Bygone

Darcy stumbles forward, a pair of bright blue eyes spearing into her own, like a beacon. Brick walls on either side, a godawful smell, and then she sees a big, angry man. Thankfully pointed away from her, but fists swinging.

Blue Eyes, her beacon, goes down.

“That’ll teach ya to go stickin’ your nose in where it don’t belong.” The big man yells as Darcy tips towards one side, bracing herself against the brick wall. “Don’t got Barnes followin’ ya around now, do ya?”

The big man pulls his leg back as Blue Eyes tries to stand up.

Darcy grabs the closest trash can lid, has a second to think huh, that’s heavier than I thought it would be and then she brings it down on the big guy’s head.

He goes down and Blue Eyes gets up. He’s got narrow shoulders and Darcy can look straight into his eyes standing flat footed. They’re really pretty eyes, with the longest lashes she’s ever seen on a man.

“Miss?” Blue Eyes frowns at her, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets. He glances towards the bigger man, who lies face down in the alley, then back up at her. Blood begins to drip out of his nose. He opens his mouth and then his eyes widen and he darts forward, catching Darcy as she pitches towards the ground.

 Darcy comes to on something soft, with a cool cloth dabbing at her forehead. "Jane?!"

“There you are now, and look at you.” A young woman with dark brown eyes and brown hair smiles down at her. There’s a worn green ribbon tied in her hair.

Darcy sits up in a panic. She’s on a narrow twin bed, the mattress lumpy underneath her, in a room she doesn’t recognize. The lamp on the side table is dim, and she stares at it, not quite comprehending. There’s a flame dancing on a wick. It’s an oil lamp.

“There, there. You’re alright now.” The woman says softly, reaching up to dab at Darcy’s cheek with the cool cloth. “Why don’t you tell me where you live? We’ll have someone run over and get your parents.”

The woman is wearing an old fashioned dress. Vintage style, except Darcy has a feeling it’s not vintage. She remembers a flash of light. Jane’s scream. A pull.

Darcy turns, scrambling for a basin of water. She heaves twice, but nothing comes up.

“Rebecca.” A woman says from the doorway. She’s got a stout, sturdy build and a scrutinizing expression. Gray hair streaking through brown. “Why don’t you keep Steven company?”

Rebecca gives Darcy an encouraging smile and abandons her seat next to the bed. Darcy sits the rest of the way up, feeling the older woman’s gaze on her.

“Ya expectin? Run away from home?”

“No ma’am.” Darcy answers automatically. The woman reminds her of her aunt Bev, who hadn’t taken bullshit from anyone and could smell a lie before it even left Darcy’s tongue.

The woman nods her head. She wears a stained white apron over a navy dress that is obviously well worn and fraying at the edges. Her stockings sag at the ankles.

“Steven says you appeared in a flash of bright light. One second you weren’t there, an’ the next you were.” That scrutinizing look gets even more severe now. Holy Thor, the woman could give most SHEILD agents Darcy had met a run for their money.

“Yes ma’am.” Darcy figures honesty is the way to go.

“You got a way to get home?”

“No ma’am.” Darcy shifts, heart aching. “Not even with a million dollars and my own airplane.”

“A million dollars, huh?” She braces her hands on her hips, looking Darcy up and down. Darcy fights against the urge to sit up straighter and loses, and she’s slumped her way through a meeting with Nick Fury and Pepper Potts. “Steve also said you walloped Elridge Hambert upside the head.”

Darcy wins the fight and doesn’t fidget, instead raising her chin. “He was going to kick him when he was already down.”

The woman looks up at the ceiling in plain exasperation. “Steven! I swear that boy is going to be the death of me.”

Darcy says nothing, still trying to take in the room. Like that might tell her where she is. But it’s small, with dingy walls, and a boxy dresser. One window looks over the building immediately next door.

“I’m a good Catholic woman, and I love that boy like my own, and trust him more than. He says you appeared in a flash of light, I’m going to believe him.” The woman steps further into the room. “You can stay here on three conditions: you get a job to pay your way, you go to church with us every Sunday and Wednesday, and you never lie to me.”

There’s that Aunt Bev look again. Darcy hopes for a bright light to zap her back out again, but she’s left with the woman waiting for her response. Damn you Jane!

Darcy spends the rest of the evening in bed. Mrs. Barnes insists.

Rebecca brings her dinner, but Mrs. Barnes calls for her within a few minutes, telling her Darcy needs her rest.

Which means Darcy is more than rested up when Rebecca comes in for bed. And Darcy realizes that they’re meant to share.

“Ma says we’re going to say you’re Daddy’s niece.” Rebecca tells her, stripping down without a qualm. “Tomorrow I can bring you into the shop to meet Mr. Prescott. If you sew well, he might let you work in the back.”

“I can’t sew.” Darcy tells her, now squishing herself to the wall as much as possible.

“Not at all?” Rebecca’s brown eyes are wide.

“Not a single stitch.” Darcy answers with a shrug. She’d listened to the radio in the other room earlier and learned it was September fourth, 1942. She’d been a little shell-shocked since.

“Well, I could teach you but... Mr. Prescott is very exacting.” Rebecca dashes across the chilly room and climbs into bed. Her knees knock against Darcy’s and she shivers. “I don’t think you’ll be able to get a job there. What can you do?”

Regurgitate pop culture from the future? Collate astrophysics data? Repel SHIELD agents? Toast poptarts like a pro?

“Type! I’m a really fast typer. Typist!” Darcy looks over at Rebecca. “That’s a thing now, right?”

“Can you really?” Rebecca’s brows are raised. “Where did you learn?”

“Where I come from everyone can type. It must be like sewing here.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll go to see Mr. Welker then, at the bank. He’s had a sign in the window for weeks.” Rebecca looks uncertain though. “Are you sure?”

“Why?”

“Not many girls from around here could have afforded the classes. If you really can type, you could get a higher paying job. Let’s not tell Ma unless you get it.” Rebecca smiles, but it twists oddly. “I used to wish I could learn to type. But I wouldn’t have met John.”

“John?”

“He’s my fella.” Rebecca’s smile turns genuine. “He’s Mr. Prescott’s son. We work together at his father’s shop.”

Rebecca is more than happy to spend the rest of the night telling Darcy all about John Prescott. His hair! Oh, and how he wears his coat collar! How sweet he is to her!

The next day Rebecca leaves Darcy at home to go down to a neighbor’s house to see about some clothes for Darcy.

It isn’t until Rebecca is helping do up Darcy’s dress that she explains that Lizzie Neiner had passed away from tuberculosis. Darcy’s mind scatters, trying to remember if that was one of the contagious ones.

“And her mother just gave them to you?”

“No, of course not. I’ve promised to do up her boy George’s shirts and slacks.” Rebecca responds, and at the time Darcy hadn’t realized that the promise meant weeks and weeks of late night work for Rebecca after ten hour days at the shop.

“Now, don’t let him scare you.” Rebecca says, clasping Darcy’s hand as she leads her down the street. “He’s a strange man, but he’s decent.”

Of course, Darcy almost ruins it before they get started. But she’s peering down at this giant typewriter with Mr. Welker and Ms. Howitz staring over her shoulder. And the keys are slightly offset and certainly more cramped together than the keyboards she’s used to. And it’s missing some numbers.

“Where’s the one key?” Darcy is already cringing.

“Why, you use the ‘l’ of course!” Ms. Howitz snaps.

“This model is a bit different from the one I used back home. Maybe you could type a line or two while I watch?” Darcy suggests, and Rebecca winces, her brows knit together anxiously. It’s only that Darcy is looking at this thing and she realizes there is no backspace, and she doesn’t know how to reset the bar or crank the page up.

“Well, I-“

“Calm yourself, Ms. Howitz!” Mr. Welker looks Darcy over. “I thought you said you were a typist.”

“A very fast typist! I just haven’t used a model like this one.” Darcy insists. “I assure you, once I’ve seen it through once or twice, I’ll be golden.”

“Golden.” Ms. Howitz repeats faintly.

“Golden.” Rebecca says with a firm nod.

“Show her how it’s done, Ms. Howitz. I do not have all day!”

Darcy feels sweat dripping down her back as she watches Ms. Howitz load a piece of paper, set the bar, and begin typing. She resets the bar with a loud ding and starts a second line. Her movements are so fast it’s hard to track.

Ms. Howitz stands up again, her shoulders stiff. She nods at the seat.

Well, shit. Darcy sits down and cranks the page down, then resets the bar. Ding!

“Right here, please.” Mr. Welker taps at the top of a handwritten bank note.

Darcy stares down at the keys in a way she hasn’t in years and starts typing. She has to push the keys harder and down farther. She’s slow to start, and certain she can feel Ms. Howitz’s eyes boring through her skull like a laser.

Then she picks up speed and nods to herself. Ding! She keeps typing. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

She’s reached the end of the note. She turns in her seat to look up at Mr. Welker.

“You’ll be here at seven-thirty in the morning on Monday, and you’ll leave at six. You’ll report to Ms. Howitz. The job pays eighteen dollars a week.”

Inflation. Inflation. Inflation. Darcy manages to hold in her howl of disbelief, which is good because Rebecca looks as if she’s going to swoon.

Mr. Welker does not offer her a hand to shake, so Darcy clamps hers to her side.

Once they turn the corner at the end of the block Rebecca grabs her and spins. “Eighteen dollars! And you weren’t lying, you really can type fast!”