When Steve steps through the door of his apartment that night, it’s to the sight of his girlfriend on the floor, curled in the small space between the edge of the couch and the fake fireplace he had installed earlier that week.
He drops the bags of groceries in his arms the second he sees the small track of wet black paint slipping down her pale cheek.
Darcy Lewis is strong enough physically and stronger still in personality. She cries during the ending of Selena every time she sees it, chokes up at each animal rescue commercial (and then plots world domination in the name of rescuing said animals, which he always has to talk her down from), and can’t watch the Grave of the Fireflies. The only time she’s ever cried when the television was off had been last month, when her mother had called to tell her her grandfather had died (it had been filled with whimpers, drawn-away and endless. Steve had never felt so hopeless in his life).
This crying is different.
It’s silent.
Steve falls to his knees when he hits the carpet, down on her level, walking on his knees to approach her. He can see her shoulders shaking underneath her black sweater, hands hiding her eyes but not the bottom lip she has drawn tightly under her teeth. There’s another black tear slipping down after the other, and another on the other side, moving in time with the small hitches of breath that reach his ears, and Steve’s heart twists painfully.
“Darce?” He murmurs, stopping just shy of touching her. He can see the way she tenses up, but she doesn’t remove her hands from her eyes. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Watches as she visibly swallows. “I thought you were supposed to be working with Jane today.”
The laugh that jumps from Darcy’s throat is harsh and bitter and straightens Steve’s spine in warning. It’s wrong. His eyes narrow, his own shoulders tensing as her lip finally escapes her teeth.
“Do you know that asexuality doesn’t exist, Steve?” Of all the things he had expected her to say, that hadn’t been one of them.
“What?”
Darcy’s eyes are red-rimmed when she drops her hands, her glasses glinting from where they had been pushed to the top her head. Her makeup swarms under her eyes like hollowed bruises, and she stares up at him with a lost expression, tears still glittering on her eyelashes.
“Asexuality. It doesn’t exist. There is no way for someone to be asexual, because every person has a sexual drive.”
“That’s … not right.”
(So many things had changed since his time, during his time on ice, during the time after. Now. The opinion and definition of sexuality had been one of those things. The slowly (grudgingly) grow of acceptance of homosexuality, the confused acknowledgement of bisexuality, those had been the big three of his lessons.
When Steve had wandered into the labs of Stark Tower three weeks after Dr. Foster’s arrival to ask Darcy out on a date, the feisty brunette with sly eyes and wicked smile had been quick to inform him that she was “asexual”, and it had been something new. One of many terms skipped in his history lessons, deemed unimportant and inconsequential. (She had explained it slowly, with all the enthusiasm of a patient teacher with a willing student. She felt attraction toward people, yes, but it wasn’t sexual. “Basically, in a way that everyone seems to understand, I feel absolutely no desire for a man to stick his dick into my vagina” she had finished bluntly, and damn the mouth on her! But she had been quick to reiterate that she did feel attraction, that she could appreciate a body, but that she fell in “brain lust”, and would also very much like to go get ice cream.
All he had been able to think to say was, “… So you don’t think I’m hot?”
And Darcy, because Darcy, had eyed him slowly with a smirk and said, “I think you’re pretty.”)
He had studied the term, the history – there was so little of it, as those who identified as asexual were so few, the spectrum so wide that there were no real set rules on it. So, in the end, he hadn’t tried to find them. He had gone to get ice cream with the foul-mouthed curvaceous woman, had listened to her running commentary of life, soaked in her personality like a sponge. Had gone out four days later for lunch at a hotdog vendor, another two days later to dinner at a small, unimpressive diner where they had dunked French fries in milkshakes and laughed at stupid things no one else would think were funny. When he had suggested that they start dating, he did it with understanding.)
Darcy likes hugs. She likes hand-holding and cuddles and teasing kisses. She’s indifferent about petting and it does nothing for her, which quickly makes it weird, and he doesn’t do it. She doesn’t like sex.
So they don’t have sex.)
There are tears in Darcy’s eyes again, the kind that swim but don’t fall and obviously burn. “But that’s what Jane said,” she mutters, and Steve’s eyes go wide at the admission. “She said it’s not real. She said since I still, you know, masturbate, that I obviously feel sexual attraction. She said that asexuality is just something people claim because they haven’t figured out their orientation yet, or because they want attention.” She chokes a little, a tear finally pushing out. “It was like … it was like hearing her tell me that I don’t exist, Steve. That’s my best friend. And she, she thinks-.” The word cuts off into a keen, and Steve finally surges forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and dragging her quivering body against his as she sobs, ignoring the way her glasses dig into his face as he rubs her back.
“Shh. Shh, Darcy.” He presses kisses into her hair. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks, baby. It doesn’t matter what she says. She doesn’t know everything, Darcy. She doesn’t understand.”
“Then she shouldn’t have said anything!” It’s growled, harsh and anguished, followed by a fresh wave of hot tears on his neck, and he tightens his hold.
“No, she shouldn’t have.” She doesn’t hear him, and he doesn’t say it to be heard. He shifts her just enough so that he can reach in his pocket for his phone, and texts Bruce to the sound of his girlfriend’s hurt.
Jane has just fired up her main computer when Tony Stark whips through the door like a whirlwind, Dr. Banner seconds behind with an indulgent expression that makes her chuckle.
There isn’t a plate of warm poptarts on her desk as there usually is in the morning, and it makes Jane sigh. She hopes that Darcy isn’t still mad from yesterday.
“Ya know, Foster.” She jumps as Stark’s head pops up over the top of her screen, a hard smile on his face. “The general consensus of the world is that I’m a dick. But I don’t think I’ve ever made a friend feel like they were nothing just because I didn’t like something they were doing.” He pauses. “Or not doing.”
It’s too early to deal with Tony Stark, and there are already calculations floating on the screen. “What are you talking about?” She asks, distracted. She needs to make an adjustment in that equation, that number looks a little off-
The screen goes dark with the slap of a hand, and when Jane looks up again Stark’s smile is gone.
“Darcy,” he says flatly, and unbidden an image of her intern’s hurt eyes flashes in her mind.
“She… told you?” Jane wonders, brow scrunching up. She had thought her and Darcy’s conversations were private, friend-between-friend, girl-to-girl.
“Steve did, actually,” Dr. Banner offers from his own desk, where he’s lounging with his hands folded behind his head, the glare of the light on his glasses blocking his eyes. But she knows he’s looking at her. “Text me about it last night while he was comforting his heartbroken girlfriend.” The last part is dry, and Jane shakes her head, frown deepening.
“Look, I don’t know what you think happened-.”
“Really all we need to know is that you made Darcy cry,” Stark interrupts. “I mean, that would be enough for me. But we also know it’s because you had a disagreement about her sexuality.”
“It is not a sexuality,” she butts in, firm, because honestly. “Asexuality doesn’t exist. If someone doesn’t feel sexual attraction, then there is something medically wrong with them that needs to be corrected. Otherwise, it’s … a ploy or something for attention. An excuse not to settle down, or whatever.”
There’s a moment of silence before Stark snorts.
“You actually believe that,” Dr. Banner says, a tone of abject wonder to his voice. She looks over, and he’s shaking his head. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.”
“No more Futurama for you, Bruce-babe,” Stark taunts, before turning back to Jane, expression serious. “There is a lot of proof that asexuality is a thing, you know. Like the existence of a large group of unrelated people who identify with it.”
“Well, not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Stark, but I don’t agree with it.”
“Hmm.” Stark twists around, pacing away from Jane in the silence of the lab, stopping a few feet away. “Do you know, Dr. Foster, that Clint doesn’t agree with homosexuality?”
“I…what?” Her eyes dart between Stark and Dr. Banner – their relationship is no secret, what with their unashamed soft touches and small kisses in public. She’s never seen Agent Barton have a problem with them. “But, but you and Dr. Banner-.”
“Ye-puh.” Stark whirls back around, popping the ‘p’ as he does. There’s still no smile on his face. “Because see, while Clint doesn’t agree with homosexuality, he realizes that what happens between me and Bruce? Does not affect him.”
Jane shakes her head. “That’s different-.”
“It’s really not,” Dr. Banner cuts in. “It used to be that everyone believed homosexuality was just an excuse to have sex with whatever they wanted. That it was a medical condition. There are still people that think like that.”
“Clint just doesn’t think that there’s a point in having a sexual relationship that isn’t driven by the need to procreate,” Stark adds, chuckling. “Of course he told us about this, when Bruce wanted to make sure that our PDA wasn’t going to make anyone uncomfortable,” he shoots a look toward Dr. Banner, “Because Bruce is a considerate asshole, and he likes his friends.” He turns his steely gaze back on her. “Do you know the difference between Clint’s opinion on different sexuality and your opinion, Dr. Foster?”
She doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t think he expects her to.
“Clint told us because we asked him,” Dr. Banner provides. “He didn’t throw it in our faces when he found out about us. He didn’t tell us we were wrong, or that homosexuality didn’t exist. He didn’t imply that we were sick, or demented, or evil. And he doesn’t try to make us stop. He doesn’t agree with it, but he jokes about our relationship with us, teases us, gives me advice when I’m ready to strangle Tony.” The two share a look. “He’s still our friend. And he supports us. If someone were to rail on us about being homosexual that way your railed on Darcy for being asexual, he’d have our backs, his personal feelings aside.
“You told Darcy everything you felt. You let her know your opinion and you let her know that you applied that opinion to her.”
Finally, the smirk is back on Stark’s face, and it makes Jane’s stomach sick.
“Darcy knows exactly how little you think of her, and it cut her. That’s your best friend, Foster, that you claim to love.
And you did that.”