Darcy/Rumlow 8
“You’d think someone who obviously went to the Killer Academy of Badass Killers would know how to dress himself.” Darcy gave Brock an innocent look as she moved over to where he was standing in front of the full-length mirror, fucking with his bowtie. She slipped between him and the glass surface, reaching up to bat his hands out of the way before tying the black scrap of fabric for him. “You tie me up just fine, but this you struggle with?”
A smirk rode his lips as he leaned to the side to check her work in the mirror. “I’ve had more practice with that.”
“Well, thank fucking god, or I’d have to do that myself, too, and that would just get awkward. Stop-” She slapped at his shoulder, lightly enough that he’d probably barely feel it through the black tuxedo jacket. “Stop moving around.” She fiddled with the tie, then adjusted the lapels of the jacket before stepping out to the side and looking at him critically. Acceptable. “Jesus, is that why we’re working together? So I can make sure you’re presentable? Please tell me you at least know how to dance.”
His eyes cut to her, one eyebrow raised. “I know how to dance.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Darcy turned away, eyes scanning the hotel room’s bed until she found the small blue clutch. After picking it up, she turned back to her partner-slash-date. “Are you ready to go?”
“Why am I doing this again?” Brock asked wryly, offering her his arm.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together they walked to the door. “I dunno, I think you might actually like me.” She reached out and opened the door, ducking under his arm when he caught the edge to hold it open. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”