Bygone

She’s afraid to spend another fifty cents to ride the trolley and instead walks from the subway station to the Stark building. The eleven pillars of invention are gone, along with all other remnants of the 1942 Stark Expo. All that’s left is the gleaming, boxy Stark Industries building.

There is no reception desk, only a lobby that leads to the elevators. Each elevator has an operator. The man nods at her and inquires which floor she needs.

“I need to see Mr. Stark.”

The man’s brows raise in surprise. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, sir. But I know that he’ll see me, and I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

She’s insistent through three underlings and two severely disapproving secretaries.

This attitude lands her a meeting in an office on the forty-first floor with a man called Donald Trent and his secretary Matilda.

“I understand you refuse to leave until you meet with Mr. Stark?” Mr. Trent asks her, hardly looking up from the paperwork on his desk.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Stark is in London.”

“Well, can you telegraph him?” Darcy asks, now desperate. She’s running out of money and it’s now going on noon. It will take her another hour at least to return to the neighborhood.

Mr. Trent looks up at her and flatten his lips into a thin line. “Matilda, please retrieve Marge. Take Miss-“

“Mrs. Rogers.” Darcy repeats.

“Mrs. Rogers to the conference room.”

“Yes, Mr. Trent.” Matilda leads Darcy from the room, down the hall, and through a pair of paneled doors. The room smells of cigar smoke, and there’s an ashtray full in the middle of the table. There are also several highball glasses on the table.

“Please wait here.” Matilda says, her voice free from inflection.

Marge is a boxy woman in her fifties with snow-white hair and a no nonsense manner. She looks Darcy up and down in a way that makes Darcy think the woman has been through a lot.

“Mrs. Rogers, did you have a dalliance with Mr. Stark?” Marge asks once the door is shut behind Matilda. Marge moves to sit at one of the chairs, pushing a half empty glass away with a small sneer. “Have you come to present his child?”

Darcy blanches.

“Or do you perhaps want to sell him your expose?” Marge folds her hands on the table looks at Darcy over the rim of her glasses. “I can assure you, Mr. Stark will be uninterested in any of these news items. If your husband has a complaint, he can talk to Harold Robbins, the head of security downstairs.”

“Howard Stark was a... friend of my husband’s.” Darcy hides her shaking hands in her lap. “Mr. Stark told me to come to him if I ever needed anything. Here I am.”

“Mrs. Rogers, Mr. Stark uses that phrase as a salutation. I’m afraid that there is nothing we can offer you.”

“I need,” Darcy stops and takes a breath after her voice quivers on that word, “you to make sure that you inform him of my presence when you next contact him.”

“Mrs. Rogers, I’m sorry -“

“No. No, I’m sorry. I will be back tomorrow afternoon to check for word from him.” Darcy stands collecting her purse. “And then I shall return the next day. You will find that I am very persistent.”

The hotels nearer to the Stark Industries buildings cost $5.21 a night. Darcy asks after cheaper lodging and is directed west. She walks twenty-two blocks west until she finds an older hotel with cheaper rates. She books it for two nights for $4.10, haggling the front desk attendant down fifty cents.

The look he gives her tells her he sees it as charity. She doesn’t give a damn.

The next afternoon she is not allowed on the elevators at Stark Industries, but after she raises enough fuss, Marge comes down. They had not contacted Mr. Stark yet and would not do so until he contacted them.

The day after that, Marge is waiting for Darcy at 4:30. Darcy is damp with sweat all over in her winter dress after her mile long walk, and her feet have blisters.

“Mrs. Rogers, I must discourage from continuing on in this manner. I will mention your visit to Mr. Stark, but I will not see you again until such time as he instructs me to do so. Do you understand?”

Darcy nods with as much dignity as she can muster. And really, is this so much worse than the time she met Pepper Potts while arguing with the barista in a random coffee shop in LA about how many espresso shots she’d gotten while wearing her fuzzy Iron Man pajamas?

“Tell him I will leave word with the Barnes-Prescott family.” Darcy tells her, then hurries away to try to catch the cheaper rush hour fare back to Brooklyn.

It’s nearing six when she gimps up to Prescott’s, which is thankfully still operating. The door is locked however, and the lights are off inside. On the door it says Proprietor John P. Prescott.

John’s father Edwin must have passed the business on. Darcy knocks firmly on the door, hoping someone is working in the back.

“They’re already closed up, ma’am.”

Darcy closes her eyes at the man’s voice. Then she turns with a harried smile. “Oh, I hope you can help me. You see, I’m from out of to-own, and I’m lookin’ for Mr. Prescott’s wife. She’s my cousin, you see. Only I’ve lost the piece of paper with their address, and this place is a lot bigger than where I’m from.”

“Mr. Prescott’s wife?” The old man repeats.

“Rebecca? She was a Barnes, of course. I’m already meant to have been there.”

He nods. “You’re not very far off. They live about four blocks south. You’ll take a left onto Mulraney. They live in one of the brownstones.”

“Thank you!” Darcy gushes, almost forgetting to put on the southern accent she’d affected.

She has to ask for directions twice more, once she reaches the brownstones, to find the right house. It has a well-kept stoop and is a far cry from the apartment back in the neighborhood.

Darcy knocks on the door as the sun begins to set.

“Oh, come on. Come on, come on, come on.” She mutters when no one comes, and then knocks again, a little harder.

After a couple minutes, she sees the shape of someone moving beyond the curtains and the door opens.

“Darcy?” Rebecca wears a pale green bathrobe, and her hair is tousled. She’s pale, and pales further at the sight of Darcy on her stoop.

Darcy darts forward and braces her friend when she veers towards the door jamb.

“Darce? Is it really you?”

“It’s me. It’s me.” Darcy wraps an arm around Rebecca and fights tears. Her friend has changed. Rebecca is softer around the middle, a bit wider there, but frail in the arms. Her cheek bones are too pronounced.

“Come in. Get inside, and hell, help me back upstairs. I’m not meant to be out of bed.”

Rebecca locks the door behind Darcy, and then Darcy helps her up a wooden staircase to a bedroom upstairs. The bedroom has two large windows, and a big bed. There’s also two wardrobes, a valet, and a writing desk.

Rebecca clings to Darcy as she gingerly climbs into bed, and closes her eyes with what seems like exhaustion as soon as she’s in. But they open again, familiar dark brown eyes pinning Darcy, alert and inquisitive. “Sit!”

A tug has Darcy landing on the edge of the bed.

“Where have you been? Tell me everything! Steve said you disappeared again, right in front of him!”

“I haven’t been anywhere.” Darcy says. “Just a few days ago Steve and I had you and John over for dinner. Then I... left, and appeared here. I went back to the apartment, but- Mr. Grant let me stay for a night. And then I’ve been in a hotel for two days, and then I thought to go to Prescott’s.”

Rebecca’s hand tightens on Darcy’s wrist. “Days?”

Darcy tugs her wrist free and reaches for the buttons at her collar. After five buttons she can push the dress over her shoulder, revealing the fading Brooklyn skyline inked onto her upper arm.

With a light touch, Rebecca traces a finger over it.

“Rebecca.” Darcy looks her friend straight in the eye. “Where’s Steve?”

“Oh, Darce.” Rebecca’s eyes fill with tears. “Darce, he didn’t come home. Neither did Bucky.”

Darcy feels her world crumble. “No. No, no, no. Please.”

“I’m so sorry.” Rebecca says, wrapping an arm around Darcy’s shaking shoulders.

“But Steve,” Darcy chokes out, and then can’t continue. But Steve. It’s Steve. He promised, and he always kept his promises. He was as steady as the sun, always waiting in the hall outside the apartment, leaning against the building outside the bank.

Waking her up every morning with kisses on the back of her neck. She cries herself sick and has to stumble into the bathroom across the hall. Then she starts again and she just can’t stop.

Rebecca comes for her, bracing herself against the wall. She pulls Darcy back to the bed, tucks her in, and wraps Darcy up tight in her arms. Only those thin arms banded around her keep Darcy from falling completely apart.