Four
Clint is only a little surprised that Darcy has not had it in her heart to leave a stranded thing like Lucky out in the cold, no matter the consequences. Her salary might just barely suffice to get herself through, but she always has enough money to feed the animal as well as the rest of the tenants – him included – because she has this weird-ass radar that will allow her to turn up with ‘left-overs’ at just the precise time when the grumbling stomach will become vaguely unbearable.
He doesn’t know how she does it.
Just that he gets into the habit of thinking of dog-food during his rare purchases and sneaking it into her cupboards when she’s not looking.
If she notices that she has a little more money to sustain herself, she doesn’t acknowledge it, but that is quite alright – he is rather good at not acknowledging that she keeps bringing Lasagne and other filling dishes to his front door whenever he thinks about having another slice of pizza that won’t feed him, but at least silence his stomach.
Also, he can’t help but notice that the wrinkles around Simone’s eyes smooth out gradually ever since the appearance of Darcy and her habit to ‘cook too much’ – the twins aren’t shy of showing their appreciation to Darcy with raucous laughter at her inane jokes or even just the regular wave of hands in greeting.
New Year hits them with the gentle fwump of a feathered pillow and he’s not surprised at all to find the collective of his tenants huddled together around a fire-bowl when Darcy finally comes to fetch him.
I realized too late that you probably didn’t read the Note I put on your fridge—she signs guiltily, as if it was her fault that he is a slob.
She pulls him to the roof at just the right time. Most of the snow has melted already leaving the streets and flat-surfaces cold and wet but not even frozen any longer, Simone is cuddling her boys to her, Deke, Tito and Aimee are squished together under a blanket and he can make out three cans of thermos that he doesn’t doubt are filled with various drinks. Lucky gives happy yips as he dances towards him, tail wagging beautifully and just the slightest hint of a limp in his movements.
Deke gives a bright smile and a holler when he sees them coming up; Clint can only read part of what he says – man… up… cold… Darcy… here – but he’s so enthusiastic and the rest of his tenants give grand smiles as well that he doesn’t hesitate when Darcy pulls him close to her and throws a blanket over his knees that she promptly dives under too.
He is handed a cup and some spiked cocoa that smells like heaven and they stay up on the roof until the fireworks have long gone, until Simone and her boys have fallen asleep in a happy, snuggly heap of family and when even Tito, Deke and Aimee have slumped against each other he’s still awake with Darcy; Lucky burrowed between them for the additional heat.
Thank you for taking care of us—she signs sometime around three a.m.
The fire is still going merrily, keeping them relatively warm, while the blankets shelter them from the wind that whistles gently around their ears.
Pretty sure I have to thank you for that too—he responds, albeit shakily and is gifted with the most beautiful smile he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
The last straggling fireworks are going up and he thinks he can imagine the sirens of EMTs as well as the drunken songs of party-goers from the streets; it’s what New Year has always been. Well… at least, before knowing the glamour that was a Stark-thrown party. He wonders if they miss him just the slightest, but pulls the thought back as soon as it enters his mind – no use racking his brain over such trivial bullshit, when he has all he needs right in his grasp.
Darcy moves them to her apartment when they wake with a combination of wit, haggling and coaxing where she cooks up the biggest breakfast either of them has had in a while – there’s hash-browns for the kids, Pancakes for Deke and Clint, Fruits for Tito and Aimee and a gratifying abundance of coffee.
--
He can’t help but think that maybe there is some hoodoo involved in the uncanny ability of Darcy Lewis to make people feel at home, bullying them just the right amount and helping when she knows it’s needed, but he has no proof and he is awfully unwilling to upset her and have her move out; because that would be a disaster.
Clint doesn’t even doubt it though. So he doesn’t ask.
You know, for now.
--
January takes it easy on them. Clint gets out more often, un- or willingly, joined a lot, lately, by Daredevil on his patrols that he has unknowingly started until they evolved into a full-blown Neighbourhood Watch Thing. Kind of.
Because while that might be a cute cover, it’s flimsy at best and Neighbourhood Watch sure as hell doesn’t put projectiles through people or clobber them down before delivering them to the closest precinct.
He’s not a killer though.
What he’s doing might verge on criminal vigilantism given his circumstances, but if the news have reached Avengers Tower his former team mates are not lifting any voices or fingers and considering Anthony Stark had ears and eyes everywhere should he so want, Clint takes that as his Go-Ahead. And runs with it.
--
The first time he actually meets the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is in his dumpster.
Literally.
The man amongst the plastic-bags has the gall to give him a grand smile as he opens the lid and says Step into my office in what Clint imagines to be a cocky drawl.
Clint is better now at reading lips. It’s still mostly hit and miss, but he’s started to get real good at piecing together the meaning of a sentence if he could somewhat guess the intent of the person by their body language and catch enough words.
It’s one of the things he has Darcy to thank for – mostly because once she realized he was learning how to read lips she exposed him to so. many. fucking. people that he was almost cross with her. If it weren’t for the fact that it actually worked.
Also, she had this habit of taking him with her during Lucky’s walk, plonk themselves down on whatever park-bench was available and make up life-stories of passing people with him. For Bonus points she would imitate a fantasized dialogue to mock him whenever she could see someone’s mouth – he’d gotten better at it just to have the satisfaction of contradicting her.
Darcy is pretty awesome.
And once he has accepted the fact that the cowled street hero of Hell’s Kitchen tends to end up in one or the other dumpster around the city and actually goes out of his way to bring the idiot back, at the very least to his home turf, they kind of become acquaintances.
Clint pushes Melvin Potter’s address into the mangled hand of the Masked Idiot one morning and doesn’t know what he has done until buildings explode around New York and Daredevil is being held responsible for it.
The Avengers head out to bring the Masked Vigilante to justice.
Hawkeye intents to beat them to it.
--
Matt Murdock is a blind son of a no-name boxer and, in his free-time, dons a bullet-proof costume and fights crime.
The first time he meets Hawkeye is at Arrow-Point with no way out. The man cannot hear him – he’s learned this as Daredevil – but the song of the arrow-string lets him know that one wrong movement and the projectile will embed in his body deep enough to stop him at least from running. Normally he’d be afraid that it’d pierce and go through-and-through, but Melvin’s design is supposed to be able to stop bullets so he’s not quite certain on that point.
Carefully he raises arms, grimaces at the angry twinge of his left shoulder; it feels dislocated. His right hand wipes at his face’s lower half to make his mouth more visible, hoping that at least, maybe, lip-reading is a thing that deaf people can do.
“Can I step into your office for a change?”—he asks, the attempt at dry humour passing by the fighter in front of him; light feet shuffle closer, the archer becoming deadlier each centimetre he nears his body.
Matt just wants to call it day.
--
Clint Barton meets Matthew Murdock on the couch of Darcy Lewis the next morning after she’s patched him up.
Hawkeye has had his doubts about Daredevil being the one to set off those bombs, especially given the fact that they had been placed too strategically and in quarters that the masked crusader has recently visited in order to secure. Given the fact that the development of the wounds on the prone man had been some time in the making it could not have been the very person he shipped off to his apartment complex.
He doesn’t know how Darcy got caught up in all of it.
One moment he is schlepping the heavy and mostly immobile body of one Daredevil up towards his apartment and the next, there she is, standing in the hallway with a Taser in one hand and her phone in the other.
She does not hesitate to bustle them both into her own four walls.
I have the better med-kit—she silences him when he tries to argue. I also have bandaged you so you know I’m capable.
"Could we use our voices, please?"—Daredevil asks verbally and Clint barely catches it from the corner of his eyes, but Darcy cuts the man a scathing look, fingers twitching mid-air, before she responds too quickly for Clint to read. He doesn’t doubt, by the way that most of the air leaves the man on his side in a whoosh that it’s quite the tongue lashing he’s getting though. Because Darcy Lewis can be fucking protective.
Put him on the couch—she orders him; Clint is smart enough to recognize it for what it is and heeds the command. Daredevil sinks into the cushioning with a slightly parted mouth indicating a sigh.
Darcy ducks behind the Counter for a moment, retrieving her Medical Kit, before she returns, signing for him to help her. She doesn’t move for the mask of the other man other than to quickly run her fingers over the material, checking for scrapes that might be new and have an impact on the all-over health of the man in front of her.
Clint is almost jealous of the way that she keeps talking to him where he can only catch words now and then, especially because she is seeing a lot more of the body of the man than she probably anticipated and even he can admit that the man has the stellar physique of an accustomed fighter. Nothing Clint doesn’t have… but he hasn’t quite been like this in front of Darcy.
The thought strikes him as odd later – when she has told the man in the mask to stay there and not move while she is clearing away the emptied wrappings and her Med-Kit, Clint hanging around the apartment undecidedly.
You’re staying, right?—she signs to him when he makes a first step towards the door.
He doesn’t know if she’s managed to guess his intentions, but he changes course nevertheless, sets down his bow and his arrows in the crook of her kitchen-counter, well shielded from curious eyes entering through the front door, but equally easy to access in any case.
“You wanna go to sleep?”—he asks quietly because it’s only occurred to him about ten minutes ago when he threw a cursory glance at her kitchen-watch that it is well past her bed-time and she has work tomorrow. Or at least, given today’s surprise explosions, he hopes she still has a place to go to work to.
Keyed up—she responds instead. But if I put my ass in bed and fall asleep, will you wake me up at five-thirty?
Clint nods; steps closer after only a moment of hesitance arms partly elevated at his sides. ‘Keyed up’ is a feeling he can relate to, has dealt with nearly all his life and he can vividly imagine the sensation of her blood buzzing under her skin; Bobbi has generally reacted positively to body-contact in those instances, but he cannot in good conscience compare his ex-wife to Darcy.
But she steps into his offered embrace without even the barest second of thinking about it.
She reaches his nose if she stands straight, but right now her body instinctively curls in on itself as she fits herself under his chin and into his shoulder, where she burrows as her arms fold into themselves and between them. For as much as Clint is aware that Darcy Lewis can be a force to be reckoned with, she feels fucking small against him right now – he doesn’t know if he should be as grateful for that as a part of him feels; he doesn’t really want to frankly.
Carefully broadening his stance, he pulls her closer still, enveloping her in his arms, allowing himself to become her blanket for just this moment, shielding her from the reality she usually works so hard to make easier on others – he figures it’s his turn to give back.
It doesn’t hurt either that her every curve is pressed against his angles and he cannot remember when last he has felt so strong and able to protect somebody. He feels like he could move a mountain if it were dumb enough to threaten her.
He also feels a little ridiculous for liking it.
###
The day after she meets The Devil Of Hell’s Kitchen she goes to a work-place that is closed. Han tells her, when she calls him, that they would make good money if she were to open the Diner, which she knows they will, but that she might want to call on some back-up from somewhere considering that it’s likely she’ll be overrun.
Darcy sucks it up and opens alone.
Lance and his men are one of her first customers and having anticipated them, she pours them their Big Boy Styrofoam Cups and gives some of the more tired ones a healthy helping of sugar for the way.
“You gonna do this by yourself?”—Lance wonders as she sends one of their shop-neighbours off with a little extra cookie before she turns to him.
“I’m a big girl, Officer.”—she teases him, braver than she really feels. “That Devil can waltz right in here and I’d still be sellin’ coffee an’ cake.”
Her drawl is almost provocative because she seriously wants to know what the stand of the 88th is towards the man on her couch and she’s not too surprised when Lance’s eyes shutter a little at the mention of The Devil. She’s breached the topic for a reason after all.
“You really think that was him?”—the man asks her quietly, pushing around his coffee with idle fingers; it’s a practiced image of nonchalance that she usually wouldn’t associate with Officer Lance Peyton.
Darcy has prepared herself for that question. “My momma always said you can’t look into the min’ of a man.”—she responds carefully, Texas drawl pushing through. She has noticed his weakness for the lilt and is only somewhat ashamed to use it to her advantage, but a girl’s got to know her weapons and how to use them.
“Between us though,”—she returns to her polished speech, shows him that she means no harm in her titter, “I think it’s a little weird for a person to want to bomb a city that they’ve come to protect these last few weeks.”
Lance looks lighter within the blink of an eye; she almost misses the minute lowering of his shoulders that indicate their having risen at all – she stows the information away for later contemplation of the indications behind that.
“Yeah.”—he agrees silently as he stands, his men behind him following his silent command and copying his motion, rising from their various seats at different tables. “Sure beats me.”
--
When Clint tries to stalk past her in the hallway in the evening, Darcy doesn’t even tap down on the annoyance that makes itself known in her and instead, flickers the light on and off like she’s seen in some of the movies dealing with acoustically impaired people – it’s supposed to draw their attention in a not too surprising way.
She doesn’t know where the agitation comes from doesn’t want to inspect its provenance right now.
There is a second-suit not too far from her, too, reddish-brown-black, two little elevations at the front of his head.
“You’re both stupid.”—she remarks when she leaves the light on and finds both Daredevil and Hawkeye in full regalia mere steps from her. Clint has the decency to look somewhat sheepish.
I know you’re going out there, it‘s not like I’m born on the moon—she tells Clint off. At least have the balls to tell me to my face.
Daredevil says nothing; looks to Clint – quite literally – to take over the situation. It’s the first time that she truly sees him in his tactical gear, though she has to admit that it’s a lot darker than she has always imagined it to be. She’s expected way more purple to be honest. But to be frank, save for the stylised arrow on his chest, there is barely any of Clint’s favourite colour to be seen.
“Darce…”—he tries, she gives him that, but it doesn’t continue from there, so she heaves a silent sigh and just shakes her head, raising her hands to sign as she talks.
“I know you’re going out, doing what you’re going. Take care, don’t be dumber than usual and don’t try to sneak past me again like I’m the dragon here.”
“You’d make an impressive dragon though.”—Clint lets her know before they slip out of the door and into the night.
--
If Wilson Fisk falls the next day in a more or less public fight with Daredevil and if the Avengers happen to get caught in various states of captivity by projectile then the news certainly know what piece of information to prioritize. Save for the Bugle, bothering only to hoist the headline Everything Awful – which: seriously? – and focusses on the erosion of the position of the ‘mere human’ in a society in which super-heroes take over the day-to-day-discourse.
It’s weak at best, and Darcy is much more interested in the short series of photographs issued alongside of the article – they’re decent and she makes a note of the name, if only to free herself from the overly angry tirade about the oppression of the little man fighting for a decent life in a world dominated by irrational super-vigilantes of what appears to be the editor-in-chief.
She opens the Diner armed with two freshly made chocolate cakes that make her a good additional penny and got her to exert all her nervous energy throughout the night as well as all of her Texan Charm that she lays on thickly, garnering mostly tired but grateful smiles.
Darcy is especially happy to manage and calm down a worried mother that hasn’t heard from their child ever since the news of the abrupt violence in the city has made it onto the TV – granted she has a lot of help from one of Lance’s officers, but even the man gives her a grateful smile when she pipes in with positive comments every now and then, accompanied by some hot cocoa and a slice or two of her cake, on the house. They deal just fine.
But then, she realizes as she walks home, her regular entourage of hungry mouths trailing behind her with an air of anxiety, that is exactly what the city is doing: dealing. She buys too many pizza-slices from The Pizza-Cart and leaves them carefully wrapped on a dumpster in a side-street, turning her head only once as she rounds a corner to get a glimpse of the hungry people that still around the parcel and gobble up the treat – two of them follow her with tired, but grateful, eyes and a slice each.
It seems that after the invasion from another planet, New York City can only barely catch a breath before some other kind of disaster strikes – this time in the form of obvious terrorist attacks by the likes of what is soon discovered to be Wilson Fisk. Darcy can feel the sickening punch in the gut that many desperate city dwellers wake up with these days from having believed in The Strong Man to clean up the streets.
Maybe it is her soft-science major that has taught her to be suspicious of easy political solutions; history shows that most of them have dark dealings in the background.
However she does understand the pain of reality now catching up with those who’d hopefully looked towards this man to help them.
When she comes back from her shift, it’s the first time that Clint is waiting in her apartment with the lights on.
It’s also the first time she catches him sleeping and does not have the will-power to flick the switch and wake him up. Lucky, from where he is splayed over the human perch the archer has unwittingly turned into, watches her as she quietly puts together some Curry.
--
Darcy’s world narrows down in the next few weeks to Work – Clint – Lucky – Home; sometimes including Matt Murdock. Him having bled on her couch has apparently granted her the privilege to know his name, or so he argues, although she has a feeling that this has more to do with the fact that she is aware of Clint’s alter-ego and still alive and breathing.
When she has the time, she bakes additional cakes and cookies to hand out amongst the tenants, drawn tighter and thinner each day as they amble through the city. It gets better every day, on the surface, houses are repaired, people are healed, but the rifts and cracks in the psyche of the inhabitants of the never-sleeping-city, those that frown over their book-shop closing, their coffee-shop destroyed by explosion, those that have to mourn a loved one are barely thought of and she can tell that it gnaws on them.
A part of her wonders if people are starting to feel like she does when thinking about her Jane and the comfortable position at her side that she’s been forced to abandon – it’s a sentiment she would not ever have wished on anyone, despite the fact that she is coping the best she can.
She started political sciences because she wanted to understand the system that made people tick these days; she wanted to know how it worked and what it needed – and there was also, sometimes, the desire to know what needed to be changed.
Even before she’d finished her degree, however, she’d come to the conclusion that political action was often insufficient in dealing with the pains of people as were – in the long run, naturally, the correct programme would help a-many, and it was always better than just leaving things the way they were. But Darcy did not like thinking of those that sacrificed as ‘necessary’ – on a personal level, she knew (wished) that those who had put many great movements into motion and suffered for their cause had not needed to do the latter.
And so she sets out to help the way she could best.
--
Thor was well aware of the happenings on Earth, albeit them plaguing him even in his slumber; especially these days in which he cultivated a much closer relationship with Heimdall – the all-seeing áss – than he previously had during his Golden Days on Asgard when he had had but play of swords and bed in mind.
His Lady Jane had, coming out of one of her much renowned science-binges - afl-hirða Darcy had named them thusly – recently realized that her most trusted companion for years had been pressed to leave her side due to the termination of the treaty that had assured her continued permission to enter the premises of Stark’s Tower.
He has not before seen the true face of rage where His Lady Jane was concerned, for he is certain that he would have remembered such fearsome a mask that settled over the beautiful face of his beloved. As it is, she has not mustered this kind of ill-intent even when his own father had compared her to an animal, and a most base one at that.
But the absence of her own Lady Darcy, her afl-hirða, had put her into such a state of emotion that she had been sheer unwilling to even think about returning to her work-station or listen to any of the words that the warriors and leaders at SHIELD could possibly attempt to calm her with.
Thor was unusually complacent in this, despite the fact that his inaction punished him with every day, for the Norns had unveiled to him a vision lest he might interfere in their plans – it was not his design, for these beings held the very Thread Of Fate in their ghoulish hands. And so, as much as it pained him, he stood aside and let his systir go; hopeful that she might return from her quest more centred and grown than she had been before.
He does, however, regularly take the freedom to have Heimdall look for her and recount about her well-being. For he is still her brother and it would be egregiously negligent in not making certain that she might be well.
It is thusly that it might he has glimpsed a plan of the Norns, for he has been informed of her novel proximity to the Archer Clinton – news which, at first, greatly comforted him for he still does hold the man in highest regards; despite his bodily misgivings which have, apparently, been enough reason to ask of him to leave the brotherly band of The Avengers.
Thor is not certain if this was the right decision, but he has learned to stand by the decisions made for the Norns have plans for every single being around the Nine Realms.
Knowing that both afl-hirða Darcy and the Archer Clinton have found each other in one place allows him to breathe easier and wonder if, maybe, the reason for the Norns to send him the vision has been another one all-together, given that this alliance may enter into his realm of responsibilities.
--
It starts when Darcy bears precious cargo to the door-step of her Diner one day and as she opens up, puts out a box filled to the brim with a fuck-ton of scarves, hats and gloves that she has made time and leisure for to make in the last few weeks.
When Lance smiles at her in that surprised-pleased way she has first seen when she has introduced him to Aislin, she knows that she is yet another step closer to actually becoming a good person.
Homeless folk and Curious Georges alike stop next to the box to root around in it and find a pair of gloves that will fit them, or even exchange an old hat for a new, warmer one, leaving the worn head-wear next to the box. During the lulls in her shift, she carefully watches the coming and going and feels the warmth of each soft smile or nod that finds its way through the window-pane and to her.
The 88th is there the next day with their Swear-Jars from all over the departments, intent on buying coffee, tea, hot cocoa and a hot meal for whoever might brave the Diner – Han has to come help out because Darcy finds herself swamped; she has not in a long time felt this content.
--
When the wear-and-tear starts to heal around her, Darcy finally allows herself to slow down a little and instead look out for those who might be ready to share – grief comes in stages after all and Darcy likes to think that she has mastered them, even though her degree says political science and not psychology, given the fact that she has guided two scientists through grand emotional upheaval as well as several of her System Buddies.
Aimee is the first to admit that she has lost someone.
It happens by chance and when the young woman catches herself spilling the literal beans to Darcy over a box of Cookies she made because it’s Sunday – that is a totally valid reason, shut up – and a cup of tea, she forcefully stops herself, re-evaluating the situation. Darcy waits it out with her, silent, despite being aware of what is happening and allowing herself to feel just a smidgen of pride when Aimee decides to continue confiding in her.
Her co-tenant tells her stories about her Grams and her days in the USO, touring with The Captain America; due to unstable construction the neighbouring house close to one of the explosions had crumbled onto the frail body of the elderly woman and buried her. Needless to say that the bike-messenger has found herself at odds these last weeks – Darcy is familiar with the period of not-being, the window of processing, in which the events catch up with the rationale and one realizes that this is now, indeed, reality.
Usually this revelation is quite the bitter pill to swallow and Darcy is not surprised when they graduate from Tea to Tequila.
She is forever grateful for Clint, though, who later carries her upstairs and to her own apartment like the total bro he is.