Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

March 27th, 2018

Bucky's Hut, Wakanda

Bucky stared at the name. He'd never known it.

Dinah Lewinsky.

She was a Polish Jew. She had immigrated to the U.S. as a child with both her parents. She and her parents settled in Utah, where they then had another daughter, Golda.

More things he hadn't known; he'd thought her sister's name was Jane. Maybe it was her English name? Who knows? He hadn't even suspected that she'd been born outside the U.S.

Reading on, he saw that all the Lewinskys, except Dinah, had died in a house fire on Christmas Eve 1935. The house was condemned, and the property was razed, leaving the girl all alone in the world with nothing but the clothes on her back. It's no wonder his girl was always solemn on Christmas.

He had known her family was dead, but seeing their death certificates was a surreal experience, as he was confident not even Darcy had seen them.

And no matter what the papers said, she'd always be his Darcy. He didn't know this girl named Dinah. Obviously, Darcy hadn't wanted him to. For a moment, he felt he was disrespecting her memory, as delving into her past had always been a hot topic between them. But she was gone. What harm could knowing now do?

As his eyes roamed the document, his heart clenched at how clinically her life had been presented. Cold, hard facts were listed as flippantly as dot points, and not an ounce of her fire and stubbornness bled through.

She shouldn't have been reduced to words on paper. She'd been so much more.

He flipped the page, and what he saw made him grit his teeth. This part he'd had an idea about. However, as was often the case with Darcy, he'd never been given a name.

Jonathan Morris.

The scumbag she'd run from.

There, between his fingers, was a marriage certificate dated October 12th, 1937, declaring Dinah Lewinsky the wife of Jonathan fucking David fucking Morris. He had half a mind to burn it.

Quickly, scanning the other sheets of paper, he noticed anything else relating to Jonathan was conveniently absent.

Natasha was probably hiding shit from him. He wasn't fazed. Sooner or later, he'd find out what he wanted. If they lived to see another day, that is.

He glared at the offensive document. How could a piece of paper be so rage-inducing?

A quick mathematical solution later, and Bucky determined they'd been married less than five years before she'd run from him. Darcy probably only married him because she was all alone in the world, and he'd abused it.

Fucking scum of the earth.

Scum of the earth, fucking scum of the earth, fucking scum of the earth!

Bucky doubted he was still alive, but if he were, the Winter Soldier would gladly pay him an enthusiastic visit.

Darcy would never speak of her husband - damn near bellowed his ear off the last time he'd demanded answers - but he could only imagine that he'd been pure evil. Darcy saw the good in everyone and was loyal to a fault. Jonathan fucking Morris would have had to have damn near killed her for Darcy to give up her identity and flee the state.

Moving on, he'd found the information he'd already known: her residence at a boarding house in New York City and her employment as a secretary at a law firm. These, however, were listed as Darcy Lewis, the name he'd known and loved her as.

Nothing, however, following 1945.

His gut twitched with a warning, and he sensed someone's approach.

"Natalia."

"Yasha."

She was the only one who insisted on calling him that. Really, she was the only one left who knew that pet name. It was not a train of thought he wanted to dwell on.

"Steve said you'd started looking into it."

He shrugged, shifting in his chair to properly face her, "It seemed like as good a time as any."

They were also likely going to die tomorrow in the fight against Thanos, and honestly, he was sick of not knowing. When he first started to remember his beloved Darcy, he'd dismissed her as a fling of old. Then, when she became more prominent in his memories, he'd thought fondly that perhaps they'd been sweethearts until his draft. However, she was clearly a lingering presence in his old life. As the memories bled through his dreams and haunted his waking thoughts, he knew he'd vastly underestimated her importance. Before long, he could remember just about everything about her. Chocolate malt shakes, baseball games, tumbles in his bed... a love he had never thought he'd experience. Eventually, Bucky gave in and asked Steve about the short, stubborn, fiery brunette that still claimed his heart.

The unsure smile Steve sent him had made something coil uncomfortably in his gut.

"I looked into her when I was first adjusting," he'd admitted.

"…and?"

"… I'll have Natasha give you what she found."

Which was currently laid out before him, but Bucky doubted this was everything, "There's more, ain't there?"

"Nothing relevant."

"Bullshit, Romanova, I want all of it."

She shrugged deceptively helplessly, but Bucky was cluey to it and glared at her. Did she forget who taught her subterfuge?

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, "I don't have all the information. It's not as though files from that period were uploaded electronically. You should be thankful even that amount of information stood the test of time. But I showed you everything you wanted to know."

Shaking his head, Bucky persisted, "Come off it! I want all of it."

"I spent weeks going through the archives finding what's In front of you," at his dubious glare, she amended, "I had the archivist spend weeks combing through everything and then compiled the relevant information for Steve. However, I have spent the last few days looking into it again."

As he'd suspected then, she knew something more, and he was resigned to the fact that it wasn't good. He tried to release a steady exhale, his heart splintering at the notion that he'd been too late.

"She's dead, isn't she? She didn't make it this long."

To his surprise, Natasha visibly hesitated. Latching onto this, he was filled with panicked trepidation - was she still alive? Please say yes. Further surprising him, Natasha plopped down in the other wooden chair at his table, looking at him gently. It did not assuage his nerves.

"Dinah-"

"Darcy," he corrected her.

"-Darcy went missing."

And just like that, his stomach plummeted.

Missing? How? When?

She didn't need an invitation to continue, "About two weeks after you were declared K.I.A, Darcy vanished from New York. A friend, Katherine Thompson, reported her missing."

Bucky's head was reeling. He didn't remember a Katherine, but Darcy could inspire loyalty from anyone. He grabbed the arms of his chair, trying to remain calm.

Gauging his reaction, Natasha continued, "Ms. Thompson also suspected foul play."

The wood gave way under his grip and snapped.

"What."

Ignoring the damage to the chair, she slowly continued, "She claimed that a blond-haired, blue-eyed man had come into the office looking for her. He didn't identify himself, but Ms. Thompson was concerned by his manner. The report says she found him to be jittery," Natasha's eyes bore deeply into his, "And that's when Darcy walked into the room. Ms. Thompson claims that once the man caught sight of her, he immediately left without speaking to her. Darcy didn't show up for work the next day."

"Who was it?" he demanded coolly, although his heart was burning with white-hot anxiety in his chest.

Natasha shrugged, "How should I know?"

"Because you wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise," he said, annoyance beginning to leak out.

"I have a theory."

"Goddamn it, Romanova, just tell me!" he growled at her.

Nerves of steel as always, she barely reacted except to raise an eyebrow but relented, "Want to take a guess who spent two weeks in New York City during that time?"

"If you say Jonathan fuckin' Morris-"

Without breaking eye contact, she confirmed his fears, "I won't then."

Silence reigned supreme as Bucky processed this information. Then, like a taut rubber band, he snapped without warning.

A red haze came over his eyes and filtered the room around him. Briefly, he acknowledged that he no longer had a functioning wooden table and that, piece by piece, he was demolishing the furniture in his small hut. His heart was in his throat, and he felt the pinpricks of tears in his eyes.

She'd been taken by that beast of a man. He knew only one outcome, but he still needed to know.

"Did he kill her?" He all but snarled.

The spy had remained in her chair, allowing the destruction around her with all the grace of a fearless soldier. Bucky knew her well enough to know she was clearly ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

"You want what the official paperwork says or the circumstantial evidence and probable conclusion?"

"Both," he ground out, feeling weak in the knees.

Nodding, Natasha spoke, "Dinah Lewinsky was declared dead by the state. Officially, Jonathan Morris was sentenced to prison for her murder. He had been seen taking a train back to Utah with a short, brunette woman – a woman who couldn't be found for questioning. A woman he denied having anything to do with and claimed he hadn't seen Darcy since she'd walked out on him---"

Bucky made a strangled noise of protest, but Natasha cut him off.

"I am simply relaying what was said. Mr. Morris claimed he was in New York for work but wouldn't specify for what. It looked bad to the jury. They prosecuted him for it."

"Good," he swore ruthlessly. He leaned against the wall to keep himself standing.

"A body was never found. That, along with Darcy's history of running away from Mr. Morris gave him a leg to stand on. He appealed against the decision, stating that he truly believed she'd run off again. Unfortunately, Mr. Morris had a friend in high places and was released after two years of incarceration."

Bucky's legs finally buckled beneath him, and he lowered himself to the floor, resting the back of his head against the wall.

Mercilessly, she continued, "He married again two days after his release to an Amelia Haggan. Their marriage was what would be considered successful. They had six children, went to Sunday mass, paid their taxes, and share a companion plot at their local cemetery."

How fucking dare that monster live the life Bucky wanted? How fucking dare that monster live Bucky's dream life while Darcy lay rotting in some unmarked grave? How fucking dare he murder the most beautiful woman in the world and just move on to another one? How fucking dare he?

"There's always the chance he's telling the truth. That maybe she spotted him at the office that day and ran," Natasha told him blandly, but neither of them truly believed it.

"No," he murmured dejectedly, "I don't think so."

She ruefully smiled, "Your family thought as much too."

He winced at the mention of his family but didn't query it. Memories of Darcy amongst his family polluted his mind.

"Did you find the photo yet?"

"What?"

Natasha had already swooped down and picked up the discarded folder, flicking through it until she found an aged envelope. Thumbing it open, she retrieved a small photograph and handed it out to him.

Bucky's throat bobbed, and he almost rejected the photo on pure instinct. Whatever it was, it was going to sting. Without his permission, his right arm reached out and grabbed it. Bringing it to his view, he stared at a sepia photo.

A couple with strong stereotypical Jewish features stood proudly before a small house. The mother held a small toddler on her outer hip, and a small child stood between her parents, holding both their hands. Flipping it over, Bucky saw distinctly feminine handwriting.

Izaak, Sosia, Dinah (6), Golda (2). Lewinsky's Property. 1919.

His heart clenched. It was a photograph of Darcy as a little girl.

Natasha softly spoke, "You always told us she was beautiful."

He and Natasha shared a small smile.

Looking back at the photo, he let his eyes roam over little Darcy, who barely reached her parents' hips. She was a small but cute kid; there was no denying that, but he would never have guessed she was this little girl if she hadn't been pointed out to him. Brown hair, pale skin, but big sad eyes that almost looked brown, but that couldn't be right. He remembered Darcy having the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. It must be the aged quality of the photo.

As gently as he could, he delicately ran his fingers over her little face. It was the only photo he had of her.

With his metal hand, he clutched the chain around his neck, a sentimental ring hanging from it.

A photo that didn't look like her and a ring that didn't fit. Was that really all he had left of her?

He was vaguely aware of Natasha crouching before him, "There's more if you want to know it."

He sighed exhaustedly. Bucky wanted to know. He really did. Honestly, he was mad at himself for leaving this so late, but he hadn't been ready. It was the day before the biggest battle of his life, and here he was, psychologically drained, trying to piece together a puzzle that he wasn't supposed to solve.

"No," he told her softly, "No more today. Not today. I can't."

Gently touching his shoulder with her hand, she was nodding before he'd even finished speaking, "I understand."

The fact that they could be dead tomorrow went unspoken but mutely acknowledged.

Unsure of what sparked the moment of vulnerability in front of Natasha, he spoke, "I miss her."

She joined him on the floor, leaning against the wall, hip to hip.

"Tell me about her."

"I couldn't possibly tell you everything in one sittin'."

She cocked her head to the side, "Tell me what's most important then."

Quietly, he thought about it. What was the most important thing about Darcy? Try as he might, he couldn't pin down just one. So, he didn't try.

"She was a real firecracker. Nothin' wit' her was done in halves. She loved completely, she loathed completely. I'd never met a dame so convinced she could do everythin' herself. Boy, did she have a mouth on 'er! First thing I noticed 'bout her. She knew what she was worth and wasn't afraid to let everyone know it."

Natasha smirked, "Sounds like my kind of woman."

Unwittingly, Bucky gave a dopey smile, "I don't think I even wanna know the trouble you two would o' gotten into."

It was a lie. He would have loved it purely because it meant Darcy would be there with him. Darcy and Natasha would have been a terrifying combination, and their antics would have driven him crazy, but at least he would have been happy.

Humming in agreement, Natasha waited for him to continue.

"Y'know, I was worried she wanted Stevie for a hot minute."

Natasha chuckled, "Oh, did you, now?"

"Yeah, she was always askin' me 'bout him. Knew how to give a man a complex, that one."

They fell into a comfortable silence. Minutes passed, and Bucky found himself grateful for Natasha's quiet presence – Stevie would've been trying to awkwardly fill the silence.

"I'm going to look into it again," she promised him.

Bucky shrugged, "She's dead. Has been for longer than I thought. That's sorta destroyed my enthusiasm."

"Regardless, I'll look again."

Without another word, she slowly stood, grabbed the folder and left as quietly as she came.

Sitting alone, Bucky allowed himself a moment to soundlessly cry.

It should have been him that died; he's always known that. Darcy should have lived to an impressively old age, with great-great-grandchildren surrounding her. Even if it hadn't been with him. Hopefully, there was an afterlife, and if God hadn't completely forsaken him, perhaps Darcy would forgive his crimes, and they'd experience paradise together.

Only, he's pretty sure it's not heaven he's going to, and he's as sure as shit that Darcy's not in hell.

He could only hope Darcy was saintly enough to have influence with the higher-ups... or whack them upside the head and demand his entry.

Jesus Christ, he loved that woman.

And when the penultimate moment came and Thanos snapped his fingers…

"Ah, Steve?"

… and as Bucky turned to dust, he couldn't honestly say he was upset.

Chapter Text

March 28th, 2018

University of Utah, Salt Lake City

Darcy was a big girl. She knew that. It did not mean, however, that she wasn't prone to flights of fancy or immune to the occasional tantrum. She was an Aries, after all, not that Jane tolerated such excuses (star signs were totally valid, Jane, thank you very much).

Sure, she was on a break from college because she was trying to decide which direction she was supposed to go. She wasn't running or in complete denial. Sure, she was unmarried and single without offspring, affectionately termed parasites. 29 isn't old at all, and no she can't hear any ticking, thank you very much, Mom. She didn't even have a dog or a cat. How can she when she's never in the same spot and there's so much money and paperwork involved with internationally relocating pets? Okay, and maybe she had some mental health issues and equally unhealthy coping mechanisms. She's a millennial; she's acknowledged she has problems and expects people to work around them. Totally reasonable. In fact, the only big girl decision she'd made recently was laser eye surgery or rather the debt she accumulated due to receiving said laser eye surgery (LASIK - why'd you have to be so expensive??). How was she supposed to be prepared for alien invasions if losing her glasses (i.e. the ability to see in life or death situations) left her useless?

… and so what if her credit score has been negatively affected by her late payments? It's not like she's getting a mortgage anytime soon.

And sure, she was currently visiting Salt Lake City, because why not (it's as good a place as any in the U.S to suffer from non-denial in), but that didn't mean she'd meant to make any social calls. Belatedly, photographing her lunch and tagging the location on Instagram may not have been her smartest idea if she'd wanted to remain inconspicuous.

But, alas, someone had reached out, and now she was at the University of Utah visiting.

She entered the science department and found Ian Boothby with very little trouble, only mildly impressed that he'd managed to get sponsorship at a public institution no less.

How the doofus had managed it was beyond her.

Considering their recent amicable split from their fairly causal (but surprisingly long-term) relationship, she'd genuinely considered feigning mono and politely declining his invitation to visit his new lab. However, they had dated, meaning he knew her well enough to know that the promise of a free meal would be enough to persuade her into coming.

She sighed; she would be forever ruled by the whims of her stomach.

He had taken her to his cubicle office and excitedly spewed about his passion project. It was something about time manipulation and an in-depth study of how timelines (if there even were timelines, that is) worked. She was just grateful it wasn't about some interdimensional portal that Jane sometimes rambled about. Understanding every fourth word out of ten (which she considered a vast improvement from her previous eighth out of ten), Darcy found Ian's work surprisingly interesting. It wasn't to the calibre of Jane's, but he had definitely learned something during his internship (outside of making delicious pop tarts) and was making it out in the world on his own.

Good for him, but she just wanted him to finish his presentation. She'd been promised good food, and if the grumbling of her belly meant anything, she was ready for it. He knew what she was like angry and he should know better.

Lead with food. Then science. Never vice versa.

"- and I would keep telling you about it, but your mind has clearly wandered," he finished with a wry smile.

Shamelessly, Darcy grinned, "Guilty as charged. What're we eating?"

They'd decided to get their meal delivered as they approached the lab, hoping to squeeze in a tour before eating.

Ian handed her a tablet to sign in on and gestured to it while putting on his PPE.

"You'll have to sign in; it's one of the conditions for showing anyone the lab."

She cackled lightly while signing it, "Ah yes, because I'm going to steal all your super-secret mumbo jumbo and set something on fire. Got it!"

Sardonically, Ian claimed, "I've known you too well for too long not to suspect that you'll find a way to make some mischief."

"Pfft, admit it! I keep things interesting!" equipping her own PPE, they entered the small lab.

It was surprisingly well equipped, and Darcy found herself reluctantly impressed.

The ex-intern of the intern was soaring through academic skies, and here she was debating if she should change her major to astrophysics. Nope, she wasn't bitter at all.

Most of the equipment was second-hand but purpose-built, with none of the experimental gadgets that she, Jane, and Erik would routinely create out of necessity. Maybe he hadn't learned as much as she thought if he had already foregone inventing thingamajigs. They approached a large piece of machinery that was clearly working overtime. It hummed and lightly rattled, and Darcy scoffed at the pathetic attempt to weld and bolt it in place. It was spherical and had more buttons and screen monitors than she was used to on Jane's experimental equipment.

"This here is the centre core of my experiment; it's imperative for my work. I'm going to have to request resources to replace it soon. It's been behaving erratically, and that makes my results unreliable."

"Sweet – the big inanimate robotic heart is misbehaving. I always wanted to star in my own sci-fi horror movie!" They grinned before she asked, "So, what is the core thingy supposed to do?"

Ian didn't disappoint and launched straight into an explanation, "I originally was only going to work exclusively with simulation. The issue I found with that, however, is that it's purely theoretical. Don't misunderstand me; maths is incredible, and it helps eliminate the unlikely scenarios, but it's not foolproof."

Darcy shot him a concerned look, "Wait a minute – if it's not theoretical, what is it? You're not actually playing with time, are you?"

Shooting her an unimpressed look, "Of course not. At least not in the way you think. I will start experimenting with sending lab rats through time and space, though, only for a couple of minutes at a time. I suspect it will be an ongoing programme with very little success. But I hope it'll pave the way to understanding how time and time-altering would work if it could."

Aghast, Darcy shot him an unhappy look, "Lab rats? You're going to practice time travel on rats? What did the poor things ever do to you? They're sentient beings too!"

"That's what you focus on? Miraculous discoveries are being made, and you want to know about the rats? Sure, fine. Yes, Darcy - rats. Because rats won't look out of place in a different time period, and they are unlikely to do any real damage. Besides, I generally have a free-range policy when they're not working."

Squeek!

Darcy shrieked as one suddenly scuttered around their feet before dashing off.

"You just let them run around?!"

Shrugging, Ian apparently didn't see the big deal, "They're harmless."

Darcy made a slight whining sound, "They're so gross though."

He chuckled, "Says the woman who was about to start a rant worthy of PETA."

"I just think it's inhumane – they're living creatures too! How would you feel being all defenceless and alone and then dumped into a whole different decade?" She practically stomped her foot.

He opened his mouth to respond but abruptly stopped, suddenly looking pale.

"What is it?" Darcy immediately became concerned.

Ian didn't verbally respond but raised his hand, and Darcy's stomach lurched at the sight.

It… it was… melting?

No, she'd quickly realised. Not melting. It wasn't exactly evaporating either; it was as though it had turned to dust.

She barrelled towards him, calling his name, but he tumbled roughly into the centre core before completely disintegrating. Darcy made it just in time to flounder for his ashes uselessly. She stared at the pile that had once been Ian in shock. What the fuck? There was nothing left of him.

Distantly, she could hear panicked screams outside, echoing down the halls, building to a loud crescendo.

"What-?" she barely had time to exclaim before the centre core made a concerning screeching sound.

Looking up, she watched, horrified, as it violently rattled, quickly loosening from its bolted restraints.

There was only one appropriate thing to say, "Shit!"

Darcy jumped up, pushing the thought of Ian disappearing in front of her to the back of her mind. It wasn't the weirdest shit she'd ever seen, and it was no longer her main priority. What's the point of being well-versed in weird intergalactic shit if you didn't learn compartmentalisation?

She had to find a kill switch on the core. Whatever it was doing, she was sure it wasn't supposed to be doing that. Maybe it would even bring Ian back. Maybe. Hopefully. Quickly assessing it, her eyes followed the power cords to a large generator in the corner of the room. Blessedly, she knew she could cut the power from there and stop the machine. Hopefully. What she saw, however, was a goddamn lab rat casually gnawing at some low-hanging wires. Shit, that can't be good. She rushed forward and felt the room rumble before the core exploded.

Raising her arms to protect her head, she became swept up in the blast. Whether it was from the stupid rat or the centre core, she wasn't sure, but Darcy knew something wasn't normal about the pain she was experiencing. Agony ripped through her as a strange mixture of being on fire, and drowning overtook her. She gasped for air that wasn't there, her eyes no longer recognised anything beyond blurred colours, and she tried to grasp for something to stabilise herself with but found she couldn't seem to feel her hands.

All too soon, yet not long enough, she felt her back suddenly impact the wet ground. She was cold, in pain, and it was raining – no, snowing? Raining. When did she go outside? With that last thought, she knew nothing about oblivion.

Chapter Text

??

??

Darcy could already tell it was going to be a bad day.

Generally, this is how she knew she'd had a wild night of partying and drinking the night before. It wasn't the first time she'd woken up in a strange place (thinking about the time she woke up in a tree once was always fun), nor cold (that time at the ski resort after the margaritas was legen… wait for it… dary), nor naked (that one she didn't want to think about. Either time).

Admittedly, it was her first time encountering all three at once.

But that is precisely what she woke up to.

A strange place, freezing cold in the wet, and absolutely naked.

And everything ached.

As gingerly as she could, she stood, finding herself in a poorly paved alleyway. She wobbled on her legs and reached for the side of the building to keep herself upright. There must have been an extended roof above the building because suddenly, she couldn't feel raindrops anymore. A small win for Darcy. Clutching her head, vaguely aware that it felt like it was on fire, she tried to remember what happened.

Rat. Ian. Dust. Boom. Fuck.

Collapsing to her knees, she vomited bile, splashing herself with her own sick in the process.

She huddled into a ball on her side, trembling from head to toe.

Shit. Shit. Shit wasn't a strong enough word. Not even 'fuck' did it justice at this point.

Where was she?

She took a moment to breathe and gather her thoughts, but not a minute more because she was freezing. How was it so cold? It was spring, not winter.

It was dark, which meant likely no one had seen her yet, but it also meant that she couldn't see well. That laser eye surgery ended up being worth it after all, she thought sarcastically.

She took this as a good sign.

If she could still be a smartass, even if it were just to herself, then she was doing better than she'd originally thought.

She shivered as she took a step towards the entrance of the alley, very aware of her naked state.

God, she hadn't traipsed around naked in public since she was a teen.

She poked her head out and looked left and right. There was no one down the poorly lit street.

Fuck, she needed a plan.

#1 Find suitable (preferably warm) clothing.

#2 Figure it out later.

It had been raining, so the odds were that no one had anything hanging on the clothesline. She could always knock on a door and pray a woman answered and didn't ask any questions. Yeah, scratch that one. She wasn't doing that. They'd think she was a crackhead at worst and a mental patient at best. There was a car parked not far from her, maybe there was a blanket inside---

Her brain short-circuited, and she looked down the street both ways again.

Darcy thought she might be sick again.

She baulked back into the alley and felt the early stings of hyperventilation.

No, no, no, no, no! Not now. She couldn't panic now.

The cars.

The cars.

An encouraging part of her brain was sweetly saying, 'Ah, how lovely, a whole street dedicated to restoring vintage cars. The weekly neighbourhood party must be charming.'

The logical part was furiously reminding her that 'Ian was playing with what was essentially an untested and shoddily built time machine.'

Ian was gone, dead for all she knew, and he'd possibly thrown her back in time. However unintentionally, he'd turned her into his lab rat! He was officially the worst of her exes, and she'd had a boyfriend once smack her Mom's ass in front of her.

Darcy didn't even know cars well enough to guess the decade she was in. Only that she wasn't in the 21st century anymore.

I'm not in Kansas anymore!

Okay, so the likely situation is she was lost in time. No biggie.

She laughed hysterically. Yes, biggie!

Welp, Darcy has seen some shit in her time, but even she had to admit time travel is new. Aaaaaand entirely unwelcome. She's a good and proper millennial and she goddamn acts like it! Out of everyone in this universe, why was it her?!

She couldn't even make it a day without Netflix for god's sake!

A horrible thought struck her. Wherever or whenever she was, did they even have TV?

She took a deep, calming breath.

Okay, so maybe she was out of her depth, but that didn't mean she would hyperventilate in an alleyway.

She squared her shoulders and nodded to herself. It's a setback, that's all. A major one, sure. But she's had those before. Maybe not to this extent, but she always pulled through.

She glanced back at the alley entrance and spied the cars. She sighed. It's not like she hadn't done illegal shit before.

Slinking towards the car, she peeked through the window and was very pleased to see the little lock stood tall and proud and not short and stout. Score one for Darcy. She opened the car door as quietly as she could and looked baffled at the dashboard.

Umm, where was the release button for the trunk?

Timidly, she poked and prodded until she heard a loud clunk. She closed the front door and opened the truck as quietly as she could. Inside was a large suitcase. That might have something useful. Flinging the truck door the rest of the way up, she grabbed the case and quickly wrenched it out. Just in time for the trunk door to slam shut with a god-awful bang.

Startled, Darcy wondered why it hadn't stayed up (oh right – hydraulics weren't a thing in trunks yet) when she saw a light flicker on through a window.

Fuuuuuuck!

Suitcase in hand, she bolted, tits bouncing and all. Ouch.

She ran as far as her legs would take her, which, admittedly, was only the next street over. The streetlights, in this time, though, were pathetic. She huddled behind some bushes and strained her ears. It was silent, so it was likely no one had followed her.

Praying for clothes, she opened the case and Huzzah! Clothes!

It was a calf-length orange skirt and a white blouse – no underwear or shoes. Not ideal, but they were dry at least.

Darcy scoffed; she was wet without a towel; they could be sopping, and she'd still put them on.

As best as she could, she put them on. They were definitely designed for a smaller lady. Her girls were straining against the buttons, and she made a mental note not to roll her shoulders back. The skirt… didn't do up, but it didn't slip off her hips either, and that's what mattered.

She stepped out of the bushes at the same time the police patrol rolled up.

Darcy made eye contact. Darcy freaked out. Darcy did what Darcy does best: avoid.

Well, attempting to outrun a police car wasn't her brightest idea, but she still thought being tackled to the ground was a mild overreaction.

The two officers ignored her the whole way to what she presumed was the station.

She grumbled in the backseat. How was she supposed to get out of this? She had no papers, no friends, and, quite frankly, had a bad start to her acquaintanceship with the local police.

Were Miranda Rights even a thing yet? She doubted it.

At least she wasn't handcuffed.

They rolled up to the station, and they escorted her in.

Thankfully, there was a big sign saying, 'Salt Lake City Police Department', so she hadn't gone far geographically.

To her concern, she saw some Christmas decorations, which would be slack even for the laziest of people. Considering that, she also acknowledged that it was too cold for spring. It was obviously no longer March. Which sucked because it was supposed to be her birthday in a couple of days.

Additionally, they were clearly on a skeleton crew as well.

They asked for her papers, which she ignored. What was she supposed to say? Soz, my dog ate my ID. One asked for her name, and she slapped him. Was that smart? Not at all. But nor was the dumb processor for asking her, 'So toots, is your name as pretty as your face?'

21st century or not, she was not tolerating that sexist attitude.

Men. Yuck.

After that, they were even less friendly. Darcy understood why, but they'd taken her against her will, so she met their impatience with ire.

It didn't take them long to have had enough with her. 'Mr. Toots' shouted to another to 'call Harker' before the two who initially picked her up grabbed her again.

"Hey, hey! Get your hands off me!"

They ignored her and dragged her deeper into the station.

"Where should we take her?" One asked the other.

"Take her to a consultation room – they'll be more… comfortable there."

Darcy did not like the use of the word 'comfortable.' If they thought she was going to provide sexual favours to get out of this situation, they had another thing coming. Her teeth were just as sharp as her tongue, thank you very much!

Roughly manhandled, Darcy cussed them out the whole way to her destination. At one point, they both looked appalled by her mouth, but they didn't speak further. Obviously, they'd never dealt with a woman as liberally vocal as she was. Suck shit, she wasn't going to stop to make them comfortable. Barely a minute later, she was brought into a room and indelicately shoved in.

"Hey! Don't push me around---"

The door slammed behind her.

"Assholes!" she spat, kicking the door as hard as she could. It wouldn't open, of course, as it was solid and inward-swinging, but it made her feel better.

She quickly assessed her surroundings. Not what she expected, if she was being honest. There was a table with two chairs opposite each other, sure, but that was all that made sense. There was no large one-way mirror or sterilised surfaces. It had ugly carpet and atrocious wallpaper. It looked like a very boring and outdated office.

Uhh, wasn't she supposed to be in holdup? She's well aware she's been arrested. Sure, they said they'd take her to a consultation room, but she wasn't expecting something so… un-incriminating. There were no reclining surfaces, which made her feel mildly better.

Huffing, she approached one of the chairs and dropped into it, facing the door and fully intending to glare at whoever entered.

She wasn't going to tell them anything! She wasn't going to be doing anything either!

'Comfortable!' Pricks.

A few moments passed, and boredom came in hard and fast. Shit. That's not good.

Count to a thousand.

She made it to forty-seven before her mind wondered.

Shit.

Should she bash the door again and cuss them out some more? Surely, someone would come to tell her to shut up, if nothing else.

Just as she grew worried she'd do something stupid, a blond-haired, blue-eyed man entered alone and shot her a business-like grin. He wore a plaid sand-coloured, 3-piece suit with a salmon tie, matching pocket square, and an off-white business shirt with pointed collars topped with a felt fedora. His left hand casually slipped into his pocket, and his wrist was adorned with a vintage gold watch (who was she kidding? It was probably brand new). His right hand held a no-nonsense briefcase. She couldn't see his shoes, but if she had to take a guess, they'd be brown leather.

Why hello, Mr. 'J.J' Gittes, this isn't Chinatown.

"Didn't your Mama ever teach you it's rude to wear a hat inside?"

His expression didn't change, but he put the briefcase on the table, removed his hat, and sat across from her. His nose wrinkled, and Darcy remembered that she probably smelt like vomit. Enjoy, Asshole; she hopes it smells spicy.

"Indeed, she did, Ma'am."

"Ma'am? Don't you dare!" Darcy exclaimed, aghast.

Shooting her a puzzled look, he shrugged, "Of course, Miss…?"

Shoot! That backfired.

Waving her hand dismissively, "Doesn't matter. Who are you?"

He shot her a deadpan look but answered anyway, "You may call me Mr. Harker. Now, I understand---"

"What, you won't give me your first name, but you want mine? Rude."

Again, he looked unimpressed, "My name is Robert Harker---"

"-And what do you do exactly, Mr. Harker? Because you aren't a cop and are certainly not a public defence attorney."

For the first time since entering the room, he looked reluctantly impressed.

"That is correct. I am a District Attorney---"

"-Whoa, shit, dude. What're you doing here with little ol' me?"

To his credit, he did not get flustered, and Darcy found herself also reluctantly impressed with him.

"I've been informed that you were found not too long after a reported vehicle break-in and that you attempted to flee police questioning."

"To be fair, you can't prove that was me."

He arched an eyebrow, "Mr. Parkins phoned after seeing what he reported to be a crazy woman matching your description fleeing from his car. Completely nude," his eyes pointedly looked at her clothes, "Did you rush to get ready this morning and forget your underthings? And your stockings and shoes?"

Darcy angrily flushed, "Eyes up top, Mister."

He shrugged, "Of course, I could make a case that the stolen articles of clothing would be promptly returned… after being laundered. However, I find myself more curious as to how you found yourself naked and alone so early into the new year."

So, New Year's had just passed. It explains the cold, the wet, the Christmas décor, and the skeleton crew.

And yeah, washing the clothes before returning them to their rightful owner was a fair jab.

She didn't claim innocence or guilt, "And what could you do to help this woman? Why would you?"

His gaze turned remarkably serious, "I couldn't help but notice that you've clearly fled from something with not a single resource at your disposal."

Ah, so she wasn't the only one capable of dodging a question, "Oh? What do you think could have happened?"

"Tell me something, how long have you been in the U.S. for? Your accent is remarkable, but your vernacular… needs some work."

Darcy froze. Okay, getting in trouble for petty theft was one thing, but being accused of being an illegal alien would not end well for her. Besides, what sort of alien would she be? She wasn't Latina, which she would have thought was obvious.

Mr. Harker nodded as though her silence confirmed his theory, "I'm assuming that you've been stripped of all your possessions and abandoned by your… benefactor."

Darcy squirmed in her seat, unsure how to respond. All the movies say to keep your trap shut, but she was genuinely worried about falling down a rabbit hole she couldn't crawl out of. What if he came to a dangerous conclusion about her, and she could not disprove it? It's not like she could shout the name of the street she grew up on (it hadn't been developed until after her parents got married), present school records, or even a false birth certificate, let alone a real one!

"I can help you," He assured her.

Darcy's face curled in disgust, "Whatever work you're offering me, I don't want it."

"No, no, nothing like that. I don't require that sort of payment."

Warily meeting his eye, the emphasis on the word that hadn't been missed.

"What sort of payment are we talking about?"

He gave a cheshire grin that, for all it suited him, she wasn't sure she liked, "You'll owe me a favour."

"… Yeah. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," What a waste of time that was.

Neither dropped the other's gaze, an impromptu challenge hanging between them. Darcy wouldn't submit to him.

Humming lightly, he spoke, "I can give you the new life you wanted. It couldn't have been easy coming all the way from Europe alone and having nothing in the world."

That's when it clicked into place. It made sense; she was Jewish and had the clichéd features if you looked closely enough. He'd concluded she'd fled from the war and had illegally immigrated to the U.S. Not a bad guess, which especially narrowed down the time-period for her, but did he really think someone would pick to settle in Utah? Maybe he thought she didn't have a choice.

She must have thought pensively for too long because he gently spoke, "If you're concerned about me being in your life, you need not be. You wouldn't see me again until I called in your favour; even then, you might not see me."

Darcy was still troubled, "That's the thing; what would I owe you?"

He shrugged again, "I never know until I call to collect," seeing her glare, he elaborated, "Let's see, getting you situated in the U.S. is going to make me cash in on some favours. Simple things such as acquiring you a wardrobe, organising a makeover, getting you a train ticket, and the like will erase someone's debt to me, helping you with those smaller things. Bigger things, such as finding you a legal backstory, accommodation, and work, will be more complicated. It won't be just one favour I'll have to call in, and I'll be sacrificing favours with people in strategic positions in government forums. I have debts to collect all over the country from people of various positions. You are not asking for a small favour. I might ask a lot or a little, but I will always ask for good reasons."

Pensively, Darcy considered. She didn't have much choice but checked anyway, "And if I say no?"

Standing, he put on his hat and picked up his case, "Then I will leave you to it. You've proven to be a tenacious woman thus far; I imagine you'll surprise us again."

As he walked towards the door, Darcy decided to take a gamble. As casually as she could, she glanced at his feet. Brown leather shoes. Her guess had been correct.

Well, that's as good enough a reason as any.

"Deal," she told him abruptly.

Pausing, he glanced back at her over his shoulder, "Are you sure?"

Nodding, she spoke with exaggerated exasperation, "I don't want to deal with the chucklefuck at the processing counter, however. Throw that in, it's a deal. Oh, and I want a newspaper too. Gotta keep with the times, if you know what I mean."

He stood there momentarily before turning towards her fully, "I don't know where you learned English, but it's undeniably unique."

"That's me, all kinds of special and full of surprises. So, what's the plan?"

"Don't you worry about it for now. I'll take care of everything. You'll remain at the station for a couple of days," he waved off her wail of protest, "You'll be safe and taken care of. You have my word."

"I take it back - no deal."

"Too late. Now, final question; what's your name?

Straightening in her chair, she asked suspiciously, "Why?"

He didn't answer but raised a challenging brow at her.

She sighed, relenting, "Darcy Lewis."

Frowning, he looked at her intently as though trying to discover a lie. She met his gaze head-on. After finding whatever he was looking for, he leaned over to shake her hand. She did so whilst sitting.

His eyes furrowed, "In this country, you stand when you shake someone's hand."

"Cool, I'll keep that in mind," she told him breezily.

They furrowed further, and he held his hand out, "Try again."

She looked at him incredulously, "What for?"

"Your first proper lesson in American etiquette. I want to make sure it sticks."

Sighing, she stood from her chair to shake his hand just a touch too forcibly.

"Much better."

She flipped him off, earning her an impressively aggravated look, before sitting back down.

She slouched heavily in her chair.

Two buttons on her blouse went pop.

They made an excellent leap and landed spinning on the table before her. It was the most impressive display of button gymnastics she'd ever seen.

But now her tits were hanging out, and although it was also an impressive display, she found she wasn't that impressed.

It was pretty chilly inside now that she thought about it.

Mr. Harker, to his credit, kept his eyes squarely on the buttons.

A hushed silence permeated the room.

Darcy spoke first, "Sooooo, can I borrow your jacket? Can we make that part of the favour?"

He physically recoiled from the prospect and clutched his jacket protectively, "That is a debt you couldn't possibly repay."

With that said, he walked out.

"Wait! When am I going to be fed!?" She shouted after him.

It took an hour before another blouse was brought in, another one for a bowl of lacklustre porridge, and another five for a newspaper.

Her first waking instinct had been correct. This was going to be shit.

Chapter Text

January 24th, 1942

Mrs. Nellie's Residence, Salt Lake City

It only took a day for Darcy's unofficial jailers to crack and toss her out. It was a day longer than she'd wanted. As promised, she'd been given a newspaper, frequent meals, a single complete outfit to change into (with stockings, which were apparently essential), and she hadn't had to deal with 'Mr. Toots'.

Mr. Harker had been unimpressed but unsurprised by her unprecedented exit from the police station. Luckily, he'd already sorted out her temporary accommodation while she was in Salt Lake City. Mrs. Nellie was an elderly widow with a spare room that could host Darcy until her ducks lined up in a pretty, straight row. Presumably, she would be paying off her debt to Mr. Harker by assisting in preparing Darcy for her new life.

Darcy can't say she liked Mrs. Nellie. She also couldn't claim that Mrs. Nellie liked her.

When Darcy had been dropped off at her door, she'd been relieved to finally be somewhere that wasn't a prison. Mrs. Nellie… didn't exactly make it feel like it wasn't one. Always dressed in a black crape dress with gaudy rings on every finger, she was hard of hearing and wore a permanent scowl. Mrs. Nellie had opened the door and looked her up and down, clearly assessing her borrowed clothes. Wordlessly, she'd waved Darcy in and trotted her to a spare room with a single bed and basic amenities. For mealtimes, Mrs. Nellie would knock on Darcy's door, who would wander downstairs to find a plate of food set for her. Mrs. Nellie never sat and ate with her, and considering her overly petite figure, Darcy wasn't convinced she ate all. When it came to measuring her for her clothes, Mrs. Nellie hadn't been gentle and often whacked her hands or harshly smacked her calves so she'd widen her legs. When the clothing and accessories arrived, Mrs. Nellie organised the colour scheme and smacked her arm when she'd experimented with a different colour combination. The pastel yellow skirt was to be paired with her baby blue blouse, not the pink one. Got it. She didn't have to be so mean about it, though. At least she knew her measurements now, but why were the bras so pointy? Mrs. Nellie had also wanted to chop off half of Darcy's hair, which she'd refused, causing the woman to grumble even more. However, she worked with the length she was given and showed Darcy some time-appropriate styles. Make-up, on the other hand, Darcy needed and wanted no help with.

Often, Darcy sought her out to try and ask her questions about appliances. The oven and stove had been particularly daunting, and although she grumbled and muttered under her breath and slapped her hands again, Mrs. Nellie did show her. Unable to work the radio (who knew dials were so complicated), Mrs. Nellie had whacked the back of her knees with her cane and fixed it. For God's sake, it had taken her five minutes to figure out how to turn on her bedside lamp. Again and again, Darcy found something she didn't understand and had to swallow her pride and ask Mrs. Nellie for help. Again and again, Mrs. Nellie grumbled and smacked her hands.

Mrs. Nellie had also made her presentable for a photograph that Darcy wasn't aware she was meant to be taking. She didn't ask questions, though, because Mrs. Nellie had an entire spare bedroom converted into a photography studio, and she felt this was part of Mrs. Nellie paying off her debt to Mr. Harker. Hopefully, it had come out nicely even though Darcy was teary-eyed because Mrs. Nellie had mercilessly pulled out a lock of stray hair.

Darcy' wouldn't yell at an old woman. She wouldn't. She wouldn't. No matter how much she wanted to.

Mrs. Nellie was a mean old bat, but she was assisting her regardless of how self-serving it was.

Despite no restriction on her leaving the house other than a stern 'do not get yourself thrown into prison again' by Mr. Harker, Darcy was uncharacteristically timid about going outside.

It was so strange outside. When indoors, she could convince herself she was playing caretaker to a batty old woman who had never deigned to update her house. But the minute she was outside, she felt out of place. Every day, she forced herself to go for a walk or a small excursion, and every day, she was confronted by something culturally weird.

Actually, that's the best way she could describe it: a culture shock.

People smiled politely at her on the street and wished her a good morning. She must look like a skittish cat every time it happens. It's so weird; she's used to pointedly not making eye contact and awkwardly shuffling out of everyone's way. She'd wanted to learn how public transport worked by taking a crowded bus, and she'd barely stepped on when a man had already offered his seat to her - without trying to flirt or continue the conversation awkwardly. Also, the bus didn't seem to have a capacity limit; girlfriends would sit in their boyfriends' laps, children in their parents, and the odd man (never a woman) standing. She'd experimented with going to a tea house, and a lady from another table kindly asked her if she'd like the newspaper she was no longer reading. After appreciatively saying yes, the lady pulled her into a casual conversation about an article on page 6 and recommended it. A trip to the local grocer at Mrs. Nellie's request showed a mother placing a hearty smack on her misbehaving child's bottom. In public. No one, absolutely no one, batted an eye, and Darcy had quietly hyperventilated, wondering if she should intervene on the child's behalf. God, she says it like she wasn't smacked as a child herself.

But honestly, it had an otherworldly feel to it. She felt as though she was on some obscure holiday and was due to go home any day. Everything was sleek and new, but Darcy's brain couldn't place her current environment as her present environment. It was as though her mind convinced her she was walking through a TV set or a medieval-style village.

1942 - she could still scarcely believe it. She was living some historian's wet dream and getting antsy instead because there was no TV. Apparently, the radio was the shit at this point, and Darcy was struggling with the downgrade. She'd 100% been spoiled with a Walkman growing up but was downright living in the lap of luxury with Spotify. Listening to the same few songs on repeat with static undertones and no ability to skip was a cruel and unusual form of torture.

The food was also a letdown. She hadn't been expecting anything gourmet, but in the words of Gordon Ramsay, 'uninspiring dishes' were the norm. Darcy had never grown up in famine or without a steady supply of processed foods. There was also a distinct lack of diverse cuisines to choose from. Did you want bland English-style food, boiled chicken and vegetables, or experimental concoctions? A spam pie was not what she'd had in mind for dinner, but she'd eaten it. Reluctantly. Gagging the whole time. Dear God, where was UberEATS when you needed it? Not that she could pay for such things. She was relying on spare change from Mrs. Nellie to pay for her daily adventures.

She was steadily realising that although the Great Depression was well and truly over, there were some lingering effects. World War 1 (or the Great War as it was currently referred to) wasn't all that long ago, all things considered. There was also a flurry of information in the newspapers about the recent involvement of the U.S. in the war in Europe. Darcy could scarcely believe Pearl Harbour had been only a month ago. Troops would be sent sooner or later. But hindsight was 20/20, and Darcy knew that time was ticking. It made it hard to look at the young men offering their seats to her on the bus. Would they survive?

She shivered; undoubtedly, hard times were approaching. Sipping her tea, Darcy listened to the radio as she tried to dispel those negative thoughts.

The door to the sitting room swung open, and Mrs. Nellie walked in with Mr. Harker close on her heels.

"Ah, Mrs. Nellie, I see she's well adjusted. I hadn't thought it possible. Impeccable as always," Mr. Harker flattered.

Mrs. Nellie was apathetic to the commentary and walked out, shutting the door between them. So, Mrs. Nellie didn't like Mr. Harker either. Good to know it wasn't just her that the bat didn't like.

He joined her at the little sitting table, removing his hat and placing his briefcase on the table. Looking to Darcy, he grinned, "Quite the prater that one. How has your stay been?"

Darcy deadpanned, "I keep having nightmares about my teeth falling out."

"Ah, well, that's unfortunate."

Shrugging, she cut to the chase, "Can I get out of here yet?"

"Counting the days, are you?"

"It's been twenty-two if you're curious."

He hummed and dug around in his pocket, fishing out a small case. Ah, yes, that was another culture shock. The blasé way in which everyone smoked. Flicking the case open, he offered her one, which she declined. He lit himself one and calmly spoke.

He lit one for himself and spoke calmly, "Everything is in order, Miss Lewis."

She couldn't curb her enthusiasm, "Finally! I'm ready to bounce. When am I out of here?"

"Within the week," he told her, taking a drag of his smoke as she groaned, "Yes, I know, but you can handle Mrs. Nellie for one more week.

She grumbled, "I don't think one handles Mrs. Nellie."

"Would you listen to that; you've even picked up her grumbling."

She shot him a filthy look, "I'm not above throwing something at your head."

He shrugged, apparently becoming used to her threats, "I'm sure you're not. A suitcase has been ordered for you and should arrive before you leave. It should be able to carry all your belongings. I've organised any additional things you may need at your final destination."

"Like what?"

"You'll see. Now, I've secured you an identity, and I must say, we've lucked out."

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder and a thick parcel, setting them on the table and sliding them towards her, "Another lesson in American etiquette: when you have a guest in your sitting room, you offer them tea."

Darcy rolled her eyes, "My bad. Would you like some tea?"

He waved his hand dismissively, "Please, don't trouble yourself."

And what, pray tell, had been the point of that?

He flipped open the folder and Darcy spotted paperwork.

He began, "Dinah Lewinsky--–"

"-Hang on a minute, you said I could be Darcy Lewis!"

"Yes, and you can. However, I need a social security number for you, and Dinah Lewinsky is close enough to Darcy Lewis that I could pull some strings. Now, will you let me finish?"

Inhaling deeply, she nodded.

"Dinah would be 29 years old this year. There was a house fire that destroyed all her original Polish documents---"

"-Polish? You're making me Polish?"

"It'll do. She would be the right age. There's proof of her early life in America, and conveniently for you, she and her family died in a house fire in '35."

"I bet her death certificate will make this very sketchy," she snorted.

"Fortunately for us, her death certificate has been permanently misplaced. As for her other documentation, well, it was all destroyed in the fire. Now, we need to discuss your marriage---"

"Whoa, whoa, marriage?! When were you going to let me know that was a thing?!"

"Yes, a woman of 29 would be married. Are you suggesting you have never been married before?"

"I've never been married, thank you very much!" She told him hotly.

"Really? A pretty thing like you?" His eyes roamed over her, top to bottom, "No one's going to believe that."

She was both flattered and insulted, "I'm telling you right now if you think I'm going to marry some random dude and that he's going to have some sort of misogynistic domain over me, you're fucking crazy."

Mr. Harker let her rant and casually plucked non-existent fluff off his impeccable suit, "Are you finished?"

She huffed, "You better have a good reason for this, and I reserve the right to refuse if I don't like it."

"Too late, you're already legally married."

"What?" She shouted, dismayed, "How?"

"I had to act quickly. Don't worry, the marriage has been backdated, and you'll probably never meet your groom."

Darcy's brow furrowed, "I don't understand."

Mr. Harker pinched the bridge of his nose, "I spoke to your husband not too long ago and he's agreed to be married to Dinah Lewinsky. If anyone comes sniffing around, which they shouldn't, he'll be a roadblock that will notify me that something is wrong."

She held her head in her hands, feeling stressed already, "Why do I need a husband though?"

"I'm unsure why this is such a baffling concept for you. Marriage offers security for a young woman – even when her husband isn't around. Especially for you. Marriage will help the government believe that Dinah Lewinsky didn't die in the fire. Also, if this goes pear-shaped, which it shouldn't, your husband is American, so that you can claim residency through him. If it upsets you so much, tell people you are a widow. You wouldn't be the first woman to claim---"

"-But I don't need to have anything to do with him, right? Because I don't want to. He won't come after me or anything?"

Mr. Harker shook his head, "No, he won't."

Darcy bit her lip, "Okay, fine. Tell me about him. I want to know."

Nodding, he snuffed out his smoke, pulled out another folder from his briefcase and read from it, "Jonathan David Morris. His only living relative is his sickly mother, and it appears the Depression hit them especially hard. He was most recently a coal miner. However, he is currently a guest of the state."

"A guest of the state?" Darcy wrinkled her brows.

He shrugged, "An inmate."

Darcy's brows were no longer crinkled; they were up past her forehead.

He'd married her to a criminal. Douchebag!

"What the fuck?! What's he in for?"

"That, I'm afraid, he's asked to keep under wraps."

She laughed mockingly, "As his wife, I dare say it's my right to know."

He dropped the folder back into his briefcase and closed it, standing to leave, "And I'll remind you that this is a man who agreed to marry you for your protection without knowing a damn thing about you. The least you and I can do is respect his wishes."

Standing as well, she moved towards him, glaring at him, "Tell me this then; has marrying me erased his debt to you?"

He looked thoughtful, "No, he's handsomely rewarded with a cash payment whenever I require his services. He's a simple man."

Darcy blinked, "Wait, he's not indebted to you?"

He arched a brow, "Believe it or not, with the right incentive, some people will do just about anything for money," He turned to leave before twisting back, "This reminds me, I've also taken the liberty of opening an account for you at The Bank of New York. You may not need it, but you would have set off some alarms if you'd tried to open it yourself."

"New York?"

He nodded, "It's an easy city to be swallowed up. No one would look at you twice."

"Ah, thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome. For now, I've put some emergency funds in your account, and you'll also find a chequebook in your parcel. If there are any oversights, please let me know."

Despite her immature behaviour, and yes, she could admit she was being a bit ungrateful, she had faith that Mr. Harker had accounted for everything she could need and more.

"Well, Mr. Harker, it looks like my ducks are all well and truly in a row."

He nodded seriously, "Without a doubt."

For a moment, Darcy felt uncertain about her future. Mr. Harker was confident everything would be alright, but honestly, she just wanted to be back home. No confusion over who she was in 1942, what her (Dinah's) past said, and what she would make with this life she's appropriated for herself.

"But I can be Darcy Lewis, right? Even though the paperwork says Dinah-"

He placed an encouraging hand on her shoulder, "I assure you, Miss Lewis, I've put measures in place so that no one will look too closely. My connections will give you autonomy and anonymity."

Absentmindedly, she placed her hand over his and squeezed. It had been the first kind touch she'd experienced in this time-period, and she'd only just realised it. Fuck, she really was all alone in an unfamiliar world.

She sniffled, "I know, Mr. Harker, that I've been high-strung and bratty, but I really do appreciate what you've done. Just remember that when you come calling, I'm absolutely useless."

He gave her a grin full of teeth, "Oh, Miss Lewis, I've no doubt you are anything but useless."

Placing his hat on his head, he swiftly left the room.

Darcy sat back down and stared at the items on the table before her. She had a week before she needed to go through it, and honestly, she didn't have the mental capacity right now.

There was a swift knock at the door, followed by retreating footsteps.

Sighing, Darcy stood and left the sitting room. Time for a lonely and boring lunch.

Chapter Text

December 7th, 1941

Barnes Residence, New York City

It happened during the most mundane of art classes. It wasn't even the day of the week they usually went to class. He and Stevie were sketching a bowl of fruit, despite Stevie's strength in landscapes and Bucky's in portraits. The only noise breaking the calm of the class was the radio when an interruption of the broadcast occurred.

Bucky sat with bated breath as a man from Honolulu spoke through the speaker, "We have witnessed this morning the distant view of a brief full battle of Pearl Harbour and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbour by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese…"

His eye caught Steve's, and a shudder ran down his spine at the sheer ice in his best pal's eyes. Bucky felt as though he was underwater, and the voices around him became distorted.

"… It is no joke. It is a real war." And Bucky knew that. Bucky was terrified of that, "Now we will go back to the program we had arranged..."

How could the announcer so casually dismiss what was just announced?

His gut curled, and Bucky knew that if he signed up, he was going to war. Bucky never ignored his gut.

"I'm enlisting," Steve informed him, and Bucky wanted to shake some sense into him.

But he didn't because as much as Bucky knew Steve had the heart of a hundred men, the government wouldn't agree. Steve would be branded a 4F for being physically unfit for duty, and he would be safe at home. Maybe do some factory work.

Instead, Bucky nodded and clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder, "We'll go together."

Steve sat straighter and nodded, his relief palpable.

Yes, Bucky would go with him. He'd wait in line, he'd show his support, insist Steve go first, and then he'd bow out. Unlike Steve, Bucky would be a 1A; Fit and available. The first they call to die.

He wasn't the type to stake his life on the roll of the dice, so there wasn't a hope in hell that Bucky was enlisting for another fucking war to tear his family apart. How many generations of men would this country ask of them?

The class ended abruptly because, honestly, how does one continue to draw when there's a pit in your stomach? How? When what would follow would be a formal declaration of war?

Stevie wanted to enlist immediately, and Bucky knew he couldn't convince him otherwise. Bucky walked as though condemned, whereas Steve walked as though to God.

He desperately tried to fight the urge to anxiously play with his keys.

The U.S. Recruiting and Induction Centre was packed already, astonishingly so. Were people so eager to sign up to die? Have they forgotten the pain of their fathers already?

He placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, "We should come back tomorrow. I need to get paperwork off Ma anyway."

Steve's steely resolve wavered, "What 'bout work?"

Bucky wasn't worried, "I'm sure they'll know why most of their boys have shown up late."

He could see through Stevie's eyes that his mind was running a mile a minute before he sighed, "Yeah, we'll come back tomorrow."

After clapping his shoulder, they parted ways. Being a Sunday, his mother wouldn't typically expect him, but he knew today was an exception and that she was likely waiting for him.

He walked to his childhood home, keys in hand, each step feeling more leaden than the last. When he finally reached the front door, he breathed in as deeply as his lungs would allow, and he entered.

"Mama?"

He heard shuffling in the kitchen and walked in.

She rose from her seat at the kitchen table, her eyes - his eyes - probing deep into him, assessing him. The set of her shoulders told him that she'd already heard the news.

With his throat clogged, he could only get a single word out, "Mama…"

His mother's face turned ashen, "You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

Looking down at his feet, he couldn't speak. He was ashamed of being afraid. He was terrified that it would all be for naught, that he'd end up drafted anyway, and he'd leave his family without the security his presence provided.

He could imagine his father's voice, we protect our women first, boy. Not God and country.

She made a sound that crossed between a whimper and a weep, and he quickly reassured her, "I didn't."

His mother's legs gave out beneath her in relief, and Bucky launched to catch her, but she refused to budge. There, on their kitchen floor, his mother yanked him into her arms and sobbed into his shoulder.

"Your father-"

Bucky shushed her, "I know."

He held her as tightly as she did him.

For a moment, he was a little boy again.

They heard the front door blast open, "Mama! Where are you?!"

Evie found them on the floor within seconds, and her scared face crumbled into terror, "You didn't!"

"He didn't," their mother confirmed, and just like that, Evie joined them on the floor, teary-eyed and clutching onto him tightly.

Slowly, Bucky's throat bobbed, "Evie, your husband-"

She shook her head, "I don't know."

Eventually, they made it to the dining table, a cup of tea in front of each of them, but none drank it. He was calming down considerably quicker than he thought but becoming nauseous. Perhaps he was in shock? But a slow acceptance washed over him, against which his mind staunchly rebelled. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to.

With startling familiarity to their older sister, the other two similarly burst through the door, "Mama!"

Their white faces grew paler when they entered the kitchen. Becca rushed towards him and buried her head in his chest. He kissed the crown of her head, trying to convey everything he could through actions because he didn't think he could speak without choking.

"Bucky," Lottie started speaking, voice wet, "I'm so sorry."

Bucky's gut dropped. He and Lottie were the only two who truly seemed to understand the situation. He was going to go, and he was going to die. There was no saving him.

"He didn't," Mama spoke, her voice sounding stronger, "He's not leaving."

Lottie's eyes crinkled, "What do you mean?"

"He didn't enlist. Your brother is staying here."

A strange silence fell over the family, and Bucky felt sick. Looking up, he noticed the tense set of Lottie's shoulders.

Becca was the one who asked, "What is it?"

Lottie didn't look at them. She stared intensely at the cup of tea between their mother's fingers, anywhere to avoid eye contact.

"Mama. He still has to put his name down for the draft. He has to."

It was true. All men between 18 and 64 must register for the draft.

Their mother's face twisted into the ugliest expression he'd ever seen on her, "No, he doesn't! He's my boy!"

Lottie still wouldn't meet her gaze, "And all the others are someone else's boy."

"I know that, Lottie. But he can't be drafted if he doesn't register at all!"

"No," Lottie agreed, "He'll just go to jail instead. He has to."

Bucky stood, wrapping his arm around Becca to keep her beside him, "Legally, yeah."

But jail would be nothing compared to being branded a coward for the rest of his life.

"Don't do it! Don't you dare!" Mama was bordering on hysterical.

Evie looked ready to swoon where she was sitting, so Bucky placed his free hand on her shoulder to steady her, which she clutched tightly.

"Your father---!"

"I know, Ma!" He bellowed before immediately bringing his voice back down, "What choice do I have?"

Evie started crying again, so he also pulled her up into his arms. Becca still hid her face in his chest, but he could feel the telltale warm patch of tears. Even with her spine of steel, Lottie also succumbed to the need for comfort and rushed to slot herself into his arms between her sisters. His three little sisters were safe in his arms, and he knew if he put his name on the damn list, he'd no longer be able to offer that protection.

Slowly, his mother ventured over and placed a calming hand on his cheek before closing her eyes and wrapping her arms as wide as they would go around them all.

Tomorrow, he'd go with Steve and submit himself to the government. Then, he would surrender himself to God and hope for deliverance.

His father's words, his last words ever, echoed in his mind, ' You'll protect our women, won't you, boy.' It hadn't been a question. But how was he meant to?

Chapter Text

February 1st, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

Traumatised was not a word Darcy used lightly. Darcy had been to extensive therapy in the past, and despite their assistance in suggesting she should be medicated, Darcy was confident she was fine. Surely, alien invasions, Norse Gods, and the like wouldn't do that much damage to her psyche. Her adolescence had already done irreparable damage.

The trip from Salt Lake City to New York City, on the other hand, had been PTSD-inducing. She wasn't convinced any amount of therapy was going to get her to recover.

Two trains and three buses. Two nights and three days.

She would never ever complain about plane ticket prices again. For at least three flights.

There was a kink in her neck that she would never recover from.

As she stepped off the platform at Grand Central Station, Darcy wanted to hide in a corner and burst into tears. The past three days had been stressful and overwhelming. Mr. Harker had dropped her off at Union Station and wished her luck. She'd never triple-checked so many tickets or addresses before in her life in those 72 hours.

She'd stayed the night at an inn in Kansas, and the irony was not lost on her, and then another night on an overnight train. She'd bunked with three other women in the carriage who'd been travelling together and had whispered harshly behind their hands about her. Not in the mood to make friends anyway, Darcy simply pretended not to hear them and slept.

Twice she had been asked if she was travelling alone, and twice she considered kneeing a man in the nuts. She shot them her foulest look and deadpanned, 'No, my daddy's waiting for me' which made them cringe and scurry away.

But she made it. Vaguely, she knew she should marvel at how beautiful Grand Central Station was, but she was tired, cranky, and still had to find her way to her new home. Thankfully, it was a Sunday, so the station was quieter than she predicted it would typically be.

Lugging her suitcase with her, Darcy stepped onto the street and was immediately blindsided by New York City. It was beautiful. Photos truly didn't do it justice. She stood there gawking for a full minute before being bumped into and snapping back into awareness.

She squared her shoulders and raised her head; she could do this.

She hailed a taxi, gave the address to her new home, and took a steadying breath.

She really hoped they weren't another Mrs. Nellie.

Thankfully, the driver seemed to pick up on her nerves and refrained from attempting small talk. They went over the Williamsburg Bridge, and within thirty minutes, the taxi pulled up to the curb. With a shuddering breath, Darcy paid the driver, gathered her nerve and suitcase, and walked up the steps to her new home.

It was a multi-storey red brick building with white steps leading up to the front door. It had a fire escape that screamed 'New York City'. The windows were flat, with once-white shutters and sheer curtains.

She heard the taxi driver take off, leaving her to her fate.

Checking the address Mr. Harker had written down for the eighth time since arriving in the city, Darcy prayed that everything would be alright. Before she could second guess herself, Darcy rang the doorbell and waited with shuffling feet.

Best foot forward, she told herself. They might be a culture shock to you, but you're definitely going to be one for them. Ease them into it; don't go in guns blazing. The last thing she needs is to end up homeless in 1940s New York City.

She waited in suspense for just long enough for her to doubt someone would answer before the door swung open, and a middle-aged lady appeared. She had strawberry-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a plump figure. Looking at Darcy with a speculative eye, she waited for Darcy to speak first.

"Mrs. Doyle? I'm Darcy Lewis, I'm not sure what you've been told---"

Luckily, Mrs. Doyle's eyes brightened with recognition, "Ah, you'd be the one from Utah, then, wouldn't ye?"

Darcy smiled, grateful she was expected, "Yes, that would be me---"

"Well, come on then. You're of little use to anyone standing out here," Mrs. Doyle told her, stepping aside and ushering her in.

Following her in, Darcy looked around the entrance of her new home. For such a narrow hallway, Mrs. Doyle had many buffets, cupboards, and cabinets carrying an array of knickknacks. Most were ceramic statuettes, colourful glassware, and fancy-looking dinnerware. Darcy hadn't seen such an absurd amount of passive décor since her Great Aunt Harriet kicked the bucket. Immediately, Darcy was able to recognise the same hoarding tendencies in Mrs. Doyle.

The hallway itself was immediately greeted by the bottom of the staircase, with a room to the left and right and, from what she could tell, an additional two further down. There were well-maintained brown cross-pattern floorboards and panelled walls with red wallpaper.

Darcy's 21st century palate screamed with distaste.

Shutting the door behind them, Mrs. Doyle told her to leave her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs so she could tour the bottom floor. Her Irish accent was noticeable but lightened, obviously having been settled in the U.S. for a few years, if not decades. She pointed out the sitting room to the right of the stairs, where guests were welcome at reasonable hours, and the communal dining room to the left.

"Just in time for lunch, you are now. I'm sure the girls will be happy to meet ye."

Following Mrs. Doyle into the dining room, Darcy was faced with four faces looking at her curiously. All were young women, at least five years younger than her if she had to guess.

Mrs. Doyle was rapid-fire in her introductions, pointing to each woman as she named them: "We've got Constance, Bonnie, Dorothy, and Emily. Girls, this is… your name has slipped my mind, what was it now?"

Darcy smiled as kindly as she could, already terrified she'd forget their names, "I'm Darcy. Nice to meet you."

They all returned the smile politely, and the one identified as Dorothy gestured to the empty chair next to her, "You're joining us for lunch?"

Nodding eagerly, Darcy took the seat. Without conferring with one another, Bonnie stood and left for the kitchen, and Emily organised cutlery from another buffet in the dining room and poured Darcy a glass of lemonade. In the meantime, Constance kindly clarified that she was Connie, not to be called Constance by anyone other than Mrs. Doyle, and that Dorothy was Dot to everyone. Within minutes, Bonnie had returned with a plate of meatloaf. The serving was smaller than she was used to. Even drinking glass was half the size of what she was used to.

"Thank you, it looks great," Darcy said as eagerly as she could in her tired state.

Now seated at the head of the table, Mrs. Doyle spoke between bites of her meatloaf, "So Darcy, what has brought you to New York now, then? You are from Utah, aren't you?"

An interrogation was the last thing Darcy wanted or needed, but she knew it would happen eventually and ironed out all the details on the long journey there, "Yes, Salt Lake City. I got a job opportunity here and had nothing left in Utah, so here I am!"

The girls nodded, and the tanned brunette named Connie spoke, "Oh yeah? Where're you goin' to work?"

"Working as a secretary at a firm on Broad Street, I start tomorrow for Mr. Hibbitt."

Dot, the pretty blue-eyed, curly redhead, piped up, "You're definitely going to have to take public transport for that! Do you know which end of Broad Street?"

Darcy didn't, in fact, know which end of Broad Street, "Ahhh, no?"

Connie and Dot both sighed, but Bonnie was the one who chimed in, "That's okay, we'll have a look at it. All three of us work in the financial district too. If you're close to my work, I'll take the bus with you and make sure you find the right place."

Connie and Dot agreed, with Dot saying, "The same for us. Whoever is closer takes her."

All three girls looked at each other and nodded before smiling at Darcy.

Darcy's heart swelled; maybe she'd finally make friends in this time.

Emily spoke up quietly, "I don't work in Manhattan; I work around the corner, so I can't take you."

Connie waved her hand at Emily dismissively, "Don't take directions from Emily ever. You'll end up in Bangkok."

All three girls erupted into giggles, and Emily looked away. Mrs. Doyle piped up and told them to hurry and eat their lunches.

The trio, which Darcy quickly surmised they were, chattered away amongst each other while Mrs. Doyle spoke to Darcy a bit more about the house. Emily didn't speak at all.

After lunch, she was told to leave her dishes, and Darcy was shown a laundry (really a washroom that looked like it came from the Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory movie) and Mrs. Doyle's bedroom and private bathroom. After that, she was brought upstairs with her suitcase in tow. At the top of the stairs, Darcy learned her room was second from the left. Connie's was first, Bonnie's was across from there on the right, and Dot's was across from Darcy. There was a single bathroom at the end of the hall. Emily had a room on the next floor.

Sensing how tired she was, Mrs. Doyle insisted she have a lie-down, and Darcy couldn't agree more. She opened the door to her room, stepped in, and shut the door behind her, leaning against it exhaustedly.

She lazily scanned the room and sighed, assessing her situation.

One bathroom between five women. A bedroom with a single bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair, and enough floor room for Darcy to lie down without wiggle room.

Darcy dazedly placed her suitcase on the desk and sat on her new bed. It would appear she'd been spoiled at Mrs. Nellie's.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

February 2nd, 1942

Hibbitt Consulting Firm, New York City

It was discovered that it was Connie who worked closest to Darcy's new place of employment; she worked at the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street, less than a five-minute walk from Darcy's new work. Darcy had gotten up at 6am to prepare for her day. It was a rough start. Darcy was used to Janey's random schedule and late nights. Not 6am wake-up calls. Having five women get ready at approximately the same time in the morning was terrifying, to say the least. Darcy had crammed into the narrow bathroom, swapping places with the girls whenever someone needed the mirror more. There was a well-oiled system in place that Darcy just knew her presence was disrupting, but all the girls were kind about it.

She was grateful it wasn't looking to be a rainy day.

Darcy stylishly dressed her hair in a curly updo. Wearing a baby blue skirt, a suit jacket, and a white dress shirt, Darcy felt a little too modern with the businesswoman chic look, but she liked it too much to consider changing it. She topped it off with a pair of practical white kitten heels, a white purse, a gold watch, and, of course, stockings with a sexy seam. Thankfully, Mr. Harker (or maybe Mrs. Nellie) had already organised her closet to be absolutely brimming with clothing. She had everything she needed to immediately settle into her new life, plus some luxuries like perfume and accessories.

She had, however, been advised against her usual bright red lipstick by Bonnie when at work. Apparently, that was pushing '40s sensibilities a little too far. Everyday wear and formal events were apparently totally down for the red lip, though. Pink would do for work.

Taking the bus together, Connie was decidedly a morning person and chattered the whole way. Having grown up in the city, Connie was more than happy to point things out along the way. Good places to eat lunch, a dance hall they had to go to, a little dress shop, and even a popular teahouse. Without hesitating, Connie had walked her straight up to the doors of her new place of employment, wished her a good first day, and told her to visit Tavern whenever she wanted. Knowing Connie finished before her that day, Darcy would be taking the bus home alone and could only hope she could retrace her steps (or rather wheels) without any hassles.

The building didn't have any references to the man she was suddenly employed by, but Darcy knew which floor she was expected on.

Worming her way through the peak hour crowd, she entered the building and took the full elevator up to the fourth floor. She was the only one to get off on the fourth floor and was immediately met with a large, imposing desk with an equally daunting woman behind it. She was tall, slender, with a severe brunette hairstyle, wore a professional taupe suit jacket and pencil skirt combo, and looked perhaps in her mid-thirties.

Blandly, the woman eyed Darcy up and down as she approached.

Shooting a genuine smile, Darcy spoke first, "Hi! I'm Darcy Lewis; I'm beginning work with Mr. Hibbitt today."

The woman didn't smile or otherwise acknowledge Darcy's introduction, "Mr. Hibbitt isn't associated with this firm."

Ice ran through Darcy's veins. Had Mr. Harker fucked up?

The woman continued, "His office is down the corridor on the left. There should be a plaque on the door with his name."

Nodding unsurely, wondering what had crawled up that woman's ass this morning, Darcy thanked her and followed her directions. At the very end, on the left, there was indeed a door with Mr. Hibbitt's name on it.

Darcy politely knocked on the door. No one responded, and already irritated by the other lady's attitude, she made the executive decision to simply waltz in. To her surprise, there was a man inside… stuck? Yes, his head was stuck in a trash can.

She's had weirder orientations, believe it or not.

Unsure how to approach the situation, Darcy hesitantly approached, "Ahh, Mr. Hibbitt?"

She could hear muffled grumbling. Assuming that was trashcan for 'help' she approached and tried to get a hold of the can. Luckily, he was about a head shorter than her, and she was able to get a decent grip. With a little bit of wiggling and a less-than-gentle shove with the flat of her shoes to his thigh, he was free.

He inhaled deeply, "I don't recommend that."

You don't say, she thought wryly, "Dare I ask?"

He shook his brown hair, "No, no, it's fine. Not worth mentioning. Now, who are you?"

Darcy blinked, "I'm Darcy Lewis."

He blinked back, "Alright."

Crossing her arms, Darcy glared at him, "You mean to tell me you have no idea who I am?"

He shrugged, "Am I meant to?"

Sighing, Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose, "Mr. Harker sent me. Ring any bells? Ding, ding?

The strange man scratched his balding head, "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

Darcy flushed; perhaps she'd made an assumption, "Oh! Are you not Mr. Hibbitt?"

Umm, was he a random middle-aged homeless person who was squatting in the office? Because she may not have signed an employment contract (yet), but she's quite confident that's not listed as a routine task she is meant to deal with.

Nodding, he ran his hands down the front of his wrinkled suit, "Yes, yes, that's me. What are you here for?"

"I'm your new secretary," She informed him.

He looked at her again, "When did I hire you?"

"You didn't; Mr. Harker did," She reminded tightly.

Had everyone in this time period huddled together and unanimously decided to make her life difficult? Because it damn well felt like it.

He still looked baffled but approached her anyway and held out his hand, "Anyway, Jerry Hibbitt. At your service."

Rolling her eyes, she shook his hand, "Charmed."

At that moment, Darcy noticed he absolutely reeked of whiskey. It tickled her nose fiercely. His well-tailored three-piece suit was grey, crisscrossed and wrinkled. His overall appearance was more than a little dishevelled. He only wore a gold watch and a gold wedding band on his right hand. Glancing to the corner, she noticed what looked like an improvised bed in well-used condition. He's obviously been sleeping here. Just as she was about to question the trash can, he lurched forward, knelt, and vomited into it.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," she deadpanned.

A minute of hacking and gagging, with Darcy passively watching on, he shuddered and stood back up.

"Pardon me," he started before burping with panicked eyes, "I appear to be a bit under the weather."

"You don't say."

"I'm Jerry Hibbitt, and you are?" he cleared his throat, patting down his clothes.

"Darcy Lewis," Was this guy for real?

"Right," he grumbled to himself, "We'd already covered that, fool."

Well, well, look at that! He's self-aware.

He sat down and gestured for her to sit in the chair opposite his desk, which she timidly lowered herself into. Something told her his office and furniture weren't routinely cleaned, and she loathed the idea of already ruining her lovely blue business attire. When was hand sanitiser invented, and why wasn't it now?

"Now, fill in the gaps in my memory. Where did you come from?"

Darcy resisted losing her shit, "Mr. Harker. Utah. Debt. Anything?"

He looked thoughtful, mouthing Utah over and over before his eyes went bright with recognition, "Robert!"

Finally, "Yeah, him, Mr. Harker," this was already proving to be just as exhausting as Jane was initially.

"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so?"

"I did. Twice, I think."

Possibly three.

"How did you get mixed up with him?" he asked, his gaze wary.

"How'd you end up with your head stuck in a trash can?"

He pursed his lips and then shrugged, "Touché. I'm assuming you start today?"

"So I was told."

He nodded, "It'd be nice if he'd let me know, but no matter! Let's get you situated."

Darcy was confident he had been informed. Judging from the month she'd known Mr. Harker, he was efficient and reliable. Mr. Hibbitt, on the other hand… it had taken her a grand total of a minute to dismiss his capabilities. And he ran a private law firm? God, this was fucked.

He stood abruptly and looked around, shooting her a slightly ashamed look, "Uhh, this is your desk."

Her eyes shot up, "What?"

He vaguely gestured to the small room around them, "This is your office. Mine's through there," he waved his hand toward another door behind her desk.

She looked around; it had green carpet, cream-painted walls, a window next to her wooden desk, a fern in the corner, and Mr. Hibbitt's makeshift bed.

She sighed heavily, "Jerry, and it's going to be Jerry because I've seen you puke your guts up, and I don't respect you enough to call you anything other than Mr. Dumbfuck, if this is my office, consider this your eviction notice. Get your shit out."

Jerry stared at her dumbfounded before saluting her, "Yes, Ma'am."

She gave him a killer grin, "Oh, and call me 'Ma'am' again I am going to rip your balls off and shove them so far down your throat that you'll need a colonoscopy to find them. Understood?"

Visibly floundering, he asked aghast, "What do I call you then?"

"… You've forgotten my name again, haven't you?"

"Diana?"

Darcy rolled her eyes, "Call me Daddy. It starts with a 'D', and you're clearly the sub in this relationship."

"What," he stared at her blankly.

Sighing, she picked up the trash can and handed it to him, "Tell you what, get rid of this - the whole thing, buy me a new one - and I'll let you call me Mommy. How about that?"

They entered a staring competition, and Darcy tried not to laugh at his baffled expression; it had barely started before he lost by rapidly blinking. He shook his head, whacked it lightly, and blinked again.

"I think I might still be drunk," he uttered.

Laughing, Darcy agreed, "I think you might be. C'mon, get the trash can sorted, and then I'll organise the shit show that appears to be your personal and professional life."

This was fine. This she could do. She's had plenty of experience keeping these kinds of people alive. Janey was a prime example. For the first time since arriving in the '40s, and she couldn't believe it took a vomitbag of a man, she felt something.

Chapter Text

3rd February, 1942
Fraunces Tavern + Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

This morning had been a vast improvement from yesterday, even if Jerry had shown up to work hungover. At least he wasn’t drunk. She’d spent most of the day before cleaning her office and organising it to her liking. It wasn’t an ideal first day, but Jerry was sleeping the day away in his office, and she wouldn’t waste the day waiting on him. Today, Darcy had convinced Jerry that they needed to go through the files to create and enforce some kind of system because just tossing them in the cabinet really didn’t cut it. Some cases have been settled for over ten years and are still unarchived! However, she and Jerry were getting along fine. He took orders well.

The woman who sat at the desk in front of the elevator, though, appeared to have had something crawl up her ass and die every morning.

She’d stopped by the Tavern for lunch, and Connie’s boss was sweet enough (maybe even a little too sweet) to let her join Darcy. Having a humble meal of leek and potato soup, Darcy begged Connie for help with suggestions for dinner.

Mrs. Doyle had each girl cook a meal for everyone once a week. As Darcy was the newest resident, she was given Tuesdays to allow her to settle in. Since Mrs. Doyle had her weekly card night on Tuesdays, it had been chosen because it would be one less mouth to feed. Even less now that Connie had informed Darcy that she wouldn’t be present for dinner either.

“Why not?” Darcy prodded.

Connie grinned, “I have a standin’ appointment on Tuesday nights. It’s the night Mrs. Doyle ain’t ‘round, so I invite one of my fellas over.”

Darcy gasped with delight, beyond pleased that the ‘40s weren’t completely prudish, “Fellas? As in, there’s more than one?”

Connie grinned, “My Tuesday night boy is the best lover, though, so I'm willin' to take the risk and have him in my bedroom. The others take me out on dates and spend their dime on me, but that’s usually it.”

Laughing, “Ahh Connie, you naughty, naughty girl.”

Giggling, she lightly smacked Darcy’s hand, “I just knew you wouldn’t be uptight about this! I hafta sneak him past Emily, but I’m glad you understand.”

Darcy shrugged, “We all have to indulge at some point. What are we supposed to do? Marry them first? Pfft!”

Both laughed carelessly before Connie’s boss waved her back onto the floor.

“Well, duty calls! Thanks for poppin’ by for lunch – I enjoyed it!” Connie started to stroll away with their dishes.

“But what should I cook?” Darcy whined.

Connie laughed without stopping her stride, “I’m sure one of the girls would be happy to help with tonight’s dinner.”

She groaned. Not helpful at all.

As luck would have it, Dot was available and was happy to help. They shifted through the icebox and pulled out ingredients for a salad. Noticing they had the ingredients, Darcy also set about making chicken schnitzel.

They chatted whilst preparing their meal, and Darcy discovered that Dot worked as a bank teller. It wasn’t a job she particularly enjoyed, but she got to speak to handsome, rich men all day, which was her incentive to stay.

The oven and stovetop were different from Mrs. Nellie's, so she needed a demonstration of how they worked. However, she picked it up quickly from Dot.

It was about 6 o’clock when it was ready, and Darcy asked Dot to call down the girls for dinner. By the time she’d set the table and filled their glasses, Dot, Bonnie, and Emily were seated around the table.

God, the portion sizes were really small.

The mood was light-hearted, and Bonnie was happy to gush about her day at the jewellery store, “A handsome man bought an engagement ring! How thrilling! He was all nervous, but I convinced him to buy it immediately!”

Darcy tried very hard not to think about how that poor man was likely going to be drafted soon. Probably trying to get married before he's shipped out.

Dot sighed wistfully, “If only a big, strong, handsome, wealthy man would buy me such a ring.”

Laughing, Bonnie threw her napkin at her, “If only you could find a man who could tolerate you long enough!”

In mock outrage, Dot threw the napkin back, and it lightly smacked Bonnie’s face, “I’ll be married long before you will be, missy!”

As they playfully bickered, Darcy heard the front door open quietly. Glancing over Emily’s shoulder and into the hallway, she spied Connie poking her head through and surveying the dining room.

Remembering what she’d said about Emily, Darcy quickly invited her into a conversation, “So, Emily, what about you? How was your day?”

Emily blinked her stunning green eyes, genuinely surprised when asked, “Oh! I was at school. The kids were quite well-behaved today.”

Keeping her eyes intently on Emily, Darcy absently noticed Connie sneaking her beau upstairs in the shadows, and she resisted the urge to send her a saucy wink. Get it, girl

Darcy loved playing the wicked older woman who assisted in secret sexcapades.

However, she was concerned by Emily’s complete lack of familial relationships with their fellow housemates. She seemed sweet. Maybe she was just shy because she didn’t know Darcy yet.

“What class do you teach?” Darcy queried.

“Oh,” Emily seemed to flush with embarrassment, “I only teach 1st graders.”

Darcy didn’t understand why that was something to be embarrassed about, “That’s great! I’m sure they love you.”

Emily went completely red, “Oh, I don’t know about that. Sometimes, I feel it’s a rather rudimentary position. I should be doing something more, somehow.”

Well, with that kind of attitude, Darcy suspected Emily didn't enjoy it much.

Dot scoffed, “Such as? It’s not as though you’re going to be an ice girl with your tiny arms or a clerk with your timid nature. With your ironclad constitution, being around snotty kids is the best you can offer.”

Emily’s head bowed.

What the fuck? No wonder Emily didn't talk to them if this is how they spoke to her!

Scowling at Dot a little, Darcy couldn’t help but come to Emily’s defence, “I’m sure there’s lots she could do! With the right job, I’m sure she’d be incredible.”

Dot arched an eyebrow but shrugged, “Perhaps, but to do that, she will have to show some initiative.”

“Well,” Bonnie began with a click of her tongue, “She’s going to have to do something. It’s not like the men are dizzy for her.”

Nodding, Dot continued, “A real spinster in the making.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed, “And I think the two of you should drop the bitchy act before I show you how it's really done.”

All three girls stared at Darcy with varying degrees of shock. Emily was the most stunned, and Dot was the most blasé.

Timidly standing, Emily started clearing the table, “Thank you for cooking, Darcy. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“No,” Darcy started before standing as well, “I’ll help.”

“We meant nothing by it, Darcy,” Bonnie assured her, looking slightly contrite.

Gathering plates as well, Darcy found she wasn’t impressed, “No point justifying it to me; I’m not the one you both targeted.”

Leaving the room with an arm full of dishes, Emily followed. They’d barely made it to the kitchen before Emily started blubbering apologies. Darcy was annoyed but unsurprised that neither Dot nor Bonnie followed them to apologise to Emily.

Darcy waved a hand dismissively, “I don’t like their attitude. Not your fault they spoke to you like that.”

Emily quietly joined her at the small sink and dried as Darcy washed.

Eventually, Emily piped up, “Do you really think I could be incredible?”

God, had anyone ever given this girl any kind of positive reinforcement?

Wiping down her soapy hands, Darcy placed her hands on the younger girl’s shoulders, ensuring that Emily was looking and paying attention, “You already are. We’re women. We make the world go around. We just have to remind men we’re alpha when they step out of line. Sometimes, though, like tonight, we have to remind other women what the pecking order is.”

The girl nodded, but Darcy wasn’t convinced she believed her. Oh well, she had time to change that. She’d have Emily bursting with 21st-century confidence in no time.

Finishing up, Darcy and Emily walked upstairs. Just as Darcy was about to head to her room for the night, some very loud moans came from Connie’s room.

Head snapping to Emily, she wondered in trepidation if she’d ruined Connie’s subsequent Tuesday nights by leading the younger girl up here.

Emily raised an eyebrow at her, “I’m going to do some reading before bed.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Darcy spoke, “Uhh, yeah. You do that. Connie’s got a headache, I think.”

Now, it was Emily shooting her an unimpressed glare, “I’m 20, not Amish.”

Laughing lightly, Darcy wished her goodnight before leaving her to go to her room. It looks like Connie underestimated Emily.

Darcy heard heavy panting and rhythmic thumping through the wall.

By God, they're loud. She bet the others could hear them across the hallway! Darcy grinned roguishly; it would seem Connie wasn’t exaggerating when she said she’d found a brilliant lover.

Opening her book about U.S. history that Mr. Harker had kindly provided for her, she tried to get lost in her reading.

But the rhythmic moans, groans, giggles, and bumps kept her focus.

Darcy tried not to feel bitter.

A woman the age of her hoarder Great Aunt Harriet was getting fucked (and pretty well, from the sounds of it) while she was going through an extended dry spell.

She didn’t even have a vibrator in this time. Darcy hadn't had to use just her fingers in years.

When was the sexual revolution? Because she would single-handedly start it if they didn’t hurry up.

After an hour or so, Darcy heard Connie and her lover sneak downstairs and out of the house. Grinning, Darcy stepped into the hallway and waited for Connie at the top of the stairs. Coming back inside, their eyes caught, and Connie’s face burst with post-coitus contentment.

Exaggerating a hand wave to ‘cool off,’ Darcy teased her, “That sounded hot!”

Shamelessly, Connie hopped up the steps and shrugged delightedly, “It always is with 'im.”

Sighing, Darcy pouted, “You’ve gotten me all bothered now! I don’t even have my usual toys.”

Connie shot her a significant look, “Oh? Lost your massager, have you? We can’t have that! We’ll go get you one this weekend.”

Leaving her in the hallway, Darcy couldn’t help but think her history lessons failed to mention how horny the ‘40s were.

Chapter Text

February 15th, 1942

Rosie's Diner, New York City

Darcy couldn't help but feel quite proud of herself. She'd been officially in New York City for two weeks, creating a steady routine. The world also hadn't ended from her being flung through time, so she considered that a definite plus.

Everything was looking up for Hibbitt Consulting. Jerry was even starting to take on more clients again. A first for at least a year, apparently. He was still trying (failing) to sneak in flasks of whiskey, but Darcy considered it a massive improvement. Every night, Darcy walked him out of the building to encourage him to go home, but most of the time, she'd find him asleep in his office come morning. Something about his refusal to go home tugged at her heartstrings, and she tried to empathise with the idea of both their homes being inaccessible. He was also kind, funny, scatterbrained, and always had her pay receipt and cash ready on Friday afternoons, which endeared him to her even more. Even with his life being a wreck, he ensured Darcy got her pay. They had a healthy rapport, and Darcy didn't feel mistreated at all. Jerry might be considering creating a worker's union strictly to keep her in line, but he won't; he loved being sassed. Which was great because she and sass came hand in hand; it was like the job was tailor-made just for her.

The bitch at the main desk still disliked her though. Oh well, aggressive kindness to piss someone off every morning was a brilliant way to start her day, she found. Look at that, Mom - Darcy can be a bitch and polite. You should be so proud. Darcy was slowly figuring out this whole '40s attitude people were always going on about. You can be classy and still piss people off.

She'd also purchased a '40s vibrator. It was bulky, loud, and intimidating, but it got the job done. Awkwardly, but eh. It wasn't a Satisfyer Pro, but it worked.

To celebrate this small milestone, Darcy was treating herself to a chocolate malt shake (which was to die for) and a slice of carrot cake from the diner a few blocks down from the boarding house. She'd been here twice already, once with Connie and another time with Emily, and Darcy found she quite liked it.

She'd grown quite close to Connie and Emily over her short time here but noticed that the two shared very little in common. They were nice to each other, but Darcy could see they wouldn't consider each other friends. Yet, at least. Connie would invite Emily into a conversation, but Emily's short responses and unwillingness to add another topic stunted their conversation. Connie deserved a gold star for continuing to try, though.

Darcy and Emily had spent time reading together in the sitting room. Emily was outrageously clever, and being a schoolteacher suited her very well on paper, but Darcy sensed something deeper about her. She imagined it was only a matter of time before Emily had a career change. Darcy couldn't begin to guess what, though.

Connie, on the other hand, had very little desire to change her current circumstances. She went on dates with men whenever she wasn't working, kept her Tuesday dick appointment, and shopped almost until she dropped. Darcy was concerned the war would hit her extraordinarily hard.

The air was clear with Dot, who had apologised to Emily for her unkind words. Darcy suspected it was only a matter of time before the pattern would repeat itself. Additionally, Darcy was positive Dot didn't appreciate Darcy being so vocal about disapproving of her attitude. She could suck shit.

Bonnie hadn't attempted any apologies and was content to allow the situation to fizzle out. Emily graciously let it. Darcy was ready for round two. It made dinner times carefully cultivated towards news and happening ons.

Darcy attempted to remain as oblivious as possible to the political environment she was currently in. It was one thing to study it objectively; it was another thing entirely to live it. However, she still learned things from her fellow boarders, such as soap being officially rationed in Britain. Darcy thanked every God she could name that Mr. Harker hadn't sent her there. She didn't like the English weather anyway.

But it was a rare, unseasonably nice day in New York, and Darcy wanted to step outside on her day off. The trio were off having a girl's day in Manhattan (the day before had been Valentine's Day, and they'd missed their usual Saturday outing because boys), and Emily was with Mrs. Doyle at church. She'd been invited but kindly declined. Mrs. Doyle had shot her a knowing look.

Yes, she's Jewish. She didn't feel it required pointed looks for missing church. It's not like she was rushing to the synagogue, either. Maybe she should start spouting Yiddish in her day-to-day conversations. Oy vey!

And yes, sure, this malt shake was practically sinful, but she imagines Thor will forgive her.

They were also expensive. The only reason she could afford to have three in the past fortnight was due to Mrs. Doyle owing Mr. Harker a debt, meaning she was currently boarding for free. Otherwise, this would be a rare treat. She sucked on her straw and listened to the music playing at the diner.

A String of Pearls had hit #1 on the Billboards and had been playing just about anywhere and everywhere Darcy went, and honestly, she wasn't hating it. She was becoming accustomed to the music and would miss it when she finally got home. Home. Darcy visibly winced, burying the thought as quickly as it popped into her head.

Desperate to dispel the thought, she checked out the diner. Honestly, it looked more like a bar than a diner, but she supposed her vision of diners came to fruition in the '60s. It had black and white linoleum floors, panelled walls covered in posters, pictures, and brand merchandise, and a long bar with bar stools (where she sat) and matching tables and chairs. It had only three precious booths, which Darcy had been unable to snag. It wasn't too busy yet, but she supposed most people were still at church or post-church gatherings. Or, as Darcy liked to think of them as, neighbourhood gossip sessions. It could take all morning and half the afternoon.

Sipping her drink, she accidentally made eye contact with the man a few seats down. She cringed internally, realising he'd been staring at her and patiently waiting for her to look his way. He was tall even whilst sitting, dressed in his Sunday best, brunet and tanned. He slid his drink and plate over the counter and moved to sit next to her. Ah, a narcissistic moron who felt himself above invitations - lovely. Darcy wanted to groan; she wasn't in the mood to deal with a man's fragile ego. Delicate, thy name is not Darcy.

"Before you start," she began dryly, "the answer is 'no'."

This did not dissuade him, "Well, my question was, 'would you mind if I join you?' so I'm pleased to see we're on the same page."

Darcy rolled her eyes, "I mind."

Pointedly, she grabbed her shake and untouched cake and moved a couple of seats away further down from him.

He copied her and followed her along.

The audacity of this chucklefuck.

She smiled at the working owner as she walked past, "Could I get a tall glass of water with ice, please?"

"Sure thing, honey," Rosie, the owner, told her.

"So, I haven't seen you around here 'fore," he prodded, with what he must have thought to be a very charming tone.

All it did was make her eardrums itch unpleasantly.

"Yeah, I'd say I'm specifically avoiding you, but no one's bothered to mention you. For good reason, I see."

He chuckled, "Ouch, kitty's got claws."

Shooting him a wide grin, "Oh, yeah. You have no idea."

Rosie came back with her iced water, barely sticking around long enough for Darcy to thank her before running off to her next customer.

She was going to give him one last chance to back the fuck off when he ruined even that.

He rested his hand on her thigh, "I was thinkin'---"

Darcy poured the ice and water down the front of his shirt, and it gushed all down the front of his pants.

He yelped, removed his offending hand, and stood up.

Glaring at her, he stood over her intimidatingly, "You stupid bitch---!"

Someone hollered, "Hey! Back off! That's no way to speak to a lady---!"

But Darcy had it handled, and she swiftly kicked the dickhead in the nuts and down he went.

Coyly sipping her shake, "Good thing I had the foresight to get you ice, huh?"

Her would-be rescuer piped up again, his voice steady and strong, "You best get goin'; the lady's made it clear she doesn't wanna talk to you."

She agreed, "You heard him, best get going. Unless you want me to demonstrate another 'ouchie' for you."

Refusing to take her eyes off him, she watched as the man sulked out the door, murmuring threats to her hero the whole way out.

"You alrigh', Ma'am?" The good samaritan asked.

She turned to thank him and to tell him she had it all under control but was blindsided by the sight of him. He was the same height as her, with blond hair and beautiful baby blues, but he was also pale and gaunt, as though he was recovering from a long sickness. His clothing included a simple white button-up, dark wool flannels, and a thick brown coat. All of which didn't sit on his frame quite right. She supposed he was handsome in his unconventional way, but his voice had suggested he was an alpha male, and she was met with what looked like Bambi. He couldn't have been even half the size of her width-wise, and he'd jumped to her defence! Her heart swelled with appreciation for this random little guy. He'd been willing to get his ass beat for her!

"I'm peachy! Thanks for that," She smiled sincerely at him, "But please don't call me 'Ma'am', I'm Darcy."

She held out her hand for him to shake, and he did so firmly.

Even his handshake was stronger than one would assume.

He was about to give his name when Rosie came about, "What in God's name happened here?"

Darcy jumped in, "Some idiot was feeling me up! I poured the water on him to get rid of him. Sorry for the mess. I'll clean it up."

Rosie waved her hand, "Don't you dare. I've got it. Just don't sit there for now."

Turning to her new friend, she smiled, "Mind if I join you?"

He looked a bit stunned but nodded, bringing her back to a booth. She suddenly felt like she had a friend in high places. A booth! So comfy and large!

"So," she started after they settled opposite each other, "What brings you to Rosie's?"

Giving her a small smile, "I meet up with a friend here after work every Sunday."

Darcy waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, so she nudged her cake towards him, "Did you want some of my cake? Only fair that my dashing stranger gets some kind of reward!"

He blushed violently but shook his head, "I didn't do it for any reward. I was already thinkin' of steppin' in before he'd gone too far. His mitts shouldn't have been anywhere near ya."

What a guy. They don't make them like this anymore, huh?

"Well, I'm grateful, but I had it handled," she assured him, eating her cake.

He nodded with a smile, "Oh, I could tell… I was mighty impressed with how ya handled yourself."

She laughed, "Wouldn't be the first boy I've put in his place, and I daresay it won't be the last!"

Opening his mouth to respond, he looked over her shoulder, distracted, "Ah, my friend is here!"

Darcy was about to turn around and look when a man was suddenly standing In front of their booth. Darcy's breath hitched at the sight of him. Now, this guy was what she'd been expecting when she'd turned around to look at her saviour. Tall, built, handsome, debonair. Scrumpdillyicious.

He was easily six-foot, with dark hair stylishly slicked back, gorgeous ocean blue eyes that could rival even hers, defined cheekbones, a shaven sharp jawline, and the cherry on top of having a Disney-worthy cleft chin. He wore a pale yellow pleated long-sleeve shirt, rolled up at the elbows, and tan slacks. Despite the clothes obviously being well-loved, they suited him very well. I hereby dub thee, Mr. Charming.

Darcy was worried she was visibly drooling.

She wanted to lick the length of his jawline - it was cut so deliciously and enticingly. His profile was positively Grecian.

The newcomer glanced between them with a suave smile, "Why Stevie, aren't ya gonna introduce me to your striking new friend?"

Fuck. He was a flirt too.

Her new friend, who she now knew was named Steve or Stevie, smiled bashfully, "This is Darcy, I just helped her with that yuck Carl bein' a jackass---" He abruptly cut himself off.

Darcy was unwilling to let him downplay his involvement, "Stevie here came running to my rescue."

While sliding into the booth next to Steve, under his breath, she heard his friend mutter, "Oh, I bet he did," but she tactfully ignored it.

"Came right up to Mr. Chucklefuck, he did, and told him to back off! Honestly, the asshole thought he could run his hand up my thigh, call me a bitch, and I'd be gushing like Niagara Falls when really all it did was make me as dry as the Sahara Desert! Thought I'd be enchanted by some below-average small talk, spread my legs and declare myself 'open for business.' Honestly! I have some class."

Darcy huffed her irritation before looking up at both their expressions.

Steve was red as a tomato and visibly trying to contain himself from spluttering, trying to hide his reaction by taking a sip of his coffee.

His friend, however, had no such reaction. His eyes held hers, and they were gripped with sheer delight.

Mr. Charming recovered first, "I'm absolutely thrilled to meet ya, Darcy"

If that didn't send a little tingle down her spine, she didn't know what would, "The pleasure's all mine."

Chiming in, Steve spoke, "She's exaggeratin'. I barely had time to step forward, and she'd already kneed him in the bits."

If anything, Mr. Charming looked even more curious, "That a fact? Geez, doll, you sure put him in his place."

Shrugging, she confirmed, "Right on the dirty floor where he belongs."

He laughed heartily, "Obviously a great judge of character too, Carl's a crumb."

Whatever a crumb was, she imagined it fell short of what Carl was, but she was really liking this new guy.

Helplessly (it was really her civic duty to do some reconnaissance), she let her eyes wander up and down the length of him she could see. He looked like he worked out, but she had yet to learn if gyms were even a thing in this decade. His forearms were tanned, obviously, someone who worked outside, and she could see the outlines of muscles that would bulge if he flexed. Fingers were lightly tapping on the table to a rhythm only he heard, but they were long and relatively thick. Long and thick, yes please. The only thing she could see that let him down was his chipped nails, but she could graciously overlook that. His shoulders were so broad she'd easily be able to fling her legs over them without them sliding off. Trailing her eyes along his buff chest, lickable neck and finally up to his boundless eyes, which were alight with something she was sure was mirrored in her own.

She didn't know how such bright blue eyes could look like molten fire, but the dark edge in them implied he knew exactly what she was thinking.

She supposed it made sense; blue fire was the hottest fire.

The grin he shot her was positively filthy. Just that had done what 'Carl' had failed to do – it had gotten her attention. Maintaining eye contact the whole time, he raised his arms and stretched with a knowing smirk, hitching his shirt and exposing his abdomen. He had a lightly defined six-pack she wanted to run her hands all over. She just bet she could make those muscles twitch under her investigative fingers.

Oh yeah, he was hot, and he knew it.

Shooting him a flirtatious look, she wrapped her cherry lips around her straw and sucked strongly before asking invitingly, "So, do I drop my panties now or do I grab a ticket and get in line?"

Steve choked on his coffee, and his friend patted his back without breaking eye contact with her.

He didn't miss a beat, his voice husky, "No ticket necessary, sweetheart, you're first in line."

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

He's good.

At this point, Steve was visibly floundering.

Eyes still locked, she quirked a challenging brow at him. His own brow raised, declaring himself equal to the challenge.

Darcy grinned deviously, "Well, I'm never one to miss an amazing opening night."

His smile was twice as devilish, "I find opening nights a little overrated. It's all the nights after when there's familiarity and rhythm. That's when moving art happens."

Fuck, was she still breathing?

His voice was completely enthralling. Pitched low and aimed to please.

"Umm, Buck, I don't wanna interrupt…" Steve piped up.

'Buck' groaned, "C'mon, pal, don't lay an egg; we were on a roll."

Steve shook his head exasperated, "And we've got to go to Evie's, remember? Moving day?"

Sighing, Buck nodded as he looked back at Darcy, "I'd love to continue this conversation another time. How can I reach ya?"

Darcy knew it was a different time, but she was never one to give up her address or phone number to just anyone, "How about you tell me when you're free?"

He grinned, "Dancing Saturday night? You'll find no better dancer in all of Brooklyn!"

"Well, it'll be my first night out since arriving in New York, so sure!"

He stood up from the booth, letting Steve slide out, "Then I'll make sure it's a killer night! When do ya wanna sort out the details?"

Darcy made a show of thinking about it, not wanting to seem too eager, "Wednesday night, I'm free. I could meet you here for a coffee after work."

He winced, "How 'bout Monday? As in tomorrow?"

Steve shot him an exasperated look. Perhaps they already had plans?

Well, well, she wasn't the only one eager, "Awesome."

She stood as well, just as Steve held out his hand, "I didn't officially introduce myself; I'm Steve Rogers. This jerk is my friend James Barnes, but everyone calls him Bucky."

Bucky grinned and quickly but affectionately smacked Steve across the back of his head, "And 'jerk' only to Steve, here, so don't let that one stick!"

They quickly rushed off, Bucky reassuring her he'd meet her at Rosie's tomorrow at half 5.

Darcy didn't hear any of it.

Steve Rogers. Captain America.

James 'Bucky' Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

February 15th, 1942

Barnes Residence, New York City

Bucky knew he must look a right sight, whistling and practically skipping, but he was too pleased to pretend to care. On the other hand, Steve looked at him exasperatedly and deliberately dragged his feet.

"Geez, Buck, if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd never talked to a dame before."

Grinning, he teased, "Why shouldn't I be happy? I just met my future wife."

"I think you've managed to get heatstroke in February," His mopey friend replied dryly.

Wrapping his arm around his pal's shoulders, Bucky propelled him forward, "That's because that broad's gotta be the fieriest woman I've ever seen. Did ya see the shape of her? I'd like to make an outline and wax poetry about 'er," he paused, letting a dopey smile grace his face, "Then she opened her mouth, and I knew she was it for me!"

Shaking his head but not ducking out from underneath his best pal's arm, Steve continued, "I knew you were dramatic, but delusional's a new one."

Bucky couldn't help the shit-eating grin that pulled at his cheeks, "What can I say? She's made me soft in the head for the few minutes I've known her."

Steve scoffed, "I give it a week before she's tired of your shit. I can't believe you're blowin' off coachin' to 'ave coffee wit' her."

"I'm not coachin' tomorrow," he corrected him, "I was just gonna train. I'm still fit as a fiddle; I can skip the occasional day."

Jogging up the steps of his mother's house, he and Steve entered the hallway to a ruckus. Lottie and Becca were midway up the stairs arguing and tugging a box to and fro, with poor Evie sitting on the bottom step looking decidedly pale. Through the kitchen, he could hear his Ma yelling at them to cut it out.

"Geez, Steve, you made me rush flirtin' with the prettiest dame in the world for this madhouse?"

Steve shrugged, "Nothing you ain't dealt wit' before."

He sighed, "Too true," inhaling deeply, he bellowed, "Ladies!"

The house went quiet, and Evie looked at him a little greenly.

"Your sister's expectin' and here ya are arguin', playing tug-o-war above her head takin' no mind you could drop it on her? Cut it out!"

Both Lottie and Becca looked a little guilty, but not enough to stop completely.

"Lottie ain't listenin'---!"

"-I'm not listening? Evie said to---"

The box was precariously pulled back and forth between the girls again.

"Enough! I don't care who said what. Give it 'ere."

Grudgingly, they handed the box over. It wasn't too heavy, but enough that Bucky was seriously unimpressed with their behaviour. They could have very easily hurt Evie. Setting it down and out of the way, he glared at his two youngest sisters.

Glancing at Evie, he gently asked, "You alright, Evie?"

A sick combination of pale and green, she raised a hand and gave a single thumbs up, which wasn't good enough for Bucky.

Crouching down before her, he spoke as quietly as possible, "Do you think you can make it up the stairs to have a lie-down? Or did you want me to help ya into the kitchen?"

She didn't answer or move; wouldn't even react to his enquiry.

While Bucky wrapped his arms around Evie as gently as possible, Steve took charge.

"Lottie, get ya sister a bucket. Becca, bring some water to boil. I'll run to the shop and get some stuff for ginger tea," he directed, already halfway out the door.

Bucky nodded his thanks while his two sisters rushed off to complete their tasks.

He gently rubbed his sister's arms, "Does that help?"

His sister gave the most minuscule shake of her head, and he immediately stopped.

Lottie rushed back with the bucket and handed it to Bucky. The sight of it seemed to trigger Evie, who lurched forward and vomited violently into it. Bucky made soothing noises and gently rubbed her back with his free hand while holding the bucket steady with the other. Lottie paled and immediately fled the hallway. Ridiculous. Four women in this house, and not a damn one of them could handle someone vomiting. Evie kept retching for a minute before shuddering. She gave a couple more false starts before she released her death grip on the bucket. Bucky pulled it away from her so the acrid smell wouldn't set her off again.

Seeing Lottie peeking from around the corner, he called out to her, "Are ya able to take care o' the bucket?"

Lottie blanched. That's a resounding no.

He sighed, "Sit with 'er, I'll do it."

Rushing into the kitchen, he started cleaning out the bucket.

"Was that Evie I heard?"

"Yeah, Mama, the girls were being too loud, and I think she just got overwhelmed."

Ma scolded Becca as they were dishing up food for lunch, and Bucky tried to stay out of their way.

"Can someone pull out one of the chairs?" Lottie called as she gingerly assisted Evie into the kitchen.

Immediately, Ma had a chair pulled out and was helping Evie sit down.

"Feelin' better?" Ma asked her.

"Lil' bit," she said, her voice softer than usual.

"Happens to the best of us. 's how you know your baby's strong."

Bucky set the bucket aside to dry before walking over, "Where's Jim?"

"Bringing the load over," Ma said, "Mr. Garrett was kind enough to loan his truck, so we should be able to do it in one trip."

Concerned, Bucky asked, "Who's helpin' him load on the other side?"

Becca shrugged, "Dunno."

Just then, Steve walked in with a small paper bag, "Afternoon, everyone."

They returned the greeting, and Steve approached the counter, pulled out the ingredients, grabbed the boiled water Becca had prepared and started making Evie some ginger tea.

Bucky asked about their morning, "How was mass?"

His Ma's eyes narrowed, "Better if you'd bother to attend."

He shrugged as he sat at the table with them, thinking there was no point in going. As he saw it, God would likely send him to a battlefield, and He could forgive him for skipping church a few times. He tried not to look at Evie pityingly. Married less than a year, pregnant, and with a husband about to be sent to basic. They'd just sold their house; there was no point in keeping it when Jim would likely be gone for years. Thankfully, she was able to move back in with the family. It would have been a rough experience raising a baby on her own in such an environment.

People do strange things during wartime.

Steve brought the tea for Evie, who smiled weakly, immediately taking small sips.

Sitting beside him, his Ma declared they could eat. A Sunday roast was easily his favourite lunch food. Too bad he couldn't make it to join them every Sunday. He was going to have to fix that. Who knew how many weekends he had left with them?

He really needed to stop thinking about it.

"How was work, Steve?" Becca asked.

Smiling politely, Stevie said, "Uneventful today, but it's still a dollar in my pocket. I brought ya a copy of the newspaper if you didn't have it already."

"Did you go to Rosie's?" Lottie piped up eagerly, only slightly obsessed with the diner or rather their malt shakes.

An evil grin was shot his way, and Bucky knew Steve was about to say some shit.

He discreetly kicked the punk's leg, but it didn't dissuade him, "We met Bucky's future wife this morning."

Bucky looked heavenward and groaned.

Goddamn it, Stevie!

Everyone but Evie erupted into chaos.

Look at what you've done now!

"What?"

"Wife?!"

"Whoever would want you?"

"Hey! I'm desirable!" He insisted.

"As desirable as mould, I expect," Becca ribbed.

"Nah, mould has a purpose," Stevie disagreed.

"Et tu, Brutus?"

"Was she pretty?"

"Soooo pretty!" Steve confirmed.

"What's her name?"

"Darcy," Steve chuckled.

"What kinda name is that?"

"A lovely one," Bucky tried to interject but was ignored.

"As in Mr. Darcy?"

"Uh oh, an educated broad. Bucky's in waaaaay over his head!"

"Why didn't you bring 'er to lunch?"

"Maaaaa! We'd just met!"

"... And?"

"Did she not like you?"

"-Clever woman---"

"-Far too clever for Bucky then---"

"Hey! I'm right here!"

"…What have I walked into?"

Everyone looked towards the door as Jim stood under the doorjamb, keys in hand, looking awfully amused.

"Bucky's met a dame far too clever for him!" Becca cackled.

"Now, hang on just a damn minute!" Bucky tried to cut in.

"James," his mother scolded, "Language."

"Too pretty for him too!" Lottie backed up Becca.

"I'm pretty! Ain't no one too pretty for me!"

"We've concluded that she's found mould has more use than him," Becca gleefully fibbed.

"Jim! Don't listen! Lies and slander!"

"Ah, it's alright, Bucky," Jim reassured him cheekily before leaning over to kiss the top of his wife's head in greeting, "Not every woman is goin' t' think less of you than mould. Sure, they may be few and far between, but I'm sure they exist. In Australia."

Bucky let his head smack on the table, lightly banging it a couple of times with a hearty groan, "I give up."

Everyone giggled, and Jim clapped him on the back, "Come now, tell us about her."

"Don't wanna now," he grumbled into the table.

"C'mon, Buck, quit your bellyaching," Becca, his biggest tormenter, teased, "When are you seein' her again?"

"Tomorrow," he mumbled, unwilling to raise his head yet.

His Mama seemed thrilled, "You'll have to bring her around for dinner one Thursday. I'm just glad it's not that Fischer girl."

Bucky raised his head and stared at her disbelievingly, "Mama, I went on one date with her. Years ago. Who you met by pure chance and without introduction."

"I didn't like her," his Mama shrugged dispassionately, "What was her name again?"

"Dot. Well, Dolores," Bucky informed her.

"Dorothy," Steve corrected him.

"That."

Jim grinned and ribbed, "No wonder the women are queuin' up 'round the block."

Bucky sighed, unwilling to continue this argument. He was a stud, and he knew it. There was no way he would try to justify himself to his family. His Ma, in particular, would probably bring the cane out if she knew even half the things he'd been up to. Hell, he'd be married a dozen times over.

Jim took pity on him, "C'mon gentlemen, help me unload the truck, will ya? Then we'll get stuck into lunch properly."

Agreeing, they went outside.

"Where's your trainin'?" asked Steve politely.

"Camp Wheeler, Georgia. I make off before first light tomorrow," Jim sighed, "It'll be with a heavy heart, that's for sure."

"You should be proud," Steve spoke steely.

Jim nodded, "I am. I just wish I could be here for Evie right now."

Steve's righteous posture lessened, "Yeah, I can understand that."

"I'll make sure she's taken care of," Bucky reassured.

He would. As best as he could until he was drafted himself.

No, he vehemently told himself, don't accept that as your destiny.

But his gut screamed that it was only a matter of time, and his gut was never wrong.

Smiling weakly, Jim spoke, "I have no doubt. You've always been there for your women. It just would 'ave been nice to meet my son or daughter before I go."

"It's rotten luck, is what it is," Bucky mumbled.

Untying the load, which was full of small furniture that would fill Evie's entire room, Bucky opened the passenger door and pulled out a lightweight box, "Stevie, run this up to Evie's room, would ya? Can you double-check that Evie doesn't want any more tea too?"

Steve gave him the stink eye, well aware that Bucky was sparing him the heavy lifting, but he took the box and went inside without too much grumbling.

Jim elbowed him, "C'mon, Bucky, tell me about this new girl of yours."

Bucky sighed, "Darcy and I only met this mornin'. Steve just wanted to start shit because I crassly flirted in front of him."

"I've no doubt," his brother-in-law laughed, "But I can tell you like her."

"I do. She's definitely not what I'm used to."

"Good or bad thing?" Jim queried, concerned.

Bucky thought about it, "First impression? Good."

Jim clapped his shoulder before dropping the tailgate and hopping onto the back of the truck, "Sounds like she's gonna be a doozy."

Unable to contain his grin, Bucky agreed, "For sure. Hopefully, she doesn't eat me alive."

Shimmying a bedside table towards him, Jim grinned, "Best ones are the feisty ones. She feisty?"

"Kneed Carl Walker in the 'nads for being a jackass to 'er."

"Ha! I like 'er already!"

"Me too," Bucky confided, "I'm actually a lil' surprised by how much. I can only wait and see, I guess."

Jim shrugged, "I'm gone for thirteen weeks; a lot can happen then. I look forward to seein' how it develops. If it does."

Bucky did too.

Chapter Text

February 16th, 1942

Rosie's Diner, New York City

It was the fifth time Darcy had walked past, and the fifth time she hadn't entered. She was officially five minutes late for her date, but she just couldn't gather enough nerve to step inside. She decided to walk the block one more time; her lightly blistered feet would just have to forgive her. All day she'd been a bundle of chaotic nerves, to the point where even Jerry had been over her shit. He'd let it go on for a solid hour but broke and begged her to tell him what the matter was because it was only ten o'clock in the work day and even he wasn't skilled enough to put her in such a mood so early.

She groaned and smacked her head lightly on her desk before reluctantly admitting, "I have a date."

Jerry sat silently opposite her momentarily, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he prompted her, "… I take it by your tone that this is bad?"

"Yes."

A staring contest started.

"… Right, I've been out of the dating pool for over 50 years now. I'm going to need you to spell it out for me."

Darcy raised her head and looked at him thoughtfully, "50?"

Jerry waved his hand dismissively, "My wife and I were childhood sweethearts. Now, don't think I didn't notice you trying to weasel your way out of the question," Darcy briefly explained the situation at the diner, and Jerry still looked stumped, "I don't see the problem. Do you like the little one instead?"

"No, he's not my type," she grumbled.

Bucky, on the other hand, was sugar and spice and everything nice.

Jerry incessantly bugged her for another ten minutes, acting more like an annoying child acting up for attention than a man interested in relationship gossip. He'd deftly dodged her attempts at throwing a biro at him and a stapler (those things were heavy in the '40s), really anything within reach, with him looking smugger with every successful evade.

Suddenly, she stood up, pacing, and it all came flooding out, "I've waltzed right out of Kansas and into the fucking Twilight Zone! This is the most ludicrous crossover ever in the history of ever! I think I'm going to entitle it 'Darcy's Death-or-Glory Shit-Show!' it'll have the best ratings ever! I met Steve fucking Rogers! Do you have any idea how weird that was? The man who I know of has the shoulder-to-waist ratio of a fucking Dorito and has suddenly decided that the figure of a French fry is where it's at. I mean, admittedly, it's not like I keep track of the shit that goes on in his life. I know shit went down in DC with the two of them, and it all kind of blew up in Europe, but I'm not equipped to deal with this!"

Jerry's eyes had rolled so far up the back of his head that Darcy was momentarily concerned they'd pop out.

However, Darcy wasn't finished. And now that she'd started... Well, she wasn't one to shut her mouth, was she?

"Then I met fucking Bucky Barnes, who is absolutely gorgeous and the star stud in any warm-blooded American woman's sexual fantasy, and I told him I wanted to drop my panties for him! To his face! I'm freaking the fuck out because I have massive spoilers when it comes to that guy! I can't cancel the date because I have no way of contacting him, and I hate ghosting people. But what if I break the timeline? Ian wasn't even sure if there were timelines to break. But like, I'm pretty sure I can't do shit. There's a part of me that's like, 'Darcy, you 100% ended up right here right now for this sole reason,' and another part is like, 'Hold your horses, girlie, you are not even remotely that special.' I'm not sure what the hell I'm supposed to be doing! I've been doing pretty well bullshitting my way through this so far, but I'm at the end of my rope! You know?!"

She finished with a heavy pant and a desperate gulp of air.

Jerry suddenly blinked, "Oh, you're finished? I'll admit it; I stopped listening."

Sighing, Darcy sat back down, "I figured. It's probably a good thing."

Her boss seemed unphased by her rant, "Do you like this Ducky boy?"

"Bucky."

He snorted, "With a name like that, it doesn't make a difference. Do you like him?"

She shrugged, "I just met him."

"Your point? It's not as though you can neatly schedule these things. Are you worried you might end up liking him too much?"

Scoffing, "Nope, I don't catch feelings."

Jerry's expression was exceptionally flat, "You're the paragon of callousness."

Darcy merely glared.

A beat passed before Jerry shrugged, "If you won't 'catch feelings,' and he's aware of that, then I don't see the harm in a little bit of fun. Go on your date."

Surprised, Darcy looked at him in mock horror, "Jerry! Did you just suggest extramarital activities?"

"It's the '40s, love. If they didn't want people doing it, they wouldn't have made rubbers so accessible."

Darcy droned, "Maybe."

"Listen, you cannot always be thinking about what will happen. Sometimes, you simply don't have a choice."

"It's not that easy," Darcy mumbled, "There's no win or lose for this that I can see."

"Ah well," Jerry started standing, slowly inching towards the door of his office, "If you don't go, he'll have missed out on the craziest broad of his life. Really, you're doing him a favour. You'd prematurely age him-"

He yelped as she hit him square in the back with the dirty mug he had the audacity to leave on her desk.

With Jerry's encouragement, Darcy showed up to the diner with ten minutes to spare and then promptly did what Darcy did best: avoid, by way of procrastinating her entry.

Officially ten minutes late, Darcy had made it back to the door at Rosie's, and she contemplated another lap. Surely, he'd give up on her sooner rather than later and bail? Was she really hoping for that?

Not really.

She approached the window, looked inside, and groaned. He'd secured a booth for them. How were these boys always in possession of the booths? Fuck, she was far too easy to please. It looked moderately busy inside, further upsetting her nerves. Peering in further, she noticed him fiddling with something. She wasn't close enough to see what, but it was obviously a soothing technique. Was he as nervous as she was?

Nah, no way. He's not at risk of inadvertently flipping her life upside down. Well, any further than it already was. She wondered if he would have been all over the fidget spinner craze.

Her date sat at the very edge of his seat, one leg stretched long beside the booth. He looked good, though, lightly decked out for their little coffee date. Slicked-back hair, a clean-shaven face, and a nice outfit. An army green shirt, a grey coat and slacks, with... converses? Those were a thing already? Huh, the more you know.

She sighed and decided to go in. He was waiting so patiently; she wouldn't make him wait any longer, not for little old her. The little bell above the door rang as she entered, and his head snapped up. His lips pulled up into a brilliant smile when his eyes met hers. As she made her way over, he stood to welcome her. Such an old-timey thing – most of the guys she'd dated would've maybe nodded in her direction, but Bucky stood. Cute.

No! Not cute! I'm not allowed to think he's cute!

He stepped just shy of her personal space, and they exchanged quick hellos.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," she told him, as guiltlessly as possible, as they slid into their booth opposite each other.

On the table, she spotted what he'd been fiddling with, keys. Anticlimactic, but it's not like Rubik's Cubes were a thing yet.

God, Rubik's Cubes weren't even a thing yet.

"'s alright. Pity the fella who keeps a lady like you waiting," he grinned in a cocksure manner.

She really wanted to make a snappy comment to hide that his words made her heart flutter. It was unfair what that grin did to her insides.

She simply smiled overtly sweetly before asking, "How's Stevie?"

His grin faltered just a little, and he ran his hand through his hair before quickly aborting the movement, "Steve? Yeah, ah, he's fine. A walking cautionary tale as always."

Nodding, Darcy asked if they should order their coffees. Bucky looked a little more downtrodden but kept the erstwhile grin on his face. Rosie raised an eyebrow at the unusual duo but said nothing as she took their orders.

She didn't point out that Bucky had only offered coffee. Obviously, this would be a quick date, and she was quietly relieved. Less time for her to spew verbal diarrhoea and fuck something up.

She wondered if she should make herself unappealing. That way, he'll actively avoid her in future.

"You look lovely, by the way. Like a real career woman," he complimented her.

Darcy raised a brow, and she glanced at her favourite blue business attire, "I am a career woman, so I should look like one," she told him a bit hotly.

For a moment, she'd forgotten she was in the '40s. Career women were looked upon strangely, even suspiciously. It looks like gorgeous Bucky was no exception. Shame.

Blinking, he quickly reassured her, "You do," before he gave a suave smile, "A beautiful one."

She remained unimpressed. This was honestly a letdown from their last meeting, "Ah-huh."

"Not a fan of compliments?" He asked curiously.

"Oh, I love compliments," she reaffirmed confidently, "I just like things that are more original than that."

He quirked a brow, "If I like the dress a dame is wearing, why shouldn't I tell 'er so? What's it matter how original the line is? It's still inherently true."

She hummed lightly, unwilling to admit that he had a point.

They ventured into the awkward silence territory, and Darcy was genuinely baffled at how different the vibes were from yesterday. Before, she'd been half willing to drag him out to an alley and have her wicked way with him, but now…

Pretending not to notice him anxiously fiddling with his keys, Darcy sighed, "Tell me about yourself."

Looking up from his keys, he eyed her warily, "Ain't that my line?"

Rolling her eyes, she lounged as comfortably as she could on her side of the booth, "Nope, enough lines. Why don't we start with what you and Steve were going to do tonight? I figure I trampled on some plans."

If anything, his brows furrowed more, "No, Steve had other plans. Were you, ah… were you expecting him to come?"

"Nah," she dismissed, "I was just curious."

He nodded uncertainly, playing with his keys between them on the table.

Rosie chose that moment to bring their coffee, which realistically was simply black coffee. She missed her Starbucks. Hell, she'd have even preferred a malt shake.

Quietly, they sipped their drinks.

After a moment, Bucky lightly lowered his cup on the table and leaned forward on his forearms towards her, "I hafta ask, or I'm goin' t' drive myself crazy – have I offended you somehow? Because I'm gettin' the impression that you're brushing me off."

He sounded genuinely dismayed by the notion, and Darcy felt a twinge of regret. It wasn't his fault she hadn't recognised him initially. It also wasn't his fault that she was an accidental time traveller who knew he'd end up an assassin. It might be a little bit his fault (wow, victim-blaming much?) that she'd flirted so shamelessly, but it had been her choice to do so. She really should just tell him now that she's not interested and walk away. But his big blue eyes were searching for hers with a sincere attempt to find clarity.

Surely one date, barely even that, wouldn't break the universe?

She gave an apologetic smile and mirrored him by leaning forward and resting her chin on her elbows.

"I owe you an apology," she spoke contritely.

He baulked and drew back, "Nothin' of the sort! I was simply worried that I was imagining things…"

Shaking her head, she assured him, "No, nothing of the sort. I, uh, I'd learned something I'd have rather been left ignorant about."

He visibly relaxed, "Oh? Nothing too terrible, I hope?"

"Nah," she scoffed, "Just apocalypse-inducing stuff."

"Riiiiight, so typical Monday then," he muttered, "Anyway, what brought you to New York?"

"I'm from Utah originally," she fibbed, "Came to NYC for a new life."

"You'll find it 'ere, no kiddin'. What, uh, what, uh---" he fumbled.

Darcy blinked at him, trying to wait for him to finish his sentence patiently. Bucky was stuttering. Honestly, she’d seen people trip upstairs more elegantly than he tripped over his words. Was she really that terrifying?

"-What do you do for work?"

Darcy couldn't stop herself from laughing, "You asked that in the most panicked pitch I've ever heard!"

"Well, to be fair, it seemed to be a touchy topic," he defended, but with a smile.

"True," Darcy smiled, "I'm a secretary for a law firm in Manhattan."

His eyebrows arched up, "That so? You like it?"

"My boss needs a swift kick up the ass every morning, but other than that it's good."

His blinding smile is back, and he winked at her, "Every morning? Geez, doll, warn a fella before you break my heart like that. You really are a force to be reckoned with."

Darcy flashed her teeth, "You best believe it."

They fell into a light banter while they chatted.

It was difficult for Darcy to talk about herself and her life before the '40s. Some things just didn't translate well. It's not like she can say she wastes ten-plus hours a day on TikTok and Netflix. She stated that she enjoys watching movies, and Bucky inquired which ones she preferred… she hadn't been able to answer but vaguely suggested that it had Katherine Hepburn in it. She was popular in the '40s, wasn't she? She told him she grew up with a sister named Jane (honestly, a friend/boss relationship just wasn't good enough for Janey) whom she often experimented with science, loved lavender, enjoyed outings with friends, and while she couldn't sew, she appreciated fashion. Scrunchies - she went into painstaking detail about what a scrunchie was and how much she missed them. Also, that she was a sucker for chocolate in any form.

Darcy came to the strange conclusion that she liked watching Bucky talk. He was easily excitable and could switch from a sultry suitor to a playful puppy at the drop of a hat. He added dramatic flair when storytelling and gestured grandly with his hands and arms. His facial expressions were a personality all on their own. Her sarcasm was met with equal sarcasm, and she was pleased to note that he had a biting wit when he wanted. She figured he was holding back cussing, but she imagined that was simply because they didn't know each other all that well. '40s sensibilities and all. Bucky would run his hands through his hair before quickly pulling them away as though he'd forgotten he'd waxed his hair back. Darcy really wanted to volunteer to muss it up on his behalf. She'd do a much more enthusiastic and thorough job. Often, he'd comment with a lazy drawl, and Darcy's eyes would stray to his delicious-looking lips. From there, they'd trail up his jawline, and Darcy would be transfixed by how strong it was. She'd always been a sucker for a cut jawline. Her eyes would flick back to his, and his gleeful expression suggested she'd been caught. Repeatedly.

Looking can't hurt, right?

He told her about being the big brother of three younger sisters, and yes, they were tiny tyrants, and no, they weren't benevolent rulers. He worked at the docks labouring and occasionally coached welterweight, for which he used to be the reigning Brooklyn champion before aging out. His dad had been a doughboy (what he meant by that she had no idea because she didn't think he meant a pizzaman – pornographic or otherwise) and later an auto mechanic. But most importantly, he assured her that Bucky was the best dance partner she'd ever have.

"So, you just got too old to keep competing as a welterweight?" She asked, interested.

He grinned but dramatically moaned, "Technically, I got too fat. It was a nice way of sayin' I grew too big too quick, which gave me an unfair advantage over the runts. The curse of bein' a gorgeous giant is a heavy burden."

"How dare you," Darcy snorted dryly.

He nodded solemnly, "I know, I'm a right bastard," he joked before wincing, "Sorry, I shouldn't be swearin' in front of ya."

She arched an unimpressed brow, "I'm happy to bat words back and forth until you learn I've got the better verbal artillery. Bring it."

He guffawed and parroted, "Bring it."

Rosie started shooting them irritated looks, likely from them occupying the booth for so long and only having their single coffees. Bucky and her locked eyes and mutely agreed to move on. Darcy rolled her eyes at Bucky, who insisted on paying for their coffees.

They slowly left the diner with a wave to Rosie, the bell signifying their exit, and stood on the sidewalk.

"Let me walk you home?" He asked suavely, but Darcy saw him shyly playing with his keys.

Darcy agreed, but only because she could confidently say he wasn't a murderer (yet), "Sure can, Buckaroo."

He shot her an exasperated look at the nickname but gently smiled.

She started walking in the direction of the boarding house, and he quickly followed.

They'd only made it a few steps before he said something that forced her to break her stride and stare at him idiotically.

"Cabbage," he told her, looking between her and to his left pointedly.

Huh?

Darcy stared back, baffled, "What?"

Now it was his turn to look confused, "Cabbage."

They both shared looks of pure puzzlement before repeating at the same time, "Cabbage?"

A laugh rippled from both of them, the absurdity of repeating 'cabbage' over and over, not lost on them.

"Is that not a thing in Utah?" He asked amusedly.

"If it is, I've never heard of it. Why don't you fill me in?"

Again, he pointedly looked at her and to his left, "You are walking closest to the traffic."

Her brows crinkled, "And…?"

For a moment, Bucky looked dubious before a brief look of indignation crossed his face, "Wait, the men in your life let you walk closest to traffic?"

Darcy ignored the bristle she felt at the word 'let,' but she was too worried she'd stumbled across some faux pas, "Yes?"

An outraged sound died in his throat, and he shook his head almost frantically before lightly shifting her over and relocating himself to the side of the traffic, "Unbelievable."

They continued to walk along as she pondered what the hell had just happened.

Bucky put her out of her misery, "Cabbage is said to remind someone they're walkin' on the wrong side o' the man."

She was going to ignore the sexist phrasing because Darcy was still confused, "What does any of that have to do with cabbage?"

He looked thoughtful, then shrugged and grinned, "Beats me."

They both laughed.

"Oh," she shot him a haughty look, "And no one lets me do anything."

His head bobbed earnestly, "I'm beginnin' to see that."

The boarding house was only a few minutes' walk away. She delightfully noted he was dragging his feet to match her pace when he finally brought up the reason for their date, "So, Saturday."

Darcy faltered, "Ah, yeah. Dancing."

Nodding eagerly, Bucky took the reins, "There's this great club in Bushwick, brilliant for a bop. Are you interested?"

Unsure if she should, she floundered for excuses, "I'm not much of a dancer."

This only made Bucky confused, "Oh? I thought you wanted to go dancing?"

"I can't dance is more the issue," she insisted, which was mostly true.

She didn't know any '40s style dances. She grew up doing tap and briefly hip-hop when it was hot (she could definitely drop it like it was hot), but she had no other dancing abilities. Okay, she could also dance if one included grinding, hip-swaying, and tipsy shuffling as dancing. She could do a half-ass twerk if drunk enough, but she'd probably end up lynched. She was too depraved for this time period. They probably didn't even have the cocktails she was familiar with. Flinching, she realised espresso martinis might not be a thing yet. Travesty.

The knowledge that she didn't know how to dance didn't throw him off, "You'll be fine, I'll be right there with ya. You're no dead hoofer, I can tell."

Darcy worried her lip; she hadn't meant for this date to go any further. Not really.

Bucky looked concerned, "Hey, if you don't wanna go dancing,' I won't be upset. What about the pictures instead?"

She tilted her head, thinking about it. She'd been in the past for a while and had yet to have the classic cinema experience. Looking at Bucky, her heart swelled with how excited he looked at his new proposal. Damn, she really liked him.

"How about both?" She asked.

Wait, what?!

"Sold," he grinned boyishly.

Shit. Shit. Shit. She had not meant to say that.

"You free one night this week?" He enquired.

"Wednesday?" She asked, knowing full damn well he said no to Wednesday yesterday.

He shook his head, "Friday? It'll have to be an early showing, though. I have to be somewhere at eight."

"Hot date?" Darcy asked, only half-joking.

He shook his head and let his eyes trail up and down her body, "You're my hot date, doll. Nah, something for my lil' sis'."

"We can do it another night if it's too stressful."

He shook his head, "Friday works for me," he sighed a bit wistfully and shot her a devilish grin before bemoaning dramatically, "It's so far away though. I'm going to be absolutely useless and dopey 'til then; Stevie will be positively riled up. Can't wait."

She shot him a look, "I don't think our date's gone that well."

He suddenly stepped in front of her and walked backwards, facing her. Leaning over, he spoke directly to her, close enough that she felt the barest huff of his breath, "I told ya, didn't I? Opening nights are overrated."

Darcy giggled before abruptly cutting herself off. She did not giggle, and definitely not for Bucky fucking Barnes.

Even when he grabbed her hand and placed a gentle kiss on the top of it.

She had to pull herself together before slowing to a stop. She pointed at the red brick townhouse and told him, "This is it."

Looking to where she pointed, his eyebrow shot up in alarm, "Mrs. Doyle's house?"

"Oh," Darcy piqued, "You know her?"

He looked apprehensive before he shook his head and grinned, "Yeah, our families go to the same church, and she used to run the Sunday school out of there. I also went to school with her daughters. She's, uh, severe."

Darcy looked thoughtful, "I wouldn't go that far."

Bucky shuddered, "Obviously, tha' woman doesn't have a blackboard in the house, or you'd be just as worried about that pesky duster as I am."

A laugh broke out of her, "Are you telling me Mrs. Doyle beat you with a duster?"

He nodded dramatically, "That wasn't even the worst part! I walked home, covered in chalk from dust head to toe, and Mama immediately knew I'd been in trouble. Copped another whippin' with a dishcloth."

He joined in her laughter, and they loitered at the bottom step.

"Well," Darcy started, "I'd better head in."

He nodded, "Yeah, I'll be in touch 'bout Friday. Listen, I just want to tell ya I really enjoyed seein' you today. You could brighten up any day."

She really wanted to keep a straight face, but a sweet smile broke through, "Well, handsome, one does as one can. Sweet dreams, Bucky."

He chuckled as she skipped the steps, "Sure I will. They'll be of your pretty little face and that spicy lil' tongue."

Darcy almost missed a step and tried to recover from her misstep. She threw a wave over her shoulder, and Bucky stayed at the bottom of the steps until she was safely inside.

Leaning against the door, Darcy chewed her bottom lip, trying to stop a full-blown grin. She was used to heavy and sexy flirting packed full of innuendo, but Bucky had brought out the sweet, wholesome flirting with which she was admittedly inexperienced. Her little traitorous heart was already holding dancing rehearsals for Saturday night.

Bucky was bad news, and the scoundrel had the nerve to not even know it.

Chapter Text

February 19th, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

No one would ever accuse Darcy of being a 'Type A' individual, but for this clusterfuck of a situation, she was willing to try.

Because, confound it all, she really liked Bucky.

He'd called her on the landline last night to confirm their movie date for tomorrow, and she was giddy with excitement. Even his voice through a shitty phoneline was intoxicating to her. This, however, posed a mild problem.

She'd like to keep seeing him, but she also had a responsibility not to break the universe or timeline because she wanted some quality dick. Bucky just oozed sexual competence, and she desperately wanted to taste test that. The fact that Bucky seemed like such a sweetheart only added to the appeal.

Surely, casual sex wouldn't be a problem of cosmic proportions? Her pussy had brilliant Yelp reviews, but it's not that good. Maybe.

If she were going to do this, she would do it as best she could. With cold, hard facts and charts with essential information. Jane would be so proud of her.

So, with a malt shake for fuel, a temporary god complex, and a desire for the hunky Bucky Barnes, Darcy spent her Thursday night working on her gruelling task. He'd better be fucking worth it.

When Darcy had pilfered a stack of papers from the office in a frenzied state of desperation, Jerry had merely raised his brow and claimed he didn't want to know. Sober Jerry was proving himself to be an intelligent man.

In front of her was a map of everything she knew about her time leaping super soldiers. Admittedly, it wasn't a lot. She'd never cursed herself more for skipping news outlets and bingeing trashy TV shows instead. No matter how amazing Brooklyn Nine-Nine is. Was. Will be.

Her thoughts and memories on the super-soldiers topic were frayed and fragmented, meaning she had dozens of papers with different titles and contents. Frequently, she would filter through her pages, trying to find the correct paper to add or subtract a detail. Before long, she'd started taping papers to her walls and door just to try and gain her bearings. She had to tiptoe between papers on the floor to avoid crumbling them.

Her whole room looked like a bloody serial killer chart board, plastered together by some ruined PI looking for redemption to prove he'd been right all along. Finally, her eclectic taste for true crime documentaries was coming in handy. Marginally.

Some things were obvious. Some weren't. Some were based on things she'd assumed. Others based on what the media hypothesised. All in all, she'd had more reliable sources when she had to write a report on the Battle of Thermopylae.

"Darcy! I was hoping---" Emily wandered in without knocking, as she was prone to.

The dumbfounded silence confirmed for Darcy what she'd expected. Glancing around the room, she couldn't help but think that maybe she did need some psychiatric help after all. She could understand the younger girl's hesitancy.

Emily stood at her doorway, shifting her weight between her feet, obviously debating whether to venture further or strategically retreat.

"Umm, Darcy?"

"Yeah?"

Despite calling her name, Emily offered nothing else.

An awkward silence plumed between them, and Darcy quietly wished the girl would leave without commenting on the strange situation.

Eventually, Emily spoke, "I was wondering if you'd be willing to swap our nights making dinner next week."

"Sure thing, hun," Darcy agreed as casually as she could.

"Ah, great," Emily said unsurely, "Everything alright?"

"Juuuuuust peachy."

"Ah, okay then. I'm, uh, I'm going to go," With that said, Emily fled like a skittish animal, almost slamming the door behind her.

Well, that was awkward. Never mind, get back on track.

So far, she considered the following the most important and, therefore, in big, bold, blocky letters.

Washington DC:

Captain America went A.W.O.L and was accused of being evil.

Winter Soldier makes headlines.

Highway fight that broadcasted all over the U.S.

Alexander Pierce was a grade-A cunt.

Nick Fury (Director of S.H.I.E.L.D) got K.O'd permanently by the Winter Soldier. R.I.P.

S.H.I.E.L.D, the dodgy pricks, were officially evil. 100% always knew that.

Winter Soldier:

Future Bucky Barnes.

Undoubtedly H.Y.D.R.A's fighting dog. Possibly a Nazi. Definitely Russian speaking. Maybe 21st century Soviet?

Can do a knife flippy thing that does things to her.

Was a P.O.W.

Brainwashed assassin, according to FOX NEWS. Fuck FOX NEWS.

Unnecessarily long hair for an assassin – how the fuck did he see anything?

Despite the name - is not a snowman with a machine gun.

Maybe killed the King of Wakanda. Maybe. Homeboy Steve says no. Wakandan prince says yes.

Captain America:

Simp for Winter Soldier.

Broke DC for Winter Soldier.

Long-time stalker of Winter Soldier.

Made a man with a jetpack and a bird moniker his bitch.

Leapfrogged through time.

Uses a shield as an offensive weapon. 'Kay then, that's weird.

Has an unknown vendetta against parachutes.

Deliberately crash-landed into the ocean and got frozen.

Someone give this boy a psych eval pronto.

Super Soldiers:

Hot.

Buff.

Strong.

Fast.

Only two (?)

Good immunity? Probably.

Quick healing? Likely.

Shorter refractory period? Yes, please.

It makes boys bigger, maybe their not so little friend too?

Accords:

Scarlet Witch accidentally killed civilians. Shit hits the fan.

Accords violate several human rights, but Stark apparently doesn't hire a lawyer to deal with it? Suspected Stark imposter? Nonsensical judgment.

Secretary Ross is undoubtedly a cocksucker.

Dead King of Wakanda. Maybe killed by the Winter Soldier.

Started with a bang. Boom.

Ended with a whimper. Yikes.

Avengers' break-up. Gets more media coverage than NSYNCs.

Airport fight that resembled a late-night post-clubbing 7-Eleven brawl in the parking lot.

Dusting:

Ian was evaporated. Crumbled into dust. Dead (haha, literally) end.

Yours truly was signed in at the lab at the same time.

There'd been screaming throughout the halls. Possibly for the same reason.

Odds were, anyone 'missing' was deemed dusted.

Jane's dusting – unknown.

No one is looking for Darcy, at least not as she is, lost in time

Odds of being found – nil. Negative nil.

Be grateful you aren't dust.

Fuck rats.

Time Travel:

Ian should never have been allowed to have an unsupervised lab.

The science doesn't make sense. No way of figuring it out.

Left 2018 on March 28th and arrived on 1942 on January 2nd.

A favour (a big one) is owed to Mr. Harker. Maaaaay be a problem.

Absolutely nothing from the future came along for the ride except her sparkling personality.

Absolutely no way of getting home without help.

Appropriate help is unknown/unavailable.

Make new life.

WW2 is gonna be shit to live through – even outside of Europe.

Darcy:

Not mentally coping.

It was the truth; she wasn't.

Curled in the corner of her small room, she sat almost catatonically.

She really was stuck in 1942. Permanently. Or at least until New Year's, in which case she'll make it a tiny step in the right direction by being in 1943.

Without any real hope, she concluded the happiest scenario of her returning to the future right now was that her consciousness was in a simulation that Ian briefly mentioned and that she was in the hospital with doctors working on bringing her back to reality.

She doubted it was a simulation. The biting cold of New York should be proof enough of that.

She started crying as silently as she could, aware of how thin the walls were in Mrs. Doyle's house.

She misses her red beanie, winged eyeliner, lazy sweats and oversized graphic t-shirts, fuzzy bright socks, and even her old square glasses she can't see through anymore. She misses proper grape soda, gourmet meals at the press of a button, pop-tarts in her favourite flavour or not, foreign booze, and all the processed snacks she could want. As much as she was learning to appreciate radio, it would never equate to binge-watching a true-crime documentary, slapstick comedy show, or even noughties humour on YouTube. It was bullshit that she'd get a song stuck in her head and could do nothing about it but pray she remembered it well enough to think the whole song through. She hated having to write everything into a physical calendar or a little notebook she'd carried around instead of simply typing it into her phone. She misses texting, mobile phones, and anything that wasn't calling a landline, sending a messenger, or waiting until you physically saw someone. Whenever she had lunch at the Tavern alone, she wanted to shoot Connie a photo captioned 'missed you at lunch' but no, she had to wait and see her and then remember to tell her. Sometimes, she just wanted to shoot Emily a text to see how her day was going. Fuck, and the naughty things she'd send Bucky on a near-daily basis was a whole new can of worms. What was she supposed to do? Find Steve, ask his flustered ass to 'draw me like one of your French girls' and mail it? Damn, she even missed schoolwork or modern work in general.

She missed wacky Jane so much it was like a physical wound. Begrudgingly, she could admit she missed her mom, but only because she'd missed their bi-quarterly phone call.

She wasn't ever going to see Jane again, was she? Or her mom. Pending they hadn't disintegrated into dust like Ian too.

They must presume that's what happened to her. All the facts suggest that. They would never know what really happened to her.

A sudden spark of anger shot through her, and she started tearing down the papers.

These stupid things wouldn't help her. She was out of her depth. There were few people less qualified to do this.

Choking back sobs, she finished removing all the papers, flung them across the room in a flutter, and slunk back to the ground, weeping.

She didn't hate her life here. She didn't.

But it wasn't her life. It should have been poor Dinah Lewinsky's.

Dinah Lewinsky shouldn't even be a name on her radar, let alone her legal one.

Darcy was startled when a gentle hand landed on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Emily crouched in front of her.

She wanted to rein back her tears and prove to Emily she was the strong, infallible person she'd presented herself as, but she only cried harder.

Emily didn't seem to mind. She dropped herself to the ground next to her and wrapped an arm around Darcy's shoulder, pulling her head to rest on her shoulder. Darcy cried hopelessly into Emily's black hair.

They said nothing as Darcy sobbed and sniffled. Every time it looked like she might finally settle, she'd start back up again.

Emily just stayed beside her, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around Darcy. Despite her petite figure, Emily seemed intent on absorbing Darcy into her body. Occasionally, she'd make a soothing, shushing noise, but mostly, she left Darcy to her tears. They stayed there for what felt like an age, but Emily didn't budge.

Eventually, Darcy had calmed down enough to pull away and give Emily a watery smile in thanks.

Continuing to rub her arm reassuringly, Emily asked, "Feeling better?"

Nodding weakly, Darcy told the only truth that she could spare, "I miss my family."

Emily smiled sympathetically, "I can relate to that. Mine is in New Orleans. It can be difficult when they're so far."

"I can't contact mine," Darcy told her flatly.

"Oh," Emily said blandly, "Are they---?"

"—Fire," Darcy cut her off.

She didn't want to lie, but how else could she explain that everyone she cares about has yet to be born?

"No," Emily's face is wretched, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I should never have assumed---"

Darcy waved her off, "How could you? I never mentioned it."

Nodding timidly, Emily took hold of Darcy's hands and spoke, "I know it's not the same, but we're here for you. Mrs. Doyle, Connie, Dot, Bonnie, and me. If you should need anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."

If a gem could be a human, it would be Emily. Shiny with just a little spit and polish, and classically beautiful, inside and out. The world didn't deserve her.

She hadn't seen Connie much recently. She'd had to swap her morning shifts for afternoons and evenings at the Tavern. They'd barely crossed paths, let alone had time to chat with how exhausted she'd been. But she'd always been kind to Darcy, and she knew that Connie would entirely agree with Emily's assessment.

Dot… was an interesting topic for Darcy. When she'd first arrived, they'd gotten on reasonably well. It wasn't until some of the nastier attitudes of the younger girl slipped out that Darcy started doubting her initial opinion of her. If Darcy was callous, Dot could be downright heartless. Very much a dog eats dog woman. One moment, Darcy would think Dot was a woman ahead of her time, but then the following sentence would prove that Dot was, in fact, a victim of her time. She wasn't convinced Dot would be a reassuring presence in her life if she needed her to be.

Bonnie was just there. They'd speak casually at dinner, but that was all. Darcy imagines Bonnie would be helpful within reason but more out of loyalty to Connie than anything else.

Mrs. Doyle… She was a very distant woman. Darcy couldn't guess what she would do.

As though she could hear her thoughts, a scolding expression crossed Emily's face, "Despite our differences, we stick together. We're women in a man's world. If you don't have anyone, we will be your someones," Emily's eyebrows furrowed, "I'm sorry, that sounded much better in my head."

Chuckling lightly, Darcy reassured her, "It was beautiful."

Standing up and offering her hand to help Emily up, she wrapped her arms around the younger woman.

"Thank you, it means a lot," she tearily told her.

Emily pulled away and smiled sweetly, "Did you want me to stay?"

"No," Darcy sighed, "I'm going to hit the hay."

Nodding, Emily offered, "If you need to, just come to my room. I have the biggest bed in the house; we can share so you don't feel so alone."

Darcy wanted to burst into tears again but stubbornly refused to, "If someone's cold feet rub up against you in the middle of the night, just know it's me."

They laughed softly.

Emily slowly made her exit, and Darcy felt inherently grateful to the girl.

Sighing heavily, she returned to the papers she'd ripped down. Gathering them back up, she set herself back to work.

Chapter Text

February 20th, 1942

Grand Theatre, New York City

She was a few minutes late from when they were scheduled to meet, but by no means late for the movie. Darcy rushed to the boarding house straight from work, scoffed some food, quickly showered, dolled up, and took a bus as close as she could to the theatre. All dressed up and eager to see her date, Darcy almost shook with excitement. She wore a short, tan wool coat over her baby blue blouse and pastel yellow skirt but decided to forgo the umbrella. It had been raining all day, but thankfully, it finally let up.

Bucky was already there, waiting by the doors, keys twirling in hand, eagerly looking around for her. The moment he caught sight of her, a dashing grin spread over his face. He almost skipped his way over to her, took her hand and placed a quick, soft kiss on top of it. Judging from the two older ladies cooing nearby, this wasn't standard practice for a date and was pure Bucky Barnes' charm.

"How was your day?" he asked her sweetly.

She hummed happily in response, "Great. Kicked Jerry's ass, thought about you, had delicious pumpkin soup for lunch, and now I'm on a date I've been looking forward to all week. Yourself?"

He grinned devilishly, "Did some work, fantasised about you, got in trouble for daydreamin' at work, gushed about you, got in trouble for being dizzy over a girl when I should of been workin', and now I'm here with someone who's quickly becoming one of my favourite girls in the world."

"Is that so," Darcy started humorously, delicately tilting her head to the older ladies still cooing over them at a distance, "Which one of those ladies is the lucky girl?"

Shooting a subtle glance over his shoulder, he turned back with a grin.

"The shorter one," he told her without any hesitation, "Reminds me of Mae West. I'm a fool for 'er."

"Mae West?" Darcy queried.

Bucky's face flooded with offence, "You dunno Mae West? I'm outraged. Mae West is outraged. Only woman on the silver screen to ever make me swoon, I tell ya."

Giggling, Darcy shook her head fondly, "Sadly, no. You'll have to introduce me."

Nodding gravely, "Next film she's in, I promise. I think you'll like her. You've both got a certain… pizzazz."

Darcy almost flushed at the description. Pizzazz? That was a compliment she didn't know was going to do things for her. But fuck yeah, she has pizzazz in spades. Bucky clearly has immaculate taste in women. Darcy isn't biased at all.

Something told her she hadn't quite managed to squash her blush because Bucky looked tremendously pleased with himself.

Darcy hooked her arm into his and shot him a flirty smile before they began their much-anticipated date.

Bucky had already purchased the tickets, and Darcy chastised him for always paying for her. He'd shot her a baffled look and insisted he wouldn't have it any other way. Darcy insisted on buying the popcorn from the cart outside, but when it came time to pay, the vendor completely overlooked Darcy's outstretched hand and took the coins from Bucky. He'd shot her a triumphant look. Darcy tried really hard not to bristle at the vendor's blatant sexism. Her glare must have been impressive, though, because the vendor physically shrunk from her. Good!

Inside, it was several degrees warmer, and she removed her coat to check it in. Bucky gave a low whistle and a shit-eating grin, telling her she looked like a million bucks. She told him the world couldn't handle one of him, let alone a million of him. His laugh echoed almost embarrassingly loud throughout the theatre lobby, but she was too pleased she could have that effect on him to truly care. Darcy marvelled at the interior. It had warm hues throughout, brown wooden features, burgundy carpet, and soft lighting. It had a cosy feel to it, and Darcy loved it. They didn't make public environments like this anymore. Mindlessly yakking Bucky's ear off, she started looking at the movie posters (all hand-drawn – what a thing!), and Darcy spotted the one showcasing the movie they were going to watch.

'No Hands on the Clock.' Darcy had never heard of it, but she wasn't convinced she'd ever seen a black or white film she'd liked before, either. Maybe 'Casablanca,' but she'd found it incredibly overrated. 'No Hands on the Clock' was listed as a mystery/comedy film, and Darcy was quietly hoping it would be good.

They were ushered in before long, and Bucky asked where she'd like to sit. Usually, Darcy would pick the front because she hated wearing her glasses when watching a movie, but she no longer had that problem. She excitedly chose the middle, and Bucky escorted her over. He looked disappointed, but he didn't say anything about it. Maybe he preferred the front or the back row?

They chitchatted lightly while waiting for the movie to start. Apparently, it was released just before Christmas, so it was unlikely to be a full house, which Darcy appreciated. Maybe a dozen other people sat down, all scattered in pairs or small groups throughout the theatre.

The soundtrack started abruptly and violently, and Darcy physically flinched from the assault done to her ears. God, it was loud. The trumpets were outright unnecessary.

Bucky tried to hide a grin in his shoulder, but she saw it and lightly whacked his arm. He surrendered with a peace offering of popcorn, which she gladly took.

The husband-and-wife duo of Humphrey and Louise were hilarious. The fact that Louise voluntarily drank milk to cover for her husband, knowing it would make her unwell, was true love in Darcy's book!

They watched the movie in relative silence, but Darcy often whispered unnecessary commentary in his ear. Luckily, he didn't seem to mind and, more often than not, shot her a cheeky grin or made an equally salacious observation. Occasionally, they'd glance at each other and lock eyes, sending Darcy's heart aflutter. Perhaps midway through, Bucky's arm was wrapped around the back of her seat, and he idly played with the little wisps of hair at the base of her neck. It sent pleasing shivers down her spine, which she was positive he was stifling chuckles over. He and his damn hands felt so good at the back of her neck, though she couldn't help but wonder where else those fingers would feel nice.

The movie finished, and they leisurely made their way out while discussing it. She stopped for the bathroom and grabbed her coat, but other than that, Darcy remained attached to his hip the whole night.

Stepping outside into the frigid air, Darcy was grateful to realise it hadn't started raining while they were inside.

Bucky was beaming at her, and Darcy couldn't help but reciprocate.

Absentmindedly, Bucky glanced at his wristwatch before double-taking and blanching. Obviously, he was cutting it close to his next appointment.

He looked torn, glancing at his wristwatch almost nervously, "Let me walk you home."

Darcy took pity on him, "I'm more than capable of walking myself home, Bucky. Besides, you have somewhere you need to be."

"What sorta date would I be if I didn't walk you home?" He asked in a flirtatious tone.

"One I'm pretty familiar with," she reassured him.

Bucky stared at her, eyes scanning her face, waiting for her to tell him she was joking.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, "… I'm beginning to suspect the men in Utah are a lesser breed of man."

Darcy smirked, "I think most women where I'm from would agree."

Head still shaking, he continued, "'s not good enough. C'mon, let's get you home."

"Or," Darcy began cheekily, "You could let me tag along so we can drag our date out. Then you can walk me home after."

Momentarily, his face lit up like she'd made the most remarkable suggestion in the world, but then it crashed and burned into abject horror.

"Ahh," Bucky grumbled, "I wouldn't ask ya to meet Lottie on our first date. That would make me no better than those cockeyed boys from Utah."

"I doubt she's that full-on."

Bucky made a strained noise in the back of his throat, "Not always, but she definitely chooses her moments."

Darcy sighed exaggeratedly, "It's fine, handsome. I can see when a guy doesn't want me to meet his family."

He shot her a knowing look while she held an overly pouty expression. His matching sigh of resignation was nowhere near as exaggerated.

Holding his arm out, "I 'spose you're coming with me then."

On the way, Bucky informed her that his little sister went to night classes for bookkeeping. She went three nights a week, and Bucky always made sure he or Steve was available to walk her home.

The closer they got to the college, the more Bucky fiddled with his keys. He must be very nervous about her meeting Lottie.

Surely a 20-year-old wasn't that terrifying? Darcy has met and dealt with Gen Z people; they and their Tide Pod eating habits were the very definition of terrifying.

They made it to the college with time to spare, and Darcy was grateful Bucky hadn't insisted on walking her home first, only to have to rush back to do the same for his sister. Now, he could calmly wait without vibrating with anxiety. No one else was waiting for anyone inside, and the street was peacefully quiet around them.

She trembled a little in the cold, and Bucky's arm wrapped around her shoulder and brought her to his chest. Pleased at the contact and the added warmth, Darcy burrowed herself into his side.

He chuckled, "Aren't you glad I run hot?"

"Oh? Let me check," Darcy grinned evilly.

He'd barely had time to look down at her with a quizzical expression before she yanked his tucked shirt out of his pants and ran her cold hands over his delightfully cut abdomen.

His yelp was positively obscene, and he jumped about a foot into the air. She retracted her hands and laughed heartily at his scandalised look. He looked genuinely stunned by her assault, but then that devilish grin appeared on his face, and Darcy's gut coiled with anticipation.

With a shriek, she made to bolt, but he almost immediately grabbed her. An arm like a steel bar wrapped around her, and his spare hand flicked up her skirt enough to place a hearty squeeze on her ass. Although she was wearing panties, she flushed with excitement and surprise.

Bucky Barnes! You handsy bastard!

Then the cold registered. With a startled squeal, she frantically wriggled against him until she managed to step free of him. Laughing, both struggled to control their breathing, but staggard puffs of air danced between them.

Still laughing, she went to his side and shimmied her way under his arm. She cuddled up to him, attempting to leech as much warmth from him as possible. He didn't seem to mind. If anything, he drew her in closer to him. He'd tucked in his shirt again, and she teasingly tugged at it. His gorgeous mug arched a challenging brow, and she really wanted to meet the proposed challenge. However, it was cold and wet, and she was worried they'd get injured. Them meaning her because Bucky seemed to be the sort of man impervious to any kind of accident. Instead, she settled for placing her hands on either side of his neck just beneath the inside of his collar. He hissed through his teeth at the cold but didn't complain. The only price she paid was his hands resting on her hips, dipping a little lower than propriety dictates as appropriate. They stood like that for a minute, her hands growing warm and his thumbs rubbing patterns just shy of her ass. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the soothing thrumming of his pulse, steady if a bit brisk. There was an intensity in his burning blue eyes as he looked at her, and Darcy had to swallow to alleviate the thickness in her throat. She could feel the cold of his fingers rubbing rhythmic circles through her skirt.

Without dropping his gaze, she brought his hands from her hips before her face. She blew heavy breaths on his hands while cradling between her own, using the warmth of her breath to warm them up. Something happened in his gaze. Something darker.

The main door of the college opened, and people started making their way down the steps.

Darcy took a couple of steps away from Bucky, just in case he wasn't into PDA with his family around. His frown suggests this was an incorrect assumption. That or he was disappointed that the moment was shattered. Makes two of them.

Most of the people stepping out were men, but there were a small handful of women too. One stepped forward, and Darcy instantly concluded that this was Bucky's little sister. Lottie was very pretty - classically so. She had her brother's brown locks, but hers fell past her shoulders in pinned curls. She was remarkably short considering her 6ft brother; she stood at maybe 5'4, but she carried herself assertively, making even Darcy stand straighter in her presence. She had big blue eyes highlighted by round glasses and a narrow face with plump lips. She wore a frumpy coffee-coloured button-up coat that hid whatever else she wore and what looked like men's boots.

Bucky walked up to her and kissed her on the cheek, which Lottie gladly accepted.

Looking at Darcy, Lottie didn't beat around the bush, "Who's this?"

Bucky wandered back over to Darcy and settled himself next to her.

"Lottie," he began, before breathing in deeply and saying very tightly, "This is Darcy."

A flash of recognition passed over Lottie's eyes, who then quickly cast an analytical look over her, "Darcy, is it?"

Lottie shot Bucky a grin, and he returned this grin with subtle distress signals oozing from his very pores.

"That's me," Darcy introduced perkily, "You must be Lottie. Bucky's mentioned you."

If anything, Lottie's grin became feral, "All good things, I'm sure. He's definitely mentioned you."

"Oh?" Darcy leaned forward, intrigued.

"Ladies," Bucky cut in, "We need to get goin' before we freeze to death."

Lottie rolled her eyes but stepped forward, looped her arm around Darcy's, and stared pointedly at Bucky.

They glared at each other, and Bucky spoke curtly, "That's my arm."

Lottie offered him her other arm to substitute Darcy's and replied petulantly, "Cabbage, Bucky."

With an irritated sigh, he looped his arm through Lottie's, making him closest to the traffic. Darcy had to stifle a laugh. Sibling rivalry on full display – she wondered if she could sell tickets. She would have paid top dollar.

"Now," Lottie started, "I see that you are beautiful and clever – far too much for our hideous and dull Bucky – however, has he managed to catch your attention? Also, what's your opinion on the use of mould?"

Bucky made an aborted choking sound.

Wow, what an introduction.

Darcy shrugged, "Mould has plenty of uses, I guess. I mean, look at penicillin. I'd also have to argue that your brother is pretty cute. The jury's out on the clever, though."

Bucky pointedly said, 'Ha!' when Darcy said he was cute but quickly backpedalled when she said she had doubts about his cleverness, "Hey now! I'm clever. I knew introducin' the two of you was going to be a bad idea, and I was right!"

"You still did it," Lottie said blankly, "Ergo, not clever enough for our dear Darcy here."

Darcy smirked broadly at Bucky, "I like her."

"Of course you do," he muttered, "It would have been too easy for you to simply smile and politely chitchat with each other about the damn weather."

"But Becca and I had a theory that you've just proven right," Lottie edged.

"Tell me, tell me," Darcy entreated.

"That you'd find mould has more uses than Bucky."

Before she could clamp her mouth shut, she spewed out, "I dunno, I've been pricked by penicillin before, but not by Bucky yet."

Bucky squawked, and Lottie laughed, startled before saying, "Oh yeah, I can see why he's smitten."

"Anyway," Bucky desperately tried to take control of the conversation, "How was class?"

"Dull. How was your date?" Lottie indeed had the deadpan delivery down pat.

"Killer-diller, thanks for asking," Bucky preened.

"Necking in the back of the pictures, were ya?"

What?

Bucky floundered about, telling Lottie to cut it out.

Darcy's mind reeled - was that a '40s thing? Making out at the back of the pictures? Was that why Bucky looked so disappointed that she'd chosen the middle? Had that been an opportunity to mutely tell Bucky that she wanted to suck face with him?

She could have been making out with Bucky for over an hour, and she'd missed it?!

Lottie was laughing at Bucky's suffering, and Darcy couldn't help but grin.

Again, Bucky desperately attempted to change the tide of the conversation.

"So, are you still up for dancin' tomorrow, doll?"

Darcy thought about it, "Honestly? I'm worried I'll look like an elephant balancing on a circus ball at high tea."

His face shifted into amusement, "Pretty picture you paint there. We can go dancing another time. I'd be happy to take you to do something else."

"Oh?" she asked, "Like what?"

He looked thoughtful before he grinned, "How 'bout a drive? We'd have to see who else would come along, though."

For a moment, Darcy wondered why the hell someone needed to come along before she remembered that chaperones were still kind of a thing. Maybe not as necessary as even a decade ago, but certain activities required supervision. She supposed 'parking' was already a thing.

"I suppose I could come along," Lottie sighed as if about to agree to a heavy chore.

"You're not invited," Bucky muttered darkly at the same time Darcy said, "Sounds great!"

Contemplative, Darcy asked, "Would it be alright if I invited Emily along as well?"

"Course," Bucky smiled, "I'd be the luckiest fella in the world to be driving around such beautiful women."

Lottie snorted inelegantly, "Layin' it on thick, ain't ya?"

"Lottie, lay off, ya lil' booger," Bucky whined.

Laughing as they walked, Lottie and Darcy shared a playful grin.

Lottie asked abruptly, "How old are you?"

Bucky faltered in his steps and glared at Lottie, who shrugged unashamed.

"I'll be 30 in April." Well, really, she would already be 30 if she hadn't time-travelled.

"Ooooh," Lottie bustled, "Not long then. Any plans?"

"Not yet, but I'm open to ideas."

"Bucky, you better pull out all the stops," Lottie scowled at him, wagging a finger at him in warning before turning to Darcy, "Bucky's is in March, on the 10th."

"Oh?" Darcy looked at the suddenly shy Bucky and said, "Is that right?"

Rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, he shrugged, "Yeah, it is."

They continued walking, and as Bucky and Lottie bickered, Darcy pondered the idea of Bucky's birthday. She should probably organise something for him. If what she already knows about him is true, he would undoubtedly be the type to do something for her. Hmm, what would his love language be? Gifts? Quality time? What would he like most?

"What do you do for work, Darcy?" Lottie asked, bringing Darcy out of her thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm a secretary. I work at a law firm on Broad St."

Bucky grinned and boasted, "Yeah, a real career woman, she is."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" Lottie mused flatly.

God, this woman was savage. The 21st century DM'd – they want their Zoomer back.

Bucky practically peacocked, "She's a catch, Lottie."

Lottie's eyes narrowed as she inspected Darcy, "Why aren't you married yet then?"

Well, goddamn, Lottie doesn't pull her punches.

"Lottie!" Bucky gasped, aghast.

Darcy waved him off, "I was. He's dead."

It was an outright lie. Jonathan Morris was alive (as of her leaving Utah, at least), but to Darcy, he may as well be dead. Hell, she had to remember that he wasn't technically her husband. They didn't even meet the requirements to be married by proxy.

Lottie looked remorseful, whereas Bucky's face had slackened with distress, "Sweetheart---"

"Yes, my husband is dead. Can we drop it?"

Sharing a glance, the Barnes siblings seemed to quietly come to a decision.

"Of course," Lottie agreed, "Forgive me. Tha' was tactless."

"Forgiven," Darcy smiled brightly to show that no harm had been done, and Lottie tentatively returned the smile.

As they finally made it to Mrs. Doyle's house, Lottie released both arms and quickly wished Darcy a good night before stepping away.

Standing at the bottom step, Darcy and Bucky shared a gentle smile.

"Thank you for taking me out," Darcy spoke sincerely, "I truly enjoyed it."

He smiled wryly, "I would o' thought you enjoyed ribbin' me wit' my sister more than the film."

Darcy shrugged, "Almost guilty as charged, but I think I enjoyed waiting for your sister with you the most."

Bucky's face softened significantly, "Likewise."

She contemplated kissing him, but then Bucky froze and looked over his shoulder. Following his gaze, Lottie was watching intently, unashamed to be caught doing so.

"Don't mind me," she told them.

Darcy laughed and hugged Bucky goodbye. He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt he could completely envelop her if he wanted to. She didn't think she'd mind. Bucky Barnes was a phenomenal hugger. Pulling away, she kissed his cheek, lingering longer than necessary. Shooting him a wink, she skipped up the steps and went inside.

Leaning her head against the door, she could hear Bucky yell 'Goddamn it, Lottie' before they exited her hearing range.

Smiling, she turned around and came face to face with Emily.

"Sleepover and tell me all about it?" Emily asked, hopefully.

Nodding, Darcy teased, "Definitely, I need to leech warmth off someone desperately."

Emily looked regretful at having offered.

Chapter Text

March 3rd, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

Sitting at the table side by side, Darcy chatted with Emily about their respective days. Darcy had made a simple dinner of baked potatoes with steamed broccoli and roasted but unseasoned chicken. It was quite bland, but with herbs and spices becoming more difficult to acquire, she had to make do where she could. They should be grateful for the small mint, rosemary, and thyme plants in the kitchen window box. Mrs. Doyle wanted to save them, however. Why you'd bother saving herbs was beyond her. They grew back - that was the whole point of the planter box!

All that could be heard was the soft scraping of utensils against crockery and the gentle hum of conversation.

Disappointed with her young students, Emily sighed, "Truly, I understand that French can be difficult, but they won't even pretend to want to learn it."

"I was one of those kids," Darcy said flatly, "and I'm well versed in sass and profanity, so that's good enough for me. It's not like I was ever gonna use French, so why bother to learn it?"

If anything, Emily looked more defensive of her mother tongue, "Because it can be useful. My father only spoke French, and we had both English speakers and French speakers come to our butcher shop in New Orleans; I had to translate. See? It's useful."

Dot shook her head from the other side of the table, joining the conversation, "Please, I only learned enough to speak to men who find it attractive. That's the only purpose it's ever served me. I don't even bother with German; the men find it too harsh to be attractive."

Darcy rolled her eyes. With Dot, everything was about men, their preferences, and their potential to provide for her. A real Lorelei Lee.

"Tell me, Darcy," Dot queried suddenly, "Do you speak Yiddish?"

Both girls looked at Darcy, Emily with alarm and Bonnie with shock. Despite not being ashamed of her heritage, Emily knew that Darcy wasn't publicly declaring it either.

Bonnie asked, with her mouth half full, "You're Jewish?"

Darcy shrugged, answering both Dot and Bonnie simultaneously, "I speak Yiddish, but I'm not a practising Jew, no. Why?"

Shrugging, Dot spoke calmly as she speared a potato, "I was merely curious if Yiddish and German were as similar as they say."

Trust Dot to have figured out her heritage, but at least she wasn't being bigoted. Obviously, as a German-born immigrant, Dot understood how sensitive the topic of supposed native languages could be. Only, Darcy was American through and through and had spoken mostly in English her whole life.

"Very, but not enough to really hold a convo though, like the Dutch and Afrikaans," Darcy said, "But I was raised speaking English and Yiddish - I mainly spoke Yiddish with my Bubbe. I haven't spoken it fluently in years, though. I wonder if I'd even remember much of it."

Dot scoffed, "Trust me, you might struggle to speak it, but you'll understand it just fine."

Piping up, Emily agreed, "Exactly! Growing up, I struggled so much with English, but now I even think in English. However, whenever I hear French, I slip back without a problem. Strange how it all works."

"Very," Dot agreed, and Darcy nodded.

"… I'm feeling wholly uneducated right now," Bonnie spoke with exaggerated self-deprecation.

Dot giggled, "It's only because we were immigrants or our parents were, Bonnie. Otherwise, we'd only speak the one language, like you and Connie."

"I could teach you French," Emily perked up and offered.

Bonnie blanched, "I'd really rather not."

"Well, would you look at that," Dot lightly mocked, "A lazy woman complaining. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, sweetling."

With an offended squeal, Bonnie threw her napkin at the laughing Dot, who threw it back with a giggle.

The four of them continued chatting when a large bang was heard upstairs, followed by muffled moans. Simultaneously, they all looked up. Emily's face burned red as her head snapped away. She looked intently at her dinner while the other three girls shared sly grins.

"Well, well, sounds like someone is having fun," Dot mentioned offhandedly over the lip of her glass.

Poor Connie had been a busy bee these last few weeks. She hadn't even had time to eat with Darcy the few times she'd popped by the Tavern for lunch. Hilariously, Darcy had been mistaken as a waitress a few times - obviously, she was going too often.

Bonnie wiggled her brows, "Obviously making up for the few weeks Connie's been working Tuesday nights."

"Must be some good dick," Darcy elaborated unnecessarily, with an envious sigh.

Emily tried very hard not to look embarrassed by the crass conversation.

Despite the other girls' initial reservations about the introverted Emily, she'd proven herself to be trustworthy. It was a difficult concept for the other girls to understand, but being a little sexually modest didn't equate to being Mrs. CrumpleBottom (ah, how she missed The Sims). They'd been surprised by her support of Connie's bringing a boy home. At first, they had awkwardly shuffled around her and Mrs. Doyle as though waiting for Emily to oust Connie. However, she never did, and Darcy could see a timid olive branch growing between the girls. It gave her a giddy feeling. Dinnertimes were becoming much more tolerable, even more so on Tuesdays when Mrs. Doyle wasn't looming over the dinner table. For that woman could loom. Hell, she'd practically honed it to a fine art. Censorship was something Darcy struggled with at any time, and she waited with bated breath for the day she mortally offended Mrs. Doyle. Another week. Maybe two. Surely not three.

Another bump was heard overhead, and Darcy felt green with envy.

It made her wonder when she'd be able to finally have some alone time with Bucky.

They'd seen each other at least once every three days since their movie date. They'd gone for a car drive with Lottie and Emily to a beautiful lookout and had a sunset picnic. The spread had been basic but heartfelt, and she'd enjoyed the languid feel of a picnic date. She, Bucky, and Steve had walked through Central Park, drinking a soda pop each while people-watching. Darcy was snarky in her assessments, and Bucky's creative elaborations were exceptionally funny. One evening, as she was leaving work for the day, Bucky was waiting at her office's front steps with handpicked flowers. He claimed that he'd wanted to brighten her day 'as you do mine'. The last two Sundays, she popped by the diner for Bucky and Steve's weekly coffee date, and they'd heavily flirt to make Steve splutter and blush. It was harmless fun, but some of the things Bucky said… It made her impatient to get him alone.

Which they never were.

Since their movie date, there was always someone there. It was driving her crazy. As much as she liked Lottie and Steve, she wanted time alone with Bucky for one-on-one activities. She would burn out her vibrator at the rate she was going.

She loved fantasising about his hands. She'd seen his nervous tick, playing with his keys, subsequently making his fingers very nimble. They were so big. Thick fingers; agile, purposeful, lengthy, and strong. It was impossible not to think of them splayed across her ass, thumbing her breasts, or working hard inside her. She squirmed in her seat, just picturing it. Was he the sort that would grunt and groan in her ear? Was he the type to fill her ears with filthy murmurings or sweet nothings? Would he tell her she was perfect? Built just for him? Tell her to beg for more while he goes to pound town inside her?

If only she could get him alone, she'd be able to finally find out! Their chemistry was mutual; there was no denying that. It sparked and rippled between them like an electric current with every heated look and deceptively innocent touch. So, why were they never alone? He wasn't shy with women. It was obvious he'd had women before; he oozed far too much big dick energy not to have had his pick of women. Bucky also gave off this aura of having a desperate need to please. She was desperate to be pleased. So why was he suddenly being so damn coy? Build up? Fuck that. She didn't want or need a slow burn, she required a blazing, fucking inferno. Now.

Whatever happened to his cocksure sexual attitude towards her – it needed to fucking resolve itself and come back in full force.

She was ready, goddamnit!

She had hoped to meet him at the diner after dinner with the intention of presenting her sexual proposal, but he wasn't able to make it. He was really taking the whole 'not being left alone with her' thing a bit too far. It was beginning to be a little too orchestrated. However, he'd insisted on bailing on training tomorrow so he could cure her malt shake fix, so she'd bring it up then.

Both were looking forward to delicious malt shakes, but Darcy wanted to finally taste him.

It was a week before Bucky's birthday. She wanted to be fucking him by then.

Abruptly shaken from her thoughts, Bonnie laughed shrilly at Dot, "Please tell me he asked you on a date after that!"

Dot gave a sly smile, "He wouldn't even dare speak to me after that."

"Sheesh," Emily looked like she was trying to hide how aghast she was by the tale, "Men are a strange breed."

"I know, the audacity!" Darcy interjected; she could only hope that, without context, it had been the right thing to say.

All three girls nodded resolutely, so it must have been.

From above, the noise escalated to stifled yelling and a thundering crash. The yelling continued, and it sounded like Connie was crying.

Bonnie was already half out of her chair when she spoke, "Either that's too much fun---"

"-Or something's gone wrong," Dot concluded, already on her feet rushing to the stairs.

Darcy was a close second, with the other two hot on her heels.

If this guy was hurting Connie, she was going to cut his cock off and shove it down his unworthy throat!

They made a mad dash up the stairs just as Connie burst through her door and into the hallway, screeching at the man still inside, "How dare you! You've been sleeping with us both?!"

It was clear she'd briskly thrown her dress on in her haste to get away from her lover.

Darcy's shoulders relaxed while her stomach simultaneously dropped. He wasn't hurting her, but it sounded like he was fucking another girl instead, which sucked. She was surprised that Connie was so upset, though – she'd emphasised that they weren't exclusive, and both were freely allowed to date as they pleased. Both had been dating others.

Fuck, hopefully, he wasn't sleeping with Dot.

The man inside was indignant, his voice just shy of yelling, "Of course not, Connie! I'm not that much of a prick!"

Something coiled uncomfortably in her gut. She wasn't sure what, though.

The three girls loitered at the top of the stairs, unsure whether to approach. Almost instinctively, Dot positioned herself in front of the group, acting very much like a shield. Additionally, Darcy huddled Emily and Bonnie against the wall, preparing for a man to come barrelling down the stairs at any moment.

Connie was tearfully screaming, almost unintelligibly, at her place under the doorway, with the man inside huffing but otherwise taking the brunt of her anger in relative silence. Before long, Connie started to settle into wet blubbering, and Dot stepped forward, wrapping her arm around her.

Dot glared at the man inside, "It's high time for you to leave."

The man sighed, "Sure thing, Dot. If she needs anythin', let me know."

Scoffing, Dot positioned her and the crying Connie out of his way, "We won't."

Go, Dot! You tell him!

Stepping out of the room, he looked at Connie as though to say something else before sighing and turning towards the staircase.

Their eyes locked.

Creased pants were untucked, rumpled shirt only half-buttoned, shoes untied, hair unkempt, and a mouth kissed so thoroughly it was still red; it was clear what had happened in that room.

Still, she wasn't sure who was more surprised – her or Bucky.

Chapter Text

January 22nd, 2020

C.H. Libero Katowice, Katowice

She didn't hate Poland, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

Too many memories of the country that did nothing but make her flinch gave her the inclination to avoid Poland. The Poles were not forgiving people when you destabilised their government. Even if it was just the one incident.

Sitting at the food court, she blended seamlessly into her surroundings. They would have dismissed her as a bored tourist if anyone had paid her any heed. Decked in a generic black baseball cap sat atop her braided hair, a pair of bulky reading glasses, a plain white t-shirt, a grey cotton jacket, ripped denim jeans, and white sneakers. Understated and effective.

Sipping her coffee, she read the document in her hand again.

Something didn't add up, and it was driving Natasha insane.

When Steve finally forced her to take two weeks' leave, she was unsure what to do. Normally, she'd take her holidays with Clint's family, which was no longer an option. Her whole life was the Avengers now. She had no family outside of it. Not anymore. None that survived the snap. Alexei. Melina... Yelena. Then, a small wisp of nostalgia hit her. Yasha. She'd promised Yasha she would learn everything she could about his missing love. The feisty woman that a little Natalia had only heard of, and all through the recounted memories of a broken man. She'd promised Yasha she would find out everything she could. Regardless of whatever became of him, she would fulfil her promise. For her peace of mind, if nothing else. Maybe a little curiosity. Who was it that Yasha had loved so stubbornly that he had moments of true clarity whenever he remembered the very notion of her? What became of her? Maybe she'd have a chance to tell him everything over tea one day. She twirled the tip of her braid between her fingers, lamenting that her braids were subpar compared to the ones he used to give her. Natasha remembered how gentle his fingers were on her scalp, how tenderly he'd brushed the hair of all his girls.

She owed him more than she could ever repay; that didn't mean Natasha would ever stop trying to pay him back.

She scoured New York and Utah for everything she could find and found more than she'd expected. If the archivist she'd first hired had survived the snap, he would have wished he hadn't by the time she was done with him. It shows that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

Natasha had been surprised when her contact in Utah informed her that they'd found a photograph of Darcy, likely taken just before she'd arrived in New York City. It had originally belonged to a Mrs. Nellie in Salt Lake City, and she had yet to figure out the association between them. Mrs. Nellie had apparently been a known recluse, a self-made woman with little patience for others. Had they been friends? Probably not, as there was a significant age difference, and the older woman was antisocial. Relatives? Unlikely, as Darcy was Jewish and Mrs. Nellie was Dine (or Navajo). So, how had she come across a photograph of the elusive Darcy Lewis? Natasha had lightly run her fingers over Darcy's face. She'd looked sad and teary - distressed even. But still as beautiful as Yasha always claimed she was. Darcy didn't look tall, but she looked curvy and healthy, with vibrant brunette hair, soulful blue eyes, and a fair complexion. Although she couldn't see her fighting spirit in this photograph, she found a great deal of spine in her stance. Darcy Lewis wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Comparing it to the photograph of a young Dinah, the one that she'd shown Yasha so long ago, had sent her spiralling.

Something wasn't right. She'd bet her favourite gun that this investigation would be anything other than straightforward. Trust Yasha to have picked a difficult woman with a complicated history.

So, here she was, in the birth city of Dinah Lewinsky, hoping to find her roots. She'd called in a favour, gathered everything she had and flew to Poland. She'd been in Katowice for precisely two hours, and she'd compiled everything that had been found, which was now in front of her.

Her contact in Poland had done well for such short notice and with limited information, as was to be expected - she didn't pay for anything less than a job well done. In front of her sat a copy of Dinah's destroyed birth certificate, her parent's marriage certificate, and, incredibly, a baby photo. Dinah Lewinsky had been one frightfully tiny baby, starving. Her father had booked their passage and relocated to the U.S. just before Poland became a short-lived client state of the German Empire. Lucky them.

Nothing in Katowice presented any findings that would have done anything to change her mind. She'd come to a hypothesis and dialled Steve's number. Natasha had neglected to mention to him what she'd been planning to do during her break in case she'd come up short-handed. It was difficult to disappoint Captain America, but it was even more so with Steve Rogers. She had a soft spot for her Brooklyn boys. But now she had details and knew this information wouldn't go over well.

He picked up on the third ring with the stern tone of a disgruntled parent on vacation, "I thought I told you not to contact me for at least two weeks. It's been five days."

For the sole purpose of making him stew in his exaggerated irritation, she took a long sip of her drink before replying, "You know better than anyone else I know that I only follow orders that suit me. Besides, this is unrelated to work."

"Don't I know it," he snorted before mumbling affectionately, "What it is?"

"Steve, this is important, so answer to the best of your ability," Natasha demanded, "When was Darcy's birthday?"

"April 1st," he said without hesitation.

She knew better than to ask if he was certain. Glancing at the docket before her, September 9th, helped confirm her suspicions. In her experience, most people who changed their identities held a strange attachment to their birthdays. It would appear Darcy was no exception. Sighing deeply, she wondered how she could break the news.

Steve obviously heard this in her sigh, "What is it?"

"I don't think Darcy Lewis was Dinah Lewinsky."

To his credit, he'd only paused long enough to process the information, "Explain."

"I have a marriage certificate here for Lewinsky and Morris, right? That was signed in 1937. From 1942 to 1944, I have Darcy's signatures on multiple documents for her work, banking, letters to Barnes, etcetera. They don't match. At all. My graphologist had a field day when I claimed they were the same person. "

He wasn't convinced, "Maybe her writing changed over five years? Maybe the difference in their names makes them look like different people."

Taking a photo on her phone, she texted him the difference. She heard the ding through the receiver and waited for him to see it. Taking another drink of her coffee, she subtly checked her perimeter. Secure.

"Okay, I can see why you might think they're different people," Steve said appeasingly.

Duh.

"As I said, not just me. I got a second opinion from a professional. 1937 is written beautifully; it's almost calligraphy. You're telling me that her handwriting has deteriorated in five years to an eighth-grader with questionable fine motor skills?"

He hummed non-committedly, unconvinced, "Maybe she took extra care in her penmanship for the marriage certificate so it would look nice? It could be anything. She got a concussion at some point. Wouldn't be the first time someone suffered from lingering effects."

She rolled her eyes at him. Did he think she didn't know that already? Side effects of a concussion happened after the incident, not before, but she couldn't be bothered to explain basic first aid to him. He was a World War 2 vet - he should know better. In fact, he does know better. He's just being deliberately obtuse, as per usual.

But she wasn't anywhere near finished, "She had a dad, mom, and sister. Her family died in a house fire. She was the sole survivor, right?"

"Yes," he spoke with certainty.

"I couldn't find a death certificate for Dinah, but do you want to take a guess about what I found instead?"

"I'm assuming you'll tell me?" He sounded exhausted.

"Newspaper articles. Journalists may not always uncover the whole truth or agree, but they rarely get everything wrong. These journalists all agreed. They all say the same thing: the property was burned to the ground with no survivors. One implicitly states that a husband and wife with their two girls were burned alive. Another says the entire family was found charred and then buried on the property."

"Jesus Christ, are you sure?"

"I can always dig them up."

"Natasha."

She loved it when he said her name reproachfully.

"What? This is the best you'll get without me committing grave robbery. I've done worse. Have I told you about when a mark was buried with the very same journal I needed?"

He sighed through the phone. Natasha could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose before bringing them back to the matter at hand, "None of this explains why, though."

"She wouldn't be the first person to falsify her identity."

"But why?"

"Luckily for you, I have a theory."

"Don't leave me in suspense, Nat. I know you're desperate to tell me."

"Cute. This is where it gets… complicated. And mostly hypothetical. Dinah Lewinsky definitely died in the fire in 1935. So, who married Morris in 1937? Was it Darcy? But if that's the case, why are the signatures so different? Darcy Lewis was using Dinah Lewinsky's social security number, all of it. How and why?"

"Beats me."

"I think I know. I believe two women were masquerading as Dinah Lewinsky---"

"Because this needed to be any more complicated," Steve commented dryly.

Natasha ignored him, "- I suspect Robert Harker was behind everything. He knew Morris well and was his lawyer for all of Morris' adult life. Harker was also well known for being the man you go to when you need an out. Honestly, he had the whole 'deal with the devil' shtick down pat. He was even on S.H.I.E.L.D's radar in the early '60s. There's a lot there. Not a nice man. Picture this: Harker needs to hide a girl, and conveniently, there's a dead one - a classic case of I.D. fraud. Morris meets Faux-Dinah, and they get married. Morris rings up old buddy Harker, saying he's murdered his wife. Harker now has to cover up the fact that his client has murdered his wife. What if, at the same time, there was another girl who needed a new identity? Why waste a perfectly good identity? Just swap the girls out. It's a brilliant way of covering up a murder. Not that it matters, as Morris ended up in jail anyway."

"… I'm lost. I think it's a bit farfetched that you've conceived of a whole 'nother person to explain away a signature mismatch."

Natasha growled, "Which is why you don't handle matters that don't involve punching someone's face in. Look, it doesn't matter that much because I'm not trying to solve those girls' deaths – only Darcy's."

"… But when looking into it, you fell into a rabbit hole?"

"I told you, it's complicated. This is what's important: Harker never did anything without cashing in on what he was owed. He finds Darcy, scared and alone---"

Steve made a strained noise in the back of his throat, possibly an aborted laugh, "Yeah, I'm struggling to picture that."

"- and he convinces her that he's doing her a favour. When really, he's using her to cover up a murder. Then, he tries to cash in on a favour he's not even owed, something big, something bad."

"… Darcy wouldn't do it."

"Exactly. If I'm correct and Darcy ended up striking a deal with Harker, I don't think it's a stretch that he may have had something to do with her disappearance as well. If Morris was as deep in his pockets as I think he was, then I think there's a lot more to this than we originally thought. I think Morris grabbed Darcy and took her to Harker. There may be a very good reason why her body wasn't ever found."

"Shit," Steve stated.

"Language," she teased weakly.

"Nat, tell me plainly," Steve spoke steely, "What was it that Morris ended up in jail for? What was it that made Darcy run?"

"Assuming that it was Darcy who was actually married to him?"

"Yes," he ground out harshly.

She sighed before reluctantly telling him, "He had a violent history, but they could never pin anything on him, so officials just made a note of it on his record. But what landed him in jail was aggravated sexual assault. I cannot even begin to guess what he and Harker would have done to her if she'd backed out of a deal. Nothing good."

"Shit."

This time, Natasha didn't comment on that language.

Honestly, she felt bad for telling him, but he wouldn't have wanted to be left in the dark.

"I'm trying to access the information S.H.I.E.L.D had on Harker. It's heavily encrypted, and there was a lot. Hopefully, I can get a more definitive answer."

"If I'm bein' honest, Nat," Steve finally articulated, "I'm hoping you're barking up the completely wrong tree."

She didn't want to alarm him, but Natasha was worried that Darcy's disappearance might be a case of a fate worse than death.

If she ever got the chance, how could she tell Yasha?

"I hope so too."

Chapter Text

March 4th, 1942

Bucky and Steve's House, New York City.

"You're an idiot," Steve groaned with his head in his hands, "I told ya this was gonna go south. Datin' one woman and sleepin' with another in the same house wasn't ever gonna turn out 'lright."

Bucky nodded sullenly, smoke between his lips, pouring himself a glass of whisky. Normally he'd save liquor for a special occasion, but he felt so horrible he needed something. Steve was in too prissy a mood to join him. His loss. Steve sat across from him at their tiny kitchen table, leaned up against the window, the only place to properly sit in their place that wasn't a couch or bed. Bucky straddled the windowsill, one leg hanging on either side of the building. He hated smoking near Steve, but whenever he did, he would be half hanging out the window, desperately trying to keep the smoke away from him. Steve said it was fine but it always triggered coughing if he wasn't careful - the doctors said it was good for his lungs, but Bucky couldn't imagine how something good could make you hack up your lungs like that. Tonight, he was smoking not only to reduce stress but so he could look away from Steve when his disappointed eyes dug a bit too deep. Bucky wasn't in the mood for a lecture but also felt miserable and desperate for company. Sometimes talking to Stevie was rough, other times it offered much-needed clarity, and oftentimes it was both. Steve would tell him how it is and Bucky would try not to flinch at every verbal blow. For a man whose fists could scarcely land a hit, his words sure as shit knew where to strike.

"Jesus, Buck, what'd ya think would happen?"

He shrugged, honestly not having an answer, and alternated between taking a heavy swig of his drink and puffing his cigarette. His best pal was right; he'd been an idiot.

He'd just come from the diner, hoping against hope that Darcy would turn up for their malt shake date. He'd have bought her as many of those fucking drinks as she wanted and rendered himself broke if she'd only shown up. Prepared to grovel, he'd been twenty minutes early and stayed two hours past their scheduled meet-up time. He had little cuts on his fingers from fiddling with his damn keys the whole time. He'd only left because Rosie had finally booted him out. He'd waited on the sidewalk for another twenty minutes before resigning himself to the fact that she wasn't coming. There was a part of him that demanded he march over to her house to plead with her to hear him out and to give him a chance to make things right. However, his reliable gut screamed at him that invading her space was counterproductive and an overall bad idea. He liked his reproductive organs attached, even if they were why he was in trouble.

He sipped his drink miserably.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Steve asked with a frown, "You gonna do something 'bout it? Or cut your losses?"

Bucky stared at him in disbelief, "Course not! I'm not givin' up on her tha' easily. Damn dame dug her claws in deep."

Honestly, Bucky was surprised at how deeply. If she ever released him, he suspected the wound would weep at the loss and never heal.

He flicked his burnt-up smoke out the window, shut it, and sat across from Steve.

"Riiiiiiight," Steve droned, "But not deep enough for you to keep your dick in your pants."

Dropping his head onto the table, Bucky let all his despair flow through his body.

He'd fucked up. He knew that.

"She's unlike any woman I've ever met," Bucky mumbled into the tabletop, "I wasn't sure what to make of 'er at first. I was worried she was puttin' on airs, but she was unapologetically herself, and I was delighted."

Bold, witty, glib, and surprisingly warm and sweet. As brash as a galloping horse but as graceful as a dove. He didn't know a woman could be both, but Darcy managed it.

He raised his head and poured himself another glass while Steve looked on disapprovingly. To relieve some tension, he stretched his neck from left to right, groaning in relief at the small pops. Maybe he'd go to the ring tonight after hours and work some tension out. He usually would on a Wednesday anyway.

"Alright, Buck. After you bumped into her in the hallway - what happened?"

Bucky snorted, "Nothin'. She took one look at me and stomped up the stairs with Emily without lookin' back. I'd rather she chewed me out. The others herded me outta the house like I was vermin."

"Not an unfair assessment," Steve muttered under his breath.

He glared at his friend and flipped him the bird, but the act was half-hearted, and the comment well deserved.

"Can't believe she wouldn't even talk to ya," Steve exclaimed perplexed.

Bucky shrugged despondently and spoke with a heavy heart, "Can't say I really blame her. I had just left her friend's bedroom, barely dressed after all. I was honestly expectin' her to hit me---"

"Wait," Steve cut in with a wave of his hand, "Why were you barely dressed? I thought you were goin' to call it quits with Connie?"

Bucky nodded miserably, struggling to meet Steve in the eye. Looking confused, he saw the exact moment it clicked for Steve.

"So, you slept wit' her?!" The look Stevie was shooting at him was both outraged and incredulous.

"… Yes." Bucky admitted shamefully while Steve groaned and buried his head in his hands, "It'd been a few weeks, and she practically pounced on me. I thought, 'Yeah, alright, one last hoo-ha ain't gonna hurt anyone.' What a fuckin' joke. I should never 'ave let her bring me into her room."

"That's what happens when you think with your dick and not your head."

"I know. I've never felt this shit before. I know I'm no one's fella, but I hadn't exactly told Darcy I was still makin' house calls."

Steve sighed, "I 'spose it's a good thing you weren't sleepin' wit' Darcy too."

He shook his head guiltily, "I probably would've but…" he trailed off.

Steve nudged Bucky's leg with his foot, quietly telling him to continue. Bucky finished his drink in one gulp.

"… But then I found out that her husband died. I felt wretched, Stevie. A woman, let alone a widow, like that, doesn't deserve a man sniffing 'round her skirt. I told myself I was gonna pace us, no runnin' into anything just in case she wasn't ready. I knew I couldn't trust myself though; 's why I always had you or Lottie to make sure I kept myself in check."

"Obvously somethin' happened?"

Bucky ran a stressed hand through his hair and breathed a heavy sigh, "I was in the city runnin' an errand for Mama. Darcy's office wasn't far, and all I could think about was poppin' by just to see her. Stevie, I had this undeniable urge to just make her smile. It was such an unremarkable moment, but I remember her almost skipping down those steps to me, and all I could think was, 'Wow, this woman… I'm the luckiest bastard in the world.' I knew then I wanted her and only her. I wanted to board this train and follow the tracks wherever it went. I've had a lotta women in my life, but not a single one of 'em had me spiralin' this much."

Bucky went to pour himself another drink, but Steve stopped him, placing his hand over the bottle.

"That's enough," Steve sternly told him.

Nodding in agreement, he relinquished the whisky bottle before continuing, "We walked past the Tavern, and I remembered about Connie. Hadn't thought about her in earnest for weeks by that point. I knew I had to tell 'er it was over. I had it all planned out; tell Connie and then tell Darcy the following day."

He slumped in his chair, feeling a weight upon his shoulders, "But then Connie blew a fuse, lost her fuckin' mind, made a racket, and everything went belly up. I still don't know why she was so upset. She was the one tellin' me that she didn't want a boyfriend. It was why we were so good together – no pressure from either party. She's never been upset about me datin' or screwin' other women."

"Maybe it's 'cause it's Darcy?" Steve suggested.

Bucky shook his head, "Didn't mention it was Darcy. Didn't even get far enough to tell her a name. Just told her I'd been seeing someone, I wanted to pursue it, and that we needed a clean break."

The smaller man's eyes furrowed, "That is strange. Connie's head is usually screwed on right."

Hands raised, Bucky exclaimed, "Thank you! It is strange!"

Steve shot him a blank look, "It could also be the fact that you slept wit' her first and then told her you didn't wanna see her no more. Tell me - the two of you still in bed when you broke the news?"

Bucky went to retort before slamming his mouth shut and running his hand through his hair sheepishly, "Uh, yeah, that could o' had somethin' to do with it."

"Ya don't think?"

They sat there for a time, neither speaking nor moving. Both simply contemplating the situation from different perspectives.

Steve broke the silence, "You 'lright?"

Sighing, Bucky shook his head, "No. All I know is that if I don't try and fix this, I'm gonna regret it for the rest of my life."

Steve looked a little sceptical, "That what your gut's sayin?"

It was a valid question. They may joke and jeer about his gut and all its faults, but his instincts never lead him astray. Already knowing what it was screeching, Bucky breathed in deeply, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to admit.

"I know I originally said it as a joke, Stevie," Bucky's voice was barely higher than a whisper, "But I think I could see myself marrying her one day."

Steve gaped, "Bucky, you've only known 'er for what-? A couple of weeks?"

"Don't matter - my gut is never wrong. 's not like I'm gonna fall to one knee tomorrow and pop the question," Bucky told him, dismissing his concerns, "You know me. An idiot and a jerk wrapped up in a neat little package. We'll have to add sap to the list."

Silence lingered between them as Steve considered his friend's words. Bucky could only hope Steve kept believing in him.

"Well then, jerk," Steve encouraged, "I guess we better figure out a way to get your girl back."

Bucky smiled appreciatively, reaching over, slapping his shoulder heartily before pulling his best pal into a one-armed hug, "Knew I could count on ya, punk!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Steve shrugged him off, "Just don't make a habit of this; you're already a pain in the ass! I also don't wanna be on Darcy's bad side. 'specially if she's stickin' around forever! That woman scares me."

Bucky snorted and smiled brightly, "You betcha. But for now, I think I'm gonna let her cool off."

"Ah, yes. Here he is," Steve cleared his throat and spoke in his announcer's voice, "Ladies and gentlemen! The brave and fearless Bucky, quivering in his boots at the impressive Darcy Lewis---" he yelped when Bucky stood up, bringing him into a headlock.

"You're just as scared of her, punk!"

Steve only laughed harder as he wrestled Bucky's arm off, "Yeah, but I can hide. What happens if you're right and you do marry her? How're you planning on hiding from her in your own house?"

"Shit. Hadn't thought of that. Y'know, I wasn't planning on havin' nightmares tonight. Thanks for that, punk."

"Anytime, jerk. Wait 'til Lottie finds out."

"Fuck, you're not gonna tell 'er, are ya? Steve? Stevie? Don't walk away from me!"

Chapter Text

March 6th, 1942

Hibbitt Consulting Firm, New York City

Darcy sat at her desk watching the clock tick away (time goes by... so slowly... cheers, Madonna). Even though she had nothing else to do, she had another half hour until she was technically allowed to leave. She supposed she could leave; no one would stop her, but she didn't have the heart to stand up and face the music yet. The girls at the boarding house had been amazing, but that didn't mean she wanted to see their pitying looks. For the past couple of days, she'd been completely absorbed in her work, trying to ignore the source of her sudden need to work hard. She'd even broken into Jerry's drawer and nicked his secret whisky and lemon sherbet stash.

They were, admittedly, a bad combination. What else did she expect from the wreck that was Jerry Hibbitt, though? She made a mental note to put the flask back before she went home for the weekend. He would whine if he found out she was drinking it.

Jerry was at court the entire week, and she had yet to decide if that was a good or bad thing. It meant he wasn't in the office to pick up on her mood and bug her about it, but it also meant he wasn't in the office to pick up on her mood and bug her about it. She would have liked an outside perspective, even if it was from the infuriating Jerry.

However, she truly believed this was an improvement for him; he hadn't slept at the office at all this week. She would otherwise dance and cheer, maybe even throw a tiny little feast to celebrate his success, but she felt too flat to bother. He wasn't there anyway. Maybe next week she'll do it. Scones with jam and cream, maybe. Darcy looooved scones.

Leaning her head on her arms, she sighed into her little makeshift pillow. She was so tired she half suspected she could nap in her uncomfortable position. She was exhausted, and she could only blame one fuckwitt for it.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

She wanted to throttle him. He was Connie's Tuesday dick appointment. Her standing dick appointment. Not once a year, not monthly, but fucking weekly. He'd walked her to the very same house where he'd fucked Connie and hadn't said shit. He straight-up deflected and cowardly diverted her attention by telling a completely irrelevant story about a goddamn blackboard duster! What a gutless wonder! That had been the perfect moment to say something, and he hadn't risen to the occasion. Well, his cock had raised for an occasion, but his balls hadn't shown up when it counted!

Miserable prick. How dare he?

She huffed into her sleeve and felt her anger deflate into dejected bitterness.

Darcy was mostly mad at herself. Of course this happened; men were men in any generation. She'd never had a boyfriend able to keep it in their pants while they were together – why should this be any different? Men, no matter when they came from, were pigs. How dare he prove her right, though?

He'd been treating her so differently from what she was used to when it came to casual hook-ups. Special. He'd painted such a pretty picture with romantic dates and funny conversations that she'd failed to notice he'd dipped the paintbrush in poison. Like an idiot, she'd fallen for the dumbest trick in the book: hook, line, and sinker. Fuck, you'd think she was a 15-year-old experiencing her first taste of dating, not a woman of almost 30 who'd had more sexual partners than Dolly Parton had albums! God, she felt like an idiot! A hopeless fool who'd wandered too close to a placid-looking wolf and gotten trapped between its sharp teeth.

Just once, she would have liked a guy to act like she was worthy of undivided attention. For a moment, Bucky had let her think she had it. Then it crumbled all around her, and she was left standing in the dust, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

She could grudgingly admit that they hadn't had any understanding about being exclusive.

But she was still upset and, as far as she was concerned, rightly so. It wasn't fair that he'd played with her like that.

"I see you're hard at work," a voice droned above her.

She gave a startled squeak and shot her head up to look at the intruder.

It was Front Desk Bitch, looking just as severe and no-nonsense as she usually did.

What the hell did she want? And why now?

"Yes?" she asked as politely as possible.

Approaching her desk, Desk Bitch dropped a missive in front of Darcy. Picking it up, Darcy went to read it and swallowed a groan. Shorthand. She couldn't read shorthand, and judging from the expression on Desk Bitch's face, she had finally figured that out.

"What's it say?" Darcy asked, resigned to being dragged through the dirt by the severe-looking woman.

Desk Bitch nodded as though confirming something to herself, "You cannot read it."

"No," Darcy said with a biting tone, "It's all scribbles and squiggles to me. I don't know why you'd want another damn coded language when the one we speak is just fine."

The older woman stood with her arms folded, just watching Darcy with a pissy look. She made no move to leave or sit, just lingered and stared at her expectantly.

"What?" Darcy growled.

"How did you come upon this job?"

"What can I say," she muttered, "It fell in my lap."

"Hmm," Desk Bitch looked thoughtful, "It is unprofessional to allow your personal feelings to affect your workplace manner."

Darcy glared at her, "Sorry, I'm not a robot. If something is wrong with me, I'm allowed to express it."

"Well, you're expressing it, so something is wrong with you," Desk Bitch said snottily.

"Yeah, well, if there is, it's no business of yours."

Desk Bitch shrugged, "This is true. I am, however, allowed to express concern over a fellow woman."

Concern? Is that what this is?

Darcy groaned, really not wanting to discuss it with Desk Bitch, "What makes you think there's something to be concerned over?"

Desk Bitch looked unimpressed, "For the mere fact that you haven't delighted in frustrating me by wishing me an exaggeratedly chipper 'good morning' for the past couple of days. Nor are you bothering with your appearance. Where's the pretty baby blue suit? The lovely, patterned skirt? The painstaking hairstyle? Your questionably daring lipstick shades? You have been wearing the same drab blouse and pleated skirt combination since you've been upset."

Well, that was true, but she hadn't needed to point it out. She quickly sniffed her armpits. Okay, yeah, she smelled a bit ripe.

"Yeah, okay. I guess. I'll do better so I don't offend your precious sensibilities," Darcy spoke, hoping she'd take the hint and leave.

If she got the hint, she outright fucking ignored it, "You've been doing such an admirable job with Mr. Hibbitt. Truly. It's such a shame you've picked up on his habits as much as he's adopted yours," she motioned to the flask she'd been drinking from.

The way she spoke wasn't condemning… It was instead… blasé? It was throwing Darcy off. Was she pissed or not?

Yes, Darcy shouldn't be drinking at work. She knew that. Just because she, Jane, and Erik had questionable ethics regarding working and drinking simultaneously, it didn't mean that others did. It didn't mean they couldn't function... Plus Jerry---! Actually, Jerry might not be a good example of this. Scratch that.

She chose not to comment. Glancing at the clock, she saw she had another fifteen minutes left. Hurry up, Mr. Clock. She should have laughed at the irony of how Desk Bitch had made her suddenly desperate to go home. Darcy should've left when she'd first thought to do so.

"You're not the first woman to have a bad week, Miss Lewis," she told her.

"No shit," Darcy muttered under her breath.

"But we are a resilient breed. Whatever's upsetting you, deal with it and move on."

Darcy rolled her eyes, "Thanks for the oh so helpful advice, Front Desk Lady."

She rolled her dark eyes, "Call me Katherine. You'll be making yourself available at lunchtime for the foreseeable future."

Darcy gave a start, "I will?"

"Yes," Katherine insisted, with a tone that brokered no room for argument, "You will be spending lunch with me until you can learn those scribbles and squiggles. Understood?"

Giving a mocking salute, "Yes, Katherine."

Katherine's eyes narrowed minutely, "I'll be expecting you at 1 every day from this coming Monday. You miss a day; I'll be retracting my offer of assistance."

She turned to leave when Darcy remembered the missive on her desk.

"Wait! What's the note say?" Darcy called after her.

Katherine didn't even pause in her stride, "Nothing of importance; I simply wished to see if I was right."

Darcy scowled. Rude. At that very moment, she could hear Jerry briefly greeting Katherine outside the door.

"Ms. Thompson? Must be a frigid day in hell for you to grace my office step! Does the devil know you've escaped?"

"Can it, Mr. Hibbitt."

Stepping into the room, he shot her a drained smile, shutting the door behind him. Obviously, he wasn't in the mood for any walk-ins. Same, buddy. Despite the tired set of his shoulders, Darcy was pleased to see he looked good. Properly groomed and appropriately dressed. Not a crease in sight.

"Diana! Aren't you a lovely sight for my weary eyes!" He lowered his briefcase as his eyes roamed over her, "Or not? When was the last time you bathed? Or slept?"

Scowling further, Darcy buried her head in her arms again.

She heard him approach and heavily fall into the chair across from her, "Here I thought I was the one with – what did you call it – dependency issues. Missed me, did you? I'm flattered---is that my whisky?"

Burying her head even further, Darcy prayed that she'd time travel just one more time to the start of this hour so she could go home and skip all these unexpected conversations.

"Oh boy, it's one of those days. I thought Ducky was---"

Darcy raised her head and levelled her harshest glare, "Don't mention him."

Visibly backing off, he raised his hands in surrender before he uttered, "-Clearly not."

Darcy groaned, taking the flask and drinking from it, ignoring Jerry's indignant cry of protest before telling him, "He was getting his dick wet."

It took a moment for understanding to dawn on him.

Jerry pursed his lips, unsure how to phrase what he was about to say, "I'm assuming it wasn't you doing the wet part?"

For a moment, Darcy wanted to give an amused grin, but the feeling was squashed under her anger, "No, not me. My housemate, Connie."

Even Jerry – vomitbag Jerry! – grunted in surprise, "Uh, shit. That was stupid."

"Yeah, Jerry. Shit and stupid," Darcy lightly mocked.

"That's uh," he rubbed the back of his neck, "Unfortunate?"

"Truly, Jerry, your grasp of empathy is unrivalled."

"I'm sorry, I have a vague memory of someone insisting that they 'don't catch feelings,'" he shot her a pointed look.

Darcy's face curled with distaste, and she looked away from him.

"Uh-huh, I knew that was going to happen," Jerry muttered before continuing, "So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," she groaned, "I can't just let him get away with it. He was fucking my housemate – knowing she was my housemate - while I was in said house. I know he's not technically my boyfriend, but I just don't get what he was thinking!"

"Maybe he was thinking that he wasn't 'technically your boyfriend.'"

Darcy flicked a sherbert wrapper at him in annoyance, "But it's so stupid!"

He snorted, tossing the wrapper in the trash, "Men in their physical prime are men that are rationally out of their mind."

She groaned again, taking another sip, but handed the flask over when he waved for it.

"Do you like him?" Jerry asked after taking a drink.

"Not enough to tolerate that behaviour!"

"Fair enough," Jerry conceded, "But what did you say after you found out? I'm assuming you caught them. These matters are always revealed in dramatic fashions."

Growling, Darcy stood and paced, "You're damn right about that. He was leaving her room half-dressed. Connie was upset, yelling at him. He looked like a deer in headlights when he spotted me."

"I'm sure he did," Jerry said excitedly, "What did you say?"

"What? Nothing. He didn't deserve anything from me."

If anything, Jerry just looked disappointed at the lack of drama and then confused, "How are you supposed to decide if you don't have all the answers?"

"I don't have to talk to him!"

Jerry shrugged in concession, "True, all the evidence points to him being a jackass, but you've not heard his reasoning."

"I doubt it'll make it better," she scoffed.

"Well, I suspect he broke up with little Canny, and that's why she was so upset."

For a moment, the thought made her pause before righteous anger filled her again, "Only after he'd slept with her."

"Not many warm-blooded men are going to turn down the offer of sex," Jerry shrugged, then used her words against her, "Especially if he's not 'technically' someone's boyfriend."

"Not good enough," she whined, sitting back down.

"I agree. It's not. However, it's a new generation, and the dating game has changed. Imagine this: what if you were sleeping around with someone else – the little fella, Sticky, for example – would you be repentant? Why would you? You weren't going steady after all."

Darcy pondered this with muted anger. Yes, she acknowledged the double standard she placed on Bucky, but she hadn't been laying the charm on thick like Bucky had either.

That being said, Bucky hadn't chased after her to defend himself. He'd acknowledged her anger enough to understand she needed some space. Additionally, Bucky was not forcing his opinion on her about how they weren't exclusive, nor had he dismissed her feelings about being upset by his actions. Darcy wasn't sure she would have paid him the same courtesy. If he'd been mad at her for sleeping with Steve (the very idea of sleeping with Captain America was ridiculous – it would be her patriotic duty to involve the shield somehow), she would have been pounding on his door, screeching about how they 'hadn't been exclusive.'

Fucking hell.

"I hate when you make sense, Jerry."

He gave a small, if slightly pained smile, "Oh? I saw your lips move, but I swear my wife's voice came out. So, have you decided? What are you going to do?"

She sighed heavily, "I'll talk to him, I guess. I have an incentive to murder him, though. Does New York have the death penalty? I'm asking for a friend."

"…I hope there is never a day I need to defend you in court. That would be a horrible day. I have enough of those."

She shrugged.

"Meh, I'll find out," she sat back down, "I don't like your idea of taking it easy on him, though."

"What? Oh, I think you've misunderstood me," Jerry mused with a wry grin, "I never said that you should take it easy on him. Let him have it."

Looking baffled, Darcy asked, "What?"

Jerry readjusted his glasses, "Darcy, he is well aware of the type of woman you are. You're a spitfire through and through. You don't tolerate horseshit. It didn't stop him. Ducky is well aware that he was playing with fire. He knew there was a chance it would burn him. He's expecting hellfire and brimstone. Why disappoint? Let him have it."

For a moment, they shared a contemplative silence.

Then, a wicked grin slowly grew on her face, "Jerry, that's got to be the most brilliant thing you've ever said."

"Don't make me cry. I'd hate to fog up my glasses."

Darcy stood up triumphantly, feeling better than she had in days, "I'm going to give him hell."

Jerry applauded from his seat, "Terrific. Let me know how it goes."

The clock finally hit home time, and Darcy was ready to skedaddle.

Grabbing her coat, turning off her lamp, and moving to the door, she looked at Jerry, who made no move to stand.

"Walk me out?" Darcy hinted.

Jerry gave her a dim smile before standing, leaving his briefcase behind. "Of course, Darcy."

He walked her down, wished her a happy weekend, and strode right back into the building.

No home time for Jerry, it seemed.

It looked like Jerry's progress was only until his presence at court was no longer needed. He was back to sleeping in the office. Fuck it. Darcy would do a little special spread anyway; a week was better than nothing after all, and that was worth celebrating.

Chapter Text

March 7th, 1942

Bushwick Club, New York City

She was many things. Many glorious, lovely, amazing things.

She was also above many things. Being a petty bitch wasn't one of them.

Darcy blasted through the bedroom door, "Dot! How many men have you got on speed dial?"

After she'd recovered from jumping a mile high and spilling her nail polish, Dot blinked at her. Despite not knowing what a 'speed dial' was, she understood what was being asked, "How tall do you want him?"

"Taller than Bucky fucking Barnes."

That was how all the girls had spent their Saturday shopping for new dancing clothes. Mrs. Doyle had been surprised by all the girls' going but had seemed secretly pleased at the suddenly tight-knit group.

If she was being honest, she was looking forward to the night out, and the fact that it had a sprinkling of spite on top was delicious. Only one other person deserved to feel just as malicious.

… And Connie was viciously on board.

It was a hectic 24 hours after that, but Darcy had good friends with even better connections.

They all wore a variation of an empire waist dress; Dot's was a sparkly jade, which complemented her red hair; Connie's was navy, which matched the hue of her darker skin tone; Bonnie's was a flattering peach; Emily's a lovely lemon; and Darcy an almost raunchy red.

They’d all helped each other get ready, and Darcy had to wolf whistle each for their efforts. They looked like fucking goddesses. Even demure Emily looked and, hopefully, felt confident in her skin. Walking in tandem with linking arms towards the club in Bushwick, Darcy truly understood the concept of a power walk. She had the backing of four of her best ‘40s girls, and they were ready to slay.

Standing outside the club Bucky had once recommended was her date. He was tall, attractive, and well-groomed. Most likely, her age, too. He had lovely blond hair, enveloping brown eyes, and was easily 6ft3, and Darcy was thrilled because that was definitely taller than Bucky. Her date also looked hilariously out of her league. Perhaps he worked at the bank with Dot?

Dot quickly paired them up with a wave of her hands before approaching her date own with a coquettish grin. Dot understood the assignment.

He gave a wide smile and held his hand out to shake, "I'm Harry Potter, and you are?"

Darcy absentmindedly took his hand and bit her lip so hard it almost tore through. Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, don't you dare laugh.

She burst out laughing. Hysterical. Unable to breathe. Red in the face. About ready to vomit.

He's Harry fucking Potter! And he used Hermione's line to Ron!

Her eyes were too blurry to see, but she was positive they were all staring at her like she was crazy.

"Uh, honey? You okay?" she heard Dot probe.

Gulping in as much air as possible, she tried to dismiss it, "Inside joke. Wouldn't get it even if I explained."

Her date (knock-off Harry fucking Potter) nodded unsurely, but he didn't linger on it, smiling at her again, "Sure thing, it's definitely a first impression. What's your name?"

"Darcy Lewis," she spoke absently.

"As in Jane Austen?"

"Yeeep, as in 'Pride & Prejudice.'"

God, Harry Potter and Darcy. What an unexpected literary combination in her real life. To be fair, her life was weird, but this was taking the cake.

Harry Potter. A book and film series that held a very special place in her heart.

It brought nostalgia and homesickness, but Darcy was resolute not to dwell on it.

"Please, please," Darcy begged, "Tell me your middle name is James?"

He looked befuddled, "Uh, no, it's Peter."

That set her off again. Harry Peter Potter. Oh lord! Could you imagine - Lily and James naming their kid after Peter! Harry would have had it legally changed the second he was old enough!

Harry was looking at Dot with a strained expression, and Darcy imagined he wasn't ever letting Dot set him up on a date ever again. So worth it.

Would it be wrong of her to ask if he was an orphan? No, right? Yeah, that was probably a bit much.

Escorting her inside, a redundant practice in her opinion, he immediately offered to buy her a drink. She sprouted out a gin and tonic because that was the only drink she knew of that old folks would probably know. If the Queen of England drank it, it was probably old enough. Harry didn't disappoint.

She followed the girls, who had huddled in the corner of the room, conspiring whispers between them. Darcy quickly joined, and they were all alight with excitement.

Harry brought her drink over, and they made boring small talk. God, G&T's were really not appetising. Her date was nice, but if that's all he had to offer, Darcy wouldn't entertain him for long. In fact, Darcy was quick to decide that he was outright boring. What about Brazil and Romania? Was she supposed to care? She didn't have a paper due on it, so why were they discussing it?

Geez, she was going to have to cut this short before she necked herself.

She cut him off during a spiel about a broken diplomatic relationship, "What's your opinion on the uses of mould?"

Poor Harry spluttered, obviously unprepared for Darcy's verbal onslaught, "I-uh-I have to go see a man about a dog."

With that said, he was off like a shot. Darcy was relieved. He was boring.

Then she remembered she wasn't actually there to date him. Or even like him.

"Ah shit," she bemoaned, chasing after him, "Hey, Harry! What's a girl got to do for a dance around here?"

Harry proved to be polite and a gentleman. He didn't attempt to run from her and seemed to know he'd bored her. He redoubled his efforts and began showing her the basics of swing dancing. It was quick-paced, and only Darcy's history with tap helped her keep up. It was also exhausting, but Darcy struggled to keep her laughter in check. She was having a ball.

Before too long, Darcy needed a break, as she'd never been the type to be physically inclined. Hell, once she'd hit puberty, she just about shunned it.

Dot begged a dance from Harry, who was only too happy to oblige. It wasn't until they were further off that Darcy sighed heavily. Yes, she was having fun, but Harry wasn't the dancer she was supposed to have. As great of a dancer as he is, she'd been promised the best in Brooklyn.

As though beckoned, Darcy suddenly had the urge to look towards the bar.

As planned, Lottie was at the bar with her brother and his best friend. Catching sight of them, Lottie waved her arm excitedly, earning a look from Bucky and Steve. Following her gaze, they finally spotted Darcy. Bucky baulked. Steve beamed.

Skipping over, Darcy looped her arm through Lottie's, "So glad you could make it!"

Lottie scoffed, "As if I'd miss this!"

If trepidation was a physical illness, Bucky was positively riddled with it, "Your insistence to go out is startin' to make sense."

Lottie battered her eyes, "I told you, I was meetin' up with a girlfriend. I just failed to mention it was the woman you'd failed to make your girlfriend."

Darcy snickered, although her heart lightly ached at the thought. Almost.

"Thanks for coming, Lottie. I know my message was vague,” Darcy acknowledged, ignoring Bucky entirely.

Lottie didn’t bat an eye, “Please, after what he did, I was more than happy to stick his nose in it.”

“He told you?” Darcy asked, surprised.

“God no! Steve was practically gleeful to snitch on him, but Bucky'd already copped an earful from me.”

Bucky was fiddling with the ghost of his keys, "Darcy---"

"No, you don't!" Lottie asserted, guzzling her drink. She grasped Darcy's hand and tugged her towards the floor, "C'mon, Darcy! Let's show these men how you're meant to dance with a woman!"

Darcy couldn't help the giggle that escaped as Lottie spun her around. It only took a few minutes for the rest of the boarding house girls to join. It was a ridiculous circle of girls spinning each other and barely staying upright. Despite never going out dancing before, Emily was the most graceful of them all. She'd burned red at the praise but blamed her mother, who'd always danced with her. Bonnie and Dot were particularly envious.

At one point, they had strayed a little too close to Bucky and Steve, and Darcy knew it was as good a time as any to be a bit petty.

Still holding onto Lottie, she sauntered up to Bucky with purpose. He arched a brow, his curious acknowledgment.

Making a sound of faux sudden remembrance, Darcy reached between her bra and retrieved a small vial. With a grin, she tossed it to him. He caught it deftly and brought it to his face to inspect.

Bucky looked confused, "What is this?"

She grinned, "Mould. Thought you'd like to be reminded of where you rank. I hope you choke on it!"

Bucky made a sound like a small whine. Stevie snorted into his drink, but Darcy had already grabbed Lottie's hand, and they both rushed off, giggling amongst themselves.

Lottie pulled her back to the girls, and they were quickly the rowdiest group there.

It was almost funny how Darcy had demanded a date and then almost completely ignored him. That was until she accidentally glanced at Bucky and spotted him watching her dance with a fond look. Just like that, she remembered she was here for a reason. A petty one.

Connie noticed her change in body language first, "He's over there!"

Looking at where she was pointing, she spotted Harry talking to another one of their dates – Bonnie's, maybe?

Regardless, she bounced up to him and shot him an overly flirty look, "Take me for a whirl?"

Harry excused himself from his conversation and smiled indulgently, "It would be my pleasure."

As he walked her towards the dancefloor, Harry leaned down and whispered, "Tell me, which one is he?"

Surprised, she asked him, "What?"

He chuckled but continued to murmur in her ear, "You haven't looked twice at me all night. Suddenly, you're interested? Come now, which one is it?"

Ah well, she got caught.

"Buuuusted," she confirmed, "That taller one over there."

She lightly pointed with her head, and he very subtly looked.

"Bucky Barnes?" He asked with a knowing smirk.

"You know him?" She queried.

Harry laughed, "Let's just say Dot understood what she was doing when she paired us. Shall we play this up?"

Nodding eagerly, "Lets!"

Spying over her shoulder, she got a glance at Bucky. He looked very dismayed.

Good.

One arm wrapped around her, and Harry brought her closer to his chest. They danced together for what felt like an hour. It was exhausting, but she would persevere.

Harry was liberal with his touches, and Darcy responded more eagerly than she felt. At least his touch didn't make her skin crawl. The longer they danced, the more Bucky scowled. Darcy laughed freely, only a bit louder than usual, and made sure she kept looking up at Harry in adoration. If only he were black-haired and green-eyed, she could have pretended it really was Harry Potter.

It wasn't until Bucky started dancing with another girl that Darcy lost her delighted attitude.

They hadn't been lying, and Bucky hadn't been exaggerating; the way he moved was deliberate, delicate, strong, sure, graceful, and glamorous. God, he looked like he belonged on the dancefloor. He was so agile.

It was the girl that was most upsetting, though.

His partner was smaller than her in every sense of the word. Younger too. She looked sweet, demure, ditsy, and everything Darcy wasn't.

It stung.

Harry noticed the change and pulled her from the dance floor. He escorted her to the other girls, also taking a break, and left them to buy her another drink.

She decided she quite liked Harry. Sadly, not any more than she liked Bucky.

Sitting beside Emily, she sullenly rested her head on her shoulder. Emily kindly stroked her face and gave a sympathetic smile.

Bonnie scowled, "You're not allowed to look sad! Especially when he's laughing and dancing!"

Glancing towards him, she noticed he'd sent his partner off and was standing at the bar as far away from Harry as possible. Bucky was boring holes through his skull with what looked to be a nasty glare. If Harry noticed, he ignored it. Strangely, Bucky wasn't looking to order a drink; he was hanging out glaring at Harry.

"Slap him and be done with it," Bonnie entreated.

"I'm not big on slapping people," Darcy said dismissively.

They didn't need to know that it was because she preferred tasing people instead, but that wasn't currently an option. Kneeing a guy in self-defence was one thing, but she didn't enjoy hitting people for the fun of it. Even if she felt they deserved it. She was only willing to bend this rule if someone she cared for needed her to step in. Or if it was an incompetent politician. It was one time, and she'd only spent a night in jail. So worth it.

Connie sighed deeply into her drink, "Unfortunately, nor am I."

Dot muttered something under her breath, maybe 'I have to do everything around here,' and she waltzed up to Bucky across the room with a purposeful stride. She called out to him, he turned, and she laid one of him.

Holy shit.

It was hard enough that his head swivelled with the motion – he would undoubtedly be red-cheeked tomorrow. Darcy heard the smack resonate from across the room. Bucky stared at her incredulously, whether at the brute force of it or because it was Dot, she couldn't say, and he gently cradled the side of his face. It would appear that she had packed quite the wallop. Steve was trying very hard to force a sympathetic wince.

Her task completed, Dot moseyed on over, "There. That was a freebie. My services are available for future leisure at a dime a dozen. Please use my services in future."

Darcy, ever the feminist, broke out in uproarious applause, "Encore! Encore!"

It was one thing for Darcy to do it, but she sure as shit wasn't above watching Dot smack a man around on their behalf.

Aghast, Emily shook her head, "No! Once was enough!"

"Speak for yourself," Connie muttered darkly.

Bonnie looked on in shock, "Dot, I think your services should be a dollar a dozen because that was brilliant."

Shrugging, Dot spoke, "What can I say? I've had practice. Let's dance, shall we?"

So, they did. They drank, they sang, they danced, they ignored their dates. They had a blast.

Fuck, she forgot how great it was to be surrounded by strong women. If only Jane were here, she'd feel on top of the world.

It wasn't until Darcy started feeling slightly tingly in her fingers that she started looking for Bucky. If Darcy had been sullen, he looked desolate. She could recall that he hadn't had another dance partner all night. Hadn't even had a drink all night. Yet, here he was, impersonating a wallflower (which he certainly was not). She wondered if he would have left already if he hadn't come here with Lottie.

As suspected, his cheek was looking a little red.

Fuck, he looked good though. Why did he have to look so good? God, that boy looked soooo good. She wanted to pat his hair. Maybe yank on it a little. He's a good boy - he'd let her.

They made eye contact, blue on blue, sad on sad.

Drunk Darcy made a decision; enough was enough. Tipsy or not, she wanted to get this sorted.

Making her way over, Bucky looked genuinely uncomfortable at her approach, but he did not attempt to flee. Just as she toed the line between personal space and invading it, she tripped and fell towards him. Like in a damn romance movie, he caught her and steadied her against his chest.

For a second, she stood there, basking in his warmth, a gloomy parody of an embrace. He smelled a little sweaty, but a nice kind of sweat, like what she imagined Brad Pitt smelled like after he shot that scene in 'Troy.' A second stretched into two, and two lingered into three. He made no move to release her, but his arms were loose enough around her that it would be no effort to shrug him off. She missed his tight holds, the casual arm around her shoulders, her arms looped around his. Fuck, she just missed him in general. Why'd he have to ruin it?

Slowly, she stepped back, and his arms fell away as predicted.

"Well, you see, something interesting happened," Darcy slurred conversationally, "The girls and I have been bonding, you see. Chatting about all manner of things. Charlie Christian died from TB, and an Italian prince died. Wow sooo much death, but at least we could find pretty dresses for tonight. Could you believe it, though – you came up! You've been fucking Connie. The cat's out of the bag with that. Mr. Big should take notes from you. You've dated Dot, who claims you were the most boring date she's ever had. Truly a remarkable feat because she's no stranger to dating. You've apparently flirted with Bonnie before and then promptly forgotten about her. Which, by the way, dick fucking move, Barnes. You were taking me out and leading me on. Emily says you've never tried anything with her, but the night's still young. You've been a busy fucking boy, haven't you? Tell me, did Mrs. Doyle beat you with a duster because you were chasing her girls too? Because that's the conclusion I've come to."

Bucky went through her entire monologue in silence, only wincing and flinching whenever something hit a bit too close to home. Which was most of it. After she said her piece, he opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn't ready to hear anything from him yet.

Flapping her hands erratically, she shook her head urgently to cut him off.

"You've been fucking my housemate while I've been in the house. What sort of ballsy fucking asshole are you?" She spat venomously.

"A chucklefuck - that's what you call 'em, don't you?" he told her self-deprecatingly.

Despite that being the first time that she had heard him say 'fuck,' Darcy didn't take the time to appreciate how it sounded coming from his lips.

"I think you've bypassed that exit and flown down the fucking highway into dumb cunt county! You need to come with a warning; 'Fuckboy Barnes - beware' in fucking bold print!"

Her tone was starting to sound a little too wet to her own ears.

He visibly cringed at her language or perhaps the validity of that statement.

She couldn't be sure which, but he didn't argue, "You got it in one."

Darcy didn't get it. He wasn't arguing, and he wasn't defending himself, so, "What the fuck are you doing over here then?"

His spine straightened, and determination set in his shoulders, "I've come to beg for another chance—--"

She cut him off scathingly, "—Denied, I don't give away chances like goddamn candy on Halloween!"

"—I'm aware that you have no reason to. I fucked up. Completely. I can only apologise for that and hope you'll give me a chance to make it right--—"

"—You can't make it right!" She shouted at him.

They were drawing attention, but neither of them stopped to pay attention.

"— Then let me try and redeem myself! Please, doll! Tell me to shave my head, scale the Grand Canyon, never step into a ring again, anything, but please don't tell me to stay away."

Silence reigned between them while his words hovered in the air.

Desperately wanting to know, her tone softened with sincerity, "How am I supposed to trust you?"

He visibly groped his brain for an answer before throwing his hands in the air, "Let me earn it again. One more chance. One more. I won't screw up again."

She wanted to. She didn't want to. She needed to. She didn't need to. Hug him. Slap him. Kiss him. Hate him. Fuck him.

Darcy shook her head, sighing, "I can't do this right now."

He nodded, agreeing, "Take however long you need."

For fuck's sake, could he stop giving her what she wanted!?

To her embarrassment, she sniffled a little, "I want to go home."

She wasn't even sure which home she meant.

Nodding, Bucky held his arm towards her, "We'll tell the others. Then I'll walk you back."

She shook her head stubbornly, "No, I want Steve to."

Darcy had expected reluctance, but he merely nodded, "Good idea. C'mon, let's say our goodbyes."

His arm was still held out towards her. The spiteful and petty part of her wanted to ignore it, but she took it. A shiver ran down her spine. A voice in her head smiled and said, 'see, this is how it is supposed to be' while another scoffed and spat, 'he will do it again - mark my words' and she wanted them both to shut up.

For now, she sidled up alongside him, rested her head on his arm, and tried to hide her face. As though sensing what she wanted, or maybe wanting it himself, he wrapped his arm around her and drew her in. Burying her head into his chest, she inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of him.

They could fight later. Maybe. Possibly. Probably.

Chapter Text

March 10th, 1942

Brooklyn Recreational Center, New York City

It was an hour to midnight, and Darcy was on a mission. She wore a heavy coat to protect her from the chill outside, and for a moment, she was irritated by her own stubbornness. Of course, she couldn't wait another day. Of course, she was rushing into this headfirst without checking the temperature. Darcy was many things, but patient and practical weren't on the list.

But she's had enough, and she'd bet serious money on him having had enough as well.

Just as Steve promised, the door into the center was unlocked, and she waved Steve goodbye over her shoulder, which he cheerfully returned. Darcy stepped inside and closed the door, securing the lock behind her. To her relief, it was several degrees warmer inside. It was an open floor plan, with stackable chairs piled high along one wall, a podium along another, and mats on the floor, possibly for gymnastics. Honestly, it looked like an average rec center with even worse lighting than its modern counterpart. She gave everything a cursory glance, committing it to memory in case something caught her eye. She really needed a hobby in this decade. Despite this, Darcy wasn't after any of those things.

It was the boxing ring she sought tonight. More specifically, the man in it.

At the far corner of the center was the ring, and Darcy heard him long before she saw him, ragged breathing and fists cutting through the air. She made her way over as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb him just yet.

Bucky was beautifully shirtless with what looked like navy blue sweatpants. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet and striking the air in swift succession. He was breathless, glistening with sweat, his hair in disarray, and his skin flushed red. His pecs. God, his pecs were divine. She bet he could do the little booby dance Terry Crews perfected. His shape leant more towards lean than outrageously built, which she low key digged, but he was toned everywhere she could see… right down to the prominent 'V' just above his sweatpants waistline. Damn, she wanted to lick along those grooves.

Darcy tiptoed towards him, almost in a trance. He really was a handsome specimen of a man.

It wasn't until she was halfway across the center that he noticed he had an audience. Bucky froze momentarily before he resumed bouncing his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't look directly at her, but she knew she had his full attention.

"Happy birthday! I hope you've enjoyed it so far," she called out to him as she approached the ring.

He nodded, still jumping on the spot, "Thanks."

For a moment, Darcy just watched him bounce on the spot, but he didn't elaborate or offer any other information. Before long, he started punching the air again – what's it called again, shadowboxing? Whatever, it was distracting him from her.

This was not going how she wanted. Okay, sure, she'd ignored him entirely since their tipsy discussion Saturday night. Big deal. She thought he'd be jumping at the opportunity to speak to her. But then again... had she crossed paths with him at the diner the day after and mutely snubbed him when he approached her? Yes, but Darcy was skilled at avoiding what she didn't want to deal with. It was the fault of her generation. Sue her. Why was he being so aloof, though? He must think she's about to take off at random again. Obviously, he'd decided to only speak polite platitudes until she was ready to speak earnestly.

"Stevie said you had dinner at your family's house."

"Stevie should mind 'is own business," Bucky muttered darkly.

Probably. But Darcy wasn't going to complain. Steve had come to her earlier that night, hoping to hurry this despicable silent period along.

"He's been in a foul mood all day," Steve had told her hurriedly, standing at her front door with a pleading expression, "Bucky really wanted to spend the day with you."

She sighed because what else could she do? "Steve, I don't think I'm ready. I'm worried I'll kill him."

Or fuck him. That was an equally valid concern. She also wasn't a necrophile, so killing him first would be a crying shame.

Steve nodded, "Honestly, I think he'd accept that. There're still a couple of hours left before the day is over. It'd be his favourite birthday present ever if you made a surprise appearance."

"I'm not a gift you can give," Darcy spoke hotly.

"I didn't say you were," Steve calmly defended, "But you can't say you're not already thinking 'bout forgivin' him. Why delay the inevitable?"

Darcy scowled at him, "It's not inevitable."

"Yeah, no one else thinks that," he muttered sassily before continuing, "Darcy, he's my best pal. I know him better than anyone. From what I've seen of you two these past couple o' weeks, you're perfect for each other."

She took a pointed step back into the house, preparing to slam the door shut in his face, "If that's true, I would have been enough."

"You are!" He rushed forward, ready to throw his hand between the door, "He's just an idiot, but he's an idiot who learns. You won't regret him. I personally guarantee it."

It really hadn't taken much after that for Steve to convince her to go see him. They'd seen each other twice since Saturday, and she had to admit she liked him a lot. Steve was every bit the man the media portrayed him as. So, she sighed and told him she'd get her coat. He'd walked her all the way to the street where Bucky was doing late-night training, swore the door would be open and left them to it.

To be honest, Steve had been bang on the money. She had been leaning more towards letting him off with a stern warning and on a strict probational basis.

Jerry had been thrilled that she'd been learning legal terminology from being his secretary. He also agreed that she might as well try with Bucky because he was over her behaving like she'd had a cat die in her ass. His words, not hers, but she would be borrowing them for future use.

Dot had rolled her eyes when asked for her opinion but merely told Darcy that her services would always be available – day or night.

Sweet Emily smiled and said it was a good idea. She'd also advised her that if Darcy was going to forgive and forget, she needed to forgive and forget. Let it go; don't keep throwing it in his face. Darcy reluctantly agreed with her assessment.

Connie hadn't wanted to talk about it, and in fact, she had started avoiding Darcy once the aborted conversation was over. Darcy only hoped time would make her more lenient towards the idea.

As for Bonnie, she'd shrugged and said, 'If you are going to get your heart broken, it may as well be by a heartthrob,' and Darcy couldn't find a suitable argument for that.

"So," Darcy began, "What'd you do to get unrestricted access to the center?"

Bucky grunted, "Thumped a lot of people. Owner liked that, gave me keys."

He said nothing else, and Darcy really wanted to sigh and ask him if a cat died in his ass. Meh, she'd do it another day. She wouldn't waste the shock factor when he was in a bad mood.

"It's a bit creepy here. I wouldn't be coming here alone at night," she shivered.

He made no move to respond or acknowledge her. He wasn't even going to throw her a bone.

Fuck it, she was over the attitude, "You going to speak to me like an adult?"

"That what we are?"

God, why?

Alright, so he was a bit pissy that she'd snubbed him at the diner and refused to talk to him the other day. To be fair, though, she wasn't ready to talk then, but she is now. Earnestly. She'd had time, given it thought, and knew what she wanted.

She huffed and, with great effort, struggled to climb up onto the ring where he was. Once she was up, she stayed by the side of the ring. He was facing side-on from her, but she could see his eyes lingering on her in curiosity.

"I've made a decision," she informed him.

"Ah, yeah?" He said in a blasé tone, "What's that, doll?"

Rolling her eyes, "Don't act like you're not eager to find out."

He shrugged, continuing his shadowboxing, "I'm never eager for bad news."

Arching her brow, Darcy leaned on the corner post, "So confident it's bad?"

Bucky said nothing and just beat the air into oblivion. She tried really hard not to roll her eyes but gave in to the impulse. He'd been a champ about this situation the whole week. Was he really going to ruin it now?

"I want to find out if you're worth it," she told him confidently, removing her coat because it was too warm inside.

He didn't pause in his punches, "I would o' thought you'd gone to your girlfriends for their opinions before makin' your own."

Well, she had. And Jerry, too. Did that make Jerry one of the girls? Probably. She'd have to knight him into the girl world whenever she could.

With just a touch of sass, Darcy assured him, "I can make my own poor decisions just fine, thank you."

He finally stopped punching and hopped on the spot, presumably to keep momentum.

Fuck, he's gorgeous. It was so unfair. Had someone oiled up his chest because it was slick and sweet and oh so tempting.

Plus, those Goddamn bloody pecs!

She couldn't do it anymore, "Can you stop bouncing? Your titts are distracting!"

Bucky abruptly came to a halt, but not before yelling in outrage, "I do not have titts!"

"You said that with a lot of confidence for someone who claims he doesn't have them. How would you know then?"

Bucky scoffed and spoke haughtily, "I know titts well enough that I know I don't have them."

"Look, I'll admit they're nothing compared to mine, but they're still a sight for sore eyes," she flirted.

Bucky didn't respond to her flirting but did seem momentarily jolted by the familiar teasing. Looks like he missed it as much as she did. He stood there, heaving heavy breaths, obviously trying to bring his heart rate back down. Darcy approached him, and she was only a little sure his calming breaths became laboured again due to her proximity. He did not stop her, so she stepped a micro-step too close. As she predicted, his breath hitched, and Darcy tried to dampen her grin.

"Bucky," she was startled to realise her voice was a bit breathless, "I'm not a very rational person."

His throat bobbed, and his eyes shimmered with poorly concealed amusement, obviously trying to smother a chuckle. She narrowed her eyes playfully to let him know she'd noticed the action.

"But that means I'm very emotional. It gets a bad rap, but I'm convinced it's a superpower. Honestly, I was planning to unleash absolute hell upon you, but it would appear I'm letting you off easy."

At her words, his blue eyes sharpened so viscerally that Darcy got a glimpse of the man who'd become one of the best snipers the U.S. military had ever seen. With barely any effort on her part, she'd managed to get Bucky to hang onto her every word. For a moment, her insides sang with merriment because that's how it's supposed to be. Bucky wasn't looking at her like she was blowing hot air out of her lungs, but rather like she was about to make a life-changing revelation.

"'Let off,'" he quoted hesitantly.

It took very little effort for Darcy to inject steel into her voice, "This is your first and final warning; you pull a stunt like that again, and I'm gone."

Before she'd finished speaking, he was nodding his head so urgently Darcy almost suspected it would pop off, "Certainly."

God, his Brooklyn accent was sexy when it seeped through. 'Soitently' should not have sounded so hot.

"Can I give you a birthday kiss now?" Darcy asked, slyly tapping her lips with a grin.

Bucky's mouth almost split open, "Only a fool'd say no, and Mama didn't raise no fool," he said as he swooped down and kissed her.

It was much tamer and gentler than she expected. His soft lips pressed against hers, almost nipping her, before he wet her lips with his tongue, asking for entry. Just shy of being overeager, Darcy gladly let him in. Warm, wet, and writhing, their tongues finally joined together to dance a jig that Darcy and Bucky had both been longing for. For a moment, Darcy was convinced you could lose your soul through a kiss. They took their time: a moment to experiment, a minute to learn responses, a heartbeat to finally be together. Hell, her heart was beating so fast she feared it would burst! A simmer burned to a boil in her gut, and she was ready to climb that man like a tree.

Darcy felt alight with happiness (maybe even lightheaded), desperately trying to contain the compulsion to giggle. He must have felt it, too, because he pulled away and gave in to his own urge. Together, foreheads bowed, they breathlessly laughed.

"Finally," Darcy huffed with a smile.

"'Finally,' she says," Bucky teased lightly before pulling away, "Geez, doll, you act like I never gave you a chance."

Darcy, however, was displeased with the sudden distance.

Uhhh, where did he think he was going?

With more force than she'd intended, Darcy threw her arms around his neck and, ignoring his yelp of surprise, brought their lips back together.

She let him have free range of their first kiss; this one, and so many more to come, would be hers. Prying his mouth open straightaway, Darcy explored his mouth with gusto. Bucky groaned in response but made no move to so much as hold her. Exasperated, Darcy promptly pressed her body against his, hip to hips, chest to breast, lips to lips.

For a moment, he seemed to break, moving his hands to her face and cradling her cheeks as their kiss heated. It was so tenderly done, but Darcy didn't want tender right now. Removing her arms from his neck, she allowed her hands to finally have free range of Bucky fucking Barnes. He was just as slippery as she had expected, but Darcy wasn't afraid of a little sweat and trailed her hands over his chest and stomach. Just as she suspected, his muscles twitched under the slight scraping of her fingers, pleased with her efforts. She trailed her fingers down him in a way she hoped felt like liquid fire.

A prominent poking was making itself known against her, and she slipped her fingers past his 'V' to the waistband of his pants…

He backed off and immediately planted himself a foot away from her. Determined, she stepped forward again and caught his hands in hers. Staring him dead in the eye, Darcy brought one of his hands to her breast and encouraged him to squeeze lightly. They both moaned in unison, even as he looked conflicted. His eyes were blown completely black, so dark she imagined she could mine obsidian in them. She pressed her lips back to his, but he didn't open his mouth to her, his hands firmly at his sides.

Bucky shook his head, trying to shake the lusty storm from his eyes, "No, I told myself I was gonna pace us. This ain't paced."

Darcy growled against his mouth, "Fuck your pacing and fuck me instead!"

Bucky still looked pained, "Doll, I---"

But Darcy wasn't willing to let him wiggle his way out of this again.

Dropping her voice to the tone she'd been assured was sexy and husky, "C'mon, Bucky. I'm your birthday present. Unwrap me, make me come undone."

The feral sound he made was between a growl and a groan, but it didn't matter because he descended upon her mouth like a ravaging wolf. Hands were urgently running along her sides, learning the shape of her as quickly and intimately as he possibly could. Darcy almost wished he'd grip her harder, leaving bruises as a lingering physical manifestation of his desire for her. His fingers were just as agile as she'd thought they'd be, and they took turns fondling her breasts and ass through her clothes. There wasn't an inch of space between them; they clung to each other so fiercely.

Darcy moaned in sheer relief. Thank fuck, finally!

With their intentions finally out in the open and the air cleared, their touches had a primal urgency. Darcy shamelessly rubbed herself against his erection, relishing his pleased sighs. Bucky made quick work of her clothes, leaving her in just her bra, panties, and pantyhose in record time. He left a trail of scorching kisses on every spot of flesh he could find. Her skin flushed red under his fervent attention.

Burning with need, Darcy reached between them for his pants, but Bucky caught her hands. She whined against his mouth, but he kissed her so thoroughly that he swallowed the sound. With practised ease, Bucky brought her onto her back on the floor of the ring.

She'd scarcely blinked, and he'd removed the last of her clothes, leaving her completely bare to him.

Bucky took several breaths while he gazed at her appreciatively, his gaze hot and heavy above her. He stared at her in wonder, and it was doing massive things to her ego. The tent in his pants that he lazily stroked was also making her rub her thighs together for much-needed friction. With the way his breath hitched and his eyes lingered, he'd definitely noticed the action. She couldn't help but give a sharp inhale at the darkness in his eyes as they visually ravished her.

But looking was boring. Touching, on the other hand...

Darcy gave a breathless chuckle, "See something you like, handsome?"

His eyes snapped up to hers, and Darcy gulped at their intent look.

Without answering, Bucky launched forward and kissed her ardently, his fingers playing with her nipples just so. He tweaked them until they hardened and ached for more of him.

Darcy's tongue chased his as he moved one hand down her side and teasingly towards the apex of her thighs. She inhaled sharply, awaiting impact when his mouth broke from hers, and he sucked on her neck. Just as she'd comprehended the change, his fingers traced her slit up and down, sending delightful shivers down her spine.

She gasped out loud, "Oh fuck!"

In her neck, Bucky's chest rumbled as he spoke, "That foul mouth of yours – one day it's gonna get you in trouble."

"That day better be today," Darcy burst out impatiently, wriggling against his fingers, "I'll be downright filthy for you."

Her words only seemed to spur him on as she felt a thrilling shiver run through him. Good. But he didn't push his fingers inside her, just leisurely gathering her slick over his fingers. Bucky seemed content to torture her slowly. He pinned her hips and limited her ability to buck against his hands.

Well, that wasn't going to fly. Two can play that game.

She curved her neck away from him, depriving him of his unrelenting love bite. As he turned towards her in question, she plundered his mouth for all it was worth, stealing a heady moan from him. At the same time, she finally managed to dip her hand into his pants and grab a hold of him. Immediately, she gathered his precum and slathered it up and down his length. For a moment, Bucky went rigid, with his eyes wide in wonder, before groaning into her mouth and rocking his hips into her hand. She was pleased to feel that he wasn't small in the cock department – but with the big dick energy he oozed, she hadn't ever doubted it. She stroked him at a leisurely pace, denying his eager thrusts just as he did her. He huffed lightly in her ear, obviously aware of her petty retaliation.

Pleased with herself, Darcy twitched when his fingers shallowly dipped inside her, a trickle of her own slick dripping past her ass. Fuck, she was soaked. Her lover noticed this, too, because he made a pleased humming noise at the back of his throat. She inhaled with anticipation, and Bucky didn't disappoint. He slipped his first finger to the third knuckle and worked her quickly before adding a second, curling his fingers just right. She clenched so tightly around his fingers that even she mewled with surprise. He then mouthed his way to her breast and started lightly sucking to his heart's content, and holy fuck is he good with his tongue. Hot, twirling, eager. Oh, God! Just as she was about to sing his praises aloud, his thumb found her clit and started making rhythmic circles. She bucked urgently against his hand, but his other pinned her hips still, refusing her desperate need for increased friction. His assault on her pussy. Did. Not. Stop. She quivered under his ministrations. Before long, his mouth left her breasts and nipped at her ear.

"So wet for me, doll," his deep voice reverberated in her ear, "Niagara Falls just for me, huh? Such a good girl for me."

His fingers. His fingers! She released a broken sob that might have been a plea, "Fuck!"

Bucky's chuckle was gravelly, "So impatient. Gimme a minute."

Darcy would've growled something snarky back, but the bastard chose that moment to pick up the pace of his fingers and worked her harder, and she could only incoherently grunt. He'd somehow managed to knock the breath out of her with just his fingers.

His thumb! His thumb!

Fuck, they should compose sonnets about his fucking hands!

She needed more.

"Buuuuucky! Please!"

His fingers barely stuttered from their mission even as his body vibrated with pleasure from hearing her beg, "I want it to be good for you---"

"It is! It is! Please, Bucky. I want your cock inside me. Don't make me wait any longer!" Darcy panted desperately.

If he didn't fuck her soon, she might just fucking kill him.

He must have cussed, but Darcy couldn't hear it. He'd dropped his sweatpants, put on a condom (where the fuck had he hidden that?), and angled himself towards her. He wasn't the biggest she'd ever had, but he was nothing to scoff at. Girthy with a healthy length. Fuck yeah. He was so hard, and it was all for her. Right now, he belonged to her. They both moaned as he rubbed the covered head of his cock against her slick, coating himself. Fuck, that was almost too erotic for her to handle in and of itself. He's right there, after so long, so close, so ready.

"Ready?" He grunted in her ear.

She was beyond ready for him to be buried to the hilt inside her.

Unable to speak, she nodded frantically.

He quickly worked his cock inside of her, and they both gasped in perfect harmony.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their breaths in perfect unison, so enthralled with the feeling of being joined. He'd slipped in so easily like it was home. It certainly felt like that to her.

Darcy broke first, tilting her hips encouragingly. His attention zeroed in on her as though being broken from a daze. He looked half-crazed, and for a moment, she wondered how far gone she looked, too.

He gave her a wet kiss, and he rocked their hips together. Darcy met his pace, and before long, they were a shattering mess together.

Darcys', and sweethearts', and dolls', fell from his lips as freely as leaves fall from autumn trees. Darcy's heart felt full. Shit, Bucky Barnes was a sneaky fucker, and he sneaked past all her defences as easily as she ate pop tarts.

While she gasped and writhed underneath him, he found that precious junction in her throat and sucked. Darcy urgently propelled her hips forward, encouraging him to go faster. Harder. Deeper. More. In answer to her silent prayers, he brought his fingers to her clit and started stroking with a barely-there touch. She was pulsing tightly around him, causing Bucky to make a choked sound, but it felt so electric.

In. Out. In. Out. Harder. Harder. Harder. Sharper. Sharper. Sharper. His hips tilted a little, adjusting his angle...

Fuck, yes! There! That spot, "Bucky," she whined pitifully.

Darcy cried out, and her back arched in response. It was now both too much and not enough.

He didn't let up, snapping his hips to meet hers with relentless rhythm, their heaving chests knocking in tandem. Her legs trembled around him even as her heels urged him even deeper inside her.

Bucky was gasping in ragged breaths, as equally affected by this experience as she was, "Sweetheart."

She threaded her fingers through his hair and roughly tugged him from her neck, relishing his throaty groan, and brought his mouth to hers in a frantic clash. She both pulled at his hair and massaged his scalp, a perfect mixture of pleasure and pain. She knew his hair would be perfect for running her fingers through. Just knew it. She yanked a little harder, and Bucky sucked on her tongue in playful retribution. Every whimper he drew from her, he eagerly took for his own and gave her back his every growl with equal enthusiasm. Their mouths were red from kissing and glistening from shared spit, but neither wanted to stop. Needed to keep going. Not stop. Not now. Not ever.

Darcy wanted to sob underneath his fingertips. Her breaths were erratic, her thighs quivering, nerves trembling, her back arched---!

Bucky broke their kiss to murmur in her ear, "So close, doll. I can feel – urgh – I can feel you- You're - Shit!- so greedy---"

Darcy nodded frantically at him, barely able to even voice her pleasure, let alone coherent sentences.

"You're so good to me, Darcy. So-s-s-s-soooo good. Fuck, sweetheart. So pretty and perfect for me. Please, doll, please. You told me to make you come undone. Do it. Come now."

Maybe it was the praises he whispered in her ear, the growled command at the end, or that purposeful soul-shaking thrust, but Darcy came with a pulsing shriek.

What. The. Fuck.

Holy shit.

Bucky kept fucking her through all of it, prolonging her orgasm for as long as possible. She wept her pleasure, twitching and gasping, as his groans and grunts became music to her ears.

After being sufficiently calmed from her high, it was time to return the favour.

She swept her fingers all over his chest and his neck, squeezing her kegel muscles and encouraging him. His hips were starting to stutter, and Darcy leaned up into his ear and dropped her voice to a raspy husk.

"Come for me, Bucky," she whispered, taking his earlobe and running it gently between her teeth.

He came with a grunt, pumping into her a couple more times before going completely still.

"Jesus Christ," he uttered before withdrawing from her and collapsing beside her.

She'll take that as a resounding compliment.

For a moment, they laid on their backs side by side, panting, only their hands touching, both being too overheated for immediate cuddling. A sad side effect of a totally worth it situation.

Bucky hissed through his teeth as he removed the soiled condom, then he tied it up and tossed it towards his pants. They could properly dispose of it later.

Then he gave into the temptation to cuddle.

He brought Darcy closer and slotted her securely into his side, giving the tip of her nose a quick peck. Resting her head in the crook of his shoulder, she sighed contently. Darcy felt foggy, and loitering amongst their combined musk in the air was giving her a strange post-adrenaline high. It was intoxicating. She hadn't had a proper fucking like that in years.

"Y'know," he spoke with a gruff rasp while gently playing with her hair, "I think that's the best performance I've ever done in this ring. I'd say it was too bad no one was around to see it, but I think I like givin' the exclusive VIP experience."

She gave a broken chuckle. A VIP experience indeed.

"For someone—" Darcy puffed, unable to finish her sentence in one go, "—For someone who said opening nights were disappointing, you sure as shit didn't give it credence."

He chuckled breathlessly, "I didn't say disappointin'. I said, overrated. Wait 'til I learn to play you like a violin," he nipped at her throat playfully making her squirm, "Ooooh, the music you'll make."

Darcy involuntarily shuddered at the thought, unfathomably keen to find out.

She drew back a little to look at him, only to be met by him already smiling down at her dopily as if she were Christmas come early. It was such a cutesy expression that she struggled to combine it with the man who'd just taken her to pound town in a boxing ring (and not the pounding that's intended for the ring). His expression was so soft and vulnerable. Sweet and sincere. Unable to resist the urge (not that she'd resisted a single urge that night), she leaned forward and gave him a deep and lazy kiss. When they drew away, they both had matching grins.

"Worth it?" He asked proudly.

"Have a good birthday?" She shot back just as pleased.

He made a pleased sound and nosed his face into her shoulder, sighing happily, "The best."

They huddled together for a while, a lump of entangled limbs, maybe even lightly napped. Her ear rested upon his chest, fingers playing with the small hairs they'd found there, being lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers were running along her arm or playing with her hair. Smacking kisses to the first bit of skin they could reach. To her blissed-out mind, everything (to Darcy at least), had been worth it for that moment.

Bucky suddenly went stiff, "This ain't a one-time thing, is it?"

Startled, Darcy looked up at him, "What?"

Her panic only made him look relieved, "Thank God. I dunno, doll. For a split second, I thought that this was your revenge."

She stared at him doubtfully, "You thought me having sex with you was revenge?"

Shaking his head, he assured her, "No, I didn't think that. I just had a nasty thought I wanted to put to bed, is all. I'm not worried."

"How would sex, incredible sex, be revenge?" Darcy asked, resting her head back on his chest and lightly nuzzling him.

For a few beats, he didn't answer, "Uh, I don't know. Don't matter. Just, ah, a crazy thought," he kissed her again, "Don't worry about it."

Humming her agreement, Darcy ran little patterns across his chest.

"How many rounds does one have in the ring?" She queried cheekily.

He groaned and lightly smacked the back of his head on the ground, "Fuck, you're gonna kill me, ain't ya?"

"Giving up already? I'm disappointed!" Darcy teased.

The look he shot her alone made her toes curl, "Doll, you're gonna be wrecked by the time I'm finished with you. I'm not stoppin' until you tap out."

Darcy decided she was calling in sick to work tomorrow.

He rolled over, hovering above her, languidly kissed her, and proved himself the true champion of the ring.

Chapter Text

March 15th, 1942

Bucky and Steve's House, New York City

Under the faucet, he thoroughly washed the vegetables; they would be spotless. He wouldn't settle for anything less than incredible. He desperately tried to keep his mind on track.

Prepare dinner. Don't let your mind wander.

He was admittedly struggling. How was he meant to focus when his thoughts were filled with Darcy?

Honestly, Bucky sometimes wondered if he'd died and gone to heaven. The past few days had truly felt like he'd reached the biggest milestone of his life. Forget his job and future career, his fitness and championships, and any other accomplishment he'd ever achieved because it paled in comparison. Sure, his relationship with Darcy had only recently progressed, but he'd been right; she's incredible.

Now that they'd finally resolved his admittedly big cockup, they were straight back to spending as much time as humanly possible together. Even more so. Some nights just weren't viable, but they made it work. With Darcy being such a serene partner, it made things easier; she didn't mind walking Lottie home from class with him; she understood that he had coaching some days; and she respected that he was up at 5 o'clock every morning and was, therefore, an early bedder.

They hadn't had time to be alone together, which he lamented, but he wasn't with her for sex. Their three rounds in the ring had been phenomenal, and he was eager for more. He had to remind himself to start chopping the vegetables and not stand at the counter with a dazed expression. It was a habit he was developing whenever he thought of her.

Darcy was proving to be exactly what his gut said: his potential future wife. Normally, these thoughts would alarm him, but not anymore. Who cares that they hadn't known each other all that long? He didn't, and he would make sure she had no reason to doubt his commitment to her again.

He'd proudly call her his wife one day and wanted her to know that.

And although he tried not to, he couldn't help but wonder about her history as a wife. She'd already been a wife – would she want to be the wife of another man? She seemed the sort to have unwavering loyalty – would it extend beyond death?

He wondered about her late husband. How long had he been gone? Did she still love him? He wasn't sure what he wanted to hear, but no matter what it was, he wanted the truth. Was he a good man? It would be Bucky's first time basically competing against a dead man, and it left a foul taste in his mouth. Despite his discomfort with the thought, he had to remember that, biblically speaking, dead men didn't have unfaithful wives. Dallying with married women had always been a line he hadn't crossed, and he had to remind himself that Darcy wasn't married anymore.

He was determined, however, not to make any more mistakes, and bringing up her dead husband was likely not going to gain him any favours.

Plus, from what she'd suggested, she'd had less than adequate suitors in the past. Had her husband made that list?

He needed to stop thinking about it. Resolved, he told himself not to ask after him but to wait for her to offer any information. If she would. Hopefully, she would. Sooner rather than later.

Bucky desperately wanted to impress her; it was her first time coming to his house, and he wanted to show her that she was worth making an effort for. He'd set the table, poured and placed the lemonade, and the placemats were already arranged neatly on the table. He'd also... rearranged the table settings every two minutes since, but that's neither here nor there.

He only had a few things left to do before he could toss the vegetables into the oven to roast with the meat. Then, it'll just be a waiting game until it's ready.

A solid knock sounded at the door. He grinned; even her knock was demanding.

She was early. He was torn between being thrilled because every extra minute with her was a gift and flustered because he was still preparing their meal. This night needed to go off without a hitch.

"'s open!" Bucky called out.

Accepting the invitation, Darcy gingerly poked her head through the door and smiled as she saw him. She looked beautiful, as she so often did. Her hair was unfashionably loose, but it was pure Darcy, so he loved it. She shrugged off her coat; his job, but she didn't like him fussing over little things like that. His sweetheart wasn't dressed up, but she'd still worn a pleasant floral-patterned dress despite the weather, and Bucky felt a happy flutter in his gut. She was making an effort for him too.

With slight apprehension, he watched her from the corner of his eye as she studied his and Steve's humble abode. He knew it wasn't much, but hopefully, she wouldn't dismiss him as a no-hoper. He was a hard worker. No woman of his would live in these bachelor conditions, and once they were married, he'd have to ensure she knew that. Nothing less than perfection for his darling Darcy.

Done with her assessment, she approached him but paused. She looked dazed as she visibly sniffed. Bucky was thrilled that the smell of his food literally stopped her in her tracks.

Darcy's eyebrows climbed to her hair, "You can cook?"

He didn't pause in his chopping, but Bucky gave her a peevish look over his shoulder, "I'm the oldest child of a hard-working woman, 'course I know how to cook. 'sides, I said I was gonna make you dinner."

"Not going to lie," Darcy began, "Was expecting mayhem."

"Har dee har," he was a brilliant cook, and Bucky would make her eat her words and the food, "Wanna come give me a kiss 'hello?'"

"How could a girl deny such a charming request?"

She slowly approached and looked fascinated with how quickly he chopped the vegetables. Feeling a spark of inspiration, Bucky put on a little show of how brilliant his skills were. He demonstrated the few knife-twirling tricks he knew. A kitchen knife was the wrong sort of knife, but who cares? She looked sufficiently impressed. Enjoying her stunned appraisal, Bucky brought his hand up and delicately balanced the blade's sharp point on his middle finger for a few seconds before flipping it and deftly catching it.

"Would drive my Ma mad every time she caught me doing that!" He told her cheekily.

However, she didn't respond, and when Bucky looked over his shoulder at her, he saw more than mere approval in her eyes. Apparently, his show had gotten her a bit hot and bothered. She'd liked his show very much. For a moment, he considered throwing his plans out the window. He imagined sweeping his placement efforts off the table and fucking her on it, but they could do that later. He'd gotten in trouble for thinking with his dick. He really needed to learn how to keep his shit together

She made it over to him and wrapped her arms around his torso from behind. A deceptively innocent gesture, he knew. She delicately ran her fingers over his chest and lightly kissed his throat. Twice. Thrice. Was that tongue? He shivered under her ministrations. Now, that was not the innocent 'hello' kiss he'd asked for.

He gulped, "Doll, I'm tryin' to make a nice dinner for ya 'ere."

A husky laugh caressed his ear, "But I'm a much tastier meal."

Bucky couldn't contain the physical jerk her words caused him, prompting his cock to twitch with interest. He'd never met a woman so vocal about what she wanted, and it always got his motor running. This was the first time he'd been alone with her since the ring, and neither of them had held back their naughty thoughts about one another in the interim. The suggestive build-up was peaking, and it was tough to ignore. He hadn't had the privilege of eating her out yet, but he absently licked his lips at the thought. He had no doubt she'd taste sweeter than any of those hard candies he dearly loved to suck on. Ooooh, how he'd devour-

Dinner! Not Darcy! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This woman was going to kill him, and he was going to wear a dim-witted smile the whole time.

Spinning around, Bucky cupped her face and grinned at her, "Tastier, sure, but not exactly sustainin'."

Darcy pouted. Pouted.

Goddamn, if that wasn't the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He would nibble on it until he turned that frown upside down.

Making amends, he brought his face down to hers and placed a hearty smack on her lips with his. He loved her lips. Plump, painted, pouty, and too persuasive for their own good. Shit. He was still kissing her, but she was kissing him back too. Surely, it was his job as the dutiful boyfriend to kiss her as often as she liked. Especially when it's such a desirable job.

No! Abort mission. Kissing Darcy is lovely, but it won't end there, and dinner needs to be seen to.

With great reluctance, he pulled away. She gave a precious whine at his departure, but Bucky would not submit to her wily ways. Yet. He was only human, after all.

"Take a seat at the table. It's gonna be a bit 'til dinner; I'll bring up some nosh," he instructed her.

"Can I help at all?" She queried.

"By following instructions," he informed her sassily.

She rolled her eyes affectionately, an increasingly common occurrence, before plumping herself down at his small table. Geez, it really is a tiny table. He'd build her a big cherry wood one when they had their own house one day.

Rushing through the preparations for the vegetables, he asked her about her day. Darcy had slept in until well after church finished (he'd begrudgingly gone at the behest of his Mama), where she'd spent the rest of the afternoon with Emily, whom Darcy was increasingly confident was preparing for some sort of life change. She couldn't guess what though, but she was sure it would be extraordinary. Connie had meant to join them but had bailed, feigning illness, a reoccurring event since Bucky and Darcy had made amends. Bucky felt guilty over the strain in their friendship, but he still hadn't understood Connie's reaction. It had been… extreme.

Finishing with the vegetables and throwing them into the oven with the meagre lamb shoulder he could afford, he brought some corn chips to the table.

"Want corn chips?"

She tapped her chin with a thoughtful expression, "A bisl."

Bucky blinked at her, halfway in his own seat across from her, "A wha'?"

For a moment, she looked confused before a light blush crossed her cheeks, "Oh! I mean a little bit."

Ah, he hadn't known that. Pouring some corn chips into a bowl for her, he wondered about it. bisl. Was that a Utah thing?

Curious, Bucky prodded, "I've never heard that before. What's bisl?"

Was it another language? He hadn't known she could speak two.

Watching as she shifted uneasily in her seat, Bucky realised he'd never seen her so reserved, "Sweetheart, I don't need t' know if you don't wanna tell me."

She released a breath, "It's Yiddish."

Yiddish?

This did not clear anything up, "It's wha'?"

Her head cocked to the side as he passed her the bowl of corn chips, "Yiddish. You know, Jewish."

Oooooooh, she's Jewish. He hadn't known that. Did she really think that would bother him?

"I thought Jews spoke Hebrew?" He asked delicately, hoping not to offend.

Luckily, she wasn't offended but rather pleased by his reaction, "No, they're both Jewish. Just different."

"Huh," he uttered whilst taking a drink, "The more you know. So, I know what bisl is now. What else can you tell me?"

Thoughtfully, she answered, "Mom had some colourful ones, that's for sure. Her favourite was 'he should shit blood and pus'-"

Bucky spat out his drink, "Jesus Christ – your Mama would say that?"

Darcy laughed, "Yeah, that wasn't even the worst of them. She had a full arsenal ready to go at a moment's notice."

"Sounds like you," he flattered, tossing some of his own chips in his mouth.

"I guess," the flattery fell flat as she quietly munched on her chips before continuing more cheerfully, "It was my Bubbe that knew Yiddish the best."

"Bubbe," he tasted the word in his mouth, "Nana?"

She smiled brightly, "Essentially, yeah. She was funny. Most of the time, she would bemoan how I followed the trends of the goyim."

"Goyim?"

"Non-Jew. Soooo you."

For a moment, Bucky was chockful of foreboding, "Is that going to be a problem for you? Me being goyim?"

She winced through a smile, "You are a goy. Goyim is the collective term. But no, I don't have any family left to be upset about your being a non-Jew. But even if they'd been around, I don't think they would have minded."

Bucky wanted to take his foot out of his mouth just so he could kick himself. He knew her husband was gone, but her entire family too?

Jesus Christ, he always found a way to be insensitive around her, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean---"

She waved him off, "I know you didn't. I like talking about them. Bubbe would have liked you, I think."

Involuntarily, his chest puffed out, "Oh? Why's that, doll?"

She looked nostalgic, "She would have made a big song and dance about you being a goy, but she would have believed you to be a mentsh."

He nervously ran a hand through his hair, "Uhhh, is that a good thing?"

Darcy smiled softly, "Yeah. It means a good man."

He couldn't have stopped his smile even if he wanted to, "Your Bubbe obviously had incredible taste. Like you."

His girlfriend affectionately rolled her eyes, "Yeah, sure. She was definitely a character, that's for sure. She always talked shit about the goyim and their strange ways."

Bucky smiled indulgently, wanting to hear more, "Oh yeah? Like what?"

Looking thoughtful, Darcy broke into a laugh, "I would dip my fries into my ice cream, and Bubbe would get mad, saying it's goyish," Darcy spoke wistfully.

It had obviously sparked fond memories for his sweetheart.

But Bucky, on the other hand, was horrified, "You dipped your French fry into your ice cream?! Nope, nope, nope, not us. Speakin' on behalf of all goys everywhere, we resent the accusation."

His girlfriend shrugged, unphased by his baby rant, "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"When pigs fly, yeah, I'll give it a go," Bucky shuddered at the thought.

Pigs, please don't ever fly.

"What about you?" She asked him, "What's your family's background?"

Hopefully, she would be just as non-judgemental as he suspected she would be, "Da's parents were Scottish, but he was born 'ere. Mama's Romanian."

Her eyes sparkled with interest, "Romanian?"

He should have known his Eastern European background wouldn't have phased her. She was just that much of an impeccable woman. His girl was the least judgemental person he knew.

"Yeah, she came to New York City on a ship when she was 16. Da was workin' on the docks, caught sight o' her and claimed it was love at first sight. So, he chased after 'er, somehow asked a woman who couldn't speak a word of English out on a date, and that was it. They got married, and I came 'round a while later," he recounted fondly.

Laughing, Darcy battered her eyelashes at him, "Obviously, charm doesn't run in your family - it sprints."

He wiggled his eyebrows at her, "What can I say? Us Barnes men are known for chasin' our women."

He smiled at Darcy, his gut doing somersaults with anticipation. Would he get to tell their kids a similar story someday? He hoped so.

If her expression was anything to go by, she was decidedly not thinking along the same lines as him.

Darcy worried her lip, "You talk about your mom a lot, but you've only ever mentioned your dad once before. Is he not around?"

Bucky sighed heavily. He wasn't ready to talk about his Da to her.

"He's a casualty of the war."

"Is that what a doughboy is?" She suddenly asked, "Not a pizzaman?"

Baffled, he begged for clarification, "What?"

"Never mind," she dismissed before her eyes crinkled, "But you were born in 1917. How do you have three younger sisters if he died in the war?"

"Darcy…" he started, unsure of how to buffer his words, "Da is a heavy topic. Please don't ask me 'bout why he's not around. It's... not somethin' I wanna discuss. Especially before we eat."

Looking contrite, she nodded, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

He reached over and gently squeezed her hand, "You didn't, sweetheart. One day, I'll tell ya. Promise."

However, Darcy being Darcy meant she wasn't willing to drop it completely, so she asked, "What can you tell me about him?"

What a loaded question. What could he tell her? Nothing later on, but maybe something earlier.

He started his story with a weak grin, "Ma used to say dad was 'up to catch the sun' I took her at her word. I was just a stupid kid. Y'see, I thought he would literally chase the sun, then get up on a really tall ladder or somethin' and hang it up in my sky every day," Darcy sniggered, and he chuckled along with her, "Da was the greatest man I knew, it didn't seem so far-fetched as a kid. One day, before Lottie was born, he was too sick to get outta bed. I remember grabbing a torch and getting ready to go do it for 'im because someone had to do it. I was halfway outta Brooklyn heading east when, surprise surprise, it rose without me. I ran all the way home, thinkin' Da was all better. He was still in bed, of course. I asked him how he'd done it, and he asked, 'done what?' He fell outta bed he laughed that hard. Hardest I ever heard 'im laugh."

Together, he and Darcy laughed at his younger self, even if his laughter wasn't as sincere. It was his favourite story about his Da. It made him strangely happy that she liked it too.

"Sounds like you've always been big on responsibility," Darcy unjustly praised him.

He shrugged modestly, "Doin' one's duty ain't worth bein' praised, doll."

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she shook her head, "As someone who has rarely seen people shoulder their obligations willingly, it's refreshing watching you do things without complaint. Trust me, it's worthy of praise. Hell, you'd probably take the trash out without needing to be asked."

Now Bucky was confused, "But that's the man's job – why would he need to be told?"

She looked at him yearningly, "Bucky Barnes, you are every woman's fantasy."

Wanting to change the conversation, Bucky grasped her hand again from across the table and placed a big kiss on it whilst he flirted, "Maybe every woman's fantasy, but I'm the reality for only one woman, and that's you, doll."

He hadn't thought a woman could swoon in her chair, but it looked as if Darcy had managed it, "God, Bucky, give a girl warning."

Ready to give a saucy rebuttal, he was interrupted by the chime of the kitchen timer. Already?

"Oh! That'll be for me."

Time flies when he's with Darcy. He'll be old and broken but just as lecherous in no time.

If he survives the draft.

No! No thinking about that around Darcy. She deserves a man who doesn't burden her with such things.

Standing up, he went to the kitchen and started the final touches of dinner.

Calling out to him, she asked, "Does your mom ever say anything in Romanian that rivals mine?"

He snorted, "If she has, she's never translated it. Hmm, I'd say her favourite sayin' is 'taking your heart in your teeth'. She said that a lot when we were growin' up."

"What's that mean? I'm assuming you aren't roasting a heart in there," her tone was exaggeratingly obnoxious.

Laughing, he answered, "No, nothing so literal. It's more of a way of saying someone's done somethin' brave."

"That's beautiful," she told him, "I like that a lot. So, did your mom ever teach you any Romanian?"

Absently, he nodded, "Some. I'm by no means fluent. Naturally, I learnt 'no', 'stop that', 'come here', and 'listen' first though."

"Naturally," she agreed playfully, "But she speaks Romanian to you?"

Shaking his head, he tried to pay attention to what he was doing while he answered her, "English mostly. I'm usually in trouble if she's speakin' proper Romanian. She didn't want us to have accents or otherwise stand out as outcasts. You'd never know she wasn't a New Yorker, though, if she didn't want ya to. Well, mostly. There're a couple of words she's never mastered. You'll hafta help me prank her-" he paused, realising he had the perfect opening, "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."

Perking up, she looked at him warily, "You've said that with a tone. Why was that said with a tone?"

Here goes nothing.

"I wanted to talk to you about introducin' ya to the rest of my family," he hesitantly explained.

To his utmost relief, she looked pleased, "That's all? I thought you were going to drop a bombshell on me or something!"

"No, no bombshell. It's just that I've, uh, I've never brought a woman home before," he winced, hoping she wouldn't misread what he was saying, "Never found a woman I wanted to bring home. Well, until you, that is."

"Oh," she said.

He could see her mind running a mile a minute. Was she not pleased? Was it not a big enough step for her? Was it too big of a step? Too soon? Christ, he hopes he hasn't overstepped somewhere. Could he take it back? Swallow the words back down before they caused more harm? Vomit up more in the hopes it'll soothe whatever harm he's caused?

"Okay," she settled on saying, much to his absolute relief, "When?"

"Thursday," he requested as he brought their dinner over to the table, "Every Thursday, Mama has us over for dinner. I was hoping you would join this week."

She nodded, "I'd love to."

He quickly placed the food on the table and bent over to kiss her on the cheek, "Thank you. Ma will be so excited."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him in place before he could move away, "You don't have to thank me for that, but if you really want to, you can give me a better kiss than that poor attempt."

Never one to deny her, "As my lady commands," before kissing her.

It was far from chaste, but that was exactly how his Darcy liked it. But they had dinner waiting, and it was steadily growing cold, so he buried his face in her neck and gave a small growl in warning.

"You're determined not to let us eat, ain't ya?"

He nuzzled into her neck, one of his favourite new places to explore, before blowing loud raspberries against her skin.

Her giggles echoed in his ear, and Bucky wondered if there'd ever been a prettier sound in the world. He wanted to hear them all day, every day, and he was determined to accomplish his new mission.

Drawing back, he planted a messy kiss on her mouth.

"Now!" He exclaimed as he sat down, "Eat! Shower me with the adoration my culinary skills deserve."

Chapter Text

March 18th, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

Shifting in her seat, Darcy couldn't help the flare of irritation she felt that Connie had yet again claimed illness. At dinner. For God's sake, she needs to eat! How spiteful can one woman be?

When Bonnie had nervously announced that Connie wasn't coming down for dinner, all the young women had exchanged meaningful glances. Connie's continued avoidance of Darcy was going to be noticed by Mrs. Doyle sooner or later, and no one wanted to answer any probing questions.

Darcy grew increasingly frustrated for the entire dinner, not because the food was becoming blander and blander as the days went by. Darcy could only imagine how bad it would get once the government officially rationed food. Tires had already made the list, and rumours were that gas would be next. She briefly lamented that she and Bucky would likely be unable to have another date in the car... She's always liked car-driving dates. It would only get worse, too. Darcy didn't know the exact dates, but she knew it wouldn't be long before sugar was rationed. Then it would be meat and eventually coffee. Goddamn it! It wouldn't last much longer, and Connie was missing out by being petty!

After scarfing down the last of her food, Darcy abruptly stood from the table, "I'm going to go check on Connie."

Bonnie's eyes widened as she rose from the table, "Ah, it's alright. I'll---"

"Nonsense," Mrs. Doyle scoffed, motioning Bonnie to return to her seat, "Yer haven't finished your dinner. Darcy is perfectly capable of checking up on Constance. Off you go, dear."

Bonnie sat back down, looking a bit queasy.

Ignoring the other girls' prying gazes and unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Darcy headed to Connie's room.

Darcy made it up the stairs in record time, and Connie had undoubtedly heard her elephant footsteps as she approached. Knocking on the door, Darcy waited for a response. She shifted her weight from side to side and crossed and uncrossed her arms.

She knocked again. Waited. Picked some fluff off her sleeve.

She knocked again and huffed, "Connie, if you don't respond, I'm coming in."

A croaking sound came from inside, and for a moment, Darcy wondered if Connie really was sick. The thought made her feel a bit guilty. Maybe Connie was just unwell? Opening the door, Darcy was met with a room shrouded in darkness. It was nothing compared to the foul gloom that polluted the air - something grim. Darcy could almost breathe the repellent air. Curtains were drawn, lights out, and a lump on the small single bed buried under the covers.

Worried, Darcy rushed forward and sat beside her on the bed. Connie didn't emerge from the covers, but her shuddering breaths were becoming steadily harsher. Before long, small sobs broke through, and Darcy's heart broke. The poor dear.

Making shushing sounds, Darcy gently pulled back the covers. A bird's nest of hair met her first, a sight Darcy had never seen on Connie before the younger woman's face was completely revealed. Connie's normally bright brown eyes were bloodshot and weepy. She looked paler than she'd ever seen, and when she touched her forehead, Darcy was startled to feel warmth. Her nightgown was in disarray, but more worryingly, a little damp. Sweat or tears? Something else entirely?

"Connie, are you okay?" Darcy begged with increasing urgency.

Connie didn't answer but cried harder before lunging herself forward and burying her head in Darcy's shoulder. Darcy properly repositioned them in the bed, knowing they would be there for a while. Darcy was relieved that Connie wasn't as warm as she initially expected. It was probably because she'd been wrapped under the thick covers for so long.

"Is it a fever?" Darcy asked.

Connie's head shook through her wheezing sobs.

Darcy decided words weren't helping and rocked the younger woman and hummed soft songs from the 21st century. Disney music always made Darcy feel better; maybe they would do the same for Connie, too.

Before long, Connie started to settle again. Knowing they would be there a while, Darcy properly repositioned them in the bed. It was a tight squeeze, but side by side they sat, Connie curled up against Darcy. She felt so small and helpless in Darcy's arms. Nothing like the independent woman she's used to.

"I had an abortion," Connie's voice was softer than air.

For a moment, Darcy didn't understand. Abortion? How? Didn't you have to be pregnant first? But then she remembered that some people weren't as stringent on birth control as she was. But for Connie to need an abortion...

Connie had been pregnant.

"Oh honey," Darcy soothed, "What happened?"

"I went to the home clinic today," Connie began, eyes still teary, "Bonnie came with me. I didn't… I didn't wanna be alone. They brought me in, and he put me on my back… I spread my legs. I held Bonnie's hand the whole time. I thought it'd be horrible. It wasn't. Well, I mean, it wasn't right. It didn't feel right. Not in my body or my heart or my soul, but I did it anyway."

Connie's voice broke off with a violent bodily shiver that travelled through Darcy also.

No, Connie wasn't allowed to feel horrible about this. These things happened. Old-time values or not, Darcy wasn't tolerating self-hate for what must have been self-preservation.

Darcy grasped Connie's face to ensure that she listened to her, "I promise you, Connie, this does not make you a horrible person. I would have done the same thing."

She didn't look very reassured, "This isn't just havin' sex 'fore marriage, Darcy. I-I-I-I killed my baby."

Darcy was shaking her head before she'd finished speaking, "It wasn't a baby. Don't torture yourself by calling it one."

"No," Connie agreed, "But it would have been mine."

Honestly, Darcy had no words to make her feel better. This wasn't a situation where you could heal the wound with a pat on the shoulder and kind words. Only time would heal this wound. It wasn't the first time Darcy had tried to comfort a woman post-abortion, but it was the first time the woman was struggling with '40s values. Normally, she'd bring the takeaway of their choice, and they'd binge Netflix while gorging on Ben & Jerry's... That wasn't exactly an option. God, what was she supposed to do? Merely holding her felt inadequate. Did the father know?

Darcy tried not to, but she wondered about the father. Was it Bucky? But it wasn't any of Darcy's business, and she wouldn't presume to ask. Did he even know? She somehow doubted it. If he'd gotten a woman pregnant, Darcy didn't think he'd be able to dismiss it quietly. God, what a mess. It was none of her business, but she desperately wanted to know.

"It's not Bucky's," Connie whispered, guessing Darcy's silent question, "It's my boss's."

Her relief at hearing it wasn't Bucky's was short-lived as Darcy's jaw dropped, "Wait, you mean the older one that's a little too sweet on you?"

Darcy had never formally met him, but he was usually around when Connie could sit and eat lunch with Darcy at the Tavern. He lingered almost creepily and was always aware the moment her plate was empty. Connie was always sweet to him, but Darcy never thought for a moment that she'd entertain him beyond flirting. Clearly, she'd been wrong.

Nodding miserably, Connie hiccupped, "I was such a fool! One of the girls got pregnant, ya see, so that she couldn't work no more. I started pickin' up her late shifts because I was the only one who could do nights. So, I was seein' him every day. He was being so sweet to me, Darcy. I've never had a man talk to me like that before. He talked about our future like it was a given that we'd end up together. I really thought he was gonna ask me to marry him. I… I let him finish in me. I was so sure."

Darcy rubbed her arms as comfortingly as possible. She had a feeling she knew where this was going, and she was dreading that she'd be right.

Please, be wrong.

"He's been drafted," Connie muttered, "Got the letter a couple of weeks ago. I thought for sure he'd ask me to marry him before he left for basic, but he didn't. I asked him 'bout it, and he… he laughed at me. Said he didn't want me or my bastard! I-I-I-God-I even spent all my savings to get rid it!"

With that said, she burst into a fresh wave of tears, and Darcy soothed her as much as she could whilst raging inside. Men are fucking monsters. This was why women had no faith in men. Not all men, they cry. Bullshit. They speak sweet sonnets in your ear one moment and drop you like a hot potato the next. Darcy desperately wished she had her taser so she could send a thousand volts of electricity directly to his nuts. Ensure he'd never be able to finish again - not even in his own worthless hand. The chucklefuck had been drafted, though, weeks ago. Odds were the man had already left. For an outrageous moment, she wondered how far Mr. Harker's influence stretched before she remembered that he was off to Europe. Darcy viciously realised that karma would deal with him. One way or another.

"Then," Connie choked, snapping Darcy back to attention, "Then I found out he was the one who got the other waitress pregnant. God, Darcy, she's kept it. He's going off to war, and he's wiped his hands off us. She'll live with this shame for the rest of her life!"

She wanted to scream in anger. Who the fuck did this man think he was? How dare society shame the woman when the man is just as guilty!?

But now wasn't the time to screech in righteous 21st-century anger. Right now, she needed to be calm. Connie needed her support, not her rage.

"It was her choice," Darcy shushed her, "Maybe she would have made a different one if she'd had all the facts, but that's life."

Connie shivered, "How will I make up for this? How will God forgive me?"

For someone who didn't go to church, Darcy was surprised she had an opinion, "You'll find a way. God wouldn't damn you for this, He'll have to deal with me, and He won't like that. I'll tell Him where to go."

Besides, the only God who meant anything to her was Thor, and she doubted he'd deny her anything.

The smallest of smiles graced her lips before they fell again. Darcy gently prodded her.

"It's not everything…" Connie mumbled.

Darcy quirked an enquiring eyebrow.

"I-I-I-" Connie stuttered out, "I was gonna tell Bucky I was pregnant. If he thought it was his, he would o' married me, no questions asked. It's why he always uses a rubber 'cause he knows the consequences. I was gonna let him think a rubber broke. I was desperate, Darcy! I wasn't thinkin' straight. The last time I was with 'im I thought, 'I can do this. I could love and marry this man,'" she laughed without humour, "Then he told me he was enamoured with someone else. You shoulda seen 'is face Darcy – it may as well have been Christmas all over again. I watched my little bubble burst, and I lost it. I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to cause you grief! I haven't even been able to look at you because I've felt so guilty. Please, forgive me---!"

"There's nothing to forgive," Darcy cut her off by wrapping her arms around her, "I get it. I do."

And she did. If this had happened in her first week here, she probably wouldn't have. Not truly. However, Darcy had been in the 1940s for a couple of months now, and she'd slowly understood the social propriety of this time. Did she respect it? Not really. Did she understand that others adhered to it? Absolutely. Did she like that Connie had been willing to trick Bucky into raising a kid that wasn't his? Hell no, it's a whole new sort of evil. That being said, it didn't mean she didn't understand. She knew that desperation made people do crazy things. She also knew that blood didn't make a family. It wouldn't be the first (or last) time such a situation has occurred. Darcy also knew that one of her grandads wasn't actually her grandad, even if he was legally. He'd stepped up when his brother had gotten her grandma in the family way and then bolted. Who knows what choice her grandma would have made if he hadn't taken responsibility for another man's mess?

It wasn't black and white. Just various shades of grey.

She couldn't believe Connie felt so horrible about the abortion, though. It was always a possibility when having sex, regardless of their proactive use of contraceptives. It was something you acknowledged could happen. Was it the abortion itself that was rattling her so? Or that her boss had bailed? It was a shit situation, no matter what angle you looked at it from. Of course, the guilt of contemplating trapping Bucky wouldn't be a nice feeling, but she'd been panicked. She also hadn't gone through with it. Nothing had really stopped her from trying to convince Bucky to claim the foetus anyway. Connie hadn't done that, though, and that spoke volumes.

Still fucked though.

"I would have come with you," Darcy told her while gripping her hand and squeezing it gently, "No matter what. If you'd asked me to come, I would have."

"I know you would have," Connie whispered, her voice wobbly, "You've been a good friend to me, Darcy. I won't forget it."

A voice droned in from the doorway, "You've got more than one here, you know?"

They both looked up at Dot's voice. She stood at the doorway, arms crossed, looking very composed. Bonnie and Emily were standing just behind her, peeking their heads around her.

"Dot?" Connie asked aloud.

"Bonnie spilled the beans," Dot declared simply as Bonnie blanched.

Bonnie defended, "Dot forced it out of me!"

"Also, don't leave the door open for such sensitive topics," Dot continued, unfazed, "Someone might just happen upon you."

Darcy flushed with shame. The door being left open had been her fault. Connie tightened her hand around Darcy's reassuringly.

"Are you—?" Emily began, "Are you well?"

Looking at her with a small smile, Connie nodded, "I think I will be."

For a moment, Darcy marvelled at how far the women in this house had come when it came to Emily. From the day she arrived, Darcy knew Emily was the odd duck amongst them. Not even boy talk was entertained around her. An abortion would have been hidden from her, but now she was included without a second thought. Darcy felt a burst of pride.

"How will we all fit into this bed, I wonder?" Dot wondered dryly, "I don't think any of us will be leaving you here alone tonight, Connie."

They all nodded. Darcy, for one, wasn't going to volunteer to leave.

Connie looked so overwhelmingly touched by this gesture that Darcy thought she might start crying again.

"My bed," Emily suddenly piped up, "It's the biggest. Do you think you could help her up there? I'll go make some tea and make sure Mrs. Doyle doesn't come up!" Without waiting for an answer, she was gone.

They looked at Connie, who gave a small shrug, "I'm not one to turn down a bigger bed."

As Darcy wrapped her arm around Connie and hoisted her out of bed, Bonnie and Dot set off upstairs to Emily's room. Step by step, was slow and methodical. To her credit, Connie schooled her features to hide any pain besides the occasional wince. Maybe it would be worth getting her a hot water bottle, too. By the time Darcy and Connie arrived, the pillows had been fluffed, and the covers were raised for her.

Voicing her suggestion of the water bottle, Bonnie agreed and rushed downstairs to organise it. They took turns changing into their own nightgowns, but it wasn't long before Darcy and Dot were in bed, snuggled up either side of Connie. The bed change had been a brilliant idea; it truly was the best bed among the younger women.

Bonnie was back first, newly changed as well, and gave Connie the water bottle. She then shimmied up against Dot.

Then Emily arrived with a small tray of steaming tea. Darcy frowned. They were one cup short.

Emily set the tray on the bedside table and slowly began to retreat.

"Where do you think you're going?" Darcy asked, a little harsher than intended.

Emily blinked, "Oh, uh. I was just going to leave you to it."

"And kick you out of your own bed?" Connie asked incredulously.

Shifting on her feet, she shrugged, "I don't mind."

"Emily," Dot huffed, "Stop being a nuisance and get in."

She continued to hesitate, biting her lip in anxiety.

"I don't feel like having tea," Bonnie casually mentioned, "Too close to bedtime, and I'll be awake in an hour."

Nodding, Emily chooses to postpone her decision by serving the women their tea instead.

Sitting against the headrest, Darcy patted the small spot in the bed beside her, "In you hop."

Emily climbed in.

They all sipped their tea, and the girls took turns talking about their homes. It was quite a little heart-to-heart.

By this point, they were all lying side by side, as close as can be. Personal space? What was that? Because it sure as shit wasn't in bed with them.

Connie didn't really have any family left, and it made Darcy's heartache, "I lived with my aunt and uncle for a few months before I finished school, but I didn't want to intrude any longer. I see them for holidays, but that's really all."

Bonnie was from Pennsylvania, and when she moved to New York City three years ago, she left behind a boyfriend, Daniel, "He wanted to marry me, but I wasn't ready. I'd have been pregnant within a year and a stay-at-home mother for the rest of my life. Danny couldn't understand why I didn't want that at 18."

Emily hadn't left a boyfriend behind, "My parents wanted me to be more than a butcher's daughter. They thought New York City would give me more opportunities than New Orleans."

Dot was born and raised in New York City and had only her mother left, "I moved out the second I could. She's a… difficult woman. We're too similar; neither is willing to budge or censor our thoughts."

When it came to Darcy's turn… She didn't know what to say. She didn't want to lie, but she didn't want to claim Dinah's life either.

"I had a family. They've gone."

Emily's arm wrapped tighter around her, and Connie's hand grasped hers as she spoke, "We can be your family."

"I'd say speak for yourself, but," Dot snorted, "I guess what they say is true; you really can't pick your family."

With a good-humoured smack, Bonnie scowled, "Rude."

Conversation dipped off after that, and there was a silent agreement to try and get some sleep.

Suddenly, Connie giggled, attracting the attention of the others.

With a cheeky grin, she breathed in deeply before singing, "There were five in the bed---!"

"-No!" Came a chorus from all the women in the bed.

But Connie continued, "-And the little one said---"

Emily chimed in with a squeal, "Roll over! Roll over!"

A big show was made of all the women shoving the others, taking extra care not to jostle Connie. Darcy laughed at the outrageousness of it all. Five grown-ass women playing a damn children's nursery game in bed. This really had turned into a strange slumber party.

With a harsh kick from Dot, the weakest link rolled over.

"Eep!" Bonnie cried as she fell out of the bed.

She huffed as she stood, crossing her arms with playful crossness, "How dare you."

Dot shrugged, "Oh, I very much dare."

As Bonnie crawled back into bed with a haunty huff, Darcy couldn't help but be pleased that the night had not ended in any more tears. As she held Connie in her arms, Darcy squeezed her tight to assure her that she wasn't going anywhere.

Connie squeezed back.

Chapter Text

March 19th, 1942

Barnes Residence, New York City

Bucky had always known he had to be careful around his Da. It wasn't anything he'd been taught in school but rather via life experience.

One early winter, when he was still a schoolboy, it had been raining outside, and in the streets, all the local boys were playing in it. Bucky had joined in with a gleefulness only children could bring. He splattered in puddles, splashed friends, and stomped about from one puddle to the next. He couldn't feel the cold sinking into his skin or the rain drenching his clothes, only that he felt alive.

A hand gripped his arm like a vice, and he was pulled from the fun and into his home. He whirled around to whine at his Mama – he'd been having fun! But his mouth snapped shut as he recognised his father, the man's eyes frantically scanning him. There was a noticeable glint in his eyes. Bucky knew to remain very still. Not to talk. Not to do anything to upset his father.

Was his Da with him? Or was he there?

Mama asked him that a lot, but Mama wasn't there, and Bucky wasn't supposed to talk.

"Boots," his Da rushed with a strange pitch to his voice, "Boots."

His Da's fingers quickly worked the laces on his boots, and it took all Bucky's might not to topple over in his frenzied hurry. Da flung his boots as if they were bombs, as far away as possible, droplets of water soaring through the air behind them. Mama would be mad because they'd made the floor wet. His soggy socks were next, and they flew even further but impacted against the walls with a slick splat. Bucky wanted to ask his Da what was wrong, but he couldn't seem to open his mouth. Stay quiet, Bucky.

His Da's hands, callused and coarse, quickly roamed over Bucky's little feet. Bucky hadn't noticed how cold his feet were until his Da created warm friction with his hands. After a moment, Bucky had been lifted from the ground and brought into the living room. Once there, he was placed in front of the roaring fireplace, so close he thought he could inhale the very flames. Maybe he could figure out how to breathe fire like one of those circus performers they'd once seen.

His Da didn't stop rubbing his feet. Every few moments, he would twist Bucky's ankle to assess the soles of his feet. Bucky allowed this to continue for as long as he could stand.

"Da?"

His Da juddered violently and blinked, "James?"

Looking around the room quickly, his eyes settled on Bucky and then on his feet. An urgent jerk rushed through his Da as he rotated Bucky's warm and unblemished feet – carefully distinguishing reality from delusion. A shuddering breath escaped him as he released his sons' feet and pulled Bucky close. So enfolded in his arms as he was, Bucky could feel the mildest of tremors working through his Da.

"… Da?"

If anything, his Da held him tighter and croaked, "It's okay, James. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

Was he talking to him? Or was he trying to convince himself?

Little Bucky burrowed into his Da's arms deeper, wanting to offer his Da as much reassurance as he could. His Da's hands ran through his hair, offering him back the reassurance that Bucky was trying desperately to give.

Jarringly, the sound of a gun went off. Wait, that didn't happen then. That happened later.

A shudder ran through Bucky as he woke, quickly rubbing his hand over his face to hide his teary eyes. His hands were clammy, and Bucky hoped he hadn't sweat buckets into the couch. Breathing in as steadily as he could to ease his frantic heart, he tried to convince himself it wasn't real. A chill ran down his spine, and he couldn't help but glance at his boot-covered feet. They're fine, not even wet. Bucky sighed heavily. The crackling of the fire was both grounding and disturbing to him in equal measure. He slowly raised himself into a sitting position on the couch and hung his head in his hands. He hadn't meant to fall asleep; he hated sleeping at his Mama's house. It always brought back memories Bucky would prefer to forget. Christ, he hadn't thought about that incident in years. All this mention of war in the papers was bringing up shit he'd tried to bury.

The door to the living room opened, and Bucky quickly schooled himself before turning to his Ma with a sleepy smile. He'd mastered this art - she'd be none the wiser. Her hands were on her hips, and she had a mock put-off expression.

His Ma tutted, "Fallin' asleep on the couch before your sweetheart gets here isn't exactly what I had in mind when you offered to pop by earlier to lend a hand."

With a beaming grin, "I sat down, and that was it for me."

Her expression turned into a genuine frown, "You're working too hard."

Waving his hand dismissively, he stood to give her a reassuring kiss on the cheek, "No more than usual, Ma."

The kiss didn't reassure her, and she pulled him back to look at him properly. She clearly didn't like what she saw.

Resting her hand on his cheek, she urged him, "You must start focusing on your own life. I can see you're set on this girl. Put your energy there. You're gonna drop if you don't slow down."

He pulled away from her and started to stoke the fire. Not because it particularly needed it, but so he could hide his face.

Bucky wanted so badly to scoff and ask how exactly he was supposed to do what she wanted with so many dependants, but he forced a laugh instead, "Mama, I can do it all."

He wished he'd ignored Darcy's insistence on not needing an escort to his Ma's house. It would have spared him the onslaught. When his Mama was like this, she rarely let up.

Her eyes sharpened, "Oh? Your nap says otherwise."

Sighing, he went on to say it wasn't a common occurrence when the doorbell rang.

He could hear his sisters' shrill squeal of excitement as they barrelled to the front door. It's the perfect excuse to bail. He handed her the poker and started to walk out of the room.

"We'll talk about it later," he told her, without truly intending to follow up the conversation, "But I hafta make sure those little tyrants don't startle Darcy into a coma."

Without waiting for her reply, he stepped into the hallway and noticed his sisters were already bombarding a panicked-looking Darcy. They spoke a mile a minute while removing her coat and complimenting her hair. It was in a strange-looking bun, but he agreed it was very pretty. But that didn't say much because Darcy was always pretty.

Jesus Christ, 'pretty' wasn't a strong enough word. She was beautiful. Even in her work clothes, she managed to make his heart flutter. He recognised her blue business suit - he suspected it was her favourite. He made a mental note to gift her something blue for her birthday. Darcy had obviously not had the time to change after work. That was fine - he was just grateful she was willing to be here.

Just the sight of her helped temper his shot nerves. Goddamn dreams.

The girls were talking over one another. For Christ's sake, Lottie was acting as if she'd never met the woman before!

"-You're far too pretty!"

"What are you doin' with Bucky? He's a big lug without a brain!"

"- He must be puttin' his best foot forward---"

"- He's danced with ya, hasn't he?"

"It's the only way he coulda wooed ya."

"Oooooh, I can't wait to tell you about the time with the baseball and the dog---"

That was not happening, "Alright, enough! Jesus, ladies. Let her breathe!"

He stormed over and waded his way through the crowd that was his eager sisters. Darcy was looked relieved and amused. This didn't bode well. Maybe this was a bad idea. He couldn't have all of them ganging up on him. He could barely hold his own against all his women as it is. Adding Darcy to their arsenal would be a checkmate for him.

But her eyes were set solely on him, and he knew he'd happily surrender to her wiles.

Shooting her a big grin, he leaned down and gave her a chaste peck on the lips. Immediately, a chorus of 'ooooh' filled the air, and he glared at his sisters.

"Give us a minute, ya boogers!"

They all laughed as they rushed into the living room, calling for their mother to meet Darcy.

He really should start withholding his hair-braiding abilities from them when they act up; it'll be the only way he'll ever get them under control again.

The second they were out of sight, he turned to apologise to Darcy for their overeager behaviour but was instead greeted with a big, wet kiss. Momentarily stunned, he returned it with equal fervour. Christ, when did he last see her? Too long ago. It could have been five minutes ago, and it would still have been too long. Their tongues mingled together; Bucky moaned into her mouth and pressed her against the front door. Strangely, kissing Darcy in his childhood home was ticking some strangely erotic boxes for him.

But that could wait.

Pulling away, he grinned at her, "Well, hello to you too."

She smiled, but it was a little weaker than normal, "I've wanted to do that since last night."

"Oh," he simpered suggestively as he pulled her body flush against his, "What happened last night?"

He was more than willing to listen to any naughty dreams she had of him. He'd be more than happy to regale her with tales of his own if she asked. He'd be even more thrilled to recreate them with her.

But her face wasn't amorous; it was subdued. His gut twinged lightly.

Pulling back from her, he stared at her intently, cataloguing her every expression, "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

She smiled wider, "Yeah, it's just… been a crazy time at the Doyle household."

He winced with sympathy, "Connie?"

Bucky felt very guilty about the situation between them; he'd been a right ass about the situation, and that it was his fault they weren't currently speaking.

Now, her smile was much more sincere, "We're all good now."

He felt relief at the revelation that he hadn't permanently destroyed any relationship between them, "Good, I'm glad."

It was only a little weird that his ex-fling and new girlfriend were so close. He'd do his best to ensure it didn't look like it, though. Hopefully, there wouldn't be too many occasions where they had to intermingle. But he truly was pleased to hear the tension was resolved.

However, Darcy's smile was slight, and his gut feeling still wasn't completely satisfied.

He opened his mouth to ask---

"This must be the famous Darcy I've heard so much about."

Turning to his Ma, Bucky wrapped his arm around his sweetheart's waist and smiled joyously, "Mama, this is Darcy. Darcy, this is Mama."

Before his Ma could say another word, Becca squawked with indignation, "Excuse me? Where's our introduction?"

Bucky gave a playful scowl, "If you'd been patient and waited for me to answer the door like you were supposed to, I would have given you a formal introduction by now.

It was Evie who grinned, "You cannot blame us for wantin' to see if she was real."

Now it was Bucky's turn to squawk with indignation, "Evie, don't turn on me too!"

Goddamnit, Evie was usually impartial to the younger girls' teasing. Of all the days to join in, why'd she have to choose the day he introduced Darcy?

To his surprise, Darcy laughed freely, "Well, well, I don't think I've ever seen Bucky so riled up!" She winked at his sisters, "I'm looking forward to this dinner even more."

His sisters preened, and his Ma smiled before saying, "I'm very pleased to have you, Darcy. Excuse the girls, we don't often have female company."

Bucky snorted with disbelief, "Female company is all we have in this house."

Shrugging, Lottie seemingly agreed, "Yeah, we really should consider havin' you over less often to man the place up a bit."

"Hey!"

Becca laughed evilly as Mama shushed them on her way to the kitchen, "Now, don't pick on your brother when company is over. Why don't you lot head into the living room while I finish up dinner."

Bucky definitely didn't miss the clause of 'when company is over,' which gave them free rein to tease him any other time - but he would graciously let that go for now.

"Yeah," Bucky postured, "Off you go. We will meet you there in a minute."

His sisters glared at him with mild annoyance. Becca, however, grinned.

"Well, someone had a nap," Becca cackled, "Didn't bother to look in a mirror 'fore you came out, did ya?"

Startled, Bucky bolted to the hallway mirror and groaned. He'd managed to muss up his hair from his short nap completely.

"Alright, off with you lot," he demanded while he fixed his matted hair, "I need t' talk to Darcy before dinner."

"Pfft, 'talking' he says. Is that what they call it these days?" Evie mused.

He glared at them so foully that they finally relented, and it was just him and Darcy in the hallway.

"What's wrong?" He asked her, his tone determined.

She startled, "What makes you think something is wrong?"

He shrugged, unwilling to disclose his intense gut feelings just yet, "I can tell something is off."

"It's nothing you need to worry about," she replied shortly, "Just something with the girls that's been resolved. I'll stop thinking about it sooner or later."

He supposed that was fair. It wasn't any of his business, even if it was obviously bothering his sweetheart, but why would his gut twinge about the affairs of women?

Not willing to start a fight, he kissed her forehead, "If you're sure."

"I am," she said hotly before the tension bled from her shoulders, "Everything is fine."

He smiled at her, willing to drop the subject for now. If it continued to bring her down, he'd probe again. Pulling her back into his arms, he marvelled at how right she felt there. Christ, this woman was beautiful and she was his. He pressed another kiss to the crown of her head, and she rolled her eyes with affection at the repeated action.

"What?" He goaded with a soft growl, "You can practically tongue-fuck my mouth in my mother's entryway, but I can't place a few kisses on your head? For shame."

Her breath hitched, and he grinned, pulling away from her and letting his hand faux-innocently graze her breast. He loved it when they played these games. The responses he got from her were divine.

"Now," he began as if he hadn't just stoked a fire in her, "We can help my Ma in the kitchen or confront all my sisters at once in the living room. Which shall it be?"

Her eyes narrowed at the options. Darcy sauntered up to him, caressing his clothed chest with her hands. Her fingers teasingly toyed with his buttons. Both were suddenly breathing heavier, and Bucky realised he'd started something they definitely couldn't finish in his Mama's house. He was raised as a good Christian boy. He couldn't be defiling a woman he wasn't married to in his Mama's house. No siree.

Her hands lowered and grazed his cock with a barely-there touch. He groaned in pleasure and surprise. Christ, she was forward, and he adored it. His family members were only in the next rooms.

Okay, maybe he could amend his earlier statement to making love to the woman he was likely going to marry one day, and then it would be acceptable in God's eyes.

But not in his Ma's eyes, and she was far more terrifying than any almighty God.

He pulled away, trying his hardest to hide how affected he was, "Darcy Lewis, are you propositioning me in my mother's house?"

"Oh?" She grinned, pressing her lips to his, "Should we take this outside?"

Bucky was fairly certain his mind had broken. Outside? An exciting thrill ran down his spine and straight to his cock.

He physically removed himself from her as if she burned, "Okay! Okay! You win! Be merciful!"

She grinned, "I accept your surrender."

"Most gracious of you," he said, smirking despite his sincerity, "Ma or sisters?"

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him. Darcy's hand came up to his face and lightly rubbed the crease between his eyes until it smoothed.

Bucky hadn't even realised he was that tense. The combination of the dream and his sisters' teasing obviously stressed him out more than he expected.

"Which would make you feel less stressed?" She asked.

His heart swelled and plummeted simultaneously. It swelled because she was learning to read him, and he loved that, but it also plummeted because if he were that easy to read, she'd learn some of the darker parts of him. Could she handle that? Could he?

Pondering her question, he knew which would be easier and which would send him to an early grave.

"Mama," he murmured quietly, "She won't be so overwhelmin'. My sisters… they'll make it a game to see who can stress me out the most."

She nodded, grasping his hand with a cheerful smile, intermingling their fingers, "Then let's get this started. I'll be with you the whole time, and I promise you – I don't scare easy."

His heart filled so much it felt fit to burst.

As they walked to the kitchen, he wasn't sure what he'd worried about.

Darcy was perfect. His family was going to love her. She was going to love his family.

If anything, dinner solidified his resolve.

Darcy was going to join his family. He'd make sure of it.

Chapter Text

March 24th, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

She could smell the two of them together in the air, a husky combination of wicked debauchery, her new favourite smell. Laid spread on her back atop Bucky's bed, Darcy had her legs flung over both of Bucky's broad shoulders. He kneeled at the foot of the bed, a beautiful representation of a devout follower giving thanks at his altar.

Fingers threaded in his hair; Darcy mindlessly hoped he wouldn't cut it ever again. It was her favourite joystick, and the longer the hair, the better her grasp. It felt so soft between her fingers - a luxurious treat only she was allowed to indulge in.

Lightly tugging him to where she wanted, Darcy gasped in delight. Even without navigation, he was talented but took orders so sweetly. He was so eager to please. He was phenomenal. His tongue leisurely swirled around her clit as his fingers rocked a steady rhythm inside her. She loved how he took his time to eat her out. He behaved as if they had all the time in the world at a world-class buffet. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Darcy whined happily, petting his hair encouragingly, causing her lover to chuckle. The vibrations only made her mewl louder for him. Bucky was a quick study; she was apparently his new favourite subject. He was such a dedicated student, and she was a very proud professor.

She briefly wondered if Bucky would be into roleplay, but then his tongue flattened and gave long, languid strikes up the length of her, and she shuddered with anticipation. What had she been wondering? It didn't matter - they could talk about roleplay later.

A beautiful build-up was happening inside her, and Bucky pinned her hips down to stop her from rocking in earnest. She ground against his face in retaliation, producing an even more pleasant humming from him. Her thighs grew rigid around his head.

God, he was – he truly was – fuck– could he – could he – could he – could he – could he – could he – could he – could he-!

He pulled away with a glistening grin, "Good, huh?"

Her orgasm faltered and faded. He purposefully licked his fingers upon removal in a very 'waste not, want not' fashion. Then he smacked his lips like a fucking tease.

God, he could be an ass.

Desperately, she gripped his hair and tried to harshly yank him back to her pussy. He only swatted her hands away with an ecstatic smirk. Her slick covered the lower half of his face, and he aptly looked like that cat that got the cream.

Except she hadn't 'creamed,' so to speak, so his pride was decidedly premature. No, Bucky knew he'd get her there; he just liked playing with her. Her boyfriend was a fucking cat, and no one could convince her otherwise.

"You fucking Pisces---!"

"Nah uh, none of that," his mouth was back on her pussy, working her up all over again before pulling away when she needed it most, "My, my, how did you end up in this kerfuffle? Could this be retribution for gettin' me all worked up when I couldn't do anything about it?"

Obviously, he hadn't (pfft, please - he loved it) appreciated her increasing enthusiasm for adam-teasing him in public.

Frustrated, Darcy propped herself up on her elbows and tried to ignore just how beautiful he looked framed between her thighs, "Goddam it, Bucky! Fucking do it before I take matters into my own hands!"

His eyes darkened at her threat, and Darcy found she liked that look on him.

"Do that, and I'm tying you up," he warned her, not even an ounce of teasing in his tone.

Her thighs quivered excitedly, "Yes, please."

He shot her a curious look as he kissed up her inner thighs, "You'd like that, huh?"

"Yes, but not as much as I'd like your mouth back where it belongs!"

"Belongs, eh?" Bucky oozed cockily as his fingers graced her slit with a barely-there touch, "You're such a good girl, talking so prettily to me."

Darcy narrowed her eyes; he had clearly forgotten who was in charge here.

"Bucky," Darcy hissed, "Give me what I want, and I'll suck you off until you go cross-eyed."

He choked a little before murmuring, "Yes, please," against her cunt.

She huffed a laugh through her pleasured moans, "Thatta boy."

A car honked, and Darcy snapped out of her memories. With a delighted grin, she licked her lips. Damn, Bucky was such a good boy. He worked so hard to ensure her spank bank was always full, and Darcy was always happy to reciprocate. Looking both ways, she hurriedly crossed the road with a notable spring in her step. She must look, as her new peers would call it, 'slap happy.'

Walking towards the boarding house, Darcy couldn't help but dwell on her and Bucky.

Sunday mornings had truly become their dedicated block for sexy times. Steve was at work, so they didn't have to worry about his comings and goings. It meant from whatever time Darcy wandered into their bachelor pad (usually embarrassingly early, but he was always ready for her, so it's not like she's the only one overeager) until around noon, Bucky was at her mercy. Well, sometimes, she let herself be at his. It really depended on her mood and how happy he'd made her that day. After their scheduled degeneracy, they'd head to Rosie's and wait for Steve. She'd likely have a malt shake, and he'd have his coffee black. Despite her distaste for black coffee, she never shirked her girlfriendly duties and always sneaked sips of his coffee. Steve must have been exhausted by how sickeningly sweet they could be, but it was a happy exasperation. Like, watching your friend be happy was a chore you were willing to put up with. Steve's a good bro.

The rhythm she and Bucky had found surprised her. She didn't feel any (okay, much) resentment over the Connie incident anymore, and Bucky was noticeably trying to prove he was officially a one-woman's man. The amount of emotional security that man was offering her was off the damn charts! They'd dashed headfirst into a frisky honeymoon phase, and Darcy was loving it.

That's not to say they haven't had some serious moments as well.

Dinner at the Barnes residence had been surprisingly insightful. Not only was it nice to meet his family, but she saw a brand-new side to Bucky. Her beau has never been shy about making light of himself. He could also be quite the showboat when he wanted to be, but she'd never seen anyone openly dismantle him. Cue Evie, Lottie, and Becca - little sisters - they're a different breed. Sure, it was in the way all siblings rib their other siblings, but Darcy was genuinely thrown by how calm he'd been about it. He hadn't gone red in the face with subdued anger or whined loudly to his mother to make them stop. Usually, when she met an ex's family, and there'd been light-hearted ribbing, her ex-boyfriends would go ballistic. So, watching Bucky graciously accept the teasing was a nice change.

Additionally, she saw a vulnerable side in him. She wasn't sure why, but her handsome Bucky had been quite sombre when she'd arrived. A big kiss and some reassuring words seemed to settle him, though. He went from gloomy to cocksure at the drop of a hat! She was both humbled and excited by her ability to affect him so much.

Obviously, his family liked her, which she imagined was a massive relief to Bucky. The house had been raucous with playful conversation, and Bucky had been singled out several times for a lively joshing. Despite his exaggerated groans that introducing her to the rest of his sisters was a mistake, Darcy knew he was secretly thrilled. It didn't take a genius to know that family meant a lot to Bucky and that he wanted them to be able to get along well. Overall, it had been a resounding success. Darcy had left the Barnes house with Bucky as an escort and an open invitation to their weekly Thursday night dinners.

Every Thursday was unlikely, but Bucky had been pleased with the idea of once a month.

Darcy was secretly pleased that she now had standing appointments with Bucky. Although petty, she felt she was quietly scrubbing out the lingering memory of Connie. Darcy was Bucky's girlfriend; she was the one meant to have ongoing plans and dates with him.

They were building sturdy foundations, and Darcy was eager to see what they'd build atop them.

Skipping up the steps of the boarding house, Darcy hummed a contented tune. Disney, of course. 'The Little Mermaid' soundtrack specifically. Thank God she knew it in its entirety.

Darcy was honestly feeling incredibly happy. She didn't think she'd experience it in the '40s, but here she was. Darcy was a legal secretary, and although that wasn't something she'd aspired to (why be a secretary when you can be a lawyer, for god's sake), she really enjoyed it. Strangely, despite the scratching nature of this time's clothes, she felt more comfortable in her own skin. It wasn't just the weight loss either (a whole fifteen pounds of it!); it was something far more visceral than that. She wasn't sure exactly what, though. It didn't matter though, because Darcy was loving life. She had so many people to thank for it. Bucky, Jerry, the girls… even Mr. Harker. Without him, none of this would have been possible.

She shook her head. Her debt to Mr. Harker was a problem for future Darcy. Current Darcy would do what Darcy does best; avoid.

Opening the front door, Darcy was confronted with a silent house. The air felt tense. That was weirdly uncommon.

Uh oh.

It serves her right to think happy thoughts without pixie dust.

Stepping in and closing the door behind her, Darcy cautiously entered the dining room.

Seated together at the table was Dot at the head, with Connie and Bonnie on either side of her. Standing opposite them were Emily and Mrs. Doyle.

All of them looked severe, and when they all turned to her as she entered, Darcy wasn't reassured. None of them even pretended to perk up.

Emily was visibly trying to resist the temptation of shifting her weight from side to side. Mrs. Doyle stood tall and proud, but her true emotions were expertly masked.

"What's up?" Darcy asked as calmly as she could.

"Pull up a chair, dear," Mrs. Doyle told her.

The older woman's tone gave nothing away.

Deciding to get it over with, Darcy sat in the closest chair next to Connie and opposite Bonnie. They exchanged uneasy stares. It looks like they didn't know what this was about, either.

"Now that we're all gathered here," prompted Dot impatiently, "What's this about?"

Mrs. Doyle chose to finally sit down, opting to sit across from Dot at the other head of the table, "Emily has something to share."

For a terrifying moment, Darcy wondered if Emily had squeaked to Mrs. Doyle. Whether about the abortion or the pre-marital sex, Darcy wasn't sure, but the thought was gone as soon as it entered. No, Emily wouldn't do that. Emily had come a long way, and she'd never outed the women before, so she wouldn't now.

The others, however, didn't look so confident.

"As you know," Emily began, her eyes strong despite her quivering voice, "I turned 21 yesterday."

She had indeed. Darcy was there. They'd had a nice dinner with the resources they could scrounge up, and Mrs. Doyle had allowed them all a glass of port each to celebrate. Darcy's first experience with the stuff. It was horrible, and it had been decreed that the port was only to be consumed by Darcy in emergency situations from then on. Emily had enjoyed her birthday. She'd received a letter from her parents, which had timely arrived. There hadn't been any fighting or snide comments among the women. The kids in her class had even made her a big banner for the day, which read, 'Happy Birthday, Miss Richard' in French. So, why did this deserve a meeting the next day?

Emily looked unsure of how to phrase whatever she wanted to say. They all waited with bated breaths. Darcy watched as Dot slowly started to tap her fingers impatiently on the table. Before she could say anything, Bonnie had already covered Dot's hand with her own; the tapping wasn't necessary. There was no point in stressing out Emily even more.

"I joined the Red Cross Reserves," Emily blurted out.

Apparently, after all that deliberation, Emily decided that easing into it wasn't the way to go. Fuck being delicate, apparently.

The reactions took a full second to register.

Connie was baffled, "What?"

"Why?" asked Bonnie.

Even Dot seemed rattled by the idea, "-The Reserves?"

Mrs. Doyle didn't say anything, and Darcy suspected the older woman was already aware of Emily's plans.

Darcy didn't know what to say. She was reeling.

No. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't something that happened to her. Emily couldn't volunteer to be a nurse during wartime. No. Darcy wasn't prepared to deal with this. Emily was a schoolteacher. She taught kids, not patched up broken soldiers.

Darcy's friends don't go to war. Fuck the 20th century - this wasn't okay.

"Why?" Bonnie asked again.

Emily sighed, "Because of Dot."

Predictably, Dot both bristled and paled, "Me?"

"You told me to show some initiative," Emily insisted as Dot gaped, "You said it yourself! I'm not much use for anything else, and I have an ironclad constitution---"

"-I didn't mean become a war nurse!" Dot bellowed, aghast.

Darcy absently noted that she'd never seen Dot lose her composure. Glancing down, she struggled to focus on her hands; were Darcy's hands shaking or numb? She couldn't tell.

"Hush," Mrs. Doyle warned Dot, "She's an adult and can make her own decisions."

Barely paying attention, Darcy absentmindedly agreed to Mrs. Doyle's statement. Most of Darcy, however, was mutely observing the situation. She was already grieving, and denial was first. Supposedly. The stages needed to be altered. They needed to add shock and place it first because Darcy is fairly confident that's what she's experiencing.

"Emily," Dot spoke with a sharp edge, "I don't think you've thought this through—--"

"I have to!" Emily insisted passionately, "This is what I want. I've made my decision."

"Emily," Dot repeated as though Emily had never spoken, "This is war. They'll send you to Europe."

Emily shrugged, "They may not call me up."

No one responded to this. Why would they? There was no point in denying it. They'd call her. No use arguing that. Besides, Emily's newfound determination would breed into reality. If Emily wanted to go, then Emily would find a way to go. That's how manifesting works, isn't it?

"Why can't you just get a job at the factories?" Connie jumped in.

Scoffing, Emily looked irritated by the question, "Nursing; I was built for this. God has prepared me for this."

Darcy really wanted to tell her to fuck her God and stay home like a sane woman.

"But Emily," Bonnie spoke hesitantly, "It's bloody work. You may not be able to stomach it."

Emily shook her head but spoke passionately, "My father's a butcher - I'm well aware of what offal looks like!"

The women started arguing amongst themselves, and Darcy couldn't listen anymore.

She wanted to open her mouth. She wanted to tell Emily that animals and humans are different. That a piece of your soul was scarred when a man died on your watch. She wanted to get up and leave the room. If she weren't there, maybe it would have faded away. Like a bad dream. Janey would take her to the New Mexico roof and point out constellations until she felt better. Then she'd go back to sleep; this would all have been a dream.

"Darcy!" Emily looked at her, desperately needing support, which Darcy didn't think she could give. "You told me I could be incredible!"

She had told her that. Dear god. Had she caused this? Would Emily still have volunteered if Darcy had never shown up in the past? Or would she have never even considered it? Would Emily-? No, not Emily.

Dear God – was she why Emily would lose her shine? Could Emily die overseas? Would it be all Darcy's fault?

Darcy lurched forward and vomited onto the linoleum.

"Well said, Darcy," Dot muttered, "I was thinking the same thing."

Breathing haggardly, Darcy couldn't see Emily's fraught face or feel Connie's soothing hand rubbing her back. There was a foul taste in her mouth, and it wasn't just the remnants of vomit.

This was real. This was war. People she loved could die. She may be responsible for such a life being lost.

Emily was too sweet to see such things. Too young. Why would she want to? Why couldn't it be someone else? Someone Darcy didn't know?

It wouldn't be just Emily either. There were so many people who were going to war.

People would always discuss the horrors of war, but it was always some distant notion that Darcy was confident she'd never experienced first-hand.

She was about to experience World War II. The bloodiest war in human history, in its full dark glory. Darcy hadn't seen the half of it yet.

God, this was real. Oh, God! No one was coming for her and portalling her back to the future where it was safe and comfortable. This was her life. This was her hell.

Whatever the case, Darcy knew Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers went to Europe. They fought in the war. Hell, they did such a fantastic job that they were given their own operative group. The Howling Commandos were legendary.

The realisation that Emily, Bucky, and Steve were eventually going to war was a cold, harsh, and unwelcome reminder.

Bucky and Steve would end up in the 21st century. Darcy wouldn't. She would rot here.

How could she forget this? Willfully ignore it?

Fuck, what was she doing?

She couldn't do this.

She'd made an aborted attempt to stand, but her knees gave out, and she collapsed to the floor.

Chapter Text

April 1st, 1942

Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

"He's been at the bottom of the steps since 'fore I even got home from work. The poor fella is goin' t' be bored to death if you don't go down soon."

Her unwelcome bedroom guest didn't even have the courtesy to announce herself before barging in. Not that Darcy would have received her anyway. It was the second time Connie had been in her room today to pester her about Bucky. Darcy didn't even rise from her bed to glare at her. Darcy was self-aware enough to know she was currently a living zombie, but Halloween had long since passed, and Darcy didn't want any visitors; thank you very much.

Facing away from Connie, Darcy grumbled into her pillow, "Tell him to go away."

Darcy could practically hear the withering look Connie shot her, "He won't go."

With a heavy sigh, Darcy did as Darcy does best: avoid. She pointedly turned even further away from Connie, practically smooshing her nose against the walls. Why was he being so difficult today?

For two weeks, Darcy had barely been able to find the strength to leave her bed. She rose to cook on Tuesdays, eat, shower, and occasionally dress. Even that last one wasn't all too common anymore. What was the point of even getting up? What was the point of pretending?

She hadn't been in such a depressive state since her Bubbe died and NSYNC broke up (temporary hiatus her ass) on the same day when she was 14.

"Darcy, I understand Emily's news has come as a shock – to all of us," Connie spoke placatingly but with unspoken words of judgement hanging between them, "But Bucky hasn't done anything wrong."

"Yet," Darcy groaned, spitefully.

Connie groaned and stomped out of the room, obviously fed up with her behaviour. That was fine by her.

Darcy buried her head in her pillow to muffle her scream of frustration.

Bucky was going to war too. He and Steve, and only God knows who else. That damn man was going to enlist and leave her alone. He wouldn't ever come back. Well, he would eventually, or at least a broken version of him, but not in Darcy's natural life. If Bucky went to fight in Europe, he wasn't coming back while Darcy was here. She would end up in the 1940s and onwards, all alone. What was the point in ever getting tangled up with him again? Good dick? Almost not worth it.

Darcy wanted to go home. She'd had her fun: a summer fling, a gap year, and foreign experiences, but Spring Break was over, and now it was time to go home. God, maybe she'd bite the bullet and finally buy a cat.

What did she need to do? Buy ruby red shoes, tap her heels three times and chant, 'There is no place like home' until it works. Why couldn't a portal just open up and swallow her whole? Spit her back out to her own time, where there isn't an international war raging and where her biggest concern is dodging life decisions?

God, back to a place when Ian was her ex and not some random inmate named Jonathan fucking Morris. Back to the lonesome single life and not playing tonsil hockey with historic legend Bucky fucking Barnes. Wait, had she technically been defiling a historic artefact? No regrets - that man's cock deserved all its 'posthumous' praise.

Sure, she may also be refusing to see him, but he'd taken his sweet time to even try to, and that smarted a bit.

It had taken eight days (eight! You'd think he'd realise something was up sooner) for him to come to her house to enquire after her. Another two days after that, he returned only to be turned away. He was back the next day, the next, and every day thereafter.

And then again today, apparently. However, he didn't accept a simple 'she is still not well' this time. He'd refuted Connie's quiet dismissal and asked that Darcy come down and tell him herself. That had been a while ago. Evidently, he still hadn't left. He's also called the landline multiple times, as though speaking to him over the phone would make a damn difference.

For God's sake, how many hours was he planning on hanging around?!

Her ears twitched at voices echoing from the bottom of the stairs. Before long, two pairs of feet could be heard climbing the stairs and ending just outside her room. One set was lighter, which she recognised as Dot's graceful steps, and the other was heavier—unknown and masculine. It had better not be Bucky. She was in no mood to scream at Dot for escorting him to her room when she'd made it plain that she didn't want to see anyone.

She curled into herself, burrowing herself beneath her covers. She wasn't ready to deal with the world yet; maybe not ever.

Three jarring knocks banged on her door, and Darcy flinched at how aggressive it sounded. Why couldn't they just leave her alone?

The door opened, and Darcy bemoaned the lack of locks in the boarding house. Privacy was a privilege in the 40s, and she hated it.

"I see rumours of your untimely demise have been greatly exaggerated," a dry voice said.

She shot up, flinging the covers off her, and looked at her visitor, perplexed, "What are you doing in my room?"

He didn't answer, but Jerry waved a dismissal to Dot, who immediately retreated from the room, and he dropped his hat and jacket at the foot of her bed. Giving a cursory glance around, he pulled the small chair at her desk across the room and situated himself directly next to her. His bespectacled eyes were both amused and concerned. Great, even Jerry deemed her in a pathetic enough state for a house call. Despite that, for once, he actually looked well put together. Had he been at court this week? Or had he finally gone home? She had no idea, but now that she'd seen him, Darcy realised she had missed him these past weeks. Then he pulled out a cigarette case and lit one up.

Hell no!

"Not in my room," Darcy growled, reaching over to smack it out of his hands.

The bastard merely scooted his chair back and just out of her reach. He arched a challenging brow at her as he slouched comfortably, a cigarette hanging limply between his lips.

Asshole!

"Ms. Thompson popped by my desk today," he looked at her meaningfully, "Pointed out you hadn't been in the office for a worrying amount of time, as though I hadn't noticed, and demanded I intervene. Regrettably, I must agree with her. I dare say enough is enough."

Darcy huffed and rearranged herself so she was comfortably sitting upright in her bed, "I told you I wasn't coming in."

"No, you told me you needed a leave of absence. I've tolerated your absence, but now you're taking advantage," the look he sent her was drier than bone, "So, what's the dope?"

His patronising tone honestly set her teeth on edge. She felt like Jerry (Jerry, of all people!) was treating her like a child.

"I don't want to talk about it, Jerry."

"Pfft," Jerry booed between drags of his cigarette, "So much so that you've quite literally spirited yourself away to your bedroom. I haven't been in a bachelorette's room since Mary sneaked me into hers when we were 15. I honestly never expected there would be a need to do so again, but here I am, trying to rescue a damsel that really shouldn't need to be saved."

Usually, Darcy would dissect anything Jerry said about his elusive wife, but she was too frustrated to care, "I don't want to hear it."

Jerry shot her an exasperated look as he puffed his cigarette. Darcy waved her hand around to disperse the smoke that she suspected he was deliberately blowing in her direction.

"What has got your unmentionables in a twist? Is it about that Ducky boy again?"

Darcy growled at Jerry, "I don't want to talk about him anymore! Ever. He's going to enlist, and he's hiding it from me! He's going to leave me."

Jerry arched his brow as he pointed over his shoulder towards the door, "Really? Because I passed that boy on the way up, and that was not a man eager to leave his lady love. He's all but ready to pitch a tent, which I would find amusing, so I might even lend him one. He's not going anywhere - no matter how heartlessly his sweetheart has abandoned him on her front step."

Darcy's head snapped towards her guest in outrage, "I've abandoned him? He's going to abandon me!"

"Well, you must notify your boy of that because he clearly hasn't been informed."

Darcy shook her head stubbornly, crossed her arms, and sank further into her bed.

Rolling his eyes, Jerry was beginning to look less and less amused, "You're pouting; it's not a cute look on you. The wind will change soon, and it'll stay that way. You'll forever be known as 'Pouting Darcy.'"

"I'm miserable. Leave me to it."

"No, you're whining. I assure you, there's a difference."

Huffing, Darcy looked away from him, "Excuse me if I'm struggling to adjust well to goddamn war. I wasn't made for this."

Jerry was officially unamused.

"Nor is anyone else. You don't see them moaning about it from their bed. Life goes on. What makes you so special that you require special consideration?" His brow arched yet again, and his tone dripped with judgment.

Darcy wanted to scream at him, saying she's a damn time traveller, that's why before pausing. That… that really wasn't a good enough excuse, was it? Sure, she didn't ask to be here during the Goddamn war, but none of these people asked for that either. It was just their lot in life, and shit, now it was Darcy's too.

"… I see a penny has dropped somewhere in that stubborn skull of yours," Jerry spoke as he stood, gathering his belongings, "Well, I've accomplished what I've come here to do. I'll be off. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

Darcy nodded as she stood up from her bed. Darcy wanted to roll her eyes when Jerry pointedly averted his gaze. Her night dress was far from the most scandalous thing she'd ever worn. She teasingly flicked her hair over her shoulder (wow, it was greasier than she thought), put on her robe, and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"You come into my room, stay without a chaperone, and you expect a girl to not get ideas," Darcy teased him.

Jerry shrugged nonchalantly, "I haven't a clue what you're suggesting."

Surely not...

"… What did you do with Mary in her room at 15?"

He winked at her, "We held hands. It was all very wholesome. We were married a week later. What did you think we did?"

He moved to leave before he seemed to remember something. He dug around in his jacket pocket and produced a small ribbon-wrapped box.

"What's this?" Darcy asked wearily, over their visit already.

"Not that I'm convinced you currently deserve it," Jerry managed to scowl even with a cigarette hanging from his lips as he handed the box to her, "But it's your birthday present."

Blinking at him, Darcy looked up startled, "My what?"

Was that today? She'd genuinely not realised. God, how bad was that?

"Yes, it's your birthday," Jerry told her, patting her on the shoulder before heading out the door, "And for Christ's sake, go downstairs and put that boy out of his misery. The damn thing looks like a kicked puppy. Fix it."

Looking down at the small box, Darcy indelicately pulled the ribbon and opened it. Inside was a beautiful silver bangle decorated with small, engraved flowers. Sunflowers, roses, and daisies, by the looks of it. The detail was beautiful, and Darcy immediately placed it on her wrist. She spent a minute admiring it before standing up with her first spark of life in weeks.

Looking around her room, she realised it was a pigsty. Clothes were askew, papers were lying about, and some crockery and cutlery were piled on her desk. God, how long had she been out of it for? How could she let herself get that bad? But her room was a problem for later. For now, she had to deal with Bucky. She suspected it would end in a fight.

Happy 30th to her.

After the quickest shower in the history of ever, she felt a bit more human. Darcy didn't bother drying her hair. Dressed casually in tan slacks (scandalous – she knows, Mrs. Doyle) and a white blouse, she forwent shoes and steeled herself. Bucky was likely not going to be impressed with her avoidant behaviour, and she geared herself for a fight.

Halfway down the landing, she heard voices from the sitting room; it sounded like Jerry was having tea with Dot and Mrs. Doyle. So, he hadn't left yet; she'd thank him for his gift later.

The front door was wide open, and Darcy belatedly realised it was a nice day outside. Sunshine, warmth, and fresh air. Had the seasons changed while she was essentially hibernating?

Approaching the door cautiously, she finally spotted Bucky sitting on the bottom step with his legs stretched before him, looking out into the street.

She looked down at him and momentarily paused. Bucky looked more dishevelled than she'd ever seen him. He wore his work clothes, which spoke volumes as he'd always deigned to wash up before seeing her: hickory striped overalls with a grey cotton shirt and worn leather boots. His hair wasn't slicked back like she was used to, but rather a little too long and unruly, and he looked pale and gaunt, as though he hadn't been eating. He might even have whiskers. In one hand, he held a lit cigarette, and the other anxiously twirled his keys.

Holy shit. What had happened to him?

As she assessed him from the doorway, he glanced up and away before double-taking at the sight of her. He was quick to his feet, flicked his cigarette, and marched towards her, his eyes scanning her as he scaled the short steps. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly found it as he yanked her forward and into his arms. She didn't even have a chance to wrap her arms around him; she was simply trapped against his chest. Like a snake, he coiled around her as tightly as he could, a heavy breath of relief tickling her ear. Darcy was fully encased in his arms; it was warm and comforting. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and a hard day's work, and Darcy instinctively breathed it in. It was so... unlike Bucky. For the first time, she realised how much effort he put into his hygiene and appearance. She burrowed herself a little deeper into his chest, and Bucky gladly obliged her. She realised belatedly that he was trembling. Why was he trembling?

"Please," he begged, his voice trembling with emotion, "Don't ever do that to me again."

His heart was thumping madly against her hand. Had he been that worried about her?

She mutely nodded at him, stunned that he hadn't been mad. Darcy had expected anger from her boyfriend, not… not whatever this was.

He was pressing numerous kisses to the crown of her head, and his hands roamed over her shape as though he was worried she'd vanish.

He rambled more than spoke, "I thought you were mad that I hadn't been 'round. I'd meant to send a message, but there was always somethin' more pressin'---"

"Pressing? What do you mean?" Darcy pulled away and spoke with increasing urgency, "What happened?"

Bucky heaved a big sigh, but the set of his shoulders didn't lessen, "Stevie's been in hospital."

"What?!" Darcy jolted, irrationally terrified that her presence in the '40s had somehow affected him, "Is he okay? Oh my God, what happened? Was it a fever? His asthma? A fight?"

Bucky nodded reassuringly through her frantic questioning and rubbed soothing hands up and down her arms, "Fever. He's home now. It was a bit touch and go for a minute, but he's right as rain now."

God, no wonder he looked unwell; he must have been beside himself with worry about Steve.

And her, she added guiltily.

"… And I've stressed you out even further."

Sensing her mood, he tried to deflect with humour, "When it rains, doll, it pours," he shrugged it off with a grin.

Darcy was not reassured, though. Sensing this, he grabbed her hands and placed quick kisses on them.

As per usual, he was there for her when she needed him.

"I should have been there for you," Darcy agonised, feeling absolutely wretched, "I should have been there for both of you."

Darcy started crying, too guilty and overwhelmed to internalise her feelings.

He was shushing her as he pulled her into his arms. Darcy fell into his embrace and sobbed.

Suddenly, every emotion of hers was desperate to unleash.

"Emily," she tried to speak through her sobs, "Emily---!"

"She told me," Bucky spoke calmly, "Well, she told Lottie yesterday, who's since told me, but I know."

Grateful she didn't have to articulate her thoughts, she nodded sadly. She was over crying. She hated crying. It always made her feel like a child.

"God," Darcy groaned, wiping her wet cheeks and stepping back from him, "I'm 30 now! I can't be this emotional anymore."

"Doll, that's nonsense. You said it yourself; your emotions are a superpower," he chuckled slightly, "But if it makes you feel better, today is not your birthday. We're doin' it over, and we're doin' it right later this week. So, cry to your heart's content today. You ain't 30 yet."

For a moment, Darcy wanted to laugh about postponing her 30th birthday yet again, but his offer to cry was too much to pass.

So that's exactly what she did. She embraced her lover and held him as closely as she could. She was too scared to let go of him - what if he never found his way back? Her arms tightened. Darcy didn't want to lose him. Not now, not ever. Bucky was infinitely patient with her. Neither cared that they were exposed to anyone walking down the street. All they needed at that moment was each other. As she started to settle, Darcy nuzzled her face into his neck, ashamed of her tears and her weaknesses.

"I don't want anyone to leave me," Darcy whispered brokenly against his throat.

"Sweetheart," he pulled away from her far enough to cradle her face in his hands and catch her eyes, "I'm here for you. I'm always gonna be here for you."

He couldn't possibly understand why that only made her cry harder.

God, she was attached to him. Hopelessly so. She couldn't do this.

It was at that moment that Darcy made a choice; she was under no circumstances allowed to fall in love with Bucky. This relationship was originally only meant to be fun – not emotionally driven and committed; she reminded herself of this. Tattooed it right behind her eyes so she would never be able to look at him without the watermark demanding she keep her heart exactly where it belongs.

With herself.

An exaggerated cough broke their bubble, and they were startled to see Mrs. Doyle standing at the door. Bucky quickly wrapped his arm around Darcy, and she hid in the shelter of his frame. She didn't want Mrs. Doyle to see the remnants of her crying.

“James Barnes,” Mrs. Doyle scolded, with her hands on her hips, “What is it with you and the women of this house?”

Bucky was not at all bashful and graced her with a dashing grin, “It’s not my fault you produce a higher quality of women, Mrs. Doyle.”

The older woman’s lips pursed, and Darcy was startled to realise she was trying to smother a smile, “Well, you best remember that I’m from this house too. My aim with a duster is just as true as it used to be.”

If Darcy hadn't been pressed against him, she suspected she wouldn’t have noticed his flinch, “Course not, Mrs. Doyle. I wouldn’t forget that.”

Bucky looked down at his sweetheart, and his eyes were alight with mirth and endless affection. She looked at him and couldn't resist smiling.

She couldn't see the watermark she'd only just tattooed behind her eyes. Fuck.

Chapter Text

January 28th, 2020

Utah State Archives and Records Service, Salt Lake City

My Dearest, My Darcy, My Doll,

As I write this, you are lying in bed beside me, hopefully lost in happy dreams. I cannot bear to sleep or even try to. Our time together is suddenly so scarce, and I won't miss a second of it. Even if it is just to listen to your gentle snoring, an audible reminder of everything I fight for. I'll leave this behind for you to find after you've seen me off. I fear if I tried to tell you in person, I would become a blubbering mess. So, to save us both from such an awkward encounter, I've chosen a letter.

You, Darcy, brought me peace in a time when there would have been only fear.

I go tomorrow with my heart between my teeth. My heart is both light and heavy. Full of dread and hope. You are the lightness in my dread and the hopefulness in my heavy heart. It is for you that I continue to have faith in God, for you, that I dare dream of being more than just a soldier at war, but one day a husband, a father, and a good man. I pray for you, Steve, my family and Maggie Jane. I pray for forgiveness and redemption long before I require it, if for no other reason than to never touch you with tainted hands. It truly amazes me that such a fiery woman is the soothing balm to my soul, but here you are. Beautiful and unapologetic.

It pains me to leave you – a heavier wound than any Nazi could ever hope to achieve.

Know that I carry your heart within mine with the tenderness of a baby bird. My soul clasps yours with all the reverence of a man in love. Your mind supports mine, even across an ocean of turbulence. I'd leave my lips for you, but I'm too selfish with wanting to kiss you myself.

I will come back. We will be together again. As you are aware, my gut is never wrong, and it is screaming this to me.

Until then, sweetheart, I dream of our inevitable reunion.

My love, it is, and always shall be, you.

Ever and eternally yours,

Bucky

With a deep sigh, Natasha brought the letter to her chest and clutched it tightly. Physical, tangible evidence in her hands of just how much Yasha loved Darcy Lewis. Natasha wondered if he remembered writing his letters to Darcy – all soaked with devotion and care. Pledges of fidelity, reassurances of love, humour bleeding with pain, and promises of a life together.

Sitting in the dim light of the small archive room, she'd reread the letter over a dozen times and suspected she'd read it at least a dozen times more. Her eyes hovered over the sentence, 'I dream of our inevitable reunion,' and she felt the urge to cry.

They were never reunited. Natasha had known injustice all her life, but there was no greater injustice than that.

Natasha remembered Yasha saying that the only thing he knew for certain was that his wife was the only thing he'd ever truly wanted. As a little girl, the sentiment had truly touched her, and she'd wondered if she could ever be the one thing anyone ever truly wanted. If Yasha could have it, so could little Nat one day. Even now, knowing that Bucky and Darcy never married, which Natasha suspected may not have been their choice but rather a consequence of her already being married, didn't lessen Natasha's envy. They spoke as partners and equals; in his letters, Bucky refers to her as his wife more than once. Bucky must have assumed it was a forgone conclusion and preemptively called her as such. In the end, it appeared that a piece of paper declaring them husband and wife meant little to them. Enough so that Yasha didn't even remember that they weren't legally married at all.

She hadn't read all the surviving letters, which were sadly minimal and mostly written by Yasha, but it was clear Darcy had loved her Bucky too.

It was not the only letter Yasha had sent her, but it did pose a question she didn't know the answer to: who was Maggie Jane?

As always, she had a reliable, if questionable, source on speed dial.

He answered within two rings, "What ground-breaking revelation do you have for me today?"

"No 'hi, how are you' or 'miss you' – what is this? You lose your manners in your old age?" She teased him.

"Hi, Nat. How are you? I've missed you. You darn kids need to get off my lawn. What ground-breaking revelation do you have for me today?"

Grinning, Natasha was thrilled he'd played along, "Hi, Steve. I'm good. I've missed you too. I bought a Jeep - can't wait to do a burnout on your lawn. I haven't found anything in this damn archive yet, but I have read some of his old letters. Barnes was quite the romantic – why didn't you ever snatch him up?"

"I had standards – Buck didn't reach them. It posed a problem because, at 5'3 tall, I couldn't even reach my own standards," Steve joked back, "What's in the letters?"

"They didn't have a baby, did they?"

Natasha gleefully suspected she made him choke, "What?"

Never one to beat around the bush, she hopped straight to it, "Did Barnes and Lewis have a baby together?"

If you could hear someone pinching the bridge of their nose, Natasha imagines she'd hear Steve doing it now, "Believe it or not, Nat, I think I would have noticed."

Leaning back into her chair, Natasha idly picked at the flaking polish on her nails, "You say that, but you still haven't noticed I moved all your furniture an inch to the left and then back again when you finally stopped stubbing your toes."

"… Wait, what?"

Smothering a snicker, Natasha quickly changed topics, "Who is Maggie Jane then?"

"An inch to the left-? Maggie Jane?" Steve struggled to keep up with the topic changes, "No clue about a Maggie Jane, but Maggie was the name of one of Bucky's sisters. I don't know about Jane. My toes? Nat, you're evil."

Considering he'd taken on Nazis, Natasha was going to take that as her crowning achievement. She was of the same calibre as Nazi's. She could retire now. Captain America finally declared her evil because she moved his furniture so he'd stub his toes. Her life's work. She should write a memoir called 'Natasha Romanova - Captain America's True Nemesis.'

Wait, Maggie Barnes?

Natasha started to shift through her files of Yasha, "Wait, I don't have a record of Maggie. I know about Evelyn, Charlotte, and Rebecca, but not Maggie."

"She didn't survive infancy. It was… common enough back then." Steve's voice was appropriately morose.

Interesting, "… Would she be someone Barnes would name his child after?"

"We're talkin' about Bucky here – he would o' named his kid Joe the week after Joe Louis knocked out Abe Simon in Madison Square in the '42 boxing championships. Such a shame we missed it."

"Sooooo yes?"

"… Probably," Steve admitted, "But they didn't have a kid, so I don't know why this is important. I would have known 'cause he would o' told me - Bucky wouldn't have been able to help himself."

"Barnes mentioned her in a letter, so I was just curious. Knowing my recent luck, it'll be a damn dog or something," Natasha sighed – another dead end - the day had been full of them, "This visit to Salt Lake City has been a bust. Harker was brilliant at covering his tracks. The slippery bastard undoubtedly had the police in his pocket. I might have to go to his old office and check if his successors kept any physical files from his time, but that'll have to wait. I have somewhere I need to go first."

"Oh? Where's that?"

"One of her friends is still alive and currently living in Chicago; I'm heading there next. I've organised with her retirement home to visit her – maybe it'll give me an avenue I haven't thought of."

Steve sounded curious, "Oh? Which friend?"

She double-checked the paperwork before answering, "A Dorothy Potter née Fischer."

Silence filled the phone.

For a moment, Natasha thought the phone had dropped out, but then he laughed, "She married Harry? Son of a gun! Wow, he was crazy 'bout her, but she never gave him the time of day. While I live and breathe, she actually married him!"

Glancing back at the paperwork, Natasha was ready to gush with gossip.

"No," Natasha chuckled with wicked glee, "His brother."

His gasp was completely aghast, "No!"

"Yes!"

"Poor Harry!" His chuckle, however, negated his words.

"Yes, yes, poor Harry," Natasha dismissed, bringing them back on track, "However, he's dead and buried and of no use to me. Dorothy, on the other hand… Well, I'm curious to know what she has to say."

Chapter Text

April 3rd, 1942

Bucky and Steve's House, New York City

For a blissful moment, Darcy thought she could drift off to sleep. Laying together on Bucky's narrow bed meant closeness and warmth. Her cheeks flushed red from his body heat, and Darcy genuinely considered stripping off a layer or two of clothing. They were above the covers, and Darcy was safely ensconced in Bucky's arms. She'd unbuttoned the top of his shirt and lightly played with the short hairs on his chest. Her leg was flung possessively over his abdomen as his fingertips absentmindedly traced patterns on her thigh. Darcy's mind was foggy with all that was Bucky. His clean, soapy smell, the fresh feel of his smooth chin, the protectiveness that oozed from him in spades. Bucky Barnes Oud Perfume. The calming thumps of his steady heart were a soothing lullaby against her ear. If Darcy could bottle the serenity she felt and tuck it into bed with her at night, she would - every night of her life.

Steve had picked up another art class to make up for his missed lessons and promised to dawdle home so they'd have a few precious hours to themselves. Bucky hadn't wanted to leave Steve alone, but his best pal stubbornly insisted.

His concern for Steve, along with his bone weariness, meant Bucky wasn't in a very amorous mood, and that was just fine by her.

It had been two very busy days for Darcy, picking up her own slack at work. She'd resorted to skipping her lunch break/shorthand lessons (to Katherine's immense irritation), going to work an hour early, and leaving an hour later just to catch up. She was partway there and had hoped to finish it before the weekend but hadn't made it in time. She'd worried that she'd have to sacrifice spending time with Bucky, but he'd reassured her that he'd find a way to spend time with her. Instead of going to see a film, as most couples would on a Friday night, Bucky had sat across from her in her office, helping her with mundane, repetitive actions. Mailing, in particular, had piled up a mile high, and though he might not be a secretary, Bucky knew how to write addresses, seal, and sort envelopes. God, he'd saved her maybe two hours of work with that alone.

When her eyes started to go cross-eyed, he'd softly recommended they head off. It was still early, and she'd insisted on going to his house as originally planned. Bucky didn't seem to mind too much, even if he was half-carrying her to their destination. His idea of popping into Rosie's for a quick coffee was Nobel Prize-worthy. She'd been completely rejuvenated until she sat on his bed and found solace in Bucky's arms. Then she'd been sleepy all over again.

Judging by the occasional sharp spikes in his breath and random twitching, she'd guess he'd also been dozing off somewhat. Twirling his chest hair around her fingers, Darcy couldn't resist the urge to kiss his exposed skin sweetly. Bucky jerked and looked at her blearily before breaking out into a big smile.

"Hey, doll," his voice was husky with sleep, and Darcy found she loved the unfamiliar sound.

"Hey, handsome," she echoed back.

His arm tightened around her, and with his free hand, he took hers and brought it to his lips. He placed three kisses on her palm in quick succession before merely keeping a hold of her hand against his chest. The action was so mindlessly instinctive for him, and her heart did a little excited flip. Bucky Barnes was one smooth mother fucker.

Despite the relaxed feel of him, Darcy had felt the set of his shoulders shift with stress when he woke.

"Still worried about Steve?" She softly enquired.

He released a soft hum before slowly speaking, "Yeah, I'm always worried 'bout him. He's only just recovered, and already he's out again. I've also never met a man so eager to get the snot kicked outta 'im. I swear, if I hadn't grown up worryin' so much 'bout the punk, I'd be fearless."

Darcy giggled lightly as she shifted in his arms to look up at him, "Yeah? Hmm, I guess you've got to carry his fear for him. God knows he won't."

"Ain't that the truth," he muttered as he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, "What are you afraid of?"

The question was light in nature, but for some reason, the sensation of being warm and safe made her delve a little deeper into her psyche than she'd normally like.

"I," Darcy began and faltered, "I'm scared of birds."

It was a relatively new fear, and Darcy knew exactly how it started too. Ian and Erik were beside her, their arms full of Jane's equipment, and the birds had come out of thin air beneath her. At the time, she'd wanted to make a Marilyn Monroe joke, but now… the sight of birds flocked together made her heart beat a little bit faster. She was well aware that it wasn't rational. The Convergence was no longer open, so the odds of birds being thrown at her via a portal weren't exactly high, but...

Bucky's head cocked to the side, "Birds?"

"Well, no," Darcy corrected, feeling stupid, "Like, a flock of birds. Like, when they, you know, swoop at you. I, um, they just appeared out of nowhere. At the time, it was fine, but… whenever I see a flock of birds, I'm-!" Darcy started to pull away from him, feeling embarrassed, "God, it's ridiculous. I can't even believe I'm saying it out loud---!"

He tightened his hold on her so she couldn't wiggle away.

"Hey," Bucky squeezed her hand soothingly, "It's not ridiculous."

She sighed as she settled back against him, "It really is."

"Nope," Bucky insisted, popping the 'p' obnoxiously, "With their beady little eyes and their tendency to steal food, I'd be scared too."

"It's such a childish fear," Darcy grumbled against his chest, "Others are heading to war, and Emily—--" she cut herself off.

Silence reigned between them while Bucky waited for her to speak, but Darcy didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

"You're allowed to be afraid for Emily," Bucky lightly prodded her, "You should talk to her."

"I can't," Darcy whispered brokenly, "I encouraged her-!"

He rolled them over so she was flat on her back, and he was hovering above her. He nuzzled her nose gently with his. The action offered Darcy more comfort than she would be willing to admit out loud. Strangely, having him above her made her feel secure, not trapped. As though he were a guardian angel watching over her, she supposed he was as pretty as one. But she felt no urge to so much as squirm under his intense gaze. It really said a lot about how safe he made her feel.

"Sweetheart, you encouraged her to make somethin' of her life. It's her choice what she chooses to do with it."

Darcy shook her head lightly, "But if she dies because of me-!"

Bucky's mouth pressed firmly against hers, sealing her doubts behind her lips, before whispering, "She won't."

There was no way Bucky could possibly understand the agony of her predicament. There was a chance Emily wouldn't have even considered volunteering without her interference. If Emily dies, it's all her fault. Emily had parents who would mourn her. Friends that would mourn her. Darcy would mourn her. Emily had a vibrant life to lead, and Darcy had all but damned her to hell.

What was she doing in the '40s? Breaking things that weren't meant to be meddled with?

It was Bucky who broke her downward spiralling train of thought with a confession of his own.

"I'm scared of turning out like my Da," the words were whispered, as if to diminish the fact they were filled with shame, "Everyone says I'm just like 'im."

Remembering the pain on his face the last time his Da had been brought up, Darcy caressed his face comfortingly. Bucky's eyes slid shut, and he leaned his cheek further into her palm, gratefully accepting her offer of comfort.

"I never knew him from before the war," Bucky uttered brokenly above her, "Apparently, he was charming and brave. I saw snippets of that man throughout my life, but I never knew him."

His face turned away from her, and Darcy intimately understood that he couldn't have this conversation face-to-face. With a little tug, she gently encouraged him to rest against her, and he all but collapsed atop her. Bucky buried his head in her chest, and his words were muffled but intelligible.

"I won't get into what sparked it, but Da had a really bad 'moment' before Becca was even born. I was in the room with him and Mama. I'd never seen him that bad before."

Darcy's arms reflexively clutched around him as she stiffened. She didn't like where this was going.

"I was tryin' to talk him down. I'd gotten the girls outta the house, but Ma was stuck behind him in the livin' room. Mama was cryin', beggin' him to snap outta it. I thought he was gonna hurt her – it was the first time in my life I thought that. I threw myself between them, and I think he half snapped out of it. He looked so scared."

Bucky's throat clogged as he struggled to get the words out. Darcy mindlessly ran her fingers calmly through his hair, and he shuddered at the sensation.

"I think Da became self-aware at that moment. I think even he realised he was further gone than he thought," Bucky's face was almost painfully buried in her chest now, and his voice was harder to hear, "He grabbed his pistol from the mantel, said his last words, and shot himself dead."

Darcy couldn't help the choked sound that escaped her mouth. He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed and glossy. No words were exchanged, but Darcy cradled his face and pulled his face towards hers. He went willingly, and their foreheads lightly smacked together with their movement, but at that moment, Darcy couldn't feel physical pain. Only the emotional pain that Bucky had shared with her could be considered. Breathing in each other's ragged breaths, Darcy realised there was much more to her brave Bucky than she had originally thought.

"What did he say?" Darcy asked, only a little worried that she was being insensitive in doing so.

Her boyfriend shivered violently against her, and Darcy regretted asking, but he answered without stuttering, "'You'll protect our women, won't you, boy.'"

Dear fucking God. Could you hate a man you'd never met? Darcy hadn't truly thought so until now.

What kind of asshole places that kind of pressure on their kid? He could recite it perfectly, too – a testament to how badly it had affected him. What could she possibly say to help relieve that burden?

As though he had heard her thoughts, he gave her an apologetic kiss and said, "I'm sorry."

What?

Darcy pulled away and looked at him baffled, "For what?"

He shook his head in shame, "For burdening you with this. I shouldn'ta done that---"

Obviously, the tables had turned because Darcy gave him the sternest look she could conjure. It was now her turn to reassure him and she was going to do it right.

"Now listen to me," Darcy demanded, his eyes widening as they snapped to hers, "You are not your Da. You are Bucky Barnes, and you are not doomed to repeat your father's mistakes. You would never abandon your family, no matter how bad things were."

His throat bobbed, and he looked as though he wanted to speak. It was difficult for her, but Darcy waited as patiently as she could stand while he gathered his voice.

After a couple of false starts, he managed it, "How can you be so sure?"

It was a valid question, and it took Darcy several seconds to think of how she wanted to phrase it, "Because your sisters adore you. Your mother sings your praises. Stevie would be lost without you… and you've made every day of my life brighter since I met you. If you weren't uniquely Bucky, none of this would be true. Bucky, you are phenomenal, and every single one of us would proudly defend you for just being you."

She'd barely finished her passionate speech before he finally wept, and Darcy didn't hesitate to embrace him. He latched onto her tighter than a startled child to its mother, and Darcy caressed his back, shoulders, hair, and anywhere she could reach. All the while whispering truthful reassurances in his ear that he is Bucky, and he is not his father.

Darcy wanted to cry with him, but he needed her to be calm right now, so that is what she would give him.

His shoulders shook with the full brunt of his sobs, and he periodically forgot to take deep breaths. She suspected he wasn't a delicate crier, but she supposed he also wasn't the type to allow himself to practice, so she softly schooled him on when to breathe.

This man didn't deserve any of the pain he'd experienced. If Darcy could keep Bucky's heart safeguarded next to hers, she would. She had no problem being his crutch when he was feeling weak. Just like he'd been hers for any situation thrown their way. Not for the first time, she cursed this generation's disregard for emotional support and for stifling the emotional needs of their boys.

It took several minutes, but he slowly smothered his tears and swallowed his hiccups. It didn't escape her notice that he had pulled away from her and was shielding his tear-stained face.

"Don't be ashamed to cry," Darcy pleaded as she reached for him, "Not around me."

He didn't need much convincing. Nodding, he delicately pressed his lips to her head. When he drew away, their eyes locked, and his were alight with something akin to wonder. Darcy wasn't sure she could put a label on that look yet, but her pulse thrummed with something like reciprocity.

She raised her arm and gestured to the empty space beneath it invitingly, "Come on then - back where you belong."

He scrambled to fill the spot under her arm, and having him back within reach felt right. Huddled up against her side, Darcy ran her fingers through his hair. As she predicted, he slowly relaxed and became pliant under her fingers. She'd recently discovered her boy loved having his hair and scalp played with. Mentally, she made a note to do so more often. He deserved all the head scratches a puppy did. It wasn't long before his eyes were lulled shut, and an almost purring sound gently escaped his mouth. She redoubled her efforts, and the contented sounds he made increased.

Darcy was so grateful that he'd shared a part of his story with her. Infinitely grateful. His vulnerability was sweetly enticing to hers. God, it made her want to tell him everything.

"I think I have abandonment issues," Darcy blurted, as though they hadn't unloaded enough emotional baggage for one night.

Blinking up at her, Bucky didn't seem to think it was too much, "Makes sense."

How?

"Yeah?"

He gave a small shrug as if trying to soften the impact of his words, "Your family… your husband."

Uh. Right. That would make sense.

Darcy decided to drop it. She couldn't bear to play the widow tonight.

They lay together in silence. Both were simply content to be together at that moment. Safe and secure in his arms, Darcy was worried she'd slip into sleep and accidentally stay the night. Modern woman or not, not even she wanted to deal with the repercussions of that from Mrs. Doyle.

Eventually, Bucky pulled back and rested his head on his propped arm, "You know I'll never abandon you, right?"

A bitter smile made its way to her lips, and Darcy tried not to sneer, "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

Bucky actually had the audacity to look offended by her comment, "Well, yeah. I do say so."

"Liar," Darcy huffed and turned her back on him.

"Hey!" He barked, trying to turn her back around, "What's brought this on?"

Darcy didn't answer. He knew. He was going to enlist. She knew this. Bucky would enlist, go to Europe, be declared dead but not really die, and then he'd somehow end up an assassin in the 21st century. If abandonment didn't cover that, she wasn't sure what did.

Bucky was relentless though, tugging at her arm, trying to roll her back over so he could look at her, "Where exactly do you think I'm runnin' off to?"

With a scowl, she flipped over and snapped, "You and Stevie are planning on running off to Europe! That's where!"

He looked at her with incredulity, "No, I'm not."

For God's sake! She had spoilers: she knew he would, "Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are!"

His eyes were narrowing more and more the longer she argued, "Says who?"

Every U.S history book about WWII on the damn planet!

"Don't try and gaslight me! You and Stevie are both going to enlist!"

A lightbulb seemed to light up in his head, and Bucky suddenly looked very serious, "Darcy, no. I'm not enlisting."

She turned her back on him, and her mouth was already open, ready to argue, but his words gave her pause.

"Wait, you what?" Darcy twisted so she could face him, "You aren't enlisting?"

"Christ, no," Bucky exclaimed, appalled, "And give you another reason to be upset? Never."

Darcy could only stare at him uncomprehendingly as this information registered in her mind.

He wasn't leaving. He wasn't leaving. Bucky wasn't going to enlist. She thought her heart would burst with happiness. He wasn't going to go. Bucky wasn't going to go to Europe. He was going to stay here, in New York, right here with her.

She'd changed his fate. Just like with Emily, she altered his life path. Should she have? Probably not, but it was one life - how much of a difference could it make? She'd saved him. He wasn't going to enlist now because she was here. Is that why, for some divine reason, she was out of time? To save Bucky? Did it really matter? No, because she would get to keep Bucky!

Wishes that suddenly became reality flashed in her mind, and for the first time since arriving in the past, she saw a future, and Bucky was right there beside her.

Quick as lightning, Darcy mounted his lap and kissed him so passionately that Bucky gasped in surprise. Once he caught his bearings, however, he returned it twice-fold. Both their hands roamed over each other, both desperately seeking physical comfort from their emotionally heavy night. He hissed as she bit his bottom lip and sharply nipped her back in a playful warning.

But Darcy couldn't feel anything but joy. Fuck WWII. It wasn't going to take Bucky. She'd spared him his fate. Bucky was hers.

"I'm sorry," she muttered against his lips as she splattered his face with wet kisses, "I thought – I thought-!"

"I know full well what you thought," he said, trying to pucker his lips in time for whenever hers graced his, "And I'm telling you, you thought wrong. No way am I voluntarily leavin' you."

"I'm so relieved!" She gushed.

At that moment, Darcy decided to live in the moment. She wouldn't fear the future. How could she? Bucky would be with her every step of the way.

A weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and Darcy couldn't help pampering him with happy kisses.

He finally put a stop to her pestering kisses and blessed her with an eager kiss full of tongue and teeth. She moaned in approval before he pulled away.

"It does make this fella proud that you're so relieved I'm sticking 'round. I plan to for quite a while, y'know."

Darcy couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

"Besides," he grinned and lightly nipped at her neck, "Tomorrow is Saturday, which is your unofficial birthday, and I've taken work off for just the occasion. Your wish will be my command."

"Hmm," she wondered theatrically, "I want a malt shake."

"Diabetes? That's a strange birthday wish, but who am I to deny you?"

She shrieked with laughter as he blew raspberries on her neck.

Chapter Text

April 4th, 1942

Rosie's Diner + Barnes Residence, New York City

Bucky's eyes arched higher and higher with every eager slurp of her malt shake. Half of it was gone in barely the blink of an eye. Honestly, it was impressive. Goddamn, his Darcy loved her chocolate malt shakes. She hadn't even touched her burger and fries yet.

Pure incredulity coloured his tone, "You wanna take a breath anytime soon, doll?"

"Nope," she released her straw only long enough to answer before, "Ahh! Brain freeze!"

With an amused chuckle, Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, "Yeah, knew that was gonna happen."

He tightened his arm around her as she dramatically whined about her pained head and tucked her face into his chest. Soothingly, he rubbed her arm to distract her from the pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Rosie gesturing to see if they needed help. He waved her off with a grin. Lovely Rosie had been very accommodating to his requests for Darcy's birthday: Darcy's favourite booth, a chocolatier than normal malt shake, and customers seated a little further away from them for a quiet lunch. He was going to leave her a big, grateful tip. Rosie deserved it.

Darcy's brain freeze only lasted a moment before she fully recovered. Instead of trying to inhale her drink in one breath, she grabbed a fry and happily dipped it into her shake.

He adored Darcy. He did. Truly.

But goddamn did his stomach twist every time she dipped a fry in her shake and watched it make its way into her mouth. She'd always do this adorable happy little wiggle in her seat, and Bucky didn't have the heart to comment. If she wanted the disgusting fries, she could have her disgusting fries.

After munching on one of those horribly tarnished fries, Darcy dipped another and offered it to him with what should have been a generous smile... but it reeked of something silently sinister.

He frantically backed up in the booth further away from her, physically recoiling from the offer, "Nah, doll. All yours."

She had an evil gleam in her eyes, "It's my birthday. I insist."

Darcy was evil. A tiny tyrant with just enough malicious intent to rival even his own sisters. It shouldn't have been attractive. Obviously, he was a glutton for punishment. Evil she may be, but she was clever enough to know that he'd do just about anything for her. Especially today, of all days. If his sweetheart wanted him to eat the damn fries, he'd eat the damn fries. Sure, pigs might not be flying, but he'd sooner cut off his own arm than upset her.

With great reluctance, he leant forward and took a bite of the proffered fry. The taste was immediate, and he turned his face away to hide his no doubt visceral reaction.

It was soggy. It was sweet. It was savoury. It was garbage. He rolled it around in his mouth with the same eagerness as when his Mama washed his mouth out with soap for his swearing.

If given a choice, he wasn't convinced he'd pick the fry over the soap.

"That's…" he started diplomatically as he dragged his hand over his face, "That's definitely not goyish."

He sipped his coffee in a desperate attempt to get rid of the taste.

Darcy cackled with delight before finishing off the fry, "Your loss!"

He shot her a charming grin, completely unable to hide his genuine pleasure of her giddy mood.

"Definitely not," he asserted as he lightly nipped behind her ear, "I've you under my arm, don't I? Sounds like a winner to me."

She rolled her eyes affectionally, "Your sweet talking puts Barney to shame."

Before he could dumbfoundedly ask, 'who the hell is this Barney sweet-talking his girl,' the bell to the diner rang, and Steve stepped in. He gave Rosie a cheeky smile and a wave before approaching their table.

"You're late!" Darcy crossed her arms with an exaggerated huff.

"Sorry, Darcy," Steve spoke apologetically as he kissed her cheek, "I was held up."

It wasn't true.

Steve and Bucky had orchestrated his tardiness. They hadn't wanted to upset Darcy by admitting they couldn't financially justify them both going out to eat. Neither man wanted Darcy to pay for their meals either - the knowledge of which would only upset her more. Even going out for a coffee on Sundays once a week was a treat. Therefore, Steve was 'held up.'

Taking his seat across from them, Steve wished her a happy birthday and asked after her morning, and Darcy launched into a happy tirade.

Her girlfriends had surprised her with breakfast in bed, Bucky had gifted her the beautiful blue lace 'scrunchie' she was currently wearing, some beautiful handpicked flowers, and now she was gorging on a burger, fries, and a malt shake. Pride burst in his chest from her delighted recount. The fact that she loved the scrunchie Becca had painstakingly made for him to gift her made him adore her even more. He was even more grateful that none of the women had made his arrival at the boarding house uncomfortable. Connie had been polite, and Dot had been only quietly abrasive. Small mercies.

However, he'd been a little surprised by Darcy's continued vehemence in ignoring Emily.

He'd suggested they invite Emily to lunch, but Darcy had quietly shaken her head. He didn't understand why Darcy was so personally affected by Emily's choice to volunteer. The whole situation was bugging him. It wasn't like Darcy to be so unconfrontational, and he didn't understand why she was suddenly so shy about resolving a problem. As much as Bucky wanted to insist, he hadn't wanted to start a fight on a day he'd proclaimed was dedicated solely to her.

Maybe surprised wasn't the right word. Maybe annoyed was more appropriate. Emily didn't deserve it. He quietly decided that he'd mention it if it weren't resolved soon. Likely to his detriment, but enough was enough. The poor girl might end up in Europe before too long, and if Darcy continued to let their friendship deteriorate, she would hate herself even more.

"Looks like you've got Buck all wrapped 'round your finger," Steve grinned slyly.

Darcy giggled, and they both shot him amused looks.

"I'm not gonna lie," Bucky spoke plainly, "I wasn't listenin'."

"We figured," Steve chortled, "Fries and malt shake? Ain't no regular dame gonna be able to get you to do that."

"Put a sock in it, punk."

They both went 'ooooh' at his tone but quickly giggled.

"Pictures?" Darcy bounced in her seat whilst looking up at him in excitement.

He tried to hide his wince, but Steve noticed and shot him a look of sympathy.

It was Darcy's day. What she wanted, she got. If she wanted to go see a movie, they'd go see a movie.

Doing sums in his head, Bucky worried he would have to rush home and grab some of his pennies. He didn't want to worry Darcy though. He'd promised her every wish would be his command, and he damn well meant to live up to it.

So instead, he showered her with a cocksure grin, "Course, doll. Pictures."

Darcy squeaked with happiness as they stood to leave. Quickly latching onto Steve's arm, she practically skipped them out of the diner while Bucky affectionately shook his head. He hadn't seen Darcy this excited about anything. Ever. Obviously, she'd needed a good old-fashioned relaxing day. This was something Bucky was more than glad to give to her. Bucky left behind their payment and tip before strolling outside to meet them.

He briefly wondered what excuse he could use to quickly duck off home and grab some cash for the film tickets.

Darcy was chatting animatedly to Steve, who kindly nodded along. She was hanging on his arm and was closest to traffic.

Bucky looked at them, appalled, "Cabbage."

Steve had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Bucky shot him an unimpressed look as he waltzed up and grabbed Darcy's arm.

But Steve was slick, and the move had been planned. With subtlety Bucky hadn't known the punk was capable of, Steve slipped a dollar bill into Bucky's pants pocket.

Thank Christ for Steve, always thinking ahead when Bucky wasn't. He'd obviously dipped into the emergency cash pot at home just in case they needed it. Which, with Darcy's sudden desire to go see a film, they did.

They went to the pictures, bought popcorn and candy, and saw a movie. Due to Steve's presence, they opted for the front of the cinema instead of the back. Necking at the pictures was all well and good, but Stevie would smack him over the head for inappropriate behaviour sooner or later. Telling himself he was content to watch the film, Bucky struggled to pay any attention to it at all. He couldn't have told you what it was for the life of him – some comedy or rather. All he could care about was that Darcy seemed to like it, and her happy mood seemed impossibly brighter. Her arm was wrapped around his, and she leaned her head against his shoulder for the entire film. There was never a scene where she didn't excitedly whack his arm and whisper an amusing comment in his ear, and more than once, they'd both laughed at inappropriate times. He should have been embarrassed by the attention they attracted from the other moviegoers, but the adoring looks she shot him throughout made his heart flutter. It was worth every penny. Steve's repeated withering looks were just the cherry on top.

Making their way out of the pictures, Bucky and Steve on either side of her, Darcy prodded, "What now?"

Bucky grinned, "Birthday dinner at Ma's house. She's been lookin' forward to havin' ya."

Honestly, Bucky had been a little worried that Darcy wouldn't appreciate spending her birthday dinner at his Ma's house. It wasn't too weird, was it? He wasn't coming across as pushy, was he? He adored Darcy, and he was eager to seamlessly integrate her into his family.

Bucky needn't have worried because she smiled and nodded, "Awesome!"

The walk to his Mama's house was uneventful, but Darcy managed to talk their ears off the entire way.

Approaching the steps, Bucky escorted Darcy up and opened the door for her, "After you, Ma'am."

He winced before her eyes even narrowed. The 'ma'am' had slipped out without his permission.

"'Ma'am,'" Darcy grumbled, "Call me that again, and I'm going to flip it."

He grinned and pushed his luck, "Yes, dear."

"That-!" The look she shot him was one of utter dismay, "That might actually be worse."

Steve laughed as they entered the house, and as was typical for the Barnes household, the house was alit with activity.

"We're here!" Bucky bellowed as he removed Darcy's coat and hung it up.

The sound of something cracking ricocheted throughout the house, along with a sharp screech of 'Becca!' Two seconds later, a hollering Becca was running down the hall with a growling Lottie hot on her heels. Spotting them, Becca grinned and rushed towards, and then around, him.

As the oldest sibling, the only boy, and the frequent victim of their schemes, Bucky immediately knew what Becca was planning to do. He also knew that it wasn't going to work against Lottie. Evie maybe, but not Lottie.

"Hey!" Bucky yelled as Becca used him as a human shield.

As anticipated, this did not deter Lottie, who gladly rammed them both to the floor.

The three of them fell into a heap on the ground with a loud thump, and Lottie immediately sprang at Becca. Using himself as a physical barricade, Bucky tucked Becca safely under his arm as he held off Lottie with his other. She looked more like a rabid beast than an educated lady. What was the point of him paying half the tuition for her night classes if she didn't learn how to contain herself? Steve, being the pal he was, was desperately trying to pull Lottie off them.

"Let me at 'er!" Lottie snarled, lunging futilely for Becca.

Lottie didn't relent in her hostile attempts to reach their little sister. What the hell did she do?

Becca gave that pitiful mewl reserved exclusively for all the babies in every family, which Bucky immediately recognised as fake, "Bucky! Help me!"

"What'dya think I'm tryin' do?!" Bucky growled back.

Finally, with the help of Darcy, Steve managed to unbalance Lottie enough to separate them. It wasn't for long, but long enough for Bucky and Becca to get back on their feet.

"She broke it!" Lottie bawled, upset.

Bucky glared over his shoulder at Becca, who was still playing the cowering sister behind him, "Goddamn it, Becca. Why?"

Becca dropped the puerile look and became mad at his tone, "It was an accident!"

Of that, he was sure, but this was becoming a regular occurrence.

"You gotta be more careful with other people's things," Bucky scolded, exasperated that they needed to have this conversation again, "Money don't grow on trees! What'd you break?"

"My hand mirror." Lottie cut in, whining, "It's cracked!"

"Yeah, well," Bucky dismissed, "That's seven years o' bad luck for Becca, so that's punishment enough."

This wasn't enough for Lottie, "What am I supposed to do? Share hers or Evie's?"

"I'll get ya another one, 'lright? Sheesh," Bucky placated with irritation, "It's a damn mirror. You say it like we don't have one in every room of the house."

Just then, Mama came in from the back door and clapped her hands excitedly at the sight of them.

"Darcy! Boys!" Mama greeted warmly as she approached.

"Sofia! Thanks for having me!" Darcy gushed to his Ma.

Mama waved her hand dismissively before kissing both her cheeks, "Of course! We've been looking forward to it. I hope you like chocolate cake."

Darcy's eyes bugged out of her head, "I looooove chocolate."

He'd pegged her as such a girl. Her love of chocolate malt shakes spoke wonders, but Bucky was still filled with delight for guessing her preferred cake correctly.

Mama's eyes narrowed at her children, "Becca, why are you hidin' behind your brother?"

The siblings looked at each other, and a silent agreement was made to not mention their little altercation to Mama, "No reason."

She didn't look convinced but let it slide. Likely because Darcy was present. Whew.

After his Ma had also kissed his and Steve's cheeks, they were brought into the dining room. It looked like dinner was just about ready, and Mama was eager to have a full house to feed.

As was typical for their family, everyone was a cog in the well-oiled machine, and they had a task to accomplish before they sat down to eat. Everyone was loud and laughing. Bucky even overheard Becca subtly asking about the very scrunchie she'd made and delightedly clapped when Darcy declared she'd wear it every day.

His Mama must have been eager to make a great impact on Darcy's birthday because she made her special meatloaf. Bucky was grateful she was making such a kind effort for his girlfriend. Clearly, she understood that Darcy meant a lot to him. Well, he supposed it was clear to anyone who merely glanced in their direction.

Bucky was second last to reach the table before Mama, and he shot both Becca and Steve a foul look; they were sitting on either side of his Darcy. He, you know, the boyfriend, should get to sit next to his girlfriend, and they'd claimed both seats next to her. These two were shooting scurrilous looks at each other, obviously thinking they'd been slick. That he wasn't going to do anything about it.

Well, that shit wasn't gonna fly.

With fluid movements, he stood behind Becca's chair and tilted it until she flailed out of it with a high-pitched squeak.

Did they really think he'd demurely take the seat at the other end of the table?

"Hey!" Becca growled at him from the floor.

"Oh?" Bucky blandly commented, taking the suddenly empty seat, "What was that? You want me to tell Ma 'bout the mirror? Hmm? The squabble that came after?"

His sisters' lips pursed in vexation as snickers could be heard across the table. In a manner that suited a tantrum, Becca huffily sat down across from them next to Lottie. Christ, was that the only seat still available that wasn't Mama's favourite spot? He didn't get a chance to insist on a switch before his Mama flourished into the room with the last side dish, mashed potatoes.

It was almost a small feast, and the glazed look in Darcy's eyes proved that she was touched by their effort. With a boisterous 'dig in' from his Mama, everyone tucked their meals away with startling ferocity. It wasn't often they ate so well.

Dinner passed without a hitch. The food was fantastic; the company was even better.

When his Ma had brought out the chocolate cake she'd painstakingly made, delighted gasps were heard all around. They hadn't had candles; they were becoming quite scarce, but they still sang for her with all the enthusiasm a Barnes could manage. That is, to say, a lot.

His sweetheart proudly cut the cake, introducing Bucky to his newest favourite birthday tradition: kissing the closest boy if you touched the bottom. He was more than happy to oblige. It was sweet and chaste, but he couldn't contain his cheesy grin for all the money in the world. Before long, Darcy was asking everyone how big of a slice they wanted.

"A bisI," he told her with a grin.

The smile that broke out on her face was beautiful, and she cut him a larger slice than a bisl suggested. He didn't complain. She couldn't cut another slice because his Mama shooed her away sternly. Darcy wisely relinquished the knife but gushed excitedly when Mama cut her a rather large slice.

Darcy accepted the slice with almost childish delight, and her new bracelet glittered in the light. Jerry's bracelet adorned her wrist, and Bucky tried to quell the spark of envy. It should be Bucky buying her beautiful jewellery.

Lightly shaking the thought away, he staunchly refused to get upset. He would buy her jewellery one day. Hell, he'd buy her a lot more than that one day - everything if he could.

But until then, he would still hold and kiss her hand every chance he got. Maybe one day he'd even start kissing a ring he'd place on her finger.

His family broke into happy chatter, each member attempting to speak louder than the one next to them.

It didn't take too long before memories from their childhood came up. Mostly Bucky's, but some of Steve's and his sisters as well. Stickball, for example, was brought up as a favourite pastime of little Bucky's.

"You hit a ball around with a stick for fun?" Darcy asked a little doubtfully.

Shrugging, Bucky clarified, "There wasn't much us boys could do durin' the Depression. A stick and an old ball kept us all sane."

"Cowboys and Indians, too," Steve added wistfully.

"I remember that!" Bucky laughed, "Didn't matter which side we were on, we'd always team up."

Steve grinned, "That's when the other kids decided they didn't like us anymore."

They clicked their drinks together in solidarity.

Mama smiled at Darcy and curiously prodded, "And what would a young lady do for fun in Utah?"

Darcy's face went completely blank, her mind visibly racing, and Bucky grew concerned when she didn't answer for a full minute.

"Umm, cards?" She phrased it like a question.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Bucky wondered what kind of shit Darcy got up to as a kid that it took her a whole minute to settle on cards. Cards are obviously a lie or, at the very least, an exaggeration.

"Oh yeah?" Bucky hedged innocently as Darcy's eyes shot off sparks of warning, "I think we've a deck 'round here somewhere. What's your best game?"

The look Darcy sent him was of pure annoyance, "Go Fish."

Go. Fish. Riiiiight.

He hummed, "Uh-huh, a clever dame like you? Surely, that didn't keep you entertained for years. What else?"

Darcy huffed, "Jane would get too aggressive with Snap – we ended up having to ban it for the sake of intergalactic safety."

Rolling his eyes at her, Bucky mused that she could be very dramatic when she wanted to be.

"Jane?" Mama queried, "Is she your sister?"

Darcy's face immediately dropped. Bucky wanted to kick himself for failing to mention anything to his family about Darcy being all alone in the world. Reminding Darcy that her family was dead, on her birthday of all days, was something he could have avoided. Christ, he's an idiot!

He had a hard enough time dealing with his emotions when remembering Maggie, and she'd only been a baby when she passed away. To have grown up together and then lose them… he glanced at his sisters and shuddered. He couldn't imagine.

"Yeah," Darcy smiled sadly, "I lost her."

"Oh," Mama earnestly spoke, "I'm sorry for your loss. It must have been devastating for you and your parents."

Jesus Christ, Ma.

Bucky quickly interjected, shooting his Ma a pointed look, "Mama, I can fill you in 'bout all that later. Let's focus on today, yeah?"

Seeing that she'd trodden on something sensitive, Mama shot Darcy an apologetic smile. Darcy didn't look offended.

"So," he mused, with humour to redirect the mood, "How 'bout those cards? Snap?"

In hindsight, this was a bad idea.

"Snap!" Darcy cheered as her hand met the pile with a resounding bang.

Bucky was amazed that the table didn't split in two from the brunt force of it. Jesus Christ...

"Snap!" She screeched too late, her hand crushing his with a loud bang.

His eyes widened and glistened with tears as he slowly cranked his head to meet Stevie's eyes. His best pal's face was screwed up in sympathy. His sisters giggled with sheer wickedness.

Withdrawing his hand, Bucky subtly stretched his hand in a desperate attempt to check for broken bones. Thankfully, he'd only be a bit stiff for a while.

They played a few more rounds one-on-one as his family watched, entirely engrossed.

Darcy had suggested that her sister Jane was the aggressive one. Bucky would bet good money that this had been a shared trait between the sisters because, Jesus Christ, that woman just about broke his hands no less than twice. He was also learning that Darcy was a boastful winner and a bit of a sore loser. He'd only played five rounds with her before he decided Go Fish would be less painful and more inclusive.

His hand practically wept with relief when the suggestion was agreed upon.

Although no less competitive – it was now significantly less violent.

Lottie and Becca targeted each other viciously, and Evie took sweet advantage, winning no less than half the games.

It didn't take long before Bucky was itching for a cigarette.

Darcy looked happily engrossed in the game and suspected his absence wouldn't be missed too badly. Waiting for the round to end, he stood up to go.

"I'm goin' to head out for a smoke," he told her with a quick kiss to her hair, "I won't be too long."

Darcy nodded distractedly and returned to playing cards with his family. His heart swelled with pride that he'd not only arranged a great day for his sweetheart but that she was happy to spend her birthday dinner with his family. It was a dream in his heart of hearts that she'd join his family one day.

Grabbing his coat on the way out, he headed through the kitchen and out the backdoor. The door was creaking; he made a mental note to come by with some oil. Leaning against the wall of his childhood backyard, Bucky almost inhaled his cigarette in one puff.

Looking out at the garden, his mother's pride and joy, he felt an ache in his chest as he acknowledged the empty flowerbed. He clearly wasn't providing his Mama enough funds to keep her garden going. He tried and failed to smother the feeling of failure. Times were tough, but he worked hard – it'll pay off before too long. His Mama's birthday was in May; he'd make sure to get her some seedlings. He'd better start budgeting for it.

For Christ's sake, he couldn't even afford to impulsively get his mother flowers for her damn garden.

It was a miserable thought, and Bucky's heart loomed over a gloomy precipice. It lodged in his throat, and for a moment, he wondered if someone could actually vomit their heart up. He stubbed out his cigarette and thought about heading inside. Hopefully, his heart wasn't on his sleeve.

The backdoor creaked open and shut, and he immediately schooled his expression. He glanced over to see Evie shrugging on a shawl.

"It's too cold out here for ya," he immediately scolded as he pushed off the wall.

"Some fresh air would do me well," Evie insisted with a flourish, walking past him and approaching one of the lawn chairs.

He made sure she was comfortable, helping her into the lawn chair. He knelt beside her, removed her shoes, and kindly massaged her feet. Jim wasn't here, and Bucky had promised his brother-in-law he'd care for his wife. He'd do his best in his absence. It didn't take long before his sister tapped his shoulder in thanks. He grabbed the other lawn chair and brought it closer to her so she wouldn't have to strain her neck.

His sister still had a couple of months left before the baby was expected, but the family was waiting with barely concealed excitement.

Bucky couldn't help but look at his sister and beam with pride. Her first child was on the way, her husband was overseas, and she was as composed as ever. If any of his sisters took after their mother, it was Evie. The strong but patient type. The sweet but stern type. Glancing at her growing belly, Bucky couldn't help but hope the littlest Barnes would appreciate her mother.

That being said, as the days went by, Evie became less and less rational. It was to be expected. His Da always said that the first thing a woman loses when she gets pregnant is her mind. He'd never met a woman who hadn't proven him right.

Every Thursday, he'd come for dinner, and Bucky would notice she'd gained maybe another inch around her middle. He didn't need a gut feeling to know that mentioning that to his hormonal sister would be a bad idea.

"Oof!" His sister clasped her stomach as he sat down, "We have a live one!"

Grinning, Bucky reached over and placed his hand on her bump. He was greeted with a hearty kick, and Bucky couldn't contain his gleeful laugh.

Unable to help himself, he boasted, "Lil' one likes Uncle Buck! Can't fault 'em for taste."

Evie rolled her eyes, "He might change his mind when he's born."

"'He?'" Bucky queried, "So sure?"

"I think so," Evie shrugged, "Jim thinks it's a girl though."

"That a fact?" Bucky turned his head to hide his grin.

His sister was too sharp to miss it, "Oh? You and your gut got somethin' to say 'bout that, mister?"

"Sure does," Bucky teased, "I'll give ya a hint; one of you is wrong."

"Har dee har," Evie rolled her eyes with a gentle smile, "C'mon then. What's the verdict? Boy or girl?"

He gently rubbed her belly with his hand and shot Evie a big grin, "'s gonna be a girl."

They shared a big grin, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. Another Barnes girl. The world wasn't ready. A part of him also couldn't believe his baby sister would have her own baby. It wouldn't be long before they'd all have kids, taking their rugrats to visit Nana every week.

Would he ever get to have his own kids? Bucky felt a sharp stab of melancholy and tried to bury it. The thought came unbidden, and it was not welcome.

Humming, Evie clutched his hand and squeezed it, "You'll get your happily ever after. I know it."

If his gut was right about the draft… he had his doubts he would.

Bucky stood, wanting to avoid the topic of his potentially bleak future, "Only time will tell."

Evie slowly stood up, shoes in hand, and came to stand next to him. They both overlooked their mother's barren garden.

She wrapped her hand around his and squeezed, "I never thought I would. Then came Jim."

Bucky snorted, "Imagine if you'd settled earlier like you wanted."

His sister returned his snort, "If you'd left it well enough alone, I'd have been fine."

"'Fine', she says," Bucky grumbled, "Harry wasn't suitable."

Nodding her agreement, "I was young. He was tall and so handsome. I would o' married him in a heartbeat."

"I noticed," Bucky muttered darkly, "He didn't stick 'round. Wasn't worthy of ya."

There were some things a man never needed to see, and one of them was his sister naked and riding a man on his childhood couch.

"You threatened him with a shotgun," Evie objected.

And yet, that still didn't dissuade the man from dancing with Darcy. The things that man would do to impress Dot, of all people, were obscene.

"Rifle," Bucky corrected with a grin, "And honestly, if he wasn't willing to risk a bullet for you, then he didn't deserve you."

To his amusement, Evie laughed, "I suppose so. Then, a year later, you found me Jim."

"And that was it," he agreed as he detangled himself from Evie, "Let me tell ya, finding a man to con into marrying you was one o' the hardest things I've ever done."

He'd anticipated the smacks before they landed, and he bolted. A chase ensued in his childhood backyard, and her pregnant belly tipped the odds wildly in his favour. Laughing, he taunted her by slowing down just enough so she could catch up before speeding off again. He hadn't anticipated the shoe or his sister's immaculate aim.

He was going to wear that bruise between his shoulder blades for at least a week.

Chapter Text

April 5th, 1942

Bucky and Steve's House, New York City

In a strange turn of events, Darcy was awake before sunrise, and she was all too eager to see her beau. Being Sunday meant that the morning belonged exclusively to her and Bucky. There would be no interruptions until they went to Rosie's diner at noon for their weekly coffee date with Steve - and that's exactly how she liked it.

Darcy had big plans for their morning. Important plans. Vital plans. Very big. All the big. Muchas big.

Darcy all but marched to Bucky's house. She was hot, she was bothered, and she was ready for the fix only Bucky could give. She thought having scheduled dick appointments would be boring and routine, but holy shit, they were anything but. The time leading up to such bookings was filled with anticipation and desire. It was like counting down to Christmas. Five more sleeps, two more sleeps, one more sleep, and then she'd wake up knowing that within the hour, she would be getting thoroughly fucked. There was a thrill of excitement that came with the knowledge. Darcy was sloppy wet before even arriving at his front door. Who knew suspense could be so hot? It was downright addictive, and Bucky may as well have been crack with how much she desired him.

She was sooo ready. Darcy would bet her bottom dollar Bucky was just as antsy, if not more so. Her Bucky could be quite the horndog, and she lived for it.

Entering the apartment building, Darcy instinctually reached for the doorknob and was only momentarily surprised when it fully turned without resistance. Huh, weird but not all that unusual; Bucky frequently left the door unlocked when he was expecting her. She let herself in without another thought.

Stepping into the main room, Darcy paused. The house had a calm air, as though everyone was out or still asleep. Surely not, though, as Steve would already be at work, and she was never awake before Bucky. As a man who woke six days a week at 5 o'clock for work, Bucky rarely slept past 6. It was 7 o'clock when she left the boarding house. Straining her ears, she could hear no fluttering of movement.

Bucky must be asleep. Steve mustn't have locked the door behind him.

This presented a unique opportunity for Darcy.

Licking her lips excitedly, she resisted her urge to skip and slowly toed her way towards Steve and Bucky's room. The door was half-open, and Darcy was able to slip in soundlessly. As she suspected, Bucky was flat on his back and appeared dead to the world. As she tiptoed towards his bed, skirting around dirty laundry (boys, always so messy - not that she could talk), she observed Bucky in a state she'd never seen before: deep sleep.

Darcy took a moment to admire him. There wasn't a person alive who could honestly claim James Bucky Barnes wasn't a beautiful specimen of a man. In his daylight hours, he was handsome, confident, and charming; in his sleep, he was much more mellow-looking but no less gorgeous. He looked so relaxed. That wasn't to say that Bucky was a tense man; definitely not, but he looked younger. Adorable even. He drew steady breaths through his mouth and was even lightly drooling. She was overjoyed to discover that her Bucky wasn't a snorer.

How should she wake him? She had plenty of ideas. She could jump on and startle him awake, giggling at his surprised grunts. She could tickle him awake, watch him slowly wake in a fit of jolting twitches. She could even smother his face with eager kisses, cherishing his sleepy morning grin. She could do any of those things and more.

Or…

Her idea of waking him with a blowjob flickered about in her head. Bucky loved receiving head almost as much as she did, which was a lot. It made for very mutually beneficial sex. But being woken up to head was slightly different. Darcy was all for it (and so were all her exes), but would Bucky be? She wasn't sure how it would be received. Consent was very important to them, and they'd never discussed this scenario specifically. She doubted he'd mind, and that was the only reason she ditched her panties and stockings before slowly climbing into bed with him.

Her every movement was carefully thought out, like a hungry lioness approaching her slumbering prey. Bucky being on his back was a godsend, and as gently as she could, she shifted the sheets until they bundled at the foot of the bed.

He only wore a basic white cotton shirt and his plaid Yoke boxers. Eureka!

Instead of going straight for the buttons, Darcy gently trailed her fingers along the waistband, encouraging a sleeping Bucky to accept her touch. After a moment of this causing no disturbance, she popped the three buttons open easily. Unsurprisingly, his morning wood darted out from behind the fabric as though to wish her a good morning. She almost chuckled at his cocks' eagerness.

Hoping not to wake him, she very timidly licked the uncut head. Bucky and his cock both twitched. Hmm, too sensitive. Much more gently, she lavished a languid lick along his shaft. He shifted minutely with a sigh but otherwise gave no response.

Perfect.

To help ease him into her touch, she kept licking his shaft, feeling him grow harder with every lap. It wasn't long before he was lightly groaning, and Darcy suspected his dreams had started to reflect real life. Emboldened by this, she gently pulled his foreskin back and sucked the tip of him. He jerked in his sleep with a grunt but otherwise was none the wiser. Darcy watched his reactions with eager eyes and adjusted her touch to Bucky's responses, his unguarded preferences teaching her a great deal about what he liked.

Darcy tried not to giggle with mischief. What a sleep-in he was having! Also, from the sounds of it, very pleasant dreams. She would just have to encourage him that real life was even better.

Bit by bit, she began taking more of him in her mouth. With every pass, she took him a little deeper, and his groans became a little louder, and his hips slowly started to shift with her. She traced her nails gently along his thigh, and he shuddered in response. Fuck, even asleep, he was so responsive to her touch. Bucky loved being lavished with physical affection, and Darcy was too happy to oblige.

Humming lightly, Darcy had taken most of him in her mouth at this point. With her spare hand, she started stroking his balls, too.

A stunned gasp escaped his lips, and Darcy immediately felt his fingers thread through her hair. He was finally awake - good boy.

A garbled chant of 'Darcy' escaped his lips, and she swelled with satisfaction.

Hearing him chant her name was its own aphrodisiac, and she clenched her thighs together to relieve some of the pressure building in her groin. Flicking her eyes up at him, Darcy preened as he stared at her in sleepy awe. Obviously, Bucky had not been expecting such behaviour from her. Well, she always loved defying expectations. This was really only the beginning of their sexual journey together, and Darcy had so much more she wanted to experience with him. She shot him a saucy wink before pulling back and licking his slit.

"Darcy," he gasped reverently, "Jesus Christ."

She smiled in triumph. She had been right; Bucky 100% did not mind being woken up by a blowjob.

Playtime was over; it was time to show him what she was capable of. Taking him fully again, she puckered her lips and lightly hummed. She suctioned her mouth and sucked for dear life - like a popsicle on a scorching day.

Predictably, his eyes bugged at the sensation, but his groans doubled in sound. It was a guttural sound, and it triggered a pulse in her cunt. Darcy felt a selfish impulse to sit on his face and smother the sound, but she wouldn't, not while she could picture it while listening to his breath hitching as he desperately sought air. Later. Another time. They had all the time in the world. Fuck, he sounded so hot as he breathed her name during his pleasure. Oh yeah, he was loving this experience, which only made her hotter for him. Suddenly, desperate for stimulation of her own, she lowered her fingers, gathering some of her slick before targeting her clit.

Fuck! Bucky's cock in her mouth, her fingers working her clit... how else would she want to start her Sunday mornings?

For several minutes, she worked herself and him, alternating between earnestly sucking and teasingly licking. Her hair would be a tangled mess, but she couldn't deny his subtle instructions were always helpful. Currently, grasping her hair and massaging her scalp was the extent of his functional fine motor skills. He'd barely been able to do anything other than lavish her with praise. Darcy had never been praised so often in her life, and Bucky looked like he was nowhere near done.

Suddenly, he wiggled underneath her and gently tugged her hair for attention.

"Up," he requested with a croak, "On."

Bucky Barnes was a genius; she was absolutely on board with that suggestion.

Removing her lips from his cock, she gladly sidled further up his body. His hands clutched her hips with tender urgency, desperately attempting to guide her to where he desired her; cock in cunt.

She was still dressed and, luckily, had started taking to storing condoms in her blouse. With how desperate they were for each other, they never knew when they'd be needed. She'd rather have them handy in her bra or pockets than fumble through dressers looking for them. Ripping the wrapper a touch too urgently, she glided the condom over his weeping cock. It bobbed in time with his heavy breathing, mutely begging for her to continue touching him.

"Darcy," he groaned as his hand frantically pawed at her breasts, "Doll, please."

Hearing him beg, coiled something feral inside her. It was scorching, wild, and frantic.

Darcy's voice was so husky it surprised even her, “I could get used to hearing you beg.”

Her words spurred him on, and he pinched her ass to encourage her to get her shit together and fuck him already.

Darcy felt powerful. Desired. Needed. Fuck, who was she kidding; she wanted him just as much as he clearly needed her.

She glided his cock along her wet slit, and they both gasped at the friction. Lining herself up, Darcy contemplated slowly lowering herself down before pausing; slow and steady had rarely been her style, and this was her first time on top with Bucky. She wanted to blow his mind – not just his load. With a decisive nod, she made a choice; she was slippery enough to pull it off.

Without warning, she doubled down, burying Bucky in her pussy completely in a single thrust. She gasped as he hit her cervix just right.

Through his eyes, Darcy could see Bucky's brain shut down, and it must have felt like his soul left his body before being slammed right back.

"Fuuuuck," he rasped, his brow thick with perspiration, "Sweetheart, I-!"

She cut him off with a swivel of her hips, and he hissed through his teeth.

Bucky motioned to sit up, perhaps against the headboard so their faces would be level, but Darcy pushed his chest until he laid back down. He stared at her inquisitively at her insistence, but all she did was swivel her hips again, and his eyes rolled back.

Right now, he was at her mercy, and he was going to take it how she wanted to give it to him.

With his hands stapled to her sides, Darcy rocked back and forth with increasing urgency. Watching his face was a thing of beauty. It was twisted in sleepy pleasure, but it only made his reactions less guarded. Like this, his heart was vulnerable to her in a way she rarely saw in his more lucid moments. The thrill of it made her rock even faster, and his face screwed up in tormented concentration. At the angle she was pivoting, Bucky was grazing exactly where she wanted him to. Fuck - why did he feel so good? What about him that set her alight so easily? The thoughts made her reflexively squeeze her walls around him in desperation. She wanted to come on him so badly. Just him. Always him. Fuck.

"Doll, you need to- if you keep- sweetheart, I can't- please-"

Always so chivalrous of her needs. Bucky detested coming first; it was a point of pride, she suspected. But Darcy was not going to slow down. Instead, she once again guided one of her hands down and played with her aching clit. She jolted at the sensation and could feel her walls begin to clench around him. His lust-blown eyes were glued to both her fingers, working herself up, and his cock disappearing in and out of her; a glorious show solely for his viewing pleasure.

She could feel her own orgasm building, and Darcy couldn't help but rock harder on him. Her gut coiled in preparation as Darcy moaned her pleasure. Getting closer-!

"God, Bucky," she moaned in earnest, "So good. Urgh! Mine - all mine."

"Yours, yours, yours," he blubbered along with her, practically vibrating with pleasure.

The pace his hands were rocking her hips at was brutal, but he was getting so deep with every thrust that she wouldn't dare complain. Their rhythm was in sync, and their hips met again and again with staggering intensity. He drove home. Every. Single. Time. Darcy was more than pleased to welcome him home. Every. Single. Time. Absently, she was aware she was making an obscene mewling sound with every thrust, but she found she didn't care. Bucky was treating her like she was the most gorgeous thing alive, and she wasn't about to do anything to change that.

Glancing down at her boyfriend, the man had a crazed but intense look in his eyes that told her he was close. Watching him, she saw he was alternating between staring at her face and watching her fingers work intently on her clit. Always willing to put on a show, she brought her slick-covered fingers to her lips and sucked.

His pupils dilated, and it was apparently all too much for Bucky, as a heartbeat later, he came with an agonised grunt. The sound shouldn't have been so erotic, but her pussy disagreed and pulsed in response anyway.

She continued to rock through all of it, and she wasn't surprised when his fingers started working on her clit to replace her own. His thumb - fuck. The shit he could do to her with just a flick of his thumb! She wanted to gasp, she wanted to squeal, she wanted to beg, she wanted to spew sonnets in his name because (fuck!) he worked her like a damn fiddle. Her thighs were trembling, and Darcy felt fit to burst. Before long, she couldn't do much more than writhe erratically on top of him, begging for release.

"Bucky," she begged feebly.

"Doll," he prattled between gasps, "I need you to come. You're so beautiful on top of me. So perfect. Sweetheart, I need to watch you come. I need to watch you come apart on my cock- mine-!"

With a tremor, she came, and she had to shut her eyes to stop a bout of lightheadedness from overtaking her. He worked her through it, and Darcy collapsed on top of him immediately after, still twitching from aftershocks. They stayed like that for a minute, catching their breaths, before Bucky slipped out of her and disposed of the condom. Only then did he draw her fully into his arms.

Perhaps as a thank you, Bucky gave Darcy a filthy kiss. It was slow and soul-searching, and for a moment, Darcy had to remind herself that she wasn't dating a demon who'd gladly suck her soul out. Goddamn if it didn't feel like he wanted to, though. She also wasn't convinced she would attempt to stop him if he tried.

Their eyes met, and Darcy couldn't help the pleased feeling she got from his cheery expression. Bucky had the most beautiful smile, and she felt honoured whenever he graced her with one. It brought a warm flutter to her heart.

"'Mornin'," he slurred with a dazed smile, "Christ, why wake to go to Mass when you can have an angel wake you like that?"

Darcy couldn't help the delighted flush that came to her face from his comment. He was such a charmer, and even half awake and properly fucked, he still had something sweet to say. She'd never admit to him just how much she loved it. God, they didn't make men like him anymore. She was quietly grateful Bucky wasn't the type to go to mass every Sunday; it made the whole day theirs.

"Agreed," she muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to his waiting lips.

"Wha' time is it?" He wondered aloud.

"Late," Darcy grinned, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. "At least for you. Early for me."

He hummed, "Should lie-in more often."

She nodded in agreement as she buried herself further into his peaceful arms. Bucky was so warm that she couldn't resist closing her eyes and slipping off into a light sleep.

They catnapped for a bit before slowly getting up.

Bucky very lazily got dressed for the day - going so far as to give himself what was essentially a little birdbath in the sink, as he didn't want to step out and shower in the communal bathrooms while she was there. It was a moot point if you asked her; she would only strip him down again long before they left for the diner anyway. However, when he'd kindly helped her back into her panties and stockings, she hadn't turned him down. Getting undressed in a horny frenzy could be very fun indeed.

She did bemoan the state of her hair, though; his fingers had made a masterpiece of art with her hair, which could be aptly entitled 'Thoroughly Fucked.'

Bucky had merely crawled onto the bed behind her with a hairbrush and started running the brush gently through her hair. It took a moment of feeling his fingers running through her hair before she realised what he was doing.

"You can braid?”

He gave an unimpressed snort, “I have three little sisters, all of whom declared me their slave from the moment they left the womb, and you wonder if I can braid hair? French, Dutch, fishtail, twist, trust me - I’ve learned them all in the service of my evil overlords. They are also not benevolent by any means of the word.”

She laughed, “Oh? And how do you plan to escape their rulership?”

He leaned forward and quickly kissed her cheek, “Oh, easy. I’ve just swapped them out for a different tiny tyrant instead.”

She half-heartedly swatted him but enjoyed the simple pleasure she felt from Bucky playing with her hair. Darcy knew that Bucky had the capacity to be gentle. In fact, he defaulted to that setting whenever he was around her, but the amount of care he was taking to not pull on her hair was cavity-inducing. He was the sweetest boyfriend she'd ever had. She wondered if growing up the oldest sibling amongst 'tiny tyrants' was where he learned his nurturing nature.

It didn't take him too long (sadly, because she could spend the day with his fingers in her hair...), and after giving her braid a final inspection and a playful raspberry to her throat, Bucky wandered off to gather his wallet and keys. She had no idea why, as it was nowhere near noon, but he liked having them in his pockets at all times. Darcy was still sitting on the bed when Bucky came and knelt on the floor before her. He graced her with a kiss to the head on the way down and multiple more to her lips as he sank to his knees.

"I wanna take you dancin', doll. Properly," he murmured against her lips, "Let me take you? I promise; no dancin' wit' other girls or nothin' this time – just you and me."

It was a simple request with an even easier answer.

Darcy hummed in thought, "A night out? Just you and me? Sign me up, Bucky-cup!"

He pulled back and gave her a look of pure puzzlement, "'Bucky-cup?'"

Darcy waved her hand dismissively, "A play on 'Buttercup.' It didn't work, and we will never mention it again."

He grinned lazily, "I prefer it when you call me 'handsome' or even the occasional 'God' when we're in bed."

She laughed and ran her fingers playfully along his chin, "Only when you deserve it."

Bucky planted another wet kiss on her mouth, "Hmm, very often then."

Unable to help her giggle, Darcy peppered his face with happy kisses. Bucky's love language was undoubtedly physical touch, and she was slowly training herself to touch him more often. He had been very good to her since they'd gotten together, and Darcy wanted him to know she appreciated and valued him. Even if it was with something as simple as touching him more frequently, it made him so happy he was almost silly, which in turn only made her just as happy.

There was a sudden jiggling sound, and Darcy glanced down to see what it was.

Darcy noticed something she hadn't seen her boyfriend do for a while: play anxiously with his keys. Why was he doing that? Why did he even pull them out of his pocket? Homing in on him, Darcy was surprised to see the playful mood gone. Bucky looked… hesitant. Obviously, something was on his mind.

"What's up, Bucky-cup?" She winced at her own poor attempt to lighten his mood.

Despite the pathetic joke, he still gave a weak smile before speaking, "Did ya- well, I mean, 'bout tha'- I was wonderin' if—well, y'know, 'cause I wonder a lot-"

For God's sake, sometimes she wished he'd get to the point quicker.

"Bucky," she interrupted him, "What are you getting at?"

He took a deep breath before unleashing a verbal onslaught, "Did ya have nicknames for your late husband, too? What was his name? Did you make puns outta it? What was he like? Was he a good man? How long 'as it been?"

Darcy was sure she looked as flabbergasted as she felt.

"Umm," she genuinely didn't know how to respond to that.

Why did he have to bring up Jonathan Morris? Darcy didn't even want to remember the man existed, let alone invent stories about him.

"I'm sorry," Bucky rushed out after hearing her reluctance to speak on the matter, "I shouldn'ta said anythin'! I told myself I wouldn't, and then I damn well did."

To his credit, Bucky looked genuinely remorseful. His head was bowed, and he looked very much like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded.

She couldn't really hold it against him. It was only natural that he was curious.

But telling nothing was better than spinning lies. So that's what she would do.

"It's okay," she said shakily, only now realising how distressed his line of questioning had made her, "I get it. I just… don't want to talk about it."

He was nodding along frantically as he reached for her hands, looking at her hopefully, "Of course! I didn't mean to be pushy 'bout it. You'll tell me when you're ready."

She processed what he said as he caressed her hands soothingly, as though the action could soothe his social blunder.

'You'll tell me when you're ready.'

He said it so matter-of-factly that Darcy was momentarily floored. He thought she'd one day gush about a fake, not-very-dead husband. Absolutely not. She needed to nip this in the bud now.

"Bucky," she stated sternly, "I'm not going to tell you about him at all. Ever."

Clearly confused, he queried, "Why?"

"Because it's none of your business."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. Immediately, Bucky's spine went rigid, and he let go of her hands as though they were suddenly aflame. He made no further attempts to move away from her, but he didn't touch her again either. It was as though he'd been struck by lightning and then stunned to stone. He just stayed there, knelt before her like a dejected worshipper, staring at her blankly.

"'None of my business?'" He parroted it back vacantly as the meaning of the words rattled around violently in his head.

Yes, it wasn't any of his business, but she hadn't dropped that bomb delicately at all, and he'd clearly taken offence.

"Bucky, I didn't mean it like that-"

"'None of my business'," he repeated more hotly.

"Bucky-"

He cut her off with a dark laugh, "I'm sorry, I've clearly gone mad. Did you just belittle the importance of your late husband? Or belittle my position in your life? Because it's gotta be one or the other, and I'm not thrilled by the idea of either."

Darcy's feathers were immediately ruffled by his tone, "Excuse me?"

Without warning, he stood up and backed away from her with a haughty huff, "I'm 'sposed to know these things, Darcy. Keepin' things like that from each other ain't good for nothin'."

What the hell?

"I'm not just going to tell you everything about my life. Some shit just doesn't need to be talked about," Darcy stood growling at him, "You want to know everything about me, huh? Do you want me to get some flashcards and make you a PowerPoint? Tell you shit I don't want to talk about?"

Her tone was sarcastic, but he didn't bat an eye.

"Well, yeah!" He growled right back, giving as good as he got, "You think I'm some hairy lug that ain't gonna give a shit 'bout ya? No! I wanna know. But I also know that shit comes out with time, but here you are sproutin' nonsense 'bout never talkin' about this. You're not meant to have off-limit topics with your sweetheart!"

Darcy scoffed in irritation, "You can't know everything about your partner – be real! I don't need to know everything about you, and you don't need to know anything about me."

"That's a crock of shit, and you know it," he retorted angrily, "And don't snap your cap at me! What is it, then? You don't wanna be vulnerable? Is that it? 'cause I can't figure it out."

She wasn't sure why, but his words were hitting a button she didn't even know she had, and it was pissing her off.

"Pfft, you don't know what you're talking about! I just don't want to tell you certain things. Besides, it's not like I know everything about you!" She shot back pointedly.

"You know a Goddamn lot," he hollered before his anger tempered down, "My Da… I don't just tell anyone that. Trust me, there's more where tha' came from, but it's a bit much for one conversation. But I've never had any intention of hiding any of it from ya."

Darcy struck a low blow, "Like you hid Connie?"

She felt guilty for mentioning it before she finished saying it. Darcy had sworn to herself she'd forgive him for it (and she mostly had) and wouldn't hold it against him. But it was the best ammunition she currently had, and her pride demanded she use it to her advantage.

"Knew that was going to come up at some point," Bucky said, his mouth tightening.

Her guilt was gone. Who the fuck did he think he was? He had no right to be upset with her for bringing up his cockup!

"Why wouldn't it?" Darcy growled, "It was a pretty big problem, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten," he reassured her as he tried to force himself to remain calm, "I thought- I thought-"

"You thought what?" Darcy snapped.

He didn't snap back.

"I thought after tellin' you 'bout my Da…" he trailed off sadly, "I thought we'd gotten to a stronger place. A great place. I'm not sayin' it righted past wrongs or nothin', but... it meant something to me."

Understanding filled her, and most of her rage fizzled out. This was about intimacy, not just any specific thing. He wanted to know everything about her because it made him feel closer to her, and she'd flat-out denied him. It had been a blow to his pride and maybe an unwanted reality check for their honeymoon phase. She could understand that. And yes, that night in his bed where they discussed some deep-rooted issues meant a lot to her too, but...

His Da and her faux husband…

"It's not the same thing," she murmured, "Like, at all."

He nodded but didn't relent, "Maybe not, but… never? You're happy to walk through life right next to me, and never tell me about such a large part of your life? I'm not satisfied with that."

The statement stung. Not because of her so-called 'dead husband' but because she did have secrets she could never share with him. Or anyone. There are parts of her history (most of it, really) that she could never speak of without strictly censoring herself. It's not like she can tell him about her 'real' life in the 21st century. She couldn't see a single scenario where that wouldn't go over badly.

But he also had no right to this information. It was hers to give freely as she chose, and she'd made her decision.

"Never," she confirmed with a lead tongue.

If she didn't know better, Darcy would have thought he'd shut off like an old Windows PC. She could almost hear the shutdown noise that haunted her childhood. She waited with bated breath for him to say something. Anything.

But he shook his head and left the room.

She followed behind and found him at the front door, opening it and holding it open for her, "Need me to walk you home?"

His tone was calm, but the strength of his grip on the door exposed his true feelings.

It was an obvious dismissal, and Darcy wasn't ashamed to admit it hurt her feelings. In fact, there was an angry chill that ran down her spine at being dismissed.

"What?" Darcy breathed out in mild shock.

"I'll have all of you or none of you," he swore, not even bothering to hide the intensity behind his eyes, "Think on it. Let me know what you decide. I'm all in, Darcy. I just need you to be too."

They entered a staring match, a battle of wills. God, his eyes were normally such a gentle blue that she could almost forget how intensely dark they could be when he was upset... and despite his admirable attempt to cover it, he was very upset.

"Wow," she deadpanned, "I didn't peg you for a control freak who needs to know everything."

His jaw twitched with how tightly he clenched it, "I'm not doin' this," he shook his head to emphasise his words, "Not now."

"No," she snapped before she even realised she'd spoken, "You have no right to be upset."

He was shaking his head in dismay as he chuckled darkly, “I won't speak to you when you're like this. I can’t stand you right now.”

Her face flushed with outrage.

“Then sit down and shut the fuck up,” she baited him.

His eyes flashed with something unfamiliar before he snapped his head away from her. He didn't make a move, and he made no further comments. He didn't take the bait. When he claimed he wasn't fighting back, he was being completely sincere. For some reason, this did not make her happy at all. He'd started this fight and then dropped it because it didn't go how he wanted. Typical male.

So she left.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Chapter Text

April 5th, 1942

Brooklyn Recreational Center, New York City

He needed to hit something. All the better if it could bleed, but Bucky wasn't Steve, and Bucky didn't go sniffing around for fights. So, the ring it was.

He'd stopped by Rosie's to ask her to let Steve know he wasn't popping in for their weekly coffee, and although she looked troubled by this (he must have looked a fright), she assured him she'd pass on the message.

Bucky all but jogged to the rec center, getting his blood pumping early. Once inside, he was a little irritated to see more people inside than he liked, but that was normal for a Sunday. That's why he usually went on other days of the week. Still, he returned a couple of waves and gave a few nods of acknowledgement to be polite.

The ring was occupied by a few crumbs he didn't like (Carl and his hoity-toity goons could go ahead and have fun grappling like harmless kittens amongst themselves), so he went for the punching bag on the opposite side of the center. He dropped his bag and gear and started preparing for an intense training session. He wrapped his fingers and knuckles to protect his skin, but a dark part of him hadn't cared. What were a few busted knuckles compared to the absolute riot happening in his gut?

Keeping his head clear of Darcy proved impossible, and every hit on the bag landed harder than the last.

Goddamn it, Darcy! He growled in frustration as he hit the bag. Why did she insist on being so difficult? Sure, nothing good in life comes easily, but did she really have to demonstrate the point so often?

What was her damn problem? She's got to be the only bird he's ever met that didn't want complete transparency in a romantic relationship. To a certain extent, he understood that. Bucky had also always been on guard in relationships, never wanting to reveal anything about himself too early in case things didn't work out. It started as an instinct that's developed into a well-ingrained habit. No woman had ever enticed him enough to share his every thought and fear with them, but then he met Darcy, and he was blown away by how much he wanted her. Finally, he was willing to share important bits of himself, piece by piece.

So, of course, the second he found someone he wanted to tell everything to, she all but threw it in his face.

He landed a particularly hard hit to the bag.

What was the problem? Okay, so he pulled on a thread he shouldn't have; it didn't merit her bratty behaviour. She made a mountain out of an anthill, and he tried not to get mad at her, but in the end, Darcy wanted a fight. She wanted an excuse not to talk to him, and when he'd realised that, it had only made him angrier. So, she got her fight. Well done, Darcy.

What was so terrible about him wanting to know things about her? What was so terrifying about that? He was in it to win it and hadn't been shy about it.

And this damn husband – who the hell was he? Was he so terrific that Darcy was going to mourn him for the rest of her life?

The bag swayed dangerously close to the wall and almost off its hook.

He'd never hated a man he'd never met before, but he might make an exception for this once. A man of flesh and blood he could compete with, but a ghost was a ghost, and he couldn't fight a memory in a good ol' round of fisticuffs.

But then again…

If the man wasn't dead, Bucky would likely never have met Darcy. She'd likely never left Utah; if she had, he wouldn't have pursued her anyway. There was nothing attractive about pursuing a married woman.

He just wished she'd talk to him. Open up and share herself with him in the way he desperately wanted to do with her. Bucky didn't think it was a big ask.

A voice broke his thoughts, "Buck?"

Blinking, Bucky's head snapped to his best pal, "That time o' the day already?"

Still in his work clothes, Steve nodded, "Yeah, Rosie said you looked outta sorts. Figured you'd be 'ere."

Of course, he figured him out because no one knew him better than Stevie did. He couldn't help the sigh that escaped his mouth and dragged a weary hand over his face.

Belatedly, Bucky realised he was dripping with sweat. Jesus, how long had he been having it out with the punching bag?

Steve simply stood across from him, quietly waiting for context. It was obvious Bucky was upset. No one would know that better than Steve (except maybe Becca because she was a bloodhound for sniffing out weak spots), but Steve also knew that he had to wait until Bucky was ready to share.

Luckily, Bucky had just beat a new shape into a punching bag, so he was more than ready to share.

Bucky reached for and sculled his water before sighing heavily, "I got into it with Darcy."

With an annoyed exhale, Steve crossed his arms and leaned on the wall beside him, "You two are givin' me whiplash, I swear."

"It's givin' me whiplash," Bucky agreed as he unwrapped his fingers and stretched them, "We were doin' so good and then this mornin' it all went belly up. I'll admit I may have trodden over a line, but she damn near danced a jig on it."

Steve looked empathetic and offered Bucky his towel, who immediately took it and started patting himself dry.

"Tell me what happened?" Steve asked compassionately.

Skipping his erotic wake-up call, Bucky detailed the fight, starting with him mentioning her husband and ending with him slamming the door behind her.

"She didn't give you anythin'?" Steve prompted, "A reason, at least?"

Bucky shook his head, "Absolute peanuts."

"That's no good," Steve mumbled, "It mustn't have been all that long ago then. Maybe she left Utah immediately after he died. Means he's only been dead 'bout three months - must still smart a bit."

Possibly. Christ, he wished his water was liquor.

He took another swig before shrugging, "Wish I knew."

"Maybe we could ask Dot," Steve suggested, with slightly reddened cheeks.

Uh oh. That's not good.

"Jesus, punk," Bucky grumbled with a roll of his eyes, "Don't be gettin' dizzy over Dot of all people. She'll eat ya alive. Not to mention the state of poor ol' Harry's broken heart."

"Maybe," Steve smiled with little heart eyes, "But she's sweet."

Bucky snorted. Steve was probably the only person alive who had the nerve to call Dot 'sweet.'

The punk continued looking moon-eyed for a moment before visibly shaking his thoughts away, "She might know something.'"

"Dot ain't gonna tell us shit," he says, at least not to him.

"I'll ask," the punk insisted.

"For Christ's sake," Bucky huffed in irritation because the punk would never just listen to him, "Fine, you do that."

If the punk wanted to waste his time, he wasn't gonna fight him on it. He'd only get involved if there was a genuine chance of Dot sharpening her fangs on his poor pal's gnawed bones.

They lingered in silence for a minute, neither really having anything to say.

"You run outta gas for Darcy then?" Steve asked pointlessly.

It was a stupid fucking question, and Bucky couldn't help shooting him an incredulous glare. Steve raised his hands in mock surrender, the closest he would get to an apology from the punk.

"Not a chance!" Bucky immediately shot down, "I just need her to get her shit together."

"If she doesn't?"

"She will," Bucky said resolutely.

That wasn't enough for Steve, "And if she doesn't?"

As much as Bucky would have loved to make a big song and dance about walking away from her and starting anew with someone else, he knew it'd be a lie.

He could picture sitting down with Darcy and telling her that it was okay - he didn't need to know the things she didn't want to tell him - on the condition that they were things from the past. The past he could forgive, but present and future matters were to be acknowledged and discussed as adults. Not whatever the dog's breakfast this morning had been. The idea of never knowing Darcy wholly left a hollow feeling in his gut, but at least it wasn't curling in on itself anymore in despair. It was the furthest thing from a win and nothing close to a compromise, but he hoped with time and trust, she'd change her mind and emotionally share herself with him. It was a risky gamble, but he had faith that he wasn't fighting this uphill battle for nothing. It was for Darcy: her heart, her trust, her happiness, all of it.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky admitted, "Then I guess she wins, and I never learn these things."

Steve stared at him uncomprehendingly, "Buck. That goes against everything you believe in."

He was well aware.

Bucky shrugged, "I believe in a future with her more."

Damn it all, but he did. He believed in a future with her more than anything. The picture he could paint of their life together was so vivid that he could slip into it as easily as his boots. Maybe it was a crazy thought. Maybe he was just a crazy son of a bitch, but he was her crazy son of a bitch. And yes, she was a pain in the ass with trust issues, but she was also his pain in the ass with trust issues. Neither of them was a quitter or did things half-assed, and he knew they had that going for them.

He was a fighter - always was and always would be. He fought for what he wanted, and he wanted Darcy. Whether he had to fight for Darcy or with Darcy, he was willing to fight, and without a shadow of a doubt, he knew his Darcy was a fighter too. His faith in God might be shoddy at best, but his faith in her was shockingly strong. She'd pull through. She'd fight. It wasn't in her nature to back away from what she wanted.

And if there was one thing he knew about Darcy to the depth of the endless pit in his gut, it was that Darcy wanted him just as much.

He could feel the weight of Steve's gaze but refused to meet it. Bucky was worried about what Stevie would find.

Steve only murmured, "You're absolutely gone for her, aren't ya?"

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, "She may as well brand me at this point."

A sliver of amusement filled him as he absentmindedly ran his hand over his heart; he really wouldn't mind a reminder of her inked on his body. Who would have thought Bucky Barnes would be so gone for a woman so quickly that he'd be willing to be permanently marked by her?

To Bucky's surprise, Steve groaned heartily. Shooting his pal a raised brow, Steve dramatically groaned again. Exaggeratingly. Begging for attention.

"Alright," Bucky huffed and braced himself for a joshing, "Say it. Whatever it is, just say it."

Steve groaned again, "We're going to be having this same conversation again and again and again for the rest of our lives, aren't we?" He cleared his throat and proceeded to make the worst interpretation of Bucky that he had ever seen, "'Darcy is mad at me,' and 'I upset Darcy,' or 'I belong to Darcy,' and 'Darcy is great,' and then in the next breath, 'Darcy is mean,' 'Darcy is perfect'-"

Bucky smacked him heartily between the shoulder blades, and it was hard enough for Steve to yelp, "Damn right we are and guess what? You're gonna damn well like it," he playfully threatened.

Steve's grin belied his previous words, "I know, Buck. It is good to see you so happy with a dame - 'specially one as great as Darcy."

A sappy grin made its way back to his face, "Ain't she just?"

They shared a genuine smile, no teasing or judgement, just a mutual gladness between friends.

Unexpectedly, a thought entered his mind that he'd brushed aside during his and Darcy's argument.

"What's a PowerPoint? Darcy mentioned something 'bout makin' one." Bucky wondered curiously with a wrinkled brow.

Steve looked thoughtful before shrugging, "Dunno, but if it has to do with 'power' and 'making a point,' I'd recommend you not have Darcy make one."

Bucky conceded the point, "Sound advice. Now, I just have to figure out how---"

Steve cut him off and muttered sharply under his breath, "Heads up."

Glancing over his shoulder, Bucky quickly noticed what Steve had.

Carl Walker and his dim-witted goons had left the ring and were approaching them; Bucky knew the bastard's body language well enough to know he was itching for a fight.

Wrong man, wrong day, buddy.

Bucky smothered a groan; he couldn't deal with Carl right now, and he told Steve as much.

Stevie nodded, "I got it."

Suuuure, he did. Bucky sighed and rewrapped his knuckles; he would probably need them. Checking his opponent's hands, Bucky wanted to scoff at the bare fingers. The yuck was picking a fight whilst completely unprepared for one. Fool.

"Lookie here, fellas," Carl called out as he paraded himself over, "The previous reigning welterweight Champion of Brooklyn, avoiding the ring and meeting his match in a punching bag. Did us bigger kids steal the ring off you?"

They stopped a couple of feet away, and his goons chuckled amongst themselves and cheerfully clapped Carl's back for his 'clever' insult. So, Carl was two inches taller - was that the best they got? Yeah, Bucky might not be the current Champion, but Carl never had been.

Bucky raised a brow, "I was lookin' for a challenge," he wasn't in the mood to give Carl a dressing down, but he would.

Christ, he needed a drink. Failing that, half a dozen cigarettes.

"You think you're better than everyone, don't you?" Carl's nostrils flared.

It was a weak jab, but Steve took offence on his behalf, "He outclassed you in sports and smarts, and I think it's fair to say your personality is lackin' too. He can't help being the better man when up against a knucklehead."

Carl was irritated with Steve for even speaking and goaded him further as he pointed at Bucky, "I can see a knucklehead when there is one, pal."

If only he'd looked in the mirror every once in a while.

An audience was starting to gather, men who'd known them their whole lives, waiting for a fight to break out, probably even ready to place bets.

"Carl, you're as blind as your Ma if you think I'm the knucklehead," Bucky scoffed unkindly, "It's why you can't read nothing but braille, right?"

Carl flushed. Bucky couldn't guess if it were because he targeted his blind mother or if it was because he attacked his (lack of) intelligence.

Stepping forward, Carl left barely any space between them as he spat in his face, "How about a round or two in the ring, eh? See who's the real Champion of Brooklyn."

This again? Really? Weren't they getting too old for this shit?

Steve rolled his eyes, "C'mon, pal, move along. Go find something useful to do."

"Oh yeah?" Carl mused in a mocking tone, which raised Bucky's ire as the yuck stepped back and lifted his arms as though in triumph, "What use are you again? The government doesn't even want you for cannon fodder, Rogers."

Their gathered crowd immediately clucked at Carl's tactless statement.

If Steve weren't his best pal, he wouldn't have noticed how deep those words cut, but he was, and Bucky wasn't going to let that shit go. He stepped forward - whether he was in the mood to deal with Carl or not, this crumb was looking for a beat down. But Steve wouldn't let him, immediately throwing a pacifying arm out to discourage his involvement.

"Well, I tried," Steve shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, but his voice was just as strong as his righteous heart, "No one can call me a coward. Tell me, when did you enlist again?"

Carl's goons turned to look at him with blank looks. Obviously, this had never occurred to them.

Trying to save face, Carl gave a suave grin, "And leave the women to take care of all their needs alone? The ladies of New York City would weep over the loss of me!"

The crowd chuckled and jeered.

Surprisingly, Steve also chuckled and gave a malicious grin, "Oh? Here I thought you were the champion of jerkin' your own gherkin. Since, y'know, the only time a girl's been near your peter was when she dropped you to the floor."

Bucky guffawed, "Women ain't gonna be missin' a man with a broken arrow, Walker."

Carl glared at the onlookers who dared to laugh before flaring up, "You mean that broad from the diner you've been steppin' out wit'? That's an oomph girl if I've ever seen one. Bet that girl is one helluva icing queen," Carl laughed obscenely to the delight of his audience.

Son of a bitch!

Bucky instinctually stepped forward but kept his hands clenched firmly at his sides. They were back to being in each other's faces, both breathing heavier from the effort of restraining themselves. Christ, Bucky wanted to knock his block off so badly, but he wouldn't thump Carl outside the ring with so many witnesses. However, Steve stepped forward with him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder. If one of them took that final step, they were both going in. Bucky had a gut feeling it wouldn't take long for one of them to take that last step.

The self-satisfied look on that asshole's face was mocking him. This prick wasn't allowed to smile, not when he was disrespecting Steve and Darcy. Not while he's here.

Bucky tried to keep his tone calm, even with his jaw clenched, "One warnin' and that's it," he said as he stared down at Carl with all the seriousness he could muster, "You better shut that mug of yours before I slug it shut. You disrespect my sweetheart again, and I think you'll find there's a bucket that needs kickin'."

The tiniest flicker of fear entered Carl's eyes, and for a second, Bucky thought he'd lay off. But his eyes skirted around them and at their audience, and Bucky watched pride win out.

Carl didn't stop, "Maybe I'll show 'er a good time the second your back's turned."

Bucky huffed a genuine chuckle because that was bullshit for multiple reasons: "You wouldn't know how to please a woman if all her sweet spots were written in braille."

The statement was met with the rowdiest ruckus of the day.

"So says the cunt-sucker," Carl spat as his face turned purple, "Not that I understand the appeal; she's a bit old to be a fresh piece of cunt. Those big brown eyes, on the other hand-"

Carl didn't get to finish his slanderous sentence, and this time, not even Steve tried to stop him. Chucklefuck Carl fucking Walker wasn't even in a defensive stance after talking shit about Bucky's girl. He really was an idiot.

Despite working the punching bag hard for a couple of hours, Bucky wasn't too fatigued and still landed a swift and harsh hit to Carl's face. It landed with a sickening crack, and Bucky suspected he'd fractured his cheekbone. Their audience whooped and hollered, and Bucky wanted to scream at them to shut up – this wasn't for their entertainment - but he didn't want to take his eyes off Carl. Even though the hit had thrown him off balance, Carl snarled and still tried to raise his own fist, but Bucky was quicker. He socked another hit to his jaw, and Bucky winced at the power behind the hit. Shit. That could knock him out cold.

Thankfully, Carl only staggered and didn't hit the floor after being nearly knocked out. He'd hate to explain that to Mr. Garrett.

Serves him right; a smack across the mouth was the least he deserved.

However, Carl was clearly dazed and was trying to stand upright but faltered, and he eventually needed the help of his goons to stand straight. He pointed his finger at Bucky menacingly, but all Bucky could do was chuckle because the yuck hadn't needed his fingers wrapped after all. Carl didn't land a single hit.

And this was why Bucky was still respected as the Champion of Brooklyn long after his reign was over. This was why men still came to him for coaching.

Not Carl fucking Walker.

"Walk it off, Walker," Steve warned him, "This doesn't need to go any further."

Carl snarled as he continued pointing his finger at them, "He broke my jaw!"

"And yet it's not stopped you from yappin,' has it?" Steve snapped, knowing full well that the idiot's jaw was nothing but bruised, "Take a hike, Carl. Y'know who Mr. Garrett is gonna side with, and it ain't gonna be you."

Carl scoffed and angrily yanked his arms so his goons would release him. His leg gave out a second later, and he started to drop. Instinctually, Bucky stepped forward to catch him just as his gut bellowed a warning at his generosity.

He was thanked for his assistance with a blow to the head, a rabbit punch.

"Bucky!"

Immediately, Bucky kneeled, trying not to vomit from vertigo. He tried to steady his wonky breathing, trying desperately to stay conscious. Jesus Christ, what the hell, Carl?

The entire crowd turned on Carl, and for good reason.

A coward's punch; the man dared call himself a boxer. That was a dog act, and there was no way Carl didn't know that.

Distantly, he heard Steve roaring at Carl and his goons as the crowd backed him. The argument went back and forth, but Bucky couldn't bring himself to listen, let alone stand and join them. He felt woozy. It had been a while since he'd taken a proper hit to the back of the head, and he wasn't a spring chicken anymore. He didn't bounce back off the ground like he used to. Still, he managed to abate the dizziness enough to look up at Steve screaming in Carl's face.

"Get outta here 'fore we tell Mr. Garrett you used an illegal move! And outta the ring, no less!"

Carl's face screwed up in irritation, making him flinch as it moved his jaw, but he and his goons bowed out without another fight.

But chucklefuck couldn't resist having the last say, "You'll get yours, you lot!"

Bucky snorted before muttering to Steve, who knelt beside him, "Heard that before."

Steve's hands settled on his shoulders, turning Bucky to look directly at him. His best pal was concerned, and rightly so.

"You good, Bucky?" Steve was staring intently into his eyes, likely looking for signs of any real damage.

"Yeah," Bucky reassured as strongly as he could, "Prick packs a wallop though."

Nodding, Steve instructed him to check his movements and assess how badly Bucky was hurt. Luckily, it looked like there wasn't any damage, and he would likely only suffer from a nasty headache for a while.

"Let's get you home then," Steve said as he looped his arm around Bucky's and helped him to his feet.

If there was one guy he could always count on, it was Steve.

"Thanks, punk."

"Don't mention it, jerk."

Chapter Text

April 6th, 1942

Hibbitt Consulting Firm, New York City

Darcy had been on the receiving end of many impressive arched eyebrows, but the one Jerry was sporting now was the most imposing. Yeesh.

They sat opposite each other in his office, a change of scenery for them as usually these little chats would occur in her office, and they held each other's stare unflinchingly. She could tell that he was not accepting her version of the events as gospel truth.

And in a very typical Jerry Hibbitt fashion, he simply sat in silence, waiting for her to fill the void between them. The bastard knew her well enough that she was waiting in trepidation for his response, and he was going to psychologically torture her by not speaking up until she'd said more. Then, and only then, would he speak his mind.

Why did Jerry always make her feel like a damn child? She'd told him the sequence of the events as factually as possible.

Well, it's not like she'd embellished the situation, but it had been from her perspective, and Darcy knew she could be incredibly biased when it came to herself. She's a millennial, so if there is one thing she's entitled to, it's that.

The older man's gaze was unrelenting if a bit amused, and Darcy resisted the urge to jiggle her leg nervously; she'd not had such an urge since she went to court for assaulting (it was a spud gun for God's sake, hardly grounds for the botched assault charge) her local mayor as a teen. But Jerry sat higher in his little Chesterfield chair with a heavier gaze than any sycophantic court judge on Darcy.

She'd already told him a lot today, and he still wanted more. Jerry was officially the person who knew the most about her 'life' before NYC - meaning her life in 'Utah.' He'd surprisingly not batted an eye at the idea of her having a dead spouse (and family), which was relieving. Still, she was irritated that he wanted to know even more.

Under his weighted stare, framed by baulky glasses and impressively bushy eyebrows, she broke eye contact first.

"I know how it sounds," Darcy moaned as she smacked her head on the desk.

As though a mild head injury would suddenly make her see the world more clearly. Or… even better… if only it would knock her out and she could sleep for the rest of the day.

Jerry merely took a gulp of his whiskey flask and shrugged, "Well, it sounds like you're upset that he's backed you into a corner that you can't wiggle out of, and instead of acting maturely and healthily communicating that, you decided to start a fight to avoid the whole situation. How am I doing so far?"

Darcy decided she needed to take Jerry a little more seriously. The man just knew how she functioned, which is to say, not well at all. She guessed that it takes one to know one.

Huffing, she crossed her arms, "Irritatingly on point."

After a night of sleeping on her and Bucky's argument, she'd hoped to be more sure of her position in a said argument, but it had not given Darcy any peace of mind. Clarity: yes, but not in her favour. Darcy understood why Bucky wanted to know these things, and generally speaking, she would have been thrilled with the attention... but she was instead quite contrite over the whole fallout. It hadn't been necessary. She knew that. Really. She had panicked and snapped at Bucky for something that was no fault of his own. If their roles were reversed, she imagined she'd be just as curious, if not more so. Still, she'd said no, and he wouldn't leave it well enough alone! It wouldn't have been a problem if he'd respected her decision. It wasn't her fault that it ended in a fight.

Darcy grumbled under her breath and made grabby hands for the flask. Jerry handed it over without complaint, and she took a deep swig from it. Jerry lit up a smoke and started happily puffing away.

What was it with the men in her life and smoking?

"I did nothing wrong," she asserted haughtily.

If she says it confidently enough, perhaps it'll become true.

"And I'm the Queen of Sheba," Jerry answered in kind, "Bow to me, peasant."

Darcy narrowed her eyes, "Careful there - peasants revolt when they're displeased."

Jerry shrugged, looking incredibly unconcerned, but spoke pointedly, "Ah, yes, I can see that. Considering you and democracy have such a chummy history."

She was not a dictator, and she took offence at his suggesting as much. She could have a civilised conversation with someone and concede defeat.

Mostly. It's not a bad thing. She had been brilliant in her high school debate club for a reason!

The argument played through her mind again, and she couldn't remember if her tone had truly been that harsh or if her memory was heightening its severity. She remembered Bucky standing at his front door, jaw taunt and spine rigid, the very picture of an unhappy man.

Darcy tried (and failed) to ignore the pangs of guilt that littered her heart. Bucky had looked so upset… and she had been the cause of it.

Why had he asked? Why couldn't he leave it alone? Why couldn't he just be happy to have her as she is? Why did he want to know about the very things she couldn't tell him.

"So," Jerry stressed with an exaggerated shrug, "He's upset you have a dead husband you won't speak of, and you're upset because he wants you to speak about it. How's that sound? About right?"

He was trying to make it out to be the simplest thing in the world, but Jerry had no idea how messy the situation truly was.

She didn't answer, and Jerry rolled his eyes, reached over the desk, and snatched the flask back, ignoring her squawk of protest.

"Well, since you're going to act like a child, you lose your adult privileges," he said as he slid his flask back into his drawer and out of sight.

Dick. Move.

"You don't understand, Jerry!" Darcy scowled in frustration.

"Which part?" Jerry mused with a puff of his cigarette, "That your husband isn't dead, or that he's not your husband, biblically speaking?"

Darcy's eyes widened, and she snapped towards Jerry, "How…?"

Jerry looked offended.

"I'm a lawyer. Reading between the lines is my job. Your reasoning is flawed, so there had to be another one – a more rational one. A dead husband not being dead would be a problem for your new beau. Additionally, you do not, in any single way, play the part of the weeping widow well. I'm also aware that you're mixed up with Robert Harker. It wasn't exactly the most difficult case I've solved," his look exasperated, "You also didn't deny it."

Well, shit. That was a decent chunk of her secrets right there, and he'd deduced most of them. Bravo.

Why, oh why was Jerry a closeted genius? He could rule the world if he put his mind to it. She supposed his reliance on whiskey may have something to do with why he hasn't.

But yes, a secret husband she'd never met (let alone not consummated her marriage with) was considered pretty bad business in the '40s. The whole situation was unfair. Why was it anyone's business anyway? It's not like it affected anyone. If people were upset about it, then that's their problem. Bucky could get over it.

A sudden feeling washed over her; it was foreign and unwelcome. It took her a moment to realise what it was – shame.

God, when was the last time she'd honestly felt true shame?

"None of that now," Jerry told her soothingly as her head bowed in despair, "I will not judge you for it. He might, however, and it's probably best you tell him now than let him find out later."

"I can't," Darcy pleaded for him to understand, "I won't."

She couldn't tell Bucky the truth. She didn't want to lie to him either. So, in her eyes, that only left her with the option of telling him nothing. It's not like he could find out. The only person in NYC who knew was Jerry, and she trusted him enough not to say anything. No one else knew.

Darcy knew she couldn't lie for shit. She wouldn't be able to keep track of them either. The more she told Bucky, the more things wouldn't add up and the more questions he'd ask. It would only be a matter of time before she'd be a rat caught in a trap, and she was no damn rat.

But Jerry was being deliberately obtuse, "Why not?"

She didn't answer. Not that she'd want to, but she didn't even know how to.

Jerry sighed as though disappointed in her, and Darcy tried to stop her lower lip from wobbling.

"Are you planning to return to Utah?" Jerry asked her simply.

The answer, however, was not simple.

Home. Feminism, obesity, the internet… Jane.

She wished. She hoped. She wanted to. But…

How?!

"I can't," she agonised, "I can't go home."

"Then it's not home anymore," Jerry told her with a dismissive wave of his hand, his cigarette dripping ash, "You cannot linger where you no longer belong."

Darcy croaked and realised her throat was wrought shut.

How had this conversation taken such a turn? This was about Bucky, not the 21st century.

So, why did she suddenly want to cry so badly?

She would not cry. She was a grown fucking woman and she would not cry.

Jerry's face turned sympathetic, "That doesn't mean you do not belong here. You've made the beginnings of a good life in New York. Watch, and you'll see. Find a purpose; it'll be home before you know it."

He reached his hand out across the table and grabbed one of hers, lightly squeezing it. The gesture offered her more comfort than she would ever admit.

"You'll never forget where you come from, and I can see the past brings you pain, so I'll allow your avoidance of it for now, but Darcy, you cannot avoid everything forever. Your continued avoidance of real life is going to cause you more pain in the long term than if you confronted them head-on. Don't forget, I know you still haven't spoken to that little war nurse since her announcement. But for now, you need to resolve this argument with Ducky."

"How?" She mithered.

"Well, an apology wouldn't be remiss," he told her pointedly as he stubbed his spent cigarette.

"An apology means I was wrong, and I don't like being wrong. I'm not losing this fight," she was aware that she sounded petulant, but she'd had an emotional day, so she would allow it.

God, what she wouldn't do for ice cream and Netflix.

"Good God, I thought you were a grown woman," Jerry rolled his eyes, but his voice had a hard edge to it, as though he was losing his patience, "You seem to have forgotten something, it's not you versus him, Darcy; it's you two versus the world. Act like it."

Them versus the world. It was a beautiful thought. She liked that idea. Could they really do it?

She pictured his charming grin aimed at her and felt a flutter of peace in her heart. She saw his tear-stained face as he unleashed his emotional burdens, and a sharp pang of protectiveness filled her. She could feel his lips leaving a raspberry on her throat and the delighted giggles that followed. She felt the ghost of his hand at the base of her spine, guiding and unyielding, as he stood beside her as an equal.

Could they do it? Them versus the world?

Who knows? But fuck it, she wanted to try.

Darcy sniffled lightly, "God, how am I going to face him?"

Jerry did not look concerned, "He has younger sisters, yes?"

What did that have to do with anything? "Yeah, why?"

With a shrug, Jerry assured her with confidence, "I dare say he is well aware that if a lady wants to have a fight, then the lady shall have a fight. He's probably gone and blown off some steam, but he should be alright to talk to now. Just don't let it fester – go see him after work. He'll be grateful."

It was sound advice. However, when she inevitably knocks on Bucky's door and sprouts an apology that may not be completely sincere, what would she do then?

And once again, she begged Jerry for advice, "What do I do?"

"My advice to you is that you tell him something."

"Like what?"

Jerry hummed in thought, "Give him three questions. Tell him that's all you're willing to share about your husband for now. Note that I've said for now. Ensure you add that."

"I guess," Darcy mumbled, "Might work."

He gave her a gentle smile, which she bashfully returned. Suffice it to say, Jerry had seen Darcy at a low point today, and she was a little embarrassed by it.

"Hello?" Called a voice from her office, "Delivery!"

She shot Jerry a quick look before standing up and making her way into her office.

The messenger had an outrageously large bouquet. Dear Lord, who needs a bouquet that big?

Accepting them was a struggle simply because they were behemoth-sized, but she managed to see the messenger out. Cradling them in her arms, Darcy pondered the flowers. It was filled to the seams with white, pink, and red carnations. Darcy didn't know enough about horticulture to identify the other flowers, especially the little blue ones, but she knew the bouquet was beautiful. Clearly expensive, too. They definitely could not be from Bucky.

She fumbled with the flowers, looking for a card. There wasn't a card per se, but there was what looked to be a long note. Craning her neck, she spotted a random section of a random sentence of what looked like a random poem; 'I never had but one true love.'

Before finishing the card, she heard Jerry shout, "Are those the flowers?"

So, they were Jerry's. Strange. Wondering back into his office, she placed the flowers on his desk. Jerry immediately stood and assessed the bouquet, fluffing the flowers and occasionally rearranging a flower or two that he deemed out of place.

He gave a firm nod, "Perfect."

Jerry did not feel the need to elaborate on the unusual delivery. Darcy wasn't a woman who appreciated mystique.

"Ahhh, Jerry?" Darcy queried, "What's the flowers for?"

Her boss wouldn't meet her eyes.

Jerry told her, a little reluctantly, "It's my wife and mine's anniversary."

"Oh."

Normally, Darcy would wish him congratulations and ask 'how long' because anniversaries were usually things to celebrate. The issue was that Jerry didn't talk about his marriage, at least not in the present sense; he'd happily reminisce about the early days, but Darcy knew absolutely nothing about the couple as they were now. All she knew was that Jerry, more often than not, slept behind his office desk. Darcy wanted to ask him to confide in her as she did in him. However, she couldn't look away from his fingers as he mutely fiddled with his gold wedding ring, which still sat snuggly on his right hand. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her; if he wanted to wallow in silent agony, then there would be no one alive who could make him do otherwise. Jerry had never asked for her thoughts on the matter, and Darcy knew her interference wouldn't be welcome. All she could do was hope that he'd one day open up.

So, Darcy didn't speak. Not a peep. She was too worried she'd shove her foot in her mouth; amazingly, she didn't shit shoes sometimes.

A framed picture sat on his desk, Mary, and Darcy watched Jerry's fingers twitch as though to tenderly stroke it before pulling back. He clenched his hand so tightly that she thought his knuckles would pop from beneath his skin.

Before she could question herself, she asked him, "What are the little blue flowers?"

Apparently, it was the right thing to do because his hands relaxed into a neutral state.

He gave a gentle smile, "Forget-Me-Nots."

Forget-Me-Nots. She didn't know if the name made her want to smile or cry. However, the flowers had brought a tiny smile to his face, the gentlest she'd ever seen, and that gave Darcy a semblance of reassurance.

Darcy can only assume there was a lingering sentiment behind them, one she didn't understand, "That's beautiful. I'm sure she'll love them."

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say because Jerry's smile went a little tight, "Undoubtedly."

They said no more on the matter, and when Jerry escorted her out of the building and sent her on her way to Bucky's, he left his own way, too, flowers in tow.

As she walked to Bucky's, Darcy worried less about her own upcoming confrontation and more about Jerry's. Darcy really hoped Mary wouldn't ruin Jerry's mental progress in a single evening.

Chapter Text

April 6th, 1942

Bucky and Steve's House, New York City

Bucky had been in bed all day with a splitting headache. Steve had been a pal and notified the docks that he wasn't coming into work. It was his first day off sick in years, so they'd been pretty good about it. Bucky knew that he couldn't make a habit of it and had no plans to. For today, resting was a priority.

If he saw Carl Walker in the street, he might just wipe the floor with him. Fucking crumb. No! Chucklefuck. Yeah, that suited him much better.

The pain had lessened as the day wore on, and Steve had been a godsend throughout it all. Probably, the punk thought it was about time their nursing roles were reversed. For now, Bucky wouldn't complain.

He'd considered getting rip-roaring drunk just to dull the pain, but he knew that idea was a poor one for multiple reasons.

Even still, he'd spend the day in bed, a luxury he very rarely allowed, napping on and off.

Just as he was considering getting up and bugging Steve about dinner, he heard a knock on the door.

His gut flipped unexpectedly, and Bucky knew it was Darcy at the door.

He wasn't sure he was ready to deal with her, or more accurately if she was ready to deal with him. The last thing he wanted was to worsen their fight even more.

It sounded like Stevie had answered the door and let her in. Bucky could hear the soft hum of voices but couldn't make out any words. The front door shut again, and Bucky suspected Steve had left to give them some privacy. Bucky was both grateful and irritated. Grateful because he didn't want his best pal overhearing him being chewed out and irritated because he'd just lost his witness if he got murdered.

"Hey," Darcy murmured as she stepped into the room.

Bucky raised his head and met her eyes, "Hey."

Neither of them spoke further, but Darcy quickly looked away from him. It stung a little.

With a pained sigh, Bucky flung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly sat upright. The room didn't spin, so he took that as a solid plus. He scooted over in his bed, a silent invitation for her to join him, but she didn't acknowledge it. She just stood there, a couple of steps into the room, looking away from him.

She looked tired and a little pale. His instinct was to ask what was wrong, but he wasn't sure if his concern would be welcome.

Bucky chose to wait for her to speak first. After a couple of minutes of lingering silence, Bucky nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He must look a wreck: un-showered, barely dressed, and bed ragged. Well, he would look a sight if she just looked his way. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and contemplated putting on a shirt and pants.

Looking at her again, Bucky realised she wasn't deliberately ignoring him. She wasn't being argumentative or dismissive. In fact, she looked as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

His Darcy looked morose. That just wouldn't do.

"Everythin' alright?"

"Hmm?" Her head shot up, "Oh, umm, yeah. Just lost in thought."

Bucky squirmed where he sat, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I don't think you've got enough pennies," Darcy's lips twitched in amusement, but it quickly faded, "It's about Jerry."

Bucky had only met him once in passing. On the steps of the Doyle house, Jerry had introduced himself, giving Bucky a generous once-over before muttering to himself and sauntering inside. From what Bucky knew of the man, he seemed to be a good, if questionable, influence on Darcy. Jerry seemed to be both a guiding hand and a source of unhealthy dependence. He didn't really understand the dynamic of their friendship, but he knew it was important to Darcy, and if there were something wrong with Jerry, then that would cause her to be upset.

"He 'lright?"

His sweetheart shrugged, "I don't know. Not that he'd tell me. His stubbornness might actually beat mine."

The snort escaped his mouth before he could withhold it, and she shot him a withering look of reproach but made no comment. He bit his lip to smother his smile.

No one could outstubborn Darcy.

But Darcy didn't speak any further on the topic, and Bucky didn't know how to broach a topic change without sounding unsympathetic to her friend's problems. As much as Bucky would have loved to hear about Jerry or her life in general, they had some air to clear. He imagined (hoped) that was why she'd popped in unannounced in the first place.

"You still mad at me?" He gently asked, fully prepared for a solid 'yes.'

"No," Darcy surprised him, "No, I'm not."

With a sigh, she finally joined him on the bed, and they sat side by side. To his relief, she didn't avoid contact with him. With slow movements, he rested his hand on her thigh; she placed hers on top of his and squeezed. He flipped his hand and linked his fingers between hers.

Neither of them let go. If anything, she squeezed tighter.

He thought he should feel more exposed, considering she was fully dressed and he was only wearing his boxers, but it didn't feel uncomfortable at all. It's amazing how accustomed he was to Darcy's soothing presence.

"I've talked to Jerry," she started as she drew little circles on his hand with her thumb, "He's put a few things into perspective for me."

Thank Christ for Jerry then.

"I do want to start with something, though," she told him, "In future if I ask you to stop asking about something - especially my past - please stop."

He was anything but thrilled by this new rule. Did he not get a say in the matter at all? But then again, surely, if she can make rules, he can too?

Bucky nodded, "Only on the condition that I can ask again 'nother day."

Her face twisted slightly in annoyance, but she reluctantly nodded, "Okay."

That conversation somehow didn't become a disaster. Bucky would have been less surprised if the Virgin Mary had dropped down from heaven and kissed him smack on the lips. He felt a relieved breath escape him. Little by little, they were slowly figuring out how to adjust to the other's wants and needs. Thank Christ.

They sat silently for a few beats more before Darcy stood and paced slightly. Bucky stayed sitting but watched her with hawklike eyes.

She seemed to be preparing herself for something. In typical Darcy fashion, she started abruptly and without floundering about.

"I'll give you three questions about him. No more," Darcy bargained before pausing with a thoughtful frown, "For now."

Bucky immediately stood and eagerly nodded - that was more than he'd hoped for. Finally, they were getting somewhere. He bit his bottom lip in contemplation, wondering how he could best use these three questions.

What should he ask? He didn't want to abuse this privilege but didn't want to waste it.

He wanted to ask her husband's name, but she hadn't responded well to that last time. There was so much he wanted to know. Sometimes, he felt this lonely chasm of ignorance split his heart open when it came to the woman he cared about most in the world; he didn't even know if Lewis was her married or maiden name, for Christ's sake! What should he ask instead? He decided he'd start with an easy but informative one.

"What was his job?"

One could learn a lot about someone by what they did for a living.

Darcy looked surprised by the question, and she exhaled heavily, her shoulders relaxing significantly. Clearly, she'd thought his line of questioning would be more aggressive.

"He worked in the mines," her brow furrowed before she offhandedly added, "Coal."

That was backbreaking work - coming from a man who also laboured in backbreaking work - which told Bucky that not only was her late husband a hard worker but also a provider. Was he a foreman or just a worker? Did he come home at the end of every day, or was he gone for weeks at a time? Did he trek coal into their house, or was he the type to take off his shoes? But none of those were questions he deemed worthy of spending his precious little three on.

Bucky nodded, thinking about his next question, "How'd you meet him?"

A dance hall? A diner? Bumped into each other on the street? Was it love at first sight? Were they friends first? Who pursued whom? Was her late husband as crazy about her as Bucky was? He'd had to have been.

Her lips pursed, and her eyebrows narrowed with consideration before settling on, "Through a mutual… acquaintance."

… That was a disappointing answer, but Bucky tried not to show it. A mutual acquaintance, but pointedly not a friend, had introduced them. It really didn't tell him much. Was it a blind date? Or was it for something else entirely? Bucky couldn't think of a reason why Darcy would need to meet with a miner, so it must have been a date. How long had they been stepping out before they got engaged? Did they have a short engagement? How long were they married for?

Darcy looked much calmer, but Bucky knew what he wanted his final question to be, and he braced himself for the fallout. He wasn't sure why he wanted to ask this question because he thought the answer would be obvious. His gut, however, was relentless and begged him to ask it.

Here goes nothing...

So, with great trepidation, he asked, "Did you love him?"

Darcy blinked stupidly before her mouth popped open in shock. Most likely because of his audacity.

Shit, he was an idiot. What a stupid question - of course, she loved her late husband. What kind of idiot asks—?

"No."

His gut flipped.

… What?

No? Did she just say 'no' to that? He'd heard that right, hadn't he?

A weight lifted off Bucky's shoulders, and he exhaled shakily, "No?"

"No," she confirmed breezily, as though she hadn't just thrown his world off its axis.

She hadn't loved her husband.

This made him want to ask more questions. Why did she marry him if she didn't love him? Was he not a good husband? Didn't he provide for her? How'd he die? Did she grieve at all?

But Bucky restrained himself. One day. He'd know these things one day, and even if it was only three questions every blue moon, that was enough. For now. He could be patient - for her.

He wanted to tell her he loved and adored her more than anything. Thought that it was absurd that flowers didn't sprout through the pavement with every step she took. He could scarcely wait for the day when he could drop to one knee and beg her to tie her life to his. But he bit his tongue; Bucky suspected she wasn't ready.

And that was okay. He could wait. Darcy was a woman worth waiting for.

He tentatively approached her with purposeful movements so she could move away if she wanted – she didn't. Once he was within reach, he tenderly caressed her cheek and gave her the happiest smile he could.

Pressing a smacking kiss to her forehead, he had to express himself, "Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me, what you mean to me. I swear, your past - your trust - is safe with me."

He hadn't thought the words to be anything incredible, but Darcy inhaled sharply, and her eyes locked heatedly with his. Bucky physically gulped from the sudden shift in the air. It was suddenly as humid as summer in his and Steve's tiny room. Her eyes were smouldering, alit with determination and lust, and who was Bucky to deny her?

It didn't matter who moved first, but they came together in a clash of tongues, hands, and hips. His tongue in her mouth, hers battling for dominance; her hands buried in his hair, his to her breasts; his hips pressed against hers, and hers giving as got as she got.

"Darcy," he murmured in awe into her mouth.

For a brief moment, the world had been fragile and scary, but now it was bright and full of possibility, and it was all because of Darcy.

Her fingers were bruising at the base of his skull, the other so tightly wound in his hair that he feared he'd go bald. But none of that mattered – only they mattered right now.

His tongue danced with hers with a ferocity that surprised even him. They'd always been hot, but this…

It was desperate, frantic even. Bucky had never been consumed by such an urgent need before. His cock twitched excitedly, begging for Darcy. He needed to be buried inside her. He needed it.

Without conscious thought, Bucky brought Darcy into his arms and off the ground, backing them up into the bed. The back of his knees hit the bed frame, and the sensation triggered his legs into jelly; they fell seated on the bed with her safely secure in his lap.

Darcy hiked her skirt up, dropped her panties, flicked her legs over either side of his thigh, and started riding it. His boxers were tented, and his sweetheart grazed his cock with every swivel of her hips. Fuck, he's grateful he didn't put his clothes on. He could feel her slick coating his thigh, giving her slippery friction, and he gripped her asscheeks to assist her movement.

Her hips rocked against his thigh with wild abandon, her head flung back, face flushed red, eyes screwed up in concentration; Bucky's eyes rolled back at the sheer eroticism of watching her. She looked wanton and exhilarated above him, whimpering in his lap with unchecked desire.

"Fuck - Bucky," she whined with a choke, and Bucky knew that sound - she was close.

"Geez, doll," he panted, "Already?"

He'd barely even done anything yet.

But it was apparently enough, as she nodded frantically, "Bucky!"

Christ, he loved the way she gasped his name. Enthusiastic, needy, and with a touch of bossiness.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he urged her hips against him, "Fuck, I wish you could see yourself right now; so- ugh – gorgeous. So – so perfect. Barely even touching you, and you're grinding against me harder than stone. Christ, I need to paint you like this and keep you in my wallet, in my pocket forevermore-"

Her breath hitched until she gasped greedily, chanting his name again and again as her thighs quaked above him. Her hips stunted and slowed their neck-breaking pace, and Bucky placed reassuring kisses on her throat. Fuck, she was breathtaking when she came.

"There ya go, doll. Let go," Bucky soothed her.

Bucky had thought she'd need a minute to recover, but Darcy wasn't done with him yet. She wiggled on his lap and parted her legs for him. He could smell her sweet little cunt, and his nostrils flared; the familiar scent of Darcy was musky and alluring, and he wanted little else in life but to bury his face in it. She was going to be the death of him.

He could see her core – perfect, pink, wet, and so warm. He ran a knuckle over her slit, relishing her shudder, and he groaned at how wet she was. How was she always so wet? Christ, sometimes he didn't even need to part her folds and she'd just be dripping for him.

"Christ," he blasphemed hotly, "Practically droolin' for me, doll."

She preened at his words and sucked at the junction of his throat. His adam's apple bobbed under her ministrations, and Bucky was hypnotised by the wet sucking sounds she made - so similar to the sounds she made with her lips wrapped around his cock.

"Bucky," she mewled as she rotated her hips against his hips, "Your fingers – I need them now!"

"Need me to play with that pussy, doll?" He tried to sound teasing, but his throat was thick, and the words came out as needy as he felt, "I wanna play with that pussy."

With the eagerness of a schoolboy, Bucky slipped his fingers inside her scorching heat and curled two fingers, pumping in and out with seamless clarity. Darcy babbled praises in his ear, and Bucky wanted to hear more. He pushed his fingers deeper, his knuckles enveloped in her wet cunt. She writhed on his hand, and they moaned blissfully together. It amazed him how turned on he could get just from watching her ride his fingers. Fuck, he couldn't wait to be sheathed inside her.

His fingers grazed something, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion; he'd felt those before. He'd never asked, but he suddenly needed to know. Wiggling his fingers, he wondered if he could get a grip on them, but they were so deep it was difficult.

He felt them again, "What are those?"

Through her panting, Darcy distractedly asked, "What's what?"

He lightly twirled his fingers around what felt like strings, "Those."

A sound of understanding escaped her, and she pressed her mouth to his, gifting him a filthy kiss, "Doesn't matter. Later, just don't pull on it."

Her tongue enticed his own into her mouth, and he was powerless to resist.

Later. Yeah. Later was good.

She rolled her hips against his hand in encouragement, and Bucky cursed under his breath. Fuck, she was perfect.

A surge of determination filled him as he watched Darcy dwell in pleasure above him. One more. He wanted to give her one more, one more blissed-out moment, and only then could he finally drive himself home inside her.

Coated in her slick, he brought his thumb to her clit and applied pressure. She twitched violently, oversensitive, and Bucky pulled his thumb away. His lover growled at the removal, but he returned his thumb with a feather-light touch and softly swirled. Darcy froze for a moment before moaning and shifting her hips with his movements, encouraging his churning thumb and curling fingers. Without applying any additional pressure, he rubbed light circles around her clit, and she shuddered around his fingers as he worked her towards her orgasm.

He couldn't contain his grin as he nipped at her throat, speaking breathlessly in the shell of her ear, "You like that, don't you, doll? My fingers curling inside you, my thumb barely grazing your clit. You goin' come for me like this? Christ, I might not even wash my hand tonight - think about this moment later when I'm puttin' myself to bed with thoughts of you."

Darcy sobbed words he couldn't understand, but whether it was because they were unintelligible or because he couldn't think straight, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that she sounded beyond feral, and that was exactly how he wanted her.

"Bucky. Bucky. Bucky!"

"I gotcha, doll," he promised as he nibbled on her earlobe.

She came with a squeal and a series of violent twitches, and Bucky tirelessly worked her bundles of nerves through all of it. She looked completely cockdrunk, and Bucky had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Bucky stared up at her with reverence. He was honoured that this glorious creature wanted him by her side in every way. He couldn't wait any longer. He needed to be close to her, inside her. Beneath her skin, inside her bones… wholly merged.

Somehow, they'd ditched his boxers, slipped a rubber on, and he was blessedly (finally) home.

She rolled her hips on top of him with exhausted determination, and he thrust up into her with delightful despair. He watched, transfixed, as his cock was swallowed by her cunt again and again.

Darcy whimpered above him, and his eyes shot to hers. Her blue eyes were blown black, and Bucky knew he must look the same - two peas in a pod. As tenderly as he could, he pressed his lips to any flesh he could reach, leaving a trail of saliva and tiny love bites as he went. He wouldn't be surprised if her skin left blisters on his tongue.

His heart was blaring with resolve, his gut spiralling in elation. He wanted to tell her.

I love you.

But she wasn't ready. He'd just have to prove it. Someway, somehow, it didn't matter - he'll do it, and she'll never doubt him again.

Again and again, he pistoned his hips and buried himself inside her. Deeper, deeper, deeper – so deep as to touch her soul if he could manage it. His Darcy was squeezing him so tightly that he almost struggled to withdraw with every thrust. Bucky's place inside her was welcomed – wanted if not downright expected. He was hers, completely and utterly, and she had no idea of just how much power she had over him. All the power. All of it. Right here, she was his almighty.

He groaned from all the sensations overwhelming him; his heart, his cock, his gut, his mind…. everything Darcy.

His lips formed the words, but he inhaled them back.

I love you.

"Please, Bucky, please!" she chanted over and over, "God, Bucky! It's - urgh - don't stop - please!"

Suddenly, her claws were at his back, and he felt them dig into his shoulder blades. He groaned, digging into her even deeper, delighting in her nails digging just as deep. His balls twitched, and Bucky knew he only had maybe a minute left---!

"Bucky," Darcy moaned in a daze, "Baby!"

He came with a startled grunt, emptying into her with jerky hips - suddenly and strongly.

Jesus Christ, Darcy! He could barely keep his thoughts straight after that.

Baby?

Baby? Since when did she call him that? Since when did he like being called that?

He buried his head in her shoulder, and she ran soothing fingers through his matted hair. If he thought he looked a fright earlier, he must look downright debauched now. As their hearts started to calm, Bucky kissed his way up her throat and to her face. He rested his forehead on hers, and for several moments, they shared breath.

How the hell had they managed to do all that without taking off her clothes?

"You like that, baby?" Her voice was husky and knowing.

Again, the name triggered a physical response, and his cock twitched inside her.

She cackled breathlessly, "Oh boy, I'm gonna have fun with that."

He had no doubt she would. Fresh ammunition for driving him crazy - he'd be surprised if she didn't start saying it at inappropriate times just for giggles.

"You're evil," he told her assuredly as he slipped out of her with a hiss, "Pure evil."

He suddenly couldn't stay in their sitting position anymore and collapsed onto his back atop the sheets. Darcy cheerfully followed him as he discarded the soiled rubber. She was curled up at his side as though she were a bunny, and he was her burrow. It was a beautiful thought. He would proudly be her burrow, her home, her safe place...

He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, and she hummed in contentment.

"Thank you," he repeated, "I really do appreciate you trusting me."

Her face was still gentle, but she looked sad, "It's not really a matter of trust, Bucky."

Bringing his hand to her face, he lightly traced the line of her jaw, "What is it a matter of then?"

Her eyes dropped, and Bucky swallowed his sigh of disappointment. He hoped one day soon she'd just accept the fact that he wasn't going anywhere without her, that there was nothing she could say that would make him run.

"Okay, another day."

Those beautiful blue peepers flicked back up to his, and the corner of her lips tipped upwards, "Thank you."

Her voice was breathy with appreciation, and Bucky couldn't hold a grudge. He would just have to accept that Darcy's heart was passionate but slow-moving, and that was okay. He didn't necessarily need to pump the breaks; he just needed to double back and pump her tank full of gas occasionally.

Darcy flung her leg back over him and straddled his torso, and he could feel that her cunt was still glistening and swollen, gently resting on his chest. The gentle smell of her lingered in the space between them, making him relive their most recent tryst, and Bucky felt his cock twitch at his thoughts. Looking down at him, she bit her lip and stared at him with bright eyes. His Darcy seemed lost in thought.

"Am I that pretty, sweetheart?" He teased.

"The prettiest," she attested with an affectionate roll of her eyes.

"Now, that can't be true, doll," he goaded, "Everyone knows you're the prettiest."

She quirked a teasing eyebrow, "Oh? Not Mae West?"

"Now, now, Darcy," he scolded lightly with humour, "Don't be bringin' women you can't compete wit' into our bed."

Darcy squawked her indignation and lightly smacked his bare chest. It didn't hurt, but Bucky still feigned mild injury at the swat. She moved to swat him again, but he caught both of her hands and threaded their fingers together. He brought her hands to his lips and placed hearty raspberries on them.

They giggled together, completely content in the moment, and Darcy started idly playing with his fingers. He winced slightly and glared at his right hand.

"What is it?" She asked as she assessed his fingers for injuries.

"Nothing," he chuckled, "My hand is just cramping somethin' shocking."

Bucky wouldn't complain - he'd take it as a badge of honour, considering how pleased Darcy had been with his efforts.

Darcy giggled in return, leaning down and silently asking for a kiss, "Worth it?"

Propping himself up on his elbows, he leaned up and went to place a kiss on her lips before abruptly changing course and placing a wet kiss on her nose instead, making her pout, "Worth it."

"Definitely," she agreed before finishing petulantly, "But you missed my lips."

"Oh, did I?" he asked cheekily, as he gently rubbed her nose with his.

"Yes, you did," she insisted, playingfully serious, "Fix it."

Bucky shot her a filthy grin that reeked of sin.

"As you wish," Darcy shrieked as he flipped her on her back, flicked up her skirt, and flung her legs over his shoulders, "I'll fix that right now."

Chapter Text

April 12th, 1942

Rosie's Diner + Bucky and Steve's House, New York City

"You need a permit for those eyes, doll? Because scoped weapons are meant to be restricted."

"You got a licence for that grin? Because only the devil should be wearing it."

"Can you guys please stop?" Steve asked meekly.

Bucky and Darcy shared a grin at Steve's discomfort. All in all, that had been G-rated banter, but Steve obviously knew them well enough that things had the potential to escalate quickly between them.

Stevie could be so much fun to rile up!

It being Sunday, the three of them were having their weekly coffee at the diner. Well, Steve and Bucky's weekly coffee catch-up that Darcy continuously gate-crashed, but they hadn't complained yet. Ergo, their weekly coffee catchup.

It was the busiest Darcy had ever seen the diner. Every table and all the stools were occupied. Rosie was here and there like a blowfly, and Darcy suspected there may even be a queue outside. She still had no idea how Bucky and Steve always managed to snag a booth. It must have been some supernatural hidden power one of them had.

They'd quickly given their orders upon arrival and were patiently waiting for their drinks.

After their light flirting, the conversation quickly turned to work (docks for Bucky and actively looking for more work for Steve), and Darcy silently zoned out. It had been a week since Jerry's anniversary, and he'd been very quiet since; he'd only engage in a conversation when she'd specifically invited him to. His attitude was still the same, but his mood was barely above par. Multiple times a day, he would step out of the office for hours at a time – a significant increase from his usual once-a-week schedule, unless he was in court. Something had happened to upset him dreadfully, but he wasn't being upfront about it.

Darcy worried her lip – what could she do about it? She was not a patient woman, and Jerry was not a forthright man. One way or another, one of them was going to end up upset.

"Can it, punk," Bucky lightly hissed at Steve.

Huh?

"What's going on?" Darcy asked.

"Bucky skipped Easter," Steve informed her, "Didn't go to mass or see his family or nothin'."

The glare Bucky shot him was impressive, to say the least. "Mind your own business, Steve."

"Your Ma wasn't impressed," Steve pointedly told him, "It's not hard to go to church to please her."

"She'll get over it," Bucky shot back.

The discussion was dropped when Rosie popped out of nowhere and served their drinks: two black coffees and a chocolate malt shake.

"Bit run off your feet, Rosie?" Bucky acknowledged sympathetically.

"I'm in need of a new waitress," Rosie bemoaned as she hustled, "Last one has run off back to Ithaca."

Steve perked up. "You need staff?"

"Not you, hun," Rosie immediately shot down, "I need a pretty waitress who will bring in regulars."

Steve looked downtrodden but nodded in understanding.

"If I ever need a watchdog, you'll be the first to hear," Rosie said placatingly before rushing off.

The conversation did not return to Easter.

Darcy was aware that Easter had happened. Mrs. Doyle had invited all the girls to a nice lunch, which Darcy had politely declined, as she didn't see the point in Easter. Aside from her being Jewish and therefore not growing up with it, in this day and age, there wasn't any chocolate involved. That was her main motivator for participating, gone in a puff of smoke. Poof! No chocolate, no Darcy. It's a simple equation.

She hadn't realised, however, that Bucky had meant to participate in any activities. Bucky also didn't attend church on Sundays; in fact, he was usually too busy fucking her on Sunday mornings. He hadn't attended church very much for as long as she'd known him, but having only known him for a relatively short time, that didn't mean much. Was that causing him problems with his mom?

The breaking of ceramic suddenly echoed loudly in the diner.

For a second, her heart lodged in her throat - Thor? But that couldn't be right.

"Those goddamn Japs," Darcy overheard a patron on the other side of the diner roar, "Should just kill all those yellow bastards!"

The hairs on the back of Darcy's neck were suddenly raised.

Darcy actively tried to avoid any news of the war, but in the past week, people had been far more vocal than usual. No matter how hard she tried, it had been impossible to avoid it.

Japanese forces were bellicosely causing problems; invading Myanmar (no! It's called Burma right now) methodically, a naval air raid was instigated by them and ended in their victory. Hell, even Papua New Guinea was trying to fend them off their shores. That wasn't even the worst of it. The Battle of Bataan, despite being over for days now, was riddled with rumours so horrible that it was leaving a putrid taste in everyone's mouth. The Fall of Bataan, Darcy was sure, would make history. Pearl Harbour was already reason enough for the U.S to be prejudiced against the Japanese, but Darcy had failed to realise just how aggressive they'd been, which, in turn, was sparking hate crimes throughout the city.

Another event she knew of from memory during this time was during a December (which December, past or future, she wasn't sure) but it would be nicknamed the 'Rape of Nanjing' for valid reasons.

She shuddered, unable to even look at her malt shake, let alone drink it. A sick feeling was coiling in her gut, and it was due to the knowledge that all of this was presently happening. Not some bygone event involving a historic boogeyman. It was happening now.

"Fuckin' Japs don't deserve to be breathin' no more. What the fuck is our military doin'? Bet they've got a damn woman in charge."

Darcy watched transfixed as Steve's shoulders squared to sharp points, subsequently making Bucky sit taller in his seat.

Looking over her shoulder, Darcy spotted the nuisance sitting in the booth furthest from theirs. The man currently ranting was tall, even whilst sitting. His beard was long and greying; he looked built like an ox. His eyes were a little too far apart, and spittle was spraying everywhere as he spoke. He sat with two other men, at least a decade younger, and was waving his hands passionately as he spoke.

It was Rosie who stepped in and spoke with staunch disapproval, "Richard – there are children present."

Indeed, there were. Around the diner, many children were seated with their families, staring at Richard with various expressions of fear, uncertainty, and shock.

To his credit, Richard looked quite remorseful at the reminder.

He spoke with his mouth half full, "'Course, Rosie, sorry."

Rosie nodded in understanding, but her eyes and tone weren't nearly so forgiving: "Be that as it may, you've finished your lunch, and I must ask you to leave."

As it was, he hadn't finished his lunch, but Rosie's hands were firmly pressed on her hips.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, Richard stood and motioned for his friends to do so as well. They dropped their cash on the counter and made their way toward the door.

However, walking past their booth, Darcy heard him muttering a little too loudly, "Little yellow-faced cunts… There's some down near the harbour, I hear…"

The little bell above the door signalled their exit.

The tension between the boys sitting at her booth was palpable; they sat across from each other like two hissing vipers, waiting for the other to suddenly strike.

Bucky spoke warningly, "Steve-"

The smaller man stood up so violently that their crockery rattled. He'd barely made a step before Bucky was up and grabbed ahold of his shoulder.

"Steve, don't-"

Refusing to listen, Steve shrugged off his grip and stormed out the door.

Bucky shot Darcy a quick but reluctant look, "Doll, I'ma be back---!"

The two were off like a shot.

Darcy sat in her seat, blinking at the quick-fire exchange. It happened so quickly that she hadn't been able to say a peep. Then they just ran off and left her, like some damn damsel that required protection from the big bad. Well, fuck that noise. Did they expect her to wait here and play tic-tac-toe by herself? Who did they think she was? She quickly dropped a couple of notes on their table and chased after them.

Out on the street, a fight had already broken out between the five men. A crowd was gathered around them, and they either jeered or tutted; none of them seemed inclined to get involved.

Bucky was dealing with the two younger numbskulls while Steve got cornered by the oldest, Richard.

Richard landed a hit alongside Steve's face, who uselessly tried to throw a punch back.

Awww, hell no! Who the fuck did this chucklefuck think he was? Who picks on someone smaller than them?!

Darcy lowered her handbag from her shoulder and brandished it as a weapon. Gaining momentum, she ran up behind Richard, leapt, and went to town.

"Sid the Sloth looking motherfucker!" She screamed at Steve's attacker as she brought her bag down on his head again and again.

And again and again...

"Jesus Christ, toots, what – ouch! - the hell?" He demanded as he fell to his knees and protectively brought his arms above his head, "You got rocks in tha'?"

Toots? Toots?! Dick!

She remembered his misogynistic comment earlier about women leading men in the military.

"C'mon, tough guy," Darcy taunted with wicked pleasure as she brought her bag down again, "You gonna let a woman with a piece of cowhide beat you into the dirt? Huh? How 'bout you pick on someone your own size!"

"Geez, doll," she overheard Bucky mutter as he wrapped his arm around her waist and physically lifted her off the ground and away from the chucklefuck.

"Hey! Let me at him!" Darcy snapped with irritation, "Don't manhandle me, Bucky – I was winning,"

"I've no doubt," he confirmed as he put her down a couple of feet away, "It's for his protection, not yours."

That was a damn lie, but it said wonders about Bucky's dealings with headstrong women that he knew that lying was more likely to make her stand down than anything else.

The two men he'd been dealing with were in various states of being knelt over and groaning in pain. Richard backed off the second Bucky approached.

"I don't wan' no trouble," Richard claimed with his hands held high, "Was just a passionate rant, is all. I wasna gonna do nothin'."

"Make sure you don't," Bucky glared frostily at the man, "Go on now, get."

Richard didn't need to be told twice, so he helped his pals up, and off they scampered.

They weren't even out of sight before Bucky grabbed Steve by the scruff of the neck and dragged him away from the crowd; Steve struggled and cussed the whole way. Darcy followed as quickly as she could, and Bucky kept glancing back to make sure she was keeping up.

They made it all the way back to their apartment before Bucky let go of him, by practically throwing Steve into the apartment. Darcy slipped in behind them, unsure of what to do.

A cool, damp cloth was rung out two seconds flat and was smacked ungraciously against Steve's already bruised cheek.

"What is fuckin' wrong with you, pal?" Bucky was more furious than she'd ever seen. "That was uncalled for."

"You heard 'em," Steve spoke steely, "They have no right to speak like tha' and it wouldn't have stopped at words."

"You punk! They were all damn talk, and you know it. You had no right to start a fight like that."

Steve's eyes were passionate as he glared at Bucky, "And what would you have had me do instead? Nothing?"

"Of course not," Bucky snapped back, "But you can't fly off the handle like that when you're outsized and outnumbered. You need to learn to choose your time and place; on the damn street in broad daylight, where kids can see isn't one of them."

There had been kids outside? Darcy hadn't even noticed. It made sense that Bucky noticed though; having protective big brother instincts (which she suspected didn't have an 'off' mode) probably made him more sensitive to details like that.

Steve's face softened a little. "I didn't notice the kids."

"'Course you didn't, punk," Bucky snarled as he glared at Steve, "'Cause you weren't payin' any mind to anything but your own damn sanctimonious attitude."

"I was wrong 'bout doin' it in clear view of kids," Steve agreed briefly before continuing to stand his ground, "But I won't apologise for doin' the right thing."

Darcy slowly approached Bucky from behind, wanting to diffuse the situation but not knowing how. She was worried that adding her own voice to the choir would be an addition no one wanted. Both their tempers were flared, and Darcy didn't want to exacerbate the situation unnecessarily. At the very least, she wanted to show support, but how?.

"The right thing, if you were really concerned," Bucky mocked, with pure anger in his words, "Would o' been to report it to the police; not start a fight and get yourself hurt."

Steve plucked the cloth off his face angrily and hurled it at Bucky.

It missed Bucky and hit Darcy smack in the face instead.

It made a wet slop sound as it made impact. It didn't hurt, but Darcy blinked in stunned confusion; she'd not been ready for that.

"Darcy, I'm so sorry-!"

She'd barely peeled it off her face before Bucky grabbed Steve by the shoulder and dragged him back to the front door. The door slammed shut behind them with a booming bang, and Darcy stood dazed in the middle of the apartment.

What the fuck just happened? How many times was she going to ask that today? Where had they gone? Should she follow?

No, she shouldn't. Bucky dragged Steve out of the apartment for a reason – he didn't want her to witness whatever fight they were about to have. She shouldn't push her luck and go after them twice in one day. She took the cloth to the sink and rinsed it quickly. Then she grabbed a dry cloth and patted her face dry.

Darcy stood in their little kitchen in a daze. Her hands were shaking, she realised. Why? Was it the fight? She didn't think she was running on adrenaline. It wasn't the most exciting thing she'd ever been through, so it's not like she was in shock or anything. If it wasn't due to the fight... then what?

Richard's words rang in her head like a bell, but it was the loathing in his voice that pulsated a chilling thrum in her heart. Darcy had witnessed racism in her life. She was from the south, for God's sake, but there was something inherently different about that and this.

Darcy despised her contemporaries, who unjustly treated people differently because of their skin; they were narrow-minded and had been raised to be bigoted fools.

This man, however, Richard... to a certain extent, she got it. The lack of humanity in the world at present - the vile things different races were (are!) doing to each other... and for what? How could she blame people for reacting the way they did? From labelling anything different as dangerous? She knew what the Nazi's did long before her new peers would ever learn of it, and she was learning more about the actions of the Japanese during WWII than she'd ever wanted. Richard's thoughts and feelings were rooted in humanity, even if misguided, and they were visceral and empathetic. He didn't hate because he was raised to - he hated because he knew what they were doing to innocents. He was lumping entire races of people together because that's exactly what they were doing to him. He knew that his people would likely experience the same fate if things took a turn for the worse. He was angry and afraid.

She couldn't be impartial. As a Jewish woman, Darcy knew precisely what would be done to her if Nazis got their hands on her in this day and age.

She understood Richard's anger, his bone-deep fear, and that terrified her.

Darcy, on the other hand, knew something that others didn't: it didn't matter what you called yourself; Japanese, American, German, Russian, English, Italian, and so many others.

They were all butchering each other; some were just better at hiding it.

In her mind, she experienced a slideshow of terror. She saw a photograph of the Auschwitz gas chambers, the scratch marks of dying women on the walls; a picture of victims post-Hiroshima, flash burns from an atomic bomb littering their flesh; a still of rescued prisoners of war sipping tea, protruding bones and broken postures from hard labour; the sole photograph she remembered seeing of the Nanjing Massacre; a little girl---

Darcy shuddered herself out of her thoughts.

For a moment, she wondered if she would be sick and hovered over the sink with a white-knuckled grip. She found herself wanting to vomit - to spew up all these turbulent feelings inside her.

God, could she become Richard one day? Could she be filled with such putrid hatred one day? Could she be willing to hurt a foreign stranger? Simply because of what another person of their race might do to her?

How the fuck was she supposed to live through this?

She shouldn't be here.

Only minutes after he'd left, Bucky was back in the apartment, chest heaving. He was cradling his fist, which Darcy was alarmed to realise was bleeding. How hadn't she noticed that he was bleeding?

Unable to bury her emotions, she refocused them on Bucky.

"Bucky," she cried in distress as she rushed over and grasped his hand, "Your hand!"

He nodded, slowly rotating his hand, and assured her, "'s not broken."

His knuckles were busted open, and blood was slowly but freely flowing.

"Where's the kit?" She asked quickly.

He nodded to the cupboard above the sink as he sat at his kitchen table. She found it quickly; it was poorly stocked, but it had bandages.

She needed to pull herself together. Bucky needed her, and he needed her calm.

She quickly joined him and, after taking a steadying breath, she gently started bandaging his hand.

After a minute, Darcy realised Bucky was trying to match his breathing rhythm to hers, and she forced herself to breathe deeply and fully.

Steady does it.

Bucky didn't say anything about Steve, and Darcy decided it was best not to ask yet.

With trained hands, Darcy wrapped his fingers effectively.

Before long, Bucky's breathing became more regular, and Darcy felt a pang of relief.

"You're good at that," he acknowledged with a nod to his hand, "Why're you good at that?"

Darcy forced a smile on her face, but she was sure it was weaker than she wanted.

"Did it for Janey once or twice," she said as fondly as she could. "She was tiny, but she had a temper. Sometimes she'd pick a fight with things that didn't do what she wanted. She usually lost."

"Sounds familiar," he said, his lip twitching in either amusement or frustration, "Done it myself, once or twice."

Of that, she was positive.

She tied it into place, and delicately placed a soft kiss on it, "Mwah! There! A kiss makes it all better!"

His face flooded with affection, "Does it now? Might need 'nother one then."

Darcy came over and sat on his lap, enjoying his arms snaking around her, as she placed three sweet kisses on his lips.

Strangely enough, the effect was working both ways and was making her feel significantly better too. Or maybe it was just being in Bucky's arms; she always felt safe there.

"Better?" She asked cheekily.

He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply, "Yeah, much."

She was glad for it; she didn't like seeing Bucky sad.

Bucky drew back and lightly stroked her cheek, "Didn't hurt too much, did it?"

"It was a damn dishcloth – did you think I was made of spun sugar?" She sassed.

He shrugged with a darling smile, "Wouldn't be a stretch since you're as sweet as sugar."

She was rolling her eyes affectionately before he'd even finished speaking, "It didn't hurt at all."

"Good," he said, burying his face in her hair again.

They stayed like that for a while; Darcy in his arms, leaving soft kisses on his temple and playing idly with his hair, while Bucky seemed content to be smothered amongst her curls as he lazily rubbed her rump. She refused to think of anything outside of them and the little bubble they had created. Nothing else matters right now. She listened to the lull of his breath, felt the warmth of his skin under her fingertips, and smelled the soapy, clean scent she'd come to associate with her boyfriend. It was grounding, and Darcy never wanted to leave.

But they couldn't ignore the outside world forever.

When Bucky finally deigned to speak, it sounded more petulant than angry.

"He's like steel," Bucky grated softly, "He'll break 'fore he bends. I wouldn't mind so much if the strength of his fists matched the strength of his will."

"It's Stevie," she acknowledged, "You couldn't have honestly expected any different."

He would become Captain America one day - the closest thing the U.S had to a living saint. A captain who'd save the U.S and kick Nazi ass.

This prompted a horrible realisation for her; she only heard of the horrors of war, but Steve would see things she'd only heard of. Holy shit.

Her arms tightened around Bucky a little more, thank God he wasn't going to enlist.

Bucky heaved a great sigh and with it, a great deal of tension dissipated, "No, I guess not. It's just that he's gettin' worse, and I didn't think that was possible. He's taken 'is status as a 4F badly. I really hoped he'd get over it - find another cause to devote himself to, but he won't find one. I've never met a man so determined to get 'imself killed."

Darcy grasped his face and locked eyes, "He won't get himself killed."

He indulged her, "Oh yeah? How'd you figure?"

Because she'd seen him on TV in the 21st century, saving the world from aliens... or looking out for his best pal.

"He's too stubborn to die," she told him instead, matter-of-factly, "He'd argue with everyone until even Death would throw his hands up in the air in surrender."

Her beau snorted, "If that's all it takes, then yeah, I'd agree with ya."

His eyes searched hers, and he looked... sad?

"I never wanted you involved in any of these fights."

"It was bound to happen," she told him calmly, "It's not my first rodeo."

"That's not reassuring," he admitted, his grin betraying his concern, "But seeing you cuss a man out and bring 'im to his knees by beatin' him with a handbag ain't a sight I'll forget anytime soon."

She giggled and he blew a raspberry on her cheek, "He went down real easy."

An amused look crossed his face, "Normally, I'd respect a man willing to get on his knees for a woman, but not when she's mine."

The words made her tingle inside.

"Possessive, aren't we?"

His nose nuzzled hers, "Very."

She found she wouldn't have it any other way.

Darcy felt her eyes go droopy. Bucky was so warm that she always felt sleepy in his arms.

She rested her head against his chest and hummed, "I'm tempted to nap right here."

"Yeah?" He murmured as he ran gentle fingers through her hair, "I'm tempted to let you, but my back would not appreciate it."

He stood up with her in his arms, and he strolled to the couch before plonking them both down. Darcy was immediately pulled into his chest as though attracted by a magnet.

Darcy marvelled that he could carry her so easily.

"Aren't I heavy?" She asked, a little embarrassed.

"Heavy?" He looked offended before his face softened, "I've carried crates heavier than you, doll. You weigh nothing in comparison."

Her face flushed, pleased.

A kiss was placed on her forehead. "Sleep. We deserve it."

There wasn't a thing in the world that could've kept her awake.

She woke to find Bucky wiggling beneath her. She groaned at him, telling him off in zombie-speak to stop wiggling.

"We slept for a while, doll." his voice was thick with sleep and, as usual, a little deeper than usual. "Don't look like Steve's comin' back yet; I'm gonna get started on dinner for ya."

Noooooo, she wasn't ready for him to leave her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him like an octopus and held on for dear life. A surprised grunt escaped him as she squeezed him tightly.

"Noooooo," she whined, "Staaaaay."

An amused chuckle hummed in her ears, "Now, doll, you don't want that. You won't get fed in that case."

Well, that wasn't acceptable either. She sighed with great suffering as she debated her situation.

Decision quickly made, Darcy made grabby hands, "Carry me."

A barking laugh escaped his mouth, and he stared at her, pleased, "Your wish is my command."

He simultaneously stood and scooped her up very easily, like a damn princess, and Darcy was very impressed. She resisted the urge to bite her lip and make a salacious comment. She had a strength kink - who knew?

They were almost to the table when they heard footsteps outside. Groaning, Bucky quickly sat on the kitchen chair and cradled her close to his chest; obviously prepping for a verbal confrontation. Darcy suddenly felt like an emotional support animal. This was acceptable; she responds well to treats.

The front door suddenly opened and revealed a very shamefaced Steve. Along with his ashamed face, he had an additional bruise across his cheek. Had he been in another fight? Goddamn it.

"Darcy," he began as he made his way towards them, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

She could have taken his apology at face value, but, "You meant to hit Bucky, which I'm not thrilled with either."

Both of their eyebrows skyrocketed at her tone. Clearly, neither was expecting her to get defensive on Bucky's behalf over the incident. Would the cloth have hurt Bucky? No, but that's not the damn point. A point that Bucky had obviously agreed on.

Steve's face went a bit red as he defended himself, "It was in the heat o' the moment."

"So were the threats from those men, I'd wager," Darcy countered dryly, while still firmly perched on Bucky's lap, "You got my man hurt because of your gung-ho attitude; I don't appreciate it. I could strike fear into a God if I wanted, so believe me when I say you don't want to cross me. Do better; put this hoity-toity, holier than thou bullshit aside and be a better friend."

His mouth hinged open as though to argue, but it quickly snapped shut. Steve side-eyed Bucky as though he hoped his best pal would come to his defence.

Bucky didn't, "What she said."

A moment of quiet filled the air between them. Would he dare argue with her, she wondered? She was rearing to go if needed.

Steve decided to be fearful of Darcy. Smart boy - for once.

The two men entered a staring match. After a few seconds, they both gave a solid nod, and Darcy suspected their fight was now water under the bridge. She wanted to roll her eyes at how easily that fight was resolved between them.

Men, how does a mutual nod fix everything?

"You stayin' for dinner, Darcy?" Steve queried.

Smiling, she nodded, "If you'll have me."

"'Course we will," the men agreed in unison.

Steve made his way to the cupboards, and the sound of pots and pans being clanked and clanged filled the room.

A hand softly grazed her calves, but it was heavy with intention.

Bucky growled lowly in her ear, "Christ, doll, you can't be all protective of me like that when you're on my lap. Makes me wanna fuck you on the table in front of Stevie."

She shivered on his lap, unprepared for his words. She was even less prepared for the oncoming onslaught.

For an agonising hour, she endured a half-hearted conversation with Steve as Bucky purred naughty things in her ear, all while teasingly playing with the inseam of her stockings. His lips grazed her ear with every word, and the sheer vibrations of his low-pitched voice caused a spring to begin to coil in her gut.

'Wait 'til Stevie's gone, I'm gonna work that little pussy into a droolin' mess.'

'Squirmin' on my lap, doll? I've got somethin' else ready for you to squirm on. Feel that? It's all for you, sweetheart.'

'How can you claim you're not spun sugar when I can make you come apart on my tongue?'

'I built this table, y'know? It's so sturdy, I bet I could take you splayed on your back, spread like an angel, and it wouldn't creak a bit.'

Dinner was relatively simple: boiled vegetables made into a broth with some slightly stale bread. She couldn't taste a thing as Bucky's fingers traced the shape of her knee. He didn't even put her down to eat; he just kept her latched to his lap, as if she were an extension of his physical body. Darcy tried to keep a rational conversation with Steve, and Bucky was successfully holding it together well enough, all the while whispering his every dirty thought in her ear.

'Christ, if he doesn't leave soon, I'm gonna have to make you come while he's here. You'd be quiet for me, wouldn't ya, doll? Such a good girl.'

As the dishes were being washed, Steve was preparing to go to a make-up art class and was discussing it in detail, and Darcy quietly begged Steve. To. Just. Fucking. Go. Please.

'Can't wait for dessert, I hear it's spun sugar with cream. If I lick my lips, I can already taste it.'

She swallowed a whimper as Bucky ran his fingers higher up her thigh.

All Darcy wanted was fucking dessert.

Steve continued talking, completely unaware of the mess Bucky was whispering in her ear or the mess he was causing in her panties. Bucky, however, was completely aware of this as his fingers finally traced the lining of her panties, lightly patting her through the fabric. His words started to trail off as his throat grew thicker, and soon he was alternating between lightly growling in her ear and nibbling on her earlobe. And shit if that didn't make her pulse with need, nothing ever would!

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Steve, get the fuck out!

Half mad, Darcy wished Steve a good night as he toddled out the door. Bucky didn't even bother waving.

The door slammed shut, Bucky's mouth devoured hers, and she was splayed on the kitchen table, spread like a buffet.

And then Bucky fulfilled every filthy promise he'd murmured in her ear.

Chapter Text

April 14th, 1942

Ebbets Field, New York City

There was thundering applause - screaming, clapping, and hollering. A heartbeat later, Darcy scrambled to follow suit.

She was guessing they'd won because Bucky and Steve were literally bouncing on the spot in sheer delight. Arms wrapped around each other, clapping each other's backs, and chanting along with the rest of the crowd. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face at the joy that graced theirs. They looked so young, like little boys watching their heroes beat the bad guys.

Looking at the field, she supposed in a way it was.

It was only the opening game of the season, but a Dodgers vs. Giants game was apparently a big deal. There was rivalry, and it was more serious than a heart attack. Or so she'd been informed. Dodgers good, Giants bad. It honestly reminded her of kids arguing about Starburst: pink, yummy, and red, yucky.

The Dodgers' fans were revelling and snickering at the grumpy Giants' fans; they clearly were boastful winners, and the Giants' fans were sore losers. She imagined the opposite would be true if the Dodgers had lost.

She was grateful they'd won for that reason alone; she didn't want to deal with a pouting Bucky and Steve combination.

All things considered, Darcy's coming along to the baseball game had been quite a last-minute decision. She'd offhandedly said she'd never been to a baseball game, and the boys had been aghast.

"Even Utah has baseball," Steve had informed her redundantly, "How'd you never see one?"

Bucky was just as indignant, "You cannot live in New York City without seeing a Dodgers game. If you care for us at all, you'll come to at least one."

So, here she was, watching a game for which she didn't know the rules, with excitable man-children barely able to think straight long enough to explain the rules. All around, it was a boring thing to watch. Both the boys' behaviour, however, had been beyond entertaining. Whenever something interesting happened, one would smack the other excitedly in a 'did you see that?!' motion - once they had both done it at the same time, ending in both of them getting smacked in the face by the other. Darcy had cried true tears of mirth. Forget the game: the true fun has been watching Bucky and Steve watch the game.

She shook her head affectionately at them. They gifted her with bright smiles that could lighten any burdens.

It being a Tuesday night, she'd had to swap nights cooking dinner with Dot, which meant she wouldn't be able to attend dinner at the Barnes house that Thursday. It was a sad sacrifice to make, but Bucky and Steve had worn adorable little puppy dog expressions that she couldn't possibly have said 'no' to without feeling like a monster. If they'd had tails, they'd have wagged. So, instead of heading home to make dinner, the boys had prepared for them what would essentially be a sunset picnic, and Darcy was honestly delighted by the plan.

They walked along the field, passed by the revellers, and found a good picnic spot. They unfurled their blankets, unpacked their little spread, and lounged about. They had bread, some cold cuts, and sliced cheese. It was a humble meal, but Darcy wasn't too fussed. Bucky was sitting with his legs bent, and Darcy sat between them, her back resting on his chest; his arms wrapped around her, and his face occasionally nuzzling the junction on her neck. His occasional kisses were making her giggle obscenely loudly. Steve lay sprawled on his side, watching their antics with rolled eyes.

They discussed the game at length, as though they hadn't just watched it with their own two eyes, and eventually Steve proclaimed that Bucky should've been a Dodger.

"You could o' gone pro," Steve moaned as he finished his sandwich, "We coulda had all the free tickets."

Bucky shrugged unrepentantly, "Yeah, probably. I didn't want to, though. Goin' pro doesn't pay all that much, and it takes up too much time."

Thoughtful, Darcy asked, "Well, you didn't have to be a Dodger. Couldn't you have just done it for fun, though?"

"Oh, he could've. He stopped playin' after we finished school," Steve grinned impishly, "Probably because of that one time with the dog, the baseball, and the bat-!"

He was rudely cut off by Bucky, who dramatically (and impressively) unfurled from behind Darcy, leapt through the air and slapped his hand across Steve's mouth. It was hard enough to merit a loud 'thwap' and a muffled 'hey!' from Steve.

The two men glared at each other.

"You dare," Bucky's voice was threatening, "I'll tell my Mama you've been snifflin'."

Something akin to fear flashed in Steve's eyes. Bucky slowly retracted his hand from Steve's mouth, and Steve shot her a serene, if apologetic, smile.

Fuck Steve's angelic smile - she wanted tea and she wanted it scalding and spilt.

"What? What happened with the dog?" Darcy whined pathetically, hoping for sympathy, "You can't do that and not expect me to want to know! I wanna know now!"

"Maybe one day," he suggested as Bucky loomed over him.

"Not on your damn life, punk."

She couldn't help but laugh at Bucky's dark tone; it was such a foreign sound coming from him that it was difficult to take him seriously.

Bucky crawled back over towards her, but she shook her head playfully and scooted backwards away from him, "Nah uh, you want to come back here and snuggle me, you better give me that story."

His face was priceless for a moment before he theatrically placed his hand over his heart and said, "But I need to snuggle someone. You'd have me snuggle Stevie instead?"

"Yep," Darcy placed a thoughtful finger on her chin, "Or, of course, I could snuggle Steve."

Bucky physically jolted at the suggestion, and his dark eyes fell on Steve, who immediately lurched up and raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, hey," Steve exclaimed in alarm, "Leave me outta it. I like my extremities attached."

Bucky's glare relented before he teased, "Too bad she ain't Dot, am I right?"

Dot? Why would-?

Oh. Oh! Dot? Really?

"Dot?" Darcy asked, surprised, before looking at the increasingly red-faced Steve, "Dot?"

A strange thrill shot through Darcy. Steve could do with a woman like Dot. Strong-willed, protective, and with a touch of modern sensibilities, that would do Steve wonders. She imagined little Steve and Dot happily gasbagging over their evening meal, gasping at the new gossip each had brought home... with Bucky and Darcy as occasional (*cough* frequent* cough*) dinner guests, of course. Oh yeah, she liked this. She liked it a lot.

It must have shown on her face because Bucky's teasing expression dropped, "No. No. Not you too. She'll eat 'im alive."

Well, she was sure it would be a delightful little gobble for Steve.

"I can see it," Darcy insisted while clapping her hands excitedly, "I'll mention it to her."

"Would you really?" Steve gushed with a delighted expression, "I'd love to take her out - she's amazing! She's smart, she's sweet, she's-!"

Darcy waved him off, "You don't need to explain it to me. I'll bring it up whenever I have some one-on-one time with her."

It wasn't right how Steve was looking at her right now, as though she'd done something above and beyond any other woman before. It was a depressing thought. Surely not? Women weren't that shallow, were they?

Quite suddenly, a baseball whirled past them and narrowly missed Steve. In shock, the three of them released screams of varying degrees: Bucky, a yelp; Darcy, a squeak; and Steve, a high-pitched squeal. So high, in fact, that Darcy could picture a dog tilting its head in curiosity.

Bucky and Darcy slowly turned to look at their friend. Even Steve looked shocked by the noise that had just come out of his own mouth.

"Geez, pal, you had a single ball drop yet or what?"

"Shut up," Steve stammered in embarrassment as he straightened his shirt collar, "I wasn't ready."

Bucky and Darcy broke into laughter as Steve violently dug his elbow into Bucky's ribs.

Where'd the ball even come from? Who batted that?

"Sorry, fellas," a slightly puffed voice called as the man skipped over, "Didn't mean it!"

Darcy squinted until her eyes lit up with recognition, "Harry!"

He winked at her as he slowed to a stop in front of them, "Hey, Darcy. Been well?"

She nodded eagerly, "Just peachy! You?"

An arm was suddenly snaked around her waist, and she felt herself being pulled into Bucky's lap. She raised a baffled eyebrow at him, but her boyfriend's tightened eyes were firmly set on Harry.

One of these days, she was going to remember to ask Bucky what happened with Harry to make him scowl at the other man like that. Later, though, when he wasn't within earshot.

Harry didn't look too alarmed by Bucky's sudden glare, but did shuffle a couple of steps backwards, "I've been well. Workin' on my batting."

Bucky grumbled something under his breath, but Darcy couldn't hear it.

"Harry!" Another voice called as an almost identical copy of Harry jogged (hobbled?) over.

"Huh?" Darcy wondered aloud, stupidly.

The men grinned, but Harry clapped the other on the back, "This is my brother, Adam. He's younger than me by a full twelve minutes."

Adam? Darcy resisted the urge to sigh. She was aware that no one at this time was a Potterhead, but still, it was a missed opportunity.

"And he's never let me forget it," Adam grinned, before nodding to Steve and Bucky, "Fellas."

"Adam, good to see ya," Bucky acknowledged, and already his tone was different from how he spoke to the older brother. "How's the leg?"

Grinning, Adam hiked up one of his pant legs and showed off a nasty-looking scar. It was the length of her forearm, purple and indented, and it reached from under his sock, around his ankle, and up past his calf. Ouch.

"Looks worse than wha' it is. Still, I enjoy tellin' the dames I had a building dropped on me."

"A building?" Darcy's jaw dropped, "What?"

Adam nodded solemnly as he covered his leg again, "Yes, Ma'am. Demolition project went a bit south."

"Don't call me 'Ma'am'," Darcy immediately insisted, "Yiiiikes. That sounds like it would've hurt."

He nodded, "A month in the hospital and another at home after that. Wasn't a very enjoyable experience."

Steve was sympathetic, "Hospitals and bedrest never are. At least you're up and about now."

Adam nodded, "Yeah, back at work now. I can't stand on it for long, but I can do some desk work until it's mostly recovered."

Bucky made a distracted humming noise, and she glanced over at him. To Darcy's surprise, Bucky was still looking at where the scar was… with longing? That can't be right; why would Bucky want an injury like that? She dismissed her thoughts. No, that doesn't make sense.

"Glad to hear it," Bucky grinned, but it fell a bit short, "It's good to see ya."

"You too! Anyway, sorry for disturbin' you. We will leave you to it," Adam smiled, and he nudged Harry.

Everyone said their goodbyes, and the twins ventured off, Harry with a gait and Adam with a limp.

Once they were out of sight, Steve pouted, "I really don't want to compete against Harry."

Darcy rolled her eyes - she wasn't sure exactly why, but Darcy knew Harry didn't have a chance with Dot. For some reason, she just didn't want him.

Bucky also rolled his eyes (ah, what a pair they must make), "You won't. She doesn't want Harry."

Darcy watched after the twins with curiosity. She wondered what type of man Dot liked. Men like Stevie? Or men more like Harry? Something in between?

She looked at Bucky and knew that her type was outrageously obvious to anyone who looked.

"Anyway," Bucky grabbed a hold of both her hands, laced their fingers together, and clapped them, "7-5! What a game---!"

Darcy sighed. Again?

Chapter Text

April 24th, 1942

Hibbett Consulting Firm, New York City

That morning, Darcy was struck with the sudden inspiration to get off her bus a couple of stops earlier and take a leisurely walk down Broad St to work. It was a strange thing to want to do, but it's not like she could scroll through TikTok or listen to her iPod (oh, iPod, lost but never forgotten) on the bus. The '40s also had limited alternatives. She'd also developed... let's say 'allergies' to newspapers. Yeah, allergies, which rendered her unable to read one, which sadly meant she could not possibly stay updated on current events. Such a shame. Therefore, a random stroll sounded both extremely pleasant and spontaneous. The '40s were really altering what she considered 'fun.'

Along the way, she'd stopped by a shop window to quickly admire the wares of a jewellery shop. She had no plans to buy any jewellery, for herself or anyone else, but it was nice to simply look. The only pieces of jewellery she'd received from this time were from Mrs. Nellie (impersonal and practical jewellery for a professional setting) and Jerry (a bracelet dripping with so much sentiment she still hadn't gone a day without wearing it). There was a strange fascination with examining items that existed in both the past and the future, much the same in functionality but vastly different in style. On the scales, her tastes were still firmly tipped in favour of the millennial aesthetic, but it was nice to admire the differences the '40s had to offer. They ranged from simple but sweet to substantial and showy.

Still, the jewellery wasn't to her taste, and she had places to be.

As she continued on her way to work, something caught hold of her skirt and halted her movement. To her confusion, a small toddler, almost a child really, had grabbed hold of her skirt.

Darcy gaped at the tiny little hands firmly gripping her skirt and softly patting the material. She was a cute little thing; brown ringlets beneath a flimsy bonnet, skin a little paler than ivory, and with big, inquisitive brown eyes that could shame a doe. The girl didn't speak, just continued patting her skirt.

Was Darcy supposed to say something? Surely, she was meant to say something? How does one have a conversation with a child? 'Hi? What's up? You got a parent you're meant to be leashed to? Those lollipops sure do hit the spot, huh? I take it 'Stranger Danger' is a foreign concept for you, huh?'

Instead, she settled on the intelligent, "Umm…?"

"Georgia!" A voice hissed, and suddenly the child was being picked up, presumably - and hopefully - by her mother.

The mother was young and pretty, definitely younger than Darcy by several years, and she looked fraught. Her little girl was a dead ringer for her mother, albeit far calmer. She ranted at the child in her arms for a full minute about 'being careless' and 'look at what you've done' and Darcy blinked at her uncomprehendingly. Why was this woman so upset?

The woman guiltily looked down at Darcy's skirt, and Darcy followed the woman's line of sight. On her pastel yellow skirt, where the little girl had grabbed her, was a small blot of… something. Car grease? Something dark and slick. It would definitely stain. What a shame - Darcy liked this skirt, but at least it wasn't her baby blue outfit.

"Oh!" Darcy exclaimed before smiling at the little girl who was looking quite embarrassed, "All good. I have more."

"It wouldn't have been cheap," the mother almost screeched with anxiety.

Really? She glanced down at it in curiosity. Darcy wouldn't know – she hadn't bought it. Not that it made much of a difference.

Darcy could only continue to stare at the woman, perplexed. "It's only a skirt."

This was apparently not the correct response, as the mother looked even more upset.

It was then that Darcy looked at the clothes they were wearing. They were ill-fitted, drab, and dirty. In fact, the mother and child both looked ill, drab, and dirty as though they hadn't bathed or laundered in weeks. Everything suddenly made sense, and her heart twisted in anguish; they likely hadn't. They were obviously homeless.

There was a brittleness to the mother's stance, the stance of a woman who was used to expecting a fight and, sadly, usually being right. She was worried that Darcy would kick up a stink and demand some form of compensation - something they clearly couldn't afford.

Darcy pursed her lips – fuck that noise.

Immediately, Darcy opened her purse. The woman blanched at the motion and stepped backwards, as though Darcy was about to whip out a gun, and almost stepped onto the road before Darcy caught her and yanked her back.

"Careful!" Darcy lightly scolded as she let go of the twitchy woman, "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you."

This only made the woman look more apprehensive, "Why'd ya wanna do tha'?"

Geez, and she'd thought Bucky could have a strong Brooklyn accent.

But the mother was looking at Darcy with baffled suspicion, and it broke Darcy's heart. It looked like kindness to the homeless was scarce, no matter where (or when) you were.

"Why not?" Darcy countered.

The woman didn't say anything, but her eyes narrowed. Darcy sighed but grabbed a couple of small notes from her purse and handed them over. The woman looked at them distrustfully for all of ten seconds before snatching them. It wasn't much, but it would help with the basics.

"Go to Rosie's Diner," Darcy told her, giving her directions, "Tell her Darcy sent you with her recommendation. She's been looking for hired help."

The woman looked stunned, "You'd- you'd do tha'? Why?"

Because it was the right thing to do? Did she really need a reason? Apparently so.

Darcy smiled and nodded to the woman's daughter, "She deserves more."

A moment of silence lingered between them as the woman contemplated Darcy's words. It wasn't too long before the woman decided the gesture was genuine, and her shoulders relaxed significantly. For the first time, the woman gave a small smile, and they shared a look of solidarity.

"Thank you," the woman exhaled in awe, "I'll go now."

Darcy beamed, "Rosie will be thrilled. Bye now!"

They scampered off, and there was a spring in the mother's step that wasn't there before – obviously, an Atlas-sized burden was lifted from her petite shoulders. As glad as Darcy was to see the change, she didn't feel all that relieved.

Looking around, Darcy assessed the conditions of the area she worked in.

With a start, Darcy realised she was the brightest, cleanest thing in the whole street. And she was in Manhattan.

In every direction, there was more than one homeless person within a half-mile of her. The employment agency that she usually shuttled past every day without noticing had a line down the street, consisting mostly of women. A baker was arguing with a customer outside the shop who was complaining about the extortionate price of bread. People were scurrying along without making eye contact with anyone. Hell, even the number of commuters has significantly lessened. People were wearing overly thick coats or none at all, as though the slowly changing weather was a nuisance to their limited wardrobes. Double-taking, she realised that the jewellery shop she'd been window-shopping had a note announcing it was shutting down in a week. A little further down the street, there were a couple of feral dogs growling over a leg bone. The young shoe shiners, without customers, sat in place, swinging their legs in boredom. This was a very different Manhattan from what she had first been exposed to only months ago.

She thought about the boarding house, or more specifically, the neighbourhood the boarding house was in. It was a nice enough area, but a short walk towards the diner would paint a different picture. Clothes hung up haphazardly between windows were stained and fraying at the seams. Little kids in the street were playing very gently with baseballs that were falling apart in their tiny hands. Houses that needed to be repainted had empty flower beds and rickety stair rails. Steve, who mentioned the soles of his shoes were worn completely through; Bucky, whose shirts were old and overly worn but well taken care of; her housemates who couldn't afford to get a malt shake once a month, let alone every week; Mrs. Doyle, whose precious knickknacks were slowly starting to disappear from their cupboards...

Oh God – how had she never noticed?

"Darcy?" Katherine prompted her, jarring her reverie.

She'd barely stepped off the elevator before Katherine tutted her tongue and sent her to the bathroom with a spare skirt. After giving her the rundown of what had happened, Katherine confirmed the mother's suspicions - the skirt was unsalvageable. Darcy couldn't bring herself to mourn it all that much. It was a damn skirt.

They now sat side-by-side at Katherine's desk, across the elevator, eating a late lunch. Usually, they would eat in Darcy's office (neither of them particularly liked anyone enough to join them in the lunchroom). Still, Jerry's absence left the office with a haunted feeling. It felt wrong without him there. Even if he did make their lunchtime lessons harder with his insistent pestering, this time, the learning materials Katherine had painstakingly prepared for their shorthand lessons were conspicuously absent. Not even Katherine doubted Darcy's current state of mind.

Darcy nibbled on her lunch, a bastardised version of a toasted cheese, but did not really taste it. Her morning had been confronting in more ways than one. But the image of the mother and daughter was fresh in her mind.

"They had nothing," Darcy agonised, her mouth half full, "The woman had been terrified. She must have thought I was going to flip it over a damn skirt. A skirt. A piece of damn fabric."

Katherine gave her a pondering look, "And this upsets you?"

"Doesn't it upset you?" Darcy shot back as she finished her toastie.

Her lunchmate didn't say anything but did arch a 'wtf do you think' eyebrow, which translated well in any generation.

Darcy sighed, slouching in her chair, "I sent her to a diner I go to a lot. I can only hope Rosie puts her on. God, I couldn't walk away without doing something-!"

"What are you doing this weekend?"

Darcy blinked at Katherine. What? Her weekend? What does that even matter? What sort of horrible attempt at a topic change was that? Hmm, weird, but Katherine wasn't the sort of person to be unnecessarily rude. Blunt and unrepentant – sure, but not blatantly rude. Maybe it was something important? It wasn't like they usually discussed their weekends, let alone spent their weekends together.

Darcy failed to hide her bewilderment, "Uhh, no real plans. At least nothing I can't move around - why?"

"Hmm," Katherine's eyes were heavier than her nonchalant tone implied, "You don't have many hobbies outside of your man, do you?"

Her tone had been dispassionate, but the subtext was real, and the words were filled with judgment.

The fuck?

She couldn't help it, Darcy bristled, "Excuse me?"

"Don't get your back up about it," Katherine dismissed as she sipped her tea, "I was merely wondering if you were willing to accept a more… fulfilling commitment."

Darcy was cautiously curious but had to set the record straight quickly, "I am pretty committed to Bucky, and he has no problem fulfilling anything."

Katherine rolled her eyes at the innuendo but said nothing; she just stared at Darcy expectantly.

Tapering her finger on her chin in thought, Darcy wondered what kind of commitment Katherine was talking about. She'd been unusually vague.

"What kind of commitment?"

"I assist at a women's and children's refuge," Katherine informed her finally, and without beating around the bush, "I volunteer time and resources every week. If you are interested in helping, I'd be happy to have you join me."

Darcy blinked as she shot upright in her chair. Assisting in a shelter? That sounded… amazing actually.

She immediately wanted to know more: "What do you do?"

"A great many things," Katherine assured as she lounged elegantly in her office chair, "Sometimes there are women in danger from their husbands or family, and we provide them with a sanctuary until more permanent arrangements can be made. Oftentimes, it's a widow with her children facing extreme poverty and without any familial connections. Last week, we had an Oriental lady who had been cast out on the street by her landlord. Poor thing was accused of being Japanese."

Darcy winced at the use of the word 'oriental', but she tried to remind herself that Katherine meant no offence.

"She's not?" Darcy asked, unsure of what else to say.

Katherine's lips tightened, "No. Not that it would make a difference."

Darcy threw her hands up placatingly and reassured her, "I'm not racist. Her being… Asian doesn't bother me."

Fuck it, she wasn't saying 'oriental.' Fuck the decade. Fuck the social norms. She won't correct them, but she's not lowering herself to say it.

Katherine stood and gathered the plates from their lunch. "Excellent, we'll organise a time and meeting place this Sunday afternoon, then, yes?"

Darcy scrambled to help clean up as she answered, "Ah, well, I can. Usually, I spend Sundays with Bucky, but-"

A withering glare was sent her way, "If you cannot commit, then I don't require your-"

Cutting her off, Darcy assured her, "No! No! I can do it. Definitely. Sundays - I can do that."

Nodding sharply, Katherine spoke curtly, "See that you do. It'll be nice to have another woman to assist."

As they wandered to the deserted lunchroom, a small room with a funky smell and a mild obsession with the colour orange, to clean their dishes, Katherine asked the question that had been bothering Darcy for weeks now.

"What of Mr. Hibbitt?" Katherine queried as she washed the dishes, "I've not seen him in weeks."

"I haven't really seen him in weeks," Darcy softly admitted as she dried her plate, "I know he's been at court, but… It's not normal for him to be gone for weeks."

"It's not," Katherine confirmed.

With a heavy sigh, Darcy put their dry plates away and sat down at the little lunchroom table. She felt hopeless. What was she supposed to do? She wanted to be there for Jerry, but he clearly wanted to be alone. Whatever had happened with his wife had thrown Jerry for such a lurch that he'd backpedalled significantly.

"It's still progress," Katherine assured her as she sat across from her, "There was a time not too long ago when he would have hauled himself up in his office and never left."

"He's still sleeping in his office," Darcy murmured, heartbroken for her friend. "He's just waiting until I've gone home to rock up. In the morning, he's usually gone before I get there."

Darcy felt like a failure. The first time she met Jerry, she promised him she would sort out his personal and professional life. She wasn't getting anywhere.

"I'm not convinced I'm a good secretary," She sighed in despair, "I don't think he wants me here right now."

"Well, I'm pleased that you've come along," Katherine assured her kindly, in the blandest tone known to man. "As for Jerry, any secretary is better than no secretary. It's been well over a year since his last secretary - well, let's say he was a mess without her."

Darcy attempted a genuine laugh, "A year? It's amazing he lasted so long without one."

"Indeed, but after… well, you understand, it's not surprising he was a mess. Professionally and personally," Katherine looked thoughtful before shrugging.

Darcy suddenly felt as though she was missing something. What was Katherine talking about?

"What do you mean?"

For a moment, Katherine glowered at Darcy as though she'd asked a stupid question, before seeming to realise that Darcy truly didn't know what she was implying.

Katherine turned up her nose, "It's distasteful to talk about such matters. I'm not a gossip – ask him yourself."

Darcy stared at Katherine, unseeing.

Distasteful? Something worthy of gossip? A mess of his personal and professional life?

A thought came to Darcy unbidden. Had Jerry cheated on his wife with his last secretary?

… It would explain a lot. Oh no, Jerry… What had he done? Had he cheated and gotten caught? It would explain his deteriorating marriage, at least. It would also explain why his secretary had left without doing a formal handover... It would explain why he wasn't welcome at home either.

Was that it? Was he ashamed to tell her that?

She could grudgingly admit that she could understand why he hadn't said anything. It wasn't a light topic of conversation, and she was very unequipped to give advice on that. Still, she wished he'd just tell her already.

"Jerry is a grown man," Katherine assured her as she stood and started to slip away, "He doesn't need to be coddled as much as you seem to think. He will come back when he is ready. Just be patient."

Darcy snorted lightly as Katherine left her alone in the lunchroom.

Yeah, Jerry would come back sooner or later. But when would that be? And in what condition?

Chapter Text

February 1st, 2020

Smith Village, Chicago

It was beautiful weather for a day that would hopefully be a revelation. The brightness of the sun and the blueness of the sky were doing wonders for Natasha's expectations. Today would be the day she'd learn more about Darcy Lewis – from a person who was in contact with her the day she went missing.

Parking her car, Natasha was unsurprised to find Steve leaning against his motorcycle with an unshaven face and a bit of length in his hair, hands in his jean pockets, a plain baseball cap and shades, and a shirt that was at least two sizes too small. He looked like a steroid-jacked gym rat, but at least he wasn't obviously Captain America. He was learning – slowly and with training wheels, but still. Learning. It didn't hurt that he was fun to ogle either. She'd never admit it, but it was one of her favourite perks of the job - if only he'd flex and rip his shirt. Natasha was certain there was a porno that could fulfil that little fantasy of hers, but she also knew it wouldn't compare to real life.

Shame.

She got out of her vehicle and slowed her approach to an acceptable pace.

He didn't smile but nodded at her vehicle, "Nice jeep."

She smiled at the big buffoon, grateful to see him after a while of being apart, "Got it on sale."

"I hope that doesn't mean 'stolen,'" he shot back cheekily.

Unable to help herself, Natasha brought her arms around his neck and gave him a quick squeeze. She'd had an emotionally harrowing couple of weeks - she deserved a hug from someone who wouldn't judge her for needing one. The hug was over before it even started, but Steve's face softened as he looked at her.

"Been good?"

As far as she was concerned, the question wasn't worth answering. "We should head inside."

He didn't argue, and they made their way up into the impressive red-brick multi-story building. They were quickly signed in under pseudonyms and walked through the building to Dorothy Potter, nee Fischer's, apartment. The nurse knocked on the door and, after a voice called from within, they were let inside.

The apartment was beyond what Natasha was expecting from a retirement home. Quickly assessing the apartment, she noticed there was a lavish kitchen, a well-decorated living area, a full bathroom, and presumably a bedroom. The whole setup screamed independent living and an equally independent woman. The apartment clearly catered to the aesthetic of the elite - beige walls, a fabric lounge set, fancy white architraves, abstract acrylic paintings, and mahogany furniture. Dot had obviously added her own personal flair, but the only truly personal items in the living room were dozens of photographs.

"I'll only be a minute," a voice called from the bedroom, "Make yourself at home."

Unlikely.

Both she and Steve hovered in the living room, neither of them feeling compelled to sit. Steve did, however, take off his hat and shades. Natasha wanted to shake her head in exasperation - you can take a man out of the '40s…

It only took a minute of silence before Steve nudged her, "You good?"

There was a part of her that didn't want to have this discussion with him. Least of all, in such an unfamiliar place with a potential eavesdropper in the next room over. However, it had to be done, and delaying it wouldn't have helped anyone.

Natasha looked him dead in the eyes and took a deep breath, "I had the Lewinsky property assessed."

His eyebrows furrowed, "Assessed?"

"An archaeologist owed me a favour; he used some of his special equipment to scan the burial site," she told him as Steve held his breath, "Four bodies were confirmed."

He didn't look all that surprised and nodded resolutely, "So, Dinah Lewinsky died in the fire."

"Undoubtedly."

They stood in sombre silence.

Natasha was the one who asked what they were wondering out loud, "So, who was Darcy Lewis?"

Steve went to respond, but they were interrupted.

The bedroom door opened, and they both turned to see a well-put-together woman approaching them. Her grey hair was styled in a loose bun, her make-up was subtle, her jewellery tastefully ostentatious, and she was dressed in a black pencil skirt and blouse. Natasha suddenly felt underdressed in her jeans, cotton t-shirt, and sneakers. Even at 103, Dorothy Potter was a stunning woman. But she had not been completely immune to time; her back was hunched with osteoporosis, her knuckles protruded with arthritis, and Natasha also suspected emphysema from the laboured breaths she took. It seemed Dot's time left on earth was quickly ticking away.

"Dot," Steve exhaled beside her, with a look that could even be called reverent.

The older woman smiled brightly, "Look at you. All grown up."

Steve gave a genuine, if teary, laugh: "Finally hit a growth spurt."

"About time you hit something."

"Hey," Steve bit without venom, "I knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times."

"So, I heard," Dot laughed lightly before her smile became subdued but no less proud, "You finally found a body that could handle all you have to offer."

The two of them smiled at each other, and a charged silence filled the space between them.

Natasha was overcome with the desperate urge to clear her throat – anything to remind the two old-timers that there was someone else in the room with them. Maybe Steve was finally developing Alzheimer's – he was long past due.

She resisted the urge to cough and instead approached Dot and held out her hand, "Call me Natasha. Pleasure to meet you."

Dot shook her hand and evaluated her with hawklike eyes, "Likewise."

There was a moment of awkwardness that Natasha was unwilling to linger in.

Natasha began by fawning; all women of that generation were suckers for it, "I've heard a lot about you."

"Not all good things, I hope?"

… Or not all. Natasha may need to reassess the situation.

Steve grinned, "Always, Dot."

Natasha's eyes danced between the two of them like pendulum balls. What the hell was the history between these two? And why hadn't Steve mentioned it?

Ignoring her curiosity, Natasha jumped straight to it, "Thank you for taking your time out of your Saturday to see us, Mrs. Potter."

Dot nodded serenely, "Dot, please. I'll admit, I was intrigued. What could the famous spy want with little old me?" Her eyes trailed to Steve, and her voice turned teasing, "Him, on the other hand, I can understand."

Steve's face was flushed so red that Natasha thought he'd gotten sunburnt inside.

Interesting. That was an unexpected development.

Dot encouraged them to sit down and proceeded to make them all some tea. The older woman rejected any and all help they offered. She brought back three outrageously large teacups and an even larger teapot on a tray; Natasha was impressed that she'd been able to carry it. Steve immediately started drinking his tea while Natasha cradled her own as she pulled out her notepad and pen.

"Now," Dot began as they finally settled into her lounge suite, "What's this all about?"

Her eyes skittered to Steve, giving Natasha the impression that Dot believed this meeting was about Steve.

Dispelling that idea, Nat assured her, "It's about Darcy Lewis."

The older woman's eyes widened, and her jaw slightly dropped. For several seconds, Natasha watched Dot pull herself together before she even began to fall apart. The sheer fact that a mere name was able to trigger such a response in the older woman gave Natasha hope that this meeting might yield something fruitful.

Dot muttered something under her breath, and Steve's eyebrows skyrocketed as he parroted, "'Finally?'"

An assessing look was cast over both of them before Dot serenely nodded.

"It's been so long since I've been able to speak about her," Dot told them wistfully, "Well, at least to anyone who remembered her."

A sentiment Steve clearly understood: "I know the feeling."

There was a part of Natasha, an empathetic monster, she rarely allowed free rein, that wanted to reassure Dot that this was not going to be an arduous visit. But she knew she could not rightly promise that.

Natasha began, "Mrs. Potter, I don't wish to bring you pain—"

With a wave of her hand, Dot cut her off, "I've outlived my three husbands and all five of my children. There's nothing you can do to me that I haven't felt twice over," she then side-eyed Natasha sorrowfully, "I also haven't been Mrs. Potter for a long time. You're a couple of husbands off."

Steve cursed, "Christ, I'm sorry for your loss... es."

Tact and Steve Rogers had never met, and it was incredible that he'd lasted this long without getting pummelled into the dirt. Oh, wait, that's right. He may have never met 'tact', but he and 'dirt' had been fast friends. She intimately understood why little Steve was never upright. Loss - es. Sigh.

"It is what it is," Dot merely sipped her tea as she arched her brow at Steve, "How about it, Stevie? I'm holding auditions for husband number four. We could compare pension cheques."

Steve choked on his tea and spluttered.

Natasha couldn't be seeing this right. It wasn't possible. Natasha had a formal education in disarming and dismantling men. This woman was tripping Steve up better than Natasha could. How was that fair?

"Once upon a time, I might've been interested." A fierce blush graced Steve's face as he gave a shy grin. "You were remarkable, Dot."

Natasha was not jealous of a 103-year-old woman. She wasn't.

Dot tutted and waved a dismissive hand, "I'm still remarkable, dear."

Never mind, Steve, move aside; Natasha wants her for herself. It was not a fight that Steve could win. She'd never met a woman she both loathed and admired so quickly.

But for now, they were here for a reason.

"Is there anything you can tell us about Darcy the day she went missing?"

Dot hummed non-committedly as she distractedly sipped her tea. Her eyes, however, were trying to read the vibes her guests were giving off.

"What does it matter?" Dot raised an eyebrow, "Last I was informed, she was legally declared dead. Her disappearance was ruled a murder - even if the scumbag managed to appeal and negotiate his release."

There was a bite to the woman's tone that Natasha begrudgingly admired. Elegance and fierceness were a fickle combination, and Dot was proving to have both in spades.

"Yeah," Steve jumped in, "But we wanna know what happened – from the time she went missin' to… well, to the end. Whatever that may be, she deserved more than a shallow grave with an unknown marker. Anythin' ya know would be appreciated."

Was it just her, or was Steve's accent getting thicker the longer this meeting went on?

Dot hummed thoughtfully, "All I know is that she left for work one day and she didn't come home."

"She didn't come home? So, you were living together?" Natasha queried relentlessly, "You didn't report her missing; Katherine Thompson did. You didn't think her not coming home was strange?"

"Not especially," Dot confirmed with narrowed eyes, churlish of the judgment Nat was throwing her way, "Times were tough – she was putting in hours at the firm and the church. It wasn't unusual for her to stay elsewhere when she was exhausted."

"The church?" Natasha asked, surprised.

It was Steve who answered, "She did work through the church; assistin' war widows, things like that."

Well, well, Darcy Lewis really was an impeccable woman, wasn't she? It was no wonder Yasha had been struck dumb.

But her doings at a church weren't what she needed to know. "Did she ever discuss her husband with you?"

Dot made a 'yeesh' sound, "Once."

It was Steve who jumped in with a sympathetic wince, "Didn't go well?"

A withering look was sent his way: "What do you think?"

Natasha rolled her eyes before asking, "Anything worth noting in that discussion?"

"No, but the day I found out about him is the last day I ever asked," Dot informed them, "Nothing was truly discussed about his character or anything similar. I could only theorise, and that's useless to work off."

Dot looked uncomfortable at the conversation, which didn't bode well so early in the meeting. It was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Would you say that the two of you were close?" Natasha moved on, "Were you her closest girlfriend at the time?"

"Out of us girls? Towards the end, yes. But I suspect she loved Emily the most," Dot thought aloud wistfully, "At least at first."

"What happened to her?" Natasha asked as she wrote down as much information as she could, "Is she still around?"

Dot sadly shook her head.

"No, hypertension got to her in the '60s. She lived a full life," Dot pouted, "That shy little girl got married before the lot of us."

"What?!" Steve's eyebrows skyrocketed as he leaned forward in his seat, "Did she really?"

The urge to roll her eyes was so strong she almost strained a muscle resisting it. Trust Steve to practically peacock at the mere thought of gossip. If only America knew how unsafe its secrets really were with its favourite Avenger. Nuclear passcodes? The president's itinerary? The secret recipe for the best apple pie in the U.S? He'd trade them all for anything remotely similar to juicy gossip. Natasha succumbed to the urge and rolled her eyes.

"She was married to a French soldier," Dot said warmly, if sadly. "She was stationed in Paris for a large portion of her nursing career. She got lost one day, to the surprise of no one, somehow ended up in a little town called Domremy, which, I assure you, is nowhere near Paris, and there she found the man she would one day marry. She settled there and lived a happy life. Who would have thought that her complete lack of direction would lead her to her future husband?"

There was a nostalgia to Dot's tone that suggested she was no longer present in the room with them. It was apparent to Natasha that Dot was securely lost in her memories. She recounted her thoughts as they occurred to her, rather than answering direct questions. Natasha wrote everything down anyway.

"The day she left was the last time I ever saw her," a sardonic laugh left Dot's mouth, "I'm the last of them."

A mournful silence filled the room as Steve leaned across the coffee table and grabbed hold of Dot's hand. He gave it a tight squeeze, and Dot clung to him for dear life.

"Well," she amended, "Until now."

Steve's eyes were glassy. "I understand that feeling more than you know."

She timidly looked at Steve from beneath her eyelashes, "And Bucky?"

Shaking his head, Steve released her hand, and Natasha watched him retreat into himself, "Snapped."

Dot hissed as she bared her teeth, "Hasn't the world taken enough from you?"

"Apparently not," Steve smirked morbidly.

Keeping up with her notes, Natasha silently waited for a moment to continue the meeting without being too insensitive.

"Does the name 'Maggie Jane' mean anything to you?"

The older woman's eyebrow furrowed, "Should it?"

Perhaps not. Maggie Jane must not be as important as Natasha had hoped.

Moving on, Natasha queried, "I wanted to ask about her employer, Jerry Hibbitt."

To her surprise, Dot's eyes narrowed, "You best not say anything bad about Jerry in front of me."

Ooookay then. That was mildly aggressive. Dot's tone dripped with warning, and most men would have cowered under her gaze.

But Natasha hadn't gotten this far in life by being afraid to ask the hard questions, "Could he have been a person of interest?"

"I took over Darcy's employment after she… vanished," Dot told them surely.

Vanished? Not died? Perhaps Dot wasn't as over Darcy's death as she liked to think.

Dot continued, "He needed a strong woman to keep him in check. I stayed with him until the end," she said, giving a small smile. "He wasn't alone when he went. He had us."

As touching as that sentiment was, it felt like a diversion.

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't answer the question."

Dot rolled her eyes and spoke curtly, "No, the sheer notion is ridiculous. The man was wrecked when Darcy was declared dead; he had no one else in the world."

As much as she wanted to know more, Natasha realised that this was a thread that was best left untugged. She didn't want Dot to clam up before they'd really begun.

Sadly, Dot didn't have any further information that could be of use, and Natasha's hope for useful information dried up. And as interesting as the older woman was, Nat wanted to know about Darcy, not Dot. As they were wrapping up, Natasha thanked her for her time.

For a moment, Dot stared at Natasha expectantly before exhaling and slumping her shoulders.

"Everything alright?" Natasha prodded.

Dot sighed disappointedly, "I had hoped you'd have news for me."

"News?" Natasha queried, "About Darcy?"

"I'm waiting for an explanation," Dot asserted simply.

Nat's eyes narrowed. "An explanation for what?"

"If I had cracked it, I wouldn't need an explanation," Dot sassed.

"Crack what? Her death?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dot coolly sipped her tea, "But please keep me informed."

Steve and Natasha shared a look. Steve shrugged in a 'don't look at me – I don't know' kind of way, and Natasha shot him a 'I think your friend is as crazy as you' look. Either Dot knew something, or maybe her 103 years had rattled something upstairs a bit loose.

Either way, they clearly weren't getting anything else from the woman. Natasha suspected that she, but not Steve, had overstayed her welcome.

"If there is anything I can do—" Natasha started to stand before being cut off by the older woman.

"An introduction to Thor wouldn't be remiss," Dot spoke with exaggerated sufferance, "Oh, if I were but ten years younger…"

Natasha's eyebrows shot up as she sat back down in surprise, "Only ten?"

Rolling her eyes, Dot glowered at her, "Ten. I hadn't needed a hip replacement before then. I was still spritely enough."

Wow. Natasha wanted to be like this woman if she ever made it past 100. And a hip replacement in her 90s? Which doctor had she bullied to pull that off?

The older woman shot a placating smile at Steve, "Apologies, Steve. You were almost my favourite Avenger."

"Alas," Steve moaned with a gleeful glint in his eyes, "I was never going to be big and tall enough for you, was I?"

"In actuality, it was the hair. Thor's is just… immaculate," Dot grinned as her eyes roamed Steve provocatively, "But I must say the scruff and fluff is a good look on you too."

This woman's ability to make Steve blush was something Natasha was desperate to learn and emulate. Natasha also had to agree; Steve was usually clean-shaven and had his hair well-groomed, but every once in a while, like now, he would let himself 'go' and he'd look delightful. Even knowing that, he still blushed and stuttered under Dot's ministrations.

Dot would have been a formidable Black Widow.

Unable to resist any longer, Natasha glanced at the hanging photographs Dot had proudly displayed on her buffet. There were children in every photo; aged photos that suggested Dot's own children, and more colourised photos that Natasha assumed were her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She absently wondered if they'd birthed yet another generation. To have so many children and then for those children to have their own... to watch them grow with pride and joy.

Children had always been a sensitive topic for Natasha – long before she'd been sterilised. There were always children to watch over, to be the big sister to. Yelena… the Littles.

A sharp pang of agony hit her. No, she wouldn't think of the Littles.

But morbid curiosity hit Natasha as she wondered about Dot's children.

"If I may ask," Natasha started and waited for Dot's nod, "How many did you lose to the snap?"

Dot's mouth tightened, "Of mine? One grandchild."

Statistically speaking, that made Dot and her family lucky, but every single child was one child too many.

Determination was hot in Natasha's veins, "If I can bring your grandchild back to you, I swear I will."

They shared a look of understanding. A look that demonstrated a kinship of shared soulful fire and life experiences.

"I have no doubt you would if you could."

And Natasha would do her absolute best.

A minute slowly passed, and it was past time to leave, but Natasha remained sitting. Steve gave her a curious look, obviously waiting for her cue on whether or not to leave. But there was something she wanted to know, something personal. She wondered if Dot would be kind enough to blather to the little girl in Natasha's heart.

Sensing this, Dot prodded her, "Was there something else?"

Natasha swallowed her doubts, "What were they like? Darcy and Yash--- Bucky?"

Dot's eyes narrowed in speculation and briefly flicked to Steve before wondering, "What's it to you?"

"I knew about her," Natasha breathed in awe, "As long as I knew him, he would talk about her. Well, an image of her at least."

An understanding smile bloomed on Dot's face, "Let me guess - he painted her as an angel? Sprouting sonnets in her honour? Dramatically declared there was no woman alive who could compare?"

"No, this was before he was rescued from captivity. So nothing so... extreme," Natasha gave a soft smile. "He knew she loved chocolate. Knew she was strong and beautiful. I think pizazz was the word he used. I asked if she was sweet once. He scoffed and said, 'when she wanted to be.' Whatever he knew, whenever he knew it, he'd share it with us."

Natasha trailed off, slowly becoming enveloped in her own world.

She pictured Yasha, his fingers in her hair as he braided her red curls. Imagined his baritone voice speaking in hushed tones as he spoke of a woman who was the soothing balm to his tortured soul. Remembered when they had huddled up to his side when nightmares kept him awake and he would whisper about a woman who was more important than even Mother Russia... His bloodshot eyes and flared nostrils when he awoke from sweet dreams of her, only for the wisps of her shadow to disappear like a sift through his fingers. Even to little Natalia, it was clear that this ghost of a woman lingered in the very marrow of her protector's bones; the memory of her was as fragile and precious as the bones in her wrists. But the heart of Yasha's beloved festered inside him like a fever he couldn't shake, and his contagion spread to all his girls, who grew to love this idol as fiercely as he did. She was their gospel truth, and Yasha was her devoted preacher.

Steve rested a supportive hand on her shoulder, and he looked at her with all the tenderness in the world. She felt safe with him in her vulnerable state.

"He didn't even remember her name," Natasha murmured softly, "Just... her. That he loved her. Fiercely."

"Sounds about right," Dot's voice was raspy as she dabbed her teary eyes, “I never saw any man love anyone the way I saw that man love her.”

"Did-" Natasha cleared her throat, "Did Darcy love him that much?"

Dot gave a derisive snort, "Absolutely. Took her forever to admit it, but she loved him just as much."

This information made Natasha blissfully happy. A small child within her chest, bright-eyed with red braids, burst into relieved tears. The woman Yasha loved so ardently had loved him just as much. And just like that, Natasha knew she wouldn't rest until she knew exactly what had become of her.

Natasha's phone buzzed and jerked her out of her emotional state. With a quick glance, she realised she needed to take it. Dot was more than kind when Natasha excused herself. She took a calming breath and took the call.

It was as important as she had thought.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," her source confirmed, "Every file S.H.I.E.L.D had on Harker has been decoded. I'll print it all off and leave it on your desk."

Print?

Natasha's breath hitched. "I take it there wasn't as much as we thought, then?"

"There was, but a lot of it was bogus or…"

"Or?"

"Well," her source coughed into the receiver, "It looks like he cooperated with S.H.I.E.L.D more often than he was against them."

Natasha blinked, "S.H.I.E.L.D or H.Y.D.R.A?"

"Impossible to know until you go through it."

Of course, nothing was ever simple. And that holds doubly true whenever paperwork is involved. She hoped she hadn't exhausted this contact's favour for nothing.

"Godspeed," the phone clicked off before she could respond.

Classy.

She rolled her eyes and returned to the room. Opening the door, she needed a moment to comprehend what she was seeing. Quite suddenly, she felt like Alice when she'd first fallen into Wonderland and attended the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.

Dot and Steve were now sitting next to each other, chittering over their teacups, gasping and giggling delightedly. His giant pinky finger was even sticking up as he held his teacup. Steve had never shown his age as much as he had at that moment. They were very much the image of two old busybodies catching up.

"I'd always suspected, y'know?" Steve insisted with urgency as he touched Dot's shoulder.

Dot waved off his insistence, "-We'd all suspected but to know for certain-!"

"-But surely not the milkman?"

"And the mailman too! Tacky, I know."

Nat cleared her throat expectantly; their laughter died, and they turned and stared at her blankly. She suddenly felt like the intruder when it was Steve who'd gate-crashed her appointment.

Rolling her eyes yet again today, Natasha made for a tactful retreat, "I'll leave you two to it. Dot, thank you for your time. Steve, perhaps you can finally chat about inflation to someone who cares."

He barely had time to squeak an outraged sound before Dot gasped, looking to Steve urgently, "My word! Inflation! Criminal is what they mean."

"Exactly," Steve bemoaned, "I paid ten bucks for a carton of eggs simply 'cause it said organic. What's tha' even mean?"

Natasha slinked away as Dot twittered, "Just you wait until you hear how much my third mortgage was…"

Chapter Text

April 26th, 1942

St Paul's Chapel, New York City

It was beautiful. The ceiling was taller than it had any right to be, with fantastic arches that accentuated its height. Grecian-looking columns followed the interior the entire way down – from the entrance to the altar. The pastel paint complemented the white fixtures, and the only thing that Darcy found gaudy was the eccentric chandeliers. Yeesh, they really didn't suit the rest of the building at all.

Now, Darcy was not a pious person; she never was, and likely never would be. It was a fact that she, but not her family, had long accepted. Darcy was devoted to those around her, not some omnipotent deity she wasn't wholly convinced was real. But there was something about churches that always inspired a sliver of genuine peace within her. Maybe it was the beautiful architecture, or the choir practising hypnotic hymns, or the kind sister who led Katherine and her to a small back room. Or it could be the simple fact that it wasn't her place of worship, so she felt safe without being judged. Whether a devout believer or not, she never felt completely at ease in the synagogue.

But really, the church was a beautiful distraction. The Gallup had been taking tallies and asking New Yorkers what the current conflict overseas should be called. Darcy knew their suggestion of WWII would be a winner. Not that she'd submitted her answer - that felt like cheating. God, WWII. It really was rearing its ugly head. As she shuddered, Darcy pretended she had never overheard that information from a newspaper boy. She didn't want to know!

Inside the back room was another sister, who immediately smiled upon their entry. The others, who presumably were volunteers as well, were cutting up cloth or silently knitting, and they paid their arrival no mind.

The sister made her way over, "Katherine! I see you've brought a friend."

The first thing Darcy noticed about the sister was that she had the slightest twinge of an accent - one Darcy couldn't immediately identify. French, maybe? The sister was perhaps a few years older than Darcy and was wearing a dull and dark habit. Darcy couldn't see her hair, but if she had to take a guess, from her eyebrows, it would be black. The woman seemed kind enough, but with icy grey eyes that seemed as sharp as icicles, Darcy suspected the nun could read minds with an intense gaze like that. The fact that those eyes were aimed at her, though, did not make Darcy feel comfortable.

Darcy suddenly understood the phrase 'sweating like a whore in church' because this woman was making her want to confess things better left unsaid. Darcy had always been chatty, but now probably wasn't the time. Fuck, she was still slick from Bucky's efforts that very morning.

Katherine nodded to the sister and stated, "Yes, with the increase in demand for our services, I felt it prudent to begin recruiting."

The sister looked at Darcy curiously before humming in recognition, "You work at the Tavern, don't you?"

The Tavern? Darcy hadn't been in ages, but that doesn't mean she hadn't been seen there before.

Darcy blinked before exhaling a laugh, "Ah, no. I mean, I used to go there for lunch a lot, but I go there to spend my money, not to make it."

An awkward smile graced Darcy's face as she rambled. She couldn't understand why she felt it was necessary to clarify this, but the woman made Darcy uncomfortable enough to ramble. Even Katherine was shooting her curious looks.

"Oh," the sister went back to looking thoughtful, "I could have sworn…"

"I get it," Darcy assured her with a shrug before realising she probably shouldn't interrupt a nun speaking, "I've been mistaken as a waitress there before. I must look like one of them. That or I'm spending too much time there!"

Well, not recently, but there had certainly been a point where she'd been a daily fixture. Was eating out for lunch every day a sin? Is that why the woman was asking?

"Perhaps," the sister relented, but didn't look at all convinced.

The sister's eyes briefly flickered down to Darcy's stomach. Darcy's eyes furrowed with confusion. Why would she be looking at her abdomen? What was she looking for? Food stains? What possible reason could she have for suspecting Darcy was a waitress, and that--- Darcy's back went rigid as realisation washed over her.

The other waitress at the Tavern - Connie's friend, the one who got pregnant out of wedlock and kept it. Did the nun think Darcy was her? Why?

Darcy had the sudden desperate urge to explain to a stranger that she wasn't pregnant, which was bullshit because even if she were pregnant, it would be no business of this nosey bitch. With a wince, Darcy glanced heavenwards and quietly apologised for mentally cussing out a nun in church. Surely, that was a cardinal sin? But wasn't there some commandment that went something like 'Nunya?' Oh right, that wasn't from this generation.

Fuck, she missed Thor. He was a simple (not to mention tangible) and magnanimous God to worship. Feed him, tell him he's strong and pretty, give him all the Th'oreal and 'Thornetto' memes, and he's a happy deity.

Katherine's patience ran out: "Darcy, meet Sister Bernadette; Bernadette, meet cynical Darcy."

"Hey," Darcy uttered to Katherine without any real ire before smiling at the sister, "I'm pleased to meet you."

They shook hands, and their awkward conversation was dropped.

The sister began a spiel about how important it was to give back to the community, and Darcy's mind quickly wandered. She thought of Bucky's little pout this morning when she'd informed him that she was giving up Sunday afternoons with him to volunteer.

"Every Sunday?" He'd moaned melodramatically into the crown of her head, "You're leaving me every Sunday?"

Darcy nodded as she snuggled up to his side as they lay on his bed together, "Afternoons. We will still have our mornings."

Bucky sighed heavily as he placed a kiss on her head and grumbled, "I 'spose. I like spendin' all day Sunday wit' you, though."

Her pulse fluttered at his sincerity, and she kissed just beneath his jawline, "I know. Me too. I just-"

He cut her off with a kiss, "I know. That lil' girl and her Mama tugged at your heartstrings. I'm proud that you wanna change the world. I am. I'll just miss ya. Don't mind my being a sap and weepin' over it."

With a dramatic flair she'd long since come to associate with her boyfriend, he hung his arm over his face in mock despair.

Despite his playful dramatics, Darcy truly appreciated his support, "I'll still see you throughout the week."

"'Course ya will. Stuck with me, doll," he said, and with the dopey grin he was sporting, Darcy couldn't ever suspect otherwise.

With a giggle, Darcy leant up on her elbow and kissed his nose, "No one I'd rather be stuck with."

His smile was blinding, "Yeah?

"Uh-huh," her smile was teasing before she sang, "Baby!"

He growled at her playfully as he rolled over on top of her and swallowed her peals of laughter....

"What skills do you have to offer?" The sister's question knocked Darcy out of her reverie.

Darcy blinked at her, needing a moment to remind herself where she was. Skills? Like what?

"I'm an educated woman," Darcy assured her.

Sister Bernadette nodded a little impatiently, "Of course. Perhaps we will get you started with knitting."

Oooh. Umm. Yeah, about that...

Darcy winced, "Umm, I don't know how to do that."

"You cannot knit?" The sister's eyebrows shot up. "Can you crochet?"

Well, "…No."

"Sew?"

"Let's assume I can't do anything with needles."

For a few seconds, they silently stared at each other, both of them seeming to be able to predict how the following conversation would go and both dreading it.

"Oh," the sister muttered, "Candlemaking?"

Who the fuck just knows candlemaking?

"... No?"

"Gardening? Or herbal medicines?"

Even Darcy was starting to chew her lip in vexation, "No..."

"Can you at least make soap?"

"Uhhh---"

"Cooking?"

Darcy sighed in relief, "Yes!"

The sister was clearly not so reassured, "In large quantities?"

Fuck!

"… Define large?"

"… I shall take that as a no," the sister looked baffled, "And you claim to be educated. What services can you provide?"

PR on social media? Assistance with astronomical breakthroughs? The best Pop-Tarts this side of the century have to offer? Tying a cherry knot with her tongue? Burping the periodic table? Texting at lightning speed? Her oral sex was reportedly on point, but she didn't think that would win her any brownie points with the nun. Darcy suddenly felt not only useless but, as the sister claimed, wholly uneducated too. She supposed that for a '40s woman, she was pretty useless. That didn't mean she couldn't help somehow. There had to be something.

Darcy stared at the sister, stumped, "Umm, what do you want me to do?"

That apparently wasn't what the sister wanted to hear.

Katherine and Sister Bernadette quickly huddled together and spoke in hushed tones. Darcy couldn't hear them, but they gradually sounded more like angry hisses than sweet tones. Darcy resisted the urge to tap her foot impatiently. She disliked being talked about in hushed tones, especially when it was right in front of her.

After a minute, the sister turned back to Darcy and looked at her with something similar to contempt.

"What do you do?" The sister asked with a heavy sigh.

Darcy fumbled to answer, "I'm a secretary-"

The sister cut her off, "Katherine mentioned as much, but we do not require such help presently. What about hobbies?"

"Umm," Darcy momentarily floundered, feeling like she was midway through a botched job interview, "I like to read."

The sister waited for any more input, but Darcy really had nothing else to add. "That's it? You can read? You cannot cook for many people and have no skill with needlework either; what am I supposed to do with you?"

Darcy barely had a moment to feel like shit before Katherine stepped in.

Katherine droned, "You say that as though it's the dead of winter and clothing is in high demand. She will learn enough before Christmas to be of help then. We will get her started on blankets. Blankets may not be in high demand now, but they will be. What's the harm in getting her started on them?"

The sister scowled, "Yes, but until then we have to store them, and we have limited room as it is-"

"I'll store them," Katherine stated, as though presented with an easy math equation, "I sincerely doubt she will make a hundred wool blankets on her own before Christmas."

The sister pursed her lips in contemplation, "We will need clothes-"

"She will work up to it," Katherine glared and spoke tightly, "You'll find a use for her, Bernadette."

For someone who claimed to be devout, a sceptical look graced her face easily, "I don't have time to waste teaching skills that a woman her age should already know."

"I'll teach her then," Katherine said, rolling her eyes as if she'd had enough of the nun's attitude; "Everyone has their strengths – you just haven't seen hers yet."

The sister seemed to agree with that much at least, if a bit reluctantly, "Well, everyone has to start somewhere, I suppose."

Waving her hand towards the other volunteers, the sister encouraged Darcy to sit down. The volunteers gave her absent nods while Katherine placed some needles and some yarn in front of her. Darcy wasn't convinced she'd ever picked up needles in her life. She could patch a hole in a pair of pants if she were desperate enough, but she was far more likely to throw out the pants. Needlework had never been something she'd wanted to learn. Bubbe had offered to teach her once, but teenage Darcy had better things to do; Tumblr, Facebook, Movies, Political Anarchy... things. Things that really didn't amount to much or currently help her at all. She should have taken Bubbe up on her offer.

She stared at the needles blankly. The back of her neck prickled, and it felt as though a thousand eyes were peering at her with judgment, waiting for her to fail. She glanced up and noticed that the volunteers were not as apathetic to her presence as she'd initially thought.

Two of the women bowed their heads together and started muttering under their breath, glancing in her direction. Another two were strategically huddled together, calmly speaking Italian as they stared at her. One outright looked at her like she was a bacteria that was going to contaminate the table quicker than a disease-ridden fly.

As her only ally sat beside her, Katherine glared at everyone around them, who immediately went back to work.

Katherine's voice was tight and probably her version of gentle, "They didn't immediately warm to me either. As a divorcee, they were more inclined to throw me on the pyre than accept my help initially."

What was it with the people of this time and judging her before she'd even done anything? Just today, a nun had already implied she thought she was a loose woman, and middle-aged women were watching her with detached scorn. All of them were just women who probably hadn't been thoroughly fucked recently (or ever, considering one was a damn nun) and were just jealous of her. It was a nasty thought that had come unbidden, and Darcy wanted to growl at how they'd upset her so quickly.

But something nagged at Darcy; she hadn't realised Katherine was divorced. Huh. Wouldn't that be something that would have come up in conversation before now? She really needed to start paying closer attention to the people around her. But it did raise an interesting thought within Darcy - these people didn't know her, and she didn't know them. Judgment worked both ways, and she was always willing to break conventional boundaries. Kill them with kindness because bullshit baffles brains - a lovely malaphor her mom had accidentally taught her daughter over the years.

What does it matter what they think of Darcy? They could judge all they liked, but they wouldn't be right. Darcy was going to show them what she was made of.

"Sup, everyone?" She asked as she cracked her knuckles.

No one acknowledged her beyond giving her baffled looks, which was fine. They'd join the self-entitled 'Darcy is Elite' team; she'd convert them willingly or not. Darcy quickly wiggled her fingers, stretching them, and picked up the needles.

"Now," Katherine began in her familiar no-nonsense teaching manner, "Most people find casting on the most difficult part to learn, so that's what we will start with..."

Chapter Text

May 2nd, 1942
Doyle Boardhouse, New York City

The radio was blaring, the scent of peroxide was in the air, and Darcy was perched on the chair she’d dragged in from the dining room, flicking through a magazine. It was absolute trash, but Connie was giggling over her shoulder about some ridiculous dating advice, and Darcy found she could tolerate it. Occasionally, they would shout out some of the particularly ludicrous advice the magazine had to offer to Bonnie and Dot, who would either mock it or roll their eyes.

There were also some fashion tips that Darcy, being from a completely different era, found insanely helpful. Hair, in particular, was a hot topic in the '40s, and to her housemates, that meant serious business. Bonnie almost frothed at the mouth with every tidbit provided, whereas Connie was merely looking for tips and tricks to make her daily routine easier. There was even a column about which haircare products to use; each was pricier than the last. Dot was the only one who scoffed at the advice given, vowing that nothing was more effective than her super secret conditioner. And no, she would not share this recipe with anyone. 

Bonnie had decided she would no longer go to the salon to get her hair done. It was becoming costly, and the last time she went in, it hadn’t been done to her satisfaction. So, she’d begged one of her housemates to cut, dye, and style her hair; only Dot was up for the task. Connie and Darcy predicted it would be fun to watch and happily loitered during the whole process.

The four women were in the laundry room. Bonnie was in another dining room chair, propped up against the only sink (a trough, really) in the room, her head awkwardly bent over the sink. Dot was half on top of Bonnie, trying to wash the chemicals out of her hair. Every once in a while, Dot would accidentally elbow Bonnie, who'd yelp in dismay, only to be told to stop whining by her assailant; Darcy and Connie had to smother their sniggers.

“It says what?!” Bonnie blurted out, aghast, from her place in the sink.

Outraged, Connie happily repeated it with a shrill voice, “'How to look halfway decent and attract his attention’ - ridiculous! It says to wear a hat. A hat! As if my looks were entirely dependent upon a hat.”

“Halfway decent, remember?” Dot pointed out as she continued to rinse the last of the dye out of Bonnie’s hair, “Wouldn’t make a difference for you, hun. Not even a hat could make you all the way decent.”

Connie huffed good-naturedly from where she sat on the countertop, “I’m not wearin' a hat if I don’t have t'. I don’t have these beautiful curls for nothin’!”

"Your continued emphasis on the word hat highlights your displeasure," Darcy giggled as she flipped through the magazine.

“No one’s denying you’ve got lovely curls,” Dot spoke as she lightly smacked Bonnie’s head to encourage her to sit up, “I could chop them off for you. Problem solved. I wouldn’t even charge you.”

“Thank you very much, but I’d rather not,” Connie said snottily as she looked pointedly at Bonnie. “I’m happy to go to the salon when I need my hair cut. I also don’t feel the need to dye my hair, unlike someone.”

Now sitting upright, Bonnie defended herself, “I don’t look good with mousey hair!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Connie muttered, “Because being blonde is all it’s cracked up to be.”

Darcy couldn't help but wonder if Connie had been burned by a previous attempt to turn her hair blonde. Meh, every woman suffers from it at some point. Darcy winced at the memory of 14-year-old Darcy turning her hair orange. The trauma and the breakage were all too real.

Before they could continue their back and forth, Dot yanked a little too hard on Bonnie's hair, who gave a sharp yelp in protest. Dot patted her head in silent apology and grabbed a towel before making eye contact with Darcy.

“You should let me cut your hair, Darcy,” Dot insisted as she towel-dried Bonnie's hair. “Your hair is far too long for a city girl. It might’ve been acceptable in Utah, but it’s hardly fashionable here.”

But Darcy was already frantically shaking her head at the idea, “Big nope. I’ve always had long hair, and I like it that way.”

If Darcy was being completely honest, her hair was the only thing from the future she still had. Her trendy clothes were gone; her waterproof makeup was gone; her extra weight was gone; her sparkly nails were gone… The length of her hair, however, was still there. She found she was rather attached to it for more reasons than just because she liked it better longer.

“Did I not bring the scissors?” Dot scowled as she looked around at the laundry around them and, upon not being able to find them, looked at Darcy, “Could you go to the bathroom upstairs and get the scissors? They should be on top of the basin.”

“Sure,” Darcy agreed freely, passing the magazine to Connie before groaning with the effort of standing up, “You just had to ask the geriatric among you, though, didn’t you?”

The three younger girls laughed as Darcy dramatically shuffled her way out. She trod up the stairs and made her way into the bathroom. The scissors were not, in fact, on top of the basin, and she began her mission to find them. Darcy scoured the cupboards for them. Nothing.

It was irritating, but maybe Dot was wrong and she had brought the scissors downstairs with her. Just as Darcy was about to give up and head back down, the door abruptly opened and a startled Emily was indelicately pushed inside.

Ummm?

The door slammed shut immediately behind her, and Darcy quickly realised she’d been set up. Emily appeared to have come to the same conclusion and looked equally alarmed.

A loud click was heard from the other side of the door.

Did they---? Did those brats seriously just lock them inside the bathroom?!

“Hilarious,” Darcy scowled loudly as she brushed past Emily and yanked on the door handle, which refused to budge an inch.

She continued to jiggle the handle as she spat curses at the door and the women behind it.

“The hell, guys?” Darcy snapped loud enough to be heard from the other side of the door.

"Enough," Dot commanded flatly through the door, "We're not letting you out until you've talked this out."

“Yeah!” A voice that sounded like Bonnie added, “You have until my hair’s dry to do so, or so help me God, I’m getting Mrs. Doyle involved!”

As if Mrs. Doyle scared Darcy. But the door remained closed no matter how much she jiggled the handle. She pressed her ear up to the door, but all that she could hear were retreating footsteps. They’d truly left them there. Locked in a bathroom together. What in the 7 minutes in heaven was this shit?

Understanding that they weren't going anywhere soon, Darcy stubbornly turned away from the door and refused to look at Emily. Petty? Yes, Darcy could acknowledge it, but right now she didn't care. If there was one thing Darcy disliked, it was being forced to do things. And this was something she really didn't want to acknowledge needed to be done.

A thick silence filled the room; Emily was utterly aware of how little Darcy wanted to be there, and Darcy did nothing to suggest otherwise.

The two women hovered in the bathroom, awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

At one point, Emily cleared her throat, about to speak, but Darcy squared her shoulders even more, which immediately dissuaded the younger woman. Darcy didn't want to speak to Emily. She was a walking, talking reminder of the war around them. A reminder of how Darcy had epically screwed up someone's life so badly that they volunteered to go to war. Emily was 21, and somehow Darcy had managed to destroy her life by simply being in it. God, it hurt to look at her. It hurt to even be near her.

But Emily was not to be discouraged for long.

“Darcy,” Emily carefully broached.

No. If Darcy didn't speak to her, then Darcy didn't have to acknowledge what had happened... or what would happen. She'd wanted so desperately for Emily's announcement to be a bad dream, but Darcy had never woken up. Perhaps if she acted like it was a dream, it would go away whenever she finally woke up.

Darcy stubbornly refused to look over, desperately hanging onto her denial for as long as possible.

Emily sighed heavily, “Darcy, will you speak to me? Please.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Darcy insisted, beginning to count the flower patterns in the tiles.

Graciously, Emily allowed Darcy to ignore her for several minutes. They both just lingered in the terse silence.

It was, of course, Emily who pushed for conversation.

“Why couldn’t you be proud of me?” Emily whispered sadly, “I thought of everyone here that it would be you who’d support me.”

The statement stung, but that was probably because it should have been true. For just about anything else, it would have been. If she'd decided to be a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker... Darcy would've hyped her up. But Emily didn't choose a safe career, and it was all Darcy's fault.

Desperately, Darcy quelled the feeling of guilt that threatened to spill out of her, “I told you to be incredible. I didn’t say anything about you joining the damn war.”

Emily inhaled sharply as realisation washed over her, “Is that what this is about? Do you think you’ve influenced my choice?”

What the fuck else could it have been? With her and Dot's powers combined, they'd pushed her to do something extreme.

“How could I not?” Darcy turned around sharply and snapped at her, “You all but said that when you told us.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Emily was clearly calculating her words before she said them.

When Emily finally spoke, her tone was gentle but left no room for argument: “I’d been thinking of joining for a while. Long before you arrived, even.”

“What?” Darcy asked, startled, “You had?”

Emily rolled her eyes, “Yes, Darcy. Believe it or not, you haven’t influenced my life that much. I had already made up my mind that I was going to try to volunteer with the Reserves. I was just waiting for my birthday.”

Darcy wasn’t sure if a weight was lifted off her shoulders or if she felt a heavier burden pile on top. Emily hadn’t joined because of Darcy. She’d joined for herself. Poor Emily thought she’d had a friend in her corner when her decision was final… a friend who’d completely failed her. Darcy suddenly felt embarrassed by her actions.

“I’ll apologise for springing the news on you without warning,” Emily told her kindly, before adding more firmly, “I won’t apologise for anything else.”

Fair enough.

Darcy turned away again as she shuffled her weight between her feet, unsure of how to approach the situation. She wondered what Jerry would say, and his exasperated face appeared in her mind's eye. She imagined her boss rolling his eyes at her social ineptitude before insisting with one word - ‘apologise.’ A spectre of Bucky appeared, who had also been nudging her to repair her relationship with Emily, and he was quietly staring her down as well. Both of the men in her life would be in firm agreement with one another.

Outnumbered even within her own mind, Darcy knew what she had to do.

Darcy wanted to crawl into her bed and pretend the world wasn’t spinning around her. But Darcy was a big enough person to recognise that an apology was important; downright required in this situation. As much as she hated apologising, she knew she needed to bite the bullet and do it.

Purposefully, she turned around and looked at Emily’s weary face.

“Emily,” she sucked in a big breath before exhaling, “I’m sorry.”

A gentle smile graced Emily’s face. “You’re forgiven.”

It should not have been that easy. Emily was far too gentle for this cruel world and an even crueller time. How in hell was this gem of a person going to make it out of this war alive?

To Darcy’s immense surprise, Emily immediately brought her into a hug. Darcy felt utterly unworthy of it and stiffly kept her arms at her sides. However, Emily wouldn't let go, and the one-sided embrace lingered. So, Darcy relented and wrapped her arms around the smaller woman.

It felt nice, and Darcy realised how much she missed Emily.

They hugged each other tightly, and Darcy felt nothing but dread.

This friend of hers… was she going to die? Darcy hoped not. She wasn't ready for that. She clutched Emily tighter, trying to convey without words that she genuinely was sorry and that she was scared for her. Emily squeezed her back in acknowledgement before pulling away. They shared a small, forgiving smile, and Darcy felt a weight she didn't know she carried lift off her shoulders.

"Do you-?" Darcy started and then faltered, not truly wanting to know the answer, "Do you know if you're going...?"

Fuck, she couldn't even bring herself to say it.

But Emily sensed her concern and debunked her worst fear, "Not yet."

Maybe they wouldn't call her to the front lines. Maybe she'll stay safe in the U.S. Maybe her panic was all for nothing.

Relief wasn't a strong enough word for the emotion that ran through her.

Darcy suddenly felt that her apology wasn't enough. Grabbing hold of Emily's hands, she rubbed her thumbs over her delicate hands. Hands that would one day feel the effects of war; hands that would one day heal; kind hands that Darcy desperately wanted to protect.

"You are already incredible," Darcy insisted redundantly as her lower lip trembled with emotion, "You know that, right?"

Emily nodded with a sweet smile and said, "No more than you are."

Darcy did not agree with that statement in the slightest.

Abruptly, there was a bang on the door, and it startled Darcy out of the moment.

“You two sorted yourselves out yet?” The voice of Dot demanded through the door, “Or am I going to start getting paid to hand out well-deserved slaps?”

“Not needed!” Darcy insisted, at the same time that Emily called out, “We’re all better.”

A click, indicating the door was now unlocked, sounded, and Emily and Darcy exited the bathroom.

There, the three conspirators stood, arms crossed purposefully, and Bonnie was rocking a new, shorter do. Clearly, they had the scissors the whole time. The latest hairstyle also looked really good, but Darcy was a little too rancorous to say so.

“Did ya kiss and make-up?” Connie queried, “Or are you going t' continue this awkward tip-toeing dance?”

“We’re good,” Darcy confirmed with a relieved smile before continuing with an exaggeratedly irritated tone, “Now, which one of you little bitches orchestrated that?”

They all pointed at Dot, who shamelessly raised her own hand.

Darcy rolled her eyes - she should have known.

Chapter Text

May 9th, 1942
Barnes Residence, New York City

Bucky’s ears were bleeding, but sadly, he could still hear the riot of commotion his sisters were causing. Lottie and Becca were at it again, running circles around the living room, only this time it was Becca trying to murder Lottie. Darcy and Evie were sitting on the couch, calmly watching the accumulating bloodbath as they idly sipped their tea. Evie was shooting him expectant looks. Being advanced in her pregnancy, it was an unspoken agreement that Evie, despite being the oldest girl, would not be handling any physical matters between the youngest sisters. The burden fell to Bucky, who really didn’t want to deal with the fallout of them breaking anything, either material-wise or each other.

Grabbing them both by the scruff of their necks with each arm, Bucky held them apart as best he could. They continued to claw just out of reach of each other, growling pathetically at each other.

Becca, the little shit, managed to swipe at Bucky, who dropped her with a glare. Lottie barely had the chance to twist out of Bucky’s grasp before Becca lunged at her, and the chase was back on.

Bucky gave up. He was not chasing them. Let them murder each other and deal with God.

Without any grace, he dropped onto the couch between Darcy and Evie. Immediately, Darcy rested her head on his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. Her big blue eyes were understanding, and Bucky knew she held no judgment for his inability to wrangle his younger sisters. If anything, the light running of her fingers on his chest suggested she thought he’d tried hard enough. However, being a sister herself, she obviously understood that siblings sometimes fight. Proving her nurturing nature, she gently caressed his cheek to soothe his shot nerves. Christ, she was as beautiful as she was compassionate. Unable to resist, he placed a kiss on her forehead.

The yelling was escalating between the sisters, but nothing was being thrown yet, so Bucky considered it pacified for now.

Well, until one of them got hold of the other.

Earlier, Darcy had ribbed him about being surrounded by Taurus women, and what else could he possibly expect? Passive women? She’d cackled at the thought. Darcy's fascination with astrology was both baffling and endearing. It's a rather unusual thing to appreciate in this day and age. She would talk about a star sign's traits and qualities, but then shun the horoscopes in the daily newspapers. He decided it was just another Darcy quirk.

But she was correct; Taurus women surrounded him, and they were the most stubborn people to have ever graced God's green earth.

With Lottie’s birthday being the 8th and Becca’s being the 10th, they had not unanimously decided to celebrate both of their birthdays on the 9th. Conveniently, it fell on a Saturday, which suited them all. Becca and Lottie had both pitched a fit about sharing their birthday celebrations, and Bucky and Mama had both scolded them about being selfish. They needed to pinch pennies where they could, but the girls wouldn't think beyond their own desires. The girls had paid no mind that Lottie's birthday also landed on Mother's Day, a fact Bucky was upset about, but Mama was grateful for.

However, both girls struggled with sharing things in general, even more so with each other. Their birthdays, being sacred as they were, being shared, was not tolerated with kindness. So, this meant that any excuse for them to start an argument today was a good excuse, and therefore, they’d been fighting amongst themselves all day.

He was quietly furious at their behaviour. Their Mama’s birthday was also in May - on the 19th - and Bucky knew she was going to insist it fly under the radar this year. Heaven knows that woman wasn’t going to let the people who loved her do anything special for her. He’d been gently prodding her about any plans she might like to make, but he’d only received glares in response. It was likely she’d be grateful for the seedlings he was planning to buy her and be mad about anything beyond that. She didn't want money or resources spent on her 'unnecessarily.' Bucky knew that it was because there’d been whispers that the government was going to start enforcing rations later this month, in which sugar and gasoline were likely listed. Mama had been stockpiling sugar in the hopes that she could make even one cake. If she couldn’t make a second cake for her other daughter, then she certainly wouldn't make one for herself.

And Lottie and Becca were uproariously undermining their mother’s sacrifice. But there was nothing he could do; the girls wouldn’t stop fighting, and his Ma wouldn’t budge.

Either way, the women in his family (barring Evie) were driving him mental with their pig-headedness. But it was their birthday celebration, modest as it was, and he wasn’t going to sour the day anymore. So, with great effort, he tried to remain in high spirits.

“It’s like herding cats,” he whined dramatically as his sisters ran amok around them, “Violent, stupid, adorable kittens I wanna smother.”

He stretched out his leg, hopelessly thinking that maybe if he tripped one of them, they’d finally stop.

Both girls noticed this and suddenly agreed that Bucky’s involvement was not welcome and unanimously snarled at him.

He raised his arm in surrender as he lowered his leg.

Fuck it, Mama could handle it.

Bucky shook his head in exasperation. What the hell was he going to do about those two? They were borderline feral sometimes.

“Careful,” Evie warned teasingly, “Lest one drops a dead bird on your lap.”

They both signed before simultaneously muttering, “Again.”

Darcy’s eyebrows reached her hairline, “Again?!”

One of the little ratbags suddenly launched herself over the coffee table in front of them, which groaned with effort. Within seconds, Becca was on top of Lottie, and a feeble brawl had broken out on the floor in front of them.

Never mind. He'll handle it.

Reluctantly, he pried himself from Darcy’s side and prepared to stop the girls once and for all. Well, once and for all, at least for today. Just as he’d managed to grab hold of both of them… tragedy struck.

Unexpectedly, the living room door burst open, and Mama was standing there. Every person with Barnes' blood froze as though the devil had sauntered in and evoked a family curse.

The picture was painted clearly in his head. Lottie and Becca sprawled on the floor, hair in disarray, entangled with one another, and with Bucky apparently lending a helping hand in their shenanigans. The room was silent, as no one breathed. It didn’t look good for anyone who wasn’t sitting on the couch, and Bucky cursed himself for not sitting for just a minute more.

“What---” all her children winced as she began speaking, “-is this?”

As though they’d all been zapped, they broke apart and leapt a foot away from each other.

For a moment, they all looked shamefully at the ground.

And then, betrayal.

“Bucky started it---!” Lottie barked accusingly, pointing at him.

Bucky couldn’t contain his outrage, “What?! Now, you listen ‘ere---!”

But Becca, for once and only because it suited her, immediately came to his defence, “He did not!”

“Yes, he did!”

“You lyin’, lil’---!”

“You started it, Lott---!”

“Enough,” the hissed command was obeyed immediately, “Later. This shall be dealt with later.”

The unspoken ‘when Darcy is not here’ was heard by all of them.

Christ, Mama was going to hit the roof when she realised this was all because Lottie was wearing one of Becca's skirts.

Glancing at his girlfriend, Bucky noticed she looked amused by his being cowed by his mother.

If only she knew, Bucky thought wryly.

Ma snapped her fingers expectantly and made her way out, “Dinner’s ready. I’m awaitin’ help to set the table.”

Like good little soldiers, all the Barnes children and Darcy followed her to the kitchen in an orderly line. Darcy insisted on helping, which Bucky knew his Mama adored and abhorred in equal measure, and before long, they were eating. The birthday girls had been visibly disappointed with corned beef and coleslaw for dinner, but Bucky’s glare had been enough of a deterrent for them not to whine. They were not going to argue at the table and ruin dinner.

Between bites, Ma finally asked the question he was quietly dreading, “Where is Steve?”

Steve had claimed he was attending an art class; Bucky told him to have fun. Bucky was pretty sure he was trying to enlist again; Steve didn’t ask him for his support. Neither called out the other, and neither felt the need to do so. It was a fool’s errand for even bigger fools.

But he repeated Steve's lie without letting the bitter taste of it leave his mouth.

Ma didn’t seem to believe it either, but she said nothing else on the matter.

After that, Evie expertly navigated the dinnertime conversation, and a part of him wanted to leap across the table and hug his only familial ally. From the curious looks that Darcy shot him throughout the meal, Bucky suspected she’d noticed something was up but couldn't tell exactly what. Guessing that they needed additional help, she rallied with Evie to ensure neither Lottie nor Becca could dominate the topics of discussion. Bucky wanted to smooch her in front of everyone to show just how much he adored her wholehearted devotion.

It wasn’t until dessert time that the thin tension finally eased. Both girls looked pleased to have a cake. It was only a simple sugar cake, but Bucky knew it had been made with more care and love than any cake before. Ma had begged for candles from a neighbour, who'd parted with their last few in exchange for some of Mama's old recipe cards. The candles were short and visibly used, but they'd get the job done. Soon, they were lit and everyone prepared to sing.

But of course, according to his two littlest sisters, even this was a good enough excuse to start an argument.

“Wait,” Becca had moaned in appallment, “We’re blowing out the candles at the same time?”

The candles were short and probably didn’t have two songs left in them, but if it would avoid a fight, he’d try it.

“Just do it one after the other, then,” Bucky told them tightly, barely holding onto the last of his patience, “Lottie, you go first.”

Lottie looked triumphant, while Becca squealed in indignation.

“Why does she get to go first?” Becca wailed with crocodile tears.

Bucky ground his teeth, “She’s older and her birthday was yesterday---”

Becca continued to complain, “But I wanna go first.”

“Bucky---” Evie’s tone was entreating him to keep it together, but she knew he was hanging on by a thread.

"Y'heard Bucky, so shut up," Lottie growled, "I get to go first---"

He couldn’t hear a word. All he could see was his Mama’s head in her hands, completely crestfallen. He felt his heart rate pick up, and he clenched his fists tightly together as he tried to heave in soothing breaths.

Money was tight, and his Mama was devastated that she couldn’t provide more for her children.

“I’ll getcha more money, Ma. I promise---” Bucky assured her under his breath so the others wouldn’t hear before she cut him off.

His Mama snapped at him, “It shouldn’t be your responsibility.”

Bucky recoiled as if he'd been slapped. Now, he knew that she didn’t mean to snap at him. He knew that. But, fuck, if that didn’t feel like a punch in the gut.

Darcy placed a concerned hand on his arm.

“It’s my birthday!” Becca cried, now equipped with tears on her face, and she pointed accusingly at Lottie, “I’m not sharing it with her.”

He finally snapped. With a resounding bang, he slammed his fist on the table, and everyone was startled into silence. Becca and Lottie looked mystified by the anger that must have leapt off his face.

It only made him angrier. How out of touch with reality were they?

Mama was struggling more than she'd ever admit, the Philippines had fallen to the Japanese, and they were complaining about cake and candles?

He didn't think he'd ever been more disappointed in them.

“You’re now 21 and you,” he pointed from Lottie to Becca, “are 17 tomorrow. Both of you are actin’ like babies. If you keep it up, I'ma treat ya like it!”

He stood up so abruptly that his chair fell over. He blew out the candles himself, grabbed the cake, and stormed out of the room with Darcy hot on his heels.

He burst into the living room, dumped the cake on the coffee table, and paced in front of the lit fireplace. He glared at the cake scornfully with each pass. Spitefully, he ripped the candles off the cake, threw them into the flames, and watched them melt away to nothing. There. No more arguments over fucking candles.

He was livid. He hadn’t been this mad for years.

Distantly, he heard Darcy close the door behind them and patiently watch him pace.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to hit something. Fuck, maybe he should go to the ring and let off some steam.

Goddamn it, they could be little brats. Did neither of them see their mother's face?

With a heavy exhale, he gripped the fireplace mantle and hung his head. He wanted to cry. He was that angry.

Strong arms wrapped around his middle, and she linked her hands together over his heart. Without conscious thought, he placed one hand over where hers met on his chest and shakily exhaled. For a few minutes, no words were said. He felt her precious fingers rubbing circles on his breast, and gradually his breathing matched hers. She gave him silent support, and Bucky never knew how much he appreciated feeling someone with him.

"You want to talk about it?" She asked softly.

Talk about it? About how he was financially struggling to keep his family afloat? About how, between his blood and Steve, he had more money leaving his hands than entering his pocket? Talk about it? And with the very woman he was hoping to convince to marry him one day? Yeah, sure. Because that failure would endear him to her. What a lazy lout he must look like in her eyes.

His response was barely more than a grunt, "No."

Luckily, Darcy didn't seem offended by his mood. How could she be so tolerant in times like these?

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, more than a little ashamed, “I shouldn’t have behaved like that ‘round ya.”

She made a noncommittal sound, and Bucky felt her nuzzle her face against the muscles in his back. A little vibration could be felt through his clothes, and he quickly suspected that she was softly humming to him. It felt nice.

Soon enough, he felt himself slowly relaxing in her embrace.

He spun around gently, ensuring her arms remained wrapped around him, and gave her a quick peck on the nose. Her nose scrunched up adorably, possibly mildly annoyed that he hadn't kissed her lips, but Bucky would treasure the sight of her as she is now.

With an exhausted sigh, he rested his chin atop her head, allowing her to nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder.

“Forgive me?”

She shook her head, silently telling him no apologies were needed.

“I get it,” she assured him with a kiss on his throat, “Only those we love have the power to make us that mad.”

Made sense. Only people he loved (or hateful people towards the ones he loved) could ever truly get him riled up.

Knowing Darcy as he does, he imagines she's quite the same. He knew so little about her family – maybe this was an opportunity to learn more?

He pulled back just enough to look at her beautiful face. “Your family ever peeve you like that?”

Darcy’s lip twitched.

“My mom could push my buttons like no one else. Vice versa. And whenever Bubbe and I finally got into it...” she trailed off with a 'yeesh' expression.

A part of him wanted to take this chance to ask about her husband, but even Bucky knew now wasn't the time or place. As desperate as he was to learn, Bucky would respect her wishes to leave the topic alone for now. However, he did want to know more about her life and family before New York City, and questions about that hadn't been as poorly received.

Knowing it was a sensitive topic, but desperately curious, Bucky pushed, “What about Jane?”

If anything, her smile grew, “She could bring out a different kind of anger. But yeah, I loved and raged at her too.”

Games of Snap filled his mind, and Bucky could only guess at just how heated the games between the two sisters got. He would have paid anything to see it.

His fond smile matched hers. The memory of her screaming at him in his room entered his mind – her eyes shining passionately, chest heaving with every breath, tongue as sharp as cracked glass - and he found he could look at it in a new light. If he could rile her up so much, then surely she cared about him too.

Not that he was going to encourage such arguments in the future. Absolutely not. He'd rather make love, not war.

“Should we head back?” Darcy queried as she held out her hand for him to take, “Or do you want to go? I’ll go wherever you go.”

It wasn’t the most romantic statement in the world, but for Bucky, it tugged so hard on his heartstrings that he thought his heart would snap and he’d bleed inwardly.

His decision made, he grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. Then he grabbed the cake before leading her to the dining room.

All of them sat demurely at the dining table, pointedly looking away from Evie. It would appear that Evie had given them all a verbal lashing.

“Let’s try that one more time, shall we?” Evie cajoled, and everyone made sounds of agreement.

Without any candles, they all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and this time, no one complained.

Chapter Text

May 11th, 1942
Hibbett Consulting Firm, New York City

Darcy growled as she willed her fingers to fucking work how she wanted them to. The useless appendages continued to make stupid mistakes. Who would have guessed that a repeated loopy loop motion would be so difficult?

With a huff, she reangled her needles and attempted (yet again) to make a new row. One of her needles slipped, and Darcy's eye twitched in vexation. She let out an infuriated snarl as she failed (yet again) and threw the lime-green fabric and needles on the floor beside her. It glared back at her, mocking her for her failure. Darcy was tempted to spit on it. It shouldn't be this hard!

Piece of shit. Her and the doomed knitting project. Neither worked to her satisfaction, and she was furious with her continued failure. For weeks now, Darcy had been spending hours a day trying to make this damn thing work. It was still her first project, and Darcy had genuinely thought she'd have made more than something the size of a handkerchief. Katherine had been helping her during their lunch break, but was quickly becoming irritated with Darcy’s struggle with making a new row. Apparently, knitting one very long row was useless and didn’t create anything but exactly that: a long ass row. She needed to learn how to move onto a new row on her own, so Katherine insisted that she would no longer assist Darcy by doing it for her. However, Darcy was apparently not 'attaching' to the second stitch, but what did that even mean? Katherine huffed and offered no additional help on the topic. Abandonment, at its finest.

Grumbling, she picked up her work again and slumped back into her seat. With all the awkwardness of a woman unsure of what the fuck she was doing, she tried to make a new row. She was sure her face was flushed red with her brewing anger at herself. Hell, she could feel the baby hairs sticking to the back of her neck. She was that worked up. Her chest was heaving with her increasing outrage, and Darcy snorted when she imagined what she looked like: The Big Bad Wolf from 'The Three Little Pigs.' I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!

Her needle slipped again, and Darcy wanted to scream like a banshee and murder everyone around her.

She roughly shook the dreadful 'thing' (it truly could not be called anything else) and seriously contemplated lighting it on fire.

“Are you-? Are you knitting?”

Darcy was so startled at the voice that she nearly fell from her chair. However, it was only Jerry standing in the entryway looking decidedly gobsmacked. Which, to be fair, her knitting was a strange and unusual development.

Ignoring his incredulous question, she had a more pressing one, “Where the fuck have you been?”

In lieu of immediately answering her question, he moseyed into the room, discarded his coat, hat, and briefcase, before collapsing into the chair in front of her with an exhausted groan. He raised his arms and gave them a quick windmill before cracking his neck. Darcy winced at the sound.

Darcy was quietly thrilled that Jerry was back, and it was good to see with her own two eyes that he was alive. Even better, it appeared that he was functioning. He looked... halfway decent. Better than when they'd first met, but not as good as before his anniversary. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and it was all due to his self-imposed exile. Whatever had happened with his wife on their anniversary had left him rattled enough to avoid the office for an extended period. Until, eventually, he stopped coming altogether. The only reason Darcy knew he was alive was that she continued to receive missives from him.

“Court,” he finally informed her uselessly, “As you are well aware.”

“You’ve never been at court for that long before,” Darcy almost whined.

A week max, he'd spend at court before finding an excuse to return to the office and bug her. It had now been several. Darcy had truly tried not to take it personally, but the longer he was away, the more personal it felt. Why couldn't he talk to her? Didn't he trust her as she did him? The idea stung more than she was willing to admit.

Jerry graced her with a genuine smile and said, “Miss me, have you? Clearly, I’ve been away too long if you’ve resorted to knitting to keep yourself occupied.”

She definitely had not missed him. How dare he be so presumptuous as to assume she thought of him much at all? And, yes, her life was significantly easier (and maybe a touch more dull) when he'd left her, but that was neither here nor there. Jerry was her friend. Not to say Katherine wasn't, but she wasn't Jerry. Jerry was Jerry, but more than that, he was her Jerry. And he'd abandoned her. Jerk.

Okay, fine. She missed him. Reluctantly. Like a flu shot. How dare he leave her for so long?

She dropped her project on her desk before accusing, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He pulled a flask from his breast pocket and took a deep drink before reassuring her, “Not you, Diana. Life.”

Well, she supposes she could sympathise with that. But still!

A low humming sound escaped Darcy’s throat, voicing her displeasure at him more than any words could. She was not happy with him, his words or his recent behaviour. He sighed, well aware of this fact.

"I'm tired," he said, his voice as weary as a ghost, “But I shall endeavour to do better.”

It wasn't an apology, but Darcy wasn't a crowing high achiever in that department either, so she guesses she'd take it as intended: an appeasement.

Pursing her lips, Darcy nodded in acknowledgment, “That’s all anyone can do, I guess.”

He raised his flask in agreement before taking another drink and passing it over to her. He nodded to the monstrosity on the table as she drank.

“What is it? A hat? You seem like the sort that would start with a hat.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

But it clearly wasn’t a hat. And Darcy knew he was being deliberately obtuse and that he was trying to rile her up - for what purpose was anyone’s guess, but she didn’t appreciate it - because there was no way that thing on her desk could be mistaken for a hat. She hadn’t failed that badly.

Jerry batted his eyelashes, “Is it for me?”

Fuck no. The first thing she'd make him was gag.

Dryly, Darcy deadpanned, “There isn’t enough fabric in the world for me to make a hat that’ll fit your fat head.”

Unoffended, a single chuckle escaped his throat as he dramatically clutched his chest, "Ouch."

Darcy tried very hard not to let her lips twitch too much into a smile.

“What’s this then?” He asked as he plucked her work off the table, “A blanket? It’s rather small.”

To emphasise his point, he held it up against his chest, and it barely covered half of his torso - it wasn’t like he was a big man either. She was momentarily ashamed of how long it had taken for her to make that much. Well, 'to make that little' would be more appropriate. It could barely cover her left tit (the girls were sisters, not twins, and the left always asserted her dominance in the lingerie department), so how on earth would it keep the baby snug and safe?

Technically, Darcy was supposed to be making things for the shelter. Or rather, learning to make things for the shelter. But fuck it, the first thing she was making was going to go to a personal cause.

“It’s a baby blanket,” Darcy corrected haughtily but without real pride in her work, “Bucky’s sister is expecting, and I thought it would be nice.”

He carelessly tossed it on the desk. Rude!

But Jerry didn’t acknowledge her squawk of protest, “Well, in that case, you’ll have to start over. Such a heartfelt gift needs to have been made with love and care. Not the anger and bitterness you’ve shown. Certainly not something you want to wrap around a child.”

Darcy grumbled but did not disagree.

His gaze was pointed but not unkind as he continued, "Tell me, did you spit on it?"

"Noooo," she lowly growled, folding her arms petulantly, "Only strongly considered."

Jerry chuckled, "Well, considering isn't doing, perhaps I'll give you a pass. I feel it's only fair to inform you that it's traditionally the baby who spits, shits, or otherwise urinates on their blanket first. It's just good manners to follow traditions."

Darcy muttered under her breath how he ‘should mind his own business' while also agreeing with him wholeheartedly. The blanket was a failure in more ways than one. Even if one ignored its size, it was wonky, too loose or too tight in some areas, and with a few loops that hadn’t been pulled through. Evie and her bub deserved better. She picked up the abomination of knitting and glared at it as she contemplated what to do with it.

With sudden glee, Darcy offered, “Want to watch me set it on fire?”

Jerry shot her an unimpressed look. “Yes, because the last time you set something on fire, it went extremely well. You won’t be burning any precious resources while I’m here.”

Oh, for God's sake, she hadn't meant to light the plastic potted plant on fire. When would he let that go? And it was nothing compared to the time his cigarettes left scorch marks on the carpet.

The blanket, also, could not possibly be regarded as precious.

“What’s precious about it?” She scowled, “It’s useless. Couldn’t put a mouse to sleep.”

“Unravel it, start again.” Jerry asserted.

“I don’t want to,” Darcy complained, “I’ll just get more fabric---”

Her boss adopted an irritatingly high-pitched tone as he took back his flask, “And give up? Why, Diana, I’ve never heard such a thing from you before.”

God, he was a pain in the ass. Why, oh why had she ever helped him get his head out of that trashcan? Her life would be so much easier.

“Leave it, dipshit. I’m not in the mood.” She warned, her blood boiling quickly due to her earlier frustration.

Did Jerry give a shit? Absolutely fucking not.

“Well, well! Someone has managed to get a blanket and her unmentionables in a twist.”

He didn’t even bother to dodge the ‘blanket’ when it was thrown at him. It landed squarely on top of his head and dipped down just enough to upset his glasses. The needles protruded upwards and gave the illusion of two devil horns. He looked like a little boy who wore a towel on his head to pretend he had long hair, and had thrown in chopsticks for good measure.

Jerry snorted in amusement, "Would you look at that? It was a hat for me after all!"

The whole thing was ridiculous, and Darcy couldn't help the uproarious laugh that erupted from her. Her companion giggled, clearly tickled by his own joke. He waited for her to settle down and then shot her a cheeky wink.

God, she'd needed that laugh. She was guilty as charged; she had missed this man more than she'd even realised.

Jerry kicked his feet up onto her desk, clearly preparing to stay for the long haul, and took a swig from his flask. “Tell me, what’s the latest in the Adventures of Ducky and Sticky?”

“Stevie got pummelled again,” Darcy spoke as she rolled her eyes.

“How many sequels are they going to make of that before people get bored? I want a romance! Sci-Fi! Maybe a Western!”

Darcy cackled at the image of Steve on a horse in cowboy boots with a lasso, chasing down punks in the streets of New York City with Bucky desperately chasing after him.

Yeah, she'd missed Jerry.

Chapter Text

May 16th, 1942
Bushwick Club, New York City

Finally, finally, finally, with as many capitalised letters as possible, Bucky was taking her dancing. Darcy was terrified of humiliating herself and, subsequently, Bucky, because, try as she might, she wasn't a coordinated dancer. The arm flailer, the squat dropping, the half-ass twerker, and the water sprinkler type of dancer were not going to fly in the '40s. She pictured herself solo on the dance floor with Miley Cyrus's VMAs-inspired movement and blanched. Yeah, this decade wasn't ready for that. As she walked in on his arm, she was both nervous and excited, but Bucky was filled with enough self-assurance for both of them. The dancefloor was his domain, and he had absolutely no doubt in his mind that he could make her twirl into a happy tizzy. She was lucky she wore her swishy blue dress, because a twirl would have looked fantastic in it. Steve, being his best pal and biggest supporter, decreed Darcy didn’t have a hope in hell of not swooning. It was only then that Darcy felt less unsure of herself, as she took this as a personal challenge.

She could only hope her pretty blue heels didn't betray her and trip her up if she did swoon.

Also, with no word of a lie, when Bucky knocked on her door that evening dressed like he was out to destroy her pussy, she just about combusted. There was no known world where it was legal to look that damn good in a well-worn suit. A navy double-breasted classic with matching slacks and suspenders was criminal, and Darcy was going to need to lock him up and strip search him for a weapon of mass destruction.

The appeal was also clearly two-sided, because when Bucky caught sight of her, he'd brought his fingers to his lips and whistled, 'hubba, hubba!' Darcy had blushed prettily but gave a flamboyant spin, showcasing her outfit. He'd looked at her like she was bathed in starlight and twinkled like the Milky Way. God, she adored him; she wanted him then and there, if only she could.

But, sadly, Bucky had an eager puppy dog look on his face, and Darcy couldn't bring herself to seduce him into skipping the dancing altogether. So here she was, quietly wondering if she could handle a night of dancing.

First things first, a drink was in order, and Bucky immediately sought one out for her. Steve had declined a drink, insisting that he was unsteady enough on his feet without the extra help.

Darcy wondered if she could tempt him to dance with her too, but he seemed set on remaining a wallflower. She imagined she'd be the first person ever to peer pressure Captain America into doing the chicken dance, and now that the thought was in her head, she desperately wanted it to happen.

Just like last time, there was a live band, and Darcy genuinely adored that over having a DJ. The music was upbeat, and at least a few dozen couples spread throughout the dancefloor, and Darcy refused to let herself be visibly intimidated. They were all obviously skilled, while Darcy was distinctively not. She didn't want to embarrass herself or Bucky on the dance floor by spontaneously doing the chicken dance. God, was that even a thing yet? Steve stood and kept her company, eagerly watching the dancers around them but bashfully insisting he wouldn't so much as even attempt to give her a spin on the dancefloor. Her hopes and dreams of seeing a mini Captain America rocking the chicken dance came crashing and burning. She held a little funeral in her heart for the slaughtered dream. Such a shame.

Before she could badger the poor man too much, Bucky had returned with drinks, and Darcy internally cringed at the sight of her drink.

A G&T. Dear God, was that really, truly, honestly the best drink available in this decade? She missed martinis more than chocolate sometimes.

Oooooh, chocolate martinis. What she wouldn’t do for a chocolate martini.

Regardless of her displeasure with the G&T, Darcy thanked him and took a sip diligently.

Bucky’s eyes furrowed at her obvious displeasure, “Don’t like it? They make it wrong or somethin’?”

“Nope,” Darcy insisted, popping the 'p' unnecessarily, “I just don’t like Gin and Tonic.”

If anything, her beau looked more confused. “It’s what you ordered the last time you were here?”

Indeed, it was, for no other reason than she had no idea what other drinks were available at the time. The Queen of England drank it. She was as old as dirt, so she ordered a G&T. However, Darcy hadn't accompanied him here last time as they were still on the outs, so how did he know her drink? Had he guessed it by what it looked like from across the room? Had he really memorised it on the off chance they'd get back together and he'd one day order her one? ...That was endearingly sweet, and she was beyond flattered. She'd had men who still asked how she took her daily coffee after a year of dating.

Not black. Which sucked because her Venti Caramel Crunch Frappe was currently and permanently unavailable to her. Oy vey.

“How’d you feel ‘bout rum?” He asked her sincerely.

It makes her feel like watching 'Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl' and reciting 'Why is the rum gone' twenty thousand times. She can only do one of these things, but without her fellow PotC fandom friends, the idea fell a bit flat.

However, what she told him was, “It’s ‘kay with orange juice. Only way I’ve ever had it.”

His nose wrinkled adorably (everything this man does is adorable, though, honestly) at that, “Doubt they’ll have freshly squeezed orange juice, doll.”

Huh? Freshly squeezed? Why would it need to be freshly squeezed? Just buy a jug from the shops. No need to be picky about it. Why did the ‘40s have to be so particular? She paused her train of thought, realising she'd never even had orange juice in the '40s. What the hell? Was it not a thing yet?

“Hmm, I've got one!" With a snap of his fingers, Bucky insisted, "Back in a jiffy.”

Her Bucky was already en route back to the bar before she could question him. Meh, so long as it's not port, she'll drink it. Hell, even if it is port, she'll probably chug that fucker down.

Looking down at her hand, she realised she had a whole G&T to do away with. Waste not, want not. With a slight gag, and a mental 'Drink Up Me Hearties Yo Ho,' Darcy sculled her yucky drink and palmed off the glass on a nearby table.

Dreadful stuff. She’d almost prefer port. It was powerful though and it definitely had the potential to put a woman on her ass quickly.

While she waited for Bucky to return, she noticed Stevie had unnoticeably slithered away and was shooting his shot with Dot.

Immediately, mental Darcy was in a cheerleading outfit, hyping him up. S-T-E-V-E, he's our man! Wait, wait, wait, what rhymes with 'eve'? Oh well, fuck it. S-T-E-V-E, he's our man! Stevie boy, make a move!

And God love him he was trying.

Steve was looking incredibly earnest, and Dot was looking equally disinterested.

For weeks, Darcy had subtly (well, as subtly as Darcy was capable of) nudged Dot towards Steve, with increasing insistence that she consider the smaller man for a date, to no avail. Dot was increasingly dull to Darcy’s growing persistence. Soon, she and Dot were going to sit down and have a conversation, woman to woman, about men. As if someone wouldn't want Stevie? Hell, maybe if Bucky had not swooped in out of nowhere, then maybe even Darcy would have snatched him up.

Hmm, Dot could probably tempt him to dance. Darcy wondered if she would ask because she doubted Steve would offer.

Darcy hadn't been aware that Dot was going out tonight, much less on a date. It was not planned that they’d meet up at the club, but rather a pure coincidence. Upon entry, Steve, Bucky, and she had greeted Dot and her date enthusiastically, but the couple had politely excused themselves not long after. Clearly, they hadn’t wished to be disturbed.

But now, Dot stood without her date just shy of the dancefloor. Darcy had no idea where Dot’s date had run off to, but Steve was desperately trying to fill in that hole without so much as tapping his dance shoes. Somehow, Darcy doubted that would impress Dot.

Before she could contemplate wandering over to them, Bucky was back with two more drinks. She gratefully took the one he offered and tentatively sipped it. Rum and ginger ale, apparently. It was okay. Better than the G&T but definitely still lacking.

'40s! We've got a new drink order!

"It’s not bad!" She assured him, as she took a big enough gulp, that it was practically finished before she smiled her thanks.

Then she noticed that Bucky’s drink was different from hers.

Oooooh, maybe it'll be nicer and they could do a swapsie!

“Whaddya drinking?” Darcy queried and was taken aback by just how New Yorker that had sounded.

Bucky’s arched brow suggested he’d heard the growing accent, but he answered her question instead of pointing it out, “Soda. Don’t drink much anymore.”

His tone had a sense of finality to it, something that said 'leave it alone,' but Darcy never did learn when to stop pushing.

“Anymore?”

A shadowy look crossed Bucky’s face, “No.”

A tense moment was exchanged between them, and Darcy was baffled by the suddenness of it. How had the mood changed so suddenly? Bucky's shoulders were tense, his jaw was tightly clenched, and he looked directly at the dance floor; it seemed as though he was waiting for a spontaneous natural disaster to occur on the dance floor. She just stood next to him, watching his cold face, wondering what to say.

Umm...?

Suddenly, he sighed. His shoulders dropped, he ran a stressed hand over his face, and his features slipped into something akin to humiliation. It was a stark change to his usual countenance.

“I was a bit o’ a swigger,” he confessed ruefully, looking like he was trying to hide behind his drink, clearly not wanting to discuss it much further, “Actually, ‘bit’ is a roaring understatement.”

This was news to Darcy, who could only stupidly ask, “What?”

"I was a useless lout who only cared about drink, 'lright?" he huffed lightly, still looking ahead.

Oh.

Self-deprecation oozed from him, and Darcy regretted saying anything at all. However, Darcy was no stranger to vices either, and her Bucky was no sheltered boy, so who was she to judge? They both had their demons, and sometimes it felt like the only way to chase those demons was with external help. And not the healthy kind. She also doubted he was as horrible as he suggested.

As gently as she could, Darcy raised her free hand to his cheek and softly caressed it. His eyes snapped to hers in surprise. She was disheartened to realise he wasn't expecting any sympathy at all. Maybe he'd been preparing himself for scorn instead. Ridiculous.

“Thank you for telling me. That couldn’t have been easy.”

His eyes were hard to read as he looked at her, but after a moment, he seemed to relax a little. He took her hand from his cheek and pressed a hard kiss to her palm. Bucky didn’t say anything, but Darcy suspected he was struggling to conjure up the correct words for how he was feeling. Bucky never did well with discussing his trauma, but, then again, nor did she.

The best thing she could do was just be there, to be ready and available for whatever was needed, whenever it was needed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else about it if you don’t want,” Darcy quietly assured him, “But if you do, I’d be happy to listen.”

His eyes were glued to hers intently, and Darcy refused to look away or blink.

Eventually, he sharply looked away and spoke to her so softly that Darcy had to strain to hear him over the music, “It crept up on me. Another bottle here, 'nother there. By the time I was 19, I'd just about drank my weight in it every night. It started out feeling good, but then I just felt numb," he inhaled shakily, and Darcy knew they were getting to the crux of his regret, "One afternoon, Becca fell down the stairs. It was bad. I’d heard it from the backyard and stumbled inside. Her leg was crooked, which was concernin’, but her head was split open. I’m no doctor, but even I knew there was a lot o' blood. It was just us, and I was so soused I couldn’t even lift her off the floor to get her into the car. I had t’ leave ‘er and get our neighbour to help.”

His face was wretched, and it tore her heart up. She took his drink from his hand without any protest and put aside both their drinks. Darcy cradled his face, but he refused to make eye contact with her.

“I didn’t have the money to pay for her medical bills – I had no savings 'cause I spent it all on drink. Had to pawn some of Ma’s jewellery,” he admitted, his voice breaking, “I was the man of the house and I’d failed to provide for ‘em. I swore I'd never be that inebriated again, that I'd never be that useless again. Now, I only drink under Stevie’s supervision, and rarely at that.”

Darcy grasped both his hands, and he finally looked her in the eyes. They were big, sorrowful, and oh so beautiful. Beautiful eyes that never deserved to be so sad.

With a tight squeeze of his hands, she told him, “I don’t think any less of you, handsome. Promise. I’ve done dumber shit, I’m sure.”

He snorted as he pulled his hands away, “Doubt it.”

Well, Bucky Barnes, prepare to be blown away.

As with everything, Darcy charged right in, guns blazing, “I used to be a bit of a cokehead during high school.”

Bucky’s eyebrows skyrocketed as he almost shouted, “What?!”

She nodded, “It’s true. Just about every morning. It was the only way I could get through school.”

To the absolute surprise of no one who knew her, high school had not been easy for her. Darcy was a little bit weird (always), a little too loud (mostly), and a little too adventurous (inconveniently). So, when a classmate had offered her a bump in the school bathroom completely free of charge, she'd hardly been able to keep her voice down when she'd excitedly screamed 'yes!'

“How---?” Bucky stuttered, “How in the hell could you afford that?”

That was what he was curious about?

“My boyfriend at the time always got it for us,” she shrugged, “No biggie.”

And it hadn't been. Whether it had been Todd or Mohammed, Darcy had always had boyfriends generous with their blow. Well, so long as she gave them a different kind of 'blow' in return.

Silence lingered for a moment before Bucky asked cautiously, “Was that your husband?”

Her married to Todd? Or even Mohammed? The idea was ridiculous. Last she heard, Mohammed was married with three kids in Oaklahoma and Todd was broke and living with his mother.

Darcy exhaled a surprised breath, “Absolutely not.”

He nodded sharply, but Darcy couldn't tell if he was pleased with this information or not. “Good.”

Darcy abruptly realised that her confession had upset Bucky - that maybe her admission of former drug dependency was somehow worse than his perceived alcoholism.

She hated asking, but, “Is that okay? I haven't scared you off---?”

He brought his mouth to hers shockingly quickly, erasing any doubts she had with a brief but purposeful kiss.

“I’m not mad if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve no right to judge you---” He began before she cut him off.

"Just like I have no right to judge you," she said softly, pressing her hand to his cheek, "We're both flawed, baby."

He groaned appreciatively at her use of ‘baby,’ and a small smile spread across his face.

He placed his hand over hers as he said, “I don’t see nothin’ but perfection here.”

Darcy rolled her eyes affectionately, willing to humour him, “Sure thing. What's the math again? Two negatives make a positive, so two sinners make a saint?”

"You're a smart cookie, ain't ya?" He said, nodding with the beginnings of his usual debonair grin.

His lips met hers with a resolute smacking effect, and as simple as that, the mood lightened, and Darcy was relieved she hadn't upset him too badly.

She finished her drink, and he wordlessly relieved her of the glass, offering to get her another one. Even when she assured him she didn’t need one, he’d gently told her that she didn’t need to abstain simply because he was, and he left to get her another drink. As sweet as his insistence was, Darcy quietly decided that she would limit her drinking in front of Bucky from now on, regardless. She didn't need to drink, not that there were a staggering number of opportunities to do so in this decade, but she promised it to herself either way. This would be her last one... Expect a swing with Jerry here and there, but that's their version of communion wine.

Her eyes trailed after Bucky all the way to the bar (God, that ass was perfect), and she couldn’t resist the enamoured smile that broke across her face.

Bucky Barnes was truly the most caring soul she'd ever met, and his soul had become so tightly entangled with hers that she feared what would happen if they ever parted ways.

This man had the potential to ruin her, and he had no idea.

As he lingered by the bar, an unfamiliar woman walked up to him and placed a hand on his chest and leaned up to his ear. Suddenly, it felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, and Darcy stumbled where she stood. Darcy’s stomach dropped to the floor even as Bucky minutely pulled away. The woman wore a pretty green, empire-waist dress that matched her hairpins nicely and wore just enough jewellery to be tasteful. Spitefully, Darcy could acknowledge she was beautiful and, from the looks of it, persistent. Darcy watched transfixed as Bucky seemed to politely tell the woman ‘no’ even as she continued to flirt. Fury started to build within Darcy just as Bucky managed to collect her drink, disregard the woman with a quick nod, and begin to return to her. Darcy watched as the flirtatious woman’s eyes lingered behind Bucky with a feral grin.

The bitch looked a lot like Connie: similar hair with the same body shape and fashion style. Darcy wondered if it was that - her resemblance - which was so upsetting.

She inhaled deeply.

Jealousy was beneath her. Jealousy was beneath her. Jealousy was beneath her. Jealousy was beneath her, and now was certainly not the time.

Don’t be a petty bitch. Don’t you do it, Darcy.

Her rival then spotted Darcy, side-eyed Darcy’s form, before visibly dismissing her as though Darcy was no competition at all.

Mother fucker---!

Ignorant of her thoughts, and with a smile, Bucky handed over her drink, which Darcy mindlessly took, “I got the same as last time ‘cause you seemed to like it more.”

For a moment, she wished her eyes were lasers that could burn away that woman’s touch. Darcy scowled at the spot on his shirt that the woman had befouled with her manicured fingers as though there was a visible stain. Who even got a manicure during wartime anyway? High-maintenance bitch.

Dot does, her conscience seemed to remind her, and that's never been worth noting.

Seeming to catch onto her mood, Bucky raised his brow, “Y'kay there, sweetheart?”

“Who’s your friend?” She snapped a little harsher than usual.

This time, both of his eyebrows hiked all the way up to his hairline, “Friend, who?”

She glared at the back of the woman who had, by this point, seemed to have moved on to a new conquest. Bucky followed her gaze with interest before returning to Darcy with a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat.

His eyes were alight with sudden delight, a far cry from his earlier mood, “Darcy, doll - are you jealous?”

It was not something worth delighting over.

Immediately, her ears burned red at the taunt, “No! I just don’t like the way she looks at you!”

Or touched you!

“Tha’ right?” He droned, utterly unfazed, “How’s that?”

Like she wanted to slurp him up and swallow him whole, which was Darcy’s job! She had exclusive rights! Sure, there was no neon sign anywhere on his person declaring ‘Darcy’s man – hands off,’ but still. The woman had looked like a vulture circling her prey, and Darcy’s boyfriend was no one’s prey.

“As if you didn’t notice,” Darcy snapped at him, crossing her arms in a huff.

Bucky sipped his drink with a shrug before smirking at her, “Now, why would I pay attention to her when watchin’ you lay an egg is far more entertainin’? Hmm?”

His tone was teasing, meant to appease, but Darcy found she didn’t appreciate it as she normally would.

That woman had been maybe 10 years younger than Darcy, and Darcy was already well aware that she was older than her boyfriend. The age difference wasn’t large, only 4 years total, but it was enough that some people were visibly surprised when she was introduced as Bucky’s sweetheart. Usually, it didn’t bug her, but the more it occurred, the more it bothered her. Men dating older women was apparently even more unusual here than it was in the 21st century.

Experience told her that men cheat. Usually with a younger woman.

And the woman looked like Connie, who was already a sore topic for Darcy when it came to Bucky. If Connie was any indication, then this woman was just his type. The would-be temptress looked like a polished glass doll, ready to be purchased and displayed. As thin as a rake, too. Nothing at all like Darcy.

So, what was Bucky doing with her?

No, Darcy firmly told herself, no.

He’d turned the bitch down. He wanted Darcy, not some wannabe flapper.

Fuck. So, why was Darcy so upset?

Shit, those drinks were strong. She’d had too much to drink, hadn’t she? She was either a happy drunk or a depressed drunk with no in-between, and apparently, tonight, she was going to be a depressed drunk. A moody drunk who was rife with self-esteem issues.

Her insecurities getting the best of her, Darcy grumbled and stormed away from him, pointedly refusing to engage him any further, even as he called after her. She stomped her feet until she couldn't see the band or the dancefloor anymore; only the wallflowers avoiding each other. Darcy decided to be a wallflower too. Pouting in the corner, literally tucking her nose out of view, Darcy wondered why she couldn’t just let it go?

Bucky, however, was never one to leave her to her own intrusive thoughts.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against him so tightly she was almost unbalanced. Instinctively, she grasped his arms to steady herself, as his hot breath tickled her ear. Darcy shivered where she stood, a fact unmissed by her hawk-eyed partner.

One of his hands trailed down her side, making her breath hitch, as he possessively brushed it over her ass. With a quick pinch that made her yelp, his hand made its way up to her breast, and his fingertips lightly grazed her nipple through her clothes. Fuck. She shuddered against him as he began caressing circles over her nipple with a barely-there touch. Her head lulled back and landed on his shoulder as his hand finally settled back around her waist, lightly running his fingers over her stomach.

"I'm yours, you're mine." It was possessive, intoxicating, and a low hum rumbled in his chest as he questioned, “How could I look at another woman with you right here? You could be hiding behind the sun, and my eyes would go blind chasing after you.”

With that said, Darcy melted entirely into his arms.

… Fuck. If that wasn’t the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her, and in the filthiest tone too, bullshit if she wasn’t feeling better though. Her doubts were gone, and everything felt right in the world again. All he needed was honeyed words and a wondering hand, and she was completely his. How was that fair? Shit, consider her swooned. Steve won the bet.

Glancing over at the other woman, Darcy noticed she was watching them with no small amount of envy. Ha, suck shit, bitch. Bucky’s hers.

But now wasn’t the time for gloating. Darcy adored this man behind her, and he’d smoothly put her tipsy insecurities at ease within a minute of her expressing them. She turned in his grasp and gave him a quick peck on the lips, which he returned a heartbeat later. He looked aghast at his botch-up, and Darcy giggled as she kissed him again, more firmly, threading her fingers through his hair.

It lingered and grew filthy almost instantly, his tongue meeting hers with real enthusiasm. Darcy, in turn, pushed back his tongue and tried to lick every crevice in his mouth. With every passing second, her heart rate skyrocketed with need, and Darcy wondered if she could ever convince Bucky just to pull her aside somewhere quiet and fuck her brains out. He groaned into her as she tugged on his hair, and with great regret, Darcy had to pull away before the kiss was no longer fit for public view. Their foreheads rested together as they both recaptured their breaths, and Darcy felt true contentment.

From where they stood facing each other, Bucky deftly manoeuvred their hands, placing one of them around his neck and another in his left hand, as his right settled on her waist. Suddenly, they were slowly dancing in the corner of the dance hall. Darcy couldn't resist the urge to lay her head on his chest and hum serenely. Did the music suit? Hardly. Did they care? Absolutely not.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, Darcy would wonder just what it was about Bucky Barnes that got her so hot under the collar. Then, she’d marinate in his magnetic presence for a minute (the feel of his fingers teasing the clasps of her stockings, the trail of hot kisses he’d leave along the base of her décolletage, the way he ground his hips against hers in earnest desperation), and everything would make sense again. Moreso than that, it was the moments in between those that were soft and sweet and far more dangerous for her heart.

They existed in their own little bubble, gently swaying in their small corner. Darcy was a little shaky on her feet - from the booze or unfamiliarity, she was uncertain - but Bucky had such a strong grasp on her that she felt completely steady in his embrace. He alternated between resting his chin and his cheek on the crown of her head, but Darcy found herself completely unwilling to move from being firmly planted against his chest.

God, it made her heart-achingly soft whenever he treated her with the tenderness he often exhibited in moments like this, with a carefulness that spoke volumes about where his heart lay. She couldn't help but wonder why that was. Bucky was different from what she imagined men from his generation to be. She’d heard of how, as much as they respected women, they viewed them as weak. Inferior. She waited for the day Bucky would give her an order, because she was a woman and was expected to submit to her man, but he never did. Instead, he'd often asked for her opinion and even deferred to her judgment more than once. She waited for him to act as though she could not make her own decisions and needed a man to step forward. He never did. Bucky knew she had her own mind and valued its input. Yes, he would protect her if he felt it was necessary, or help her choose if she struggled, but he never treated her as she was raised to believe he would. He treated her like gold, not glass, as though she was something to be treasured and honoured, not something fragile and decorative. She’d never had a man treat her with such reverence.

Did he think the same way? Did Bucky think of her and listen to his heart sing her praises?

Overwhelmed by her thoughts, she listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

Who needed the boisterous music that filled the air? All she needed was this thumping tempo in her ears forever.

It could almost lull her to sleep.

Before she could fall asleep standing up, Bucky seemed to sense her sudden exhaustion.

“C’mon,” he pressed his lips against the top of her head, “Let’s get you home.”

For a moment, she wanted to argue and say they'd barely been there an hour and had a grand total of one dance, but she quickly decided that it was more than enough. Bucky clearly agreed.

But that did not mean she was ready to part ways. There was a horizontal tango she wouldn't mind partaking in with him, but that required a far smaller audience.

Darcy looked up at him with hooded eyes and asked, “Can we go to yours first?”

Bucky looked at her kindly, “Y'sure?”

Nodding, “I’m sure.”

Bucky began to look for Steve, and Darcy insisted she’d wait out front for them. Sitting on the curb, Darcy quietly considered her emotional state while she waited for Bucky.

Wasn’t she too old to still feel this insecure? Especially when Bucky went to great pains to repeatedly reassure her that she was the only woman in his life?

God, her fear of being abandoned was getting out of hand. Yes, just about everyone she'd ever cared for had left her at one point or another, but that didn't mean Bucky would. Bucky was not going to be spirited away by another woman; he was not going to run off to war; and he was not going to dust his hands off her because she decided to be a bit difficult. She had to pull her head in and stop acting like he was going to waltz out of her life as though he'd never been there. She knew that if he was waltzing anywhere, she was going to be his dance partner.

Popping out of nowhere and interrupting her thoughts, Bucky called her name and offered her a hand up. A bit tipsily, she managed to get herself up with his help.

“Steve, for once in his life, isn’t ready to leave,” Bucky informed her as he helped pull her off the curb, “I think he’s hoping to walk Dot home.”

“Oh?!” Darcy asked, waaaaay too excitedly.

Bucky shot her a withering look, “Don’t get your hopes up, doll. Dot’s not interested and, thankfully, she won't pretend to be.”

Darcy refused to be so pessimistic, “She could be.”

"She ain't."

"She could be."

"Ain't."

"Could be."

He shook his head, clearly not agreeing but unwilling to debate the topic any further. Ensuring she was on the side furthest from the road, Bucky linked their arms, and they started walking towards his home.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before Bucky brought them to a stop. He didn't say anything and seemed to be waging an internal battle, trying to convince himself to do something.

Curious, Darcy prompted, “What’s up?”

He took a deep breath, “About earlier. About my past, I just wanna say thank you for bein’ understanding. Not many people would be.”

Her heart went to mush in front of him. He did not ever need to thank her for that.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Darcy emphasised as she dragged her knuckles along his cheek, “But if you really want to, a ‘thank you’ kiss wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

A big smile stretched across his face, “Well, I’m one grateful fella.”

He was quick as lightning as he peppered her face with what felt like a thousand kisses. And with every kiss, he’d murmur a sincere ‘thank you’ against her skin. The kisses became firmer with each press, and they soon became so eager that they threatened to bowl her over. Darcy eventually had to back away as his kisses and her giggles threatened to overwhelm her. They continued to laugh as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and set about guiding them home.

She loved that her man could be such a dork.

Tonight had been a night of revelations for her about her dear Bucky. She adored him all the more for them. He was such a good man, regardless of his faults, and she was so grateful he'd shared more of his history with her. He was so good. Even with all his layers--- wait!

Wait!

She stopped in her tracks as a thought hit her.

“Oh my God,” Darcy gasped, with drunken joviality, as she bounced on the spot.

Bucky’s head snapped back to her with alarm, “What is it?”

“You’re like an onion!” Darcy exclaimed with delight at his blank face, “An ogre! You’re Shrek!”

Throughout their relationship, Bucky has gifted her with many expressive faces, but this one took the cake. A mixture of bafflement, outrage, and exasperation. She couldn’t withhold her cackle of glee.

Her poor Bucky couldn’t string a full sentence together, “Ogre— Onion? Wha—-? Neither of those is very flattering!”

She was too busy laughing to immediately respond, but threw her arms around his neck and flashed him her childish grin, “It’s not going to make sense to you, but that means I’m Donkey!”

His indignation turned into an amused snort, “You being an ass is about the only part of this that makes sense.”

“Hey,” it was Darcy’s turn to be indignant as she lightly smacked his shoulder, “An ass? Rude—!”

He swooped down and gave her a smacking kiss, “My donkey, my ass.”

Unable to withhold her giggles, she happily declares him, “My onion.”

He groaned, “Onion? Why onion? You wouldn't be kissin' me so often if my breath was that bad.”

“Ogre?” She offered instead.

"Nah," he grumbled good-naturedly, “I don’t really like either.”

“I took donkey. You can tolerate onion.”

He huffed, but amusement bled through his overly exhausted tone, as he finally wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, “Fine. I ‘spose I could be an onion. For you.”

Darcy couldn’t contain her laughter as she graced his face with kisses, “Knew you’d see it my way.”

He shook his head at her, but he couldn’t hide his endearing smile.

It was then that Darcy noticed they had an audience, a few passersby who were watching their animated discussion with bafflement.

"Let's go before tongues start wagging," Darcy said as she looped her arm around him and drew him along.

“Geez, doll. I thought you liked it when I did that?” The words were sarcastic, but his pitch had dropped to dangerously panty-dropping low levels.

If his goal had been to embarrass her, he’d failed spectacularly. “Well, get a move on then; I can’t tongue myself.”

His stride faltered, but he quickly recovered, “Fuck, doll! Don’t say things with a straight face like that.”

She stared him dead in the eye and assured him, “Oh, I’m completely serious.”

His pace doubled, “Well, chop chop! It’s already late and time’s a wastin’!”

Chapter Text

June 6th, 1942
Barnes Residence, New York City

It was the hottest day Bucky had experienced so far this year, and he was beyond eager to ditch his heavy overalls. Honestly, he should just be grateful that the house was casting shade over where he worked on the car.

After his workday was finished, Bucky went straight to his Mama’s house. He had a lot to do and only so much time to do it. He’d quickly kissed his Ma ‘hello’ before heading outside to the carport at the side of the house. Unpacking his tools, unfastening the top half of his work overalls, and rolling his sleeves as high as they would go, he set to work on servicing his beloved Ford Roadster.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he should just sell the car even if it would be at a loss. Perhaps consider allocating some of the money towards a down payment for a house. They’re barely using it, and the longer this war goes on, the less demand there will be for domestic-use cars. But he loved this car more than he could reasonably explain. It was one of the few tangible things from his father that remained unblemished with time. It took time and money to service the car himself, but regardless, he still wanted to hang onto it for as long as he could justify, which was becoming harder and harder as the years went on and the household funds dwindled.

Mama had invited Darcy and himself for Saturday dinner, an unusual offer but not unwelcome, and Bucky figured he’d get some work done on the car before she got there. He wondered if Ma was feeling lonely. The U.S. had declared war on Romania (among other countries) only yesterday, and although Mama didn’t keep in contact with any of her birth family, Bucky knew her heart was torn between the home she was raised in and the home she’d made for herself. He wondered if she was desperately clutching at her children to give herself the illusion of control. She couldn’t control what happened to her Romanian family, but she would damn well keep her American one together.

Elbow deep under the hood of the car, Bucky allowed himself the joy of simply being in his element.

“Hey, baby,” a voice called behind him, “Your Mom said you’d be out here.”

A shiver ran down his spine at the nickname, and Bucky tried to avoid twitching in response. He loved it when she called him ‘baby,’ but she was weaponising it now. She'd been side-railing him with it out of nowhere for no other reason than his knee-jerk reaction brings her genuine joy. Just the other day, after he took her shawl to check it in, she called him 'baby' at the pictures, in full view of everyone in the foyer. Bucky had almost dragged her away and had his wicked way with her in the restrooms. But 'My Favorite Blonde' had spectacular reviews, and he was not letting her jeopardise their date night for a cheeky nickname. No matter how many times she called him ‘baby.’ He’d love to let her have her fun, but one day he was going to pop a stiffy in front of the wrong person and they’d both be dragged in front of an altar to make vows before God.

Wait, why is that a bad thing again?

From under the hood, he spotted his sweetheart walking from the side doorsteps of his Ma’s house, in a gorgeous blue floral sundress, with a glass of what looked like lemonade. Bending over more than needed, Bucky gave her a peck on the lips before quickly retreating without laying a hand on her.

“Heya, doll,” he greeted her before warning her, “Careful, I’ve got grease all over me.”

“Noted,” she said, pulling a clean rag from a nearby pile and wrapping it around the glass before handing it to him. “Sofia says you’ve been out here for a bit.”

“What time is it?” He wondered aloud as he squinted up at the sky, trying to gauge how late it was.

“Just after 4.”

He wasn’t expecting her until about 5 pm, so she was fairly early but by no means unwelcome.

He finished his drink in one gulp, only now realising how thirsty he had been, and Darcy took the glass from him and set it aside. He gave her a grateful smile as he wiped the grease from his hands and forearms.

“What’s that?” She nodded towards the car.

He inherently knew she didn't mean the car itself, as the first time she'd seen it, he'd given her a full spiel about his pride and joy. Spinning around, it only took a second to realise what she was curious about. There, up high on the windshield, was a brand new big red sticker with the letter ‘A’ on it.

“Ration sticker,” he shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned but secretly bitter. “Means the car’s lowest priority for gas.”

His household was entitled to three - maybe - four gallons of gas a week for a car that could hold eleven gallons. Ridiculous. Yes, his family rarely used the car, but other families relied on their vehicles, and they shouldn’t be so severely limited. To prepare for Jim’s return from basic training, he would have to go get gas three or four times a week, just to have a full tank ready for him. The government even confiscated one of his spare tyres because ‘shortages’ meant each car was only entitled to one spare. Bastards.

They leant against the side of the car, side by side, and Darcy rested her head on his shoulder. Luckily, his shirt wasn't dirty, or she’d have grease all over her pretty painted face.

“You got your ration books?” Darcy bumped him gently with her hip. “Mrs. Doyle went and got ours today.”

He nodded, “Becca got one from school, and Steve said he’d pick ours up today.”

Overwhelmed with the sudden urge to stretch, Bucky raised his arms and reached as high as he could, relishing the pops throughout his back and shoulders. To his surprise, delicate hands came to rest on his shoulders and began massaging his tender joints. With a sigh that was quickly swallowed by a groan, Bucky went to heaven. Her nimble little fingers were relentless, but oh God they felt so good.

Oh, yeah. That's the spot!

“Sheesh, you been carrying elephants on your shoulders or something?” She asked as she worked a particularly nasty knot in his shoulder.

“Just barrels.” He assured her.

And the weight of two households, he quietly added.

For a few minutes, Bucky allowed himself to be pampered by his girlfriend. Her fingers were marvels, and he wondered how he’d ever gone a day without them. He went completely pliant under her ministrations, and Bucky felt like the luckiest man in all of New York. Maybe even the world. Before too long, he was crossing the line from being pampered to being indulgent, and he quickly pulled away with a relieved sigh. As a thank you, he kissed her again, his hands firmly at his sides.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” he told her. “You can run along inside and chat up Mama, or you can stay outside here and watch me work.”

“Watch you work,” she told him frankly as she deliberately dragged her eyes salaciously across his form, “If I ever say otherwise, it's an impostor.”

He chuckled and gave her a peck on the forehead, careful not to touch her with his grimy hands. He made his way back around to the engine and picked up where he left off.

“So, you know your way around cars?” She asked him offhandedly.

“Da was a mechanic,” he replied, his brow furrowed, “I’m sure I told you that.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he taught you anything,” she told him matter-of-factly.

Why not? What man wouldn’t teach his son his trade?

“Well, considerin’ I was gonna take over his shop one day, it was kinda important to learn.”

Darcy came around the hood of the car to look at him as she spoke in shock, “His shop? You have a shop?”

“No,” Bucky muttered darkly as he continued servicing the car, “Lost it to the bank when he died.”

“Oh.”

Yeah. Oh.

Silence reigned between them as he continued to work.

But silence and Darcy never belonged in the same sentence together, “Did you want to be one?”

“Be a what?”

“A mechanic?” She asked, as though it were obvious.

Bucky sighed heavily, coming around the car and grabbing the already greasy rag to wipe off his fingers, “Yeah, I did.”

She toddled behind him mindlessly as she watched him thoughtfully, “And now?”

As much as he disliked her questions, he couldn’t begrudge her curiosity. “Yeah, but it’s not lookin' likely, doll.”

“Why not?”

With a disinterested shrug that couldn’t be anything but feigned, he avoided the question even if he did know the answer. Money. No man would employ Bucky on a decent wage as a junior mechanic, and Bucky couldn’t take a pay cut. Not when he was supporting Steve, financing his Ma's household, and hoping to create his own home with Darcy.

Mercifully, she let it drop, “Are you just servicing the car?”

"Yeah, Jim's back for a week 'fore he's shipped out," Bucky reminded her, "And he'll have a lot of errands to run before he's gone so long."

In all honesty, he was looking forward to seeing his brother-in-law again. They were good pals, and Bucky could truly say he’d missed having him around. Jim was always good for a gas, and Bucky trusted him with his blood just as much as he did Steve. While he’s being honest, Bucky could admit to himself that he really didn’t want Jim to come home because that meant the man was that much closer to the battlefields of Europe, meaning it was that much closer to Bucky getting drafted.

He shook his head violently, refusing to remain on that train of thought.

“I’m looking forward to meeting him," Darcy told him, bubbly on her heels, "God, Evie must be so excited to see him.”

Of course, she was; her husband was going to be home for the first time in over three months before he left indefinitely. To war, a place where a man had no guarantees of returning. A little heartbreakingly, he’d miss the birth of their baby girl by a few weeks. Nobody knew if the soon-to-be father would ever get to meet the newest baby Barnes, but nothing could be done about it.

“It’ll be interesting to see Jim as a soldier,” he mused aloud, “He’s never struck me as much for fightin’.”

Darcy looked incredibly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, “Yeah, I bet.”

It was a quiet plea to leave the conversation behind and move on to lighter, easier topics. It hadn’t taken Bucky long to realise Darcy did not like acknowledging that there was a war happening around them. Whenever it was brought up, she’d barely engage with the conversation, or she’d make some outlandish comment that only she seemed to know the nature of.

Bucky thought about such an occasion, and his brows furrowed as he remembered her response to the newest treaty between Russia and the Allies.

"Soooo, we're buddies with Russia now?" Steve had asked with a blink as he sipped his coffee.

Darcy’s tone had been sardonic as she muttered, "For now. I'd take that with a grain of salt."

She clearly didn’t have high hopes for the Anglo-Soviet Treaty. But why was she so convinced it wouldn’t last? The treaty had a 20-year expiry date, and she already had solid doubts?

Before he could contemplate it too much, Darcy wrapped her arms around him, and Bucky raised his arms a little, so he didn’t touch her and stain her pretty dress. This didn’t upset her, and she burrowed herself deeper into him, hugging him tighter. With a serene smile, he dropped his head down to her neck and let himself exist there. She smelled of lavender – her hair, her skin, her clothes, and Bucky just wanted to breathe in the smell of her forever.

The peaceful moment was shattered when Darcy decided to whisper in his ear.

“Wanna fuck me in the car?” Her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she made her downright sensual request.

His cock roused at the very prospect.

“Yes,” was the only sensible thing a man could say as Bucky shuddered against her, before shaking his head and trying to keep himself in check, “No. It’s broad daylight, Darcy.”

“So?” Her voice, dripping with the sin Bucky’s preacher had always warned about, said, “No one’s around.”

Her fingers were already flicking the top buttons of his shirt open in full view of anyone who happened to walk past his house.

“Darcy,” he uttered with no small amount of urgency, “We’re barely off the street.”

If anything, the knowledge makes him even more interested.

“We could go somewhere," she enticed, licking the juncture of his throat and causing his breath to hitch.

“Haven’t warmed up the car,” he dazedly told her, “Take too long.”

She groaned in agreement as she seductively bit his bottom lip, “Agreed. I’d rather you take me here and now.”

Fuuuuuuck.

Fuck it.

“Get in,” he demanded, opening the car door, and he was only a little surprised by how eagerly she followed his order, “We gotta be quick.”

She nodded her head so impatiently that he thought it would fling off as she rolled the front seat forward and scooted herself into the backseat. Darcy apparently understood his need for urgency, as he’d barely ducked his head into the car, and she’d already flung up her skirt and spread her legs for him. She’d forgone stockings and underwear entirely today, and Bucky felt his brain break.

Had she planned for this?

Obviously guessing his thoughts, her fingers ran a long, slow stripe up the length of her precious folds in full view of his stunned self, and she was glistening with need, “Please. I’ve been thinking about you all day, Bucky.”

It was said with a needy little whimper that made Bucky's cock almost lead Bucky straight to her ready cunt.

Who was he to deny her? More so, how could he resist such a… compelling offer?

But as he reached for her, he spotted his hands that, despite being wiped off, were not clean.

“I can’t touch you,” he whispered, put off but not unwanting.

If anything, she looked thrilled at this and quickly got out of the car, pushing him inside, “Then don’t. In you go, hands above your head.”

His eyebrows skyrocketed, amused by their sudden switch in positions and her demand. However, he didn’t argue as he got in, lying across the backseat with his lower legs hanging out of the car, watching her intently. She quickly climbed in after him, and her hands immediately went for his belt. As soon as she unbuckled it, she worked it through the hoops and pulled it loose, only mildly lessening the friction inside his pants. Bucky could only watch stupefied (utterly useless) as he waited for her to strip him down, but she held off as she traced the lines of his abdomen under his shirt. She quickly undid the last couple of buttons on his shirt and eyed his semi-naked form with an appreciative hum.

Her eyes were bright and intense as she stared down at him, “Trust me?”

Without a doubt, “Of course.”

Her smile was blinding as she teasingly ran the belt across his bare chest.

“Let’s play a game,” she whispered huskily above him as she trailed open-mouthed kisses behind the path of the belt, “See who can stay the quietest.”

For a moment, he wondered longingly if she was about to gag him. He hadn’t even known he was into that until just now.

However, she did not lodge the leather belt between his teeth as he suspected, but instead did something just as erotic. She brought the belt to his hands and made an elaborate loop, tying it together before tying it against the window roller. It wouldn’t hold if he pulled, but it would be a reminder that he was not allowed to touch her.

Bucky swallowed thickly, unable to speak. They had briefly discussed bondage in the bedroom, but he hadn’t realised this would be the day: in broad daylight, outside his Mama’s house, in his beloved Ford Roadster, the car door open, and him being the one bound. The combination was a heady one, and Bucky was harder than he’d ever been in his life. Hell, he’d never been so excited about trying something in the bedroom. Well, car. Fuck, making love in the car was something he’d always wanted to try on its own, let alone tied up inside the car. Christ, his backseat was officially his favourite part of this car.

Darcy unbuttoned his overalls and lowered his briefs to just under his hips, blessedly springing his cock free. She eyed his cock hungrily and lightly licked her lips, and as much as Bucky loved having her devilishly red lipstick marking his cock as she sucked him off, they did not have time, and he wanted to be buried six feet deep inside her.

"Darcy," he despised how desperate he sounded, "Not now."

She pouted. Pouted. Bucky almost changed his mind. Almost. Thankfully, she didn’t contest his plea, and she shuffled her way up until her hot heat hovered just above him. With dexterity he didn’t know she was capable of, she slipped on a rubber, and Bucky was only a little heartbroken that he had to wear a diving suit. But outside of his lustful haze, he knew that's how they wanted it. But what he wouldn’t do to dive deep, completely raw, into her tight cunt. Wickedly, she rubbed her sweet slit up and down his length - twice, thrice - before finally allowing the head of his cock to pass between her wet folds. Slowly, they worked themselves together until he was fully sheathed inside her, and they shared a unanimous moan of relief at the contact.

He thought he'd been in heaven earlier? That kid was just a boy who didn't know any better. This is heaven.

Considering the limited space, Darcy could not sit up while she rode him, so she folded over him to avoid smacking her head on the roof. He wanted so badly to grab a hold of her hips, for his hands to be splayed across her glorious ass, to help work her hips harder on top of him, but the belt reminded him of his place.

No touching.

Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if this was a dream. A strange but incredible dream that he was going to have to regale Darcy in the privacy of his bedroom, to see how hot and bothered he could get her. But it felt too good to be a dream, and if the triumphant look in her eyes told him anything, it told him she was fulfilling one of hers. He was just the lucky fella who got to help her bring it to life.

The bottom of her dress covered where they were joined, and Bucky found himself missing the sight. He loved watching his cock disappear in and out of her as if it belonged there. However, he suspected that they’d be grinding today more so than pounding, and he was all for it.

“Bucky,” she whined as she rocked her hips, “I had a dream. I was sucking you so hard you practically seized, and I woke up drooling.”

It took a moment for her words to hit his brain, but when they did---! He almost blew his load then and there.

And she didn't stop, "You took me, bent over the kitchen counter, and - urgh, God - you fucked me until the whole neighbourhood knew I was yours."

Jesus Christ, this woman! What was she doing to him? He was always a horny bastard, but this---! This woman!

He needed to come. He needed it. He was barely inside her, and he needed to come. He needed to come so hard and so fast, and he needed to do it soon. Bucky couldn’t hold back his sobs of anguish as he desperately rotated his hips as best as he could manage.

She pressed her fingers to his lips, “Shhhh, quiet, remember?”

He tried to hide his shuddering in a grumble of acknowledgement, but he made no effort to withhold his pants.

Did she have to remind him of that right now? When he was already struggling to keep his wits about him?

Hypnotised, Bucky watched as Darcy ground herself against him harder than a mortar and pestle, moaning with every pass of her clit over his pelvic bone. With every stroke, she increased her pace to an almost frenzied gallop. Gracelessly, one of her breasts popped out of the cups of her dress, and Bucky groaned at the knowledge that she’d forgone a bra as well. Then out popped another one. With each movement, her breasts dangled in front of his face tantalisingly - round, creamy, soft, delicious - and Bucky became determined to latch his mouth onto one of those perfect pink titts.

With great agility and a knack for following her rhythm, he managed to pluck a nipple into his mouth, and he twirled his tongue around the ripened bud. She gasped at his sudden assault before riding him harder and more urgently, prompting Bucky to suck harder.

His little songbird was gasping and keening above him, singing praise incoherently. Bucky wasn’t sure what sounds he was making, probably senseless babbling, but he knew he wasn’t being as silent as he should be, and neither was Darcy. He was completely drunk on the sound of her riding him to completion. Absolutely lost in each other’s writhing flesh, he found he couldn’t care less who heard them right now. He suspected they wouldn’t even stop if someone were to come across them. Before long, she brought her fingers down to her clit to help herself along, and Bucky didn't know what he wanted more: keep sucking or enjoy the show.

He felt her rhythm start to stutter, her walls began to flutter, and Bucky was rendered mute, watching the beautiful vision above him. Bucky wanted to tell her how gorgeous she looked above him, how much he adored her, how much he trusted her, needed her, loved her, wanted her to---

"Come for me," it was a heady command, uttered around her nipple, and Bucky was prepared to do anything for it to be obeyed.

Luckily, Darcy was happy to oblige.

“Bucky!” She gasped as she came, pulsating around him..

Her nipple slipped from his lips as he quickly joined her with a pained grunt, spilling everything he had to offer her.

... Jesus Christ.

Exhausted, and rightly so, she collapsed onto his chest with limbs as weak as jello. Neither rushed to separate, and Bucky allowed himself the selfish moment of just existing inside her. That woman had put in the work, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to pay this woman her weight in gold. Still tied up and unable to do much else, he spent a minute whispering these things to her softly against the crown of her head as reality slowly came back to him.

It only took him a second to realise he'd been properly seduced by his tyrant of a sweetheart.

“Jesus Christ, woman. Where did that come from?” Bucky was sure he sounded as dazed as he felt.

She tried to laugh, but it came out as pants, “Does it matter? I don't hear you complaining.”

Snorting, he echoed her earlier words, "If I ever complain, it's an impostor."

She giggled adorably in his ear and placed a messy kiss on his jawline.

Regretably, she moved to let him slip out, removing the rubber and tying it off before snuggling closer to him. For a few moments, they lay in the backseat of his Ford Roadster, and Bucky dreaded leaving the moment behind. He wanted to dwell in it forever, but everything must come to an end. However, he knew he would never forget how amazing that was. The sight of this backseat would bring a smile to his face for decades to come.

But, before then, there was something far more important that needed to be dealt with.

“Doll, I’m gonna need you t' untie me 'fore we get into the house.”

The love of his life cackled, “Awww, don’t want to have this as our dinner conversation with your Ma?”

A bone-deep chill reverberated through him.

He absolutely did not ever want to have such a dinner conversation with his Ma.

Chapter Text

June 18th, 1942
Barnes Residence, New York City

The door opened, and Darcy was immediately ushered inside with a chorus of kisses and salutations by Mrs. Barnes (who, by this point, insists on being called Sofia). As always, the Barnes home was a welcoming and warm place. Really, how Bucky could ever be terrified of this joyful woman was beyond ridiculous. She was like a fuzzy bear – you just wanted to cuddle her forever.

She’d barely crossed the threshold when Bucky swooped in from nowhere and graced her with a kiss just shy of scandalous. Which, wowsers, because his mom is right there. Darcy was brought into the dining area through the kitchen, and it was there that she first laid eyes on Evie’s husband, Jim.

James Bates (oh yeah, Evie married a man whose name was waaaay too similar to her brother's, like, isn’t that weird for everyone?) was a handsome man; there was no debate about that. He was taller than Bucky by perhaps a few inches and was dressed quite cleanly in a blue, camp-collar, striped shirt, which looked relatively new. His slacks were dark and lightweight, and his shoes were polished brown leather. His dark blond hair was short and slicked back (and shinier than a bald man's head, that’s for sure); he had big brown eyes; and as she’d come to expect from men in this era, he was completely clean-shaven. Proudly adorning his left hand were a gold wedding ring and a gold wristwatch that spoke of money she wasn’t aware he had. Trust fund baby? For all his masculinity, there was something… not weak, but soft about him. Regardless, this was a man who must have worked on Wall Street before volunteering to serve. Unfortunately, his entire ensemble reminded her uncomfortably of Mr. Harker. The only difference is that Jim seemed like the sort to wear a Hawaiian t-shirt unironically.

Darcy wondered if he was a dick or if he just dressed like one.

He stood from his spot beside his wife and shook her hand. “Darcy, I’m Jim. Pleased to meet you.”

The smile he graced her with wasn’t the least bit shy and was certainly charming. There was no superiority in his tone either, which Darcy immediately liked.

“Back atcha. You must be a hell of a dude to catch Evie’s eye.”

His chest puffed so proudly, Darcy thought he’d pop a button.

Looking back at his wife dotingly, he admitted faux-sheepishly, “Wasn’t easy, but I made sure I wore something sparkly.”

“Jim!”

“What? If it ain’t pretty, you ain’t interested!”

Evie looked very pink while her family laughed at her expense. Her husband did, however, give her an apologetic kiss, which quickly mollified any embarrassment she felt.

Huh, he’s funny. Well, not a dick then, just impersonating the look of one. Cool, we like Jim, Darcy quickly decided.

They chit-chatted for a bit before being called to set the table for dinner. By this point, Darcy had her own allocated jobs as well and was pleased she wasn’t simply being treated as a special guest anymore. As Lottie jokingly said, she was now part of the furniture. Well, in that case, Darcy wanted to be a bed so Bucky could rail her on it.

As usual, Bucky sat on one side of her whilst Becca and Lottie went to war over the seat on her other side. This time, Becca was victorious, and she was sticking her tongue out at Lottie every chance she could. Their brother rolled his eyes at them but made no move to sacrifice his own seat. Bucky’s hand made itself at home on her lap between bites, and Darcy let hers wander over his arm whenever she could. At one head of the table, to Bucky’s left, Sofia had shot them disapproving looks but said nothing.

The staples of dinner were pot roast, a simple pine-nut salad, and Kraft Mac & Cheese, with a pitcher of fresh lemonade. Darcy stared at the mac and cheese blankly for a moment, questioning her perception of time. Kraft Mac & Cheese already exists. Who’d a thunk it?

The discussion around the table was quite mild, and Darcy was learning more about her favourite 40’s family the more she spoke to Jim.

“I remember there was a time him and the little shit there---” he pointed at Steve before quickly apologising to his mother-in-law for his swearing, “---thought it’d be a bright idea to make a blowtorch out of a can of propane and a candle.”

“Also, the time Bucky decided mid-bike ride that it was a good idea to pedal backwards without stopping and went right over the handlebars. It’s amazing your nose ain’t still crooked.”

“One time, Becca here thought scaling the side of a tree like a cat was a bright idea. Then she decided that getting down was far too scary. So, like a scaredy cat, in the middle of Central Park, she cried – yes, Becca, you cried like a damn baby. Sorry, Ma – she cried in the tree until Bucky went up and got her.”

“I won’t say anything bad about Lottie because she stole the feathers out of my pillow last time I did.”

“Oh! What about the time Dumbo-Bucky here got pulled over in his beloved Ford and accidentally handed the officer a five-dollar bill instead of his license?”

“My precious Evie got so soused once that she decided to slide down the bannister, and that’s why there’s that patch in that wall there. Whaddaya mean, your Ma didn’t know about that? Oh, umm, sorry!”

“Mama, Mama, Mama, what could I say about my dear Evie’s Mama that hasn’t been said before? Oh, wait! I got one! I remember when Mr. Garrett said he needed Bucky to unretire and go up against a giant in the ring, so Mama showed him where her son gets his right hook.”

“Let’s not forget the time Bucky here balanced a knife on his tongue and looked genuinely shocked when it got nicked.”

Bucky finally clapped back with, “Says the idiot who sucked on a glass too hard and got his lips stuck in it! Last Christmas!”

“Says the idiot who, as a Catholic, thought the Vatican was in Constantinople!”

"I said Istanbul!"

"It's in Rome!"

The entire table exploded into bickering children.

“How was I supposed to know that-?”

Lottie happily poked the bear, “Oh, I dunno, pay attention in school?”

“Can it, ya lil’ booger-!”

“-Or what? Mama’s right there.”

Steve's grin was wicked. “C’mon, jerk, you gonna let her talk to ya like that?”

“Yeah, Buck, you gonna let your baby sis' talk to ya like that?”

“I so love it when everyone’s home for dinner,” Sofia droned satirically but with a devoted smile.

Honestly, it was the best to be a guest and spectator.

If Darcy had been feeling generous (and completely ignorant of the company she kept) between bouts of laughing like a drain and snorting like a tickled pig, she probably would have shared dumb moments of her own past. Like when she’d mistakenly snorted a line of baking soda because her ex-boyfriend Mohammed had thought it would be funny (really, it’s an adult version of the cinnamon challenge and just as funny to watch). However, Sofia would surely not approve of such a tale.

But there was also the issue that she would inevitably talk about meeting people she was supposed to be related to - in a context that would reveal anything but, such as when she met Jane and Erik, which was the weirdest job interview she had ever had. It wasn’t even Jane who had made it weird, as she’d been too busy working on some super-duper urgent project 6 feet away from them. Erik had started the interview in Norwegian for some reason, which was a problem for non-Norwegian-speaking Darcy, but she had been far too hung up on the fact that the man wasn’t even wearing pants. After a minute of that, Jane had thrown a sparkly pop tart at Erik’s face and told him to ‘shut up because she could not think over his ridiculous consonants.’ Then, a fire broke out, and Darcy had two demented scientists trying to jump into the flames to save paper while she grabbed the fire extinguisher. Just like that, Darcy knew she’d found her group of misfits.

But no, Darcy couldn’t share that favourite memory of hers without having a barrage of questions she couldn’t answer thrown at her.

However, it was delightful listening to Jim absolutely expose his in-laws with little to no regard for their reputations.

“So, you’ve known the family forever?” Darcy assumed.

Surprisingly, he shook his head, “I’ve known Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum since we were kids, but we aren’t from the same part of town. I'm from Troy, so we only really crossed paths occasionally. Wasn’t ‘til Bucky set me up with Evie here that I got to meet the rest of 'em.”

The adoring look he gave Evie and the sweet look she sent him in return gave even Darcy little butterflies. They were beyond adorable.

Just as Steve and Lottie launched into a discussion (*cough* argument *cough*) about a time when he was walking her back from night classes and who exactly knocked who over the slippery footpath first, Becca leant into Darcy’s ear.

“Did ya hear?” Becca whispered next to her, “The Belgians did it first, but now the French are being made to do it!”

“Do what?”

“You know!” Genuinely outraged that Darcy didn't know, she rushed to inform her, “They’re making Jews wear yellow stars. Some sort of identifier.”

Darcy cringed and resisted the urge to be sick.

Bowing her head over her meal in guilt and shame, she quietly affirmed, “Yeah, I heard.”

In fact, when she’d heard it from Dot and Emily, she’d had a mild panic attack at the Doyle boarding house. It had been impossible to explain to both women why the news was so gutting to the Jewish time traveller; she had read history books that were explicit in imagery and graphic in their descriptions of what exactly happened (what would happen?) in Ghettos and eventually concentration camps. Darcy had chalked up her fit to an emotional period (not that she bled anymore due to her IUD, thank God) and the girls let the matter drop. Though Dot had a pointed look that suggested she hadn’t bought the excuse at all.

“What do you think they do to them---?”

Darcy remembered reading about a quote on a wall at one of the concentration camps in Austria...

If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.

Thankfully, Bucky seemed to pick up that whatever they were talking about was making Darcy uncomfortable, “Becca! Go refill the pitcher.”

Becca looked outraged by the request, but Bucky’s ‘do not fuck with me’ glare was on point, and the girl relented. With a petulant huff, she scurried away, leaving a shuddering Darcy behind.

With clammy hands, Darcy latched onto Bucky’s arm, who looked at her softly in question. She just shook her head and buried herself in his chest. Her beau adjusted himself in his seat before wrapping his free arm around her. A dozen or so kisses were pressed to the crown of her head, and Darcy felt the weight of the world slip away.

“You ‘lright?”

The question was a gentle murmur in her ear, and Darcy smiled to show him that she was just fine.

Pfft, yeah right. Nothing wrong here, nothing at all. Just a woman who knows far too much to remain sane and yet far too little to actually do anything. Time travel is so fucked. It's true what they say; knowledge can be a curse. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it have been some stupid historian who salivates over this stuff? Even Janey would be better equipped--- actually, no, Jane would have been an absolute disaster.

“Bucky,” Jim called, wagging a pack of cigarettes in his hand in a silent invitation.

He looked prepared to reject the offer, but Darcy lightly nudged him. Looking down at her, Bucky wordlessly asked permission to leave her. Giving him a kiss and a nod, Bucky reluctantly pried himself away from her and headed outside with Jim and Steve.

Darcy didn’t even have time to take a full breath before she was brought back into the dinner conversation.

“Did you go to the parade, Darcy?” Sofia asked kindly.

A tight smile graced her lips as she nodded, but internally, she was screaming. Must everything be about this godforsaken war?!

The military parade ‘New York at War’ was a propaganda parade to boost morale and encourage enlistment. Oh, wait, no, sorry, a parade to express support for their troops overseas. As far as Darcy was concerned, it was an excuse to connive the young into believing the war to be some great adventure. She wasn’t fooled (and hopefully the young boys weren’t either) but kept such thoughts to herself.

However, she had gone. It was, after all, a historic event she should never have had the chance to see. Going or staying would have felt sacrilegious either way, so she went. Pfft, as if she could even help herself. And while Darcy told Sofia all about her experience with far more gusto than she felt, she couldn’t help but think about how those she knew reacted to the parade.

Bucky had been unwavering in his refusal to go and was not at all forthcoming as to why. She assumed it had to do with the murky memory of his father. So, with Bucky unwilling to go, she’d instead gone with her girlfriends. Emily had watched the floats with avid eyes, longing like a child watching the world outside from her nursery window. Connie, Bonnie, and Dot had participated with enthusiasm, using the event to ensnare the affections of as many soldiers as they could find. After all, according to Dot, at least, no one is more susceptible to a pretty woman than a soldier about to leave for war. Ching-Ching goes the money. Dot had left with a forwarding address of no less than six men. Six. God, Dot could be cutthroat.

After her recount, the boys came back, and Steve launched into his account with the subtlety of a rocket ship.

Obviously, he was eager (too eager) to join in anything war-related. Bucky’s jaw was clenched the entire time, his knuckles white as he listened to his best pal drivel about the bravery and nobility of their soldiers. Even Sofia looked a bit ill at the passionate speech.

Darcy wanted to shake him and scream. What the hell did he think war was? An excuse for guts and glory?

“There are good men out there fighting, laying down their lives. A parade to support them is the least we can do. But it’s not enough. Every man who wants to fight should be allowed to fight regardless of---"

It was Evie who finally navigated the topic away from the parade and war with a sharp, “Ouch!”

The response was immediate when she clutched her belly and lightly poked the targeted spot; everyone enquired about her welfare.

“I’m alright! Littlest Barnes is simply eager to be the centre o' attention.”

A fond smile only a father could wear graced Jim’s face as he rested a hand over his wife’s protruding stomach and said, “Our little girl deserves it all.”

"Another girl," Sofia said, smiling. "Whatever shall I do?"

They were very confident for people who didn’t have any way of determining the sex of an unborn baby. Maybe an old wives’ tale? What was it again? Something about the mother carrying low or high? Darcy remembered that girls apparently stole their mother’s beauty, but that clearly didn’t apply to Evie, who had loveliness coming out of her ears. So, wouldn’t that mean a boy?

Darcy arched an eyebrow, “Girl?”

“Uh huh!” Becca practically bounced in her seat in excitement, “Bucky’s gut says so.”

“His gut what?”

The scraping of cutlery stopped abruptly as all the Barnes', except Bucky, looked towards Darcy. Bucky was pointedly looking away from her and at his plate.

Darcy felt she was missing something. “What? What's up?”

They all averted their gazes as though something had been shared that shouldn’t have been.

“Bucky’s gut’s never wrong,” Lottie deadpanned, rolling her eyes when her mother hissed at her, “What? She may as well know. I’d go so far as to say it’s psychic.”

Psychic?

“Oh.”

Clearly, her dumb ‘oh’ was not going to be enough to soothe any worries they had.

“Darcy----” Stevie hedged, looking ready to defend any aversion she might have to this revelation.

Their panic was unnecessary, but why was this such an issue? Everyone had stopped eating and was waiting with bated breath for her to speak.

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve never heard of a gut instinct before.”

Unanimously, they all exhaled. Darcy couldn’t wager a guess as to why.

"Yeah?" Bucky's arm slowly crawled up around the back of her seat.

She scooted her chair closer and wiggled into his side, “Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever come across, promise.”

Finally, he looked down at her, and a mixture of awe and disbelief was visible in his eyes. He gave her the gentlest of kisses on her lips before lightly nudging his nose against hers. With the brightest smile she could muster, Darcy caressed his face as reassuringly as she was able to.

He leant down and whispered into her ear, “I’ve never been more grateful that you aren’t some religious nut.”

Darcy blinked as she realised what was going on; it was a religious thing. Oooooh, right. Something like that, even in her time, could be seen as a bad thing by some people. People were so weird.

Awkwardly, everyone looked unsure of whether to move on to another topic or to go back to the previous one.