Chapter Text
The blow job was a mistake.
She’d meant it to be a treat: a nice way to welcome him back.
She’d had a whole week to regret the way they’d left it: both of them tense and crabby and bickering. A week to think about what needed to change, if this was gonna keep going: this tenuous thing she was building with Bucky.
She heard the beep of the electronic lock as he let himself in, and when he stepped into the kitchen, where she was waiting for him, she was surprised: his pretty, dark hair was still damp from a shower, and she could smell, even from a few feet away, that he was fresh and clean. Apparently, he’d stopped at his place first, to clean up and change clothes.
And maybe it was her eagerness to see him again— to get going on that treat— but she stupidly missed the significance of that: simply thought, ‘well, that’s convenient,’ pleased that she wasn’t going to be blowing him through an unknown number of days’ worth of mission-sweat and crotch-stank. Had already assumed she would be, because asking him to shower first wouldn’t have been as impactful as simply shoving him backwards into the kitchen counter as soon as he put his bag down.
“What’re you—”
She could hear him sigh— almost annoyed— as she dropped to her knees in front of him, but he didn’t try to stop her when she pulled down his zipper and opened his fly.
At any other time, that lack of appreciation would have pissed her off. But he wasn’t telling her ‘no,’ so she kept going. Was determined to make him feel good: to pull all of that tension out of him, before they could start arguing right off the bat…
She pulled him out, and there was no hint of interest there yet, so she stroked him a little, trying to get him started…
She looked up at him once, but his eyes were already shut, his lips parted, hands braced on the edge of the countertop behind him— and she took him into her mouth and wet him all over, shutting her own eyes as she felt him finally begin to respond… thickening, lengthening under the swirls of her hot tongue…
She was just starting to really enjoy herself— one hand wrapped around his shaft, pulling up on it gently as she worked the tip of her tongue into his foreskin, skimming around the glans… the other on his belly, her thumb stroking the dark line of hair that trailed down from his navel— when he moved a hand to her shoulder.
He didn’t push her away, but there was something off in his voice: “Sweetheart—”
She paused, pulling off of him just long enough to answer: “Just shut up and let me do this, okay?”
She should have stopped. But she didn’t: the frustration made her press on, like a kind of defiance— not of him, but of the reality of the situation— the mess of where things stood between them. All the unknowns, their failure to communicate…
It’d been so good at first. The first few weeks together, especially— like a catharsis, after a long and aching build-up of circling each other quietly for months, stalking and being stalked… the interiors of the Tower like their game-board, as they’d toyed with each other…
When he’d finally captured her— bringing the unspoken tension to a head, making his move when he caught her alone in the break room— she’d been high with it: the anticipation… sure he was going to kiss her, her body all lightning and flame as he’d trapped her against a wall, his metal arm bracketing her as he braced himself there, caging her…
And then he’d spoken, and his words had been so anticlimactic and funny:
“I heard you like bagels.”
They’d stared each other down for a few seconds after that, his face so close that she could feel the heat of it, smell the coffee on his breath… and he could have done it: could have kissed her, even after that, and it would have been sweet, and hot. But he didn’t— he straightened up, smirking... made plans to take her out…
And then he’d swaggered away, leaving her wanting, the shitty little smile on his face telling her he knew exactly what he was doing…
So that’d been their funny little first date: an outing to a hole-in-the-wall bagel shop in Midtown, and that’s where he finally kissed her— unplanned, unscripted, with pigeons and bums and garbage all around.
She’d been waiting outside, away from the press of people within, holding a paper bag filled with an extra dozen bagels to go, while he’d settled the bill— he’d insisted— and when he’d come out, she’d looked up, and they both stood there, stupidly, staring at each other, like a replay of those weighted seconds by the wall, the day before.
He reached up with his flesh hand— wiped a little bit of cream cheese off her upper lip— and then he’d held onto her chin… leaned down and kissed her so gently that she’d practically melted, right there on the sidewalk…
It’d unleashed something, that kiss; and though they’d walked casually back to the Tower, playing it cool— like it was no big deal— something inside was already sprinting…
They’d barely shut the door to her apartment before they released it, ripping each other’s clothes off, and it was even better than her dreams, Bucky’s body coming together with hers like some kind of goddamned artwork, neither one of them being shy or quiet about it…
She’d wanted to snuggle him afterwards, but when he got up right away— pulled on his underpants, grinned down at her all sweaty and gorgeous and said, “Got anything to eat?” she’d stuffed down her disappointment, threw on a robe, and treated him like any other overgrown boy: fed him several large bowls of cereal in the kitchen, as she sat across from him with a goofy smile on her face, feeling happy.
And when he’d left shortly after, telling her he couldn’t stay, she’d thought maybe that was it: he’d gotten what he’d wanted, got it out of his system. And as much as it’d been a fantastic fuck— not something she was ever going to regret— something had deflated inside her.
She wasn’t afraid to admit it: she’d wanted more. Had thought that was where they’d been headed, all this time: to some kind of relationship. Maybe she’d misunderstood.
But then again, maybe she hadn’t. He showed up the next day in the break room, this time full of other people— came right up to her and gave her a kiss, right in front of everyone— and dazzled her with one of his fantastic smiles.
“Hey, beautiful,” he’d said. “You free for lunch?”
It was a little confusing, the path it took. She couldn’t figure him out. Maybe it was just his nature: he was wound up so tight— no good at sitting still, hanging out. No good at just being.
He’d come to her place for a frenzied afternoon fuck, and then cut and run. Even if it was late at night, nowhere else he needed to be, he wouldn’t stay. She’d be offended, if not for the way he’d also show up randomly at her desk. Treat her real nice. Take her out, with no expectation of getting her back to the sack. Make her think he wanted more than just her body…
People had been a little surprised by them— didn’t see them as a likely couple— but somehow they worked. They had fun together. Made each other smile. And the sex was amazing.
She knew he had issues— was maybe trying to protect her from that side of him.
She’d been trying to give him the space to open up to her, in his own time.
A few months in, he made a mistake— and she finally saw what he’d been avoiding. What he’d been keeping from her.
He’d come to her late, after a long day in the field, and he’d been so wiped out, that he’d accidentally fallen asleep in her bed. She’d seen it as a good thing: like they’d finally crossed some milepost, and she’d silently celebrated as she’d watched his peaceful, sleeping face, before she followed him down into a warm, happy dream, an arm and a leg slung possessively across his body…
And then he’d woken them both up, suddenly, with a shout that cut through the darkness, in the quiet fear of the night…
It was some kind of flashback; had to be: he was up, out of the bed: pacing around, talking nonsense— agitated… and then he dropped to his knees on the carpet, was pawing through his dirty clothes on the floor…
She fumbled for the light, confused— not yet frightened; thinking she could snap him out of it, talk to him… and then he had a knife in his hand— she could see the glint of the blade as he stood up again— and everything shifted…
He was looking at her with murder in his eyes…
He didn’t know her.
She realized, all at once: Oh. This: this is why…
She rolled out of the bed, landing on the floor, reaching for the taser gun she kept under the bed-frame, and even though he wasn’t coming at her yet, she was up again and zapping him, instinctively, before she could think twice, because in that moment he was no longer Bucky, her lover.
He was a stranger. A dangerous man. A big, powerful, possibly angry man, who was weighing whether or not to hurt her…
She got him right in the middle of his bare, sweaty chest, and he grimaced and stepped backward as the probes stuck into his skin, but he wasn’t falling down, like a normal target— and then he was growling, ripping the probes out…
She quickly released the cartridge, grabbed her phone off the bedside table, and ran…
The bathroom was the closest place to barricade herself, and she slammed the door and locked it, slumping down to the floor in her underpants and sleep-shirt. Sat there, gripping the taser-gun with both hands, shaking all over as she listened for any sound of him… loaded the backup cartridge, for all the good it would do… hoped he wouldn’t break down the door to get at her— to punish her for trying to hurt him.
After a couple more minutes— no sign of him, no pounding on the door— she let go of the taser with one hand; picked up her phone and called Steve. Gave him the code to get into her room, and then waited, frightened both for herself and for Bucky. She could still hear him, moving around in the bedroom. Could hear drawers opening and sliding shut, and then the closet…
It took less than five minutes for Steve to get there— she heard him letting himself into the apartment, the pound of his footsteps as he came closer, reaching the bathroom door. Could see the shadow of his feet on the other side. He knocked quietly.
“Darcy? You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, in a tiny, scared voice. “I tased him…”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I got him.”
She could hear their muffled, low voices, coming from the bedroom, and before long, she could hear Steve coming back.
“Darcy? You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, and she was almost holding her breath— trying not to cry.
“We’re going. I’ll, uh… I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound steady.
She could tell Bucky was there too, on the other side of the door, but he didn’t say a word. She heard them go to the front door. Leave. Could hear the double beep as the electronic lock re-engaged.
She finally stood up and unlocked the bathroom door— hazarded a few cautious steps outside, on still-shaky legs, verifying that the apartment was quiet and empty— and then returned to the bedroom. Stared at the rumpled-up sheets.
His pants were gone, but his shirt was there, next to the bed; he hadn’t bothered to take it. She could see the taser cartridge lying discarded on the floor nearby, with its long, spirally lead-wires. There was no sign of the knife.
Maybe she should have been angry— upset that he hadn’t warned her, better prepared her for something like this— but she wasn’t.
She was just sad.
She’d thought that’d be the end of them— that he’d avoid her, and whatever they’d had would recede into the past like a vapor… an imagined dream.
He surprised her, coming by to see her the very next day— knocked gently on her apartment door. Came in, head down, when she opened up. He was cagey, nervous.
“M’sorry,” he said, pacing the floor in front of the coffee table. “Never shoulda… I can’t…” He stopped his pacing— shut his eyes, like he was in pain…
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
He was keeping his distance: standing several feet away from her as she sat on her couch. Finally she stood— chose to be the one to subtract the space between them, with just a few short steps. Hesitated for just a second, and then wrapped her arms around him.
“Tell me what to do,” she said again, her voice hushed as she pressed her face into his warm chest.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he said, his own voice quiet. “I guess.”
They both laughed a little— the tension broken— but it wasn’t a real solution: not even close. And even though she felt him sag a little— could feel the relief there, in his body, as she held him— something changed after that.
He closed some part of himself off to her. Was even more guarded. Like he was constantly bracing himself for the inevitable sit-down— the Talk. The one where she said she still wanted to be friends, but…
And she did want to have a sit-down. Not one where she put on the brakes, but one where they could talk openly about it. About the problems he had to deal with. Whether there was anything she could do. If there was some way they could be closer, without it being a risk…
She’d been working up to it: wanted him to know that she wasn’t gonna run away, now that they’d gotten into the nitty-gritty of things. Now that she was seeing beneath the layers, seeing how much work it was to be him… or to be with him. She didn’t want to minimize it.
But she wasn’t any good at that: expressing herself soberly, carefully, with well-chosen words— and neither was he. So, like the boneheads they both were, they avoided it.
They let the tension grow, until it was a tangible flavor— coloring all of their time together. The strain began to show.
And now here she was, on her knees in the kitchen of her apartment, trying to convince him— convince them both— that it was all going to be okay. Hoping he’d get the core message: that she wasn’t going anywhere. That she wanted to keep trying this. She’d just wanted to sweeten the arena, before they got to the harder part: actually talking about it.
He’d stopped trying to speak; had obeyed her command to shut up— and now his breath was quickening, getting louder, his flesh hand still resting on her shoulder, gripping it as she worked him harder…
She was using everything she’d learned about his body, what he liked— showing him how much she’d paid attention. That she was a good study.
She could be a good study about other things, too. If he’d let her.
It didn’t take long, his breathing getting ragged, his hand clenching harder, and when it became a little desperate, and she could feel he was close, he suddenly tried to pull away…
It surprised her: he was usually happy to come in her mouth, if she was game for it…
She chased him, insistent: her hand holding him there, her lips stretched around him, never breaking the suction, and he gave in, his fingers curling even tighter as he let go, his hips shaking a little as he spilled into her mouth with a groan…
She couldn’t help smiling as she cleaned him gently with her tongue, and then released him… knew she’d done a superlative job. She sat back on her heels, licking her lips…
“Fuck,” he said, emphatically, and that one word changed everything: the tone of it making her look up, her smile dropping, because it wasn’t a happy sound— not a ‘goddamn that was good,’ kind of curse…
It sounded more like regret. Like he’d made a mistake.
He turned around, facing the cabinets as he got himself together— tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up, and then he stayed there: faced away… silent.
She could see his back moving, as he tried to measure his breathing.
“Hey,” she said, and she pushed herself up off the floor. Stepped closer, her hand coming up— wanting to touch him, comfort him— but she stopped short, her palm just hovering there, a couple inches away… “Hey, are you okay?”
No answer.
“What’s going on?” she said, and her stomach was souring, as the fear leaked in.
She was getting mad, too, because obviously there was something wrong, but he’d let her go ahead and blow him anyway, like she was some kind of fool: like she’d needed it, not him, and he’d thrown her a bone…
“Did something happen?” she said, her voice a little sharper. “Talk to me.”
He sighed again and turned, without looking down at her, and she stepped back, giving him room. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes somewhere over her shoulder as he spoke. “Why don’t we… I gotta sit down.”
He walked past her to get out of the kitchen, like it was a bad scene… headed to the living-room, and now the adrenaline was hitting her…
“What’s going on?” she said again, as she followed, trying not to let the fear get the better of her, and she couldn’t believe she’d had his cock in her mouth just minutes before, because he seemed so far away…
“Bucky…”
He sat down on the far end of the couch, his head bowed as he rested his forearms on his thighs.
“You’re scaring me,” she said, as she sat down on the opposite side, leaving a big space open between them.
And then she said, nervously, not really meaning it— like a bad joke, to cut the tension: “What, are you breaking up with me or something?”
He didn’t answer, and it was like a punch to the gut…
“Oh my God, you are…”
“I’m not—”
“Jesus Christ, I just— and the whole time— what, you were thinking about how you were gonna let me down easy?”
“M’sorry,” he said, and he was still staring at the floor, unable to look at her. “I tried to— maybe I thought…”
And then he stood up, started pacing. “Fuck, I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t wanna push you away, or— I shouldn’t have—”
She was stunned silent for a minute, her brain trying to catch up. It wasn’t real.
“I’m not—” he started to say, and he stopped pacing, his metal hand on his hip as the flesh one rubbed tiredly at his forehead. “I don’t wanna… we’re not breaking up. Least, that’s not what I want. But maybe… I mean, maybe we oughta take a break.”
“A break,” she said, repeating the word like it was scum.
“Yeah.”
“Not a breakup.”
“I don’t—”
“I mean, what’s the difference?” she said, letting the anger speak, and then she stood up too, needing to move so that she wouldn’t just let the couch swallow her up. “What—God…”
She didn’t want to cry. She felt like the biggest idiot on the planet. She put a hand over her eyes as she turned away, trying to hide…
“You okay?” he asked.
She took a minute, trying to calm herself enough to speak with some kind of dignity. “I just… you know… I could fill a whole fucking notebook with all the things I don’t like about us, but up until now? You’ve never actually made me feel humiliated. But I am now. I’m fucking humiliated.”
“M’sorry, Dee. I—”
She turned then, her hand dropping as she snapped at him. “You don’t have to be nice about this, you know. It’s not gonna make me feel better.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you. This is… it’s about me, not you.”
“Oh, great,” she said. “The good old ‘it’s me, not you’. That makes it so much better.”
He sighed, looking anywhere in the room but at her. “I’ll… I think I should go. I’m gonna go now.” He waited a few beats. “You gonna be okay?”
“Sure,” she said, bitterly, because it was a stupid question. “I’ll be just peachy.”
“I don’t… I don’t want this to be over,” he said. “I just—”
“Just go, okay?” she said. “Just get out of here.”
She went to her bedroom and shut the door, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding herself completely taut, waiting until she heard the front door open and shut, and only then did she crumble over in her bed, bury her face in her pillow, and let herself cry.
She could still taste him in her mouth.
“You should go with us,” said Jane, watching Darcy mope at her desk.
It’d been four days since Bucky had left her apartment, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him since. In spite of his claim that he didn’t want it to be ‘over’, it sure was feeling like it, and she wasn’t about to be the one to crawl to him, begging…
“Why,” she said, her voice flat.
“It’s fun there,” said Jane. “You’d like it.”
Jane and Thor had an appointment with Dr. Stephen Strange, at the Sanctum Santorum, later that afternoon. Darcy had never been there. Normally, she’d have been keen to go, but right now, she didn’t feel like doing anything.
She’d gone through a lot of phases in the past four days: from humiliation, to sadness, to anger, to regret…
At the moment she was feeling angry again, but this time it was directed toward herself. Angry that she’d thought of him as some kind of regular guy. That her expectations of him hadn’t taken into account the kinds of things he must have to grapple with on a daily basis. The fears and dangers he had to navigate. The care he’d taken to protect her from it…
Of course, he could have told her. Could have talked to her about it. But maybe that was an unrealistic expectation as well.
Darcy liked to fix things. Maybe, somehow, without even meaning to, she’d made him feel like he was just another project: something to be solved. Maybe she’d pushed him into this— into taking a step back.
She’d realized, in the past four days of moping, that she loved him.
“I gotta do something,” she said, as she rose from her desk and swept a hand through her unkempt hair.
“Oh,” said Jane. “Okay. Well, let me know about the thing, okay? We’re gonna leave around two…”
Darcy didn’t even bother answering— she was already out the door. Blindly riding the momentum. Needing to track him down. To tell him.
She didn’t call or text him: didn’t want to give him a chance to evade her.
She tried his apartment first. No answer.
Then the gym. Nope. But Steve was there, and she talked to him for a few minutes. “He, uh… he had a rough night,” said Steve, as he mopped his sweaty face on a gym towel.
“Oh,” she said, frowning. She wondered just how often he had that kind of night. Maybe it was most nights. She felt terrible that she didn’t even know.
“He just went down to the showers,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
She could feel the need building— the instinct to run to him, wrap her arms around him. Hold him. Tell him she was sorry, for whatever she’d contributed to the bad feeling that’d grown between them. Tell him that she loved him.
She pushed through the back doors of the Tower’s gymnasium and down the short hallway to the locker rooms, and then she stopped short: she could hear voices. And then a laugh. It was him. And someone else: a woman.
Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to start walking again, and she rounded the corner, and saw them there: Bucky, and the Black Widow. Natasha Romanov.
He was all sweaty— still in his tank-top and sweatpants; hadn’t made it to the showers yet— while she had obviously just finished: she was standing there in a towel, her hair dripping. They were smiling at each other…
“This your idea of a break?” she said sharply, her voice sounding stupid and loud, and they both turned, their smiles dropping as they took her in, there at the end of the hall.
“I get it now,” she said, nodding, fighting back the tears. “Well. Go right ahead,” she said. “Enjoy your break. Knock yourself out.”
“Darcy, wait,” she heard him say, as she whirled around to flee.
“Fuck you, Barnes,” she said as she walked away.
Bucky followed her as far as the bend in the hallway— watched her disappear through the gym doors.
“Aw, Christ,” he said, his gut swirling sour with the knowledge that Darcy had entirely the wrong idea. He was considering going after her— trying to explain…
“Let her go,” said Natasha, who’d come up behind him, stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Let her cool down.”
“That ain’t really her forté,” he said ruefully, rubbing his forehead. “Coolin’ down.”
“Yeah,” she said with a knowing smirk. “Bet you really hate that about her.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling, sadly.
“You’re a real idiot, you know that?” she added.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m aware. Don’t know what she sees in me.”
Romanov sighed too, rolling her eyes as she left him there, in the hallway. “That’s why you’re an idiot.”
Jane was still at her desk when Darcy stomped back into the lab.
“You still got room for one more?” she said, before Jane could say a word. Her eyes were brimming with fresh tears, and she wiped them angrily away. “Because I could really do with a distraction right now…”
“Yeah,” said Jane, standing up, as she took in the state of her friend. “Of course. Oh, sweetie… what happened…”
Jane hadn’t exaggerated: the Sanctum Santorum was all kinds of amazing. Darcy was glad she’d come along; it was serving as the perfect distraction from her turbulent emotions— her simmering anger at the scene she’d been replaying over and over in her head: the two of them together… Bucky and Natasha.
Smiling… laughing… not a care in the world. Both of them gorgeous, like some kind of perfect conjuration of a power couple…
She remembered Natasha’s dripping-wet hair, and she wondered, suddenly, if that was why he’d showered before coming to her apartment that day: if maybe he’d stopped at Natasha’s first…
She shoved the thought away as she entered the library, alone. She was wandering around by herself, up there on the third floor of the weird, labyrinthine townhouse. They’d been there for an hour already, and though at first she’d been dazzled by Dr. Strange— content to sit off to the side and listen as he discussed something technical with Jane— she’d eventually gotten bored, restless. Like a little kid who’d been taken along on an errand, who’d reached her limit of sitting still.
Thor had already downed three giant mugfuls of beer— his own coping mechanism— and had vanished to take a piss; after only a few minutes of his absence, Darcy made her own excuses. Got up and left the sitting room, promising not to touch anything.
The library was like some secret wing of the Met, the eclectic collection lit largely by the natural sunlight shining through a massive, circular skylight set into a sloped wall at the top of the stairs. Individual items were illuminated by the additional glow of expensive-looking fixtures set flush into the ornately-carved ceilings.
There were huge, man-sized, glass-encased displays of large artifacts, and she examined those first, before moving onto the many tables laid with smaller items— resisting the urge to reach out and touch.
Finally, she moved to slowly walk the perimeter of the room, where the walls were lined with shelves of ancient tomes, flanked by decorative objects made of ceramic and jade and bone, inlaid with unidentifiable metals and precious gems.
She was browsing the spines of one long sequence of books, her head tilted at an angle— trying to find something in English— when an odd little item caught her eye. It was small clay vessel, terra-cotta in color, no larger than a bud vase— very plain, compared to the other items on the shelves. It was an amphora, with handles on opposite sides of a pear-shaped body that tapered to a narrow neck. The circular opening was unstoppered.
The dusty, clay-colored material had an odd, scattering glow to it— no doubt magical in nature— almost like it was being lit from inside, by a swirl of fireflies. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt as though it were speaking to her… like her head was filling with a thickness… a weird and witchy whispering…
Before she could talk herself out of it, she was picking it up, turning it over in her hands. Peered inside, to see what was lighting it up. It was empty.
The clay began to heat up…
She could hear it, like an echo, too late— Jane’s stern admonition: don’t touch anything…
Before she could put the vessel back on the shelf, there was a sudden yank— like an invisible force had reached into her body, grasped her by the spine, and pulled her straight upward, out of the building, out of reality— and then she was nowhere, her body weightless: tumbling through an endless and suffocating dark.