Chapter Text
“Everybody take your seats!” the cheery organizer chirped in an aggravatingly musical voice. “Let’s get started!”
It wasn’t something Darcy ever pictured herself doing. Speed-dating. Really? She’d always thought it was kind of pathetic, reserved only for the saddest, most desperate and unlovable idiots in the world.
Well, she finally admitted to herself, I’m pretty desperate.
These past few weeks of watching Thor shower Jane with endless affection— kissing her hands like a gentleman while looking up at her beneath those perfect golden lashes, pulling out her chair for her at mealtime— well, it was repulsive, actually, but damn it, she wanted that! It was so nauseatingly sweet that it was all Darcy could do not to jump his godly bones. The man was sexy in a way you just didn’t find naturally on Earth, so she wasn’t quite sure why she was convinced she could find a similar match at speed-dating night at the diner.
Actually, the more she thought about it as she waited for the event to begin, seated at her small table with her clipboard of names, the more she thought she should probably just get up and leave. Who all was here tonight, anyway? She looked down at the roster, skimming over the names, and…
Well, these names seem conveniently and ironically familiar.
No way. It had to be a coincidence, right? Clint, Bruce, Henry, Phil...? And, oh, god…
Tony Stark sat down across the table from her, apparently not recognizing her from their few brief encounters in the past. He was wearing an expensive suit and silk shirt, his tie loosened and hanging lazily about his neck, and an equally expensive pair of designer sunglasses— indoors, at night. What a dick.
He gave her his best genius-billionaire-playboy grin, lounging in his seat in a manner that was a little too casual to be attractive, and gave her a presumptuous nod. “Hey, babe.”
Oh, god, he’s already drunk, Darcy lamented with a sigh. “Tony, it’s me.”
Tony frowned, stroking his perfectly groomed beard in thought. “Samantha?”
“Try again.”
“Uh...Christina.”
Darcy leveled a cold glare at him. Tony flinched. “...Amanda?”
“Darcy.”
Tony’s eyes widened slightly, and he paled. “Oh, listen, about that night— I was going through a really rough time, you know, death in the family or something…”
“Tony, we’ve never slept together.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“But we’ve met, sadly. I work with Jane?”
Tony still looked confused. “Jane...the Starbucks girl?”
“Jane Foster. The scientist. You know, ran over Thor a few times.”
Tony tipped his designer shades down his nose, inspecting her face briefly. “Oh, right, taser girl. Thor’s a big fan of yours.”
This night wasn’t going to end well. For either of them. She decided it was time to change the subject. “So, what about your husband, Captain Beefcake? Isn’t he a little upset that you’re here tonight?”
Tony huffed irritably. “He is so not my husband. We’re not even fucking.” Darcy gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, we’re totally fucking, but he’s not my husband.” He leaned forward in his chair, perching his elbows unceremoniously on the table. “But, see, I really need to settle down, ya know? White picket fence, beautiful lady cooking my meals for me in a French maid outfit, the works.” He looked her up and down over the top of his shades. “You, uh...you wouldn’t happen to be interes—?”
“Hell no.”
“Yeah, just figured I’d ask.” Tony leaned back in his chair again, and motioned for the waitress. “Hey, sweet cakes. Can I get a white Russian?”
The waitress scowled at him, keeping a good arm’s length between Tony and herself. “We don’t serve alcohol here.”
Tony abruptly sat up, ripping the sunglasses from his face in one swift motion to stare at her disbelievingly. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were,” the waitress groaned, stalking away muttering about how she needed a drink.
“Well, shit, I’m out,” Tony grumbled, and waved nonchalantly to Darcy. “Nice seeing you again, Darlene.”
“Always a pleasure, Tin Man.”
Tony did a double-take over his shoulder as he left, but he was already too drunk to properly process the half-hearted insult, and staggered out of the diner with his cell phone to his ear— no doubt calling Cap for a fling.
“Switch!” the organizer called out mercifully.