The suit felt stiff against his neck. Logically, he knew that the tie wasn’t constricting his airways – because unless Phil Coulson trained you, there was no way a Windsor knot could ever do any serious damage.
(“Come here, you.”
“I can tie my own tie, Darce.”
“Apparently not, babe.”)
Still, when he looked in the mirror it was like the air was punched out of him. He looked exhausted. His skin, usually a rich, almost sepia-like brown, now looked washed-out. It was like someone had thrown her favorite taupe eye shadow all over him.
(“It’s like you’re not even trying to understand the importance of contouring the eye socket!”
“Because I’m not.”
“Fine. See if I bother to do your make-up!”
“Thank god.”
“No – wait! Sam! Come back here, I swear to god! You will be Tony Stark and you will wear a beard, because I will be Pepper.”)
As he walked down the stairs, he could hear them whispering in-between themselves. For every two steps he walked, he could hear a weary laughter, most likely a distant relative who didn’t feel the loss as acutely as Sam did.
(“He lost a bit of his arm, and Darcy was so drunk she actually pushed the bit of arm into his mouth!”
“What? Why?”
“Because when you lose a bit of tooth, you’re supposed to keep it in the mouth until you get to the dentist.”
“And she thought that applied to arms as well?”
“She was drunk, dude.”)
The sound of his feet weighing heavily against the stair steps echoed in his mind, making the headache that had been subtly throbbing for the past seven days come to the forefront. The echo didn’t sound like drums, like it usually did. It was more like a heavy bass line, like those in the songs she would listen to if she couldn’t sleep.
(“I’m having trouble seeing how this will help you sleep.”
“That’s because you’re an old grump.”
“That is not true. I’m an Avenger; the kids love me!”
“Not as much as I love you, though.”
“It’s kinda hard to top that, babe.”
“True.”)
Jane was broken. There was something in her that would never really heal – it was the same something that was destroyed when Riley died. She had lost her friend, someone who chose to love her. Sure, she had family, but that was different kind of love. That love was required; you’re supposed to love your family. Darcy’s love was voluntary, and without any conditions.
(“How the fuck are you still alive?”
“I don’t think I am, to be honest.”
“Yeah.”
“And you? I was a mess after Riley.”
“I’m pregnant. I never got to tell her.”
“We got to tell people that she was pregnant. Didn’t change shit.”
“You’re supposed to congratulate me, asshole.”
“You’re lying with me on the bathroom floor. Is ‘congratulations’ a word you really want to hear?”
“Point.”
“The kid will be adorable.”
“Yours would’ve been too.”
“Fuck. Fuck everything.”
“Yes. Yes to all of that.”)
Thor came close to understanding. He’d lost family in more ways than one, and he’d always been smarter than everyone – including his team – gave him credit for. You didn’t get worshipped as the Æsir of war if you didn’t have a good set of head on your shoulders. And she was his sister. Everyone knew that.
(“I feel as though I should make the rain stop.”
“Yeah. She didn’t like rain, did she?”
“Nay. She was quite vocal about it, if I remember correctly.”
“Promise you’ll never forget her, Thor. I’ll be dead in 90 years, tops, and so will everyone who ever knew her. Maybe Steve and those with the Serum will live longer, but…”
“Fandral told my brother of how she fell me; and he’s always been fond of everyone who embarrassed me.”
“You never seemed embarrassed by it.”
“Because I wasn’t. But Loke thought I should be. He wrote songs about the Mortal with the lightning – the whole of Asgard is singing them. She will not be forgotten.”
“Promise?”
“Could you ever forget Riley, Samuel?”
“…”
“There’s your answer.”)
Steve was the only one who understood. The rest of them were supportive and understanding, but they didn’t understand. He was glad they didn’t – he was so glad they didn’t – because he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy.
(“Sam… Sam, come on. It’s been an hour. You have to let go of he –“
“No.”
“You do. She wouldn’t want this.”
“She’s dead, Steve. We’ll never know what she wants! Don’t you fucking understand? She’s dead.”
“I do understand, actually.”
“You got him back. Does it look like she’s coming back?”)
Bucky’s reaction was to protect. That’s how he showed he cared, words could never be enough for him. Not being able to protect Darcy, the girl who’d helped both him and Steve back from the brink countless times, hurt him. Greatly. So he did the next best thing: protecting the person she wanted to spend her life with. Making sure his time didn’t come too soon.
(“I don’t know what to say, Sam.”
“You’ve been sitting with me for three hours while I’ve stared at a wall. You don’t need to say anything.”
“I’ll mourn her.”
“I know.”
“I won’t forget her, either.”
“You’ve been spying on me, Buck?”
“You’ve been pretty messed up. I’m just making sure you don’t do something stupid.”
“I’m not suicidal.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Maybe I am. But I won’t actually –“
“You might. I need to be sure you don’t.”
“Fine.”
“It’s cute how you think I actually need your permission to take care of you.”)
Tony’s reaction was somehow the most devastating to watch. He’d loved Darcy; in the same way an Uncle loves his too-smart niece. Watching them interact was like playing with fire – come too close, and you’ll be caught in the crossfire. Sharp tongues and sarcastic smiles were in abundance, but it was impossible not to see the warm eyes. But now… He was wearing sunglasses, inside. He was squinting against the light, and holding on to Pepper with the intensity of a man holding on to life. What was even worse was how Pepper was gripping his hand even tighter.
(“You still haven’t cried, Sam.”
“I know. How’s Tony?”
“Drunk. I’m planning on joining him once I’ve gotten you in bed.”
“Darcy would have ma –“
“ – Made a sex joke. Yes. Walk up the stairs, say good night to Robert, brush your teeth and go to bed.”
“Thanks for being here, Pep.”
“She’s gone. I won’t be the mother hen she was – I don’t want to be. But someone needs to look after you.”
“No one was looking after her, though.”
“That’s not true, Sam. Go to bed.”
“Okay. Sleep tight, Pep.”
“You too, Sam.”
“Unlikely.”)
Natasha and Clint had come out of their shells since the Battle of New York. A lot of it was thanks to the team in its entirety, but most of it could be attributed to Darcy’s special way of friendship; a mix of invasive and subtle care. It was thanks to her that the team didn’t feel like Nat was playing a character when she was with them, it was thanks to Darcy that they got to know the real Nat. And when the real Nat showed up, so did the real Clint. But now… They were sitting so close they might as well have been one. Once again, they’d learned that caring was equal to vulnerability.
(“Tell me you don’t regret her.”
“Sam? Are you awake?”
“Tell me you don’t regret her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your faces. You look like you regret her. Like this pain is too much, and you wish you didn’t get to know her.”
“Sam…”
“She’s worth it. We may feel like absolute shit right now, but at least we got to know her. We got to hear her laugh. That’s more than most people can say. She was worth it.”
“Of course she was, Sam. She’s worth every ounce of this pain.”
“I can’t breathe, Nat.”
“Yes, you can. In and out. In and out.”)
They hadn’t seen Bruce for seven days. Hulk seemed to be mourning for them both.
(“Tony?”
“Hey, you’re awake! Want some scotch? We have a lot of scotch. Darcy liked scotch.”
“How long can he stay as Hulk?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Birdbrain.”
“I took a picture of him sleeping, because I thought she’d get a kick out of it. Then I remembered that…”
“Scotch. We need more scotch. DUM-E, get us some scotch!”)
Fury’s reaction was surprising in how it actually wasn’t surprising. Darcy had managed to wheedle her way into Fury’s life by tracking down his mother and figuring out when his birthday was. Fur was convinced she was a spy for three straight days, and actually placed her in a holding cell for four hours. Then his mother (“Call me Ethel, sweetheart.”) had forced her way through security and demanded that the, “Pretty little girl is to be released right now, Nicholas! This is not how I raised you.”
Fury had been impressed with how quickly she’d won over his mother, mostly because his ex-wife had never managed to do that in their thirty years of marriage. But it wasn’t until three weeks later, when Darcy had gifted him a 300-year-old version of Xenophon’s The Persian Expedition that he’d come to care for her.
(“Are you here to tell me to use this pain, and become stronger because of it?”
“You think I’d insult your marriage like that? Nah, even I wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“How did you become friends, anyway?”
“She’s smart. Fun. Liked to argue with me.”
“Did she win?”
“Most of the time. I usually agreed with her from the get-go, but she’s hilarious when she’s pissed.”
“What’d you argue about?”
“Edward Snowden, mostly.”
“Right. Cause nothing says ‘Sunday brunch’ more than discussing perceived traitors.”
“That exactly what she said.”)
With the exception of six words, Mr. Lewis hadn’t talked for seven days. Sam could hear him crying sometimes, or throwing something into a wall. They’d cleaned up the trophies Darcy had won for her debate team together, and the only thing that kept Sam on his feet was the supportive arm of his father-in-law.
(“You need to eat, Rob.”
“Drink this.”
“Please, just drink this. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“If I let you die, Darcy would never forgive me.”
“Darcy’s dead. She can’t forgive anything.”
“Please… Just. Eat the damn hot pocket.”)
He couldn’t remember the funeral. All he could hear was the buzzing in his ear and all he could see was the picture of Darcy that was sat on top of the coffin, surrounded by flowers.
(“Venus flytrap.”
“That sounds deadly.”
“I know, isn’t it great? It’s beautiful, but it kills its prey by crushing it.”
“Your favorite flower kills things?”
“Yeah! Like, spiders and shit. And you know how much I hate spiders.”
“You’re weird. I love you.”
“Right back at ‘ya!”)
Sam was of the opinion that Darcy was incapable of being anything other than beautiful. The picture on the coffin proved that; with her deep red lips curled into an easy smile, she was the picture of happiness and beauty. But it was more than that – it was in her kindness, her generosity, and her unwavering loyalty. She was beautiful from the inside out, and it showed.
(“Are you sure that I’ll be a good mother?”
“I cannot think of anyone else that I would rather raise my child with.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely.”)
And now, that kindness was the reason she was gone. Her inability to let someone be hurt while she could do something about it was the reason they were sitting here. And while it should make it better, it should make them feel like there was some reason they’d all lost the love of their life, it didn’t help one bit. Because she was gone. And nothing would change that.
Not even the fact that she’d died the hero that they’ve always known her to be.
(“She will be waiting for you in Valhall, Samuel.”)