particularly close these days.

But whatever. She can do the pretend lovey-dovey shit. She can flirt with him in front of people, can sit next to him or – hell! – sit on his lap if need be. She can kiss him, and smile at him, and hold his hand. She can pretend to be happily married to him.

…She’s like eighty-five percent sure.

…They’ll have to see how it goes.

But she cannot – absolutely cannot! – do a whole pretend wedding ceremony in front of who-knows-how-many people! She can’t pick out a dress that she likes, can’t decide on flower arrangements, hire a photographer, ask Jane to be her bridesmaid, invite all their friends and family…

She can’t do that.

She can’t do that and be okay after. Because – forget Rumlow for a minute! – Darcy wants to get married. She wants to fall in love, take her time with the whole planning process. She wants the gorgeous dress, the gigantic cake, the smiling faces of her friends and maybe even a former foster parent or two. She wants them to be a part of that moment, wants them to share her excitement, to make the whole thing memorable. She wants that experience more than she wants most things in her life… and that’s not an experience you get to have more than once.

People get married more than once, obviously – hell, Darcy’s technically going to be getting married more than once, thanks to this whole ordeal – but you don’t have that first, grand wedding ceremony more than once. Or, again, maybe some people do, but Darcy’s pretty confident most people don’t. She wants to save that whole wedding experience for when it really matters, for when she’ll be able to cherish those memories for the rest of her life.

She doesn’t want those memories to be tainted by lies and falsehoods and… well, Brock Rumlow. It’s nothing personal about the guy – really, it isn’t – but she’s already got him haunting her enough as it is, what with her still feeling bad about the past and now also fighting to keep her physical appreciation of his as an objectively attractive male specimen separate from her lukewarm-to-slightly-irritable feelings about him as a person.

Darcy can’t marry him.

Not in a whole, elaborate ceremony – she’ll never be able to properly compartmentalize!

The STRIKE Commander waves a hand in the air between them, and Darcy’s pretty sure it’s meant to just be one of those animated gestures of his, but its movement catches her attention nonetheless. It draws her out of her thoughts and back into the present moment just in time to hear his next words. “It’s not part of our deal, obviously, and I have no interest whatsoever in having to interact with that church more than I already do for funerals and christenings and shit; I already told her no.”

Oh thank the Norns!

But she might be counting her chickens before they hatch, because Rumlow’s sending her a wry smile, now, telling her, “But I know my mother, Sweetheart, and she’s not going to leave it at that. She is going to press, and wheedle, and guilt trip… and she’s going to do all of this to you, because my mother has an uncanny ability to sniff out weakness.”

Insulted, Darcy’s quick to interject, “Excuse me?”

Rumlow only lifts a placatory palm. “No offense, Lewis. You’re a good person, and you’re not Catholic; you’re not properly accustomed to or prepared for this amount of guilt tripping. My mother will know you’re the weakest link, out of the two of us. She will convince you to agree to a ceremony – just a small one, because it’d mean the world to her – and you will cave. Then, you’re going to come back to me and tell me you think we should agree to do it, and – look! – I’m not going to fight you on this. So we’ll do it, and I just want you to know right off the bat that you don’t need to worry about that whole the bride’s family pays bullshit. I’ll cover it.”

He sounds so absolutely sure of this – so certain it’ll play out exactly like he’s worked out in his mind, so resigned… – and she wants nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and shake him out of this. “That’s not going to happen,” she informs him, plainly.

He just shrugs his shoulders and tips his head, stupid little disbelieving smile in place. “Okay.”

And, somehow, the fact that he’s actually not arguing with her on this makes the whole thing seem worse. …He’s that convinced, that he doesn’t even think it’s worth discussing?

Well, he’s got another thing coming if he thinks she’s going to cave on this. The being a Good Husband thing, the making this a real legal marriage, the rings… Fine, whatever. Those don’t really matter. But an actual wedding ceremony in a church? “I’m serious, Rumlow. There’s not going to be a church ceremony.”

He shrugs again, tips a hand toward her in false deference. “I’d prefer that there isn’t,” he agrees, easily enough. “Like I said, I’m not going to fight you on this; it’s your call.”

And there’s something… off about that concession of his, something that doesn’t quite feel like victory, so Darcy squints at this husband of hers, tries to figure out what game he’s playing. She knows she didn’t just win – not that easily; there’s gotta be a catch hidden somewhere.

“Just… remember, when you change your mind, I’ll be footing the bill.”

Right.

That’s the catch.

With a sigh, she informs him, stubbornly: “I’m not going to change my mind. Unlike you, a fifty year old man who needs to—“

“I’m not fifty!“ comes the sharp interruption.

“—pretend to be married just to get his mother off his back,” she continues on as if he hadn’t spoken at all, though she does smirk a little at his outrage over exaggerating his age, “I can stand up to your mother.”

And she feels pretty proud of that declaration, too, but the expression on Rumlow’s face isn’t the slightly bitter but thoroughly enlightened one she’s been hoping for. Instead, he’s just looking back at her, somewhat blandly, one eyebrow arched and the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The one you came in here all panicky about how to impress?” he deadpans. “That mother of mine?”

Agh!

Damn that insufferable bastard!

She’s too hungover to deal with this shit.

The brunette pushes out her seat, grabs hold of her now-almost-empty travel mug and storms away from him without comment. He doesn’t deserve a response, really, and she doesn’t actually have one to give, anyways. She doesn’t have a good retort or defense, but she’s that doesn’t mean she’s about to stick around to let him see that.

She’s not letting him win this one.

“Hey, you wanna bring this form to Hill for me?” he asks before she’s gotten more than a step or two away.

And fuck no, she does not… but she’s walking that way anyway – literally walking right past the Deputy Director’s office on the way back to her lab – and so she figures it’d be a real dick move to decline. Which, you know, is a risk she might take on a normal day… but on a day she’s set to be trapped in a car with Brock Rumlow and then held hostage at his family’s place for the several hours? Yeahhh, she knows how to time her battles; she’ll save the dick move for later… maybe in front of his family, when he can’t retaliate?

With a loud sigh to let her unhappiness be known, Darcy turns, extends a hand, and then snatches the paper from him when he holds it out. She doesn’t stick around after that, continuing on her brisk pace out of his office.

“Wait!” the Commander calls out as she makes it to the doorway. “What about ring cuts and styles?”

She flips him off over her shoulder – the paper rustling a bit in protest at the sudden movement – and tells him, unhelpfully, “I’ll see you at two.”

--x--

The hand-off with Maria Hill goes smoothly enough, mostly because the Deputy Director is sitting at her desk when she walks by, and Darcy just steps into the office and slaps the form down in front of her without knocking or even saying ‘hello.’

She holds it to the desk with her palm for a minute, makes eye contact with the much-more-put-together woman through the sunglasses Darcy’s still wearing, and tells her, in no uncertain terms, “You can direct any questions or concerns on this matter to Commander Rumlow.”

And then, without sticking around for a reply, Darcy spins on her heels, regrets that for a second when her head feels like it keeps spinning after she’s stopped, and then storms out of that office, too.

Chapter Text

Time flies when you wish it would do the exact opposite. Those three hours fly by, even though not all that much actually happens.

Darcy goes and updates Jane on the latest developments, vents to the fellow astrophysicist about the rings and the stupid presumption that his mother will be able to talk her into agreeing to a wedding ceremony… all of which earns Darcy a funny look from her friend. She’s not sure what it means, but Jane won’t budge when she presses – digs her heels in and does that tight-lipped little head shake she resorts to whenever Fury tries to push them to reveal scientific data ahead of schedule – and Darcy knows a lost cause when she sees one.

There’s not much that can be done research-wise, because they’re in that boring stage of an experiment where they just have to hurry up and wait, collecting data as it becomes available. Jane, who’s looking a little worse for wear than Darcy after last night’s festivities, settles in to take a nap at her workstation, and Darcy tries to follow suit, but the caffeine she’s already consumed this morning only lets her get in a short powernap.

It’s better than nothing and has her feeling a little less like the dead when she wakes up, so Darcy spends the better part of her remaining time setting up meals and little alarm reminders for Jane, then gets changed into something actually presentable and does her makeup. Her hair thankfully still looks good from the night before, because by the time she’s finished applying her eyeliner, she’s already late.

By like a minute, so it doesn’t really count, but still.

She hustles down to the front entrance of SHIELD where she’s agreed to meet Brock Rumlow, but the second she pushes through the main doors, she has to do a double take – has to pause and remember to breathe. Because, for starters, he’s looking far too smug for a man she’d walked out on and refused to help earlier… and, more importantly, because he’s leaning against a flashy, bright red Dodge Challenger Hellcat.

And, look, cars really aren’t Darcy’s thing – she thought the government vehicle from the other day was the epitome of a boring cliché, and she does think the type of car someone drives says something about who that person is – but this one…

Holy fucking shit.

She thinks she still might like Natasha’s Corvette Stingray the most out of all the Avengers-adjacent vehicles she’s seen – it’s sleek and almost seductive with its smooth curves – but this car is sexy in its own right – hard angles, contrasting colors, astonishingly fit man leaning against it…

…In hindsight, cars might be a thing for her, after all.

“What’s wrong, Princess?” the dark-haired man taunts lightly, his tone smooth enough that it could be mistaken for casual concern, if not for the satisfied quirk of his mouth and the knowing glint in his eye.

And – shit! – she must look stupid just standing there, huh? She rushes to correct that mistake – picks up the pace again and wheels her little suitcase over toward the trunk of the car. “Just trying to decide if you took my Bonnie and Clyde thing too seriously,” she replies, handing over the suitcase without complaint when he moves to load it in for her.

There’s a huff of a laugh as he sets her bag next to his then pulls the trunk closed with a thud. He gives the spoiler an affectionate pat, tells her, “No felony necessary. This one’s all mine.”

“This is your car?” she checks, not quite sure she believes it. But he looks far too pleased with himself for it not to be, and so she goes for the easy dig – whistles, then tells the car, as if greeting it, “Hello, Midlife crisis!”

She expects Rumlow to be mad, to pin her with that same little disgruntled glare he’d sent her when she’d called him fifty instead of forty-six, or when she’d made that comment about how she still had time to fall in love and get married. She wants him to get mad, wants to see that little muscle tick in his jaw.

But the STRIKE Commander surprises her again by only wobbling his head back and forth, as if deliberating. “Hot car, hot new wife half my age…” He cracks another grin, winks at her when she immediately scowls at his refusal to follow her mental script. “You won’t be the only one to think it. I’ve got money on at least two of my cousins making wisecracks the second Ma sends them a picture of you. I’m sure you’ll be added to the family group chat by that point, so you can see for yourself.”

Sending her glance at him over the hood of the car, Darcy makes her way over to the passenger seat, informs him, “I really don’t need to be added to any family group chats.”

There’s a brief pause as they both climb into their seats and pull the door closed, but then he picks right back up where they left off. “I agree. And I would make that point to my mother for you, but she’d just hit me some wooden or plastic utensil, ask how I could possibly dare to suggest you aren’t family enough to be in it, and then put you in it anyway… So just mute the damn thing like I do, yeah?”

She’s not really appreciating this trend of I know how this is going to go, so I’m just going to let it happen and let you deal with my mother, and she lets him know it: “You’re not a particularly helpful husband, are you?”

“Maybe not,” he allows, “but I’m also not a cheap one.”

He produces a cube of some kind from his pocket, tosses it over into her lap without any additional pretext. Never having been particularly coordinated when caught off guard, Darcy has to scramble to catch it, only to nearly drop it the second she realizes what it is she’s holding.

It’s a jewelry box – and a nice one, by the feel of it.

She’s not sure what to do.

“Open it, Lewis,” he instructs after a few seconds of dumbfounded staring, and when she steals a glance up at him, she sees him watching her – one hand on the wheel and the other elbow propped up on the center console, hand resting on the gearshift.

The car’s ready to go, but evidently they’re not leaving until she opens this thing.

…It feels more high-pressure, knowing his eyes are on her, but she reminds herself that that’s stupid, because it doesn’t actually matter what’s in the box. Could be something other than a ring, meant as a joke after their earlier conversation… though she kind of doubts that’s the case. Or it could be exactly what she thinks it is, and then, even if it’s hideous, it doesn’t matter! It’s almost better if she hates it, actually, because it’s not a real ring.

Still, her chest feels oddly tight and her breathing doesn’t come naturally to her as she fumbles with the thing, finally manages to pop it open. And it’s upside down at first, because of course it is, but then she turns it over and—

Fuck!

Now she really can’t breathe.

Darcy doesn’t know jewelry. She’s never owned much beyond basic earrings and cheap accessories, she hasn’t gone ring shopping, wasn’t ever the girl who did that in her spare time... She’s always figured she’d look around when the time came, when she’s in a relationship she thinks is headed in that direction.

Darcy doesn’t know rings. She doesn’t know cuts or carats or whatever the hell else one uses to categorize or describe them.

She just knows Jane’s is pretty, and this… this is not pretty.

It’s exquisite.

It’s actually two pieces – a matching wedding and engagement ring set – and they’re both white gold. That much she knows. But the rest? She sees a sizeable but not over-the-top diamond in a simple, elegant setting, with smaller stones running halfway down the side of the band. The smaller wedding ring has the same half-circle of smaller stones, and, together, the two look like perfect halves of a whole.

They’re breathtaking, and Darcy can’t help but hold the box up a bit higher, tilt them slightly this way and that, utterly enchanted by the way the gems glitter in the light of the afternoon sun that streams in through the car’s window.

“It’s a Princess cut,” the warm baritone of Rumlow’s voice informs her, breaking the spell and reminding her he’s just witnessed her entire star-struck reaction. She takes in a breath, steals a peek up at his expression, and is infinitely relieved to see nothing mocking or even teasing in it. There’s a certain element of satisfaction, a pride that borders on smugness, but it doesn’t seem aimed at her. With a sly smile, he expands on the selection, telling her, “That seemed like a fitting choice.”

She huffs in amusement, looks back down at the set. “They’re gorgeous,” she admits, brushing aside her own pride for a moment because her manners dictated she couldn’t trivialize such an incredible gift – even if it’s one she’s fully intending to return the second this whole charade is over. And she’d wanted to hate it, or at least dislike it – she really had – but she can’t pretend to be anything but in awe of it.

“I’m glad you like it,” he returns, that satisfaction from earlier blurring into his voice. But then he’s teasing her, voice lowering a fraction as he tacks on an “Even though you did refuse to give me any guidance.”

“Looks like you didn’t need it,” comes her breathy reply. And – damn! – but she’d really wanted to hate it. But their conversation had been only this morning, and he’d still been scrolling through hundreds of browser images at the time. “How did you…?”

“I ran over to the jeweler after you left, and seeing it in person… It just seemed right.” He pulls his hand off the wheel for a minute, holds it up and thumbs at the new band he’s now wearing. “Got myself one as well.” Then, with a pointed nod, he lets her know, “They’re the right size.”

She shoots him a glace at that particular revelation, can’t help but wonder how in the hell he’d managed to figure out her ring size when she doesn’t even know it herself, but he just winks back at her, and she knows he won’t tell.

Carefully – because holy shit she’s just now realizing she might be holding more money in her hands than she’s ever seen before or will see again – she pulls them out of the box, tries to remember which hand she’s supposed to put them on, and then goes to slip them onto her left. She sees something, though – stops and tilts the wedding band toward her. “Did you get this engraved?” she wonders aloud, still not sure how he’d managed all of this in just three short hours, but then she makes out the words, and she’s got her answer.

Laughter bursts out of her, and she finds herself nearly overwhelmed by the shock of it – by this whole situation, by the rings, by the engraving…

Sorry it’s not your iPod.

Oh, how the jeweler must’ve been thrown by that request!

He’s grinning when she peers up at him through nearly-teary eyes, and he professes, boldly but not inaccurately, “I know you, Wife. I know what you’d’ve preferred.”

“I would have preferred the iPod,” she agrees, once she’s slid on the rings and wiped at her eyes. “That would probably be the best damn gift anyone could ever get me; I think I’d have to propose on the spot.”

He seems amused by that, tells her, “I understand. You let me know if you ever need to leave me for the guy that returns it to you; I’m looking forward to explaining that on the divorce paperwork: ‘Someone else found iPod. No chance of future together now.’”

With a snort, Darcy closes the ring box, tucks it away in the glove box Rumlow opens for her.

Sorry it’s not your iPod.

Holy fuck – that could not have been funnier or more unexpected!

She’s still shaking her head to herself a moment later, when he finally shifts the car into gear, orders she “Buckle up,” and then starts off down the road.

She buckles herself in without complaint, then settles her hands in her lap, unable to avoid looking down at the rings again, even though she can fucking feel Rumlow eyeing her now and then, that stupid smirk on his face.

It’s hard to be mad at him when she’s so distracted by dazzles, though.

--x--

It’s a four-plus hour drive from D.C. to New York, and Darcy spent the entirety of the day (or, well, the entirety of the day she was awake) dreading it – because, hello: four-plus hours trapped in a small space with no one to talk to except Rumlow?! – but it turns out to actually be a weirdly pleasant experience.

The rings start it off on a good foot – or, at least, the engraving he’d put on the wedding ring does. They joke about her iPod, commiserate on how they both hated New Mexico, and he tells her a story of his STRIKE mission right after the whole Puente Antiguo thing, about coming back in from the field, exhausted and more than a little bit banged up, only to be told by his SHIELD higher ups that not only did he have a debrief to complete before he could go home, shower, and sleep for most of the next week… but he also had seven different formal complaints – all of which he’d been personally named in – that he needed to file written responses to immediately.

Darcy actually apologizes for that, once she stops laughing her ass off at the realization he’d apparently gotten two months’ worth of her complaints all at once. …It explains why it took so long for SHIELD to finally get back to her, at least, though it’s obviously too late now to change how she’d responded to that perceived slight.

They banter for a bit – because he describes her at one point as ‘some crazy woman who says I stole her iPod and then acted unprofessionally’ and she still maintains that he did – but when the conversation eventually dies down, they have music to fill the void. And it turns out they have pretty similar tastes in music, at least when it comes to rock anthems and more contemporary stuff, so they spend the majority of the trip with the radio turned up and with Darcy treating this husband of hers to the occasional bout of sometimes-off-key vocals and lots of dashboard finger drumming whenever a particular favorite of hers comes on.

For the most part, though, they just enjoy the ride in strangely companionable silence.

They’re nearing the end of their journey when he turns down the music, starts to talk shop. “You ready for tonight?” he wants to know, and it actually sounds genuine – supportive, even. He’s not teasing her or questioning her acting skills, just checking in.

“I don’t know. Am I?” she redirects, because the truthful answer is no – she is not ready and she won’t ever really be, but it’s good to get the awkwardness over with, now. They’ll get the kinks out of their act on this trip, where they don’t have to pretend to have been married long. It’ll be good to get that under their belt before they head off to Asgard and have to do even more convincing.

“I guess we’ll find out,” the STRIKE Commander agrees, propping an elbow up by the driver’s side window as he steers, posture very relaxed. “Ma promised me she would let this be a low key introduction to the family,” he tells her then. “I made her swear she wouldn’t blindside you by inviting my sisters.”

“So it’ll just be us, your mom, and your stepdad?” The factsheet he’d given her had filled her in on the basics, had told her about his father – a fireman – dying when he was just ten, and his mother remarrying a number of years later, though without changing her married name.

“Sal,” he supplies, answering the question she hadn’t even known she’d been pondering: what it is he calls his stepfather. “He’s a good guy.”

“But it’ll just be us four?” she prompts again, thinking that a smaller gathering will be easier to manage but perhaps a bit on the intimate side – like some kind of high pressure double date with new in-laws.

She’s too quick to worry about it, though, because Rumlow’s shooting down her assessment only a second later: “No. I know my mother; she’s going to blindside us by inviting my sisters,” he tells her, wryly. “Let’s just hope it’s only my sisters she’s invited, and not their whole families, too.”

Right. He’d given her a list of those husbands’ and kids’ names – but he’d told her not to worry about memorizing them. She can learn them as she meets them, after all, like any normal wife would.

Still… “Remind me what the order is?”

“Frankie’s the oldest,” he recites dutifully, fond smile tugging at his lips. “That’d be Francesca – the most outgoing of the lot, and the most responsible, too. She’s the loudest voice at the table; she’ll make herself known.”

Darcy has the suspicion he was the other loudest voice in the family, suspects the two oldest siblings often bickered and butted heads growing up. She can imagine him doing the whole overprotective older brother thing, and with them so close in age…

“Gabriella is next. That’s Gabbie,” he tells her. “Gabbie’s sharp as a whip – the smartest of us by far, and she makes sure we know it.” It doesn’t sound like a bad thing, the way he says it. “Could’ve been president, that one… but she never had the patience to deal with idiots. Not very diplomatic. She’s quieter – more introverted – but she’s not afraid of what others think. Anything she tells you, she means.

“Then there’s Ronnie – Veronica.” His entire demeanor is softer when he discusses his baby sister, his head shaking a little at whatever memory is running through his mind. “Used to follow me around like a little duckling. She’s a sweetheart, really – not spoiled, just… She cares about people, you know? She’ll give me shit, ‘cause that’s how it works with siblings, but she can get along with anyone. She’s… she’s a good kid.”

Unexpectedly, his face blanches at that, and all of the sudden Rumlow’s looking over at her, expression mildly distressed. Darcy blinks back at him, unsure what just happened.

“Christ! She’s older than you.” He lets out a groan, looks back purposefully at the road. “God, I can’t think about that. My baby sister isn’t older than you.”

And it’s such a ridiculous thing for him to fixate on, she can’t help but laugh. Or, not just laugh – she absolutely cackles.

“It’s not funny,” he insists, stealing a few glances her way. “She’s like five in my mind. Eternally.”

With another little snort, the astrophysicist has to point out: “Doesn’t she have a kid?”

“Three,” comes the unhappy confirmation. “…I still haven’t forgiven Mark.”

That sets off another laugh, but Darcy reins herself in faster this time, wipes a tear from her eye as she pieces together something that suddenly stands out to her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she breathes, fighting back another laugh. “I need to come back to this: Your sisters’ names are Frankie, Gabbie, and Ronnie, but your name is Brock?”

From the driver’s seat beside her, the STRIKE Commander shoots her an arch smile. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

She does – because of course she does – and she needs to wipe away a few more tears by the time she’s done. It’s not even all that funny, really, but at this point her laughter is setting her off more than anything else… and she keeps having this visualization of Brock Rumlow as a grumpy little child, surrounded by adorable baby sisters with matching names.

It takes her a minute to sober up enough to ask the question that’s really pressing on her mind: “But, like, how does that happen?”

The corners of his lips pull upwards. Fiddling with the controls for the air conditioning for a moment, he reveals, “My mother and grandmothers had a bit of a disagreement. Ma doesn’t like being told what to do, you see, and my grandmothers had come to the agreement that I was going to be named Mario.”

Darcy guffaws. “So she named you Brock?”

“Well, her mother liked Thomas, and Nonna Rumlow was partial to Daniel,” he supplies dryly, as if that says it all.

And Darcy’s torn between astonishment and delight. She lets out another cackle and claps her hands in front of her face. “Oh. My. God! I love your mother! She named you Brock just to spite her family. She’s my new idol.”

He raises a hand to his chest in mock offense, throws a glare over his shoulder. “I’ll have you know my mother claims to like my name.”

The brunette can only snort in response, waving him off with a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Tommy Rumlow.”

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, but it’s a companionable silence, and Darcy finds herself smiling as she looks out the window, watching the streets go by. They’ve pulled off the interstate at this point, are now driving down the Grand Concourse, and Darcy takes in the shops that they pass, the people going about their day… the sights and the sounds of the city.

She wonders what it’d be like growing up here – in the big city with all its people and its noise and its culture – instead of in the suburbs of the much smaller town where Darcy’d grown up.

“That’s something we should talk about,” the man beside her suggests, taking a second to glance over his shoulder and make a lane change before continuing the thought. “My name is Brock, you know.”

She turns away from the window, sends a confused look at his profile. “I think we just established that.” The whole spiting-the-grandmothers thing?

“No, Smartass,” he chides, though his tone makes it clear he’s teasing her more than actually calling her out. “I mean, you should use it – my name… Brock.”

She can’t help but scrunch her face at the very thought.

Brock?

No, no. He’s Commander Rumlow – or even just Rumlow, if she’s feeling particularly casual – which is already a vast improvement from the Commander Jackboot she used to refer to him as.

“It feels weird to call you Brock,” she informs him, not even liking the feel of the name on her tongue when speaking in the abstract. “That’s not who you are to me.”

He steals a glance in her direction, pinning her with a sharp look. “I’m your husband. Calling me Rumlow all the time would be weird.”

“You call me Lewis,” she’s quick to point out, because it takes two to tango on this whole thing, and she’s not planning on taking the blame for this alone.

…He does sort of have a point, though. It would be weird for them to both be last-naming each other all the time.

“Do you know Italian?”

Darcy blinks, suffers a bit of conversation whiplash, because what does one thing have to do with the other? “No,” she doesn’t. And he knows that – she knows he does.

He keeps his focus on the road in front of him, doesn’t see her confusion, continues on, “Then: Babe or Hon – those are your options.” He apparently doesn’t think it’s up for discussion. “I will also accept Handsome, when used in the appropriate context… and same goes for Daddy. That’s it. Nothing else.”

She blanches, her mind trying and immediately failing to picture a single scenario where it’d be appropriate to call him Daddy.

She means – holy hell! Cataclysmic error. Engine fails to start.

Not fucking happening.

And maybe he does see her reaction out of the corner of his eye or the mirror or something, because his lips twist up and he sends a conspiratorial glance her way, feigns generosity as he offers, “Or you can call me Brock. Take your pick, Princess.”

She meets his look with a sarcastic smile of her own, sasses back a falsely agreeable “Yes, Sir,” in reply.

The car rolls to a stop at a crosswalk, and that fake husband of hers seizes the opportunity to turn toward her, one arm on the steering wheel and the other on the center console between them. For a second, she takes the intensity of his posture and expression to mean she’s succeeded in her goal of provoking him with her attitude… but then she sees a flash of his teeth in the sharp grin he sends her way, and she knows she’s mistaken.

She leans back preemptively, as if that’ll actually make a difference.

“…Actually, Sweetheart,” he rumbles out, using that damn gravelly-almost-husky, too-damn-attractive-for-his-own-good tone and pitch she’s come to hate, “that’s okay, too. But not in front of my family, maybe?”

He winks.

She chokes.

He fucking laughs.

And then the bastard’s turning back around in his seat again, waiting for the last of the pedestrians to finish crossing, and thank the Norns for that! Darcy’s sure her cheeks are on fire, because tame as that whole little exchange had objectively been, the thoughts that pop, unbidden, into her mind are not.

She has to give her head a mental shake, try to get a hold of herself.

And now she’s still fucking thinking about it, and also thinking about the rest of what he’d said…

“Darcy?” he inquires, and she’s kind of glad for the distraction. “Do you need to veto a pet name?”

“I’m vetoing Daddy,” comes her automatic reply, but it earns her a chuckle in response.

“No – I mean, do you want to veto anything I call you? I probably should’ve asked you that earlier, actually,” he muses, before sending an almost sheepish glance her way. “Does it bother you when I call you Sweetheart?”

“No.” Why would it? “That’s normal; I’ve called drunk strangers in the bathroom that before.”

There’s a twist of his lips as he points out, voice noticeably lower, “I also call you Princess.”

“I…” And that one’s definitely more niche, with noticeably different connotations attached. She considers it carefully. “It… doesn’t bother me.”

Though maybe it should.

…Not because it’s a turn off for her or anything, but because it’s actually not – because it does something very different for her, something equally unsettling. She’s not quite sure she wants Brock Rumlow calling her something she actually kind of likes.

She’s even less sure she wants him to stop.

“I mean, it’s technically accurate,” she tacks on in explanation, probably a few seconds too late.

And there’s a shrewd look to his expression as he eyes her, a sly twist to his lips, but he doesn’t call her on it, doesn’t challenge her point. Instead, he just lets his gaze flicker over her from head to toe, and then he turns back to the road, agrees, “Okay, Wife. Glad we had this little chat.”

Good for him.

Darcy’s not sure she is, but whatever. That’s out there, now. In the universe.

Though, it is good that he reminded her of the whole Rumlow thing. His family probably would find it odd, if she keeps calling him that in front of them, during this dinner thing tonight or over breakfast tomorrow. Not to mention it would likely be confusing, with so many people all in the same room having almost certainly been called Rumlow at some point in their lives. Even with different names now, Darcy imagines that’d be weird.

So she needs a plan, needs to settle on what she’s going to call him. She goes over the options in her mind as they turn down a quieter road.

Brock.

…Brock.

What kind of stupid name even is Brock?

Brock Rumlow sounds okay, she supposes, though possibly only because she’s used to hearing it at this point. But on it’s own?

Brock, Brock.

Brock, Brock, Brock.

And – oh fuck! – now she sounds like a chicken in her own head, and she’s never going to get that thought out of her mind.

New plan: Babe.

…Hon?

She could do Babe or Hon. Those are normal, everyday pet names – not overly cutesy in a way that feels ridiculous when aimed at a STRIKE Commander, but not weirdly sexual in a way that will have her mind wandering to places it should avoid.

Babe and Hon work. They roll off the tongue better than Brock.

Ugh, Rumlow owes her for this.

…Except, of course, they specifically agreed they’re to be considered even, now, so she guesses he doesn’t really owe her, after all.

The car comes to a stop in the middle of the road, and for a second, Darcy’s confused, but then Rumlow’s backing them in and pulling off a much smoother parallel park job than she’d ever managed. Grudgingly, she has to admit she’s kind of impressed.  

She’s a bit less impressed, though, when he tells her they’ve still got to walk a couple of blocks – open parking spots are hard to come by out here, so you take what you can get, he tells her – but it is what it is. She grabs her phone and hops out of the car, meets him over by the trunk.

And he’s doing that whole chivalrous I insist, I insist thing, so she waits as he lifts her luggage and sets it on the ground beside her, before retrieving his own duffel bag and throwing it over one shoulder. She’s quick to extend the handle of her suitcase and wheel it over to the curb, but before she gets far, she hears the trunk thunk closed and his voice calling out to her.

“Lewis.”

“Didn’t you just say—?” she starts to ask, already spinning back around, but before she gets to point out the irony of him last-naming her just now, he steps into her, the sudden and unanticipated proximity smothering the question in her throat. She has time to take in a breath, but that’s it, and then he’s dipping his head, covering her mouth with his.

The kiss is so unexpected that Darcy doesn’t fully process it right away. At first her brain registers a collection of sensations, all separate and unrelated. …There’s the warmth of the palm that cups the back of her head, the slight tug of her hair on the fingers that weave through it. She feels the brush of his chest against hers, the scrape of his bag’s strap on her arm, the weight of his other hand on that same arm’s elbow. She feels his stubble rubbing the skin on her face, feels the puff of air from his breath as he tips his head in the other direction now, draws his nose against hers to get there.

And then there’s his lips – coaxing, yet insistent.

It’s not the gentle, tentative first kiss of a newly smitten suitor, but neither is it the familiar caress of a longtime lover, nor the ravenous devouring of a passionate tryst. It’s some shadow of all of those things, thrown together in one confusing mess she’s only just begun to respond to, and then it’s over far too soon.

He pulls back, breath heavy in his chest, and when her eyes flutter open, Darcy sees his are still half-lidded. He doesn’t immediately step away, and she senses what’s about to happen, lets her eyes blink closed once more. His mouth is on hers once again, that hand on her neck pulling her closer, tipping her head further back and guiding her deeper – always deeper.

She brings her arms up – abandons the suitcase behind her and just barely manages to remember she’s got her phone in her other hand. She has half a mind to drop it, cracked screen be damned, but she traps it between her palm and his collarbone instead, her free hand snaking its way up around his neck and into the short, almost stubbly base of his closely-cropped hair.

She loses track of time, couldn’t guess at how long they stood there, lost in each other. She counts two more times where they come up for air, and it feels like each one of those could be a natural place for them to end, but then they’re back at it again – his mouth swooping forward and her head angling up to meet him without hesitation.

It’s still tilted back when they finally do break away, when he starts to withdraw, lets his thumb brush her cheek. It takes her a second to open her eyes, another second to bring his oddly soft expression into focus. “I thought you might prefer the first time I do that not be in front of an audience,” he murmurs, voice more than a little bit ragged.

And he apparently thought wrong, because if he’d’ve only done that in front of an audience, she would be able to lean into him now, to chase after his mouth and pretend it’s all just for show. She’s supposed to play the role of the smitten wife, after all; such things are allowed – expected, even.

But she’s not supposed to actually be the smitten wife – not really – and so she has to smile instead, leans back and gives his chest a quick pat before curling her fingers around her phone and letting her arms fall back to her side. “Good thinking,” she tells him, watching as he hikes the strap of his duffle bag higher up on his shoulder. It reminds her of her own forgotten luggage, and she’s quick to clear her throat, reach for her suitcase’s handle. “Glad we got that out of the way.”

He only hums in reply, brushing a little closer to her than necessary as he makes his way onto the sidewalk. “Ma’s house is this way.”

He tips his head in gesture. She follows his lead.

…They pass several open parking spots on their walk to his mother’s brownstone, Darcy notices.

Chapter Text

There’s a short flight of stairs that leads up to the front door of Rumlow’s mother’s home, and Darcy’s barely made it to the first one before he bends down and steals her suitcase from her – or, tries to, at least. She doesn’t immediately let go, and so they’re standing there for a second, the suitcase stuck between them.

“I can carry my own bag,” she asserts. She’s not helpless, after all, and she’s lugged far heavier things around in her intern days.

But he doesn’t give in, doesn’t step back and extend an arm in deference. No, he steps closer – leans his head down a bit so he catches her gaze. With more than a hint of snark in his voice, he feigns interest and inquires, “…Can you also say ‘thank you’?”

And – ugh! – but this man frustrates her like no other!

Though she aims a sarcastic expression his way in response, she doesn’t dare do or say anything more – not when there’s a chance they’ll be overheard or spotted through the window by his family. She doesn’t say thank you, though she does at least release her grip on the handle, lets him be the one to haul the thing up the stairs while she follows after him.

He doesn’t knock or ring the bell, she notices, but instead just reaches for the doorknob, lets out a groan when the thing turns over easily in his hand. “Every damn time,” she hears him mutter under his breath, but he doesn’t elaborate, only pushes the front door open, drags her bag inside, and holds the door ajar so she can slip in after him.

There are muffled voices and sounds coming from somewhere deeper in the home, but the entryway is empty, so Darcy has a chance to glance around like the nosy person she very much is. What she sees is disappointingly normal – the house is neat, but not excessively tidy, and there are little knickknacks adorning shelves, framed photos lining the walls… – but when she takes a closer look at those photos, she realizes one section seems to be exclusively baby photos.

Rumlow catches her with an open arm, turns her in place and nudges her pointedly in the opposite direction. …It’s suspicious, but she doesn’t fight him on it, just makes a mental note to definitely circle back to these baby photos as soon as she gets the chance.

“Ma?” The sound of his voice echoes in the small foyer, accented by the quiet thuds of the shoes he kicks off and the duffle bag he sets down. Darcy follows his lead, places her own shoes next to his before being herded toward what seems to be a living room. “How many times have I told you you need to lock this door?”

“I knew you were coming!” argues a voice Darcy recognizes as Maria Rumlow, and then a dark-haired woman a few inches taller than her is striding into the room, a hand waving in front of her dramatically. She doesn’t look a day over sixty, despite the fact that Darcy knows she must be older than that.

…Maybe it’s a genetic thing, and not a HYDRA serum thing, after all?

Ugh. Genetics aren’t fair.

Before the astrophysicist has much time to ponder that little existential truth, however, Maria Rumlow’s entire demeanor is changing, and suddenly the woman is lighting up, crossing the room in a flash and enveloping Darcy in a hug before she can even get a greeting out. It’s unexpected – that hug – and far tighter than she would’ve believed the woman capable of, and the best Darcy can do is let out an “ouff!” in response.

“You must be Darcy,” the older woman deduces a moment later, when she pulls back and sets her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders to hold her out for inspection. Her fake-mother-in-law’s gaze sweeps over her from head to tow, and then the grinning woman is exclaiming, “Santo cielo! You’re gorgeous.” She looks up to her son, tells him, “She’s gorgeous!” and then turns to the older man Darcy’s only just noticed has joined them in the room, and demands to know, “Isn’t she absolutely gorgeous, Sal?”

With an indulgent smile, Rumlow’s stepfather looks over at the two women with warm, laughing eyes. “Yes, Maria, she is. But you keep telling her that, and she just might realize she can do better than this lout.”

Despite the insult, the two men exchange a few friendly words of greeting, clasping arms but then switching to a quick embrace a second later. Sal sends her a wink over his stepson’s shoulder.

And that’s Darcy’s cue, she decides, so she slips into character, flashes a wide smile and declares, “Oh, that could never happen!”

Her words earn her shoulders an approving squeeze, and then Maria is ushering her deeper into the house, insisting she “Come in, come in!” and declaring, “Oh! Let me get you something to drink, Darcy. Brock, take your bags up to Frankie’s room, would you?”

Darcy peers back at the man in question, nerves at being left alone quickly replaced by amusement when she takes in the somewhat stunned expression on his face. The STRIKE Commander halts his approach, drops the arm he’d been extending – presumably toward his mother – when it becomes clear the woman’s not turning around to give him a hug of his own. He looks over at Sal, frowns when the other man only smiles and shrugs a shoulder, then calls out after them, “Frankie’s room?”

Brock’s mother doesn’t answer, just keeps talking to Darcy: “What would you like, Dear? We’ve got water and lemonade, some apple juice, I think, sparkling grape juice… I could make you some tea, or—“

“She can have wine, Ma!” Rumlow shouts out pointedly, suddenly reappearing in the living room, having evidently chosen to abandon his assigned task.

Darcy steals a glance in his direction, a bit thrown by his rude interruption of his mother’s perfectly generous listing. “Oh, I don’t—“ she starts to object, more than content with the lemonade option, but that pushy fake husband of hers cuts her off.

“She can have wine,” he reiterates, and there’s a significance to the look he exchanges with his mother that Darcy doesn’t immediately understand, but after a weighty silence, it dawns on her.

Oh.

His mother thinks this is a shotgun wedding, then?

Darcy does her best not to laugh, because it does sort of make sense: the sudden, unannounced marriage of a man who’d been fighting his mother’s wishes that he settle down for decades? Hell, the suggestion that he might’ve gotten her pregnant is a whole lot more believable than the truth – that his vague acquaintance from work accidentally told his mother they were married when they weren’t.

“…You sure about that?” a new voice cuts in, as a well-dressed middle-aged man strides into the room from what looks to be the kitchen. He leans up against the archway, crosses his arms and offers her a friendly nod before turning a mischievous eye in her husband’s direction. “I mean, did anyone check her ID?”

With a bit of a derisive smile, Brock tosses back, “How’s the divorce coming, Vince?”

And Darcy doesn’t know this man Vince, doesn’t know his situation or relation, but she’s offended on his behalf – lets out a small noise of outrage. “Brock!” …It’s a near thing, her managing to remember at the last second not to call him Rumlow, but it turns out her scolding isn’t even necessary.

Sal shakes his head, tries to tell her as much nonverbally. “He’s joking.”

“The wife threatens to leave me every year,” Vince confides with a good-natured grin. “This one’s always encouraging her – flashing those pearly whites and telling her she has better Rumlow men to choose from.”

“She does,” the STRIKE Commander asserts, but his expression is warmer now, more playful.

Darcy deduces this must be a cousin of his – older than him, by the looks of it, and less ridiculously in shape, but still a good-looking guy. She can see a hint of resemblance, now that she’s looking for it.

And – damn it! – does this mean he has good genes on both sides?

The world really isn’t fair.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Brock’s asking the other Rumlow man, not unkindly, but he still earns himself a scowl from his mother – presumably for his language or inhospitality.

“He’s in town for a few days, so he’s staying with us,” Maria offers in explanation.

“Vince lives in Chicago now,” Sal quietly fills her in as he sidles up beside her, offering his services as guide to the inner workings of the Rumlow family. “He’s one of the older boys on Brock’s father’s side.”

Darcy hums in appreciation of the background information.

“What?” Brock’s frowning at his mother, now, brow furrowed in confusion or surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”

The look Maria Rumlow sends back at her son is withering. “You want to start a conversation about things we didn’t tell each other?”

Looking properly chastised, the forty-six-year-old man sighs, softens his tone. “Ma… I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

And the polished woman doesn’t look like she’s going to be accepting that apology anytime soon, but she nevertheless nods, takes in a breath, and dismisses the issue with a wave of her hand. “The only thing you need to apologize for right now is for not listening to your mother when I tell you to go put your bags upstairs before one of your sisters trips on them!”

The STRIKE Commander’s expression turns canny, as he crosses his arms and sends a sidelong look his mother’s way. “And why would they do that, Ma? How could that happen, if they’re nice and safe in their own homes?”

It’s a quick reversal, and suddenly it’s Maria extending placatory palms, apologizing: “Look, I don’t want you to be mad at me, but your sisters heard you were—“

“Uh huh,” he cuts off, unbelieving. “How’d they hear, Ma?”

“Did you say you wanted some wine, Darcy?” Sal interjects, tossing her the life preserver before she could get swept up in another back-and-forth.

And she hadn’t, actually, but she’s still quick to agree, offering a quick “Yes, that’d be lovely!” and following after older man when he led her toward the kitchen.

Mother and son stay behind to continue their little chat, and cousin Vince makes an apologetic face before taking his own leave. “I’ve unfortunately got business to attend to this evening,” he explains, gesturing to the freshly pressed suit he’s wearing, “but it’s wonderful to meet you, Darcy. I hope we get a chance to talk more later tonight, or maybe tomorrow.” He throws in a sly little smile, tells her, “Good luck surviving this lot.”

“Go! Get out of here! You’re all terrible,” Sal is complaining as he waves his nephew away.

…Or, wait, is it a nephew if it’s your wife’s first husband’s sibling’s kid?

He acts like an exasperated uncle, nevertheless – gives the grown man a light shove toward the front door and then resumes leading Darcy into the kitchen. Making his way over to an elaborate dual-temperature wine fridge, he asks her, “What kind of wine do you like?”

And the astrophysicist has never been particularly picky – she and Jane spent years going for whatever was on sale at the grocery store, after all – so she shakes her head, tells him, “Whatever’s open is fine.”

The response earns her a dubious look, but Sal’s apparently an accommodating guy, because he doesn’t press; he just considers her for a moment before pulling out a very clearly unopened bottle of white and pouring her a glass. “Yes?”

Darcy takes an obligatory sip, is pleasantly surprised by the flavors that erupt on her tongue. “It’s wonderful, thank you.”

He busies himself with retrieving three additional glasses – quietly and efficiently fills two from different bottles, then hesitates while debating the third. “You’ve known Brock for a while, then?”

And here we go: the questions.

Darcy’s ready for them.

Taking a second to finish her sip, she leans back against the kitchen island, recounts, “I met him about ten years ago, yeah, though we didn’t really know each other all that time. He stole my iPod when we met, you see, and I sort of thought he was an asshole.”

It earns her a laugh, and her temporary stepfather-in-law tips his head. “It does happen that way sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Not really. Darcy’s pretty sure she’s the only one who’s ever accidentally managed to convince two families she’s married, and then have to actually marry the guy as part of some ridiculous scheme. Still, she makes a noise of agreement and brings her glass back up to her lips.

“How long have you two been together, then?”

“Not that long, actually,” comes her vague but truthful response. Rumlow hadn’t been wrong when he told her it was easiest to spin the truth into what worked for their cover. “It just… Well, it all happened so fast.”

The seventy-ish year old man snorts. “Everything about that one is fast.” There’s a clink as he sets aside the bottle he’d been considering – apparently giving up on picking out a bottle for the remaining wine glass – and scoops up one of the already-filled glasses then turns back to her. “When I met Maria, he was already a teenager. I remember when he’d just started training at the martial arts place down the road, and then before we knew it, he was competing already… and winning, mostly. He was good, and he was debating for months about whether he wanted to pursue it professionally, but then I guess he got some idea in his head about being a sailor, and the next thing I know, he’s telling Maria he’s already signed up for the Navy, and he’s shipping off in a few weeks.” There’s a fond, if slightly exasperated smile on the man’s face as he shakes his head at the memory. “He’s always been that way; he drags his feet when he’s undecided, but once he makes up his mind, he goes all in and never looks back.”

That’s something Darcy’s noticed about Brock Rumlow these past few days, but it’s interesting to hear that it isn’t anything new. It’d actually be interesting to hear more about the STRIKE Commander before he was a STRIKE Commander. Did he always have the ability to make grown men freeze with a simple glare? What was Teenage Heartthrob Brock like?

“I’m guessing your engagement was a short one?” Sal continues before Darcy has a chance to ask any of her questions aloud.

With a small, ironic laugh, she tells him, “Ohhh, you have no idea.”

The sound of footsteps announce Maria’s entrance before she sweeps into the room, a broad smile on her face as she makes her way over to where Darcy and Sal are still gathered near the little wine bar. “Now then, what are we talking about in here?” comes the pleasant inquiry, before the woman brightens even more at the glass of red wine that is handed to her. “Oh, thank you, Love.”

Sal smiles in response. “I was just sharing our suspicions that Darcy and Brock didn’t have a particularly long engagement.”

“Ugh!” His wife heaves out a playfully dramatic, long-suffering sigh, though the annoyance she feigns doesn’t reach the happy little crinkles in at the corners of her eyes. “I wish I could say I’m surprised by that boy, but I swear… every major decision he’s made in his life, this is how I find out about it – after the fact.”

And Darcy doesn’t think that’s meant to make her feel guilty, but she’s hit with the guilt, all the same. Rumlow’s parents – or, well, mother and stepfather, that is – clearly care for him deeply, and despite neither of them saying so, she thinks it must’ve hurt for them to find out about his marriage this way. …Even though it’s not a real marriage and they really didn’t miss anything of actual importance. “I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, Mrs.— Maria.”

There’s a nod that expresses approval at Darcy’s swift correction, and then her fake-but-doesn’t-know-she’s-fake mother-in-law is shaking her head. “Oh, Darling, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for at all. We’re just so glad to meet you, so glad my son finally got his head out of his ass and asked you out. …I assume that’s what happened?“

The younger woman smiles again. “…More or less.”

And that’s apparently good enough for Maria Rumlow, who waves a hand in front of her and declares, “I called it, you know. That boy thinks I can’t see right through him, but I can!”

And Darcy very much doubts that anyone can see through the act whenever Commander Brock Rumlow – noted twenty-year infiltrator of an incredibly powerful, clandestine organization festering within SHIELD’s ranks – doesn’t actually want to be seen through… but she won’t say as much to his mother, for obvious reasons.

The older woman continues, braces a hand on her husband’s arm and leans into him. “You remember when he used to come visit us maybe once a year – after months of not hearing from him! – and the only thing he’d tell us about his life was how frustrating this one pretty astrophysics intern was? Did I or did I not say there was something there?”

With that same indulgent smile as before, Sal covers his wife’s hand with his own and gives it a squeeze. “Yes, Dear.” The look he sends Darcy’s way suggests his wife might say a lot of things, though, and Darcy doesn’t quite know how to respond to any of this.

She takes another sip of her wine to buy some small amount of time, and then demurs, “I did give him a lot to complain about back then. …I might’ve made his life a bureaucratic paperwork hell for a while.”

Too late, it occurs to Darcy she might not want to casually use the word hell around a woman she knows to be very religious, but thankfully, Maria doesn’t seem to mind – the woman simply laughs. “Yes, well, whatever you did, we’re glad for it. I always worried he’d end up alone, you know.” Her voice sobers a bit at that revelation, and the little sigh she gives this time sounds heartfelt, not dramatic.

Sal rubs a hand over his wife’s forearm.

“Brock’s first love has always been his country,” Maria continues. “I worried he’d end up married to his work, alone, with no one to care about what happens to him on those missions. …That job never loved him back.” There’s a pause, and then an earnest “Thank you, Darcy. For loving my son.”

…Shit.

Her chest aches at the sincerity in the older woman’s expression, at the gratitude she sees shining in those warm, brown eyes – a gratitude Darcy very much does not deserve, but has no choice but to accept.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” she says, and that part’s the truth, but she knows she can’t just leave it at that, unfortunately; too much of what Maria Rumlow just said demands an answer.

…The first real, big lie, then.

Darcy swallows. “And you don’t have to worry about that anymore: he’s got me; he won’t ever be alone.”

Maria’s smiling a watery smile now, blinking quickly, and Darcy’s always been a sympathetic crier, so that just twists the knife deeper in her chest. She has to look away, occupy herself with finally examining the beautiful room they’re standing in.

“Your house is absolutely lovely, by the way,” she says. “There’s so much character in these older homes.”

“So much to be renovated, too,” Sal chimes in with a wry smile, then continues on, either because he’s genuinely excited about the renovations they’ve done and still plan to do, or because he knows a desperate conversation change when he hears one. “The kitchen had to be first, naturally, but we’ve got plans for the upstairs bathrooms, and I’m personally invested in the wet bar we’re planning to add to the rec room downstairs.”

It’s at that point – and thankfully not any earlier! – that the STRIKE Commander makes his reappearance, undoubtedly having actually finished bringing their bags up to their room this time. “Everyone getting along?” he inquires, mostly jokingly, as he makes his way over to the small group.

Sal, evidently back to playing host, ignores the question and apologizes: “I never know what to pour you, Brock. What are you liking these days?”

The younger man hums noncommittally as he pauses just beside Darcy, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and reaching over with the other to steal the glass right out of her hands. He’s got it raised and is already taking a deep drink by the time she realizes what’s happening, but that doesn’t stop her from immediately objecting.

“Excuse me!” Irritated, now, she twists towards him, holds out her hand in silent demand.

His eyes cut to her, but he takes his time finishing his sip before he lowers the glass, reveals a teasing smile. Obligingly, he presses the glass back into her hand, though he uses his other arm to pull her closer and dips his head down at the same time, captures her lips in a brief kiss. And it’s nothing like the kiss they’d shared outside by the car – this one is short, a cheeky little imitation of an ‘oh, I’m sorry, this is what you’re upset about, right? The fact that I didn’t properly greet you?’ – but it still takes her by surprise and steals her breath away.

He’s already standing up straight and looking over at his stepfather by the time Darcy recovers and blinks open her eyes, just in time to see him nod to the glass she’s still stupidly holding mid-air. She brings her elbow in closer to her waist, tries to remember if this is a more normal way of holding a drink. Everything about her posture and positioning feels unnatural, though; she’s too aware of him, once again – can hardly focus on anything other than the feel his chest against her shoulder or the thumb that’s rubbing back and forth on her upper arm.

“Gewürtz?” Brock confirms with the older man, who dips his head in reply.

“I had a feeling.”

“It’s drier than most – I like it. What’s the label?”

Sal turns to retrieve the bottle in question, and Brock steps away from Darcy, lets his arm drop back to his side as he crosses over to examine the vintage and presumably pour himself a glass.

Darcy breathes again.

But then she catches Maria’s eye, and the unbridled joy looking back at her has Darcy immediately remembering their earlier conversation.

Her heart clenches, and even though they’ve still got months of getting through this whole charade, she suddenly can’t help but think of how heartbroken his poor mother is going to be the second she finds out they’re getting divorced. …Does it make her an awful person to get the woman’s hopes up? To promise she needn’t worry about her son ending up alone, because he’s got her now, even though he very much doesn’t?

Fuck, she feels awful.

She has to turn away, pretends to be embarrassed or something, but then Rumlow’s back in front of her, a fresh glass of wine in his hand, and she’s got nowhere safe to put her eyes. She blinks at his chest for a moment, tries to get herself back under control, and then sends a smile up at him. His mouth is quirked up at the ends as well, but as he takes a closer look at her, his eyes narrow, and something in his demeanor shifts.

Though she tries to play it off as a casual show of affection, she’s quick to reach forward – sets her free hand on his wrist in an attempt to assure him she’s okay.

He’s not looking at her anymore, however, and the way he shifts his arm, linking their hands together, feels more like he’s reassuring her, not being reassured.

“Ma…” There’s a warning in that low, drawn-out word. The STRIKE Commander lets it hang in the air for a moment, lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to her fingers, then inquires with false nonchalance, “What were you all talking about?”

“How happy we are to have Darcy in the family,” comes Maria’s easy response, before she gives an affronted scoff at whatever look her son sends her way. “Oh, relax! As if I’d ever say anything unwelcoming to anyone any of my children brought home… unlike some members of this family.”

Darcy gets the sense his mother is trying to lighten the mood by starting up some age-old argument in the Rumlow household, but Brock doesn’t immediately take the bait. He glances back down at her instead, eyes assessing – waits until she smiles back up at him and gives his hand another squeeze before he finally turns back to his mother and calmly asserts, “Mark knows what he did.”

And Darcy can’t help but be grateful to Sal when the older man picks up on her confusion and fills in the major blanks for her: “Ronnie’s husband served with Brock in the Navy. He introduced them.”

“Never should’ve brought that asshole back for Thanksgiving,” comes the unhappy grumble from the man beside her, who’s apparently finally convinced that everything’s under control in the current situation.

And – Ah! – she’s got a better view of the full picture, can imagine her husband’s anger at bringing one of his buddies back for the holidays – probably a kindness to someone who couldn’t visit his own family or didn’t have a family to visit in the first place – only for said buddy to turn around and get it on with Brock’s baby sister.

…She kind of gets what’s left to forgive, now.

“But enough about Mark!” his mother waves off, before reaching for Darcy. “Come on, let’s go sit in the parlor. I want to hear all about my new daughter-in-law.”

It’s as good an excuse as any to pull her hand out of Rumlow’s, so Darcy nods her assent and does just that, starts to follow after Maria and Sal as they lead the way. She stops, though, after a step – turns back to that fake husband of hers just long enough to swap their glasses, tells him, “Since you stole some of mine earlier,” and is on her way again, towing along the nearly full glass and leaving him with the only-half-empty one.

Serves him fucking right, after all.

And she’s going to need the alcohol more than him, either way.

--x--

It’s not long before his sisters arrive, two together and then one not fifteen minutes later. Each of the women brings with them a dish – except for Ronnie, who brings her newborn baby instead, since ‘they’re not yet at the bottle stage’ …which is, Darcy learns in that moment, apparently a thing. After the obligatory introductions and bear hugs are complete, Darcy takes the first opportunity she can to corner that fake husband of hers and demand to know if they were supposed to have brought something to share with the family, as well.

“I brought you,” he stage whispers back as if that’s even remotely equivalent, before winking, pulling her into him despite her protests, and pressing his lips to her forehead. His hand runs up and down her back twice before he lets her go, and then they’re back in the middle of it once again, Darcy doing her best to keep up with the craziness around her.

…It’s not a bad craziness, though. Darcy’s not quite used to the whole loud,-boisterous-family-that-loves-each-other thing, but everyone is so warm and welcoming that it’s hard to truly feel like an outsider for long. The sisters gush over her rings, take turns asking Darcy questions or teasing Brock. Very little of it seems to bother him – if anything, he seems to get more relaxed the more he banters with them – but he does make a face when Darcy says something about how she’d been finishing an internship her last semester in college when they’d first met in New Mexico.

Gabbie’s quick to hone in on that, sings out a teasing little “Looks like someone owes Mark an apology.”

Darcy takes the opportunity to blink innocently at her scowling husband, remind him, cheerfully, “Oh, that’s right! I am younger than your sister, aren’t I?”

Brock doesn’t find it funny, but it earns her a cackle from the rest of the gathered family.

“I like her,” Frankie declares at that point. “You did well, Brock.”

…And Darcy likes his family, too, she realizes.

They’re good people.

Sal continues to be her friendly guide to all things Rumlow family, helpfully providing the relation when names Darcy doesn’t recognize are thrown around, or cluing her in to what is and is not a real fight between the siblings whenever voices are raised. But she considers him a traitor the second he sets his granddaughter down in Darcy’s arms, despite her wide-eyed panic and immediate demurral.

…She’s really got to stop accepting children that are handed to her.

But it’s a lost cause at this point, so she just stands there, awkwardly holding the only-weeks-old newborn. And it’s Rumlow that does the hovering – not the baby’s mother or any of the other women in the room – and so Darcy has to deal with the added stress of him standing practically on top of her, hands sort of half-raised as if he thinks there’s a chance she’ll drop the sleeping child, while he keeps reminding her to support the head and be careful and—

“Here!” Darcy interjects after his fingers do that little flex-then-contract thing that suggests he’s barely managing to hold back the urge to take the infant from her anyway. “Why don’t you hold your niece?”

She barely has to tilt her arms before he’s sweeping the swaddled bundle out of her hold, looking so incredibly relieved.

Darcy’s relieved, too, if she’s being honest, and so she’s not even that offended by the whole thing.

“He’s always over the top like this,” Ronnie confides.

Frankie finishes the thought, tacks on a quick “But he gets over it around the time they learn to walk. Then it’s less helicopter, more let me teach you how to sled down a giant hill even though you’re still in diapers.”

“Mattie enjoyed that!” the man in question argues without looking up, apparently having been listening all along, but then he’s softening his tone, cooing down at the child in his arms. “But this is the first time I’ve gotten to hold you, isn’t it? Hello, Sophia! How are you? It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

And holy shit does Darcy want to record a video of Commander Rumlow just cooing at this baby. Jane will never believe her – not when half of SHIELD is terrified of the man.

When Darcy finally looks away from the sight, she finds Maria’s eyes on her. For a second, she worries her new mother-in-law might start inquiring about their own plans to have children – which Darcy just then realizes she and Rumlow haven’t actually talked about, and so she doesn’t have any idea at all what it is he’d like her to tell his family on that front – but, thankfully, Maria only smiles warmly at her.

Frankie goes back to asking Darcy questions about her work with Jane, and the moment passes.

--x--

Things seem to calm down a bit by the time dinner is served around eight – Frankie and Maria having disappeared to finish prepping the meal about a half hour beforehand. All of Darcy’s offers to assist had been graciously refused, and so she’s been stuck with Brock, who, apparently, hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her he planned to be a hands-on husband.

And, look, Darcy’s always been good at thinking on the spot, at picking a role and playing it convincingly for a short while; she’d been in her fair share of high school plays and had talked her way into more nightclubs and out of more speeding tickets than she can count, after all. On more than one occasion she’d done the whole swoop-in-and-save-a-random-stranger-from-a-conversation-it-looks-like-they-want-to-leave-by-pretending-to-be-there-to-meet-them thing, and she’d also bullshitted her way through sounding like she knew what she was talking about the whole first couple of years she was working for Jane. She knows what she’s talking about now, of course… but back then? Pfft. It’s amazing what people will take your word on if you just sound super confident and throw around fancy-sounding (even if made up) terminology.

So, yeah, Darcy likes to think she’s pretty good at this whole acting and improvisation thing. But… shit, man, Rumlow’s better. He’s on a whole ‘nother level, and she expected he would be, obviously – the man infiltrated HYDRA for something like two decades, after all! – but seeing it in person…

It’s the little things he’s got down – the subtle details that can really drive an act home. He’s always looking at her, even when people aren’t watching. He’s stealing glances, anytime someone makes a joke, like he wants to see how she reacts. He finds a way to touch her, anytime they’re in close proximity… innocent touches – a brush of fingers on her arm as he walks by, his arm thrown over the back of the couch behind them so he can rub circles on her shoulder or wrap one of her loose curls around a finger.

It all seems to come naturally to him, like it’s almost instinctive.

She doesn’t know how he does it, doesn’t know how he keeps track of it all in his mind. It doesn’t come naturally like that to her; Darcy has to think – has to make a conscious effort to keep her posture open and unconcerned, to stay on top of all of the conversation, to lean into him when he’s beside her, keep her smile warm and affectionate when he pushes his luck with some teasing comment or insinuation.

He slides in behind her when she’s filling her plate in the kitchen, crowds her up against the countertop for a moment. Because his family hadn’t known if she was vegetarian or had allergies or anything like that, they’d apparently chosen to forgo a traditional multi-course meal, instead opting for a more help yourself! potluck of options. There’s a very informal line formed around the room as family members add different items to their plates, but Darcy’s near the end of it, with no one behind her to complain about the back up.

Rumlow snakes a hand around her waist, palm low on her belly, his other hand holding his plate out over the counter in front of them. She can feel the heat of his chest against her back, of his arm against hers, the little puff of warm air on her neck just a second before his lips are there…

And this is another of those times where Darcy has to work to control her reactions, to ensure the vibe she’s giving off to his family is casual and unaffected. She makes an effort to relax her shoulders, lean back against him, turn her head over towards his.

He lets his lips graze her jawline before straightening up just a bit, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “You doin’ okay?” he asks her quietly, and she thinks it’s a genuine question just as much as it’s for show.

So she tells him, “I’m good,” and then hums like she’s enjoying the familiar embrace.

—Like she’s enjoying the comfort of a familiar, still-rather-tame embrace, and not like she’s at all affected by the proximity of firm, sculpted muscles or that damn cologne he’s got on.

…Because she’s not.

…Not supposed to be, that is.

Fuck.

He eventually lets her go – only after Frankie makes a comment about them blocking the dinner rolls – and soon, they’re all gathered around the dining table, Darcy doing her best to bow her head and not draw attention to herself during the little prayer that’s shared before they eat.

Sophia interrupts the blessing with a wail, evidently waking from her slumber and demanding to be fed, so Darcy feels some solidarity with the tiny human in that moment.

They’re halfway through the meal when Ronnie suddenly exclaims, “Ooh! Did we hear the proposal story, yet? How’d he ask you to marry him?”

“Did it involve actual begging?” Gabbie demands to know.

“Or crying?” Frankie chimes in as well, before making a face across the table when her brother, presumably, sends one her way first.

It’s Gabbie again, then: “Or bribery?”

All eyes are on Darcy, who has to swallow her bite of lasagna and think on her feet.

…She comes up with nothing, looks to Brock for assistance. When he only winks from where he’s leaning back in his seat beside her, she knows she’s on her own.

She has half a mind to come up with some elaborate, overly sappy story, but a part of her thinks he actually might take pride in that instead of being embarrassed by it, so she settles for an ambiguous smile and more of the truth: “Oh, he just… didn’t really give me a choice.”

The answer earns a few awws and a round of laughter, but it’s evidently not enough.

“Details!” Ronnie requests. “Set the scene for us!”

The astrophysicist steals another quick glance at that husband of hers, delays for a moment as she takes a sip of her wine and hopes he’ll take the opportunity to actually chime in with something, this time…

But he doesn’t – that fucker.

The truth again, then.

“No scene to set,” she tells the youngest Rumlow woman, an apologetic smile on her lips. “We were at work, if you can believe it. He told me, more than asked me – made a convincing case, didn’t really let me say no.”

That earns her more laughter, even as Maria Rumlow shakes her head in amused disapproval. “That does sound like my son,” she declares, “though Lord knows I don’t know where he gets it from!”

Thankfully, that seems to be the end of the questions, as each of the sisters take turns launching into stories of different times when Brock told them what to do, instead of asking or even suggesting.

Darcy’s off the hook for the time being.

…That doesn’t mean she forgives the smirking asshole beside her for leaving her out to dry, though.

Under the guise of an innocent, affectionate pat, Darcy drops her left hand down to his thigh, gives him a squeeze and digs her nails in just a bit. But then she has an even better idea when she realizes they’re fairly out of sight, sitting alone on one side of the table across from his sisters as they are. Maria and Sal are at each of the table’s ends, which makes the angle safe enough to…

She relaxes her grip, rubs her thumb back and forth almost apologetically, and then slides her hand higher up his leg. It’s innocent enough, at first, but then she spreads her fingers out a bit, rubs her palm in then out, and feels his muscles contract. She’s only half paying attention to the conversation as it continues on, and she steals a glance up at him, sees him staring back at her with far too much confidence for a man in the position he’s in.

But he apparently thinks this is another little game he’ll be able to easily win just by calling her bluff, because he shifts in his seat – pretends to turn toward her so he can better reach for the pepper at that end of the table – and brings his leg open wider, his knee now to her thigh.

He clearly expects her to balk, to give up like she’d done back in his office that first day, but she refuses to lose this time around. She smiles serenely, hooks her ankle around his, and moves her hand all the way to the top of his thigh.

Her hand’s nowhere indecent – she doesn’t want to actually assault the man by groping him without his permission! – but it’s close, and she lets her fingers extend then contract, brushes them back and forth in unpredictable patterns, moves her palm closer one minute and then further away at the last second. He tenses under her touch, but lets her continue the teasing far longer than she expects he will.

It gets to the point where she starts to wonder if she’s lost her touch, or if he’s just got nerves of steel or something, because he’s not reacting at all. But he’s sitting so carefully still, barely moving at all except to lift his fork or reach for a drink, and those motions seem somewhat stilted…

Or maybe she’s seeing things that aren’t there – Darcy doesn’t know.

When his mother asks him a question, though, he finally cuts her off – sweeps her hand up with his and intertwines their fingers, lifts them up to his lips then brings them back, still locked together, to rest on his knee. It’s a motion that undoubtedly looks fluid and natural to the rest of the table, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he traps her hand there, keeps talking and refuses to let go when she tries to pull away.

And now she’s stuck having to hold his hand for the remainder of the meal, apparently, but Darcy still marks it down as a point in her favor.

The seduction chicken scoreboard shows them both tied.

--x--

The rest of the meal proceeds without incident, and soon the women are once again gathered in the front parlor room, while Sal and Brock remain behind to clear off the table and put away leftovers. Ronnie heads home, apologizing and saying something about needing to catch up on her sleep while Sophia lets her, but Gabbie and Frankie stay, keeping the conversation and the wine flowing.

Darcy’s warm now – pleasantly fuzzy from the wine and full from the delicious meal, and comfortable where she rests, sort of half-leaning against the arm on one of the sofas, legs tucked up beside her. On a normal day, that’d be enough to make her drowsy… and today’s far from normal. She’s running on not nearly enough sleep and far too much emotionally draining insanity for one day, and she has to fight to keep her eyes open, tries as best as she can to follow the discussion around her.

Thankfully, not much of it is aimed her way – the women mostly talking amongst themselves, with Brock chiming in now and then from the kitchen. Darcy shares a thought or two when she has one, tries not to be a complete wet blanket, but she yawns more than once, finds her blinks lasting longer and longer as the night goes on…

“Scoot over,” Rumlow’s voice instructs, and she looks up to see him standing before her, flicking a finger toward the center of the couch.

And Darcy doesn’t know why the frustrating bastard is insisting on stealing her spot when she’s so comfortable as she is and there are plenty of other seating options in the room… but she moves over nonetheless – watches as he sets his drink down on the end table and drops down beside it into the space she’s just vacated. He plucks the throw pillow out from under his arm, sets it on his lap, and then reaches for her.

Oh.

That’s why.

At first, she worries this might be meant as some kind of strategic move – payback for her earlier teasing at the dinner table, perhaps – but she’s tired and pliable, and she doesn’t fight him when he guides her down. She figures it’s more ‘in character’ to go along with it, anyways, and so she settles back onto her side, stretches her legs out a bit more as she rests her head on the provided pillow.

It’s a bit awkward to start, and her posture’s noticeably stiff as she tries to keep some of her weight off of the pillow, but then there’s a warm palm at the nape of her neck, and fingers are scratching their way up over her head, weaving through her hair, parting it this way and that, rubbing soothing circles and then drawing nails back down again. He’s playing with her hair, and fuck! if that’s not one of her biggest weaknesses…

She relaxes into him, hums out a noise of contentment and lets her eyes fall closed. The pleasant chatter around her continues, voices softer now, blurring together a bit in her mind, but she still hears his easily enough.

“She’s exhausted,” that smooth baritone is saying, and Darcy feels the vibrations of the laughter that follows, feels his hand pause for a second before resuming its gentle patterns. “No! Christ! I meant because she’s got a lot going on at work. She and Jane Foster are…”

Darcy doesn’t hear the rest, her fake husband’s voice fading into the background, too, as sleep takes her.

--x--

One of the most annoying things in life, Darcy thinks, is the fact that the sleepiness of the couch never quite translates to the bed, and so, when she wakes up who-knows-how-long later, Darcy goes from dead tired to wide awake. She’s disoriented for a second first, of course – because who wouldn’t be disoriented waking up half in Commander Brock Rumlow’s lap, his hand on her shoulder giving her a gentle shake – but then she’s sitting up, looking around to see that his sisters have apparently gone home for the night. …Vince is back, it seems, and Sal’s nowhere in sight, but Maria looks to be staying up a bit longer, if the book on her lap is anything to go by.

“Oh, damn it! I’m sorry,” Darcy is quick to apologize. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep and—“

The older woman waves her off, warm smile on her lips. “It’s almost midnight and we’ve been talking for hours, Dear. Every single member of this family has fallen asleep on that couch before.”

“That husband of yours likes to hear himself talk, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Brock’s cousin jokes from the loveseat opposite them, earning a middle finger from the man in question.

“Fuck you,” the STRIKE Commander tells the other man, but there’s no actual bite to the words.

That doesn’t stop Vince from flashing a sharp smile back in return. “Let’s just remember our rooms are right next to each other so this house is a fuck free zone tonight, yeah?”

“Hey!" Maria snaps just as Darcy’s face flushes. "Basta!” The older woman looks genuinely annoyed as she points a scolding finger at each man. “Watch your mouths in this house! Honestly!”

And it’s far from the first time an f-bomb has been dropped in front of Maria Rumlow, but Darcy’s not about to complain about having the line drawn where it was. Deciding the sheepish silence that follows the mumbled apologies is the perfect opportunity to make an exit, the astrophysicist clears her throat, offers a quick “Thank you again for the wonderful dinner,” and then exchanges brief pleasantries before heading off to bed.

Rumlow heads upstairs behind her, thankfully, because it occurs to Darcy just a moment too late that she has no idea where she’s going. But he leads the way when she steps aside, guides her over to a room on the left. “We’re in here,” he informs her, before hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the door across the hall. “Nearest bathroom’s right there.”

She nods, walks into the room, and then stops dead in the center of it when she realizes what her eyes are seeing. She waits until she hears the door click closed before turning and quietly hissing out, “Hold up. I was promised a futon.”

Rumlow’s reply is dry as he tells her, “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting Vince to be here. There’s a futon in my old room.”

But not in here, she deduces.

And that’s fair enough; there’s nothing either of them can do about the fact that his cousin is currently occupying the room best suited for double occupancy. Really, Darcy doesn’t actually care all that much about the promised futon; she cares more about the promise itself – would’ve been bothered to learn the whole thing had been made up and she’d been swindled. But the intervening cousin was very clearly not made up, and so Darcy’s more or less reassured.

Still, that fake husband of hers eyes her, tilts his head as if in challenge and inquires, “That gonna be a problem, Princess?” His voice is low, and the emphasis on the nickname-slash-title somehow manages to be both mocking – in the ‘is this not up to your royal standards?’ kind of way – and teasing – in the ‘remember how you said it doesn’t bother you when I call you this?’ kind of way.

She rolls her eyes at both implications, tells him, plainly, “It’s not a big deal.”

Because it’s not.

Though the way he’s staring at her—No.

It’s fine.

And – damn it! – is he crossing his arms in front of his chest now because he knows it makes his arms look good? And now arching a brow at her as if she’s the only one just standing there stupidly?

Ugh.

It’ll be fine.

…But she needs to use the restroom and get changed, first, so she does just that – crosses over to her suitcase she sees sitting in the corner of the room, pulls out her toiletry bag and the soft shorts and t-shirt she’d packed as pajamas, then ducks back out into the hall.

She spends more time than she should staring at her reflection in the mirror, giving herself a silent little pep talk reminder that if she’d already fallen asleep on the man’s lap at this point, sharing what looked like an actual king-sized bed should be a piece of cake.

But the rings weigh heavy on her hand and Darcy’s mind is still a bit soft and fuzzy around the edges from the wine, so she’s not thinking too logically.

Rumlow apparently takes his own trip to a different bathroom in the house, because she sees him putting a toothbrush back in his bag when she returns to the room. Clad now in sleep pants and a white undershirt, he glances over his shoulder when she closes the door, then turns toward her and smiles.

She eyes him distrustfully as she puts her own things away, unsure what exactly he’s playing at, here, but knowing that smile of his means whatever it is is almost certainly nothing good.

“C’mere,” he entreats when she’s done, his arms open and extended in front of him.

Though suspicion and curiosity war within her for a long moment, she ultimately decides she’s intrigued enough to go to him. The way he’s reaching out toward her makes her think he might want to hug her, might want to do something else…

Is he going to kiss her again? Say they need to practice being more comfortable around each other?

…Or is this another of their little seduction chicken games? In which case, Darcy flat-out refuses to lose this round, because she won’t let him walk around thinking he’s got the upper hand again.

It turns out to be neither of those things, because, though he draws her in close to him, runs warm, soothing palms down her arms from her shoulders to her wrists… the second he gets her where he wants her, he attacks.

She shrieks with laughter as his fingers dig into her sides – is too busy swatting at his hands and trying to escape the onslaught to watch where she’s going, so she ends up backing right into the wall with a loud thud. He catches her there, smothers her laughter with a palm to her mouth and pinches at her side for another few seconds. He backs off when she tries to kick at him, though – sends a wink her way before launching himself backwards on the bed, the springs protesting loudly under the sudden weight.

And – oh, damn it all! – she knows what he’s doing now, has her suspicions confirmed a second later when there’s a thunk on the other side of the wall behind her, a muffled male voice from the neighboring room shouting out, “That’s not funny, Asshole!”

Rumlow’s eyes tell a different story, though, and before she can tell him off, he’s shouting back, “Then find some headphones, Jackass!”

She wants to be mad at him, but when the STRIKE Commander openly grins at her like a child who’s just bested all of his friends in some ridiculous playground competition, she can’t manage to hold a straight face. Her laughter dies the minute she hears a new voice shouting back from further away, though.

“Would you two knock it off?!” Maria Rumlow demands, and Darcy blanches, hands coming up to cover her face.

That fake husband of hers chortles, assures her, “She means Vince and me,” but Darcy’s still completely mortified.

She groans.

He huffs in apparent amusement. “C’mon, Lewis.” His voice is normal until she drops her hands and glares at him – because this is all completely his fault and she does not find it funny – but then he’s rearranging his features, expression suddenly heated as he rises up to one elbow, extends his other arm to give the open space beside him an encouraging pat. And his voice is a damned purr this time as he coaxes her, “Come to bed.”

She knows he’s joking – she fucking knows it! – but the promise and the invitation in his voice and his words still send a jolt through her. She’s tired, though – far too tired to play along – and so she chooses to pin him with an unimpressed look, reminds him, “I could tell you to sleep downstairs on the couch, you know.”

He hums noncommittally, decides, “But you won’t.”

She wants to tell him not to be so sure of himself, but there’s no point to that; they both know she won’t – can’t. They’re supposed to be happily married for all of a full day at this point, and she agreed to keep up appearances.

“For real though,” he prompts, rolls to his side and makes room. He’s dropped the act at this point, his voice back to normal, as he advises, “You should get some sleep. You’ll want to be well rested when Ma comes at you with the guilt-tripping tomorrow. You got teary-eyed when she said you were part of the family, so she knows you’re the weakest link, now.”

And she’s got no real argument against that, so she makes her way around to the empty side of the bed – lets him know, “I hate you a little bit.”

“Yeah?” His tone is light, entertained by the news as he hops back up to his feet just long enough to pull back the covers and climb inside. “Just a little bit? I think that might be an improvement.”

“Fuck you, Rumlow,” she says without thinking.

And he’s apparently feeling generous – or perhaps just tired – because he only snorts, rolls to his side so his back is to her, and snarks back, “Don’t tempt me, Princess.”

Chapter Text

Lewis.

She’s warm – comfortably so, like the kind of warm you get by dragging your pool chair over out of the shade so you can bask in the light of the sun. Her body is weightless, senses dulled by the cloud of sleep that still lingers over her.

It’s too early to wake up; she can sense it in her bones, can see it behind the eyelids she refuses to open. Her alarm hasn’t gone off yet, and she’s still in that wonderful foggy dream-state, where all she needs to do is nothing, and then she’ll drift back into a peaceful slumber.

She turns her face into her pillow, buries her nose deeper into the comforting scent. With a little hum of contentment, she shifts her arm just a fraction, adjusts ever so slightly so her weight is redistributed a bit more into the body pillow, gives the shoulder that had been digging into the mattress a bit of breathing room. She moves a knee up a bit, too, and then everything is perfect once again.

“Lewis.”

Or maybe not perfect, if there’s a voice determined to keep her from drifting back into nocturnal bliss.

…But maybe it’ll go away if she ignores it.

Her brows draw together, and she pinches her eyes closed even tighter, turns her face even more into the pillow, adjusts her positioning one more time.

There’s a hiss that answers her, then more gruffly: “Lewis!”

Rumlow.

He’s loud enough to pull her just far enough out of her dream world that her mind is now listening to his words, recognizing his voice. And she’s at his mother’s house up in New York, her mind also manages to supply, so her reaction is less what the fuck, where am I? and more go away, you’re annoying.

She makes a noise of protest over being awoken, refuses to do anything more than that, but then the bed is moving, her pillow shifting under her. Grumbling again, she goes to better secure her hold on the body pillow he’s apparently trying to steal from her in his attempts to wake her up at whatever ungodly hour it is. Her ankle hits something that might be his knee or his elbow, but she’s not trying to fight him – just trying to keep ahold of her pillows and comforter so she can go back to sleep – so she bends her leg more, tries to lift away from his knee and hook her heel better around the pillow, instead.

“Lewis, goddamn it, I’m not a saint!” And his voice is right in her ear this time, deep and rough and irritated…

Giving in, she finally opens her eyes, tries to figure out what on earth his issue is, only to come face-to-chest with a t-shirt covered pectoral.

She blinks, blinks again, and then slowly lifts her head, recognizing with sudden dread that the pillow she thought she’d been resting her head on was indeed Rumlow’s arm/shoulder, and the body pillow she thought she’d been hugging-slash-half-on-top-of…

Oops.

She lets go of his torso, relaxes the death grip and starts to roll off of him—

There’s another sharp hiss as fingers suddenly dig into the back of her knee, freeze her in place. It’s a nearly painful grasp, one that surprises the hell out of her, but the back-of-the-throat noise-of-protest that follows does not come from her.

Darcy tilts her head back and steals a glance up at the STRIKE Commander’s face, has to do an awkward little head-jerk-hair-flip thing to actually get a glimpse at him around her dark curls, but when she does… He looks like he’s in pain – eyes pinched shut and jaw firmly clenched – and Darcy doesn’t understand why until she feels that vice hold on her leg lift her carefully high and away from his body, his fingers quick to switch from digging in to pushing her away the second it’s safe to do so.

She flops onto her back.

And she gets it now, realizes exactly why he’s grimacing the way he is and why he’s waking her up complaining about not being a saint.

Because it’s too damn early in the morning for her to be awake, yes, but it is morning.

And when she thought she’d been innocently getting more comfortable half atop a body pillow, she’d actually been absentmindedly grinding against his hip, her leg tossed over him and thigh brushing against a certain body part that had definitely taken notice.

Fuck.

No, wait! Bad word choice.

Shit!

Embarrassment floods her – shame and something far more unsettling setting her cheeks aflame. Slapping her palms over her face, Darcy lets out a mortified little groan.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry!” comes her rush of apologies, as she tries to figure out how she’s going to break it to Jane that she’ll be handing in her resignation and moving halfway around the world immediately. Rumlow had definitely sounded irritated, and she’s not sure she can ever show her face at SHIELD again knowing she unintentionally groped the STRIKE Commander and made him uncomfortable.

The bastard beside her starts laughing, though, and for a moment, she can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. She feels the mattress shift beside her, and then she gets her answer when a low, teasing voice inquires, “You really do go from one extreme to the other, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats again, unable to think of anything better to say. He has a right to tease her, she figures, when she’d been practically assaulting him. With hands still covering her flaming cheeks, she tries to explain: “I didn’t mean to—“

He cuts her off, doesn’t seem overly concerned with getting that apology out of her. “Has anyone ever taught you how to do a proper headlock? You’ve got a killer grip.” His voice is full of amusement, but the question sounds genuine. It also sounds like it’s coming from somewhere slightly closer than before.

Though there’s a part of her that would like nothing more than to sink into the bed and be swallowed by the blankets and never heard from again, she takes a breath, pulls her hands down a bit, so that her fingers are steepled over mouth and nose but no longer blocking her ability to see.

She blinks, risks a tentative glance over at him, and sees that he’s laying on his side beside her now, propped up on an elbow and grinning down at her.

His grin only widens when he sees her looking at him. That’s when he chooses to continue that little external musing of his, tells her, “You’re like a horny koala.”

And holy fucking shit, does that have her sputtering, embarrassment and the need to correct his misunderstanding flaring within her. “That’s not—! I wasn’t—!”

“I know, I know. Relax, Princess.” He winks at her, reminds her, “I was awake the whole time, and you didn’t actually start squirming until I started trying to disentangle our limbs. …How the fuck can it be that hard to wake you up, by the way? It took maybe two pokes to your shoulder last night and you were wide awake, but this morning a bomb could’ve gone off and you’d’ve slept right through it.”

She worries for a second that he’s expressing some doubt about whether or not she was truly asleep, but there’s an innocent little furrow to his brow as he looks back at her, and he seems sincere in his confusion.

“It’s too early to wake up,” she tells him, craning her neck and trying to get a look at the alarm clock on the end table beside her. …There isn’t one, though, so she settles for just flopping back down and assuming she’s correct. “My body knows this and refuses to be disturbed unless necessary.”

Also: Darcy’s typically a very light sleeper around people she doesn’t know very well, but apparently her subconscious feels safe enough around this bad-guy-killing husband of hers. …Not that she’s ever going to psychoanalyze that or admit as much to him, of course.

Instead, she moves on: “No, but you can ask Jane. I’m a nightmare to wake up most days. Have to set like seven back-to-back alarms at five minute intervals.” It’s not an exaggeration.

With an arch of an eyebrow and a wry twist of his lips, Brock instructs her, “Remind me never to change you to my emergency contact, just in case an emergency happens in the middle of the night.”

She waves a hand, lifts the other to rub over her face while she loses the fight against the urge to yawn. “Oh, but see, that’s the thing: My ringtone wakes me up. It’s just the alarms I manage to snooze through.”

“…You’re aware you can change the sound of your alarm, right?” the man beside her wants her to know. He’s using that same do-you-actually-not-know-this-or-are-you-fucking-with-me tone that he’d used when he’d asked if she knew what her benefits were or knew what it was he did at SHIELD. “You could just put whatever sound you’re using for your ringtone as the sound for your alarm.”

And – pfft! – yeah, of course she’d considered and then promptly dismissed that option. “But then I’d learn to sleep through my ringtone, instead. Jane would call because there’s a fire, and I’d think it’s just my alarm going off, so I’d hit snooze on Jane, and then she’d die and I’d only wake up after seven different people started calling me trying to tell me the news.” She lays it out for him exactly as it would happen, then rolls her head to the side to give him a pointed stare.

He just blinks at her, looks confused but thoroughly amused by the entire conversation.

And it’s too damn early for her to be trusted just lying there with Commander Brock Rumlow beside her, half-smiling down at her while his hair is looking all ruffled and unkempt like it is. She reaches out, puts a hand over his face and shoves him backwards. “Why are we still talking when I should be sleeping? Go to the gym or go do your run or whatever. That’s what you’re doing up this early, right? Shoo.”

With a snort, the STRIKE Commander does as he’s told, rolls out of bed and hops to his feet with way too much energy for the-sun-hasn’t-even-risen-o’clock. Darcy groans just at the sight of his pep, pointedly turns back onto her side with her back to him and shoves her face back into the pillow.

…It feels weirdly uncomfortable, now, though, so she finds herself flopping back over, reaching to grab one of his pillows, and then rolling right back over with it in tow. She’s always found it easier to get comfortable while hugging a pillow or – even better! – a body pillow, so she does just that, shifts around until she finds a position that’s almost as cozy as the one she’d woken up in, all while grousing under her breath, “We can put that down as the reason for our divorce: Bastard kept waking me up at an ungodly hour.”

From across the room, Rumlow laughs, then must start to rummage through his duffel bag or something, from the sound of it.

Darcy just yawns again, lets her eyes blink closed as she buries her face half into the pillow she’s clutching. …Her nose scrunches a bit in distaste when she realizes the thing has that whole man smell to it, but she’s too tired and far too comfortable to bother switching the pillows around.

“I’ll set out some towels in the bathroom in case you want to shower whenever you eventually rise from the dead,” she hears Brock tell her, to which she grunts in acknowledgment and yawns again.

“What a good husband,” comes her quiet mumble, and if he says anything in reply, she doesn’t hear it.

She’s already asleep by the time he leaves the room.

--x—

At the much more reasonable morning hour of 8am, Darcy finds herself freshly showered and wandering awkwardly through the home of people she only just met yesterday. That aspect of it almost makes her wish she’d gotten up when Rumlow had, because it feels weird to be unaccompanied in a stranger’s house, especially when she really wants coffee but doesn’t know if it’s appropriate to just… help herself. Or, well, she’s sure that it is, but she still feels weird about it, and she doesn’t know that she can just rummage through people’s cabinets in search of filters and everything.

But she’s getting ahead of herself, because Darcy’s not even in the kitchen yet, so she’s not even sure there won’t be coffee already waiting or someone hanging around ready to help her make some. She can still have hope.

…Something has her pausing at the bottom of the stairs, and after a second, her mind supplies the memory that was hovering just out of reach: suddenly, she remembers the way the STRIKE Commander steered her away from the family photos last night when they arrived, and she chooses to seize the opportunity as it presents itself.

Turning, she makes a beeline to the nearest photos, starts the process of looking over them. For the most part, they’re exactly the types of photographs one would expect to see of a large, loving family – there’s professional posed shots of the entire family over the years, cute candids from holidays and birthday celebrations, and a few of each kid in uniform doing a variety of sports or activities. The photos seem to span the lifetimes of the two latest generations; there’s one adorable picture of a young Brock missing his two front teeth and sitting on the couch with what must be one of his baby sisters in his arms, right next to another more recent photo of him in the same pose with some niece or nephew, another older child leaning up against him and peeking down at the baby.

It’s sweet, and she doesn’t see what all the fuss was about—

—Until she does.

There’s one of a teenaged Brock – or at least Darcy thinks that’s a fair estimation of his age in the photo, but she’s really not sure she trusts her own guesses on ages anymore – dressed up in a princess gown with absolutely ridiculous makeup scribbled on his face, and multicolored nail polish on each of his nails (and a bit on his fingers, too). He’s sitting in the middle of the floor, looking straight at the camera with an expression that’s clearly trying but failing to communicate displeasure, while a young Ronnie stands in the background, sprinkling what looks to be glitter over his head.

Ho-ly shit.

Darcy can’t hold back the cackle that bubbles up within her, and she sure as hell doesn’t miss the opportunity to snap a picture of the photograph with the camera on her phone, absolutely certain it’ll come in handy at some point.

And it is still sweet, of course, just like all the rest of the pictures, because it was cute to see that he’d been the kind of brother who would let his sisters play dress up with him as their puppet, but that wasn’t going to stop her from getting a kick out of it and potentially using it as a bit of friendly blackmail if needed. …There’s no rule against making fun of someone just because they did something embarrassing for a nice reason, after all. Well-intentioned can still be hilarious.

And besides: Darcy has to admit, she is curious why on earth there’d been a teenage-boy-sized princess dress lying around in the first place.

Satisfied with the ammunition she’s managed to acquire and once again feeling the overwhelming urge to find coffee, Darcy turns on her heels and returns to her original quest of searching the house. There’s no one in the living room – or… parlor, they’d called it – and the dining room is similarly empty, but she can hear the voices coming from the kitchen, thank goodness. No rummaging blindly through other people’s cupboards needed.

Stepping into the room reveals a trio of familiar faces, plus the back of Rumlow’s head. Vince, Maria, and Brock are all sitting at the little breakfast table, Vince the only one dressed in business apparel and seemingly focused on the newspaper in front of him, and Maria breaking out into a wide smile when she catches sight of Darcy over her son’s shoulder. Sal is standing off to the side by one of the counters and what looks to be the coffee pot, but he smiles in greeting as well.

“Good morning, Darcy!” the older woman is quick to greet.

The astrophysicist takes a moment to smile back and wave her fingers from the door, then eyes her fake husband’s back and decides this is one of those times where she’ll have to step up and put on an act, even though her brain is protesting and she’s not truly alive and awake in the mornings without first having at least one cup of coffee. He lifts his head as she makes her way across the room toward him, and he turns a bit in his seat so he’s facing her.

It makes it easier for her to step up beside him and run a hand over his shoulder, to bend down and give him a quick kiss. It’s his cheek she’s aiming for, but he angles his head up toward her, catches her lips with his own. And Darcy’s not sure if he’s just playing up his role as well or if he’s trying to fluster her, but she refuses to break character, especially when she already knows he thinks he’s the better actor out of the two of them.

…He fucking is the better actor, too, and she recognizes it, but that doesn’t mean she likes the fact that he knows it’s true.

But that’s neither here nor there. Darcy kisses her fake husband back – a chaste, pleasant little greeting – and then smiles down at him when he wraps an arm around her hip and pulls her to his side. “Good morning,” she tells him.

He lets out a low hum in reply then repeats the words back, his palm giving a few quick swipes down the outside of her thigh and then back up to her hip. It’s an innocent, affectionate gesture, and there’s a matching expression on his face as he looks up at her from where he’s sitting. “Sleep well?”

The brunette decides the snark that comes naturally to her is appropriately in character, so she keeps her tone light but doesn’t hold back on the sass: “Would’ve slept better if I hadn’t been woken up at a ridiculous hour, but yes, I slept wonderfully once you were out of the way.”

“Such attitude!” he chides, though he doesn’t actually look the least bit offended. Still, his expression sharpens, and the wicked glint that appears in his eye has alarm bells ringing in Darcy’s mind. He’s quick to taunt her, then, his voice dripping with false innocence: “You were so much nicer when I woke you up at five. Maybe you overslept?”

Shit.

Damn him and his stupid secret agent training that taught him how to so perfectly find and exploit people’s weaknesses!

Fuck!, but she’s still absolutely mortified about exactly what happened when he’d tried to wake her up! …She’d really sort of hoped she’d fall asleep fast enough to forget the whole thing, that it could just be like a bad dream that’s memory fades as the morning goes on.

But nope. It isn’t.

She remembers every excruciating detail.

Trying and probably failing to control her reaction, Darcy makes a face at her cheeky little asshole of a fake husband, then promptly turns and pulls out of his grip, makes her way over toward where Sal is already holding out a mug.

If her cheeks are as red as they feel like they are, he doesn’t comment on it, only hands over the coffee and gestures to the creamer and little tin of sugar that are sitting out. “Please, help yourself.”

Darcy decides she loves Sal.

Fuck his stepson, but he’s a good dude on his own.

…And – fuck! shit! – she really needs to choose her words more carefully, because that’s decidedly not helping the situation.

Damn his stepson. To Hel(l?) with his stepson.

That’s better.

“Are you staying for breakfast, Vince?” Maria inquires pleasantly, while Darcy continues to seethe with her back to the others.

She pours in some creamer and adds in a spoonful of sugar, stirs for a second – anything to prolong the inevitable and get her blush under control. And – damn it! – she doesn’t normally blush like a schoolgirl, but it’s early and Darcy still hasn’t had her coffee yet and – oh yeah! – she also doesn’t usually go around groping the ridiculously cut STRIKE Commander that she then has to pretend not to be attracted to while pretending to be attracted to.

Stupid fake marriage.

Stupid Natasha Romanoff picking the one fucking man...

“I’m actually grabbing breakfast with Claudia and Kat, then heading in to the city for another meeting,” Vince responds. “I… should probably head out soon, but you know Claudia and Kat.”

Sal leans over toward Darcy, resumes his role of Rumlow Family Guide and fills her in: “Sister and sister-in-law. Always late.”

“We tell them the party starts an hour before it does kind of always late,” the brother gripes, though his grumbling sounds more fondly resigned than actually annoyed.

Darcy snorts, tips her head in gratitude toward her very helpful but temporary stepfather-in-law, and then lifts the mug to her lips for a quick taste test.

“Ah, lovely! Well, tell them we said hello,” Maria continues. “Though… you’re missing out on Brock’s omelets, you know. They’re quite good.”

Dryly, the man in question drawls out, “…That a hint, Ma?”

“Oh, that’s definitely a hint,” Cousin Vince confirms with a laugh.

Maria feigns offense – Darcy sees it as she finally turns around, taking another deep sip of her coffee as she watches the family continue on – and then defends herself, insisting, “I’m just making conversation!” There’s a brief moment of silence, and then: “…But now that you mention it, everyone is awake and it certainly wouldn’t be a bad time to start getting things ready, if you were so inclined.”

Vince snorts in response, while the newlywed next to him pins an unimpressed look in the older woman’s direction. “Uh huh. Right.”

Still, that little mama’s boy of forty-something-year-old man pushes back in his chair – the legs squeaking against the hardwood flooring – and gets to his feet. He brings a mug with him as he crosses the room, sharing a look with Sal before making his way toward the fridge. The older man trades spots and heads back over toward the table, but Darcy’s gaze stays on that fake husband of hers.

“Do you need any help?” she offers, because the alternative is to sit down and chat with his family, and she still feels just awkward enough to prefer keeping useful and busy.

“Oh, don’t even bother!” Maria interjects. “Brock always insists on making breakfast alone whenever he visits. He thinks I don’t notice him making himself a plate that’s basically just egg whites.”

Her fake husband scowls in response, and Darcy lights up at exchange, nearly cackles at the dynamic between the two.

Of course Rumlow is enough of a health nut to try and balance out all the carbs he’d consumed last night – she’d actually been rather surprised when she’d seen him fill his plate the night before, and for a second she’d even thought she might’ve pegged him wrong as one of those ridiculously-health-conscious types, but of course it’d just been the exception to prove the rule.

“I’ve got it, Sweetheart,” Brock confirms, in character. As he stands up and pulls a few items out of the vegetable drawer, he spares her a quick glance. “Any special requests this morning?”

It’s a subtle way of asking her what she likes when he doesn’t know but has to pretend he knows her ‘usual’ preferences. Darcy mentally tips her hat off to how smoothly he fits that in, already feeling a little less irritable now that there’s a fresh cup of delicious coffee warming her hands. “Extra cheese and no tomatoes or mushrooms,” she lets him know as she catches sight of the container of baby bellas in his hands.

The look he sends her – at an angle that can’t be picked up by any of the others in the room, of course – is one that very clearly says what are you, a small child?, but his voice remains perfectly serene as he nods and confirms, “You got it.”  

“Darcy, Darling.” It’s Maria who calls for her attention, the elegant woman rising to her feet, mug in hand. “Come, sit with me on the patio while my son makes a mess in my kitchen; it’s a beautiful morning to enjoy what little nature we have out here.”

And that’s less a request and more a statement of what will be happening, so she smiles and gives a slight bob of her head in response. “Sure thing.”

…Then that husband of hers catches her eye as he turns to pull a few more items out of the refrigerator – sends a significant look her way, brows raised and a knowing little smirk fixed on his lips – and suddenly Darcy wants to take it all back.

But it’s too late for that, so instead the younger woman steels herself with another sip of the Elixir of Life and follows after her new mother-in-law. A door near the back of the kitchen opens out to a charming little patio area that overlooks a small garden, and Maria leads her over to a cozy bistro set that sits between two freshly-planted flowerpots. The older woman pulls out one of the two chairs and takes a seat, and Darcy mirrors the action, sends a quick little smile across the table as she tries to come up with a good conversation topic.

“This is a wonderful space you’ve got, here,” she offers as she looks out at the small but well-arranged area. She can imagine the family hosting gatherings outside, with people flowing in and out from the kitchen to the patio, the garden below, and presumably the lower level that has some kind of access to the outdoor space.

“It is,” Maria agrees, taking a moment to glance around herself before settling her gaze back on the younger woman. “Darcy, Dear, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” she admits. “I assume my son has told you I asked if the two of you would consider going through the convalidation process?”

Ah. The church wedding.

Maybe that bastard was right to say she’d be targeted as the weakest link… or maybe Maria’s just being upfront and bringing the topic up with the both of them.

Looks like they’re going straight for the heart of it, in any regards.

The brunette tries to prepare herself for this guilt trip she’s been warned about, takes a breath and a sip of coffee before inclining her head in confirmation. “He has.”

“Has he explained what that means?”

“He has not.” She gets a weird sense of satisfaction in tattling on the man to his mother, but she checks herself and refrains from openly smiling when the older woman sighs and rolls her eyes toward the heavens.

“That boy… Of course he didn’t.”

“I mean, I understand the vague concept, I think,” she offers, trying to be helpful, now. Pleasant but resolved – that’s the vibe she has to project during this conversation, in order to avoid getting talked into anything while still not causing his mother to hate her. “That it has something to do with getting recognition from a church?”

“Something like that, yes,” Maria politely not-fully-agrees-but-not-fully-disagrees,-either. “I know you’re not Catholic, and I promise, I’m not going to try to convert you to Catholicism or anything like that – though if you ever are interested in exploring the Faith, you’re most welcome to reach out! – but I’d like to give you some background on why the Church has these convalidation ceremonies, if that’s alright?”

Darcy can’t help but smile at the respectful-but-definitely-still-happy-to-proselytize comment, has to tip her palm in a gesture of deference, as she has no objection at all to learning what this whole thing even is. “By all means.”

The older woman gives a nod, taking a small sip of her coffee before starting her explanation by announcing, “So: Catholics are weird.”

Darcy tilts back her head and laughs.

Maria smiles good-naturedly, continues, “And we have some different beliefs about certain things than some other Christian denominations do. Marriage is just one of those things. To oversimplify, Catholics tend to see God as more involved in the sacraments than other faiths do. When we take Communion, we don’t view it as a symbolic representation of the body and blood of Christ, we view it as literally becoming just that. For weddings, God’s presence is seen as an absolutely essential part of the marriage, and having the ceremony in a Catholic church is a way of ensuring His presence in the process. Even if the other person isn’t Catholic or isn’t baptized as a Christian at all, if one person in the marriage is Catholic, it’s still important for the that party that the wedding still take place in the Church.”

“Oh, I actually was baptized,” the brunette is quick to offer in correction, as soon as there’s an appropriate lull. Did that mean this whole thing wasn’t even necessary? Had she just loopholed her way out of the whole church ceremony thing? “Brock and I never actually talked about it, because I’m really not religious at all anymore, but my… my mother” – That always felt awkward to say when talking to people who didn’t know her background, only because it usually gave them the wrong impression and led to more questions later on down the road. – “wanted to cover all her bases or something, I guess, so she did have me baptized as a baby.”

It occurs to her as she’s speaking that she might’ve just opened up two potentially problematic cans of worms with her words – the I’m not religious at all and the my mother ones – but when her gaze flicks over toward Maria, she sees nothing but warmth and joy reflected back at her.

“Protestant?” the older woman guesses.

Darcy nods.

“Oh, wonderful! That makes everything much simpler: less paperwork, no need for a dispensation from disparity of cult…”

And, okay, Darcy’s not usually used to hearing people talk about cults with a cheerful smile on their face, so this is a new experience for her. She takes another sip of her coffee, makes an appropriately enlightened ‘ah’ noise of understanding, and pretends she’s following this whole thing.

“The Church would still want a ceremony officiated by a priest within a church, in order to ensure the marriage is valid and was held within the presence of Jesus Christ. Again, I’m simplifying. Now, I know you’re not Catholic so I don’t expect this to mean a great deal to you, but my son is.”

Darcy’s doubt on the matter must show on her face, because Maria Rumlow holds up a palm and doesn’t leave it at that for very long.

“He’s not a particularly good Catholic,” she concedes with a bit of a grumble and a roll of her eyes, “and the Lord knows he doesn’t practice the Faith the way I raised him to… but he does believe, when it comes down to it. If he’s in a marriage that isn’t valid and recognized in the eyes of the Church, it’s not just the marriage alone that’s affected; he can’t receive Communion, either. That’s… It’s a significant loss. I don’t think he’ll realize it immediately, but I do think, eventually, he’ll struggle with that. And I won’t lie to you, Darcy; I do worry about that boy’s soul, after everything he’s been through and all the things he’s had to do…”

With a weary sigh, the older woman looks out over the patio’s small balcony, seems caught up for a moment in some memory or internal haunting.

Gently, Darcy tries to toe a careful line: “I would never push your son away from his religion,” she promises, “but I won’t push him into it, either. I can understand where you’re coming from,” – mostly, though the loopholes and technicalities are all still a bit muddy to her – "but Brock chose to have our wedding at the courthouse. It was his idea, not something I pushed him toward, or—“

“Oh, no, Darling, I know!” Maria interrupts, wiping at her cheek before looking back across the table with a warm expression. “Believe me, I know; a quiet elopement after an unannounced engagement has Brock’s name written all over it.” There’s another fond-yet-exasperated roll of her eyes, and the woman continues, “I’m really not surprised he made that choice. I’m just… well, I was hoping you might be able to share if there’s some specific reason you or he wouldn’t want to allow the Church to bless your marriage after the fact, so that he is still able to take Communion?”

…And shit, what actually was their reason for not wanting to do this?

Or, well, Darcy is fully aware that their reason is because this marriage isn’t actually real!, but what was their cover reason supposed to be?

Why hadn’t they discussed this and planned it out? …Why hadn’t Rumlow helped her come up with one before he left her to fend for herself against his mother?

…She’s taking too long to answer, can tell by the little furrow that appears between Maria’s brows. Darcy takes a stab in the dark: “Neither of us really want any big fuss, or want to make a huge ordeal out of marriage.”

“Oh, right! I’m so sorry, I never actually did tell you what a convalidation ceremony was, did I?” The older woman looks suitably embarrassed, a palm pressing into her chest in regret. “It’s a small… renewal of vows, essentially, and can be done in front of just the priest, or just the priest and the immediate family. There wouldn’t have to be a big fuss.”

And the problem, of course, was that Darcy didn’t want to have anyone be present – didn’t want to do the thing in the first place, but wasn’t sure what kind of good reason she could come up with to explain that fact.

Apparently she doesn’t need to, though, because Maria can read her hesitation. “I mean, you don’t have to explain your decisions to me or justify anything, Darcy. Please don’t get me wrong! I only asked in case there was something specific…” She takes in a breath, shakes her head. “I don’t know what I was hoping I’d hear – maybe that Brock just said ‘no’ because he’s always butted heads with our local priest, or… I’m sorry, I – I’m using you to externally process, and that’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t mind,” the younger woman assures, because she doesn’t. She can understand how unexpected this whole marriage revelation must’ve been to the other woman – heck, it had been unexpected to say the least for Darcy herself! – and she can’t blame her mother-in-law for having feelings on the matter.

…That doesn’t mean Darcy was just going to ignore her own feelings, of course, and if Brock has concerns about his religious situation, well… then that’s his responsibility, not hers. This whole thing was his idea, after all.

So she doesn’t mind sitting and listening to Maria Rumlow process, doesn’t mind hearing her out, even, but she’s not about to be talked into having a church ceremony just because Rumlow can’t say no to his mother.

Darcy can.

There’s a moment of companionable silence where the two women sip from their mugs and entertain their own thoughts. Eventually, it’s Maria who breaks the silence: “I’d always hoped to see my son married in the Church, it’s true… and I do worry about that boy and his soul – I do! – …but I must confess, I have a much more selfish reason for suggesting the ceremony, too. There’s another reason I wanted to be there, on his wedding day.”

And the astrophysicist thinks she knows where this is going, so she chimes in with the polite, expected reply when there’s a momentary lull: “We didn’t mean to hurt you by not inviting you, or not telling you in advance. I’m sorry that we did.”

Her mother-in-law pinches her brows and lips together, gives her head a small shake. “Oh no, Darling, I meant what I said when I told you that you have nothing to apologize for. You don’t owe me anything, and, truth be told, I really should have expected my son to do something like this. I’m honestly quite used to being informed of his life-changing decisions after the fact.” Another shake of her head – exasperated but not actually upset, this time – and the older woman continues, “It’s my fault, really; I should have told Brock this before. It’s silly – objectively unimportant… but my children have so few things of their father’s…”

It’s Darcy’s turn to frown, admittedly confused by the seemingly unrelated shift in the conversation. But Maria seems to need a moment, so she waits patiently, gives the woman time to gather her thoughts.

“Benny had this tradition,” comes the start of the explanation a little while later. And that’s Brock’s father’s name – Benito – Darcy knows from the little cheat-sheet she’d been given only a day or two ago. “I still don’t know what possessed him to start it, because it certainly wasn’t planned, but: the day Brock was born, he went out and he bought me flowers, because he was always looking for an excuse to buy me flowers.” There’s a bittersweet, reminiscent smile on the woman’s lips as she gazes off at a bed of freshly blooming ones down in the garden.

Darcy follows her gaze.

Lifting a hand in gesture, the woman beside her indicates a cluster of red ones, identifies them: “Tulips. Ben always bought me tulips. He went to get some when Brock was born – I was exhausted, and at one point during the labor, I’d actually kicked him out.” With a laugh, Maria shakes her head at the memory, shares a conspiratorial look with Darcy. “It was his fault, after all.”

The brunette finds herself laughing softly as well, able to easily picture the scene of an agonized woman in labor cursing her husband for putting her in the position in the first place. She has a harder time picturing Maria as anything less than perfectly polished and put-together, but that’s beside the point.

“So he goes to buy me tulips, and while he’s out, something compels him to purchase this blue pocket square, of all things. I think it stood out to him because he’d just had a son? Or… I don’t know. But he ended up doing the same thing for each of the girls, too. On the day they were born, Ben bought me flowers, and bought some little random blue item that stood out to him. When Frankie was born, it was a bow made of this really intricate, patterned ribbon. Gabbie: a bracelet. For Ronnie, it was a brooch. There’s nothing particularly special about the items on their own, but it was his tradition.”

There’s another pause, and when Darcy spares a look in the widow’s direction, she sees the woman’s eyes closed, a hint of wetness visible on her cheeks as she takes in a deep, shaky breath.

And Darcy’s a sympathetic crier, so she has to blink her own eyes a few times, feels a sharp pain in the center of her chest as she looks on at the grieving widow, listens to her push through deeply personal memories, even though Darcy still isn’t sure what this has to do with their marriage.

When Maria speaks again, her voice is thicker, and she has to clear her throat once, lifts a finger to wipe beneath her eyes and then forces a weak smile when she’s done. “He wanted to give them to each of the kids on their wedding days; he wanted them to have something they could wear when they walked down the aisle – something that represented, to him, the greatest happiness and embodiment of true love he thought could come out of a marriage.”

And fuck, but Darcy’s eyes are watering now, too, as she’s listening to the story, as she’s watching the emotions ebb and flow on Maria’s expression and in her voice…

“I gave each of the girls theirs while I helped them put on their dresses – told them what the gift had meant to their father, told them it was his way of walking down the aisle with them, too.” A watery smile, and the mother takes a breath, lets it out slowly. “Brock doesn’t know, of course – it was meant to be a surprise – but I’d hoped to be able to give him that piece of his father, hoped to give it to him the way Benny had intended.” Her throat clears, and Maria’s voice shifts to something more action-oriented, though her expression doesn’t change much. “I’ll still give it to him, of course,” she assures. “But it’s just a regular old pocket square, and, well, you know my son; he never wears a suit. It won’t have the same meaning.”

Fuck.

…Fuck!

And Darcy really, really does not want to give her smug bastard of a fake husband the satisfaction of thinking he was right about her being the weakest link and unprepared to handle a Maria Rumlow Guilt Trip – she really doesn’t! – ...but she doesn’t really think this counts as a guilt trip, either.

This isn’t a new mother-in-law trying to make her feel bad; this is a respectful discussion from a widowed mother who genuinely wants to explain her good intentions behind asking a favor for one damn good reason.

A damn good reason Darcy really can’t ignore.

…Or was that a guilt trip?

No. Fuck it. It’s not.

She’s going to agree to do this – because how the hell can she not after hearing that?! – and she’s going to choose to believe it’s not a guilt trip and Brock Rumlow was not right, because that’s what she needs to believe.

Besides, having empathy and compassion for others is human and it’s a strength, not a weakness.

Darcy’s the strong one, here.

With a breath, she sends a glance over at her mother-in-law. “When you say no fuss…?”

--x--

Several minutes later, when Darcy approaches that fake husband of hers in the kitchen as they all prepare to gather for breakfast, she does so from a position of confidence and certainty.

“We need to talk for a second,” she prefaces simply and without hesitation as she steps up next to him to the side of the oven.

Because she is strong, not weak.

…That confidence falters the second he opens his mouth, however.

“Sure.” He rolls a shoulder, unconcerned as he finishes scooping the last omelet onto a waiting plate. “But just so you know, I can tell you right now that this conversation is going to end with you saying the words ‘I’m coming.’”

The young woman sputters, freezing in place and unable to avoid sending a quick, darting glance around the kitchen to make sure they’re alone. Thankfully, Vince already left to meet up with his sisters, and Maria and Sal appear to be safely in the dining room with their own plates. She sets her gaze back on Rumlow. “…What?”

The STRIKE Commander lifts his head at her tone, goes to send a casual look her way only to immediately do a bit of a double take and zero in on her reaction. “Not the version of the word I was thinking about,” he draws out, voice pitched low and full of that somehow almost silky gravel. His lips twitch and he cocks his head to the side just a bit, lets her know, “But now you’ve got my attention.”

Ugh.

“I just, uh…”

His smile widens at how clearly flustered she is.

And – for crying out loud! – what is wrong with her today?!

Darcy clears her throat, fixes a disapproving frown on her face that hopefully communicates just how little she appreciates his cheeky bullshit, then gets herself back on track. “I just wanted to let you know that I think we should do the church ceremony thing for your mother.”

Her husband doesn’t look the least bit surprised, just sends a look down at her that would be slightly pitying if it wasn’t so self-congratulatory. It’s an I told you so that doesn’t even need to be said aloud, and she continues on without giving him a chance to put it into words.

“I know what you’re going to say, and don’t. This is half your fault for not actually helping me think of a valid reason why we’d be opposed to doing it in the first place.” He didn’t get to complain when he left her out to dry, all by herself, after all.

“Hey, I told her exactly why I was opposed to it,” Rumlow is quick to object, as he turns and thrusts a plate out into her hands. Darcy has no choice but to accept it, looking down at the omelet and trying to figure out what on earth she’s supposed to do with it mid-conversation. Her fake husband hands her a fork next, and continues right where he left off, “I don’t give a shit about the Church’s approval and I have no desire to make a—“

“There’s no fuss!” the shorter woman interjects, going to wave a hand dramatically only to second-guess it at the last minute and remember her hands are not empty. She frowns down at the plate, before lifting her head and fixing that same frown on the man staring back at her. “I was specifically promised no fuss. No big ordeal – nothing. Just a simple little re-exchanging of vows in front of your mother and a priest.”

And this time the look on his face really is pitying, as he shakes his head and tells her to “Come on, Lewis. My mother, who also promised she wouldn’t invite my sisters last night? That mother? That’s who promised you no fuss? Pfft!” He scoffs at the very idea. “There will be fuss.”

Tired of feeling like her hands are tied and she’s unable to gesticulate during this little debate, Darcy turns and safely sets the plate and utensil aside on the counter nearest her, before miming throwing her hands up into the air. “I thought you weren’t going to fight me on this?”

“I’m not going to fight you on this,” the dark-haired man agrees immediately. “We’ll do the wedding ceremony. There will be fuss, no matter what you’re thinking right now, but we’ll do the ceremony if that’s what you want.” He shrugs his shoulders, turns and reaches for what is apparently his own plate. “I’m paying for everything.”

And – damn the stubborn man! – but she’s not going to argue with him on the financial side of things. This is definitely for him and not for her, so one hundred percent, she’s good with him paying.

But on the other thing… she needs him to know: “This isn’t about what I want—“ She almost says Rumlow, but cuts herself off just in case they might be overheard. The alternatives that run through her mind all feel weird as hell, though, so she just leaves it alone, continues instead, “Look, I just think this is the right thing to do.”

The asshole’s response is simply a smile and a sing-songy “Weeea-kest liii-ink!” while he scoops up a forkful of omelet from his plate, pops it into his mouth when he’s done.

“That’s not what this is!” she’s quick to inform him.

The expression on the STRIKE Commander’s face is sly as he eyes her, tips his head and brows up just a fraction as he expresses his skepticism in that way she’s coming to realize is apparently classically Brock: “Uh huh.”

“Stop,” Darcy demands, only to have a fork suddenly pointed at her right in front of her face.

“She got to you. She found your weakness. I told you she would, but you didn’t believe me.”

With an exasperated huff, she lifts a hand and bats his fork away. Naturally, he just grins down at her, and she has no choice but to ignore the incredibly irritating asshole. “Seriously, Rumlow.” She keeps her voice low so as not to be overheard this time, tries to communicate with her tone that she doesn’t want to hear any more teasing from him on this matter. “I’d like to remind you that I don’t fucking have to do any of this, but I’m willing to do this ceremony for you. You’ll thank me afterwards. Trust me on that.”

Though he still doesn’t look even the least bit convinced, the fully-grown adult man in front of her apparently decides to finally start acting his age, again. “Whatever you say, Princess. You tell me we’re doing the church ceremony, we’ll do the church ceremony. That’s all I need to know.”

And she doesn’t appreciate the slightly-mocking nature of his little pet name, there, but Darcy decides to let it go. “Good, because we’ve apparently got to go visit this Frank Marino guy at your church before we head home, so we can set up a date or whatever.”

Brock’s face falls, and Darcy suddenly wishes she’d had her phone up and ready to take a photo, because it’s such a glorious sudden transition to an expression of horror. “What?”

“Mhmm,” comes her pleasant little hum of confirmation. “Otherwise we’d have to make another trip just to do the same thing. I figured you’d want to get it over with sooner rather than later?” And she knew he wasn’t going to be happy about it; his mother had all but prepared her for that – something Maria probably hadn’t anticipated Darcy absolutely delighting in.

“We can let Ma do that. She knows everyone and—“

With a falsely apologetic smile and a shrug, she interrupts, “Apparently they have to see us in person, and they won’t even tentatively schedule a date until then.”

Brock stares at her for a long moment, the look in his eye telling her quite clearly that he knows she’s enjoying his displeasure and is only more displeased by that knowledge, before he finally heaves out a sigh. “…Fine. We can stop there on the way back to D.C.”

“Glad you’re on board,” she tells him, “because I already promised your mother that we would.”

The smile that spreads across his lips is less than friendly, and then Rumlow tells her, quietly enough to not be overheard, “You’re lucky I can’t divorce you before this Church thing now.”

She only smiles and shrugs again, completely unbothered, then agrees, “Lucky me.”

“Smartass.” There’s a warmth to his tone that makes the word seem less an insult and more an endearment, and then he’s just sweeping the whole debate aside. “Now, I’ve got some news, too, if it’s my turn?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation, just bulldozes ahead: “The Rizzos next door work long hours, and apparently they just got a new puppy – a corgi or something. Ma’s been popping in a couple of times each day to let it out and play with it and all that, and she asked me to run over for her after breakfast, so I’m going to do that before this church thing, and—”

“What?!” Darcy’s voice is louder than she means for it to be when she cuts him off, but her excitement over cute baby animals will not be contained. “I’m coming!”

Brock just flashes a wide, toothy grin as he turns his whole body toward her, looks very pleased with himself.

“…Oh.” Her brain finally catches up to her mouth, realizes she’s just said the exact words he’s been waiting for her to say.

Clever bastard, that fake husband of hers.

“Damn it.”

Chapter Text

The corgi, for the record, is adorable.

Not that there was ever any doubt that it would be, of course, but still. Darcy squeals like an excited child when she sees its insanely large ears on its little pipsqueak body, has the presence of mind to hold off on cuddles until after they take a quick potty break, but then she’s on the floor, letting the little dude happily hop all over her. She laughs when he tumbles over out of her lap, when he gets caught up on his tiny little legs, and she happily lays down next to him as he scrambles all around her.

Darcy smiles more than she has in weeks.

Brock lips are curved up, too, but she’s pretty sure his amusement is directed more at her than at the adorable little corgi. She doesn’t object, because: more puppy cuddles for her!

He’s nice to the pup, at least – Darcy would’ve had to divorce him right then and there, plans be damned, had he not been – but he makes teasingly sly comments here and there, implies the little guy would embarrass his wolven ancestors. She and the pup more or less ignore him – which is also good for him, because if the puppy had liked him more than it had liked her, well… she’d’ve also had to divorce him on principle.

At one point, while that finally-useful husband of hers is obligingly using his phone to take photos of her holding the little guy up and making faces toward the camera, he decides to expand his teasing to her, too. “I think this is you as a dog, Lewis.”

She spares him a cursory glance, then ruffles the fur between the pup’s oversized ears and presses a kiss to its nose. The click of the StarkPhone as it takes a photo accompanies the movement, and then she’s petting her new friend, humming in consideration at the Italian-American’s comment. “If you mean that we are both regal and adorable – you know the Queen of England has corgis, right? – then I agree with you.”

A snort from the dark-haired man tells her that that’s very much not what he means, and then he’s dryly informing her, “I was thinking more short and a little bit clumsy.”

The corgi chooses the moment he’s set on the ground to trip over his feet again, which Darcy has to admit kinda is something she might do. Still, she sends Rumlow a disapproving look, reminds him, “I don’t know that I’d be making short jokes, Commander. You’re not that tall, yourself.”

He meets her gaze, holds it steady with a Look™. “I’m a perfectly normal height,” insists the not-at-all-tall man.

The brunette only shrugs her shoulders, and then, because she knows bland acquiescence will frustrate him far more than actually agreeing with him or arguing her point would, she placates, “Sure you are.”

Silence answers her statement, that stare of his boring into her, but eventually he sighs, shakes his head, and then jerks a chin in the puppy’s direction. “You good?”

“No,” comes her somewhat petulant reply. “I love him and want to keep him and never let him go. But, at least I know that’d be kidnapping.” She sends a teasingly pointed stare of her own his way, grinning at the unimpressed look it earns her in response. “Alright…” – With a bit of a self-sacrificing sigh, she collects the corgi one last time to kiss him on the head and then hold him out for Brock to say his own goodbyes. – “We can be done for now, yes.”

The STRIKE Commander reaches out to give the pup a parting scratch behind the ears, then steps back and gestures to the crate, waits for her to put the little guy back where he belongs and latch the door. When she’s got that done and is hopping back up to her feet, he apparently finds it necessary to comment, “So: sparkly rings and baby animals? You’re not all that hard to please.”

She scoffs regally as she brushes past him, wants to know, because she decides it’s her turn to tease this time, “Who says you’ve actually managed to please me?”

And she thinks that’s enough to wipe the smug little smile off of his face, but he only throws back his head and laughs, evidently quite pleased himself with her attitude. “C’mon, Princess,” he sasses has he jogs to catch up with her, tosses an arm over her shoulders. “Let’s go say goodbye to Ma then get on with this, yeah? Apparently we’ve got a wedding to plan.”

With a scowl, Darcy shrugs out from under his grip, sends a dark, unappreciative glance his way – both because it’s really fucking annoying that he’s always able to so easily bounce back whenever she thinks she’s finally won with him, and because she really did not need to be reminded of that whole situation.

Like, at all.

“I hate you,” she lets it be known, then adjusts from what she’d told him the night before: “more than a little bit.”

His answer is nothing more than a dismissive “Ehh…” and a self-assured “You’ll get over it.”

--x--

In hindsight, Darcy’s not sure why she thought swinging by the church on their way back to DC would be a quick, painless process. Maybe it’s because she’s really only been to various churches a handful of times in her life, so she clearly doesn’t have any real knowledge of how they work, or maybe it’s because there’s literally no reason why scheduling a simple little appointment should be even the slightest bit complicated… but, whatever the rationale, she’s wrong.

It’s not a quick, painless process at all.

Their first clue comes as soon as they make it into the church’s office – which, admittedly, takes a little longer than it needs to, because Darcy can’t help but find the building absolutely gorgeous, and so she has no option but to stop every couple of feet to admire the stained glass and the artwork along the way. There’s only one person working in the office when they finally make it there, and the woman’s busy on the phone, flashing a friendly smile in greeting their way, but then holding up a single finger in a universal just one minute signal.

…It does not take just one minute.

This woman is chatty, it turns out, and apparently isn’t a fan of the whole let me just put you on hold for a second practice most people would’ve employed in a similar situation. So they stand there and wait, Darcy leaning up against the counter and Rumlow doing his damnedest to keep up appearances while also apparently trying to provoke her into ruining them.

He sets himself up so that he’s leaning against the counter right beside her, his free hand brushing over her lower back. It feels like an offhanded touch for a second – perhaps even accidental – but his touch lingers, his fingers light and barely-there as they run from one hip to the other and back. It’s almost ticklish – would be, perhaps, if not for the protection of her shirt. It’s a flimsy protection, though, the fabric thin enough to feel the nuance of his touch. Every swipe of a finger, whether it’s the pad of his fingertip or the edge of short nails…

She can feel everything – can’t feel anything else, if she’s being honest.

Careful to control her breathing, even if she’s admittedly unable to control the stiffening of her spine, the brunette steals a glance in the direction of the woman on the phone, makes sure their audience is still distracted before turning her attention back to her husband. Then, through a firmly clenched jaw, she quietly demands to know, “What are you doing?”

He tears his gaze away from the little newsletter he’s been either reading or at least pretending to read, looks over at her with an expression of false innocence. “Hmm?”

And he knows what she’s talking about – she knows that he does! – so she reminds him in a pointed whisper, “We’re in a church!” because that seems like the kind of thing she can say both in character and out of it.

The only answer she gets is a quietly hummed “Mhmm,” of confirmation, as if the bastard doesn’t see the slightest of problems with that. Turning his head back to the counter and the announcement of upcoming church events he’s not at all interested in, he continues as if she hadn’t spoken, his hand shifting over to her hip while his thumb traces the waistband of her jeans.

She’s hyper aware of him again, feels every little move he makes – feels a familiar tingle running over her scalp and down the back of her neck that she immediately clenches her jaw against and tries to fight off. After all, the absolute last damn thing she needs right now is to break out into goosebumps and have it broadcasted to the man that he actually has an effect on her.

…And that’s what this is, right? Another of their little games? His way of making sure she’s just as frustrated as he is about having to be in this church? Perhaps also a way for him to get back at her for the whole hand-under-the-table thing last night? A little reminder that he’s much better than she is at controlling physical reactions? Or is he looking for a way out of this meeting with the priest, wanting to taunt her into blowing their happily married cover so that he can high-tail it out of their all while making it known to everyone that she was the one who couldn’t keep the act up?

She refuses to give him the satisfaction, practically wills the hairs on her arms to stay down, and makes a show of not responding and instead completely ignoring him. But her former foster mother Diana Richardson had apparently been spouting complete bullshit when she’d told Darcy that denying someone the reaction they’re looking for when they’re trying to get a rise out of you will make them get bored and give up… because Brock doesn’t give up, not until the woman behind the counter finally hangs up the phone and turns to greet them.

It’s a long, long five or so minutes.

But then Rumlow’s introducing them and explaining the situation, asking if it’s possible to get something put on the books for this little ceremony they’re doing, and his hand finally – finally! – settles on her hip. Darcy stands there quietly and smiles, tries to make it seem like she’s not still distracted by the warmth and weight of his palm, because, after all, it’s better than the teasing brush of his thumb, and there’s really no reason she should be distracted by it.

…But she is.

Gods!, but she is.

There’s a part of her that worries – again – that there’s no way they’re going to be able to pull off this whole Asgardian trip thing – let alone a couple of months of pretending to remain married! – not just because she worries they won’t be able to play nice convincingly enough for several days straight, but also because it seems pretty clear to her already that Brock affects her more than she affects him, and Darcy really doesn’t want to know what he’ll do with that information if it becomes any more obvious than it already is.

She needs another break from him, time to step away and catch her breath.

…Or maybe she needs less time away from him? Maybe she needs to keep pushing through just a little bit longer, and with a little more time and effort, she’ll gain more and more of a tolerance? Maybe it’s a desensitization thing.

Fuck! Darcy doesn’t know, but whatever it is, she’s so caught up in her own thoughts and hyper-sensitive nerve endings that she zones out a bit and misses most of the conversation Rumlow has with the office worker. Before she knows what’s happening, the older woman is smiling warmly, bobbing her head at something, and then disappearing down the little hallway and leaving the two of them alone.

To find the priest, her mind belatedly fills in for her, processing the auditory data as if on a time delay. The office worker has to find the priest, because he’s the one in charge of that type of scheduling.

And Darcy’s not afraid of being left alone with Commander Rumlow – she’s not! – but she still can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he drops his hand and steps away from her, evidently no longer interested in keeping up the act now that they’re without an audience.

“You’ve got your schedule?” he asks her, reaching into his pocket to produce his phone and presumably flip through his own calendar. “You know what weekends you’re available for this thing?”

And it’s entirely too late in the process for him to ask that question, really, but now she’s sort of tempted to see what exactly his back up plan is if her answer is no. “It’s like a twenty minute ceremony,” she tells him instead. “It’s not like it should be particularly difficult to schedule.”

The look he pins her with is the same one she remembers seeing on the faces of teachers and other adults when she’d said something particularly naïve as a child.

It brings her hackles up, has her town between the competing desires of wanting to grab him and demand to know what it is he thinks he knows that she doesn’t, while also wanting to insist he wipe that look off his face and stop underestimating her, because she’s not an idiot, damn it, and she does know what she’s talking about right now because she’d asked!

Before she can decide which option she wants to pursue, however, the arrival of a new person manages to do the job of wiping the expression from the Commander’s face.

“Well what do we have here?” a friendly male voice inquires, perhaps a bit overdramatically. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Brock Rumlow? And I don’t believe it’s even Christmas or Easter!”

Obvious distaste darkens the man in question’s face, and he takes a moment – and a deep breath – before stepping back and turning to eye the approaching priest. “Losing track of time in your old age? Might be time to retire.”

For the second time in as many days, Darcy sends an incredulous glance in her husband’s direction, tries to reconcile her mental image of the man who’d taken Fury’s scolding without (in her mind rightfully) pointing out he’d been mislead by Natasha with someone who would be so openly rude to a holy man. Sputtering, the best she can do is exclaim, “…Brock!”

But the old man only chuckles, a wry smile on his lips as he shares a consolatory look with Darcy. “Oh, it’s not worth the effort with this one, My Child,” he counsels. “I’ve known Brock here since the day I celebrated his baptism, and, let me tell you, he hasn’t stopped protesting since.”

“That’s cute,” comes the snarky reply of the man who clearly finds it anything but cute. For all the talk of protesting, though, he doesn’t seem interested in prolonging the inevitable. “Darcy, this is Father Marino,” he introduces monotonously. “Father—“

“It’s actually Father Frank, now,” the white-haired man interrupts to give a polite, if slightly teasing, correction. There’s a hint of humor in his eye as he quirks a brow at his wayward parishioner. “Times are changing, which you might know if you ever attended Mass on an even slightly regular basis. The majority of us go by our first names now; it’s more approachable that way, gets rid of some of that stuffy formality of the old days.”

This time, the expression on the STRIKE Commander’s face goes well beyond distaste as he stares back at the priest in front of him, looking like he’s regretting the decision to be here more and more by the second. “Father Marino,” he repeats after a moment, a slight emphasis to the last name as he continues his earlier introduction, “used to babysit my mother, growing up.”

Darcy’s eyebrows skyrocket at that information, though in hindsight she realizes she probably shouldn’t be all that surprised to hear how deeply connected Maria Rumlow was to her church.

“You wanna guess which kid was the first to get a phone call home whenever they had a bad day or something didn’t go perfect in CCD?”

“Brock…” The priest actually does appear affected this time, and there’s a twinge of regret to the otherwise somewhat chastising remark. He heaves out a sigh, though, apparently chooses not to engage further in what Darcy senses is an argument that has already been played out a number of times before.

The younger man ignores the appeal, continues on as if he’d never been corrected: “Father Marino: Darcy Lewis.”

“Ahh, so this is the wife.” The priest’s eyes cut over to meet Brock’s for a moment, before the man turns back to Darcy with a warm, welcoming expression. “It’s so nice to meet you, Darcy. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

And that’s an odd thing for someone to say when the only mutual acquaintance that could’ve shared said wonderful things was Maria Rumlow – a woman who, until last night, had never even met Darcy. But, then again, if Darcy has learned anything about her temporary mother-in-law these past couple of days, it’s that the woman is not to be underestimated. For all Darcy knows, Maria could have shared what she’d heard over the years, or quite possibly may have even called ahead this morning.

…Or, you know, the guy could just be being polite and repeating a common platitude that meant absolutely nothing.

Remembering her own manners, the astrophysicist wipes the slightly baffled look off her face and offers a smile in return, tells the man, “It’s nice to meet you, too, Father Frank.”

Thankfully, they get to skip past a repeat of explaining the purpose of their visit – “I take it you both are here to discuss having a convalidation ceremony?” Frank Marino deduces. – but that is apparently the only thing they’re able to save some time on.

When Rumlow only semi-politely enquires if they can just get something put down on the calendar and then get on the road, the priest lifts a palm up in front of his chest, cuts him off, “Slow down a second, Brock. We still have to determine if you’re even eligible for one.”

“What’s there to determine?” the younger man wants to know, hands held up in a gesture somewhere between agitation and confusion. “Like you just said, you baptized me yourself; I’m Catholic. She’s not. We’re already married in the eyes of the law.”

Apparently that’s not the 2 + 2 = 4 equation that Rumlow thinks it is, however, because the holy man is quick to point out, “The Church doesn’t just give its blessing like a rubber stamp.”

With a scoff, that frustrated husband of hers makes it clear how much faith he puts in that answer, takes a moment to comment, dryly, “No, I’m sure there’s some paperwork and a ‘small fee’ involved.”`

Father Frank takes an audible breath, seems tired more than actually offended. “If you were anyone else…” His gaze is reproving, but the old man leaves it at that, seems to visibly collect himself and turns a softer, lightly teasing expression toward the woman who’s been awkwardly standing to the side. “You sure you married this one willingly? He didn’t hold a gun to your head or anything?”

And Darcy doesn’t actually know her new husband all that well, truth be told, but she’s learned enough about him in the last few days to be able to anticipate his next action easily enough. She steps in to him quickly, pretends to be going for a loving embrace as she wedges herself against his side. She has to knock his arm away, press her palm into his abdomen to hold him in place so that she can wrap her other arm around his lower back. It’s a move that fools absolutely no one, but at least it does succeed in forcing the STRIKE Commander to stay put, leaving him no option but to return the embrace and set his arm down around her shoulders, give her an affectionate little squeeze.

Letting out a laugh that only sounds a tiny bit forced, Darcy tells the priest across from them, “Oh, you’re not the first one to ask. I think people wonder that about him just as often, though.” She gives Brock’s ridiculously firm abs a couple of pats, explains, “We’re opposites in a lot of ways; I don’t think anyone we know would’ve ever guessed we’d end up together.”

And that’s the fucking truth, with the possible exception of Natasha, but Darcy has no interest at all in having to explain that to the man beside her.

And speaking of Brock… he finally lets out a low chuckle, evidently deciding to play along as he relaxes into her and swipes his palm down and back over her shoulder. She has no doubt he’s still glaring daggers at the man across from them, but there’s only so much she can do to rein him in.  

“Ahh, that old adage,” Father Frank muses, sending a wink Darcy’s way that makes it clear he knows exactly what he’d just provoked and she’d just diffused. “Of course, it’s still important for married couples to be on the same page about the important things. Why don’t we head into my office, talk about your plans and expectations?” He extends an arm in gesture, but the suggestion doesn’t seem to be optional, for he continues – “Brock knows the way; just give me a moment to grab some of the paperwork we might need.” – and then turns to pop into a different room without waiting for any confirmation.

From beside her, the STRIKE Commander heaves out a sigh, but moves to lead the way without protest.

Darcy uses the arm she’d wrapped around him to slow him down, her hand fisting in his shirt. “Are we about to be interviewed by a priest?!” she demands to know before she moves, words coming out on a quiet hiss she can only pray is soft enough not to be overheard.

And he doesn’t look all that thrilled about it, either, but he also doesn’t look nearly worried enough, as far as she’s concerned. “Looks like it,” comes his casual confirmation. At her expression of censure, he tilts his head to the side, sends a significant glance her way. “Relax, Sweetheart. This ain’t an immigration interview or The Newlywed Game; Marino won’t be grilling us on our favorite colors or ordering us to hand over receipts to prove what we say.”

Of course, because her entire life these days is one big cosmic joke, it’s at that exact moment that priest chooses to call out to them through an open doorway down the hall, inquires, “Did you bring your marriage certificate with you?”

Darcy wastes no time turning an accusatory glare on her husband, who only offers a sheepish smile and a wobble of his head from one side to the other. “That doesn’t count,” he tells her quietly, before raising his voice loud enough to be heard by Father Marino. “No, but I can fax you a copy!”

Not quite done with her overly-relaxed fake husband just yet, she keeps that grip on his shirt, holds him back one more time from following after the holy man. “This isn’t a joke, Rumlow,” she wants him to know.

“Ohh,” – He draws out the word, meets her glare head on with a dark look of his own. – “This stopped being funny the second you told my mother we were married, Sweetheart. You think I want to be here right now, playing nice with that son of a bitch in there?”

And there’s a lot to process in all of that, so Darcy focuses first on the most confusing part of what he’s just said: “You think this counts as playing nice?”

His look hardens.

She waves it off, refocuses on what’s more important: “You want me to lie to a priest?”

And his expression cracks a bit at that, his brows rising as he gives her an unimpressed scan from head to toe. “Don’t try to tell me you’re the picture of perfect innocence, Lewis.”

She thinks she’s supposed to be offended by that, so she releases her grip on his shirt, pushes him away a bit.

He lets himself be pushed back, flashes a grin that looks far too victorious as he openly taunts her now: “Besides, I thought you were supposed to be the better wife than I was the husband?”

Flatly, she stares at him for a long moment before finally relenting, but just before she does, she feels the need to inform him, “I don’t like you.”

And, despite it very much not being a compliment and her being one hundred percent truthful in saying it, that bastard she’d stupidly agreed to temporarily marry only grins at her. “Well look at that, huh? Already a step up from hating me.”

--x--

Twenty minutes later – because somehow, someway, it’s only been twenty minutes despite Darcy feeling like it’s been half a lifetime – the two of them are sitting there in a priest’s office, trapped in a weird, Twilight-Zone-type situation where they apparently need to convince the Church to let them jump through Church-imposed rules to pacify the Church.

…Despite neither of them having even wanted to do this stupid Church thing in the first place.

Luckily for Darcy, however, the first half of the burden falls on her husband’s shoulders and not hers, and so she more or less gets to sit back and absorb the weirdness of the whole situation while the priest asks him questions.

“When’s the last time you went to confession?”

Rumlow laughs, offers up a slightly mocking “You want to hear the laundry list of my sins, Father?”

Father Frank doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not offering you Reconciliation and absolution, Brock. I’m asking if you still consider yourself a practicing Catholic.”

“…I went three weeks ago, after a mission.”

At this, Darcy tries not to look surprised – keeps very careful control over her expression as she smiles back at her fake-husband – but to say his answer was unexpected would be an understatement. What’d happened to his I’m not really religious either story from just a couple days ago? Had he been lying when he’d told her that – and was his mother right after all to be concerned he might eventually regret not getting this marriage blessed by the Church?

…Or is he lying to the priest now, because he thinks he needs to tell a certain story in order to get the Father to sign off on this?

Of course, the former HYDRA infiltrator is far too good of a liar for her to be able to figure out which is the truth and which is the lie, so the astrophysicist reminds herself that it’s really none of her business, and refocuses on playing along.

…But had there been a bad mission three weeks ago?

No. Stop.

Darcy’s always been nosy, but this really is none of her business.

Father Frank is nodding once in acknowledgment, the expression on his face neutral-leaning-sympathetic. “Not that it would change the requirements under Canon Law, of course, but: why do you want to do the convalidation ceremony, Brock? Is it just because your mother would have a heart attack if you didn’t?”

Huffing a quiet noise of amusement, the dark-haired man gives his head a little shake, reaches over and places a hand on Darcy’s thigh. He looks at her first, a twinkle of mischief visible in those hazel eyes of his, before turning a more sincere expression toward the priest. “It’s genuinely very important to me – personally – that the Church see this marriage as valid.”

It takes every last ounce of willpower to refrain from laughing, because her husband is not lying now, she knows, though the reason behind his genuine desire to see the Church approve of their marriage is far from anything the priest might expect. That’s she’s sure of!

Brock’s thumb rubs back and forth, his hand giving a quick squeeze to her thigh that she assumes is meant to be his way of sharing in on the inside joke.

“Well that’s good to hear,” the priest responds, oblivious to the silent exchange happening in front of him. “You are always welcome here – always wanted here! – but I also know you haven’t always felt that way in this particular church. You know you have other options: a more local parish, for instance?”

More direct this time, the STRIKE Commander begs to differ, “You know I don’t; having it anywhere else would break my mother’s heart.”

“I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t make sure you were aware of your options, but I’m glad you want to have it done here.” He seems to mean that, holds both of their gazes for a long moment, before pulling a sheet of paper in front of him and reaching for a pen. “Let me make sure I have a couple of important details right, then I’ll walk you both through what this process looks like. Have either of you been married before?”

“No,” Rumlow answers for them.

When the priest glances up to meet Darcy’s gaze, she realizes she’s apparently supposed to answer separately. “Oh! No,” she’s quick to offer. “He’s my first husband.” It’s a simple, thoughtless comment, but it’s one that has the older man’s brow furrowing as he sends her a sideways glance.

“Your first husband?”

Darcy blinks, feels said husband’s fingers digging into her thigh in quiet warning. And for a second, she can’t figure out what’s wrong with what she just said. He wanted confirmation that she hadn’t ever been married before, right? That’s what she’d given him. Or… wait! “Or wife,” she’s quick to clarify. “I haven’t been married before.”

From beside her, that first spouse of hers informs her lowly, “Yeah, husband wasn’t the word he was focused on, Sweetheart.”

Father Frank arches a brow, glances between the two of them before settling his attention back on Darcy. There’s a twinkle in his eye, at least, so he doesn’t seem overly concerned as he repeats his earlier question with new emphasis: “Your first husband?”

And – oh! – right. That.

…Whoops.

“Well, he is older than me, after all,” she dismisses easily enough, aiming for nonchalant even as fingers dig into her thigh again in warning. But he’d been the one to tell her not to give up when you made a mistake undercover, to just double down and spin it to your advantage, so she refuses to back down now. Instead, she continues, “And he keeps insisting on going on all these dangerous missions…”

Rumlow catches on, relaxes the grip on her thigh so that he can brush his palm back and forth soothingly. “Darcy’s never liked my job,” he reveals to the priest, a slight twist of his lips betraying amusement that could be genuine or just for show – Darcy can’t for the life of her tell. “Not when it was my job to say no to her, and not now that we’re together, either. It’s… something we’re working on, and in the meantime, she likes to keep reminding me that she’ll be happy to find another person to marry if I get myself killed.” There’s a bit of attitude in the way he says that last sentence through a clenched jaw and a forced smile, but that part, Darcy knows, is for show.

She huffs out a breath, shrugs a shoulder to continue playing along as if this is some ongoing debate in their relationship. “It only seems fair.”

The priest looks between them. “I imagine that’s hard, having to sit at home, just waiting for a call or a knock at the door, never sure if you’re husband’s going to come home.”

“Thank you,” the astrophysicist expresses, because it sounds like the priest is siding with her in their little fake argument, and even if it’s all for show, she’ll take any opportunity she has to score a win against the STRIKE Commander. “It is.”

…Except, like, Darcy actually thinks it’s a very manageable ask, all things considered. Having to wait for months or even years just waiting to see if the love of your life was ever going to choose to come back to Earth… Now, that’s a big ask. Darcy doesn’t know how Jane does it. In comparison, waiting through the odd mission with SHIELD tactical support doesn’t seem that bad; she still worries for her friends when they’re away, sure, but she’s also confident in their abilities, even more confident that the trade-off is worth it for the world.

“And I imagine it’s hard, too, feeling like you have to choose between who you are and who you love,” Father Frank continues, his gaze on Brock now.

Rumlow doesn’t say a thing in response, just gives Darcy’s leg a final pat before he pulls his hand back into his own lap.

And maybe the priest isn’t siding with either of them, after all. He looks between them, marks something down on the paper in front of him that somehow makes Darcy feel like she is being judged, and then focuses his attention directly on her when he looks up again. “Darcy, what is your religious background?”

“I’m really not religious,” she tells him truthfully but somewhat awkwardly. “I was baptized when I was a baby – not Catholic, I mean: Protestant – but… that’s kind of where it starts and stops. We never attended regularly, growing up.”

Father Frank nods, takes another moment to write something else down on the sheet in front of him, but doesn’t look the least bit judgmental when he meets her gaze again afterwards. “To go through the convalidation process, there is no requirement or expectation for one to convert to Catholicism, but there are a couple of oaths a non-Catholic spouse has to swear to. One of them is promising to allow the Catholic spouse to raise any children resulting from your union in the Faith. In my experience, this is what people from other religious backgrounds most often have the most issue with. Is this an oath you think you can swear before God, given your own beliefs or lack thereof?”

Again, there’s absolutely no judgment at all in the older man’s gaze, but the seriousness of the question still weighs heavily on her and prevents her from answering flippantly. And, really, Darcy’s not 100% sure the Big Guy up there actually exists – she’s very definitely agnostic, probably even humanist-leaning-atheistic – but she’s also not 100% sure he doesn’t, and oaths sound so official, too…

Darcy doesn’t want to lie. It feels like bad karma, if nothing else.

But the nice priest had said any children resulting from your union, and Darcy is 100% sure that there won’t be any children resulting from this sham marriage of theirs anyway, so the whole thing sounds like a non-issue to her loophole-seeking mind.

“Of course,” she agrees easily, leaning over and placing a hand on Rumlow’s arm. “I have no objections to that at all. Brock can raise our children in whatever way he sees fit.” …And that sort of sounds like she’s planning on just dumping the kids on him and peace-ing out for the duration of their childhoods, so she’s quick to jump back in and elaborate, honestly, “The most important thing to me is that any children of mine are raised to be good people, with strong, moral foundations…”

Brock’s palm covers her hand, in a gesture Darcy initially – and apparently mistakenly – assumes is one of in-character solidarity. Instead of backing her up, however, he stares back across the table at Father Frank, somewhat tauntingly asks, “You sure you don’t want to ask me if I intend to raise any of our kids Catholic?” And then, because apparently the man has lost his damn mind, he continues, “I mean, maybe I don’t. Did you think about that? Maybe I don’t even want to have kids, Father. You’re over here worried about Darcy because she’s not Catholic, as if it’s just a fucking given that I’ll go along with the Church’s teachings on birth control and—“

Darcy’s nails seem to have finally dug in enough to his arm to shut him up, but just in case her fake husband didn’t fully get the message, she clenches her jaw, hisses out a single word of warning – “Brock.” – while forcing a sheepish smile across the table at the priest who is staring back at the two of them with a completely unreadable expression.

Rumlow manages to keep his damn mouth shut long enough for the moment to stretch on slightly awkwardly.

A breath, and Father Frank tries again: “I’m not forcing you to be here. You’re the one who said that this was important to you, that you wanted to go through this process.”

“You’re also not going to refuse to do the ceremony, so what are we even—“

“Take a walk, Brock.” It’s not a suggestion; the holy man has apparently reached his limit, and while his expression remains carefully neutral and somehow even slightly welcoming, there’s a hint of steel now creeping into his gaze and into his tone.

Beside her, Darcy’s fake husband stiffens.

“I’d suggest taking a moment for Adoration, but if you just want to take a trip to the water fountain, well, I’m sure you remember where that is. Take a walk, Brock.”

He glances at her, and Darcy, still feeling a little uncertain of her footing in this clearly charged situation, manages to give his arm a squeeze and then pull her hand back into her lap.

Go, she tries to tell him with her eyes, get your shit together.

“I’ll be fine,” she says aloud instead, not that she thinks he particularly gives a damn about how she’s feeling right at that moment. She can’t even tell if he’s genuinely upset and unable to avoid reverting back into childish behavior in the presence of this priest that obviously more than gets under his skin, if he just really hates the guy so much he can’t keep it together, or if he simply doesn’t give a shit and can’t manage to take it seriously despite the fact that the whole reason they’re even here in the first place is because of him.

But whatever the reason behind his outburst, he gets up, and, like a chastised schoolchild being sent to the principal’s office, the STRIKE Commander stalks out of the room, disappearing into the hallway and pulling the office door closed quietly behind him.

In the time it takes between that click of the door and Darcy swinging her attention back to Father Frank, the priest seems to have aged twenty years. He drags a palm over his face, blows out another heavy sigh, and meets her gaze with his own, suddenly far more somber than a moment before.

“I apologize, Darcy,” he tells her.

And Darcy genuinely can’t manage to pull together an idea of what a good reply would be for her character in this shitshow, so she opts for the truth once again: “I’m honestly not sure who should be apologizing to whom, but I don’t think I’m particularly owed an apology, here.”

The older man offers her a small smile. “Nevertheless. I regret that this whole experience has been… an unnecessarily tense reception for you. I’ve been close with Maria and her family for many years now – nearly all our lives, really – but… well, I made some mistakes with Brock.” The admittance comes with a pained expression and a somewhat far-off stare, his mind still clearly in the past, but Father Frank eventually elaborates, “His relationship with his faith has been… more trying than most, as I’m sure you can imagine. He struggled for a while, with his father’s death, with other things. I thought… Well, I thought it would help, if I kept a closer eye on him here, if I shared any concerns with his mother and listened to hers. I fear I only managed to complicate things further, and everything since…” Another breath, and he gives his head a small shake. “This is why I asked if he was sure he wanted to have the ceremony done in this particular church. The last thing I want to do is drive him further from his faith now.”

Slowly, Darcy’s starting to feel like she’s putting the puzzle pieces together and figuring out what exactly is behind this apparent rift between priest and parishioner, but she’ll be damned if that gives her any clue as to how exactly she’s supposed to respond in this scenario. She can’t think of a single thing to say in response to that, can’t think of something Darcy-Brock’s-Wife would say but also just as problematically can’t even think of what Darcy-Brock’s-Coworker-Pretending-To-Be-His-Wife would want to say in response.

She only forces some approximation of a polite smile and hums out a noise of acknowledgment as she nods her head.

For a moment, she’s afraid she’s going to be forced to figure out how to start up a new conversation in the old one’s wake – and her mind is still incredibly, frustratingly blank, so that’s an absolutely terrifying prospect – but then Father Frank is leaning forward, something purposeful in his expression as he inquires, “Does he actually want to go through with this convalidation process, or is he just doing this for Maria’s sake?”

She’s not actually sure the two are separate in the way the priest seems to think they are, but the astrophysicist doesn’t feel the need to point that out as she sticks to their story and confirms: “He wasn’t lying when he said it was important to him to have our marriage to be recognized by the Church.”

The response earns her a nod of acknowledgment, and slowly, the mood in the room becomes more pensive than anything else. They both seem lost to their thoughts for a moment, the silence oddly companionable until Darcy decides to break it.

“Can I ask you something?” she wonders aloud, unable to get Maria’s words from earlier and Brock’s little comment about his last confession out of her mind.

The priest gestures with open arms, tells her, “Of course!”

And Darcy’s not quite sure how exactly it would be best to go about asking this particular question, so she takes a moment, debates her options.

Father Frank remains patient and relaxed the whole time.

“If we were to ever get divorced…” she finally starts, only to wince and try to backtrack again. “I mean, I obviously recognize that the Catholic Church doesn’t believe in that and wouldn’t consider the marriage over or anything like that. I get that; I’m just worst-case-scenario-ing right now. But if we did… would Brock still be able to come to church and take communion?”

She half expects to see a concerned furrow in the old man’s brow or a disapproving set to his lips, especially after that whole first husband slip earlier… but when she glances over at him, Darcy sees that the priest is smiling – eyes alight and expression happy rather than even the slightest bit bothered. “Yes. For the record, everyone is always welcome to attend Mass, regardless of whether or not they’re in good standing with the Church and even regardless of whether or not they consider themselves Catholic, but yes, Brock would still be able to take communion.

“It would depend on his actions and his spiritual discernment, of course – his continued participation in the sacrament of Reconciliation, most likely, knowing that man – but those conditions already apply,” he explains. “A civil divorce doesn’t mean anything to the Church, and wouldn’t change his standing. The traditional answer used to be that a civil divorce followed by a remarriage without having been granted an annulment by the Church would absolutely preclude one from receiving the Eucharist – sorry, taking communion – but even that is not so black and white, these days. There are those who think otherwise, new guidance from the Vatican…” He waves a hand, looks slightly sheepish. “I’m sorry, My Child; you weren’t looking for a long explanation.”

She makes a noncommittal noise, offers a polite smile nonetheless. “I appreciate the answer anyway. That’s… good to know.”

For a moment, the room lapses back into silence, but this time, the priest doesn’t make her wait too long before he asks his next question. Or makes his next statement. Truthfully, Darcy’s not sure whether it’s meant to be a question or an observation.

“You care about the effect your actions might have on your husband’s relationship with God?”

And, question or observation, Darcy thinks she should maybe be offended. She blinks, then is careful to watch her tone as she confirms, “Just because I don’t believe doesn’t mean I have any desire to get between Brock and his beliefs.”

…It still comes across a bit defensive, but it’s apparently the right kind of defensive, because Father Frank is grinning openly at her now, declares, “That’s all I needed to hear. And maybe your husband is right; we don’t really need to prolong things, unless you have any additional questions or any concerns you wanted to talk through…?”

She doesn’t – indicates as much with a small shake of her head.

“No? Then let me go and grab Brock. If I know that boy…”

Retrieving her husband only takes a matter seconds, because no sooner is the office door pulled open than is the man in question revealed. Rumlow is leaning against the far wall with his arms across his chest, still looking less than pleased to be there, but at least also looks appropriately under control once again. “Forgive me, Father,” he requests a bit blithely, just a hint of amusement dancing back into his gaze at the familiar line even as he admits, “I was out of line.”

The priest hums noncommittally, and there’s something the two men exchange in a glance that Darcy can’t quite follow, but then Father Frank is stepping back, everything apparently forgiven.

“What, no holy water splashed over her?” her husband wryly inquires as he makes his way back into the room, looks her over, and then winks when he’s apparently assured she’s still in one piece. “Did she not say something to cause the ground beneath her feet to burst into flames in my absence?”

And Darcy is actually a little offended, now, because did he really think she was incapable of keeping up the act? Did he think she wouldn’t be able to handle herself far better than he’d managed to handle himself only moments beforehand? She fixes a glare in his direction, curses his name yet another time since it seems inappropriate to use coarse language in front of a holy man. “Brock!”

He doesn’t look at her, though, because of course he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches the priest, who once again seems torn between amusement and exasperation.

“You really will never change, will you?” Father Frank wants to know. “It’s your soul I worry more for, you know.”

Not buying it for a second, the STRIKE Commander angles his head, clicks his tongue twice against the roof of his mouth. “That’s a lie! I know your teachings on the matter.”

“You?” Playing up the surprise and disbelief, the older man raises his eyebrows, seeks further clarification once again in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Remember a lesson I taught on Catechism? Well, look at that! There’s one of the Lord’s miracles, right here before my eyes!”

Darcy’s gaze flits back and forth between the two men, still not sure what to think of this priest who, on the one hand, seems like a nice man with a decent sense of humor and a genuine affection for the Rumlow family, but who also really clearly is not on her husband’s good side… She feels a weird sense of loyalty to that fake husband of hers, feels almost like she’s not allowed to like Father Frank… but the mood’s lightening and – fuck it! – she manages a resolute little nod and declares aloud, “I like this priest.”

…Admitting as much earns her a dark little side-eye from her husband, but – hey! – it’s the truth.

And Rumlow is pretending to be more disgruntled than he actually is at this point, she knows, but he still rolls his eyes at her before settling back into his seat and spreading open his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Well, Father? What else do we need to discuss before you can make your decision?”

Father Frank returns to his own chair, his expression this time easy to read as simultaneously fond and exasperated. “I’d be happy to bless your union, Brock. Happy? And I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting dispensation – you’re not wrong – because I’m willing to speak on your behalf for this.”

Darcy wonders how much self-discipline it takes for her husband to refrain from making any kind of sarcastic remark in response.

…He apparently isn’t capable of forcing out a genuine, non-sarcastic reply in its place, but she’ll take the win for what it is, anyways.

“Thank you, Father Frank,” she says for them both. “That means a lot to us.”

Apparently wise enough to know that is the only thanks he’ll actually be receiving, the priest dips his head magnanimously. “Let’s get this all scheduled for you, then, shall we?” He flips open a calendar, leafs through a few pages, picks up his pen, gives it a few taps, and leafs through a few more before he has any options to present them with. “… Darcy, how much time do you think you’ll need to feel comfortable pulling together any arrangements you’d like to make in preparation?”

Thrown for a loop, Darcy blinks, surprised to find herself suddenly the center of attention and sole decision-maker on this.

She’s also apparently not the only one with feathers ruffled by that development. Beside her, Rumlow shifts in his seat. “You know, Father, I also have opinions on—“

“I know you, Boy,” the Father interrupts, that hint of steel back in his voice as he fixes his attention on the man he’s apparently watched grow up from infancy. “You want to know the first available date, because you know what else I’m going to require of you after we get this all down in the calendar.”

At this point fully resigned to feeling a bit off-balance and out of the loop during any conversation between her husband and his lifelong priest, Darcy only glances between the two of them and doesn’t even bother to ask.

“I’m asking how much time your wife needs,” the priest continues, “because I’m not going to tell you if there are any options before that date. You will not rush this process for her, because you have no idea how much time and stress can go into picking a dress or making any other decisions she might want to make. You married her in a damn courthouse, Brock.”

And – okay, yeah! – Darcy likes this priest. She has to bite her cheek not to smile.

But still: “Oh, I don’t actually need to get a dress or anything like that.” —There will be no dress.— “So I’m also good with first available,” she confirms cheerily. “Truthfully. But thank you for thinking of me!”

Only a moment after the words slip past her lips, she wonders if it was a mistake to admit as much, but once again, Father Frank only nods, not an ounce of judgment visible on his expression. “Then in that case, because I do actually like you, Brock,” – there’s some side-eye sent in the man’s direction to go along with that comment – “I’m going to make an exception to normal church policy and waive our usual scheduling requirement of at least six months’ advanced notice. I have a last minute cancellation for not this Friday but next Friday, a Saturday opening two weeks after that for obvious reasons, and then we are booked solid for another six straight months, after which, we have a total of three Fridays and two Saturdays to choose from, assuming you’d like to have your convalidation ceremony sometime in the next year. …Would you like me to give you those dates?”

The priest rattles details off – seemingly from memory – almost faster than Darcy can keep up with, but she manages to process the first half of that info-dump just as she pulls open her calendar on her phone. “Jane’s wedding is next week, so we’re unfortunately already busy for that,” she recites automatically, glancing up at the priest briefly in apology.

Or, at least, she means to only glance up from her calendar briefly, but from the corner of her eye, she catches sight of the wide, almost wolfish grin her husband is wearing, and she can’t help but pause and turn to fully look at him. And she doesn’t know why he’s grinning like he’s just won something when she’s shooting down one of their only options for getting this whole thing over with within their we-can-get-divorced-in-a-couple-of-months timeline – it’s not like he doesn’t know the first option the priest gave them isn’t going to work for either of them – but when she looks back down at her calendar again and starts to count out the weeks, understanding dawns.

Two Saturdays after next Friday, meaning the fourth Saturday from now? Which is still available for obvious reasons?

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

She glances up at Father Frank again, takes in his little sympathetic nod, and then turns back to that husband of hers who has suddenly wiped the grin off his face and replaced it with an expression of false neutrality.

“I’m good with April First,” he tells her all too innocently, because of fucking course he is!

But, well… what the hell, right?

“…Alright.” She heaves out a sigh, can’t stop herself from snorting once in amusement when Rumlow winks at her. “April Fools’ Day it is.”

“I suspected as much,” comes the somewhat resigned acknowledgment from the priest, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face when he finishes jotting it down. “Well then, in that case, you really don’t have much of an option for your Pre-Cana program. We normally do seven week courses, but—“

“We’re already married, Father,” Brock cuts in, apparently once again understanding something that flies right over Darcy’s head.

That steely look is back. “Not in the eyes of the Church, you’re not. Pre-Cana is a requirement, whether you’re getting married for the first time, whether you’re marrying after an annulment or the death of a spouse, or whether you’re bringing your marriage into the Faith through a convalidation ceremony even ten years after you originally got married. I can bend some rules for you, Brock, but not this one.”

The STRIKE Commander appears skeptical about that, but has the good grace to send a glance Darcy’s way and fill her in. “He wants us to go to Marriage Prep,” he translates. And then, to the priest: “Come on, you’re not going to make us meet with you regularly until the first,” he reasoned. “Even if you had the patience of a saint, I think you’d run out before we were halfway through.”

Father Frank chooses not to agree or disagree, instead dodging the debate entirely. “Of course not. Our Pre-Cana marriage preparation program with weekly meetings takes more time than you two have. Even if the next one started this week – and it doesn’t – you don’t have enough weeks left before your chosen date to actually finish the weekly course. Your only choice is to go the intensive route and opt for the weekend retreat.”

Brock barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.”

“I’m really not.” Spinning in his chair for a moment, the priest pulls something off the bulletin board behind him, then spins back around to face them. “Now, normally, if you’re getting married in our church, you’re required to go through one of our courses, but once again, I am inclined to make an exception for you, Brock. Our next intensive program is fully booked, but even if it wasn’t, it sounds like you’re busy next weekend anyway. Luckily for you, a good friend of mine happens to be running a course that a few different parishes work together to operate.”

—Father Frank passes the little brochure he apparently retrieved from the bulletin board to Darcy, who wastes no time looking at it and trying to figure out what the actual hell they’re about to be roped into, now.—

“It’s a very nice program, and has received excellent reviews in the past. Actually, it’s down in Virginia so it’d be closer to you than one of our programs, anyway, but I’ll be upfront in admitting it’s not the cheapest option out there. …And, it is this weekend,” the priest continues on. “I’d have to make a few calls, pull a couple strings, and probably end up owing him a favor after this, but I can get you into that retreat. Which means, as long as you actually attend the program and participate in the activities to the satisfaction of the program leads – they send everyone’s home parish a report afterwards, you see – then I will certify you as having completed the Pre-Cana marriage prep requirement, and you can actually have your marriage convalidated on the first of next month. Which, again, wouldn’t be possible in the first place if you were anyone else or had gone to any other priest. You’re welcome.”

There’s a long moment of silence that hangs in the air after that announcement, which Darcy is sure is filled with lots of aggressive staring, but she more or less ignores it, focused on the brochure in her hands and her own thoughts about the situation.

“This weekend, you said?” That’s Brock, speaking almost monotonously in the background. “I have to work.”

“I recommend rearranging your schedule or calling in sick, then.” Father Frank is using his steely voice again. “Unless you’d rather go back to the drawing board and move your ceremony out to the next available date we have, which would be a Friday in late fall, if I remember correctly.”

“Maybe that’s what we have to do, then.”

“It won’t get you out of the prep course requirement, you understand? If you want to push the convalidation to fall, we can do that, and I can fit you into one of our seven-week programs run by either myself or Father Paul. I can even put you on a waitlist in case there are other cancellations for dates before fall, but either way, you must successfully complete a full program before the convalidation date or I wouldn’t be allowed to perform the ceremony for you even if I wanted to. This one is out of my hands, Brock. Would you like me to call my friend, or break out the calendar again to look at the fall dates?”

The question isn’t really directed at her – actually, the entire conversation basically hadn’t included her at all, really – but Darcy decides to reenter anyway, offers up her answer for the both of them: “Call your friend, please, if you wouldn’t mind, Father Frank.”

Rumlow’s head whips around to face her, surprise written clearly on his expression. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to go on a religious marriage retreat,” he attempts to reason.

“Oh, but I do!” she’s quick to contradict with what she hopes is a perfectly innocent, earnest expression. Evidently it doesn’t come across quite as genuine as she tries to make it, however, because she sees the suspicion in his eyes only a second later. She smiles sweetly, maintains eye contact as she tells him, “I think it it’d be just great for us to learn from the experience of couples who’ve been happily married for years. I mean, it’s a little pricier than we originally budgeted for, I know, but if we just use some of the money we’d been setting aside for our honeymoon…”

—Translation: you’re paying for this.—

“It looks absolutely beautiful, and seems like it some really wonderful options for activities and group discussions meant to help bring us together—“

—As in: there’s an option for a fully included half-day at the spa, not to mention some stunning accommodations and five course meals—

“—and we’ve been talking about how we thought it would be good to see a couple’s therapist, remember?” —Darcy holds up the brochure. — “Look: they have one!”

—You’ll absolutely hate it!—

…Admittedly, she tacks that last part on just because it seems like the kind of thing that will piss him off to have her say out loud, but the rest of it genuinely seems like fun – especially when she isn’t the one footing the bill.

And, besides, she’s already decided: exposure therapy is the way to go; all she needs to do is spend a bit more time with him, and it’ll desensitize her to his presence or she’ll build up a tolerance or whatever, and then everything will be fine and they’ll actually be able to pull off this Asgard trip without any major hitches. After that, it’ll be a piece of cake to finish out another couple of months pretending in front of his family, and then they can get divorced and live happily ever after for their own very separate rest of their lives.

It’s perfect.

And it means they can stick to their original timeline, and don’t have to wait until the fucking fall to do this ceremony – and then be forced to wait a few months after that before they can actually get divorced – so, again: perfect.

Oh! And it has the added benefit of pissing him off a little bit because he so very clearly does not want to do this.

It’s legitimately perfect.

Except…

…when that master-tactician, STRIKE Commander, fake husband of hers glances down at the pamphlet in her hands and then back up at her with I-can-see-through-your-bullshit written clear as day in his eyes… he doesn’t seethe at her, he smiles.

The bastard fucking smiles!

…And then he acquiesces!

“Whatever you want, Sweetheart,” he says out loud, mostly for the benefit of the waiting priest.

Two-can-play-that-game,-Princess,-and-oh-baby-it-is-game-fucking-on, his eyes say for him.

…Oh, fuck.

So, in hindsight… Darcy might’ve miscalculated a little bit.

Chapter Text

By the time the two of them make it out of the church and back to the relative safety of the car – where they can finally drop the act and Darcy can finally take a real breath again – they’re already multiple hours behind schedule. They were originally supposed to be back in D.C. by one-ish, maybe two at the latest, and while a quick glance at the clock on the dashboard tells Darcy that it’s technically still morning, it’s also basically almost lunchtime and they’re only just now getting on the road. …Which means that by the time they get to SHIELD, they’re going to have less than twenty-four full hours before they need to be back in a car together and headed to this retreat.

And look, it’s not even noon yet, but Darcy’s already had a Day™ – or, really, it feels more like a Week™ or a Month™ at this point. She’s exhausted, more than a little bit drained from all of the craziness, from having to be on her toes for so much of the last twenty-four hours, from the far too delayed realization that not only are they just getting started with this ridiculous charade, but Darcy had, inexplicably, – in a moment of apparent insanity – signed them up for more of it…

She all but collapses back into her seat, groans a bit at her lack of foresight and at what her desire to one up the jackboot beside her had gotten them into.

Said jackboot casts a glance in her direction, the corners of his mouth curved up far too much for a man who’d just been goaded into attending a marriage retreat and then lectured into swearing a vow of temporary chastity.

And – oh yeah! – there was that whole thing, too. She’d almost managed to block the memory.

After they’d nailed down the dates and talked through the requirements that needed to be completed before the ceremony, good ol’ Father Frank had taken the time to give them a much longer than actually necessary lecture on why it was absolutely essential that the two of them refrain from sexual intimacy until the date of their convalidation ceremony. Darcy’d promised the second he’d even brought the topic up that they’d respect the convalidation process and would of course refrain, but the holy man had only looked between them and doubled down.

…In hindsight, maybe it was because Darcy had been so quick to agree and assure him that wouldn’t be an issue for them that the nice priest seemed to think they weren’t taking his instructions seriously, because he didn’t just take their word for it, he explained and reexplained again and again the importance of resisting temptation, had walked through strategies previous couples had spoken highly of.

And look, there are a number of things Darcy is in imminent danger of while pretending to be Brock Rumlow’s loving wife: she’s in danger of blowing their cover at any moment; of getting actually irritated enough with Brock that she might accidentally slip and end up murdering him and needing Natasha to help her dispose of the body or having to run away to Asgard forever to escape prosecution; …and most dangerous of all, of accidentally blurring the very important lines here and ending up past the point of no return, head over heels for this dumb fake husband of hers that she’s already stupidly, inconveniently attracted to. …There’s a lot Darcy is in imminent danger of, yes, but the one thing she’s not in any danger of whatsoever is falling into bed with Commander Brock Rumlow.

The man’s a seasoned professional, more than capable of playing a role without ever letting the lines between his character and himself blur. He’s also asshole-ish enough to taunt her with how much better of an actor he is, and he might definitely try to rile her up or get her flustered at every opportunity – it’s true! – but he’s still at his core too decent of a guy to actually take advantage of the situation. Even if he figures out about her crush – her stupid, purely physical crush that, really, she shouldn’t actually be embarrassed about because what red-blooded woman attracted to men could see all those muscles and not be at least a little into it? – there’s still no scenario where he’d use that against her and get her into bed just to break her heart.

They’d played some shitty pranks on each other back in the day, sure, but that? No. The man’s got a reputation as a bit of an office playboy who doesn’t have any interest in ever settling down, but he isn’t known for going around and actually being a heartbreaker.

So yeah no, she’s not in danger of falling into bed with Commander Rumlow. She’d sooner be patted on the cheek and sent to her room – alone – with a glass of warm milk.

The Big Lecture followed by multiple demands for various promises by the priest really wasn’t necessary at all.

But still, Rumlow had pretended to be put out by the whole thing – ha! pun not intended but thoroughly enjoyed! – yet here he is now, grinning at her as if he’s the one who tricked her into the retreat.

Ugh.

Stupid, uncooperative man! Won’t even let her properly enjoy one-upping him.

Somewhat suspicious of his good mood, Darcy eyes her husband, risks an inquiry: “Why are you so happy?”

“I’m always happy when someone else has as miserable a time as I do at church,” comes his absolutely ridiculous reply.

Darcy rolls her eyes, then, curiosity getting the better of her, she decides to gently probe, “You really don’t like him, do you?” And she’s genuinely curious to know the reasoning behind that – she is! – but she’s also unwilling to push on a topic that could be sensitive. The holy man had seemed like a decent enough man, and his explanation of the rift between them tracked with what little Brock had let slip so far, but still…

Shifting the car into drive and pulling out into the road, the STRIKE Commander rolls a dismissive shoulder. “My problems with the Church go beyond one single priest.” Then, with a loud, overdramatic sigh that seems to suggest it physically pains him to say this, he admits, “And, look: there’s some fucked up people in the clergy – you’ll never hear me say otherwise – but Father Marino’s not one of them. He’s a good man; he’s just an ass.”

The brunette hums noncommittally, and the conversation lulls.

Rumlow turns the car down a couple of different roads, eventually gets them off of the side streets and back onto one of the main roads. After a moment, he comments aloud, “He liked you, though. What’d you do to get on Marino’s good side, anyway?”

Her answer is dry – wry, even – but truthful: “I expressed concern for your soul.”

Brock throws his head back and erupts in deep, heartfelt laughter. And Darcy can’t help it; his genuine amusement is contagious, and her own lips creep upwards in response.

“You’re going to hate this retreat just as much as I will,” he tells her once he regains control of himself. He sounds very sure of this, also sounds annoyingly pleased with the prospect of getting to share his misery with her.

Again, she only offers a noncommittal hum, not really wanting to get into a debate, and very much not at all wanting to think about how very possible it is that his prediction will come true. So instead, she turns the conversation toward more important matters: “Do you care if I eat in your car?”

From the corner of her eye, she can see him frown. “No… But you don’t have—“

Darcy reaches forward to a Tupperware container out of her tote, earns an incredulous stare that makes her gesture pointedly back toward the road in response, genuinely a bit worried he might forget he’s supposed to be looking forward.

“What?” It takes a minute for him to process, to look back and forth a couple of times between the road and the leftovers she’s already starting to eat. “Where did you get that?!”

With a roll of her shoulder, the brunette simply explains, “Your mother packed me leftovers.”

Her husband blows out a disbelieving breath, shakes his head, then wants to know, “Did she pack me any?”

A bit confused by the inquiry, Darcy only frowns at him. “I don’t know, did she?”

“…Apparently not.”

Still eying him in confusion, but starting to pick up on the thread of jealousy underlying his inquiry, the astrophysicist attempts to placate: “Would you even eat leftovers if she sent you home with them?”

“That’s not the point,” the overgrown man-child is quick to insist. Holding a hand up to his chest in an overdramatic display of being mortally wounded, he continues with the theatrics. “Let me get this straight: my mother sent you home with food, instead of sending anything home with her own son?”

Helpfully, Darcy lifts a plastic fork in gesture, points out, “To be fair, I think I’m technically her daughter now. At least, I am for the next couple months.”

The STRIKE Commander apparently doesn’t find that very persuasive. “I’m flesh and blood, Lewis!” he exclaims, clapping a hand against the steering wheel and continuing on for a second before promptly cutting himself off. “She should—Wait! Shit! I’m sorry!”

“…Why?” And Darcy’s frowning again in confusion, trying to connect the dots and figure out why on earth he’d so quickly gone from playful outrage (and maybe a small bit of genuine jealousy) to sheepish apology. “Ohhh, because of the foster care thing? Pfft! You don’t need to walk on eggshells with me, my dude. I know what you mean.” And, because he doesn’t look wholly convinced, she tacks on a sly little “Besides, I can’t help it that your mother likes me more than you.”

That seems to do the trick, has his expression morphing back into one of mock-annoyance. His eyes twinkle when he steals another glance at her, but then, instead of arguing or otherwise denying her claim, he only smugly reminds her, “I told you, all you had to do was be yourself and she’d love you.”

Not particularly fond of I told you sos, the brunette only rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she mutters as she turns back to the food her temporary/fake mother-in-law had sent her home with. “Your mother’s just thrilled that anybody agreed to marry you.”

He flashes her a grin, admits, “You’re not wrong,” and then reaches over and swipes a cherry tomato from the leftovers his mother packed her. When Darcy only squawks in indignation, he winks at her, claims, “What’s yours is mine, right?”

And – fuck! – but he’s gotta stop looking at her like that, with the winks and the grins and the muscular arms on display. Forcing herself to turn away, she grumbles to herself, objects to his claim with a little “Absolutely fucking not,” under her breath. But she doesn’t want to outright argue with him, doesn’t want to get sucked into more of the back-and-forth bantering, because it’s suddenly weirdly friendly, weirdly… comfortable.

Her phone provides her with a perfect opportunity to disengage, as she taps the front screen only to notice several new messages from unknown numbers.

“What the...?”

She scrolls through to open the first one, remains confused for all of ten seconds before she sees the name of the group and everything clicks into place.

“Wait, you weren’t kidding about the family group chats?”

Beside her, that fake husband of hers snorts. “You should take me at my word more often,” he advises, before stealing another glance away from the road. “How many did they add you to, anyway?”

“How many are there?” she wants to know, but she backs out of the one chat so that she can scroll through the others to get a better count. “There’s one with just your mother and you—“

“Oh, yay!” Brock sarcastically interrupts. “A new one!”

Darcy ignores him. “One with your sisters and a few other people…”

“That’d be their husbands,” he interprets. “Ma in that one?”

It takes her a second to scroll through the names, confirms, “She is. So is Sal.”

“Then there’ll be another one without them—just the kids and spouses.” He takes a second to glance over his shoulder, then merges into the left lane and lets her know, “You’re lucky; there’s also a group with just the four of us siblings, and a group with just us plus Ma. At least you don’t have to worry about those ones.”

Darcy blinks at that information, continues scrolling, and then informs him, unimpressed by his apparently false claims of having to deal with more group chats than her: “Uhhh, yeah… There’s one I’m in now with just your sisters, one with your mom and your sisters, one that’s named ‘We Married Into Crazy’… Oooh, and there’s a version with and without Sal.”

“I’m sorry,” he says in a tone that is very much not apologetic, “there’s a group chat called what, now?”

“It’s an in-law only chat,” she tells him, not bothering to actually answer his question since she’s sure he heard her the first time. Then, seeing a private message from Francesca, Darcy clicks on it and immediately makes a noise of approval when she sees a long list of contacts the oldest of her temporary-sisters-in-law had sent over. “Oooh! Thank you, Frankie.”

“For what?”

Darcy waves the question off, types out a quick message of gratitude and then starts on the process of going through and saving all of the new contacts so that she has half a chance of making sense of the rest of the chats and messages.

Brock, however, is apparently not content to just let the matter go. “Did you say there’s an in-law only group called We Married Into Crazy?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells him, having to fight to keep the smile off her lips. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

She offers a little hum, airily admits, “Hmm, yes, I have been told that a time or two before.”

He swipes another tomato from her Tupperware. This time, she’s certain he’s doing it out of spite, not out of any actual desire to eat one.

She pretends she doesn’t notice, earns a huff in response, and gets a little kick out of his growing irritation at being ignored.

Overgrown man-child for sure.

“Okay, for real,” she asks after a moment, “how many contacts are there here that I’m adding?” Because she’s still scrolling and saving from the list Frankie’d sent her, and the end of the line doesn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.

Her husband gets his revenge by snorting in amusement rather than actually answering, and when she spares a quick glance in his direction, he winks at her again.

“Fuck you,” she tells him, without any actual heat.

A quiet little hiss followed by a not-actually-apologetic little “Oooh…” clue her in that she’d just made a mistake. And then: “I would, Princess – I really would! – but we just promised the priest…”

And she wants to hate him for being such a smartass – she really does! – but Darcy can’t help but burst into laughter.

Looking stupidly pleased with himself, he steals the last of the tomatoes and informs her, “I’m not done talking about this in-law chat.”

Unconcerned, she continues diligently saving the new contacts. “Too bad. I’m not snitching; that’s the one group chat I actually want to be in.” Then, when she pauses only long enough to scroll to the top and count how many contacts are still left to save, she lets out a curse. “Oh, come on! This includes your cousins, too?!”

With another snort, that unhelpful husband of hers only returns his focus to the road. “Welcome to the family, Sweetheart.”

--x--

The rest of the drive is rather uneventful… at least, until they actually arrive back in D.C.

No sooner do they step foot into the secure SHIELD facility than are they intercepted by a random agent seeming to appear out of nowhere.

“Commander Rumlow, Sir, the Director wants to see you before you report to your station,” the man dutifully reports, dipping his head in deference to the higher-ranking official before turning his attention on Darcy. “You, too, Dr. Lewis, Ma’am.” And, apparently trusting that he doesn’t need to stick around to actually see the message carried out, the agent promptly turns on his heels and disappears back into the crowd without so much as waiting for confirmation.

Darcy blinks, suddenly a little unsure she hadn’t just imagined that whole encounter. “…Ma’am? Did I just get Ma’am-ed? Why did I just get Ma’am-ed?”

From where he’s standing beside her, arms crossed and frowning, that fake husband of hers lets out a sigh, appears more concerned than she thinks he probably needs to be. “I’d be more worried about why you’re also being summoned to Fury’s office, if I were you,” he advises.

But she only waves a hand, dismisses that notion with a scoff. “Oh, please! I get summoned to Fury’s office on like a biweekly basis. I don’t usually get ma’am-ed.”

He looks like he almost certainly has more thoughts on that, but apparently knows better than to share any of them out loud. Rumlow spares her another quick glance before tipping his head, reaching for their combined luggage – because of course he’d been annoying and insisted on pulling it for her – and gesturing for her to come along. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Figuring there’s not really a better option at the moment, Darcy follows without complaint down the familiar hallway and into the Director’s office.

Fury and Hill are waiting for them – a SHIELD higher-ups ambush if she’s ever seen one – and Darcy doesn’t even get the chance to make one of her trademark tension-reducing quips before the director’s loud baritone greets them.

“Which one of you would like to tell me just what the actual fuck is going on?”

Darcy opens her mouth, snaps it closed a second later when she reconsiders the intelligence of making a smart remark right now.

Visibly frustrated, the darker man snatches a piece of paper off the desk in front of him, holds it up and demands to know, “You can start by telling me exactly what this shit is!”

Beside her, Rumlow clears his throat, apparently having figured out the answer while Darcy is still squinting across the room. “That appears to be our employee relationship disclosure form, Sir.”

Ahh.

And if that’s what it is, then that means that question was very much rhetorical, which in turn means…

“I know what fucking form it is, Commander. I want to know why it’s sitting on my desk with the two of your names on it.”

Darcy spares a glance at Maria Hill, suddenly regrets not taking the extra time when dropping off the paperwork to ensure the second highest-ranking SHIELD official understood her Address any questions to Commander Rumlow was really more Just take this and please don’t ask questions, but everything’s fine, I promise.

“About that…” she starts, only to come up short the second Fury’s stare swivels over toward her.

“Did he make you do this?” the Director of SHIELD wants to know.

And – fuck! – but:

Wincing, she draws out a high-pitched “Well…” because, well… technically he had.

“Goddamn it, Commander!” the higher-ranking man erupts, slapping the paper down onto his desk and letting the sound echo in the room. “You can’t just kidnap your subordinate’s children and then force one of my scientists to marry you!”

As Darcy watches, that little muscle in Brock’s jaw twitches under the strain of keeping his mouth shut, but he manages to keep his annoyance in check.

Darcy doesn’t quite understand it.

And, feeling like this is at least partially her fault this time around – not to mention, feeling like she kind of owes it to the man for not throwing her under the bus last time – the astrophysicist decides to play his advocate again: “He had parental approval,” she interjects. “On the kidnapping thing, I mean. Not on the marrying me thing.”

Brock’s eyes snap closed and he takes a deep breath as he lifts a hand to pinch at his brow, and Darcy realizes once again that maybe she hasn’t made it better.

“I mean,” she tries again, “look, Nick—”

—The Director of SHIELD does not look even remotely amused to be first name’d by a lowly astrophysicist, but at least that much Darcy is used to.—

“—It’s not a big deal, okay? We filled the form out just to cover all of our bases because it’s kind of a required thing, you know? But it’s not like this is a real marria—“

Nick Fury cuts her off before she has a chance to say another word, holds a hand out in a silencing gesture. “I’mma stop you right there – again – Lewis.” With a wary glance between the two newlyweds, he makes it known, “If this is some kind of government fraud thing, I do not want to know about it. Ohhhh, I cannot stress to you enough just how much I do not want to know about it.”

A little offended, now, the astrophysicist scoffs. “It’s not—“

Her husband cuts her off: “I assure you, Sir, everything is under control and there will be no blowback for you. This is purely a personal matter which will not in any way affect either of our work performances.”

Appearing far from convinced, Fury stares down his STRIKE Commander for a long moment. “Oh, but I sorta think it already has,” he disagrees. “Or do you want to try and convince me there’s no connection whatsoever between this paper here and the daycare incident last week? Just tell me straight, son: do I need to send you for a psych eval?”

Brock’s answer is stiff, but confident: “No, Sir.”

Not sure it’ll actually help, but figuring that it at least probably can’t hurt, Darcy finds it necessary to tack on, “We’re actually going to see a couples therapist this weekend, if that helps?”

The looks she receives from both her fake husband and her boss-man inform her that no, it apparently does not help.

Fury chooses to otherwise pretend she hadn’t spoken, just turns his gaze back to his Commander. “Do not give me a reason to call you into my office for anything other than the standard debriefs that fall within your job description. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

And – yeah, okay – Darcy’s all for that plan, so she’s quick to start to follow her husband out of the office, quietly counting it a victory that at least she wasn’t given quite the same lecture as—

“You’re not,” Fury interrupts, and when she makes the mistake of glancing over at him, she realizes his eye is pinned on her. “Dr. Lewis, a word?”

Fuck.

Beside her, Rumlow hesitates, and Darcy watches as that one-eyed stare of Fury’s shifts over to him. In a tone that makes it clear there’s only one correct answer, the Director of SHIELD demands to know, “Do I need to repeat myself, Commander?”

A beat, and then Brock gives the appropriate response – “No, Sir.” – and somewhat unhappily takes his leave.

She can’t decide if she finds it more likely that he wanted to stay to support her, in which case, she should be touched, or that he wanted to supervise her, in which case, she should be offended, so Darcy settles on jealousy instead as she watches the door close behind her fake husband. Then, somewhat warily, she turns back to the remaining STRIKE higher ups, aims to lighten the mood: “How can I help, Director-Man?”

“Are you in any way, shape, or form, being coerced into this marriage?” Nick Fury wants to know before he gets to anything else.

The brunette frowns, thinking they’d cleared this up already. More firmly now, not wanting to give any room for misinterpretation, she says, “No.”

A blink, and the man before her presses on: “Are you absolutely certain that you’re not under any undue—“

“You can verify with Natasha, if you don’t believe me,” Darcy interjects, “but I’m telling you no. He’s helping me, here. I’d give you the details, but you’ve already made it very clear that you don’t want them.”

A grunt of acknowledgment, and the man leans forward over his desk, makes sure to carefully annunciate: “Then let me make myself exceptionally clear on this, too: That man runs my entire STRIKE department. That man has worked for me for almost as long as you’ve been alive, and his contributions to this organization have been invaluable. Do not break, and do not corrupt, my STRIKE Commander, Lewis.”

For a moment, all the astrophysicist can do is blink, torn between amusement and actual concern, because Fury sort of sounds like that’s a genuine warning. She opens her mouth to either agree or maybe object – she’s not actually sure which – but he holds up a hand, silences her again.

“The correct response is ‘Yes, Sir.’”

Clenching her jaw and staring him down, Darcy nods, flicking her gaze up to Maria and back. Then, because she really can’t help it after that kind of a command… “I’ll do my best,” she promises instead.

And he doesn’t appear to appreciate her insolence, but at least he knows better than to expect any different. The Director blows out an exasperated breath, gestures once to the door. “Dismissed.”

Darcy doesn’t have to be told that twice.

She makes her exit without any delay.

And she doesn’t quite know why, but for some reason she’s half expecting Rumlow to be waiting outside of the office when she finally takes her leave, so when she does a quick glance around and doesn’t see anyone but Fury’s assistant, she’s a bit surprised.

…Maybe even a little unsettled?

But, like, not because she wanted to see him there or anything, and really, she doesn’t have any reason to be surprised he didn’t linger.

She’s not bothered by it, she means, because that’d be stupid.

She’s just unsettled. In that oh-my-gosh,-wait,-did-I-actually-manage-to-sneak-away-from-my-shadow-or-is-he-lurking-right-around-the-corner-waiting-to-jump-out-at-me-as-soon-as-I’ve-had-a-chance-to-get-my-hopes-up-for-freedom kind of way. Because magically, it appears she is momentarily free of him, and it’s almost so good to be true that she thinks she’s missing something.

“Did you need something, Miss Lewis?” Fury’s secretary inquires aloud, reminding Darcy that – oh yeah! – she’s still just standing outside the door to Fury’s office, looking around when she should be, you know, moving.

The astrophysicist snaps herself out of it, looks over at the woman who always seems to be staring Darcy down with a far-too-serious, always-at-least-a-little-bit-disapproving look. “It’s Doctor,” she corrects somewhat primly, feeling the need to save some face and justifying to herself that she’s called into Fury’s office often enough that at this point it has to be semi-intentional for the woman to keep getting the title wrong, “but no, thank you. Have a nice day.”

And, with that, she grabs her suitcase, which her fake husband had very kindly left for her outside the office door – and heads straight for her lab, quite certain she’s never needed to catch up and externally process with Jane more at any point in her life… And that’s including any and all elf-related situations.

-- x --

Jane isn’t in their lab, though, and so Darcy deposits her luggage, then looks around for a moment. And she’s maybe wound a little bit tight after everything that has happened in the last few days, so looking around quickly becomes pacing around as she tries to figure out how long it will take for Jane to return.

…Did they have a meeting she’d forgotten about? She didn’t think so.

Or could Jane just be taking a really late Jane-lunch? …Did Jane remember to take a lunch when Darcy wasn’t around to remind her?

She paces past her friend’s current workspace – the actual desk assigned to the senior astrophysicist is currently overflowing with clutter – and sees the woman’s StarkPhone resting on the table. With the practiced ease of someone who has to do this on autopilot almost daily, Darcy taps the phone’s screen, then picks it up and places it back down exactly three inches to the right, on its charger, when it doesn’t so much as light up. It’s all a fluid motion for her at this point, second-nature as she barely even has to slow down her pacing.

Jane wouldn’t have gone back to Weapons Tech without her, right? Because Darcy doesn’t exactly have much faith in her friend’s ability to charm a lab tech and smuggle out materials without setting off literal or metaphorical alarms.

…Maybe she’s just in the bathroom?

Either way, wherever she is, Darcy doesn’t have the patience to wait for her to return. That could take hours.

…Or minutes.

She manages exactly fifty-seven seconds before she turns on her heel and strides purposefully out of the lab, making a beeline for the third floor offices. It feels like it somehow takes less time for her to locate the person she’s looking for, grab him by the cuff of the suit jacket, and pull him out of his office and back with her toward the lab.

Jimmy complains, but doesn’t put up any actual fight. “You know,” he tells her as he obediently trudges along, “when I was with the FBI, the only time I was dragged out of my office was when the world was basically ending.”

The astrophysicist offers a sympathetic hum as she steers him around a corner. “I’m sorry your life was so boring there.”

“Right… It was… boring,” the former FBI agent draws out. “That’s what I meant by that.”

And Darcy knows that he misses the peace and quiet, obviously – knows that that’s what he was really saying – but she needs an opinion and if Jane is going to be MIA for who even knows how long, then she has no choice but—

“Jane!”

The woman in question standing right there in the middle of their lab, apparently having reappeared in the brief time it took for Darcy to go drag her backup soundboard away from his work.

“Darcy!”

“Hi, Jane,” Jimmy greets, friendly as ever.

But the senior astrophysicist is focused on her former intern, her hands waving in the air for a moment before moving to settle back down on her hips. “Where have you been?! You said you were going to be back by two at the absolute latest!”

“I had to go find Jimmy,” the younger woman replies, as if that in any way explains the true cause of their delay. “Besides, I texted you and told you I’d be late.”

“No you didn’t,” Jane stubbornly insists, before pausing to peer at their guest, as if processing on a delayed loop. She acknowledges his presence with a quick, perfunctory “Hi, Jimmy,” then gets back to business: “So…? How’d it go? Did his family figure out you were faking? Do you think you two will be able to pull it off while we’re on Asgard, or—Wait. Jimmy knows all about this, right?”

“Yes, I did text you,” Darcy feels the need to assert, because she absolutely had and she steadfastly refuses to accept blame just because Jane had forgotten to keep her phone charged. But that’s not what’s most important at the moment, she knows, so she doesn’t argue the point anymore, instead offers a nod and confirms, “And yes, Jimmy knows everything.”

“Jimmy can let you two hash this out, though,” the man in question interjects, offering a shrug-like gesture as he glances between the two women. “I mean, if Jane’s here now, then that means I can go back to work, right?”

“No, no; stay,” the younger of the women insists. “I want your input on things, too.”

When she turns back to look at her former boss-turned-equal-partner, however, Darcy finds Jane’s face scrunched up in concentration. “…Why didn’t you just ask Jimmy to be your pretend husband for Asgard?”

And it’s such a simple solution that she can’t believe they never thought of it before! “Oh fuck!” comes her immediate exclamation. “That would’ve saved us so many headaches! Although, wait…”

Suddenly curious enough to see if it would’ve worked, the brunette turns to the former FBI agent and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug.

The youth pastor freezes, then just stands there, stiff and awkward, without attempting to push her away but also without relaxing even a little bit. “Uhhh… what are you doing?” he eventually ventures to ask.

And Darcy had thought it all very obvious and easy to follow, but she adjusts her grip on him and explains anyway: “Pretend to be my husband for a second.”

Jimmy makes a noise of discomfort, squirms in her hold.

With a dramatic sigh, Darcy releases him, steps back, and gestures pointedly. “That’s why,” she tells Jane, at least content knowing that it really wouldn’t have worked out.

Marrying Brock really had been her best option, after all; complicated as the situation is, the guy’s as talented an undercover agent as they come.

Jane hums out a nonverbal agreement.

Jimmy lifts his palms out as if he’s afraid she’s going to try and hug him again. “Look, I really don’t want to get in the middle of whatever you and Commander Rumlow have going on.”

“We don’t have anything going on,” she’s quick to object. “There’s nothing to get in the middle of.”

“Yeah, he’s just her husband,” comes Jane’s sly and not-at-all-innocent addition. Then, pointedly, she steers the conversation toward more important matters: “Who I’m absolutely sure she didn’t agree to do an actual wedding ceremony with… right?”

…Fuck.

The way Jane says it makes it clear she already suspects the answer, but Darcy still chews on her lip unhappily, doesn’t want to admit that her friend was right. “Look, it’s not a wedding ceremony – just a transferring-the-marriage-into-the-Church kind of thing – and, you know what, what was I supposed to do?! Deny the man the opportunity to get the gift his dead father wanted him to have on his wedding day?!”

Both of her friends stare back blankly, and it takes Darcy a minute to realize she’s going to have to start from the beginning. But, before she can do that…

“Oh, shit!” Cursing her momentary stupidity, the brunette throws out her hands, uses a wide, cautioning gesture to try to communicate the severity of the situation. “Wait, that cannot leave this room! Rumlow doesn’t know anything about that; it’s supposed to be a surprise. Neither of you can tell a soul.”

“No, yeah, of course,” Jane agrees easily, waiving a dismissive hand. “But… I’m going to need context and details.”

“I’m not!” Agent Woo is quick to throw out there. “Look, you’ve got Jane here now, and I really think—“

“Nonono! But Jimmy, you’re a youth pastor! I need you for this.” That earns her a weird look, so she takes a quick minute to summarize the situation, explaining how she’d come to agree on doing the convalidation ceremony in the first place, and then recapping the conversation with the priest and finally getting to this weekend marriage prep. “So you gotta tell me: What should I be expecting from this marriage retreat thing?”

James Woo takes a minute to stare back at Darcy, then glance off to the side at Jane, before clasping his hands together and leaning forward conspiratorially. “You guys know I’m not Catholic, right?”

Darcy mimics Jane’s earlier hand-wave. “Same thing. C’mon.”

And the expressive man visibly disagrees, as he purses his lips and shakes his head side to side. “Uh… no,” he draws out. “Very much not the same thing. I don’t know what’s involved in a Catholic marriage preparation program.”

“Can’t you just make an educated guess?”

“Not really, no,” comes the immediate dismissal. “Darcy, I don’t even know what’s involved in my church’s marriage prep program… if we even have one. I’m not married, you know, and I work with children.”

Darcy lets out a loud, dramatic sound of frustration, demands to know, “Well what help are you, Jimmy? Why are you even here?”

Visibly flabbergasted, the SHIELD Agent turned FBI Agent turned SHIELD Agent again looks as though he wants to argue, before clearly reconsidering. “You know what? You’re right. My apologies. I’m just going to go ahead and head back to my office, get out of your way. Best of luck on this, ladies.”

“Bye Jimmy!” Jane chirps as the man starts to head out. Then, the second the doors to the lab slide closed again, she reaches for Darcy’s hand, demands to know, “Are those the rings!?! Let me see! I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jimmy, but if these are real, you should definitely try to get alimony after the divorce.”

“…Jane!” Still, the younger of the women dutifully offers up her hand, can’t manage to fully keep the smile off her lips as she finds herself fondly staring down at the sparkles as well.

Fuck.

…She’s completely in over her head, isn’t she?