All told, Darcy spoke nine languages. Pretty damn impressive, if she did say so herself. Not as impressive as, say, fifty-eight, which was the world record. But still, it was something that she prided herself on. She couldn't fly, and she couldn't shoot lasers out of her eyes, and she couldn't sing like Doris Day when she got really, truly sloshed (that was Tony's department), but she could learn Russian in less than a year.
Or at least, she thought she could. It should’ve been easy. She learned Arabic in a month and she learned Maori in a week. Russian, pfft. Russian was easy. A whiz kid like Darcy would have Russian down in no time. It would be fun, a cakewalk.
And yet here she was, pacing her bedroom in the middle of the night, half-snarling, half-crying into her phone, wishing she could punch that bastard Duolingo owl right in his smug little face. Truly, this was a new low for her. Serbian had been rough, sure, but it had never brought her to tears.
"Sobaka", Darcy hissed into her phone.
"Try again," the owl replied. He was staring up at her with that stupid shit-eating grin smeared across his face, and Darcy seriously considered tossing her cell out the window purely to spite a cartoon bird.
"Sobaka."
"Try again!"
"So-ba-ka."
"Try again!"
"Kill me now," she said, slamming her head against the wall.
"Honestly, I was considering it. You’re being pretty loud." The low rasp of Natasha’s voice was unmistakable. God only knows how long she’d been standing there.
Darcy cringed. She often imagined (re: fantasized about) Natasha knocking on her door late at night. There’d be soft music, and hands on faces, and sweet nothings whispered into ears. Occasionally whipped cream was involved. Exactly zero percent of her fantasies involved getting scolded for yelling at the Duolingo owl in the wee hours.
“I believe this is the point in the program where you apologise for waking up half the building?” Natasha said, employing a tone of voice typically reserved for school teachers reprimanding unruly children.
“I’m sorry if I was being too noisy,” Darcy said lamely. “I’ll be quieter.” After a brief pause, she added, “Please don’t kill me.”
Natasha gave her an appraising look. “I’m not going to kill you,” she said, turning to leave. “By the way, Lewis -- the emphasis is on the last syllable. So-ba-ka.”
---
"Are you seriously trying to give me romantic advice right now?" Natasha said, barely holding back her laughter. "The last time you got laid Eisenhower was in office."
"Roosevelt, actually, but that's beside the point," said Bucky. "Anyone with two brain cells to rub together can see that you're going about this the wrong way. You need to be...smoother."
"Smoother? Smoother? What in the goddamn hell is that supposed to mean?”
"It means you can't just barge into her room in the middle of the night and yell at her, for one thing."
"I did not barge. The door was open. There was no barging involved. And besides," Natasha said, "we had banter."
Bucky groaned and rubbed his temples. "Banter," he repeated. "Tasha, you threatened to kill her!"
"Obviously it was a flirtatious threat, not a murder-y threat."
"Listen," Bucky said, softening his tone of voice a little. "Darcy isn't like you or me. She's not a spy, she's not an Avenger, and she's definitely not the kind of person who can tell the difference between a sexy murder threat and a regular murder threat.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just a normal girl, okay?”
Natasha bit her lip, a little less sure of herself now. “I don’t know how to date normal girls,” she said. “Most of the girls I’ve dated were either aliens or assassins.”
"Can't go wrong with dinner and a movie," offered the HYDRA operative handcuffed to the wall. “It’s a classic for a reason.”
"Oh, you." Bucky frowned. "You're still here? We're done interrogating you. You can go now."
"Unless you uncuff me, I'm not going anywhere for awhile."
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Uncuff you? Right, I see that happening.” She turned to Bucky and said, "We should get a move on. This place is set to blow in - let me check my watch - fifteen minutes."
"Excuse me? Did you just say 'set to blow' ? Did I hear you correctly?"
"Yeah, we probably should have mentioned that earlier," Bucky said. "In a few minutes you're gonna get flash-fried. Sorry about that."
"Speaking of fried," Natasha perked up a bit, "do you think Darcy likes pierogies?"
---
Darcy flung herself onto the couch. "I'm such a dumbass," she wailed.
"Of course you are, sweetie," said Jane, not bothering to look up from her crossword puzzle. "That's why we love you."
"Natasha doesn't love me," Darcy said, burying her face into the couch cushions. "She thinks I'm a stupid idiot who doesn't know how to speak Russian."
Jane sighed and set her crossword down on the coffee table. "Darcy," she said sternly, "you're not a stupid idiot. You're upset because you're struggling with Russian, and you're usually a quick learner when it comes to new languages. Am I wrong?"
"No," Darcy mumbled.
"That's right," Jane patted Darcy on the head, as if trying to soothe a high-strung cat. "And your ego took a hit because your crush caught you doing something silly. That doesn't make you an idiot," she said, "not at all. You're smart, you're funny, and you're truly blessed in the boob department. If Agent Romanov can't see that then you know what? It's her loss."
Darcy lifted up her head from the couch cushions. "Yeah, you're right!" she said, "I'm a strong, independent intern who doesn't take shit from anybody!"
--
"Are you free tonight?" Natasha said.
"Absolutely," Darcy sputtered out, "I'm free every night of the week, except for Sundays, because that's when I live-tweet Dog Cops with Clint, but other than that," she paused to take a breath, "I have absolutely nothing going on."
Natasha blinked.
Darcy winced.
The room was suffocatingly silent.
"You probably think that was really dweeby," Darcy said finally. "That little...outburst back there."
"It was definitely dweeby. At least a seven on the dweeb scale. But it was also kind of cute, so I think you get a pass.”
"Oh, thank Christ."
"Since you're free," Natasha continued, "do you want to go see a movie? There's a theater in Brooklyn that's screening this old Soviet comedy, and since you're trying to learn Russian I thought you might like to see it. Tonight. With me. And we could get pierogies after, if you wanted. If you like pierogis."
"Are you asking me out on a date?" Darcy said, eyes wide with disbelief. “Like a romantic lesbian-type date?”
"Yes? Did I not make that obvious?"
"Well, no. No, you made it pretty vague, honestly. What time does the movie start?"
"Eight-thirty.” Natasha paused. “Is that a yes?”
"I’ll be ready at eight," Darcy said, grinning. "Oh, and in case you were wondering? I fucking love pierogies."
---
“What does that word mean?” Darcy whispered. The movie had subtitles, but in her rush to get ready for their date - what do you even wear on your first date with an international superspy? - she had forgotten her glasses at home. Every few minutes she had to lean over and ask Natasha for a translation.
“Da, pozhaluysta?” Natasha said. “It means ‘yes, please.’”
Da, pozhaluysta was now Darcy’s favourite Russian phrase.
When Natasha asked Darcy if it was okay to kiss her, she said da, pozhaluysta.
When Natasha asked Darcy if she wanted to head back to the Tower, she said da, pozhaluysta.
And when Darcy found herself pressed against a bookshelf with Natasha’s lips on her neck she said da pozhaluysta, da pozhaluysta, da pozhaluysta!
“Wait,” Darcy panted, “what if someone comes?” She imagined some poor research assistant stumbling into the library and seeing her with her skirt hiked up to her hips, lipstick marks all over her jawline.
“Someone’s gonna come, that’s for sure,” Natasha murmured, running her hands along Darcy’s waist. She whispered something in Russian, something filthy and obscene and deliciously indecent. Then she sank to the floor and began peppering kisses up and down Darcy’s thighs, making sure that nothing was lost in translation.