Feet Ready, Heartbeat Steady

Steve is exhausted as he makes his way to the common floor more from muscle memory than with conscious direction. His only thought is getting some food and crashing in his suite – there’s a tell-tale quiver in his bones that tells him that if he doesn’t get some protein soon, he’s going to pass out. There are downsides to his super-fast metabolism.

Three steps out of the elevator, he realises the common room is not empty. There is one brunette stirring some pot on the stove, another chopping vegetables with practised efficiency. Both stop to stare as he halts in the middle of the room.

“You look terrible,” Katya says flatly and returns to her chopping.

Darcy covers her laugh with an unconvincing cough, grabs one of a stack of bowls beside the stove. “Come and have something to eat.”

As he stares, she adds a spoonful of sour cream to the steaming bowl of stew. Once done, she pushes it to the other side of the counter, to a space in front of an empty bar stool. Katya has finished her chopping and is mixing her ingredients in a large bowl. She looks up, catches his eye. “If you keel over, we are not dragging you anywhere except out of the way.”

Darcy frowns at her sister, firing off a stream of disapproving Russian. Katya shrugs, adding another scoop of mayonnaise to her bowl and stirring some more. “You’ve already adopted zimniy soldat, the Black Widow, and the archer. Why not add the walking flag?”

Darcy sighs, then her gaze flicks to past Steve to the elevator beyond. “I thought you were going to spend some time at the firing range?”

“Something came up,” Bucky says, striding past to take up a post by Darcy’s side.

“Heya Buck,” Steve says. Bucky graces him with a carefully blank nod of acknowledgement. Steve finds himself grinding his teeth. It’s like coming up against a brick wall, again and again. He wants to shake him, yell at him, make him remember, wipe the sympathy off Darcy’s face… he drops onto the indicated stool, pokes at the stew with his spoon. “What is this?”

“Zharkoye,” Darcy says, covering the pot again. “Katya, is the salad ready yet?”

Katya picks a cube of something out of her bowl and pops it in her mouth, then nods. At Darcy’s look, she heaves a put-upon sigh and spoons some onto a small plate for him.

“Thank you,” he says, somewhat unsettled by their hospitality.

“Just eat,” Katya mutters. “Apparently Darcy has an innate need to feed people.” 

“And you like to eat, so it works out well.”

“Stupid enhanced metabolism.”

“Amen,” Steve mumbles through a mouthful of stew. It is really good – thick and flavourful, meat falling off the bone — and he finds himself near-inhaling it. Both women turn to look at him, gazes dropping to the nearly-finished food in front of him.

“Yours must really suck,” Darcy says sympathetically, ladling seconds into his bowl.

“It’s not all bad,” Steve says, feeling oddly defensive. “It’s just been a long day. With Thor off-world, I’m the heavy hitter on the team. We could really use another person or two on the ground.”

It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, the moment breaks. Katya straightens with a sniff. “We left for a reason, Rogers.”

Steve’s shoulders slump. “I’d hoped…”

“Well, you hoped wrong,” Bucky says.

Darcy looks indecisive. “If you really need help -”

“No,” Bucky interrupts. “You will not.”

Darcy fixes her soulmate with a steely glare. “Excuse me? You didn’t even let me finish.”

Eyes of storm-grey meet those of bright blue, and neither seems willing to blink

Steve stands, suddenly eager to get out of there. “Thank you for the meal.”

“I’ll get your dishes,” Katya offers unexpectedly, already gathering them up. She deposits them in the dishwasher as he backs towards the elevator, joins him in there as the doors slide closed.

Darcy waits until they are alone in the common room before rounding on her soulmate. “What the hell was that?”

“You were going to let your soft heart get in the way of your better judgement.”

“You had no idea what I was going to say! And if I wanted to help, you have no right at all to- to forbid me.”

Bucky steps forward, deliberately crowding her. “No right all all?”

She doesn’t back down, stares him down though he stands over a head over her. “None. You’re my soulmate, not my commanding officer.”

“I do not need to be either to see you are still recovering from a head injury and are out of practice; the risk is unacceptably high.”

“Well, I don’t see you volunteering. And he’s your friend! You barely even looked at him.”

“Oh, like Dr Foster is your friend?”

Darcy flinches. “That’s not fair. She won’t talk to me. Steve is desperate to connect with you and I know you remember him.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yeah, I do. You think no-one notices the way your accent changes when he’s in the room, how you always look surprised to find him taller than you?”

Bucky’s face closes off and he takes a step back. She mirrors his actions, steps forward. “I know you’ve searched them up. Jim Morita. DumDum Dugan. Peggy Carter…”

“Don’t push me,” he growls.

“Make me.”

His eyes narrow at her brazen challenge, their faces mere inches, then centimetres apart, then closer. When it happens, the kiss is furious, a tangle of teeth and tongues. Darcy bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and he pulls back with an oath. She takes the opportunity to push past him. "Don't," she says, pausing at the stairwell when he makes to follow. "Or one of us will say something we both will regret.”

Piles of paper lie around the room, weighed down with half-empty coffee mugs and takeout containers. A machine in the corner hums as the woman standing at it adjusts a dial. Indecipherable black handwriting slants over every surface. Darcy runs one finger over the writing; all that comes away is dust. Heaving a deep sigh, she grabs the nearest leaning tower of paper and begins to leaf through it.

The trash is bagged, the cups are emptied, and Darcy has sorted about half the notes by subject when a young man halts in the doorway. “Hey! What are you doing in here?”

“Tidying up,” Darcy says, skimming the page in from of her. She recognises about half the jargon — Einstein-Rosen Bridge it is. She may rag Jane with her apparent inability to remember scientific terms, but that’s only because it’s what Darcy Lewis would do.

“You can’t be in here,” he protests. “Dr Foster doesn’t like to be interrupted when she’s working.”

“Well, at least you’ve learnt that much.”

There is a squeal from the machine in the corner and both turn to see a hand extend in their direction. “I need to take some notes,” Jane says, still glued to the viewfinder.

Darcy’s replacement looks around, almost dares to disturb one of her neat piles until a well-aimed glare warns him off. “I need some paper,” he explains, taking the top page of the nearest unsorted pile. Both sides are covered with writing; to Darcy’s annoyance, they seem to be in different coloured pens. Great, different topics on one page.

Shaking her head, she stalks over to the stationery drawers and pulls out a stack of giant sticky notes and a pen. She slaps them into Jane’s grasping hand, waves off the distracted “great, thanks,” and goes back to her sorting.

“How did you know-”

“Same way I know never to give Jane permanent markers and the alcohol-based cleaner is under the sink for when she gets her hands on one anyway.”

“I knew that, but then we’d lose the notes!”

Darcy finds another pad of sticky notes, starts copying down the research that covers the walls. Jane’s handwriting deteriorates when tired, so it is easy enough to tell different pieces apart. “Grab the cleaner, I’m doing with the whiteboard.”

“How can you even read that?”

“Practice. Now get cleaning.”

When Jane looks up, her machine now decorated with sticky notes, she does a double take at the state of her lab. “Wow, it hasn’t been this tidy since -” Her eyes come to rest on Darcy and she tails off.

“Heya, boss-lady.”

“Wait, are you the previous assistant? The- ” he gulps nervously “- lying assassin spy girl?”

Darcy turns and gives him a slit-edged smile. “That would be me.”

He turns pale, nearly trips over his own feet in an effort to escape.

“What was that?” Jane demands. “He was the best one so far.”

Darcy raises an eyebrow. “Really? You have dark circles the size of my fist beneath your eyes.”

“Is that some sort of threat?”

She winces. “What? No! Poor choice of wording, okay? You haven’t been getting enough rest. And that top should not be loose on you! Friday, can you get our usual order from DeLuca’s?”

“Acknowledged, Miss Lewis.”

Jane drops into the nearest chair, now that is is no longer covered in paper. “What are you doing, Darcy? Or whatever you call yourself.”

“Darcy’s good. And I’m trying to do my job.”

“I thought I fired you.”

“Technically, you didn’t. You just stomped off.”

“Don’t you have — I dunno, spying to do? Sisters to rescue?”

“Maybe. But I wanted to look after my best friend, first.”

Jane’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Finally, she droops. “You lied to me.”

“I did,” Darcy agrees. “And if I had to do it again, I would. Probably. The world I came from is messy and dangerous and it hurts. I wanted to leave it all behind me.” She allows herself the luxury of a short, bitter laugh. “Look at how well that turned out.”

Jane makes a face. “I just can’t believe it, you know?”

“Believe me, it is no less believable from the inside. Most of that is disbelief that we actually got out, but still. I was so happy before this whole soulmate-assassin-Avengers mess started.”

“Really? As my intern? You must have done some fascinating things.”

“Oh, I have,” Darcy agrees, “but swanning around Monaco is heaps less fun when you know it’s going to end with your shoe in someone’s throat.”

“Your shoe?”

“They’re called stilettos for a reason, Janey…”

It’s two days later when Steve appears at Darcy’s door. “I know it’s sudden,” he says, “but you mentioned you might be able to help. SHIELD are sending me on this mission and something about it feels off. I got permission to bring a consultant along — pretty sure they are expecting Nat, only she and Clint have disappeared.”

Darcy narrows her eyes. “Where’d they go?”

“Beats me. Could be middle of Iowa for all I know. They do this now and then.”

“What’s wrong with the mission?” Bucky asks, suddenly looming at Darcy’s side. They haven’t discussed their fight in the kitchen since — haven’t talked much at all.

Steve shuffles his feet in response, shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure, that’s what disturbs me. There’s a base of insurgents with hostages in the Carpathian Mountains and they can’t send the STRIKE team in. Something about an aeroplane?”

She thinks back. “I’ve heard about this. Ever since they downed a commercial airliner, it’s been this whole international incident and the UN has specifically banned national security agencies from getting involved.” She squints at him. “Why are you going?”

“SHIELD think there’s something more than insurgents going on. They seem too well organised; I was asked to accompany the peacekeeping team to the village they occupy.”

 Darcy makes a face. This is exactly why she didn’t want to be part of this whole hero business. But Steve was right. Something about these militants had struck her as wrong, and-

“Given the location, it might lead to your sister,” Steve offers.

She looks at Bucky, trying to read his expression, letting him read hers. He scowls. “You can’t be serious. I won’t be able to cover your back on a UN-led mission.”

“Don’t wrap me in cotton wool; I’ll suffocate." 

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Safe was never an option for me.”

“Then how about alive?”

She shrugs.  “I managed well enough on my own.”

He wants to remind her that ended with his hand around her neck. Instead, another answer rises unbidden to his lips. “The thing is, you don’t have to.”

There’s a sharp inhalation from the man in front of them that both ignore.

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

Darcy reaches up, pats his cheek. The other hand spins a knife that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Sweetie, you could try.” She turns to Steve. “When do we leave?”

The UN Team Leader stares when Darcy strides off the jet behind Steve. “That’s not the Black Widow.”

“She was busy,” Darcy says, giving him a smile that shows far too many teeth. “Call me a cousin, of sorts.”

He shudders; behind him, one of his men crosses himself. Dismissing them as unimportant, she tunes into the briefing Steve is giving. He’d given her the rundown on the way to the staging point; it’s an odd feeling, being involved in the planning stages rather than simply being pointed at a target.

At the end of the briefing, Steve takes a breath, glances over at her. “One more thing.” She tenses up at he continues, “There have been unsubstantiated reports of a blonde woman among the insurgents. Be careful of her – she is far more dangerous than she looks. If possible, do not engage.”

The UN team look suspicious but they nod in acknowledgement. “Fall in,” their leader orders, and they file onto the troop transport that will get them close to the village.

Darcy falls into step beside Steve. “Unsubstantiated rumours? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell. This was the best way to get them to keep an eye out, without having to explain the whole story.”

“You lied?”

Steve gives her an amused glance. “Why is that so shocking?”

She holds up a finger. “One moment, I’m just readjusting my world view.” How did she slip into the habit of seeing a potential threat — and current ally — in such one-dimensional terms? Bucky’s right — she is out of practice. A shiver runs down her spine.

This was a bad idea.

“I’m not that much of a boy scout,” Steve says, startling her out of her morbid reverie. He actually looks concerned for her, which is new.

“This would be so much easier if we found Anya’s soulmate,” she mutters.

Steve blinks at the non-sequitur. “What do you mean?”

“It was saying his words that stopped Bucky, you know? I was like, this close to passing out.” Noticing the curiosity of the soldiers around them, she crosses her arms and sits back for the rest of the ride.

The first part of the mission goes exactly as planned. They infiltrate the village, locate the hostages, and the UN troops go in as Steve makes a distraction three streets over. Darcy is content to keep an eye on things from afar until one guy tries to shoot Steve from the shadows beneath her perch, which is just rude. His shot goes wild as she drops onto his head, but it goes unnoticed in the general melee. She is all set to climb up again when the team radio crackles.

“Captain, the blonde woman is here. We’re already three men do-”

The transmission cuts off with a gurgle but Darcy is already moving.

It takes less than a moment to recognise it is indeed Anya, struggling with one of the remaining troops. Halting for a moment, Darcy studies her sister’s form. Her actions are smooth, to be sure, but almost too carefully choreographed. The Anya that Darcy remembers would never pull off such a perfect combination — she would stop partway to throw something or to take advantage of nearby furniture.

With a burst of inspiration, she grabs a nearby jar and hurls it at Anya’s head, knocking her off balance. Her sister turns to this new threat, face still eerily blank until another jar hits her in the chin. A flicker of offended rage breaks through the mask, then disappears, and Darcy grins in triumph. The previous fight had gone against her because she had known she was fighting Anya, with all that entailed, had split her attention to be ready for whatever trick Anya would play. As her sister comes at her in a flurry of blows, she stops expecting the unexpected and just fights.

Block, punch, dodge, jump — then she spots a moment of opportunity. She catches the punch Anya throws, pulling her off balance, and slaps the Hulk-level sedative patch onto Anya’s neck as she stumbles past. Anya spins, kicks, and Darcy retaliates with a one-two punch and a roundhouse kick that sends Anya flying across the room. She gets up again, but wavers. Clutching at the wall, she slides back down again.

Darcy takes stock of the room, rubbing bruised knuckles absently. Several of the UN soldiers are staring, wide-eyed. Two of the men on the floor are stirring; the others will not be getting up again.

“Are the hostages safe?” she demands. Someone nods and she gestures around them. “Get these guys to the transport as well then. Her as well. If you have restraints, they may be a good idea.”

Steve radios that he is in the clear and she orders him to meet them at the pickup point. Perhaps she is overstepping, but the man she recognises as the commander is one of those who is not moving and no-one else is taking charge.

She is ushering them outside when a door across the room bursts open and men pour in. The UN troops hesitate, but all of them still standing bear a load. Sighing, Darcy shoves the soldier with Anya over his shoulder out the door and turns to face her new opponents.

They come at her in a rush, and her daggers dance death among them until one blade gets stuck and she must abandon it, leaving one side vulnerable. A heavy fist strikes a glancing blow above her eye, opening a cut and obscuring her vision. Deciding discretion is the better part of valour, she makes a break towards the doorway.

She almost makes it.

Her foot catches on something — someone, probably — and she stumbles, giving one attacker the time to come up on her blind side. She doesn’t see the fist that sends her spiralling into unconsciousness.

Her mouth tastes of cotton and antiseptic, her eyelids heavy with disuse. Her muscles have that odd flatness that she associates with enforced inaction.

“She’s awake, sir,” says a voice by her head. “Her brainwaves indicate that she is fully conscious.”

Cool fingers peel open one eyelid, shine a light straight into it and she cannot help the flinch that results. The hand retreats, only to return to slap her cheek with a stinging crack.

“Open your eyes, Darya. We need you awake for this.”

Judging it better to know her surroundings, she opens her eyes.

She is seated and restrained in the middle of a non-descript room. Machines whir and hum, but they are angled so she cannot see their displays. Looking down, there is an IV line running into her arm and she is still in her tac suit, though her weapons lie in a pile across the room. They even took those handy bracelets that Tony made for her. Hopefully, they got a nasty shock in the process.

Dread begins to pool in her stomach. Damn Steve Rogers, and while she’s at it, damn Natalia for disappearing. Oh, all the choices she made on her way here — accompanying Steve, fighting Anya, sending them away — made sense at the time, but she can’t see a way out of this.

She hopes Bucky will forgive her.

A mouthpiece is shoved into her mouth and she chokes. Before she can spit it out, white fire explodes through her veins, her very soul, eclipsing sense and reason until there is nothing but agony, pulsing and crackling as it pours through her, pushing against her skin from the inside out. Abruptly, it cuts off and there is nothing at all but blessed absence.

Slowly she becomes aware of noise around her, garbled and indistinct as if heard from a great distance or from underwater. It takes a moment for her brain to understand them as words, even longer to parse their meaning.

“Yes, the readings are most satisfactory. We can begin the conditioning on the next round. Increase the intensity by 20%, we don’t have time to spare on this one. We’ve wasted enough time transporting her here.”

“Yes, sir,” acknowledges the technician beside her as he adjusts a dial and flicks the switch.