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The snow screams tonight, propelled by forty mile-an-hour winds that send it flying into her face. It rips right through her coat, sending flakes skittering along the folds of her scarf until they find skin and can deposit their icy sting. She trudges along, movements stiff and her joints creaking. Darcy isn’t sure whether it’s the ankle deep snow, which falls into her sodden boots and bites at her ankles, or the cold which has leached into her very bones and made them ache. She just keeps going though; driven by some strange urge to keep moving, to get somewhere. It’s like, if she walks far enough, she can outrun the pathetic shit storm her life has become.
It’s dark now, and although New York never sleeps, the blizzard amassing over the city has sent most people scuttling home. The wind shrieks through the buildings, an eerie howl that might send a shiver up her spine if she could still feel her extremities or skin. Instead, Darcy tugs at the collar of her thin coat with stiff, useless fingers, and keeps trudging.
The wind bites, the snow stings, and desperate hopelessness wells deep in her chest. She sniffs and sobs, panting for breath until the insides of her lungs shriek with the icy agony and her breath no longer comes out in puffs of steam. Darcy walks, vision blurred by snow and tears, until commercial gives way to residential and she finds herself stumbling along the street of an old neighbourhood, rows upon rows of neat brownstones now divided up into apartments. Quite by accident, she stops at fifteen, taking in the twinkling Christmas lights that shimmer a friendly gold amongst the blue-black, grey and whipping white of the storm.
She doesn’t quite know what she’s doing here, but she has nowhere else to go, save for a shoebox apartment in a shitty part of town with equally shitty neighbours. She’s got no money for a cab, and she’s so cold it hurts.
Darcy maneuvers her frozen legs up the steps, tripping when her ice block feet catch on one of the stairs. She trips forward, hitting the door with a thud, before reaching up and fumbling with the knocker. It only takes a moment or two for him to answer the door, peering out into the night while bathed in a halo of golden light.
Pale eyes widen, before the door flies open.
“Darcy? What the fuck are you doing out here? Holy shit, kid.”
Bucky grabs Darcy by the hand, dragging her into the brownstone and helping her peel off her layers. She’s pretty sure he actually rips her coat in an attempt to get it off, but she’s so cold and he’s so warm and she doesn’t care.
“S-s-sorry,” she chatters, “’m s-s-sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know… I didn’t know where else to g-go.”
Like a child, Darcy raises her arms and allows Bucky to peel her sweater off; it’s stiff around the collar, where snow seeped in, melted and then froze. Whatever part of her brain not occupied by not freezing to death observes that they’re doing this in the entryway of his home, and that thought really isn’t as much fun as it could be if she weren’t so cold.
“What happened? Here, c’mon, let me – Christ you’re near hypothermic. Let me get you into the shower, and I’ll grab you some clothes. C’mon, doll, this way.”
Bucky leads her through the apartment to the master bathroom, all warm brown wood and neat white marble and soft, cushy towels. Darcy’s fingers are still stiff with the cold, so between still-chattering teeth and with eyes stinging, she asks him to unbutton her fly.
“Of course,” Bucky murmurs, his face drawing into a frown like his heart’s breaking, “C’mere.”
He undoes it for her and zips down her fly, before taking both of her hands in his and squeezing them, like he’s trying to press warmth back into her skin. Even his left is warmer than her, the vibranium soaking up the heat from his body and whatever he was doing before Darcy showed up with a snowstorm.
“You okay to work the controls on the shower?”
“Y-yeah… Yeah… I can do that. I – can you undo my bra too? I’m s-so sorry, Bucky. This is s-s-so embarrass-s-sing…”
“Turn round. Here, take the towel, and I’ll do it. You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart. You never have to apologize to me.”
Bucky shucks her shirt, letting it flutter to the floor before he kicks it away. Darcy grabs the towel off the hook and wraps her front in it, turning round so Bucky can undo the hooks at the back. He doesn’t linger, moving with that precise efficiency that makes him such a good soldier, before he’s stepping out of her space again.
“Take as long as you want, alright? And just yell if you need anything, I’ll hear you.”
“Thanks, Bucky.”
Darcy steps into the shower, which is nice like the rest of this apartment, luxurious without being offensive about it. When the water hits her skin she hisses and bites the inside of her cheek, fighting through the stinging and itching that follows. She must stand under the spray for a solid twenty minutes, even going so far as to use some of the citrusy body wash Bucky keeps on the shelf. Figures he’s a Head and Shoulders kind of guy, even after Wakanda, but his body wash looks like it came from a craftsperson. Darcy likes it, though maybe that’s because it reminds her of Bucky, as much as she likes the scent.
Eventually though, her core temperature is high enough that she can’t justify wasting more water. Stepping into the steamy room, Darcy grabs for the towel again and dries herself off. She ignores the part of her brain which squeals that this is Bucky’s towel, that he’s used this towel and now she’s using it, because really it isn’t appropriate, and really she shouldn’t be thinking about that when he’s going out of his way to be generous.
Tears sting at her eyes again, propelled by the humiliation pooling in her gut. Darcy sniffs and wipes at her face with a rough hand, mumbling, “Get it together, Lewis. Get it together.”
When she cracks open the door to the bathroom, she finds a pile of freshly laundered clothes folded with soldier’s precision on the end of the equally neat bed. They’re warm from the dryer and smelling faintly of Bounce sheets; Darcy slips them on, filling with gratitude, even if the shirt is much too big and so are the pants, pooling around her ankles. Thank god that cuffed sweatpants are in these days, or she’d probably trip and crack her head open. Darcy pulls on a pair of over-large, fuzzy wool socks and then finally the hoodie, a lovely forest green and clearly well-worn. It’s soft, and smells like Bucky, like he’s just taken it off and Darcy really has got to stop thinking like this.
“Bucky?” She calls softly, coming out of the Master bedroom with her dirty clothes and his towel wadded up under her arm, “Is there somewhere I can put these?”
“Hey, doll,” Bucky greets her from the kitchen to her left, “Yeah, let me take ‘em and put ‘em in the wash. I’m drying your coat out right now. There’s hot cocoa in a saucepan on the stove, if you want some. Can you stir it for me while I go put these things in?”
“Of course.”
The aroma of hot chocolate – real, melted chocolate with a splash of whole milk – makes her mouth water. She’s nearly drooling by the time he gets back, dutifully stirring the rich liquid so it doesn’t burn.
“Thanks, Darce,” Bucky murmurs, sidling up beside her and then past to grab two mugs down. She starts a bit at his hand pressing to the small of her back as he passes, before collecting herself again.
“This smells really good,” she says, “Like, really good. And really expensive.”
“’S Swiss melting chocolate. I love this stuff. It’s like crack. Steve has to hide it in his place upstairs. Here, you want some more milk in it?”
He even adds whipped cream on top, the real stuff and not the ‘nonsense that comes pre-made in a can. That shit’s made of oil, Darcy, it’s nasty.’ When they’ve gotten their mugs and are supping their chocolate, Darcy at the island and Bucky leaning against the counter, he finally addresses the elephant between them.
“What happened tonight, Darcy?”
The tears well up again, because he’s staring her down with that broken, worried expression, with his eyes so large and so sad. Darcy swears under her breath and grabs a tissue from the box at the edge of the island, dabbing at her tears.
“I got laid off from my barista job. The owner sold the business on the provision that all the staff would stay, but I guess the provision was never actually in the written contract, so they let go all of… all of the highest paid staff… the ones who’d been there longest. And now – I mean – I love working with Jane but it doesn’t pay enough, if at all, and I already have so much debt and I’m going to lose my apartment and it’s all I have and Ian and I broke up because of this, the finances and –“
She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. All at once everything comes crashing down, the weight of the terror, of not knowing how she’s going to get through, the weight of Ian’s disappointment, his inability to understand, her parents’ worry, all of it. It’s too much, and she can’t breathe, she can’t even think.
“Darcy?” Bucky asks, suddenly much closer. “Darcy can I touch you?”
“I can’t breathe,” she gasps, “Bucky – “
“Darcy, you’re having a panic attack. Can I touch you?”
“Yes, yes, please – Bucky –“
His right hand sits warm and steady on her back, while his left gathers her hand and brings it up to his chest, before pressing it palm flat over his left pectoral. Below the skin and thick muscle, she can feel the steady throb of his heart and his slow, measured breaths.
“Breathe with me, Darcy. In, count to four, and out again. Good, just like that. In, to four. One, two, three, four. Good, out, two, three, four. Good job, sweetheart. Again, two, three, four, out two three four.”
She doesn’t know how long they stay there, her hand on his chest as he guides her through breathing exercises. It could very well be hours, but at the end of it she can breathe without the weight of the world sitting on her sternum. Yet, she still feels like a used washcloth, wrung out and left to dry.
Bucky lets her lean against him, her tears soaking into the cotton of his Henley.
“’m sorry,” she whispers, “’M sorry Bucky.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, do you hear me? Nothing. Christ, doll. I – I’m glad you came here tonight. I’m glad you didn’t… I’m glad you aren’t alone right now.”
“Me too… Can I… ‘m tired?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Let me change the sheets and then we can get you tucked in, okay? You stay here, finish your chocolate. I’ll be right back.”
Bucky returns moments or hours later, guiding Darcy through the apartment again and into the bedroom. He tucks her beneath the sheets and coverlet and then piles an extra quilt atop. Darcy floats – not because of the mattress, which is quite firm – but in her exhaustion and the rush of feeling lost and untethered. So she isn’t quite sure if it’s real, when he bends down and kisses her forehead before whispering goodnight. She figures though, that if it is a hallucination, it’s a good one.
Darcy drifts off as soon as he turns off the light and shuts the door.
Sometime in the night she comes awake to someone moaning, low and hoarse and pained. Blinking her eyes open, she strains her ears for more. Alone in the dark, all she can sense for a moment is the soft ticking of the clock on the nightstand, before a sharp cry breaks the quiet, a wordless scream.
“Bucky?”
Darcy flies out of bed, kicking and fisting at the covers until they give and she can scramble to the door. Pounding down the hall, Darcy skids right into the living room and flicks on the lamp nearest the hallway. Bucky drags himself into a sitting position, bracing his elbows on his knees and hanging his head, so his forehead rests on his palms. Even at this distance, Darcy can see the sheen of sweat on his skin.
“Bucky?”
“I’m okay,” he rasps, “I’m fine. Sorry to wake you up.”
When he doesn’t raise his head to address her, Darcy draws close. He stiffens a little when she settles beside him, wrapping an arm around his broad back and pulling him into her side. Shirtless, his skin bleeds heat, even through her layers and layers of clothing. Her own personal hot water bottle, now resting his head on her shoulder.
“You’re safe,” Darcy whispers, “I’m here. You’re safe now, they can’t hurt you anymore, Bucky.”
She doesn’t realize how carefully she’s watching his face until the grimace flickers over it, his lips twitching and his brow furrowing, even though his eyes have fallen shut again. Darcy brushes his hair back from his forehead, carding her fingers through it despite the sweat.
“It’s not that. It’s… Hurting other people. Innocent people.”
He turns just slightly, until his cheek rests against her clavicle and his forehead presses against the column of her throat, and he somehow makes himself impossibly small next to her on the couch. Darcy cups his head to her now, holding him tight. Though whether she’s grounding him or herself is up for debate.
“I wish I could take it away,” she whispers after a long moment of wrestling with the admission, “I wish there was some way to give you the peace you deserve, Bucky. You’re a good man.”
“I dunno about that, Darce,” Bucky mumbles, “But you make me wanna be.”
“You already are, trust me. Way better than Ian, or some of the other assholes I’ve met. Janey will agree with me on that one, hundred percent.”
They lapse into silence for a while after. Darcy watches the clock on the opposite half-wall tick, the big hand moving increment by increment. Bucky is a heavy pressure against her, sort of like a weighted blanket, reassuring and solid. But he’s slipping down, sliding towards her lap as sleep starts to claim him again, and he’s too heavy for her to move on her own.
“Buck… Buck, c’mon, bedtime.”
“’m fine here.”
“I’m not. C’mon, come with me. It wouldn’t be my first time sharing a bed, and lord knows there’s enough room on that monster. C’mon, up you get.”
Bucky follows, her sleepy duckling, back down the hall and into the bedroom. He collapses onto the side Darcy had left vacant, pawing a little uselessly at the covers before finally managing to burrow beneath. Darcy strips off the oversized hoodie, even though the room is cold enough to prickle at her skin; her own personal water bottle is already heating up the coverlet, and she doesn’t want to wake up sweaty and nasty. When she slides beneath the sheets and clicks off the light, the room descends into still and quiet once more. There’s barely any sound outside either, New York’s typical incessant thrum drowned out by a blanket of fresh-fallen snow. So the only sounds are her heartbeat and their breathing, Bucky’s evening out quickly behind her. That’s how she falls asleep again, listening to the long, slow draw of his breath.
When she wakes properly the next morning, it’s to a low murmur of voices.
“They fired her, Tony. Laid her off ‘cause she made too much for their tastes. She’s so fuckin’ smart… Darce could get any job she wants, but she needs somethin’ quick or she’ll lose her apartment. Not that she should even be in that hellhole. I mean, I could… Fuck… I don’t wanna be too forward.”
“Have you actually even talked to her? Or are you still following her around with the sad moon eyes and the kicked-puppy look whenever her back is turned?”
Holy fuck, is Tony Stark actually here? In the apartment? Darcy sits bolt upright like something out of an old movie, straining her ears.
“I do not,” Bucky growls, indignant. Stark, yes he really is here, just laughs. She can imagine him waving his hand at Bucky, dismissive and teasing at the same time.
“Uh huh. I have proof. Do you want to see the video? Peter put it together with Shuri, it’s set to music and everything. Maybe we should show it to Darcy, that might get your head out of your –“
“Stark, I swear to God if you ever –“
“You’ll skin me alive and hang me upside down from a flagpole or something of that nature, yeah yeah. Your secret’s safe with me. But no promises about anyone else. Natasha’s about ready to do it herself.”
“Jesus Christ. Why do I put up with any of you?”
Stark snorts, “Because we’re the only ones who will put up with you. There, all done, and I’m totally telling Shuri you let me tinker with your arm. How’s the lag now?”
“’s fine. Normal, feels normal. Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, being able to get a good look inside this baby is almost worth coming all the way to Brooklyn. Now, about Darcy’s little problem, Pepper and I have been drafting proposals to get Jane on the SI roster for months.”
“You have?”
They have? Darcy’s heart clenches painfully in her chest at the thought; does Jane know? She can’t possibly know, there’s no way she could keep something like that from Darcy. For one, she’s not that cruel, and two, she can’t keep a secret to save her life. That woman has no poker face.
Darcy slips through the door and creeps down the hall, bare feet padding across surprisingly sturdy old floorboards. Tony’s sitting at the counter island, same as she had last night, while Bucky’s on the other side with his hands braced on the granite. His eyes flicker up briefly when he registers her presence, before slipping back. But Tony is surprisingly observant, and so he turns to greet her.
“The lady of the hour! How are you, Sparky? Ready to become a Stark employee?”
“Are you serious? Have you talked to Jane?”
Jane is kind of… awful, about private sector work, and she’s maintained her (rightful) suspicions about SI until very recently. Darcy’s pretty sure Tony’s underestimating how much Jane might fight, even with Darcy’s need for money outweighing her love for Jane and thus the loss of her favourite (and only) lab assistant hanging over her head.
Tony scoffs again and waves his hand, “We’ll swing her to the dark side. Don’t you worry.”
“And if she says no?”
“Will you say yes?”
Yes, yes she will. She is that desperate. Darcy crosses her arms over her chest, mildly impressed that Tony’s eyes only linger for maybe thirty seconds. Bucky is very determined to look anywhere but, his ears going pink at the tips and his jaw set.
“Depends on what it is, and what you’re offering.”
“Make me an offer.” Tony smirks, opening his arms in that way she remembers from the Jericho Missile briefing all those years ago. She’d been a baby-faced undergrad at that point, sitting on her shitty dorm bed, watching the proceedings on her roommate’s equally shitty TV way back when, in 2008. That memory feels like lifetimes ago, and yet here she is, negotiating with Tony fucking (Edward) Stark.
“Living wage, benefits, health coverage, dental, holy shit dental. Support so I can actually go to class and do the science, not just the thankless grunt work, and lab space for when Jane caves.”
“Done, done, all the done, it’s already taken care of. FRIDAY, you have that, right?”
“You got it, boss,” a woman’s voice pipes up from Tony’s watch. Bucky jumps a little, glaring at the watch, but Darcy’s not even phased. She slept in the same bed as the world’s best assassin last night and she’s electrocuted a literal god; what’s a talking AI coming from a billionaire’s wristwatch to Darcy Lewis?
“Expect the paperwork on Monday. We might even send it with Manchurian Candidate over here, give him an excuse to talk to you. Anyways, I have to get going. The storm’s only getting worse and I don’t want to test the navigation adjustments I’ve made in a literal whiteout. I’ll be seeing you Lewis, Barnes.”
After he sweeps out, still talking a mile a minute, Darcy stands in silence by the island. Bucky shuts the front door with a firm hand and then locks it, letting his palm rest against the wood and his head bow.
“How much of that did you hear?”
“Something about puppies, moon eyes, sad looks? And a video? There was totally something about a video,” Darcy murmurs. Bucky swears softly under his breath in another language, probably Russian, and then sucks in a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for something.
“It’s true,” he mumbles then, back still facing her, like he can’t bear to let her see his expression. Darcy’s heart leaps in her chest, so hard it’s like it almost hits the back of her throat, and she has to swallow a time or two to keep herself calm. Without thinking though, she takes a step forward, and then another, and another, until her hand is on his back.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, ‘m crazy about you, Darce. I – I know I’m not… I am crazy, and I’m crazy about you.”
“Look at me?”
He turns around in a shuffling sidestep, shoulders rounded and head down, not meeting her eyes. Darcy stands on her tiptoes now, hand on his chest still to balance herself.
“I’m not gonna kiss you ‘cause I have morning breath, but I’m crazy about you too, you know. And I don’t care, about the other stuff. I mean, obviously I do because it kills me when you’re hurting. But we’re all a little mad here, so what’s your crazy to my crazy anyways?”
Bucky blinks, once, and then twice, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to process what she’s saying, before a near-blinding grin splits his face. And oh, if she weren’t so acquainted with it, his expression might well melt her where she stands. In that moment, Darcy knows why Steve almost burned the world down for this man; she’d do the same just to see that smile.
“I don’t care about the morning breath,” he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”
“C’mere then,” Darcy says, and opens her arms. Bucky steps into the circle she makes, cupping her face between both of his hands, and ducks to press their mouths together.
It might be snowing outside, it might be cold and blustery, and Bucky might keep his apartment on the wrong side of cool, but when their lips meet, sparks fly. For the near end of her world, Darcy thinks, when Bucky pulls away just enough to press their foreheads together, it’s a pretty good start.