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Darcy Lewis paced across the hardwood by the entrance, each anxious step creaking beneath her — not that the sound was even registering at the moment. It was a ritual now. Each time she crossed the small space, she flicked on her phone, willing it to ring and give her something, anything to go off of.
Because right now, she was in the dark.
Flicking on the light above the entryway, she peered through the peephole and sighed as a familiar set of blue eyes took stock of the hallways, the alcoves, and the corners. It had only been ten minutes since she’d sent the text, an SOS devoid of any actual information, but there wasn’t a lot he wouldn’t do for them.
Darcy didn’t cease her pacing, even as Bucky Barnes finished his regular pre-visit security check and flew through the front door.
“What happened?” he asked, fingers brushing hers and quickly scooping them into his grasp.
Enough contact to get her attention, to break her out of the cycle of quickly devolving thoughts, but not enough to startle her. Darcy finally stood still long enough to look him in the eyes, all that nervousness shining through those bright-eyed blues.
“Steve just texted it was bad… but I don’t know how bad, or….”
Voice tired and frayed, she wasn’t a fan of uncertainty by any means. Neither was Bucky. Which was probably why she was so on-edge telling him the little she knew, counting every ticking second that Clint hadn’t walked through the door.
“Well, we’ll be here for him, alright? It’s what we do,” Bucky tried to assured, before adding in a smaller voice, “I just wish I had been on—”
Darcy squeezed his hand sharply, stopping Bucky before he could even go there.
“This isn’t your fault,” she insisted. “Don’t go blaming yourself. Clint wouldn’t want that.”
The words hung in the air for a beat, her eyes fiery and headstrong, that familiar flicker of protectiveness burning under her gaze. She could see the second Bucky let down his walls and believed her, even if it was only for a split second, before returning to his usual preparing for the worst-case scenario.
In his defence, the worst-case scenario was often the outcome with The Avengers involved.
“No, you’re right,” Bucky admitted, his lips twisting against his better judgement. “He’d want to save all the self-flagellation for himself.”
His mumble earned a twitch of Darcy’s lips as she fought back a smile. It didn’t last long, though. Her attention quickly turned to the footsteps in the hall, heavy and off-tempo, paired with someone dragging their palms along the wall for balance.
“Clint?”
Bucky flung the door open and raced out to meet him, reappearing in the doorway with his arm looped around Clint’s shoulders. The way Clint leaned into his chest, how uneven his steps were, twisted Darcy’s stomach.
She could only catch the tail-end of their conversation as Bucky murmured, “You should have let us bring you home.”
“I’m fine,” Clint groused, just loud enough for her to hear.
But Darcy didn’t miss that something wasn’t right — with his head down, not even acknowledging Bucky’s attempt at conversation. Clint’s red-wrung eyes met hers, that guilt peeking through, and she knew what he was about to say before the words had even left his lips.
“My aids are… shot…” he spat out, eyes darting away from Darcy’s gaze, ashamed. “I can’t hear you. Stark doesn’t know when the replacements will be ready.”
Bucky’s expression dropped, hands too, and Darcy knew he was halfway to chewing Steve out for not giving them a heads-up. Probably also halfway to calling Stark himself, even if they all knew it wouldn’t solve anything. But Darcy wasn’t as quick to anger, putting a soft hand on Clint’s cheek to tilt his vision up to her, avoiding the scrapes and bruises as much as she could.
They had to keep touch to a minimum until they could figure out how Clint was doing. Sometimes it was all just too much, and the last thing Darcy wanted to do was be overbearing in a crisis.
Darcy waiting until his eyes locked to hers, tired and bleary, before she let his chin go and held out her hands, waiting to make sure he was following her motions.
‘Are you hurt?’ her fingers read, watching his eyes widen in shock and realization. ‘Hungry?’
Clint shook his head, still awestruck.
“You learned to sign?” Her heart fluttered at the pride in his tone, but it slipped away just as quickly as Clint had lit up. He glanced down at his hands, wrapped in bandages, before looking back at Darcy, defeated. “If my fingers weren’t busted….”
She quickly covered his hands with hers, standing on her tip-toes to press a kiss to his forehead, desperate to soothe the thoughts she knew were racing through his head. The concern that he couldn’t reciprocate or didn’t seem grateful enough for her company and care.
‘Don’t worry. You need to rest,’ Darcy signed, looking over to Bucky and finding him rifling through the cupboards for something to offer him. ‘Are you hurt?’
Clint could barely keep his eyes open, as it was, in part from the bruising. The rest was all exhaustion that Darcy knew he was fighting with every fibre of his being. “‘M alright,” he mumbled, thought his weight was still tipping back and forth as he stood in place.
Not a good sign. While Darcy didn’t have a ton of experience in the field, even she knew that much.
Bucky watched from the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, as Darcy led Clint to the couch. But he wasn’t the only one watching. She kept a close eye on Bucky too, knowing his first instinct would be to go after whoever the hell had put their partner in this kind of condition. Bucky had that quiet rage that simmered as he assessed the situation and exploded when you least expected it.
But he seemed to keep it in check, knowing their first priority was Clint.
‘Want to go to bed?’ Darcy signed as Clint settled onto the couch with a groan.
Every movement seemed to strain. His jaw locked into a permanent grimace as Darcy’s stomach twisted. Still, he shook his head vehemently, gesturing to the spot beside him. “Please.”
How could they have let him come home like this? Had he given them a choice?
Darcy carefully sat beside him, fearful of moving around too much in case he was in pain, but Clint pulled her right into his side, fingers digging into her t-shirt as face buried in the crook of her neck. “Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”
She’d never heard him like this — desperate and pleading and broken.
Darcy’s throat was so tight she couldn’t have formed words even if he could have heard her. All she could do was shoot a panicked look to Bucky across the room as she wrapped him up in her arms. Well, as much as she could. Clint’s six-foot frame burrowed into her and the couch as Bucky disappeared into the kitchen out of view.
The only sound in the entire apartment was the closing of cupboard and fridge doors, the scrape of a plate against another. Bucky was putting himself to work to avoid punching a hole in the wall, which Darcy appreciated.
Every swipe of her palm against Clint’s back brought discoveries — raised edges and healed scars, some familiar and some fresh. Carding her wine-painted nails through his hair, she was just happy to have him here, to breathe him in and know he was safe.
He wouldn’t trust anyone like this — not when he couldn’t hear his surroundings, when he depended on both of them to be his ears. It had taken months for him to feel comfortable enough to sleep without his aids when he was over.
And she knew Bucky took that responsibility more than seriously when it came down to it.
A creak of floorboards made Darcy’s eyes snap to Bucky, holding a plate that looked more like a charcuterie board than a meal. A clear sign of his indecision, along with the unsure look on his face. Darcy tapped Clint on the back, waiting until his eyes were on hers before she signed to him.
‘Eat? Please?’
Clint turned around, and Darcy could see the way Bucky’s expression broke when their eyes met. Like the levee had cracked and let the worry he tried so hard to bury shine through. Bucky crossed the room the next instant, kneeling down in front of Clint, holding the plate out in offering.
Darcy could see the tension, see the doubt behind his eyes as he did.
Bucky was so far out of the realm of possibility, his comfort zone, at not being able to fight back at something. She knew it was taking everything inside not to stalk out the door and find whoever was responsible. But Clint was the priority. He was reaching out, and Bucky was damn well going to be there to get him through this.
“I didn’t know what you’d want… so I just got everything….” Bucky’s eyes dropped for a moment before he looked up helplessly at Clint. The fight or flight was kicking in — Darcy could see it a mile away as Bucky rose to his feet, shaking his head. “Sorry, I can’t—”
The words died on his lips as he looked down, finding Clint’s hand white-knuckled around his wrist. “Stay,” Clint murmured.
Darcy watched the nervous energy seep out of Bucky as he closed the gap between them, holding Clint as lightly as he’d allow. “I'm here, Clint. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Darcy met Bucky’s gaze, holding back the tears that were threatening as Clint picked at the food. There was a sigh begging to be let out, but the tightness didn’t leave her chest until Clint tugged at her hand. His other was held up and out, with his middle and ring fingers curled into his palm.
Darcy sniffed back a smile, rubbing her thumb across the pebbled and puckered skin on his hands as she returned the gesture with the other.
‘I love you.’