Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

***

She was so fucking cold.

Freezing actually.  The kind of icy chill that Darcy had never felt before.  At first it had been an uncomfortable tightening of skin, goosebumps covering her body, causing her extreme stress and tension.  Anxiety flooded through her when she realized there hadn’t been a way to warm up, causing full-body shivering that she couldn’t stop.

She’d been held captive in this…place for weeks.  

Cold and alone.  

They tied her up in a new, more awful position every time.  Her restraints getting tighter, her chains shorter, her discomfort greater.  

Sometimes they’d position her hands in front of her body, and she hated that she felt gratitude when they granted her any measure of comfort.  When they hoisted her hands upwards with the chain, the weight of her body pulled the cuffs into her wrists, bruising and cutting.  Each agonizing pull reopened wounds and refractured limbs.  She was never able to turn her head to see what had been going on, what they’d be trying to do in that moment, but once she’d heard the resounding clang of chain against the concrete wall, the finishing tug echoing through her brain like a gong, screams forced their way out of her...  Each time.  Her wrists seared in agony, her body screaming, her mind crying out for them to just stop. 

It hurt so much.  

Numerous times in an attempt to escape, she’d twisted her wrists as they were pulled upwards, the metal cuffs cutting past the thin skin of her wrists until she’d bled.  The first time, she had watched the small trickles of blood making their way down her arms, like syrup from a maple tree.

She’d been to a maple tree farm once when she was young.  She remembered the tour guide showing her how they would drill into the tree to tap it, creating a tap hole big enough to insert the spile.  At the time, she’d thought it cruel to stab the trees so harshly, to drill into them and plunge something deep to pull something out.  She had felt sorry for the tree.

When the blood had first dribbled down her arms, in that moment, her mind went back to that time and once again and more empathetically, she felt sick with sympathy for the harshness in what people did to maple trees.  

Being forced to hang from the metal cuffs around her wrists had been truly terrible, especially that first time, and she had wept furiously.  At the unfairness of it, from the pain of it, the torture - she couldn’t understand.  

What had she done?  

But the worst of it had been in the most recent of days, when they'd taken to keeping her hands bound tightly behind her.  

There was no way to give herself any semblance of heat or warmth, not even the tiniest ability of friction by attempting to rub her hands together and taking away the ability to cross her arms to contain any body heat she could possibly have left. 

There was nothing she could do.

She’d been left in this position of horrible discomfort, chest forced forward, arms bent tightly behind her, wrists locked together and chained to the wall so close she wasn’t able to even shift or move.  Couldn’t stand up or even attempt to get her legs under her.   

So she shivered, uncontrollably, constantly, unable to do anything else.  

Her teeth chattered, lips probably blue, numb with cold and chapped so badly they were cracked in multiple places and burned with every breath.  She couldn’t even open her lips very wide or else the skin would crack and bleed, again, another small but painful reminder that nothing was her own, and they had taken everything from her. 

Darcy’s skin had broken out in hives after the first two or three days into her captivity, that had swelled and itched to no end, and burned as if she’d been stung by a hundred bees.  She'd originally thought it was simply her body reacting to the stress of the situation.

After that, the hives had become painful blisters, festering and seeping.  She had attempted to feel at them with her fingertips at every opportunity given, those precious and traumatizing moments when they would release her from her bonds; those few, short moments that left her overwhelmed and confused, when they’d finished their “interrogation” for a moment and she could breathe, or cry - but be left alone for a few blissful minutes, before they’d drag her to the next round of torment.  

And then they would lock her in the cell for hours at a time, left alone, and she’d be safe in the dark for a little while.  It was those little specks of time alone that kept her going, kept her alive.  A reprieve from the men who enjoyed hurting her so, and she would be able to breathe - just breathe, in and out, for a little while.

Always desperate to get a good feel of her body in the dark after each session with them, when she was finally left alone, in the cell, she had taken to running her fingers carefully over the painful blisters she could reach at the time.  She’d kept a running tally of the damage inflicted to her, always causing a fresh agony that had sent her mind reeling and her body flinching, wishing she’d just go numb all over instead.  But keeping her aware of her wounds, of the severity of them, of the nearness of her impending death.  

It was these thoughts that spiraled through her mind; her desperate attempt to not focus on what had been done to her, but instead, how her body was responding to it.  

Always wondering if she would survive that passing night, or the terrifying fear that when she finally closed her eyes, that would be it, and she wouldn’t ever wake up again.

***

They covered her entire body now, these sores, and she didn’t know what to do about them.  But truly, practical thinking seemed more difficult by the day.  A haze fogged over her brain like a thundercloud covering up the moon before an evening storm hit, taking over her daily thoughts, making these specific worries spiral continuously on one single thought before blanking out, unable to form a coherent thought or feeling other than the single focus of pain - constant pain.  

The blisters were the least of her real concerns at present.  But in those moments when she could think of nothing else, the knowledge that they were there haunted her.  The simple knowledge of their presence - they bothered her, not knowing if she was going to die from the blisters, from infection, from blood loss.  

These fearful thoughts continued in the back of her mind, constantly.  She longed to know.  So far from everything she knew, her mind clung to the few dreadful certainties of her captivity. Light meant pain.  Dark meant peace.  Well, comparatively speaking.  

She felt herself brushing up against the spectre of complete helplessness. They’re not coming. You’re holding on for nothing.



This is the room you will die in. 

The part of her brain whispering those things was at war with her conscious mind, which gathered up the fractured pieces of her hope and gripped its sharp edges.  Giving in was not an option.  If she let herself implode into true despair, there was no coming back. 

Hope is like food, in survival situations.  

That’s what the instructor in that first aid class had said anyway.  She was really putting that knowledge to practical use here.  Was there anything else of use?  Couldn’t do CPR on herself.  No sign of a defibrillator on the wall anywhere.  She glanced up at her wrists and then immediately away.  Even if she could remember the right first aid for those wounds, she couldn’t make a bandage out of stagnant water and moonlight.

Darcy let her mind drift away from the looming horror of the present, back to the conference room where she’d practiced pretending a plastic man needed saving. 

She really hadn’t wanted to take the class; she had no plans to be a medic or a field agent.  But when she realized they would get to play with the fake dead guy?  Worth it!  She’d sung “stayin’ alive” at the top of her lungs, pumping his plastic chest until the song ended, then enjoyed lingering moment of mouth to mouth, smacking one last kiss on the poor plastic dude with no legs or arms or hair, before standing up and sadly declaring the dummy dead.  

Jane, in desperation to not laugh out loud, had kept a hand tightly pressed over her mouth, her huge grin hidden, bright eyes sparkling as she would try and fail numerous times at begging Darcy to stop and pay attention because, “in her most Captain America impression voice", she would declare hissingly, “ this is serious, Darcy!”   She’d repeated it over and over again until she could do nothing more but wipe the tears from her eyes in full-on laughter.  The instructor had not been impressed, nor amused, which made Darcy push all boundaries just a little bit further causing Janie to laugh all the harder.

Somehow, they’d “passed,” although Darcy had felt sure it was only because of the fear the instructor probably felt in having to teach them again.  And besides, Jane already knew all this stuff.  And being around super dudes 24/7 meant that the likelihood of Darcy ever needing any of this was next to nil.  So in all lack of seriousness, Darcy had felt it her duty to get through the burden of being forced into CPR and First Aid class by being as distracting and humorous as humanly possible.  She’d felt sure, from the grins, smirks, and laughter of the other classmates, that they'd enjoyed the class much more than they ever would have had Darcy not participated.  

You’re welcome, class.

And of all people who had made them do it, it had been Steve who had insisted she and Jane go.  

STEVE.

“We’re not even Avengers, Cap,” she’d told him pointedly.  

“And yet you just called me Cap,” he’d answered smugly, “instead of my actual name.”

Darcy had rolled her eyes as hard as possible, hands on her hips, and was still somehow able to see Steve raise his eyebrow at her.  And then run his eyes down her body, pausing at the jutted out hip, his eyes sparkling at how it emphasized the curves of her form. 

“I’m taking a moment to find my inner patience,” he’d said, and the longer he spent looking, the more she’d wondered if it was actually self-restraint he was seeking.  But there was no way he’d ever look at her like that.  

In her dreams, maybe.  She'd obviously imagined it. 

Of course, he’d already launched into one of his safety speeches again, though this time she did notice he had a certain glint to his eye that she hadn’t seen before…

It hadn’t distracted her enough to become 100% focused on her irritation again as he continued arguing the merits of safety to her. 

Classic Cap. At least his voice was nice to listen to.  Even when he was pissed (and right now he was only slightly irritated), he never lost his temper with her, but also never backed off.

Neither of them ever backed off.  They were made for each other, as far as arguments went.  

They’d gone back and forth on this issue for days, Jane refusing to participate in it and Thor basically eating popcorn from the sidelines, watching the two of them volley back and forth, as if they were playing tennis.  

And when arguing didn’t work, Darcy had quickly reverted to begging and pleading.  

To her dismay, Steve had easily ignored her whining, puppy dog eyes, frowns, and stink-faces.  Even her most mournful pout had only drawn a sparkle of mirth into his eyes.  He’d looked down at her mouth for just long enough that, after he had walked silently away, she’d remained, frozen in place. 

Did he really just do what I think he just did?

Holy shitballs, batman.  

He wasn’t completely immune to her charms, then.  He’d looked like he was torn before he'd moved away, too professional to really linger but too attracted not to.     

Everyone in the tower could take care of themselves because they knew things.  Natasha was the most kick-ass ninja spy in the world, whom Darcy admired, worshiped, and feared - all in one collective conglomeration of women empowerment (yay feminism!) and utter respect to all that Natasha could do even with her little pinky (seriously, she could actually KILL someone with her little pinky - what the ever fucking fuck!?)  Befriending Natasha was incredibly humbling because Natasha simply being Natasha meant that one always knew where one’s place was in the food chain of life.  The Soviet trained Black Widow was at the TOP and Darcy was… at the bottom.  And in Darcy’s opinion, even with close Avengers competitors, Natasha was the absolute bomb.  

She could kill a man with her thighs.

With her THIGHS.  What even?  Natasha was amazing.  

Darcy could barely get her 10,000 steps on her fitbit per day, much less have enough thigh power to kill a person.  Natasha was kick-ass, and Darcy’s hero.

It didn’t hurt that Natasha had some form of the serum that Steve had, although in reality, hers was probably closer to the version Bucky had.  Not that Natasha ever spoke about it.  Darcy had actually stumbled across this tidbit of information one day while she was cleaning Bruce’s workspace and had casually scanned a few pages as she was organizing them and came across Natasha’s medical file.  

She hadn’t meant to spy, but it had just been right… there.  In front of her.  And she read and then a lot of things suddenly made a lot more sense to Darcy.   Like her thigh superpower.  Darcy was so jealous.

On the flip side, a very unexpected side to Natasha was that she was very… motherly, in a way that no one would ever suspect unless Natasha allowed them to see that side of her.  

Darcy had only witnessed Natasha being this way with her, Clint, Steve, and strangely Bucky… who might be the only equal to Natasha’s bad-assery, in regards to both serum and training, but he also had this very fragile, vulnerable side that popped up more often than with anyone else.  

Usually, it was Steve who noticed first when Bucky was about to lose his shit, and he dealt with it.  But, Darcy had also witnessed Natasha gently grab onto Bucky’s hand and quietly lead him away when he’d stumbled into a room full of people once, his face immediately losing all color.  

Or that other time when Steve had gone out for a run in the very early days of Bucky being home, but hadn’t told Bucky he was going or something, and Bucky had freaked the fuck out in their apartment.  Natasha, who had been drinking coffee with Darcy that morning, had been the one JARVIS had called, and the one who had caught Bucky as he was about to dash out of the tower, and somehow magically calmed him down speaking in a soft, Russian voice, before he allowed her to lead him back to his quarters.  

Oh yeah, and that one scary time Tony got slammed under water in a fight and came up having a huge PTSD moment, and Natasha had been the only one around.  She had eased him so carefully, so gently back to the present, never making mention of his red-rimmed eyes or the way he couldn’t seem to move his hand off of his chest.  Darcy had watched via intel video, scared for her friend but so, so glad Natasha had been there.  Natasha had actually tugged Tony to her, just as Tony had looked as if he was about to have a real break down, and held him close to her, like a mother would a child - so uncharacteristic of her - and weirder, watched Tony allow it, tears streaming down his face as he crumbled against her breast.  Natasha had even run her fingers through his hair, murmuring softly to him, until about half an hour later, when he’d finally gone lax against her, finally coming back to himself and the present.  

Natasha had helped him up, they’d both brushed it off, and as far as Darcy knew, never spoke of the incident again.  

But Darcy had seen it.  

Clint was fun, goofy, and the most relatable to Darcy - and Darcy loved him for it.  Perhaps it was simply because he was the most human amongst all of the avengers and she felt more of a kinship to him in that regard, but also because she knew firsthand how easily he could get hurt compared to the others, and it humanized him to her in a way the other’s would never be.  

He could also easily be her favorite person, any day of the week. 

He was fucking hilarious, and seemed to enjoy Darcy’s type of humor as well.  

They just… clicked, in a special way no one else ever had with Darcy.  He got her and she got him, and together, they were the most awesome of any pair of friends that ever was.  

Clint, on the other hand and very opposite of Darcy, was incredibly focused, protective, and even fierce when he needed to be.  What she particularly found fascinating about him was the fact that he often hid how brilliant he actually was behind a persona of being sarcastic or acting simple.  She saw right through him, though, clear as day.  She would watch others around him and be astonished when they all seemed to buy it.  Well, with the exception of Natasha, of course, who Darcy could always count on to have a gleam of amusement in her eye when she watched Clint do... well, Clint.  

Darcy had always read people well, to the point that she considered it her own personal superpower.  Not that she would ever admit it out loud considering the actual superpowers her roommates possessed.  But the way she could read body language and emotions, know whether or not someone was telling the truth?  She knew it was important enough to count as a superpower, if only privately. 

Clint hid behind different personas because he was as spy-like and ninja-like as Natasha.

The Black Widow had trained him well.  But where she could just glance at a person, read them, and create an immediate character to fit the individual, Clint’s special power was better suited by befriending people to find out their truths by acting the way that individual needed in order for them to loosen up and feel comfortable in order to get them to spill all.  Thus, making him seem very relatable.  

He was relatable to everyone, of course, in individual ways, but she liked to think especially to her.  She loved the persona he put on with her and he was easily one of her best friends; she related so much to him that it was often scary at times.  Or perhaps he simply created this particular persona based on her, which was a disturbing thought that she didn't much like to think on.  

Or maybe this was really the real Clint.  It was the not-knowing that allowed her to sleep easy at night, because she could believe what she chose to believe.  Darcy liked to think so, at least.  She couldn’t imagine how she would feel if she found out he wasn’t being real with her, and that it was all put on.

Darcy also didn’t doubt for a second that he could be just as scary as Nat.  Where Natasha was street smart, the smartest and deadliest, for that matter, Clint was actually academically brilliant.  He could do amazing maths in his head to calculate the angles of his arrows before he shot even just one.  Smart enough in those areas to rival even Tony and Bruce.  Not quite Janie level, as she was in her own kind of special genius category and truly none of them could compare.  

Darcy often laughed whenever Jane would drag Darcy up to Tony’s lab, also dragging Bruce by his purple sleeve with her, because she needed help with something.  She was stuck on some equation (and had a gum wrapper in her hair - oh Janie, what even) - and the three of them would just stare at a digital board for hours.  Usually right when Tony started unpacking hidden snacks to hand out to the crew, Janie would suddenly jump up, elated, and twirl about the room, papers flying and laughing joyously with exhilaration that she’d finally solved it before running out of Tony’s lab back to her own.   

What had Darcy laughing that time, as she'd walked around picking up the papers that had slipped from Jane’s grasp in her enthusiasm, was watching the mixture of confusion and frustration on both Tony and Bruce’s face.  They'd look at each other, look back at the equation, then go stumbling and yelling after Jane, each trying to catch up with her first to beg her to explain what the solution had been! 

What bothered her most, she mused, in regards to Steve being the one to force her into the First Aide/CPR class was the question that always lay in the back of her mind.  What were his real motives in forcing this upon her?   Was he trying to push her into the superhero club she would never truly be a part of?

She was only human, after all.  With a huge lack of know-how when it came to all things ninja and spy-worthy.  A sidekick at best, who liked to feed people, and poke at them until they gave her their attention on random things, like if she needed the oatmeal from the top shelf (who kept putting it up there?) and Thor was the only one tall enough to reach it, or when she needed to water one of her humans, but they were nose-deep in theories and quantum this and that.

Her second to last resort with Steve, and it was his fault entirely that he'd pushed her there, or as she currently referred to him as “Captain” now that he was bossing her around and being all Captain-like, who was way more serious and way less budging on things than her pal Steve, had been to simply approach him in the gym in her tightest and most borderline-inappropriate yoga outfit.  The tik-tok famous black pants combined with a matching double-lined active-wear bra, would surely do the trick as far as bribery went.  At the very least, she might be able to distract him for a few short moments to nod in agreement to her telling him she wouldn't be going to that CPR/First Aid Class because it was, ridiculously unnecessary.

He may be obliged to behave professionally, but she was not.  And besides, she looked hella hot, if she did say so herself.

As she stretched deep into a pose that made the best use of her physique, she’d used her best, most sweetest voice asking him to reconsider having to take the class because, obviously, she had him around to protect her.  His muscles were looking particularly excellent that day. 

He had given her a once over - no, make that twice, a look of appreciation he either couldn’t or just flat-out didn’t even begin to try to hide (finally) and had walked over near to her and squatted next to her, leaning in slowly, his breath hot near her cheek. 



“I know what you’re doing, sweetheart, and while I can appreciate the effort,"  She could hear the smirk in his voice, the bastard.  "It’s not gonna work, Darcy.  Not with me.  



You’re going.  And that’s final.”

What.  The.  Fuck.

She’d dropped out of her King Pigeon Pose, her mouth open in indignation, feeling completely insulted.  It hadn't worked.  

It had pissed her off but it was also so fucking hot that she didn’t even know what to do but blink owlishly up at him, laying flat on the mat, mouth dropped open from shock like a gaping fish as he gave her a slow once over as he stood, and a wink as he strolled calmly away from her - back to where he was bench pressing a bazillion pounds like it was two cans of creamed corn.  

She hadn’t been able to move a muscle. 

She had wiles, damn it!  And he hadn’t fallen for any of them.  Her ass looked amazing in these leggings!

What the hell!

Fuming, but still in the game, Darcy had begun her final attempt at simply trying to change his mind via baking.  This was her last resort, of which Clint had been fully supportive, even going so far as offering to help her - although Darcy felt his motives were more selfish in nature than supportive.  She allowed it.

She baked Steve a pie.  

The most amazing, warm, buttery, flaky, apple pie that ever existed.  Her Nana's recipe, to be exact.  A recipe she knew by heart, and one made from scratch in such a way she'd never spill the secrets to anyone else.  She's sworn an oath at the ripe old age of eleven, in her grandmother's kitchen, and she held true to her vow.  Clint, helping, stuck his finger in the corner of it and grabbed an apple slice out of it before she could stop him.  He stuck it in his mouth with an appreciative “mmm….  this is the BEST, Darce.  I need it, make me one.  Screw Steve.”



She shoved at him with her elbow, kicking him out of the kitchen, and sat down to wait.

When Steve finally came into the communal kitchen for dinner that night, she surprised him by whipping it out with flourish.  

He’d been surprised for a moment, his eyes widening as he glanced at her beaming face and then quickly narrowing, strategically - seeing right through her plight, and seeing the bribe that it so obviously was instead of something goodhearted and earnest (she’d been determined - this was war), but the bastard said nothing more than simply telling her it looked delicious.  She'd cut him a slice, scooped up a small dollop of vanilla ice cream - a la mode, voila -  and watched with determination as he took a bite.  He knew what she was doing, and she knew that he knew, and was banking on this to work in her favor.

His eyes closed on the first bite, and then opened and he stared down at the pie.  His expression went carefully blank, then distant, his eyes sad - which had confused her to no end - hello, pie!  

Why are you sad eating pie, Steve? 

She'd just stood across the island from him in silence, as he quietly ate the pie she had given him in front of her.  And when he had finished, he got up, thanked her with sincerity so sincere that she could only blink at him when he told her it was delicious and that it made him think of... home.  Way back when.  He'd stumbled a bit, telling her in less words and more expression, his voice breaking ever so slightly, in a way that made her do a double take - because it wasn’t Cap’s voice all of a sudden, and it wasn’t Steve’s - she didn’t know who this new person talking was. 



But his eyes now glued to the floor, his face pale, as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and he told her that that was the best pie he'd had in a really, really long time.  And that it had reminded him of his mom.  

His mom.  

He’d never even mentioned family to her before, or to anyone else as far as Darcy knew.

“She made a pie like that for me, once, on my birthday…” he trailed off.  “Bucky’d found apples from somewhere and brought them home, and she’d made a pie just like this, and it was so special because it was just so rare, and we didn't have anything…”

He’d stopped talking, abruptly, and hunched his shoulders in further.

Fuck.

She’d been unable to reply.  No sass coming out of her mouth.  He’d shocked her into silence and shame.

He’d said it all so quietly and then walked away, hands still stuffed in pockets, head down, and it stunned her.  

He’d ruined the whole plan by being all sad and… vulnerable… and opening up for the first time to her about his family... over the damn pie.  

Shitballs.  

She felt ashamed.

She waited a while, to give him (and her) some needed space from that unexpected heart-to-heart before trying a different tactic, meeting with him later that evening in Stark’s massive library as he perused the tall shelves for a book to pull (seriously, it put HOGWARTS to shame), asking him if he’d take a moment to speak with her. 

He acquiesced, although his shoulders were still tight and his expression shuttered.

She told him how happy it had made her that he liked the pie.  How that pie in particular was very special to her, and that it had been an old family recipe that her grandmother had taught her that she guessed she knew was from World War II, but hadn't thought about it (he clenched his fist for a short moment, she noticed) when she’d decided to make it.  That she hadn’t meant to take him down memory lane and certainly hadn’t meant to make him sad.  

His face hardened.  “I’m not sad,” he said, almost defensively.

Right.

She looked at him for a moment, trying to get a read on him - it was near impossible.  His stoicism was very good.

“You don’t use actual measurements for a pie like this,” she’d explained.  “It’s all about the feel.  And I only know what the feel is by watching my Nana make it over and over and then having me make it over and over.  I’m not sure a real recipe of this even exists anywhere, actually…” she drifted off.

“Ma cooked that way,” he said, his voice quiet.  “I guess everyone did back then.  You just used what you had, and if you were lucky, something edible would come out of it.  If you had any real talent at it, you got something delicious to eat.”  He looked sad.  “Meals were harder to come by then, too.  It’s why Bucky learned to cook with her after…”

He shook his head.

“After what?” she asked.

He leaned back in his chair, momentarily caught up in memories from the past.  

Like she was now. 

She didn’t want to die.

Don’t let the cold in.  Back to the warm kitchen.  To her friends.  Her team.  She would stay here with her memory of them and keep fighting.  They would come for her. 

They would. 

Not so long ago for him, she had guessed.  She hadn’t thought of it often; it was hard to wrap your brain around the concept of the mass loss he’d experienced.  He hid his feelings on it so well, kept them tight to the chest.  They were the kind of things her ‘superpower’ was supposed to help her see, and was this yet another way he was stronger than regular humans, the fact that he could keep this so close that she'd just... missed it? 

A deep frown had tightened his face, a strange and sudden contrast to the sadness he had worn moments ago.

“My Ma had gotten sick,” he said quietly.  “Bucky’d moved in with us to help cover the rent.”  He pushed a hand through his hair, his frustration suddenly palpable.  “I was so sick all the time - useless, really.  They both always went out of their way to make sure I was taken care of.  She taught Bucky to cook when he was over, helping care for me.

“That pie…” he trailed off.  “I remember her making that exact pie.”  

She’d felt like a horses ass and also began to embrace the feeling of total defeat.  It was just there, she on the precipice.  

“Bucky’d like a piece of this,” he’d told her, finally looking up at her.  “It’d remind him of her.”

“I could do that,” she began slowly.  She paused a moment.  God, why couldn’t she stop herself?   “Would that possibly get me out of the class?”

“No.”  His voice dull as he stood up.  She had been left alone in the library, and accepted defeat.  

And that had been that.

She’d left the pie in the refrigerator (it’s not called an icebox anymore, Steve) with a note that it was for Steve and for Bucky, if he wanted to share.

The next morning, she’d returned to the kitchen to clean up, the pie pan was clean and washed, as Clint sat, staring forlornly at it.  "Aww, pie, no..."  

A note lay next to it saying, “Of all the bribes, this was the closest to winning.  But if you’d ever like to make this pie again, Bucky and I would very much appreciate it.”

She'd brightened slightly, relief washing over her that he wouldn't stay upset with her over her attempts at bribery.  She’d felt sad for him in a way she hadn’t before.  She’d understood a new side of him, one he didn’t let many see, if any.  Bucky just… always knew - because he’d been there, living that life with Steve.  But Bucky talked even less than Steve and as curious as she’d been about SO. MANY. THINGS.  She’d actually done exceptionally well at keeping the questions to herself because it had seemed… cruel, in a way, to bring it up. 

But maybe this opened a door to where she could begin to poke at him about what things were like back then.  She didn’t want to make him sad, but it would be so fascinating to know, and who else could really tell her in a youth’s perspective of a different era?  And maybe... just maybe, it would do him some good to open up to someone.  She doubted he'd truly talked about his past to, well, anyone, based on how he'd seemingly struggled in trying to talk to her the day before.

Maybe it was the 40’s in him that made it easy for him not to give into her.  Some kind of gentlemanly long-lost gesture of male protectiveness.  He hadn’t even tried to pursue her - not once!   

Was it because she didn’t have super powers?  You aren't good enough for someone like Steve Rogers.  Don't be an idiot.

In all honesty, though, his refusal to back down had impressed her.  

She was a force of nature, and proud of it.  No man had ever stood up to her like that before, they always backed down and won... but Steve, he gave no leeway.  He’d even… opened up to her in a whole new way.  She’d seen a new side of him and...it was… 

New.

She'd liked it.    

Oh God.  She liked him.  

Until the next morning when he decided to be a complete troll.

He’d taped a post-it note to her door with the time, date, and location of the class the next morning.  With a fucking smiley face.

A smiley face, Jane.

“It won’t be that awful,” she'd promised.  “Over before you even know it.  And besides - I’ll be there too.  And I'll bring snacks!”



As if that would ever be enough.  The class was FOUR HOURS LONG.  She would die of old age.  Nothing mattered anymore. 



She had lost.

“If you are going to live in the tower, you will never know when you could need first aid survival skills,” Steve had reminded her as he walked them to the dumb class a few days later.  In his most Captain-esque voice, his blue eyes so very beautifully blue in that moment and although she’d tried to listen to what he was saying, she mostly got sucked into studying his long eyelashes - that was just unfair, how long they were… her mascara didn't do her own justice in comparison.  



Everything was unfair.

Did the serum give him super eyelashes as well as super abs?  What the shit.  

Fuck, they even matched his shirt.  Did he purposefully color code his outfits to pull out the color of his eyes?  

He probably had.  The spark in his eyes when he looked at her told her so.  Oh good, her superpower had returned in revenge.  Awesomesauce.  Which in turn made her want to roll her eyes.  

And climb him like a tree.  

And he’d been smirking at her, the bastard, through his entire speech.  

Such.  A.  Troll.

Jane had finally dragged her into the CPR classroom, Steve waving to them like the damn Queen of England as they’d entered, a triumphant grin upon his stupid, handsome face.  Darcy’d allowed it, suffering the entire time, mostly because she understood she had lost the battle.  

But already plotting because the battle was not the war.  

And... Darcy being Darcy hadn’t taken the CPR/First Aid class too seriously.  What had Steve expected from her, really?

He'd quizzed her afterwards, and she surprised both of them by actually knowing the majority of the answers.  He'd looked pleased and she'd grabbed Jane in a huff and dragged them back to the lab, mumbling about bossy old relics.  His laugh behind them had sounded like music, and she was done for.



She lived with the Avengers, for God’s sake.  When would she even need these skills?  She had Thor!  She’d tased him and had been fine.  She was bad-ass.  Thor told her so often, and she soaked it up like a plant in the sun.  And he was the God of Thunder!  Hear him roar and all that.  She liked to remind him he was supposed to roar every once in a while, just so he’d know to remember.  

He’d always just smile gently at her, similarly as a parent would a young child, but instead of it feeling condescending in nature, it always made her feel precious, and important.  She meant something to him, to all of them.  Even gorgeous, troll Steve.  She felt special amongst them.  Liked.  Loved, even.

They’d so quickly become her family.  

They weren’t here with her now, though.  She wondered what they were doing.

Maybe if she’d paid more attention to that class… maybe if she’d just listened...

In her current situation, however, it wasn’t as if she could actually use any of the skills she did remember.  Being tied up the way she was, and thrown away in a cell like a piece of garbage.  She struggled to justify herself.

She hated not being smart.

She didn’t know things like Bruce, like Jane, like Tony.  All geniuses on a level and height she would never achieve, no matter how tall her amazing heels were to give her those extra few inches and amazing calves.  

She longed to know things, had always wanted that, especially now. 

She was probably going to die here, and never get a chance to know things she should have had a chance to learn.

Even Steve and Bucky, from the 1940s, had been in World War II, and knew all kinds of first aid tricks and how to treat injuries, even ones that seemed as if they couldn’t be treated at all.  Even if everything according to them, could be treated with alcohol, ammonia, or safety pins.  

Darcy had just blinked when Steve started looking around and asking her for safety pins one day after a training session with Tony, because he needed emergency stitches in his upper arm.  

Safety pins.  

Just.  What.  

After investigating and figuring out WHY Steve needed safety pins, Darcy took it upon herself to rescue Tony from Steve’s ancient medical practices.

Tony had looked relieved and grateful when Darcy had shown up with her car keys dangling from her hand, dragging him to the hospital before Steve could “safety pin” him up.  Or something.  Whatever crazy World War II nonsense.  She’d felt bad that Steve had looked so offended, but… what could you say to the man?  The joys of modern medicine was an actual thing.  

That thought brought her crushingly back down to reality.

Darcy, personally, as a person in this moment in time -  she didn’t know anything.  She didn’t even have safety pin knowledge.  

She did, however, need a real, modern medicine doctor.  And rescue.  

And fast.

...

She was all alone.

…

Were they coming for her?

...

***

Chapter Text

***

She was slowly becoming more physically numb by the day, though her emotions were still functioning all too well.  Especially fear. 

Here in the dark she let herself be scared; fear was a tolerable torture as long as her body remained numb to the pain.  She was sure they didn’t know she treasured the times they’d actually leave her alone to shiver and whimper, her nervous system shaking out the stress of what they’d done to her.  These moments were everything to her.  The reprieve from pain for even a moment of time in which no new hurt was inflicted on her.  Time passed without consequence.  It was just space, like everything else, and she just had to exist in it, and wait.  

Because maybe together, the complete lack of mental and physical ability to feel anything at all would finally make it all stop.  And she would finally be in a place of existence where she could stop feeling the hurt and the pain and the loneliness.  

She hoped the fear was gone too, when the time came to die.  Hoped it would come as a relief to be put out of her misery.  Feelings tasted like ash in her throat, sadness morphing into anger at herself for still being capable of thought

Try as she might to stop it, her mind still worked.  She did not want to dwell on these memories, the kind of things you’d shove deep down into your subconscious if they came to you in nightmares.  This was nothing she should ever have had to face.  No-one should.   

There, in the back of her mind, constant and silent; a secret voice inside kept whispering to her that she was going to die here. 

They were going to kill her.  No one would come for her.  

She was alone.  

The first-aid-trained part of her mind insisted that hypothermia was a very real and serious possibility, something she tried desperately to deny.  Her captors didn’t seem bothered by it at all,  but Darcy knew that when limbs began feeling permanently numb, it was the first sign of confirmation that her fears were now reality.  In addition to what little she'd grasped from her First Aid Class, she’d learned all about hypothermia specifically during her obsession with the show Everest last month that she’d made Jane watch with her, both going back and forth from complete awe to utter dismay that anyone in their right mind would even attempt such a dangerous feat, knowing that death was not only a possibility, but a likely outcome, and these people still chose to go.  And the majority - the major majority - of them died.  

The symptoms weighed heavily on Darcy’s mind, and she pictured pain like that mountain; she had not chosen to climb it, but she would live or die at its will nonetheless.  She was already showing signs of slurred speech, the inability to complete full thought processes.  There was pain in her heart and chest, and a numbness that followed the constant shivering and tingling and burning sensations in her hands and feet.  

And that tiny whisper would once again make itself present, thoughts of wishing for it to all just… end.  It had crossed her mind once or twice, no... several times now in the past few… days?  Weeks?   Hours?

She didn’t know how long she’d been kept here.

But she would think on it for long moments at a time.  For it all to just go away.  For it to all just be over.  That she wanted to die.

She’d wanted it.  She’d begged for it, in her mind.  She hadn't been ready to admit it out loud just yet.  She wanted it, yet felt afraid to make it tangible - to make it absolute.

When the thoughts passed, those evil, dark thoughts, then she’d just let go, body slack with nothing left to give in defeat, and she would just sob her heart out, not out of hurt or pain, but out of pure anger and sheer frustration.  How dare her brain think such things?  

How dare it?  When she had no way of following through on her own terms, of her own volition?

All the ways she might die here - infection, bleeding out, shock - were terrifyingly slow and drawn out.  The thought of being afraid and tormented while death took her, or dying in a moment where she was begging and pleading for death to free her from the pain and agony, was too much to bear.  

She didn’t want to die wanting death.  

She didn’t want to die.

She’d always prayed that death would come to her swiftly, in her old age, in her sleep.  No pain, no suffering.  It’s what she had wanted.  She’d thought about it on plenty of nights.  When she would silently talk to God, laying in her bed before sleep took her for the night, and pray for those around her, and the ongoings in her life to keep going in her absence.  She would pray for beauty and for brilliance, for humor and for deep relationships.  She would pray for the hurt and the weak and the hungry.  



She would pray not to be left alone. 

She would pray for those kittens she’d found on the side of the street that one afternoon and after attempting to smuggle them into the tower, Tony had magically suddenly shown up out of nowhere (thanks, JARVIS) and forced her to take them to the local animal shelter.  “No.  No cats.  This is a cat-free tower.”  And he’d pointed towards the door, a serious look on his face, willfully ignoring her very pleading and pouty expression.  But because she was living in his tower, she acquiesced, with grace.  Well, she'd stomped off and had written him a very prolix and professional letter of discontent, to which Pepper promised she would formally present to Tony, when she'd stomped up to her office in righteous anger.  



The next day, a tiny, metal kitten robot had been left on her workspace desk, and it meowed at her very sweetly.  It wasn't even a sarcastic meow.  Sigh.  This was Tony apologizing.  It would even lick its paw.  Darcy fell in love with it immediately.  Even if he remained unchanged on his no cat rule in his tower.  Resolutely, she'd graciously decided to let go of her previously declared lifelong grudge against him, though in small moments, she still held it against him in secret, and retaliated by adding extra vegetables into any sweets she baked for him.  



At night, she'd still pray for the ability to forgive him fully so she wouldn't have to keep filling his cakes and cookies with peas and cauliflower, and for him to feel very, very bad about his wrongdoings against those kittens too.  

And when she was done with that, her prayers would turn to begging - pleading to God to allow her to die as an old woman in her sleep, unaware and blissfully ignorant to what was happening when the time came.  That she not know harm, or hurt.  That she would find love.  

These were the things she talked to God about in secret.

But here in the dark, where prayer seemed pointless, the thing that she kept buried the deepest inside was knowing that there was a real possibility that she was going to give up.  That in the end, the knowledge that her life truly hadn't been worth it, that she was ultimately... nothing.  So less so that she simply gave up in the end.  That thought terrified her into living through more than she could even have imagined in her darkest of nightmare, day after day.  



Her life wasn't nothing.  She wasn't nothing.

She was naive, holding on to the hope that they would come.

Because they hadn’t.  And it had been a long time now.  

As quickly as the thought entered her mind, she would shove it down hard, pissed as hell at herself for allowing the thought to even cross her mind in the first place.    

Oh, God, please let them come for me.

They would.  She knew it.

They would come for her - she believed it wholeheartedly.  

There was no way they wouldn’t come.  They loved her and she loved them.  



Janie would never leave her here.

She told herself this over and over again.  She had to believe, she had to hope.  There was nothing else.  

She had nothing else.

But…with each passing day when they still hadn’t shown, hadn’t come for her, and with her tormentors growing more vicious by the day, those whispers of doubt grew louder and stronger. That terrible fear that maybe they wouldn’t come for her… it broke her down, and little by little, she began to believe they would not.  

The seed of doubt had been planted, and there was nothing she could do but watch it grow.

Those awful, ugly thoughts became harder to shove down deep with each passing moment.

Still, she held on fiercely for rescue.  Or at least the idea of rescue.  Darcy was a fighter, she wouldn’t give up.  

Natasha had told her so, playfully once, when she’d snuck up around her and Darcy had swung a frying pan at Natasha’s head in fright - a reflex she hadn’t known she had.  Luckily, Natasha was the most beautiful spy ninja badass that ever lived, and had easily ducked out of the way, laughing as if it had all great fun.  But she’d lifted an eyebrow of approval and had told Darcy she was a fighter, a small, yet serious grin etched across on her face.

Darcy had played it off at the time, but she’d secretly danced around in joy from that comment for days following.  

She couldn’t give up.  She had to remain strong.  She would fight.

She kept this mantra running through her mind constantly, both in the quiet pauses when they would finally leave her alone for a little while, or during the terrible moments when she would cry out and scream in terror and pain, writhing and desperate for it to all just stop.  And she would tell herself the same thing, over and over again.  

Stay strong, Darcy.  Stay strong.  Don’t think about it.  Ignore it.  They don’t matter.  Keep fighting.  Stay strong.  Don’t let them get to you.

How long had she been here?   

The last few days, they had finally gotten to her on a much deeper level in a new and cruel way that Darcy herself hadn't been able to imagine.  Their torment reached new heights and her body survived more than she could mentally hold on to, and she had felt herself break on the inside.

Like a whip, like a thunderclap - it crushed her physically, the break.  The single moment when she realized she wasn’t brave anymore, and she began to know and understand that they weren’t going to come for her.  Her strong mental blocks had finally collapsed, a heap of bricks crumbled on the ground instead of the wall they’d been before.   

And she’d finally cried, and for the first time, it wasn't from physical pain.  She’d absolutely wept.  She’d heaved, and gasped, fat, ugly, angry tears, had coursed down her cheeks, and she’d been unable to wipe them away.

So much more than the frightened tears of those first few days when they mostly left her alone.  No, this time she’d really, truly lost it, losing all hope, left all alone, tied up and cold.  

...

The things those men had done to her.  

...

No one would ever know.  

She didn’t think she could ever tell, even if someone did come for her.  Even if she actually were ever rescued.  What could she possibly say, if it came to that?          

They aren’t coming for you, the voice reminded her again, hushed and dark.

God, her skin burned, it itched and it ached.  At times it was all she could think about, the constant itching, the agony of not being able to scratch and scratch.  She wanted to tear her hair out, and would have done if only she could move.

She wanted to scream, but she didn’t, she couldn’t, out of fear of what it would cause them to then do.  They would come back if she screamed.  They would open that door, and pain would follow.  Every time.

She had become terrified of that door, and what lay behind it.

They would drag her out, kicking and screaming, by the chains, by her hair, by her broken leg; it mattered little to them.

She'd kept silent as best she could, refusing to give them the enjoyment they got from her suffering.  But holding that silence meant the tension in her chest tightening until she was gasping for breath in the dark. 

Blinking hard, she felt her tears burn as they spilled down her cheeks, the salt irritating the blisters and cuts as they rolled down her skin.  

The room they kept her in was practically pitch black, the only exception being the small rectangular window at the very top of the cell on the right hand corner.  Darcy could see it in her side-eye if she turned her head to the extreme, but doing so caused such agony to her neck and shoulders that she just glanced that way every so often, a safety net of sorts, if only to see the outside sky.  It was never sunny, the room was never bright, but it also didn’t rain constantly either.  

She'd blinked again, eyes straining to focus on something, anything in the dark, but there was not much she could see.  Nighttime, then, she'd thought.  No light meant the sun had gone down fully for the evening and it was going to get colder for the next eight to twelve hours. 

When there was light that filtered in, it always seemed foreboding, cloudy and muddled, and rarely was it anything as bright as sunshine.  It looked about 2 foot square, as far as Darcy could figure from down here, and if she was free of these chains and had any strength or energy left, hadn’t been bruised and beaten and worse...she still wouldn’t have been able to shimmy up the concrete wall high enough to reach it.

But the window was there, and the thought of outside being present eased some tension in her body somehow.  An opening, the possibility of freedom, life.  It represented hope to her, that it was there every time she was brought back to the cell.  It had become a relief to see, an old friend, a welcome peace.  The knowledge that the pain and suffering was going to pause at least for a little while. The light it let in was muddy, but safer than the brightness that lay beyond the door.  

They would bring her back here, slam the door closed behind her, and she could breathe again.  Her breath and her body, shaky and unbalanced, but momentarily safe as her captors walked away.  Closed doors and alone meant she was intact for the time being.  



Until someone opened the door.

...

Breathing, however, had become a very serious issue as of late.  ‘Shaky’ didn’t begin to cover it, and Darcy battled for breath in her current bound position.  The wheezing and rattling in her chest had been ongoing for the last several days, worsening each cold night.  It was bad.  Really, really bad.

She needed a doctor.  

It was as if something heavy was seated across her chest, pressing tightly against her.  Even bound in a seated position as she was now, she gasped for breath like she was drowning, an unknown force pulling her down.  It felt like gravity itself had tied a hangman’s knot around her lungs and throat, tightening each day until the act of breathing exhausted her in every conscious moment.

Each breath took every ounce of her remaining will.  To inhale and exhale shallowly and slowly, trying not to wake the rattling infection in her lungs.  When she breathed too hard, she shook with deep, wet coughs that made her choke and gag, cough up… something horrible, and she was glad she couldn't see it.  Pain came with it, shocking her as it cut through her chest.

She longed to clutch at her chest where the rattling made it ache, to see if the pressure would relieve any of it.  But they’d tied her hands behind her this time, and that, mixed with the collar around her neck tied only a few inches from the wall kept her head facing forwards.  Her body sagged towards the cold ground, the collar dug into her neck, and her bound hands pushed her chest forward, straining it further.

It felt like it was getting colder.  She wasn’t sure anymore if it was the air coming in through the tiny window that was actually getting cooler, or if the loss of blood had become too great and finally lowered her temperature too far, possibly leading to hypothermia.  It terrified her to think she might be experiencing the beginnings of it.  

Her heart hurt worst when she panicked, not that she could help it much, the wild drumming of it leaving her certain she was on the precipice of heart failure.  But it kept pumping.  Erratically at times, but life continued to pump through her veins. 

She couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

She felt around her, or at least tried to with her bloody and broken fingertips.  Her smashed hands tried and failed to map the edges of the hard metal cuffs that bound her so tightly.  As painful as it was, if she reached out just enough, she could trace the lines in the cement blocks that made up the wall behind her, cold, and impenetrable.  Knowledge is power, she thought to herself, and she would take any scrap of either. 

The cuffs hung heavy on her wrists, feeling almost like a part of her now.  They’d come up with these, and the matching collar, some days into her captivity.  She couldn’t picture herself like this, shackled and chained, couldn’t process what they’d put her through.  The memory replayed in her mind, fragments of detail burning vividly.  She worked to push it down, the knowledge of when these weights were added to her.  But her memories were all she had here, and they repeated until she couldn’t deny it anymore. 

They, those men, had stared at her for too long, with their creepy grins and narrowed eyes.  They’d enjoyed watching her become more and more frightened before they even laid a hand on her.  She hadn’t learned yet that stillness and silence would serve her better than instinctual terror.

It physically pained her, her chest burned, to remember that particular day when they’d decided to hold her down, struggling and desperate to get away, and weld the metal cuffs and collar to her body.  They’d treated her like a feral animal, held by the scruff of the neck.  She could still smell her burning flesh, and it made her gag to remember.  

The weight of the metal, the bright sparks of the welding torch, the dirty rag they’d shoved into her mouth to gag her and keep her screaming to a minimum…

She hadn’t once lost consciousness.  

She remembered every single, horrific moment.  

...

They used the bindings to tie her in a terrible new position every time.  At their whim she was held down, or hung high from her cold, bloody wrists, toes barely able to touch the floor to keep her bones from breaking. 

She was there long enough to go mercifully numb, sometimes, from the lack of blood and the shock.  Then, when they yanked her down and bound her hands behind her, or beneath her, the prickling pain of blood rushing back into her fingers was a wave of agony, and all she could do was scream. 

And they would laugh as she writhed around in agony, getting off on her grunts of pain, her muffled shrieks and tears.     

She was tied too closely to the wall this time, particularly by the neck.  The more painful the position, the less peace she had from her other external and internal injuries.  She couldn’t believe how long she’d lasted thus far, if she was honest with herself.  Some of the things they had done to her, she’d been sure would kill her.  Every time she regained consciousness, the injuries were not nearly as bad as she expected. The downside, of course, was that the better she held up under their treatment, the more they pushed her past what she thought her limits were.

She survived.  She persevered.  She would awaken healed where she could have sworn she’d been stabbed.  Hallucinations must have set in deeply, and she shook with fear at being unable to  tell the difference between reality and fiction.

She was going insane, then.  On top of dying. 

Maybe she was having nightmares within a nightmare, hallucinating more horror than she had actually experienced. 

Again and again.  

How else could she explain it?  She’d experienced torture that had left its physical mark, only to wake up, sticky with dried blood but little to no wound.  Had her body simply become oversensitive all this time?  She really thought it would have been the other way around - that she would have built up some physical immunity to the pain to help block it out in some way…but no.  It felt fresh each time.

And she felt the multiple coats of dried blood to her skin as if she’d dunked herself in a mud bath, gotten out, let it dry and crack and crumble, only to jump back in.

But it wasn’t mud.  She knew the deep iron scent of blood, and she remembered the wounds.  But now that pain was a memory, and only the blood was left. 

She didn’t think she was imagining it.  But what did she know?   She was insane and alone.

And why?   What had she done to be kidnapped in the first place?  

She’d cried in the beginning, out of her mind with fear, her clothes soaked through, wet and cold.  They’d tortured her for information, and when they realized she didn’t know much about any of the Avengers other than their personal preferences, had moved on to spite. Now it seemed like they had a new intent behind them, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on.  

“What’s your name?” they’d shouted at her, repeatedly.  “Tell us your real name!”  And she had told them, over and over, the same thing.  Darcy.  Darcy Lewis.  Darcy Lewis.  No matter how many times she said it, shouted it, cried it out - they continued to beat her every time she answered the question.  Who else was she supposed to be?  Hearing her name from her own lips made her cringe now, and when one of her tormentors said it, she flinched away.

She’d finally broken down and cried, “Who do you want me to be?  I’ll be that person!”  She’d never forget the sneers she received that day, and the brutal punishment that followed.  

It had made her hate her name.

...

They’d taken her, done their terrible things to her, and shackled her back to the wall in her cell.

She was able to shift her body around a little bit before the chain connecting to her collar went taut.  Gripped by a desperate urge, she pushed away from the wall with all her might, throwing her shoulders into the move.  She’d tried this before, countless times.  All it did was leave her choking, the cold metal jerking her to a stop and pressing into her bloody neck to cut off her air.  She eased back to catch her breath, and pulled on the chains attached to her wrists.  She was too weak to even lift them.  They wouldn’t budge from the floor, let alone where they were anchored in the wall. 

At least they had left her sitting down this time.  Bare-assed on an icy wet floor wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, but she knew they could do much worse if the mood struck them. 

After one session when she had done something to particularly displease them, they’d hung her from her wrists so high that she could barely touch the ground.  She’d stretched out, able to press up just enough from her big toes to gain a few moments reprieve from the agony in her wrists.  Then her muscles protested the strain, her toes lost their grip, and she swung in agony for as long as it took her to regain her tenuous contact with the ground.

That had been the day the shooting pains had begun, all the way down her arm and neck and leg.  Those pains were a constant misery, and didn’t fade into the background like the cuts and bruises did when she could avoid bumping them.  Stinging lightning under her skin.  Probably nerve damage.  The numbness in her hands was further evidence of this.  She couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She still told herself, they will come. They won’t have forgotten you - they are out looking right now.  They are coming for you.  Stay strong.  Be brave.  Don’t lose hope.  It will all be over soon.

Her lower lip trembled.  Her mind recited the words like the prayers she had made at the start, but she didn’t believe them any more.  Except that it would definitely be over soon.  One way or another.

The effort of trying to pull away from the wall had opened wounds on her neck, old infections and new scabs alike.  The two halves of the collar connected at the side with what felt like huge bolts, and the heads of them dug into her shoulders when her head lolled to the side.  The seams of it pinched and bit at her neck, just as the cuffs did on her half-numb wrists.  She could smell - almost taste - the metallic bitterness of it in the air.  Or maybe that was the blood. 

After they’d first attached them, she’d felt something coursing down her neck, down her back and shoulders.  At first, she’d thought water was dripping from the ceiling and running down her back.  It was warm, though, and she hadn’t felt warmth of any kind since her kidnapping.  The realization that it wasn’t water, but blood - her blood - had frightened her in a whole new way.  

Blood.  The word echoed through her body, her mind, the sheer inability to acknowledge that she was just…bleeding.  Bleeding out.  Every movement made her wounds worse, brought a fresh flood of warmth that cooled and dried and left her weaker.

Here, now, in this relatively easy position, she did her best to imitate a statue. She knew she had to stop moving, but she shook so constantly now.  From cold, from fright, from malnutrition, from dehydration, from infection, or from blood loss.  Hell, maybe all of them at once.  She couldn’t make herself stop. 

Was this shock?  Was she in shock?  Going into shock?

The chain clinked against the wall suddenly, and she twisted violently, instinctively away from it, waking more pain.  Her chattering teeth shook her body, and the shakes inflamed her nausea. How she hadn’t cracked a tooth or choked on her own vomit yet was a wonder.  

Her left arm hurt, badly, and she turned her head before she could stop herself.  It was pointless trying to see anything in the darkness, and all she got for her trouble was a sharp pain from her blistered neck, and more blood.

Fuck.  Fuck everything.

But the moon was bright this night and she could gradually see a little better than usual.

She wished they hadn’t broken her glasses.  One of the goons had shattered them when he backhanded her face, and she was glad that none of the glass had cut her eyes. 

See, there were silver linings.  She had to just find them to focus on them.

Her neck was definitely bleeding again.  She cursed internally as she felt the slow seep of blood run down her front, covering her chest and stomach like a scene from a horror movie.  What was that one again with the girl at the prom?  Carrie?  She’d never enjoyed horror films and this reality was the exact reason why.  Blood is gross.  Making a spectacle of it for entertainment even more so.

As her eyes adjusted, she could see tiny dots of blood on her left bicep. 

If she squinted hard enough against the dark, she thought she could make out two, no…make that three needle pricks in her arm where little dots of blood had dried.  The I.V. had gone into her hand, and they’d have taken blood from there or from her elbow, so they must have injected her with something.  What had they given her?  When?  She couldn’t remember.  Had she blacked out?  

Dizziness washed over her, and her vision blurred.  She felt like she had with that terrible ear infection last year.  Lying in bed with the spins, worse than the most drunken sleep she’d ever experienced, eyes closed and unmoving, stomach betraying her by believing her body was spiraling instead of laying still.  It was weird to feel that now, because she hadn’t even been moving.  She couldn’t move if she tried.  So why did it feel like she was on one of those playground sit-n-spins lying down and watching the sky go round and round?  It was different though.  Her eyes couldn’t decide if the walls were moving or she was, but she felt...off. 



Was this delirium?  Did she have a fever? 

The churning of her stomach intensified.  She was going to be sick.  Which was very bad because she hadn’t had food in such a long time, and she didn’t want to lose whatever it was that was in her that was keeping her alive.  Can you vomit things you’ve ingested from an I.V? 

They had to come for her.  She could wait.  Stay strong.  Dearheart.  Her Nana had called her Dearheart.  Stay strong.  

Her head pounded and her shoulders stayed in tight anxious knots.  She was breathing too quickly, in shallow pants, and oh, it hurt so badly to breathe.  

She was afraid to sleep.  She was afraid to stay awake.  

Time didn’t mean what it used to.  Hours, minutes, even days had no meaning.  Each period of consciousness lingered, and then kept going, until it could have been an afternoon or a week. She marked their passage by her pleas and prayers and tears.  The pain and thirst were constant, punctuated by the worsening breathing and each new wound.  She couldn’t tell time, but she knew she was running out of it. 

Darcy was exhausted, lost, and alone.  She faced forwards again, her mangled neck protesting, and scrunched up her face as she tried to remember what had happened.  From the beginning.

Somewhere, in the distance, something exploded.

***

Chapter Text

***

Darcy had been walking down the street in Manhattan, carrying a bag filled with popcorn and junk food for movie night with the group, along with two coffees: one heavily sugared caramel drink that probably had more milk than coffee in it for Jane, and one plain iced coffee for herself.  She liked junk food as much as the next person, but coffee was special.  Something to be savored for its savoriness.  You had to appreciate a good coffee like you would a fine wine.  And besides, Darcy would rather eat her calories opposed to drinking them.

She had taken a sip of hers and smiled indulgently - it was going to be the best night.  It needed to be after the day they’d just had.  She’d needed to escape and breathe after what just went down.  She was still shaking slightly, an uncomfortable ball of anxiety now sat on her chest.  Sure, sometimes the science discussions and arguments got heated.  Most of the time, Darcy enjoyed sitting on the sidelines with a bag of popcorn, eyes vollying back and forth between the crazy scientists as they went into lengthy, prolix, passionate discussions about this and that until they either came to an agreement or all stomped away needing space from each other until something new was discovered.  

She didn’t want to think about the argument Tony, Bruce, and Jane had just had.  Nope.  It had been bad.  Very bad.  Jane had needed some space.  Tony and Bruce had needed space.  Darcy didn’t want to spiral and stress about it.  She was going to focus on the fun they would have this evening.  And they would have FUN.  Even if she had to drag Jane kicking and screaming into it.  She’d brightened just thinking about it.  Darcy always looked forward to group movie night each week.  They took turns choosing a film each week.  

Jane had always been the easiest when trying to choose because she had no preference or opinion in what they watched.  She literally didn’t care.  The popcorn excited her more than what they were watching, more often than not.  She could see a movie three times and it would be a brand new movie the fourth time for her all over again.  Films never held her attention, her mind inevitibly drifting to science, distracting her from whatever plot was supposed to be capturing her attention.  Of course, the negative side to watching movies with Jane meant that every twenty minutes or so she’d tune back in and interrupt, asking,  “Who’s that,” and “Why are they doing that,” annoying the rest of the group.  The worst was when she started picking apart the science in a movie.  Bruce would join in, of course, and the two of them would get in the way as they pointed at the screen and hypothesized how it could be possible.  

Why are they doing this to me?

Darcy would give Jane her best displeased frown because she’d been trying to watch the movie, to which Jane couldn’t even be bothered to care about, and then Tony would look up from whatever he’d been working on on his Starkphone and start joining in on the space-time continuum conversation and what they would need to build in order to actually make a machine that would go through a wormhole.  Good GOD, it annoyed Darcy to no end.  They’d keep at it until Clint would start hitting them square in the forehead with popcorn, one followed by another, until Natasha would join in.  That always made Tony declare war and somehow the movie would magically get paused while the group got into a popcorn fighting war, hiding behind couches and ducking behind pillars.  This went on until everyone was completely out of popcorn, at which point Clint would look around sadly and say, “Aww, popcorn, no…”

Natasha would shun Jane and Tony out of the room, leaving Bruce alone because, well… you know.  Bruce would quiet down immediately, unpause the movie for everyone, and turn on Tony’s cute little StarkVac to clean up the mess while everyone else piled back on the couches to finish the film.

In Darcy’s opinion, the movie made complete scientific sense.  She felt sad that Jane and Tony just couldn’t appreciate fictional science; in her mind, it didn’t matter.  Science changed so fast - just look at the people sharing the couch - that maybe it’d be true enough tomorrow.

Well, Jane and Tony, she supposed, would know what science was actually in the realm of possibility.  And Bruce.  And probably Clint.  And Thor.  Although Thor always remained silent when Jane and Tony (and Bruce) would get into what was fact and what was fiction and what could be and what was impossible.  He’d watch with wise eyes and a small smirk, giving nothing away and also, never allowing them the opportunity to ask.  "The secrets of the universe are wide and varied," was all that he would usually contribute, leaving Jane, Tony, and Bruce open mouthed and hilariously slightly offended that he both wouldn't tell them all he knew, but shocked once again on the fact that they tended to forget on a too-regular basis that Thor was thousands of years old, and a god, and that they had an actual living reference guide amongst their midst who refused to participate in sharing his wealth of knowledge.  Darcy found this exceedingly hilarious, especially since he was literally right there, most of the time, and the three smartest people in the world, couldn't seem to remember something so blatantly obvious and staring them right in the face.  Literally.



Darcy knew Thor well enough that while he was playful and silly, he also kept important knowledge and secrets of the universe very close to the chest, allowing humanity it's freedoms to explore the universe to the best of their current science and technology.  He didn't ever let on that he knew more than what was currently being discovered, which irked Jane the most, because like Darcy, she also knew when Thor was holding back - not that she could get him to spill anything on it.  It was one of the very small things he let people in on, at least, when you were in his close circle.  He would allow you to at least read in him that he knew more that he wasn't saying, without saying anything or giving anything away. 



It was humbling as much as it was annoying, in everyone's opinion.  



The movies always held his attention, though, and he marveled at every one, every time, despite the ridiculousness of the story-line, calling them truly, uniquely, human.  He always had so much affection for the population, like a child's wide-eyed amazement in looking into an aquarium for the first time and seeing a world they'd never experienced before.  Not that Thor looked at the human race as one would look into a fish-bowl.  It wasn't like Thor sprinkled fish food on us.  Okay, Darcy could admit.  Perhaps that was a super-weird analogy and slightly creepy.  Her line of thought was getting weirder by the moment.  Time to stop that train.  Her brain was weird sometimes and she was big enough to admit it.

Steve was working through all of the Oscar winners for best picture from each year he'd missed out on since he’d been in the ice.  He looked at movie nights as more self-education on the 70 years he’d missed.  He usually took notes during the movie and then held a briefing following the movie, asking questions like, “what cultural influences went into this picture ,” and, “what kind of other pictures did this director make?”  



The group collectively would groan and moan and tell him to just shut up and enjoy a movie for the blatant bit of entertainment it provided, that not everything had a deeper context than simply a storytelling on screen.

“Besides, we call ‘em movies now, Cap,” Tony would cut in, enjoying the blush that crept up Steve’s cheeks.  

***

His face got so warm when he blushed.

Remember warm?

***

Natasha preferred foreign films with subtitles, despite Clint’s constant shit-talking commentary, in which he claimed she didn’t even need the subtitles on because she speaks all the languages.  Her choice in movies often times included naked women and men, in various sexual positions, much to the widened eyes of the men in the room with the exception of Thor and Bruce, which Darcy noted as ... interesting.  There were slightly risqué porn-like scenes that Darcy felt should make Steve blush to his roots, but again, weirdly, he did not.  Steve was uncharacteristically open when it came to all things art, and also, Darcy noted interestingly, sexual content, to which Natasha apparently approved of his blatant appreciation of the nude human form in all its artistic glory instead of simply enjoying naked bodies writhing together like Tony and Clint, who usually elbowed one another like idiot teen boys, enjoying it for all of the wrong reasons.  Pepper would roll her eyes and go back to her book, as she found Natasha's choices dull and boring but still wanted to be around everyone, or whatever had distracted her from the movie as she simply leaned in and cuddled into Tony, ignoring him in her own unique, fond way.  Darcy found it most amusing that almost every single one of Natasha's films included lots of heavy smoking, weirdly.  



"Who even smokes anymore?" Darcy complained.  



"Friends don't let friends lung cancer," Jane responded.



Steve just tilted his head slightly towards Tony of all people, a strange expression on his face, but didn't say anything in response.  Tony ignored them, scrolling through something on his Starkpad.



No one was ever exactly sure if Clint was serious about Natasha speaking all the languages, but assumed he was probably telling the truth.  Natasha, unsurprisingly, didn’t indicate one way or another whether he was correct or not.  Clint actually pleaded once that they turn the subtitles off and simply make up their own dialogue.  Natasha, for once, had actually been deeply offended, and gave Clint an evil eye, to which Clint did not feel threatened by in the slightest, but the rest of the team had caught on quickly to this new theme, muted the movie, and had fallen over laughing trying to guess the plot and dialogue. 

Darcy had loved that night.  She lived for that shit.  Easily why Clint was one of her most favorite people.

Clint, weirdly enough, loved old westerns, and didn't care that everyone groaned, slightly horrified, when it was his turn to choose.  They could all quote several John Wayne movies now, and found themselves doing so in spite of their complaints about the genre.  The best consequence of his terrible taste in entertainment was the rest of the week taking on a cowboy theme.  They had breakfast shootouts with their Nerf guns over the last packet of pop-tarts, which soon devolved into all-out war, and by the end of the week everyone was wearing cowboy hats and drinking moonshine.  No matter how many times Pepper found and decommissioned the still, there was always more moonshine.  Darcy had simply loved the excuse to finally get to wear her beautifully embroidered cowboy boots that she'd picked up in New Mexico.  Jane told her they made her legs look longer, and thus, Darcy wore short skirts so that others could appreciate her elongated cowgirl legs.  She liked how Steve tended to linger on her boots.  He probably like the design on them or something.  He could be also staring at her legs, but that was a farfetched fantasy, so it was probably the boots he admired.  

Bruce favored documentaries, where they all wound up learning something, a confused feeling that they didn't expect when he named his choice for the evening.  Tony didn’t mind these; sometimes he’d be struck by inspiration, and Bruce would make the team pause the commentary while he and Tony worked out the details of how to make something work and put a plan in action.  It usually ended with Tony glancing up at Pepper and saying something like, "Pep - make that happen," and her responding with something along the lines of, "Tony, that's expensive," and him raising an eyebrow and responding by just waving a hand around his body to indicate that yes, but hello - rich billionaire here and I can do what I want.  Tony had all the sass and Darcy lived for it.  



Sometimes, though, the documentary they were watching had to be paused so Steve could stomp around or take a run, or just escape to the gym to punch things for a while, like when they watched the one about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, and he became so impassioned and angry that he literally could not sit still on a couch even if they all sat on him.  

Tony’s action movies always had lots of things constantly exploding, including the main hero.  Somehow they always pulled through in the end, even as the group collectively tore those plots to shreds and critiqued every unbelievable move and ridiculous fight scene.  Natasha and Clint had even reenacted some, falling over in giggles at the impossibility of them.  Well, Clint would fall over in giggles while Natasha simply quirked an eyebrow looking amused - but Darcy knew that basically meant Natasha found the whole thing as hilarious as the rest of them.   

It had been Thor’s turn to choose that week, and Darcy always found his choice in movies hysterical.  He had a thing for romantic ones, claiming they helped him to better understand his relationship with Jane.  That had Darcy rolling her eyes, because seriously, Jane was hardly the epitome of feminine wiles and romantic leading ladies.  Darcy felt it her duty to point out problematic tropes, and Thor would argue that plays and players are there for idealised stereotypes and not realism, debating art imitating life and vice versa, comparing the cultural differences between both Asgardian and Midgardian drama.  He had chosen The Notebook last time, and Jane had given him tissues throughout the entire movie, the big sap.  They’d gone through the entire box together.  Such a big, powerful guy, who melted at kiss scenes in rom-coms.  And then he’d taken Jane outside (and everyone else followed, intrigued by his sudden dragging of his girlfriend outdoors before the movie had ended), made it rain, and reenacted the most amazing kiss scene a movie has ever had.  It was hot.  Darcy wasn’t remotely afraid to voice her jealousy, even going so far as looking over at Steve and winking as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and fought to keep his face neutral.    

Bucky hadn’t paid any attention to Thor and Jane, or Steve, or anybody really. His attention had been focused on the sky, the cracks of lightning followed by the grumbling, growing, booming of thunder.  He was fascinated by Thor’s power to make it rain.  Darcy often forgot how much he loved being outdoors.  His normal scowl wouldn’t look happy, per se, but an air of peace settled over his whole body when he looked up at an endless blue summer sky.  Moments like this worked too, even with the sky covered in dark clouds, only the moon peeking through now and then to light the rain as it fell down over them.

***

Shivering, freezing...the rough wet towel on skin...water pouring down, every breath choked off...

Please Thor, please!



***

Tony could never make it beyond the first tear rolling down Thor’s cheek.  He’d get up, grumbling, and wander off to top up his adult beverage before heading down to the garage or workshop.  Pepper would then sigh, and eventually unfold her long elegant legs to follow him.  Even with his own film choices, he just couldn’t sit still.  His leg twitched and rocked, fingers strummed against his it.  Pepper would always lovingly cover his hand with hers, and his face would soften, and he would stop twitching and focus on her lovingly for a long moment before jumping up to refill his drink, offering one to everyone around him.  Pepper would just sigh again, with a slightly exasperated, small grin on her face.

Come to think of it, though, Darcy had yet to see Tony finish a movie period.  Huh.  She would have to work on that.  Bribe him somehow, maybe.  Or tie him down.  Ha.  He'd love that.  Darcy smirked to herself. But, no… best leave that kind of thing to Pepper. 

***

Tied up, held down, don’t move don’t think.   Just do as you’re told, Pet.    

***

Clint and Natasha always waited for them to leave before moving from their chosen place on the floor to the comfort of the now-empty couch.  Clint leaned against Natasha, arm draped over her, always pulling her in close, somehow cuddling like a couple, when they couldn’t be farther from it.  Natasha even rubbed her fingers through Clint’s hair and neck, and Darcy always liked to watch Clint come down from his on-edge persona to almost purring in contentment and relaxation from Natasha’s touch.  He really was just a big cat.  Darcy had wondered if she should invest in one of those laser pointers that cats enjoyed so much.  Clint would probably love trying to hit the laser targets with his arrows.  Darcy knew she'd at least get a kick out of it.  

Sometimes Thor and Jane chose the floor as well, which was perfect for Darcy, who could then watch them adoringly without them knowing.  Last week, she had squinted down at Jane’s hair. Had Janie even showered that week?  The piece of blueberry poptart stuck in her hair pointed towards a great big ‘nope’. 

That could have been from breakfast or dinner, possibly even from yesterday or the day before; when she was in full SCIENCE mode, she only ate what was easily grabbable and most of the time it was processed, unhealthy junk.  

When Jane turned to the side, Darcy had seen dark circles the size of New Mexico under her eyes.  They must have been hidden by the goggles she wore in the lab; she’d had them on 24/7 while looking into that new laser doohicky machine thing she’d made last week.  What it was for, Darcy had no idea, but they’d apparently been essential if she didn’t want to go blind helping Jane tear apart the laser-y innards of the thing and duct taping it into a better configuration.  So, no sleep, no shower, no dietary balance.  

Darcy’s work was cut out for her.

Cuts down her side, blood running down slow and thick as molasses.  They scream another question at her, and when she has no answers they give the knife another turn.  

Darcy had confronted her about it post-movie, and made her promise to eat something from a major food group at each meal.  It wasn’t hard; one threat of home-baked spinach poptarts was enough to have Jane laughing, but falling in line.  Bringing the obscenely sugary pop-tarts was one thing, but she wasn’t about to have someone she loved fainting or becoming ill from her inability to prioritize body functional needs over SCIENCE.  

Jane was just lucky Thor didn’t seem to mind the love of his life being a bit feral, Darcy mused.  He just looked into her eyes, smitten, and pulled her in for huge, man-handling and often inappropriate groping-esque cuddles.  Luckily, Jane was singled out for those specific romantic cuddles.  

Thor was the second BEST cuddler, even Darcy had to admit.  She could prove it, she had the data; a list of rankings, updated weekly, and posted to her fridge with a huge yellow duckling magnet.  In any other home she could have been accused of calling attention to the list by securing it under such a brightly coloured and distinctive tchotchke, but her apartment was full of equally gaudy decor.  It was a little Museum Of Darcy, full of history and memory and just an overwhelming sense of home. 

She had moved every six months, following poorly paid internships around the country until Jane recognized her excellence and latched onto her permanently, she had carried the duckling magnet with her.  And now that her home was here, in her first permanent location, her other exhibits collected from various travels, memories, and special things held onto since childhood, finally unpacked.  The hug rankings list had even become a permanent addition to the collection, amongst other things.  She read it when she was alone and needed to feel the comfort Thor offered so readily, as last week, he'd been ranked number one.  Warm like the air before a summer thunderstorm, his thick, strong arms were as talented at holding his family gently as they were smashing in the faces of his enemies.

Darcy watched him kiss the top of Jane’s head, frown slightly, and lick his lips.  She’d smirked gleefully at that; apparently all you had to do to baffle a god was make yourself taste like blueberries.  

Darcy secretly loved Pepper’s choice of movie nights the best.  Pepper had a thing for Disney movies, and Darcy always encouraged everyone around her to sing along with every song.  Tony full-stop, refused to participate, the loser, while Steve tried, bless him, but he couldn't carry a tune if his shield depended on it.  Darcy always had a soft spot for old movies from the 40s and 50s, specifically and particularly, musicals.  They made her think of her grandmother, in a happy/sad nostalgic sort of way.  

Steve, of course, enjoyed them immensely, which she should have expected, but had been pleasantly surprised by it nonetheless.  It was nice to share something that meant so much to her, with him.  She’d tried to reciprocate his inquiries about modern films by asking questions about what it was like to go to the ‘pictures’ when he was a kid, but he’d been weirdly reluctant to speak about his past.  It wasn't just with her, though - in general, he kept his past buckled down tight.  He was happy enough to talk about the films, but not the life of the Steve Rogers who had watched them.  In fact, he was almost strategically evasive about any questions directed specifically to his past, or Bucky's.  

She wasn’t the type to push when she knew how serious someone was about not talking about certain things.  So she knew when to stop when he started only answering certain parts of her questionings, and not the entirety of them, if they had to do specifically with his life back then.  His careful responses sidestepping with gentleness a subject that obviously made him extremely uncomfortable, and so Darcy immediately eased off making him relive anything he wasn't ready to discuss.

Those movies usually drew even Bucky’s attention to the screen instead of the wall.  There wouldn’t be much of a reaction from him during movie night, usually crossed ankles and arms.  But when Darcy’s questioning turned towards things “back then,” he would shuffle closer to Steve, not leaning on him exactly, but somehow offering or taking bodily support the more Steve stiffened under Darcy’s earlier unassuming inquiries.  Of course, as soon as Darcy read Steve’s body language and the fact that not only she noticed, but Bucky as well, her dialogue would reach an abrupt stop and she’d grab a huge handful of popcorn, shove it in her mouth, and focus back on the movie - even if she’d stop mid-question.  Steve, nor Bucky, ever commented on it, but Steve would relax slowly, inch by inch, if Darcy’s focus remained off of his former life.  Bucky wouldn’t move away from Steve until the movie ended and then they would all go back to their quarters.  This was always the saddest part of the night for Darcy, as she loved the group gatherings and always hated going back to her rooms alone, when it seemed most of the others had someone with them to go home with.



***

Alone here in this cell.  Alone for so long.  No one is coming for her.     
 


***

Bruce always sat near the group, often at the kitchen table with a book.  Never quite with the group - always a step or seat away.  He claimed he couldn’t focus on just one form of entertainment at a time.  She watched his attention drift from the page to the screen, absorbing the current scene before turning back to the text.  Darcy was glad he tried to be social, but it was obvious from his fidgeting that he just couldn’t just relax and be for an evening.  Still, she appreciated his presence and efforts.  She always made sure he had a bowl of popcorn on the table, along with a fresh mug of hot tea.  He would always smile gratefully, and waved the mug in her direction.  She’d raise her hot chocolate mug in response, and they’d each go back to their different distractions.

At first glance, on the first movie night, before Bucky joined them, Steve had been the obvious choice to sit with.  Alone and stiff, his outward presence mirrored her inward feelings of loneliness, and therefore, he became her mission to share in the feeling.  Perhaps they could help each other feel a little bit less alone.   

After several movie nights, she had gained the confidence to scoot closer and closer to him, watching closely for the “eyebrow of disapproval” she was desperate to avoid.  When she finally closed the distance between them he made no comment, silently sinking down to offer her his shoulder to lean on, arm raised in invitation to wrap around her.  His movements seemed almost automatic, which was ridiculous because they’d never done this before!  The movements were almost subconscious, like someone in the habit of letting a puppy paw its way up into their lap when they’s already zoned out - not that she was comparing herself to a dog, he was lucky to have such an amazing cuddler on movie night, you’re welcome, Steve - but she knew he would have politely turned her down if he hadn’t been open to it.  Thor may hug the best, but Steve quickly established himself as the best to cuddle with, and soon enough she found herself not even wanting to sit next to anyone else, now that she was spoiled.

The first few times he’d been welcoming but stiff - out of practice, probably - but he grew gradually warmer with each passing week.  She bit her tongue to stop from making a joke about him defrosting.  God, the thought was tacky enough and she’d berated her own brain from thinking it.  She was funny, but she wasn’t goddamned cruel.  

His smile always looked at least a little bit concerned, briefly stiffening in discomfort when she started arranging his limbs to her liking before settling properly into the couch.  She was careful to hold back while he worked through whatever was worrying him, and was only truly satisfied when she felt the tension drain out of him.  An arm over her shoulder, the other resting on her waist as she shimmied up to his warmth.  Those nights, when she felt the most alone, or had had the shittiest day, or Janie had blown something up and ruined yet another of Darcy’s favorite sweaters or boots, or yet again, date night was a non-existent thing in her life.  Truly, when was she supposed to leave and go find men to date?  She wondered if he could feel how tense that worry made her feel.

That little pause before he started to relax, though, broke her heart every time, and she hoped that in time he would stay relaxed like that from the outset.  He’d already pleasantly surprised her by reciprocating her cuddle, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and even hugging her!  Voluntarily!  

He’d even taken to rubbing her shoulder or neck, pausing only when the movie distracted him, and only resuming when she wiggled against him demandingly.  Last week she’d even achieved a proper half-spoon cuddle position, her head tucked under his chin resting against his broad, perfect chest, his arm wrapped around, holding her close, as if she somehow belonged there.  She carefully didn’t question that feeling, sighing deeply, full of content.  His deep, even, solid breaths raising and lowering in a soothing rhythmic pattern against her ear were as close to comfort as she’d ever felt.  He made her feel safe, wrapped up like this.  



She would never be safe, here.

She often wondered if he in turn felt the comfort she was trying to give.  She knew how it felt to be alone.  Not as alone as he must feel, because honestly, who could remotely compare, but she’d had pieces of her heart chipped away by unpreventable tragedies.  Every one of them knew what it was to lose, and to be lost.  Even if none of them said so out loud, she knew a family when she saw one.  Blood ties are one thing, but choosing to build a family again after their kind of loss was another entirely. 



And Darcy had lost everyone.  



You are alone here.



She had Jane.  Jane smiled at her then, as if she saw through Darcy's thoughts, and Darcy grinned back at her.

Bucky hadn’t come to every movie night since he'd started living with them.  He’d only joined them for a handful so far.  For some reason on this one random evening one night, Jane had decided she wanted to watch a dinosaur movie, to which Darcy hadn’t questioned because everyone knew dinosaurs were the best of all awesome things.  

What she did question was Jane’s taste in dinosaur movies.  Darcy was fighting hard for Jurassic Park.  The original - a classic!  Steven Spielburg at his best!  And Steve would love it!  She was pretty sure Bucky would enjoy it as well.  Maybe.  He was hard to read, but maybe his frowny face would be a little less… frowny.  Maybe it would even captivate his attention for once… rather than his mulling at the wall.  

He just needed some motivation.  Some encouragement.  Like DINOSAURS.

Jane, however, must have been feeling nostalgic or something wackadoo was going on in her brain, because her demanding choice had been The Land Before Time.  She announced it proudly with a huge, toothy grin.  

What.

What even.

The Land Before Time.  

Opposed to Jurassic Park?

No.  Just... what in the ever-loving fuck, Jane?  How was this even a discussion?

The Land before Time was also a classic, as Jane had argued.  Darcy conceded, but really, truly?  Jane couldn’t be serious.  As Steve’s first dinosaur movie?  

“Think of the old men, Jane!”

Bucky scowled in her general direction.  Tony huffed.  Bruce sipped his tea, ignoring all of them.

Steve watched them volley back and forth with a sardonic smile on his face, enjoying the discussion (aka ARGUMENT) between Jane and Darcy.  Enjoying it as if he had no preference between the two movies whatsoever and could enjoy the evening simply by watching the two fight between which dinosaur movie was a better fit for the group.

Darcy demanded Jurassic Park.

Jane demanded The Land Before Time. 

Battle lines were drawn.  In a final plea for help, she looked to Tony for backup.  Tony’s eyes rolled upwards to the ceiling, as if pleading with a deity to just end him now.  Darcy huffed.  How could he not even care?  Also if he needed a deity’s help, there was one right there in the room with them.  Asking for help from another god was just rude.

Darcy chose to accept the eyeroll as an agreement with her against The Land Before Fucking Time.  She waved her hands at him, distracting him from the ceiling, looking to him for some kind of help.  Any help.  Anything at all.  This was the man who never fucking shut up.  His drink was refilled and he settled down, fiddling with his Starkphone, ignoring them all completely.  Ugh, useless!  It was infuriating.

“I’m fine with either,” Steve announced amicably.  Bucky rolled his eyes; Darcy narrowed hers at him.  Had he been around to see either?  Could it be possible that he’d already seen Jurassic Park?  He stared back evenly as she assessed him, giving nothing away.  She doubted Hydra would wake him up, have him do some killing, and then let him sit in the back of a theatre with popcorn to enjoy a movie before wiping him again.  That wasn’t possible, right?  She frowned at him, attempting to read something from him and getting nothing.  Maybe she wasn't as super powered as she would like to believe herself to be.  He blinked back at her and she looked away quickly, caught.  

And then, interrupting Darcy’s inner musings, Clint did the unthinkable: he sided with Jane. 

What a fucking asshat.

“Traitor,” she hissed.  

“I like the animation,” Clint defended.

“This is not even a competition.  What the HELL, Barton?”  Darcy yelled. "Bros before hoes!"



"I'm not a hoe!" Jane hollered.  "I don't like this scenario, Darcy!"  



Tony looked up, interested.



"Shut up, Tony!"



"Wha... I didn't even say anything!" Tony defended.



"Yeah, Tony," Clint smirked.  "Shut up, Tony."



Tony's eyes narrowed at Barton.



"Janie, he's a dude!  The phrase only works one way!"



"No it doesn't!  Ex-boyfriends are hoes, Darcy!  Not us!  We're the bros!  And you don't have a penis, Darcy, last time I checked!  Your argument is hypocritical!"  Clint's eyes widened, Tony smirked, and Steve could not hold in his chuckle.  Ugh.  Men were so dumb.



"I am not a hypocrite, Jane!"



"That's not how the phrase works!"



"Stop being all smart and shit!" Darcy defended.  



Jane crossed her arms, a smirk upon her smirky face.  

Oh my God, she was never getting another pop-tart so long as she lived, so help her God.



***

Her empty stomach cramps, but when she begs, he says whores don’t deserve food. 

The other one says he’ll give her something to eat.  They laugh.

Next time she gets desperate enough to beg, she’ll bite off her tongue rather than speak.   



***

Steve had perked up, though.  “The Land Before Time is animation?”  He enjoyed Disney movies way too much for Darcy’s liking.  Again with Bucky eye rolling at Steve.  This time he also received a huff of annoyance.



"No, Steve!"  Darcy exclaimed.  "Not you too!"

“But tree star, Darcy!”  Jane had argued.

“Tree Star!” Clint echoed, enthusiastically!

“Tree Star?” Steve sounded mystified but intrigued.  Tony and Bucky shared a dark look.  “What’s a tree star?” he asked, enthusiastically.

Darcy had waved him off, not allowing him to participate in this battle.  This was between her and Jane and Clint and... possibly Tony. 



Facing Jane, she countered with, “Jane, listen to me.”  She began ticking off her fingers with each statement.  “God creates dinosaurs.  God destroys dinosaurs.  God creates man.  Man destroys God.  Man creates dinosaurs…” 



"What?" Steve asked Bucky, sounding mystified.



Bucky didn't respond.

“Ugh, that is a good line,” Jane conceded, sounding slightly conflicted.  “Maybe Jurassic Park would be a better choice…” 

“Yes, Janie!  Exactly!” Darcy grinned.  They high fived.  Victory!  Jurassic Park for the win!



"What the fuck," Clint exclaimed, offended.

Pepper chose that moment to walk in and ruin everything by saying as she settled down next to Tony, weaving her arms through his, pushing his phone aside as she laid a tired head on his shoulder and said softly, “I haven’t seen The Land Before Time since I was a kid.”

Tony’s expression was equal parts horror and defeat.  He glanced ruefully at Darcy.  “Sorry, kid.”  Behind his apparent devastation was something both soft and fierce; she’d bet her paycheck he was elated to find a simple and immediate way to care for his intimidatingly competent partner. It had to be all too easy to overlook Pepper having needs of her own; she made everything look effortless.  Here in the embrace of her family, she could relax.  It was hard to stay pouty, looking at the smile it put on Pepper’s face when Tony tossed back his drink, waved a hand in the air, and through a mouthful of ice-cubes demanded, “JARVIS, roll it.” 

“As you wish, Sir.” 

Bucky had stared at the ceiling, a look of unease crossing his handsome features.  Steve laid his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  He didn’t shrug it off.  

Interesting.

And The Land Before Time began playing.  Ugh.  This was the worst, not that she was about to upset Pepper by saying so.   Clint pumped his arm, relishing the win, and Darcy flopped on the couch sulking.  She’d technically won, convincing Jane to switch sides, and she still hadn’t gotten what she’d wanted.  

At least there was a mouth-watering snack bar on the kitchen island behind them that Darcy had put together herself.  There was a LOT to choose from, and she didn’t hesitate in making grabby hands at everything within her reach and stuffing it in her mouth as she settled into a movie night of misery.

Things had been going pretty well, and Steve was blown away by the animation.  “Puh-lease, Steve.  This was like, 30 years ago or something.  Wait till we introduce you to Avatar or a Pixar movie.  Oh my God, you guys,” she squealed.  “We are so doing a Pixar marathon next week!”

They all nodded enthusiastically, and rightly so.  Darcy settled back, settling under Steve’s embrace, inching her feet again towards stoic Bucky.

Everything was going okay until the scene where Littlefoot’s mom heroically died to save him.  That scene never seemed to cut too deep when she’d been a kid, but had a room full of superhuman adults who had lifetimes of trauma suddenly blinking very hard.  

Steve had frozen beside her, muscles tensed like steel cables.  His breath quickened and he shut his eyes as if unable to bear what he was seeing, desperate to block it out.  Darcy had reached a gentle hand over to him, to try and comfort him - even to slow his breathing down slightly as it had her worried.  He wrenched away from her, not hard enough to hurt her, but enough so that she caught on quickly he didn’t want to be touched and snatched her hand back like it had been burned.  Steve, unfortunately, actually looked conflicted to stay in the room, even, his body poised to bolt.  His usual healthy skin color had now paled to a sickly gray and Darcy worried he might actually be sick.  She didn’t know what was going on.    

The next minute, as Littlefoot cried out for his mother, after a fast and narrowed, furious glance at Steve, Bucky suddenly stood up and stormed out of the room.  His usual stride was pretty stormy anyway, but the noisy tread of his boots as he departed was impossible to mistake.  When a normally-silent assassin stomps loudly away, they’re sending a message.

What even.  

It had everyone’s heads turned now, watching them instead of the film.

Steve, unable to move yet, had sat stock-still for a long moment, taking purposeful deep breaths, eyes clenched closed.  Darcy could feel his heart thumping quickly even sitting as far away from him as she was.  What was going on?

Carefully opening his eyes, he’d glanced around the room in discernible horror as he realized that all eyes were on him now instead of the movie.  Steve had quickly disentangled himself from the couch, from her, to go stumbling after Bucky.  He glanced back at Darcy, apologetic, and then humiliatingly as he glanced around the room again, noticing all eyes on him as he was about to leave the room.  She nodded reassuringly at him until he turned away again, shoving his hands deep down into the front pockets of his jeans, shuffling out of the room after Bucky.  

She was completely puzzled.  She had so many questions.  Why did that scene affect Steve so strongly?  Why did Bucky storm out?  Why did Steve jump up so quickly, only to walk out slowly?    

The group had looked at one another, all frowning in confusion.  Eventually they resumed the movie, but the vibe remained weird for the rest of the night.

Left alone and uncuddled for the remainder of the movie, Darcy had definitely eaten their share of popcorn as well as her own.  

***



The ghost of that flavor, throat stinging as her mouth tries to water.  The memory tastes like nobody holding her.  

***

Bucky clearly didn’t like being around everyone all at once; more than a few times he had slipped away from any event that even half-filled a room with people.  This had felt different; not the ache of general discomfort, but the sharp jolt of a cruel blow on a fresh wound.  And Steve, displaying actual emotions other than patriotism in front of everyone?  Darcy had been smart enough to not ask about anything specific, but nosy enough to want to know.   

The available choices left to do now were initiating an awkward conversation or pretending nothing had happened.  Neither sounded great, but at the next movie night, the first time she had actually laid eyes on Bucky again all week, since he’d disappeared after stomping out the previous week, she opted for spectacularly ignoring the whole thing.  

Besides, at present both boys were looking distinctly uncomfortable, and there was something majorly off between the two.  They were sitting closely together as per usual, but instead of relaxed, both seemed to be sitting ramrod straight, eyes looking everywhere but at each other.  They were putting off major passive aggressive/silent argument vibes.  She didn’t know what it was, but she was determined to plant herself right between them until the uncomfortable waves they were giving off went away.  This was movie night.  Happy time. 

They obviously needed some guidance.

So, instead of sitting on the opposite side of Steve from Bucky, which she had done more often than she’d sat between them, and despite all her the awkwardness feelings going around, she’d chosen to plonk herself smack down between them.  Darcy being Darcy, carved out a space between their delightfully warm and gloriously muscled bodies, wiggling and shuffling until they’d shifted further apart to make room for her.  She sighed, taking a deep relaxing breath as their warmth coated her body like an electric blanket.  

***

She doesn’t remember what it feels like to be warm.

***

       

They had always sat closer together than most men did these days, Darcy noted.  Every time she saw them together, they were always knee to knee, hip to hip.  Maybe it was a different era kind of thing.  Perhaps it was something more.  It was hard to be completely sure, but she had this feeling about them, something she could sense even without seeing them sit like they were glued together.

She watched them, at every opportunity.  And she suspected they knew she watched them, but never made a move to show that they knew, or a move towards each other in front of her.  Despite her efforts, she had yet to catch on to anything more than platonic friendship from either of them.  They certainly hadn't spoken about it, and they certainly didn’t PDA.  The normal eye wouldn’t notice anything present at all.  

But she excelled at reading people, and could read between the lines.  She knew there was something there, something they were keeping to themselves.  She wasn’t sure how deep down the rabbit hole the two of them were together, but they were together.  Together, together.  They had to be.



The thought of the two of them was hot.  And if true, ridiculously unfair to all women, everywhere. 

But they kept it under lock and key, whatever it was between them.  By modern standards it could pass for brotherly friendship, which made sense.  They only had each other way back when, and the shared experience of being jolted from your time, your life, wasn’t something easily understood.  Getting separated from everyone you’ve ever known and loved, and then finding the one person that actually had shared life experience, who went through sort of the same thing?  No wonder they held on so tightly to each other, even in those moments when they didn’t touch at all.

Darcy had heard rumours; a security guard claimed to have seen them on the roof one night in a very compromising position, and had been given some workplace training and an NDA to stop them talking about it ever again.  Even without rumours, without knowing their history, she’d have recognized the dance of a couple almost as scared of being together as they were of being alone.  

Well, they weren’t going to make any progress on their own.  Whenever possible, she made the deliberate choice to insert herself between them, forcing them apart to see if she could break the tension and connect them. 

Of course Steve made a show of protesting when she arranged herself in a prime cuddling position, as though she could have done any such thing without him allowing it.  Shucking off her shoes, she tucked her feet up as well, leaving her shins lightly pressed against Bucky’s thigh.  She looked over to check that he had enough space to move away if he wanted to.  He did, but her surreptitious glance also caught a strong but unidentifiable emotion written across his face.  

It was like seeing a word in bold letters, italics, and all caps, in a language she didn’t understand.  It was important, obviously, but she had no idea if it was anger, jealousy, sadness, or something else altogether.  He’d caught her looking at him, and from the way his dark eyes then flicked up to Steve, she guessed Steve was looking at his reaction too.  That man saw more than he let on, she had to remember that when she was not being as super ninja spy-ish as she thought she might be.  The chest beneath her hitched in what could have been a suppressed sob - but that couldn’t be right, she must have imagined that - and Steve's arm pulled her towards him until her legs were no longer touching Bucky.  He gathered her up close to him, clinging a bit more than holding her, very unlike his normal movie-night cuddle.  It was as if she was a teddy bear he was clinging to, refusing to glance again back at Bucky as he stared resolutely at the screen, his face taught, his shoulders tense, his back straight.  

Bucky, on the other hand, actually relaxed as soon as her leg had left him, as if her touching him had hurt him in some way, or just the general vibe that in this moment, he really didn’t want to be touched.  It hadn’t been enough for him to actually just move, or shove her away, or even scowl at her, but the message was clear; no touchies.  

She felt deeply uncomfortable, despite Steve holding her so close.  He was shaking, very minutely, and she couldn’t tell if it was from hurt or suppressed anger.  It was almost as if in touching her, holding her was something he both needed and wanted, but also hurt him to do so.  She wondered if she should just forget her plan of distracting them from whatever was going on between them and simply use the excuse of getting fresh popcorn to get up, move, and somehow sit somewhere else.  Or maybe even leave.  She didn’t know what to do.

Steve’s arms around her tightened minutely, and so she decided he needed her rather than wanting her away for now, so she stayed, focusing on breathing slowly, in and out, so that neither super soldier could guess at her discomfort.

The next time she looked back at Bucky, it felt like Steve’s sadness had leached into her.  Bucky looked so lost.  The rims of his eyes were red, as if he had cried, or was about to cry, but there were no tears.  She didn’t know what to do.  What was going on?  What had happened?

She ached to reach out to him, to bring Bucky comfort the way she could everyone else.  To figure out what he needed to smile, or at least stop looking so deeply and untouchably sad.  But it was obvious he didn’t really want to be on the couch next to them, and even more obvious that he didn’t want to be talked to, or touched.  He was just there, broody and uncomfortable, hurt possibly, or angry.  And she didn't know if it was directed towards her, or Steve, or just... everything.



There were a lot of unknowns and she felt like she was driving blind.  

She didn’t really know what was going on between the two, but she hoped they’d sort it quickly as it hurt her to see them acting so strangely towards one another.  She knew enough to know it most likely wasn’t her getting in between them - yeah right, as if - but she couldn’t imagine what had gone on behind closed doors to cause this... discomfort between them.   

She knew she could be a lot at times but had really made the effort to hold the reins on her personality in efforts to not scare Bucky away.  She’d had more time with Steve, or rather, he’d had more time with getting used to her.  Tamping down her brash mouthiness in favor of being calm and patient and gentle around him was hard work, and  it took major effort at times, but she was sure it would be worth it in the end.  And so far, it was.  Hence, the current cuddling. 

When it became clear more effort would be required when it came to Bucky opposed to Steve, she’d baked cookies and left them at his door, or printed silly cat photos and taped them in his locker.  She’d left one of her favorite books laying on top of his gym bag for him with a handwritten note saying “READ ME.”  She’d even written down a list of songs she thought he’d like.  It required quite a large Post-It, which she proudly stuck to his metal arm as they passed one another in the kitchen, and she told him to ask JARVIS about Spotify.  Bucky had had the cutest confused face, which she knew because she had glanced back at him before leaving, winking at him  as she walked away.

She’d whistled the rest of that day.  

She'd even found and bought him the new blue baseball hat he was currently wearing and had gifted to him after she'd seen him running outside with Steve the other day.  

Bucky's hair had been completely out of control in the wind and she'd watched with great amusement as he struggled unsuccessfully to tie it up one handed until he'd finally been forced to call out to Steve and made Steve try to tie it up for him.  Steve had taken the hair tie from him and had frowned at it; surely the scientists who’d chosen him for the serum experiment couldn’t have predicted he would be defeated by elasticated hair restraints.  Darcy giggled at the thought, and at the sight of Steve concentrating, Bucky miming, and the two of them failing to tie up his windblown brunette locks.

After several tries, and after they had admitted defeat, she'd watched Bucky take a deep breath and bodily sag against Steve for a long moment, Bucky's back against Steve's chest, head bowed and shoulders hunched, letting Steve hold his weight for a long space of time.  

It had looked like a motion both new and old.  

Before the serum, Steve would have been the default little spoon, she presumed, but Steve and Bucky had become friends in a time when men hugging was not the taboo it was now.  It seemed like Steve welcomed the closeness, and then an instant later he seemed ready to flee.  His hands hovered over Bucky’s shoulders, like to actually touch him might burn his palms.  Bucky must have felt the tension, the hesitance, or both, because he tipped his weight forward immediately and stood up straight, stepping away.  Steve’s arms fell back to his sides, a lost expression upon his face, and his head hung down in defeat.  Without another word Buck resumed his jogging, heading off on the route - it was different every day, Nat had told her, because predictability gets spies killed - like the awkward moment between the two of them had never happened. 

Steve watched him go, running quickly far ahead as Steve stayed, frozen where he stood.  He had looked weirdly... relieved, watching Bucky get further away.  That was a puzzle for Darcy.  Why would Steve be relieved to see Bucky go, especially after a moment of trust rarely given?  Steve had obviously needed that touch, and yet looked like he had been unable to accept or return it.  Another mystery.

Watching Steve finally jog after Bucky had inspired her to do something to help quell the sadness she felt.  In possibly her quickest shopping trip ever, she’d picked out the simple blue hat, trying not to overthink colors.  That was tricky when shopping for a costumed hero...  Or an awakened, abused POW, born before the 1920s.  Talk about Christmas gifting hell.

She'd delivered the hat to the doorknob of Steve and Bucky's apartment, with a small note attached that said, "For Bucky, to help discourage the nuisance that is wind when running."  

She'd spotted him the next morning wearing the blue hat on his morning jog.  She’d seen him adjusting it more than once, slightly fidgety, shoulders a bit hunched as he glanced around suspiciously, as he got used to the feel of the new ballcap and fit it to his liking.  Once, during one of Steve and Bucky’s few breaks (as if they even needed it, but they breathed heavily, bent over - hands on knees, and gulped water like they were actually winded…) she couldn’t help but wonder if it was for show because even she, as nosy as she was, hadn’t found any proof of if they’d even been scientifically tested to their limits... He had glanced around, somehow using his super Winter Soldier skills knowing and recognizing or maybe even just had that feeling that someone was watching him (because of course, she was), and then quickly glanced up to find her peeking at him from a bridge that crossed over their running track.  



He'd caught her.  Oops.  She definitely wasn’t there just to watch them!  And no one could say differently!  It was just a nice spot to drink coffee.  So what if she enjoyed this particular part of the view at this specific time in the morning?  She looked up at the sky and drank a deep sip of her coffee.  See, she was just a girl, peeking over a ledge, staring at the sky enjoying her coffee on a beautiful day.  Nothing to see here.  Maybe he'd looked away by now.  She chanced a peek down at him again.

The eep that escaped her at having been caught watching was not very spy-like, verging on the ultimate of dorkiness.  She’d ducked down out of sight, she was an idiot and this was the opposite of stealth, she berated herself.  When she thought enough time had passed for them to have moved on, she slowly peered down again only to see him standing absolutely and completely still, bathed in the golden sunlight like a non-nude (such a shame), sweaty greek god come to life.  With clothes on.  But one could imagine.  She would smirk, but had been too mortified to risk it.

He was holding absolutely still, waiting and looking up at her, watching her steadily, unable to hide a tiny, gorgeous smirk upon his own face.  

Oh Thor, how she blushed.    

Smirk now gone but eyes twinkling as he watched her make a complete middle-school fan girl of herself, he’d brought his hand up, to the brim of the hat and tipped it at her in a very old-fashioned gesture of thanks.  Embarrassment melting away, and caught so far off guard, she couldn't stop the grin that lit up her features, warmed that he had accepted the gesture and even seemed to enjoy it.  His eyes stayed trained on her for a long moment before he turned back to Steve, and the two of them set off again.  

He had worn the blue hat to movie night.

While Bucky headed straight for the TV room, Steve, following close behind Bucky as they entered the room, made a beeline for the bar covered in snacks.  Instead of his focus remaining solely on the food there, and usually snacking as he worked on piling food on his plate, he was curiously and suspiciously glancing back and forth between Darcy and Bucky’s new hat.  

When she saw Bucky still wearing the hat, Darcy did an internal dance of joy.  She was lounged like a goddess on the couch, holding a hoard of snacks in her lap and wrapped from head to toe in layers of comfy sweaters.  She was even wearing her new maroon toboggan and matching scarf, made during her and Jane’s knitting phase last autumn.

She smirked at Steve, catching his eyes once and narrowing her own suspiciously back at him, because everyone knew by now that if they didn’t arrive before Steve to movie night, they didn’t enjoy snacks at movie night.  She wasn’t sure if it was food mentality during depression and war times, or simply a supersoldier’s need for all the calories.  Bucky didn’t seem to have the same appetite; she hadn’t seen him eat more than a few bites of popcorn at a time.  Almost as if he wasn’t quite used to food being openly available, or if he was allowed it.   

In the old photos she had surreptitiously sought from the library and Google, they were both skinny, though Bucky less so as the photos got closer to wartime.  They had looked so youthful and carefree, ready for all the possibilities the world had in store for them. Well.  Maybe not every possibility.  She’d never gone hungry, she’d never had to do without.  Not like the two of them.  Steve had told her once that you didn’t miss something you never had.

***

Hunger - true hunger - is pain.  She knows that now.  Among all her other pains, it is uniquely distinct and terrible.  When it hurts the worst, she recognises it as the absence of what she’d once had.

Remembering is an escape, and a hell.

***

With Steve arriving late, everyone else had already come by and grabbed their favorites, knowing he would finish off whatever remained when he got there.

Bucky had glanced back at her briefly as he sunk down next to her, relaxing into the couch next to her like he hadn’t quite done so in the past.  He'd crossed his arms and got… well, as comfortable as she’d ever seen Bucky be in a public setting, but as per usual, he focused again on a spot on the wall instead of the movie screen.  But he had slouched down on the couch this time, actively sitting next to her, which she called a major step of improvement.   

He was getting used to her.  

Little by little, and feeling a bit braver than normal, she'd decided to inch her cozy yellow sock-covered feet towards him and his blue ball cap throughout the movie.  Never quite touching him, but refusing to distance herself from him just because he was sitting there being all closed off.  

He had tipped his hat at her in thanks after all, like one of those romantic cowboys from Clint's western movies and it had warmed her heart.  He hadn’t smiled, but it felt like he had.  Darcy placed him firmly in the ‘friend’ category.  He had worn her hat, eaten her cookies, and psychically smiled at her, and he was just going to have to let her cuddle him a bit.  

But he didn’t react to her feet inching towards him.  Didn’t move away, even when her toes brushed against his jeans.  He stared absently in the direction of the tv without quite watching it, eyebrows furrowing in the frown he wore by default.  Steve looked over; Darcy could tell by the brushing of his chin against her head, and noticed her feet inching towards Bucky’s, but this time he didn’t make a move to pull Darcy away from him.  Darcy wasn’t bothered that Bucky showed no reaction to her touching him.  This was progress.  He noticed what she was doing, he felt her feet against his leg - she was sure of it, and had allowed it.  He would come around to her in time.



She remembered wondering if she should also buy Steve a hat, and wondering what kind of hat he would like.  She wouldn't be surprised if he preferred something not in the red, white, and blue theme.  




***

What time is it?

How long has it been?

Please let this end soon.

***

She remembered she had tripped on a crack in the pavement, and stumbled forward a bit.  Her coffee and Jane’s had splashed on her hand, burning her fingers, and she'd sucked in breath.  Somewhere in this slow motion event, someone reached out and knocked the bag out of her hands.  As she turned towards her bag in confusion, another someone reached over her from behind and covered her mouth with a large hand, and she heard rather than felt a hard, loud crack; if it was a taser, it was one more vicious than hers. She felt a sudden and bright pain, and then there was nothing.

Darkness.

***

Chapter Text

***

She imagined how movie night had gone without her.  Sure, they would have noticed the lack of snacks, but they may have thought she’d found something else to do that evening.  After all, movie night wasn’t required.  It just seemed to organically happen each week and had become routine to them all.  Darcy wondered what Thor had ended up choosing for movie night.  Maybe they had all enjoyed the evening together, not noticing she was gone.  She pictured them laughing and having fun together, not noticing anything was amiss.

She had lost track of time now, and of where she was.  She knew several days, at least, had gone by.  No-one had found her yet, which meant they didn’t know where she was.  And if they didn’t know where she was yet, they couldn’t save her.  

Didn’t even know where to start.  Might not even know to look.  But they’d be looking, by now.  Surely.

It was raining outside.  Again.  The leaky walls let plenty of it in, and the unavoidably large puddles quickly soaked her to the bone.  The concrete floor was ice cold.  Her teeth chattered.

She tried to count: one, two, three, four, five… like Natasha had taught her to do in highly stressful situations to keep calm.  But she couldn’t keep her dread at bay.  She couldn’t focus.  

She tried thinking of the words to her favorite songs; humming, because her throat refused to work with her in the swallowing department.  But she went through several songs in her head and, when she finished each one, the room was no less cold and wet and terrifying.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, singing sweetly to her as a little girl.  Darcy pushed the thought deep within her, almost angry at the memory for coming up.  She couldn’t cry now - she had to be strong, had to keep it together.

They had to be looking...had to be coming for her.

Or maybe she couldn’t be rescued.  They didn’t know where she was.  Did they even know she was gone?  

If they didn’t come for her, this might be the room she died in.  The thought sunk inwards and downwards, like an anchor into the sea.  She almost felt the crack in her heart at the thought, the moment the thought became her reality.

The thought spiraled in her mind and terrified her.

Had her mouth ever been this dry?  Her tongue rasped against her palate as she tried to summon enough moisture to swallow.  Coughs shook her, wet breaths that rattled deep inside her chest.  She wondered if it was pneumonia.  That would be something new.  The horrible wet floor of the room was definitely a breeding ground for some sort of bacteria, if any could survive this cold. 

There were heavy steps approaching the door.  She’d learned to recognize the different strides of each man, but couldn’t differentiate when there was more than one coming her way, like now.    Darcy held her breath and shrunk back as the door creaked open and light flooded the room from the hallway.  Not that she could actually go anywhere to get away from them.  She cringed away from the light.  God, how long had she been in the dark?  The light fucking hurt.

Two men barged into the room.  The shorter of the two, the one with a beard and a tattoo of a skull on the side of his face, quickly detached her collar and cuffs from the chains on the wall and yanked her up forcefully.  She shrieked.  She couldn't help it; not even her body listened to what she wanted any more.  The hand gripping her collar wasn’t enough to keep her upright, and she immediately began drifting to the side, perhaps towards unconsciousness.  She could only hope.

The tall one, the one with a large gap in his teeth, held her upright and leered down at her.  He stood a foot and a half above her, easily, and waited for a long moment, then another.  Her knees trembled from the exertion of being upright.  He had hate in his eyes as he glared at her, and she shied away from him immediately.  He was the one she’d tried to bite... 

***

The first time she’d seen him, he’d grabbed her jaw and stuck his thumb in her mouth, as deep as he could get it.  And then, as she gagged, removed his thumb only to replace it with his three middle fingers.  Her throat protested, spasming as she choked.  His grin was terrifying.

It was reflex, what happened next.  He was holding the back of her head with his other hand, pulling tightly on her hair, gripping it more firmly and yanking - it hurt, and she couldn’t breathe -  as she tried to escape his hold, and she couldn’t get away, couldn’t escape those fingers that felt like they would push all the way down her throat.  She dared to look up at him, and he was fucking enjoying himself, choking her.

So her body had done the only thing it could to fight back.



She had bitten him.  

Hard.  

And she’d regretted it immediately, because the next thing they had done was brutally backhand her, followed immediately by her introduction to the collar.  Every new thing was the worst, and they seemed to have no end of new things. 

***

She felt the first blow before she even realised it was coming; a hard slap to the side of her face.  It was white-hot; the force made her shaken brain go blank.  She would have fallen to the floor had the other man not come up behind her, grasping the chain just where it met the collar to hold her upright.

“Wha…?” she gasped, confused, her vision going grey.  White dots swam in front of her as she struggled to focus again.

He hit her again, backhanded this time, on the other side.  Tears filled her eyes, her mouth dropped open, aching, and she felt her face start to swell.  She felt her lip split on the left side and blood trickled down her chin.  

Again, and again, he hit her, each one hard enough to bruise, across the face, on her arms, her legs, her stomach, her chest, her ass.  The chains banged loudly against the wall, pulling her down with their heavy weight, tearing into her skin.  Every time she crumbled, the man behind her would pull her back up, yanking on the collar and flaring up an agony that stole her breath away.  

Some of the blows were outright slaps, some were punches, some drew blood.  Each time, the man behind her righted her once again, compelling her to stand for more pain.  When her legs gave out entirely, he grabbed whichever parts of her he pleased, and held her in position to be beaten again, and again.  Sobbing and begging them to please stop, to please let her go, she screamed and pleaded over and over, until her voice gave out.  The man in front of her stayed silent and kept hitting her.  Once, then twice, she heard a crack in her ribs - pure agony - until she finally blacked out while screaming, “What did I do ?”

***

She couldn’t move.  Couldn’t open her right eye.  She could squint out of her other, but they both felt equally swollen.  

The taste of blood, and a whining noise.  Was that her voice?  It sounded pitiful.  She shivered, her face scraping against the cold, wet concrete.  Her right arm was twisted and throbbing.  When she tried to sit up, pain shot through every part of her.  So she lay, bound and collared, helpless on the floor.

Darcy’s blood pounded in her ears as the panic set in.  She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t take a breath.  Her desperate gasping didn’t suck in enough air to calm her racing heart.  She was going to die.  No one was going to come for her.  

Fucking shit.

Steps came towards the door, voices grunting with sick laughter, louder as they came closer - and more than one.  Maybe more than two.  A fresh wave of terror tore through her, making her sick and anxious in her gut and it was hard to breathe.  

Her breaths shortened as they approached the door.    

Light flooded in, and before Darcy could even flinch, she was yanked up to her feet by one of the men.  Again.  Too quickly, and the chains didn’t give in the slightest.  With no time or energy to brace herself, knees buckled and she crashed roughly back to the floor.  The same two men from earlier were laughing, and Darcy realised with dismay that yes, another male voice was talking to them.

They spoke English when they wanted to taunt her.  She’d learned that early on.

“You see how good she looks on her knees?” one said.  

“You are right, it is a sight to see,” the other replied as they snickered to each other.

“Shut up, the both of you.  We have orders.”

One more.  Three men now.  

Awesome.  Fuck.

“Вытащите ее из этой комнаты сейчас же,” the third one said, the new one.  Whatever that meant.

It sounded like Russian; she couldn’t understand it, but she recognised the flavor.  She wished she had picked up more from Natasha.  She wished she had remembered to wear her comm when leaving the Avengers Tower.  She wished...

Natasha was going to lay her up one side and down the other if she ever saw her again.  She’d tried repeatedly to get Darcy to learn even the basics of both self defense and the Russian language.  

Darcy crashed back to reality as she felt and heard the chain detach from her collar and fall to the ground.  The sudden absence of its weight left her feeling light headed.  Her arms were unchained too, and the metal links scraped when they fell back against the wall.

The sound of the chains creeped her the fuck out.  She should run, get away, escape.  Fear kept her anchored where she stood.

In terror, she did nothing.  

Absolutely nothing.  She never tried to move, never tried to escape.  She knew it to be fruitless.  But still, when they were done giving her the long opportunity, which she never took she would berate herself with such anger and feel so vile at herself that made it difficult to breathe.  Her stomach constantly burned, her chest tight.  Every minute of every day, with no reprieve.  If they weren’t hurting her, she was directing her anger at herself.  It went round and round.

One of the men grabbed her by the collar and started dragging her out of the room.

She cried out, choking, but her mouth was so dry and her neck so swollen, only a harsh, cracked gasp escaped her.  Darcy was manhandled down the hall, feet scrambling to keep from being dragged, and slammed face down on a table.  She groaned in pain, positive now that her shoulder was broken.

Something hit the side of her head, opening a gash in her temple.  The blood seeped down her face, near her eye, and when she moved to wipe it off she was surprised to feel resistance. When had they tied her hands?  Her arms ached when she pulled uselessly at the bonds, and she wasted another wish on her desire to be freed.  Her legs seemed to be unrestrained, but that short-lived freedom was choked off by rough hands grabbing her ankles. 

She gasped and sobbed, fear stealing her voice.  Whoever had a hold on her legs spread them apart, and a knife slid coldly against her back, ripping through her shirt and bra in one sweep, cutting a thin line of skin from lower back to neck as it travelled.  Blood welled warm against her cold skin, and her skin prickled as goosebumps bloomed over her torso.  She was grabbed and yanked upwards by the collar, head jerked backwards, and her ruined clothing was pulled away by yet another nameless, sweaty, disgusting hand.

Something inside her shut down.

She actually longed in this moment to just be put back in the cell.  With a shudder, she stopped crying, and a cold detached darkness filled her.  They shoved her face down onto the table again, at least permitting her to roll it to the side so she could breathe.

You should have run when you had the chance, you fucking idiot.

Why hadn’t I run?

Why didn’t I even try?

Your stupidity deserves what it gets.

I hadn’t run because it was fruitless.

But you didn’t even try.

Why didn’t I try?

"Her pants too.” A calm voice spoke in thickly-accented English from the side of the room she was facing.  That had to be the third man.  Or maybe it was someone else?  She couldn't keep track.  If she could have opened her eyes she’d have checked, but they were still swollen shut, only open enough to let tears slip out to run down her beaten face.  

Cold and sharp, the knife traced a line of pain down her right leg, drawing blood and helpless cries as it went. Its cruel edge cut easily through the fabric and into the skin beneath, and soon enough a matching wound ran the length of her left leg too. Unseen hands pulled her ruined clothes away; the movement was quick, practiced.  Like they’d done this before.  She was left bare and vulnerable and ashamed.  Her smeared blood cooled on her skin, building into a cold that sank into her core, freezing and shattering the shields she had raised around her mind.

Darcy wailed. 

The knife clattered to the table next to where her cheek lay, taunting her.

Her body shuddered.  Tremors shook her and she sucked in breath, trying to ground onto anything, any thought that would keep her sane, that would protect her, to keep her safe.  There was nothing but cold, pain, and fear. 

The team would come for her.  Oh, God, please, let them come for her.

The man behind her leaned down to her ear.  He breathed his awful, hot breath into her ear.  She shuddered.  He bit her ear.  She wept, bucking, shaking off the blanket of fear that had been weighing her down, and trying to get him off of her.  Darcy didn’t think of herself as a fighter, but fear had other ideas.  The protective reflex that had kept her frozen like a deer in headlights was overruled by her survival instinct, and she fought with everything she had.  The adrenaline hit her like a tidal wave, and she clawed at the blur of colors in front of her like a wild thing, unabashed, unbased, desperate to escape.  There was a roaring in her ears so loud her panic heightened, her eyes wide and unblinking but unable to focus on anything

Until something… someone, large and intimidating loomed over her and grabbed her by the neck, shaking her hard.  The roaring in her ears cut off and she could hear weird high pitched noises that were apparently coming from her.  She couldn’t breather, and she couldn’t tell if it was from the terror or the hand gripping her throat.  

“If you move one more time, little girl, there will be consequences.  Immediately.  Say, Yes Sir.”

Darcy stilled, taking her thrashing panic inwards, hiding every instinct she could from this man. denying the impulses of her mind and body to fight against the imminent harm and possible death he appeared to have no problem with against her.

Terror of him overrode her many other current fears. 

She bit her cheek, then winced and held her chattering teeth apart to keep them silent..  “Y…yyes, Ssir…” Darcy stuttered.  

“For example,” he continued, twirling the knife in his hands, ”if you fight me on this in any way…” he leaned in close to her, and whispered darkly, “I will cut your throat, Whore.”

Pure terror coursed through her veins, and she froze, unable to respond.  He immediately grabbed her cheek and forced her to look at him.  In a very calm voice, he said again, “Do not make me repeat myself again.  But lessons are being learned now, and for rules already broken there will be fallout.  What do you say to me in response?”

This fear was like none she’d ever felt before.  She believed him.  “Yes sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she shook.

He backed off of her and she heard his boots move away from her.  The other man followed suit.

A man from earlier - she recognized his voice now from the IV room - walked deliberately towards her.  The feeling of blood slowly sliding down her back had slowed, but the pain had only deepened.  Deep breaths helped; giving in to the terror meant losing control of her body, and if she hyperventilated she’d faint and be helpless.  Even more helpless. 

She just had to hold on.

Survive. 

They would come for her.   

They would.

“Darcy Lewis.  Age 24.  Interned for Dr. Jane Foster for eighteen months.  Currently employed by Stark Enterprises in the field of research.”  His accented voice was harsh and clipped.  “Bachelor degree in Political Science and currently working on a master’s degree in engineering with a Stark funded research grant.  You work with the…" he sneered, “Avengers.”

She jerked her head forward, trying to nod.

“You are going to give us every piece of information you know about the Avengers.  About Stark Technologies, about Jane Foster’s research, about Bruce Banner's research... every piece of information you can think about The Black Widow, about Captain America, about Tony Stark, about Bruce Banner.”

He breathed on her face; she hadn’t even realized he was hovering over her until she felt his sour breath against her nose.  It was warm but did nothing to banish the chill in her bones, and the smell would have made her vomit if she’d still had anything in her stomach.

“But most of all, I want to know everything you know about the Winter Soldier.”  She heard the sneer in his voice, but understood the importance of the statement.  

So this - whatever this was - was about Bucky.  Oh God, they'd done this to him for years.  She wasn't going to make it years.  How had he survived it?  A paradigm change shifted within her, and all at once, she understood Bucky on a much deeper level.  There were so many things, so many small things.  He'd been through this.  He'd been through worse, and for longer.  



She would never be as strong as him.



What did they want to know about Bucky anyway?  She didn’t know anything about his time as the Winter Soldier, at least not… officially.  She’d read his file in secret when he’d arrived, but she hadn’t been told anything.  What did they want to know?  She didn’t know anything of any value.  So much of his file was redacted, or marked out, or just plain missing... She didn't know much at all.  And Bucky certainly hadn't opened up by any means - especially not with her.  What did they expect her to know?  What about Bucky were they looking for?

Why couldn’t they leave him alone?  He’d been through so much.

She felt her captor’s hand sliding down her naked and bleeding back and bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming.  Her knees were buckling and she was about to fall.  The man behind her must have seen her wobble, because he laid his hot, heavily breathing body over hers, weighing her down, pushing her stomach against the cold table.  A distant, quiet part of her brain mused that if he was tall enough to do that, it must be the gap-toothed guy. 

She jerked and gasped.

“The more you tell us, the longer we will let you live.  The better the information, the less pain you will feel.”

If Darcy could have willed herself to die right then, she would have.  She was going to die.  It was going to be long, or maybe short, but definitely a painful and drawn-out death.  

“It’s alright if you have nothing to say to us yet, little girl," he whispered.  “today will be the wages of your disobedience so far.  Just a sample of what is to come if you choose not to talk.”

The knife scraped against the table.  She heard the sharp hiss of sliding metal against metal as it dragged slowly closer to her cheek.  She watched as a hand gripped the knife, and brought its bright edge against her throat.  He pressed it just under the collar, angling the blade against her neck.  Darcy's chest heaved as she gasped.  Lifting the metal collar upwards, he shoved it against her jaw, and forcing her head back, he slowly slid the knife across the collar.  As if to mime what he was capable of; threatening her.  

"No...," she breathed, quickly realizing his intent.

The smooth motion of metal against metal hissed again, slower this time, the sound of it threatening to overpower her senses.  Oh God, that sound.  

Darcy could no longer control her body's base need to protect itself.  She bucked against him, trying to jerk away, teeth snapping, screams tearing out of her.  But his other hand, which had been creeping down her back to hold her ass down, lifted from her body and shoved against her skull, slamming her head hard against the table, forcing her still.  

“No, please don't, please stop, no... please don't!” she pleaded, she begged, she shrieked.

He slid the knife, then, carefully the length of her throat, and she felt it cut her, drawing blood, but not pushing or going deep - oh god, he was going to kill her - and then he lifted the knife.  Her vision blurred with tears, and the burn on her neck throbbed as she thrashed against him, sobbing. 

Still shaking from the pain of the collar slipping back down over the cut on her neck, she felt her mind going dark again as the knife cut into her cheek.  Deeper here than her neck, no big veins to worry about. 

Somewhere amidst the agony, the darkness overtook her, and she blacked out. 

***

Chapter Text

***

She didn’t wake up in her cell, for the first time since arriving.  She was on her back - on the same table, if the stickiness under her body was the drying blood - with her hands now tied above her head.  She felt tears falling again, leaking out from eyes still too tired to open.  How did she even have any left?  Janie was the cryer, not her.  Was Jane crying?   Did she realize Darcy had disappeared?  Did anyone?   For the first time she considered that they wouldn’t even think to search for her, and it woke a terror in her. 

“Ah, good.  You are awake finally.  Shall we now begin?”  The small man, the talker, asked kindly, almost gently.  He asked, though Darcy was certain her answer wouldn’t matter.

Darcy struggled to open her eyes.  Her left eye finally cracked open, vision blurry and burning against the light, but slowly focusing.  She looked to her right and saw an IV in her arm.  They were giving her something.

“What’s...in… IV…?" she rasped, questioningly.  Why did she feel out of breath?  She wondered if she could tug it out somehow.  What the fuck were they putting in her?  She tried unsuccessfully to move her arm. 

She heard the smile in his voice.  Sick fucking bastard.  “It is nothing, my dear, no need for you to worry your little head on. It is important that we keep you hydrated so that you stay strong enough to give us what we require.  It would not do to have you pass too quickly, before you have opportunity to share with us all the answers?  Now, I ask a final time.  Are we ready to begin?"

What the hell did they want her to share with them?  She didn’t know anything.  She was literally the weakest link in the entire group.  Why had they kidnapped her?  No one had even tried to come for her yet.  She was desperate to try and think of a means of escape.  Is that why they took her?  Because she was the only one who wouldn’t be able to get away?  



What the hell had he meant, to not die too quickly ?

She was cold, naked and trembling, scared, miserable, terrified, and a complete and utter mess.  She shook her head slightly, confused.

“No?”  

He touched her then, his sweaty hand on her collarbone, blessedly warm and deeply unwelcome.  It started trailing down her body, to her breast, following down the outline of her waist, lower.  

“This is not a problem, of course.  I have prepared for this something that may change your mind and make you more… receptive to our process.  Afterwards, I think, we may be ready to begin, when you more fully understand your position here.”  He fell silent then, running his hands down her body, smiling when she slipped and expressed more discomfort and pain, taking pleasure in the frightened trembling she was still fighting to control.

His left hand squeezed her breast in a deep, bruising massage, thumbing roughly at her nipple.  His other hand went lower, until it was cupping her where she didn’t want him, didn’t want to feel him, didn’t want him to touch her, his fingers pushing into her, invading her.  First one, then another.

Oh, no.  God, please no.

It hit her, all at once and ridiculously too late, and Darcy knew what was about to happen.  

...

She felt very young.  And very frightened.

...

She hadn’t waited on purpose, hadn’t signed a pledge or planned to wait for marriage.  She’d just...never found the right person.  No-one had ever been quite special enough.   



Nothing about this was right or special.  Whatever she thought or wanted, it didn’t matter.   
 

She bucked up on the table, her back bending in an arc, desperate to fight him, yanking against her bindings, fighting, screaming, snarling.  Her teeth came out, gnashing and violent, and she roared her frustration at being touched, at being held down.  The world had been reduced down to these cold rooms, and she filled that world with the sounds of her resistance.

“Please Heimdall," she begged, when her struggles proved useless.  “Please see me.  Please send Thor.  Please Gods, please..."  Her cries were desperate, raw prayers, and it felt like damnation when they went unanswered.  

Nobody came to help her.  

 

Any pretence of kindness had evaporated; his touch was ruthless where his words had been gentle.  The asshole proceeded as if she wasn’t resisting at all, ignoring her cries and please with a groan.  Something in her pinched, followed by a shock of the pain left her breathless.  In an automatic response; she slammed her knees together, anything she could do to stop it, desperate to get him out of her, away from her.

“Tovarisch,” he called out, pushing into her further - oh it hurt - followed by more Russian that she didn’t understand, and he pointed towards her. 

The two other men in the room strode over quickly and each grabbed a knee and forcefully spread them apart.  



"No - no!  Stop!" she sobbed.  "I don't want it.  Please, no!"  



The talkative man started to climb on the table, on top of her, pushing her into the table.

She felt crushed under the weight of him, and what he was doing.  Holding her down, the two men egged on the one pushing into her, crude and vicious.  His touch woke fire in her wounds, and she ached for it to catch and become real, to consume her and end this.  The merciful darkness rose up in her mind again, and as the world tilted she let herself fall into it. 

***

They told her what a good Whore she was, for days in a row.  

She assumed it was days, at least.  Hard to tell in the bright, windowless room they dragged her into, when her only rest was the times her mind curled in on itself in her cell. 

They had all enjoyed her now, all of her.  It had been naive enough to think losing her virginity would be the worst they could do to her.  She now knew differently.

Growing up had always seemed like something other people did.  She’d gotten on fine doing as she pleased, living with fierce joy, paying no heed to what was expected.  Things would happen when they happened, why not chase what you wanted and let the chips fall where they may?  So she’d studied and she’d worked, baked and cultivated a broad taste in films.



Living in the moment was all very good, she reflected, until the moment was unending torture in a Russian prison.  

Whas she even in Russia?  Where the fuck was she?  

And where were they ?  Her heroes, her friends.  

Where were they?

She had always imagined herself very much like Jo March from Little Women.  That she would in so many ways never grow up.  Never really become an adult.  That she would grasp on fiercely to childhood and fiction and dreams as long as humanly possible, for fear that once she finally did “become an adult”, she would lose the unending passion and playfulness she treasured, sacrificing her dreams.  

She couldn’t unsee the things that had happened here.  Never unlive the horrors she continued to go through.  Her previous innocent wonder seemed bizarre in the face of it. 

These men had ruined her.  

They had robbed her of every imaginable choice.  At this point, she didn’t even dare question their orders.   

That was horrifying, in a distant sort of way.

By now, she knew that to argue, to fight, to question an order made it worse, made everything worse.  Nothing more so that a single word: no.  A word she had learned in the most horrific of ways meant absolutely nothing.  Two letters that made no sense and held no power.  It was knowing the word meant absolutely nothing to them that made her understand the uselessness of fighting back.  

So she had learned to obey. 

What the fuck did that make her?  The man talked about her as if she was now a permanent part of them, and that’s what she felt like now.  Attached to them to keep herself alive, just like the IV pumping who knows what into her body.  

It wasn’t simply physical.  She had been reduced to mere survival.  She knew now that she would do anything to survive, and was disgusted with herself for it.

Not that her new passivity had much effect on them.  They simply dragged her around like a ragdoll now that all energy and care had forsaken her, leaving her simply a hollow shell of the person she’d once been.

Before.

She felt lied to.  She hadn't really understood these particular horrors that existed.  She’d known they were out there, but they seemed far away - untouchable from where she had been, at the top of a shiny tower, protected by heroes.  

She’d dealt with aliens and bad guys and Hydra.  She’d even had one or two kick-ass moments when it came to protecting herself against some of them.

She’d experienced death.  And loss.

Her grandmother had raised her in love and naivety, the kind you try to shelter children with to protect their innocence, to allow them to imagine what always could be instead of what always is.  She’d known evil like this existed in the world, but experiencing it firsthand was completely different.  She hadn’t known.

Now that she did, she was deeply grieved.  Not simply because of what they were doing to her.  

But how it had changed her on the inside.

She held such heartache and sorrow, it was physically painful.  It wasn’t possible for happiness to exist in a world that also contained pain like this. 

Who am I?

She wasn’t who she had been when they took her.  That person had been stripped away, and she didn’t know who they had been.  Becoming something new was how she would survive; she felt indifferent about exactly what it was she’d changed into.  Everything she had been - happy, defiant, cuddly, talkative - was now cold and quiet.  A silent chasm punched open inside her, a wound in the centre of her being.  

Thinking about the hurt inside, was not possible.  A mind couldn’t wrap itself around the knowledge of these things.  They had hurt her, kept wanting to hurt her, and lived to cause her pain.  If she had no heart, she could not feel pain there. 

No more feelings.  No more dreams.  No mercy.  No safety.

She would never be safe.

...

The demands of the nameless fourth man echoed through her, terrifying her.

Her mouth had swollen shut after one particularly violent event, even after she had answered all of their questions as well as she could, and they had punished her for not talking again right afterwards, even with her trying.  She tried so hard to obey. 

The men lived for the violence they caused her, and relished her pain.  She did her best to respond to their demands - move here, hold still - (yes Sir, sorry Sir, these words worked if she said them right, and she tried her very best to do it right) and when she behaved and did her best to please them, the small man nodded approvingly, stroked her head and called her Pet, before stepping back to observe her reaction. 

The relief in those moments were beginning to feel…strange to her.  There certainly was no joy.  But there was a newfound inner voice urging her to remain submissive, to do what she was told;  that the punishments would be lighter, or more forgiving if she did what she was told, or at least tried harder to.  

The lack of sleep and pace of questioning had her fumbling, missing something or moving too slowly, and if she couldn’t follow the simple commands at the immediate time they were given, so stupid and clumsy she couldn’t move and do the simplest things, they’d all move in - together, like a pack - to hurt her in some inventive new way.

They asked so little, and she couldn’t even do that. 

The spiral of terror wrapped tighter around her.  

...

She had held out against the questioning for as long as she could in the beginning.  It might have been hours or days, she didn’t know anymore.  The certainty that she had not been missed, that no-one was searching, reinforced itself in each moment of pain, in each minute that passed without being rescued, her resistance crumbled. 

24 hours, wasn’t that the old saying?  Survival rates of kidnapping victims take a nosedive if they’re not found in the first 24 hours.  Basically zero chance after 48.  Had they looked for 24 hours?  Had Jane tried longer before giving up?  How long had it been? 

A long time had passed now.  They hadn’t come for her, which meant they had most likely given up on believing there was something to find at this point.  They probably believed she was dead by now. No point doing search and rescue for a body.  She wasn’t worth risking a battle for.  

She wondered if they would give her a funeral.  One she couldn’t attend.

Words had started tumbling from her lips after one of them had stabbed her in the shoulder blade after one particularly gruesome questioning session.  Her screams were silent, punctuated with shouted nonsense words as she tried to find answers that would please them. This must be the peak of her anguish; this would end soon enough.  One way or another.  

“Where is Jane Foster?”  His accent was so thick it was hard to figure out what he was saying at times.  Not that it mattered.  She couldn’t speak.  “Stark Tower,” she mouthed, barely able to remain conscious, her vision going grey.

“What was Jane Foster working on?  Wake up - you must wake up!  What had she discovered?”

She couldn’t breathe.  No more breathing meant she would die; this thought wasn’t as comforting as she’d hoped.  She shook her head, confused.  

“How do you not know?  You must know.  You’ve worked with her!  You're her goddamn assistant”

There was a long pause, the threat of darkness looming over her.  He slapped her, and she gasped, breath saving her even as it damned her to remain here.

“I bring her pop-tarts,” she cried, words simply tumbling from her, in sequence, out of sequence, who could tell.  Could they understand this accent?  She didn’t know what she was saying, she didn’t know what was being asked of her anymore.  “I don't work with her.  Not smart enough…”

It went on, and on, and on.

***

The knife to her shoulder had happened very recently, actually, now that Darcy thought about it.  

When she’d held back in an attempt to not give away any information on Janie to protect her (she had tried so hard to be strong) they always seemed to know.  This one time, he had moved the hilt of the knife in her back, minutely, slowly, until she couldn’t hold in the answer, screaming and begging them to stop, that was everything she knew, stop it please.

Please make it stop!



Each time she felt the hot blood pour over her shoulder blade, she distantly marvelled that her body had anything warm left in it.  It wouldn’t be long now, surely.  Hopefully.  She would bleed out and let the coldness into her heart, and she could finally die. 

They left the knife in when he threw her back in her cell.

She was unconscious before her head hit the floor.

***

The day the tall one took a steel pipe to her knee, and to her hip, was the day she begged them to kill her.  

***

They threw her back in her cell, and shut the door, laughing.

***

That was alright.  Death was coming for her.  She knew.  And she wasn't scared anymore.  Finally, pain without fear.  Present, constant and factual.  

She floated in the dark and the pain.

***

She'd heard the explosion, but it hadn't done much more than rattle the walls of her cell.  It had woken her up.  She was so tired.

Her eyes drooped.

There was a grinding noise outside of her door, before the door to her cell creaked open slowly, but she didn't bother to open her eyes.  Tried to not even acknowledge it, though her body betrayed her and flinched anyway at the sound.

There was a soft intake of air.  Not a gasp, nothing so conspicuous.  Whoever it was that had opened the door had not fully expected to find what they saw upon entering.

So someone new.  She knew she should feel afraid, but she felt nothing.

She heard them take a slow step towards her, the leather of their boots creaking as they moved.  And then another step, closer, another stretch of leather.

They would drag her out when they wanted.  They would hurt her when they wanted.  They would kill her when they wanted. 

She could barely breathe, it hurt so bad.  Her leg was broken.  Possibly her hip.  She drifted in and out of consciousness, shivering and laying on the cold, wet concrete.  She coughed a deep, crackling sound.  She couldn't remember what it felt like to be warm.

“Darcy,” a man’s gentle voice whispered to her in the dark, his voice deep and gravelly.



Male.  He would hurt her.

Her eyes shot open, burning when they caught the full bright light outside the cell, but she stayed on the floor as she’d learned to do, her body recoiling, waiting for the hit.  

Hearing her name being said wasn’t a good thing.  She’d kept it quiet, kept it inside her head, only mouthed it there when she was in her cell, as a reminder to herself that she still had a name - that she was still a person.  Hearing it spoken only meant one thing.

It meant pain coming.  

It meant a beating, more than she could take, and then more still.  They wanted to take away her name, and they had.  They’d said her name and hurt her until the word was a weapon too, and she feared hearing it.   “Names were for people,” they’d told her.  “Not playthings.”

They hadn’t actually said her name in so long, now, it seemed.  They’d called her Darcy, taunted her with it over and over again, until she refused to respond to it anymore.  They beat her when she had responded - lifting her head, or turning to whomever had said it before they would beat her back down to the floor again.  When she proved she would not respond to it was when they moved onto to different forms of torture.

They’d taken to calling her simply Whore or Pet.  Both simple names, but each with a very specific set of simple rules.  Easy for a thing to understand. 

Whore is what they called her when they wanted to take turns using her body.  "Nothing more than a wet hole for me, aren't you, Whore," he moaned, pushing into her, hurting her.  They each had their various horrible ways of getting off, every one enough to make her vomit afterwards when she felt the filth leak out of her.  She could do nothing but bear it, to suffer through it until they had used her enough to their satisfaction.  

Perhaps the worst was when they had used toys on her, playing with their plaything, laughing as she bucked and writhed to get away from the buzzing.  Laughing as they pushed it deeper, pulling physical reactions from her even as she fought.  Making her wet.  Making her…

Don’t think.  Don't remember.

It was one of their favourite games, praising her when they forced her to…

She hadn’t wanted it.  She’d tried not to.  She couldn’t remember...

You’re not Darcy when you’re here.  Don’t think.  Don’t be anything.   You're a thing, here.

"You will fucking take it, you fucking bitch of a Whore.  Again.  Just like that, deeper.  You shake all you want to Whore, try your best to not feel the pleasure your body betrays you with - your tears and attempts to escape make it delicious to watch."  They had whispered these things in her ear.  And they had goaded her attempts to get away and laughed gleefully at her in her desperation to escape when she failed.  

She retched, her body shaking through dry heaving as her body attempted to reject the memories of what they’d forced her to do.  

She lost her grip on time again.

***

Pet was the name given when they were trying to gather information from her.  They would talk to her so softly, with false kindness.  They promised her terrible things, a glass of water, a blanket, a swift death.  She knew they were lies, and couldn’t say so, and called them promises instead. 

All she had to do was to follow instructions.  Their instructions.  And answer each one with, “Yes, sir.”  Answer every question she was asked.  Sit here.  No, kneel.  Put your hands behind your back.  Stick those titties out so we can see them so pretty.  Suck this.  Lay here.  Open yourself up for me.  Open.

Pet was worse than Whore.  Way worse.  

Worse in a way she couldn’t yet swallow, but knew to the deepest parts of what made her who she was; that she had made herself into Pet, out of desperation and survival instincts, but nonetheless, the creation had been hers, the effort she put in to please them and to be “good” for them, as disgusting as it made her.  Where Whore was something she couldn’t have prevented, and hadn’t been able to escape, despite her best attempts.  

But she’d learned quickly.

Whore at least seemed like a victim.  Pet actually worked to please them, so they wouldn’t harm her further.  And during those times, they actually didn’t beat her much.  Only when she disobeyed or failed.  They would punish her cruelly, and then she would berate herself.  If only she had done better.  If only she had tried better. 

Next time she would be better.

She understood Whore and Pet, and the differences between them.  She hated them both.  It was a torture in itself to be called either, to prove to her that she wasn’t worth even her god-given name. 

She only repeated her name in her mind alone in her cell, as if she’d forget it if she didn’t let herself be herself from time to time.  It wasn’t forgotten, of course not.  You can’t forget a word that has hurt you so much.  It was just so very strange to not hear your name for so long, and it hurt like a physical blow to hear it now.

Her eyes burned as she tried to blink away tears that welled when the light from the doorway hit her.  She whimpered, waiting to be grabbed, but didn’t dare a quick glance up when it didn’t come.  Her name had been used, and she was unfamiliar of this new type of torture.  She waited.  There was nothing else to do. 

Who is this man beside her now?  What is next?  

Did Darcy even care?  Was she Darcy now?  Were they asking her to be Darcy now?

It had to be someone new, she didn’t recognize the sound of his steps.  He wasn’t stomping towards her like all three of her captors did.  So not one of them.  Definitely somebody new.  

New did not feel safe.  The unknown was even scarier than the known.  If that was even possible, given what she knew now.  She shuddered, and waited to learn what the new rules would be.

He came close; she could hear him take a shuddering breath in but couldn’t see his boots.  She refused to look up, and she heard him drop to his knees in front of her, and… then… 

Nothing.  He exhaled harshly, but otherwise remained silent. 

She waited him out, refusing to fall into the trap.  

“Darcy,” he exhaled, his voice guttural and also sounding more…sad?  And… that voice... she recognized that soft voice. 

That couldn’t be right.  She was probably hallucinating. 

Out of her side-eye, her one good eye, she watched him take the strap of his rifle off his shoulder and set it down slowly to his side, her eyes unable to not follow the movement of the rifle.  The men didn’t bring guns around her.  Guns were for killing; they'd wanted to keep her alive.  

Or...was this it?  Was it finally her time to be executed?

Something glinted in her eye and she noticed his arm.  The left one.  It was covered in some type of armour.  The other was bare and pale in the light.   

It was so familiar to her.  And yet, so strange.  Why only cover one arm with armor and not both?  Her mind was sluggish.

Both arms reached out slowly towards her, and she flinched harshly at that, cowering back against the cement wall.  

He quickly leaned back again, but stayed on his knees.  He rested his arms palm up on his legs.

That wasn’t right either. 

She hadn’t followed any order to have him step back.  The men backing off of her was a reward, and she hadn’t done anything yet to earn that reward.

That meant this was bad.  Probably very bad.  This was new and she didn’t know the rules.  This was going to hurt. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispered.  He breathed out harshly, obviously studying her.

Her lip trembled.  She was confused.  She wanted to keep her head down, remain submissive.  Her broken leg made it to where she couldn’t get into her taught position.  

She wouldn’t survive this and it would be her final brutal treatment before death finally took her.

Pieces of memory floated up from under the pain, however.  Metal arm.  Blue eyes.  Dark hair - pulled back in a tie, not under a hat.  

She knew him.

She knew.

The Winter Soldier was here.  



Bucky.

But he wasn’t here.  She had waited for them to come.  None of them were coming here.



Nobody had come.

She took a shuddering breath, and while her body was screaming no, don’t do it, don’t look up... 

But she had to know.  

She slowly peeked up, blinking away wetness out of her good eye.  

His hooded expression watched her carefully, glancing at her from head to toe - assessing her - each and every cut, bruise, broken bone, and all the more, he took it all in.  And then he looked right at her, eyes crinkled and sad, compassion and empathy written all over his features.  

There was silence.  He didn’t say anything.  Why didn’t he say anything?  

He just… waited. 

He looked like a memory.  He looked real.

But he made no move towards her, his arms resting loosely on his thighs as he looked her over, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the knife in her shoulder, silvery blue eyes glinting with a simmering rage she could see underneath his calm exterior.  How had she made him angry?  She hadn’t done anything yet.



She would be punished.  It was inevitable.

But she had to know.  Was he real?  Was he here?  Her mind felt broken and torn apart.

“Bu...Buck…" she mouthed, her voice cracking.  The sound of her own voice made her immediately lower her eyes again to the floor.  Why had she spoken?  She was so stupid!  It was not allowed!

She wasn’t allowed to look and she sure as hell wasn’t allowed to talk.  He was going to hurt her.  He had to be a hallucination.  She’d finally lost it.

Hallucinations can’t hurt you, her brain told her.  You can look at him.  And talk to him.  It’s okay.  

And so it was decided.  “Please.  Please be a hallucination."



"Doll..." he started.  



"Please kill me.  Please make it stop.  Please be real.  Please take me home.”  She whimpered, pleadingly.  "I want to go home."

Her eyes swept over his face, to the gun, to the door, lingering, longingly…and then back to his face.  

Now that she had finally looked at him again, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him, although found it impossible to meet him directly in the eyes.  That lesson had been taught quickly and viciously.  She wouldn't forget.  

She focused to the right of him, to his metal arm, to the wisps of hair that had come undone from his hair being tied up, to the gun he had set on the ground next to him.  

What was he waiting on?  Was he here to shoot her?  Why was she hallucinating Bucky of all people?  Where was Jane?  Or Thor?  Or Natasha?  

Where was fucking Captain America?

She wouldn't let herself blink for fear he would disappear.  

Her vision swam; she was too drained, too drugged, or too insane, to see his face anymore.  He was probably there to finally kill her and get it over with.  He probably wasn’t even there and all this hope rising in her chest was a new form of torture.

She was ready.    

She hoped it would be quick.  Painless.  

If it was really Bucky, he could do it.  

I know what you are capable of, Winter Soldier.  She'd read his file.

“Make it quick,” she begged.  “I don’t want it to hurt anymore.”

His eyes bore into hers, and it took great effort not to meet him eye to eye, to look away just to the side of his head, as he studied her so compassionately.  His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened as he swallowed down her words.  

He stayed where he was, crouched down in front of her, searching for something, looking at her, seeing something inside of her… that she didn’t want him to see.  

She didn’t even want to see. 

Pulling her ruined knee as close to her chest as she could, she curled in on herself.  She didn’t want him to look anymore.  Didn’t want him to see what she had become.  What they had done to her.  What she let them do.  What they had made of her.  What she made of herself. 

Fucking Whore, echoed in her mind as they took her over and over, brutally.  You can do it, just take it, that’s it, that’s a good Pet.  All of it, deep as you can go.  That's it, your mouth is so pretty.  Swallow.  Good Pet.

She wouldn't let him see that she was broken.  How they'd done it.  She didn't want anyone to see.  

Bad enough that he could see her at all, but those eyes felt like they saw beneath the wounds and blood, to the thing inside her skin that used to be Darcy.

And he could see she wasn’t that person anymore. 

Perhaps he didn’t think she deserved a name anymore, either.

She whined softly as he tried inching towards her once more, murmuring softly… was that Russian?  Was she really in Russia?  Why did everyone speak to her in goddamn Russian?  She hadn’t been able to figure it out this whole time.  

Broken thoughts ran through her mind, the confusion and conflict weighing heavily. 

You can’t trust him.  



He paused.

***

He hasn’t touched you.  

***

You are a thing. 

***

You thought of his smile when you were trying to be strong.  

***

He will hurt you. 

***

He wore your hat.  It made you smile.

***

Names are for people. 

***

He called you Darcy.  Your name is a punishment. 

***

Your name.  You have a name. 

***

He said your name and didn’t hurt you. 

***

At the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor, she ducked her head in an attempt to shy away.  The chain rattled, making her freeze.  Shaking like a leaf, refusing to look at him anymore, fearing what harm would come to her next.  She didn’t want to know what was coming.  What did he want?

“Can you look at me?” he asked her softly.  “Darcy?”  

Her body flinched immediately.  She couldn’t meet his eyes.  Couldn’t handle what might happen.

She felt him hesitate a long moment more, so close, yet not touching her, as he spoke into his com, “Direct line - Rogers, grab Natalia, need you both up here.  Get Bruce ASAP.  Tell him to bring the medkit."



If only she’d been wearing her comm.  Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten so lost.  She knew how to follow orders now.  She could do better.

There was silence, and then static, the sound of something crashing and…a long pause.  “Understood,”  Captain America responded, shortly.  It was the Captain's voice.  Not the Steve voice.

Steve was here.  

There was a loud crack of thunder.  "Got one,"  Thor boomed.  “Where is she?  Where are they keeping her?  We must spread out and search.”



Thor.  Her heart leapt.

“Already on it, big guy,” Tony said, as the sound of a repulser blast sounded, shaking the building once more, as if he had decided the best way to search for her was to simply blow a hole in each locked room until she was discovered.



Could he fire again and bring the wall down?  Hide her?  End this?

She heard guns firing and voices yelling, “Two down” and then “On my way, Barnes.  ETA two minutes.”  Darcy heard Natasha’s voice crackling over the coms.  

Oh my God, Natasha was coming for her.  Thank God.  

There was relief, and then… immediate shame.  

Tash would be so disappointed.  If only Darcy had worn her com.  Learned Russian.  Taken Nat up on self defense lessons. 



Now that she was coming, Darcy wasn’t sure she wanted to be found.

“A third down here,”  Clint responded.  "There's a fuck load of medical shit here.  I don't know what I'm looking at."



"We'll pack it up on the way out, figure out what it when we get back to the lab," Bruce said.

“Search the facility.  Are there more?  They're armed.”  Natasha asked.  “There has to be more.”

“I’m gonna head to the basement,” Clint said, the twang of his bowstring as he drew it taut coming through the coms.

“Tony, do a flyover and see if you can trace anyone else in the building.  That will be faster than blasting through each room.”  The voice held a mote of sarcasm.  

“Already on it, Captain.  Anyone found her yet?"  Tony asked, voice hesitant.   

They were all here.  

She felt elated, joyous, relieved, and grateful.  And also terrified, and frightened.  And then that something dark she was dreading deep inside began to tighten against her heart, her lungs, her shoulders.  She felt it physically pulling at her.  She didn’t want to be seen.  She didn’t want them to know.  She didn’t want them to witness her shame.  

Darcy heard Bucky take a deep breath.  She bravely glanced at him, his face tight and serious, his voice controlled and his body frighteningly still.  But she could subconsciously feel the shaking within him.  Could see his anger in the tense way he held himself.  

The men who'd beat her, who had hurt her, had raged like this.  She had seen it in their bodies.  They did it when she answered wrong, right before they tore out another piece of her. 

She was beyond terrified.

“I've got her,” Bucky spoke into the comms, his voice like gravel.  

There was nothing but static on the coms.  All had gone silent.

This was it.

Her eyes closed.  Her body sagged slightly and she trembled weakly, shivering.  She was so tired.  If he took his anger out on her, that would be the end of her.  She didn’t have it in her to obey the next order anyway.  Her furrowed brow eased.  This would all end soon.

The clanking of the chains seemed to jolt Bucky into movement.  Standing up, he reached over her, ignoring her flinch, with his metal arm and began undoing her chains above her head.  “Darcy, this is going to hurt like a bitch, and I'm sorry,” he said softly.   

She jerked at the sound of the curse word, her name, having been called that so many times, hearing the voices of her three captors echoing, “good bitch, little bitch.”  To have it spoken softly, almost gently - almost comfortingly - confused the hell out of her.  The word was bad, and she didn’t like it.  

He kept saying her name… was it a threat?

He continued murmuring to her in a soft gruff voice, though she couldn’t make out what he was saying.  Couldn’t even determine if it were English.

New pain prickled in her hands as he slowly lowered her arms down, bit by bit - as if he somehow knew the pain she was experiencing - from the blood rushing back into her hands and fingers.  

He watched her carefully as she breathed through it mutely, her body accustomed to this pain, and rested her hands on her knees to keep from moving her shoulder more. 

The knife still lodged there, her chest and aching bones, all threatened to overwhelm her.  Usually this happened while she was being dragged down a corridor, mind going through the process of shutting down, handing control over to some other self.  This place was for the stillness and the dark. For steady pain she could lose herself in.  She moved.  She hurt everywhere.  She couldn’t move.  She couldn't breathe.  

Oh fuck.

Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

She watched Bucky back away a little, setting the chains on the ground with a heavy clunking noise, even as he tried to do it gently, in small doses - it startled her.  He again squatted next to her.  She looked at his shoulder, his hair - he had it pulled back in a low ponytail with only a few wisps escaping the front.  Careful not to look him directly in the eyes, she noticed how he kept looking into hers anyway, expression heavy with the weight of understanding.  He angled his body away, but otherwise didn’t move from where he had settled down next to her.

“I’m just gonna sit here and wait with you,” he told her softly.  “So you know you aren’t alone.  I know it’s been a long time, but we’re here now.  We’re here.  We’re gonna get you home.”  He continued to speak softly at her, to her.  She lost time.  But he was with her and she wasn’t alone in the cell anymore.

They had finally come for her.

A tear rolled down her cheek. 

***

Chapter Text

***

“Buck?  Where are you?  Where is she?"  She could hear the worry in Steve’s...no, in Captain America's tone through the comms as Bucky replied softly as not to startle Darcy more than necessary. 

“Basement floor, building two, third door to the left.”  

“Roger that.  I’m in stairwell C heading down to basement level now,” and even through the static from the interference of concrete and being underground, he sounded certain and authoritative.



This was the Captain.  

Steve’s voice could be kind and soft, gentle yet sassy; sarcastic even at times.  It was Darcy’s favorite thing about him.  The more he let her in, the more she got to know him, the more she got to see Steve’s funny, intellectual humour.  He might possibly even be more sassy than she, which would be a feat all on its own.  The first time he’d sassed her, she’d stared back open mouthed as he walked away laughing, a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face.  She’d loved it and had chased him down to see how much more she could get out of him.  He’d progressively been letting her get closer, but still - there was something holding him back, and she wasn’t sure the reasoning of it, that kept her at arms length from him. 

The Captain’s voice, on the other hand, was authoritative, direct, challenging.  This was not her friend, her movie night cuddle buddy.  The Captain was a superhero.  He did the impossible, he made the non-negotiable decisions, he saved the day.  It was hard to get to know the Captain.  Strategic, decisive, in charge - he was exactly as described from the history books she read about growing up.  What she hadn’t expected, though, was the complete 180 she experienced when interacting with the Captain vs. plain old Steve.  And the difference between the two was like night and day.  At the same time, however, he managed to fit both personalities into one person, flitting between the two not as separate people, but just how he dealt with each conversation, each individual person, each moment as it came.

She’d watched him, and had seen Bucky watch him as well, and even Natasha - all be enraptured by his easy transitions from superhero to normal Steve.  While she expected to feel whiplash from the back and forth, there wasn’t any of that.  Both were him and he was both and it was just the way of him.

It wasn’t Steve though, who was leading the team to rescue her.

This was the hero, the legend, coming to save her.  And fuck anyone standing in his way between where he fought and where his mission lay.

She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that it was the Captain who was about to see her like this.  She suspected it would be easier on the both of them for the “Captain” to find her while he was carrying his armour, and in more ways than the shield.  

They were friends now, she and Steve.  The Captain didn’t really express friendships whilst carrying that weight of leadership - there was a discernible distance between The Captain and Steve Rogers.  Since Cap was in charge, there remained awe and respect from those around him, towards him when he was in charge.  From all of them.  But Steve, not Cap, felt more real to her; relatable even.  Personally, and while she was desperately looking to be rescued by Captain America, she wasn't sure she wanted Steve, her friend, to see her - to actually look at her and take in all that had become of her.  Would he see into her as Bucky had, so easily?  



What would they think of she, the Pet, who earned her Master's pleasure?  Or the Whore they'd used her as, simply a wet hole to abuse.



There was no in between.  She was one or the other, and nothing more.  The girl they knew was a distant memory, though she felt physical pain at the thought of herself even just a few short weeks ago. 

Bucky was very good at hiding his feelings and emotions - masterful, in fact.  The best out there.  In a super ninja spy plus Winter Soldier scary murderer kind of thing, Darcy surmised.  Exactly like Natasha, but somehow, so much worse.  Natasha had once admitted to Darcy during a girls night, in a moment of dark storytelling of secrets that can only be shared over wine and nail polish, and with lots of tears, the kind of dark and terrible honest truths that can only be whispered in hushed whispers to those you trust above all others, that Bucky… well, the Winter Soldier at the time, had been a large part of her training in the red room.  She hadn’t elaborated, the secret so harsh and let out with so much pained effort that Darcy hadn’t pressed for more, but it was plainly obvious that Natasha suffered great trauma from that time and that somehow Bucky had been largely involved.  Natasha and Bucky didn’t avoid each other, exactly, but they definitely were not warm and fuzzy like one would expect from a shared past.

Darcy had been dying to know why, but it wasn’t something often talked about, or asked, and Bucky and Natasha had a storyline all on their own, a secret life before that only the two of them understood, but Darcy could see so much in how they looked at each other.  There was something there, old and serious, and she could never tell if it was rage, trauma, a shared understanding and compassion, or simply reminiscing between the two when they looked at each other.  But as far as she knew, they hadn’t truly spoken since Steve had brought Bucky into the tower and in a moment of unpreparedness, Natasha had dropped all of her defenses so quickly and so drastically, the color rushing out of her face so quickly - it was so unlike anything any of them had ever witnessed from him.  

He’d simply looked at her, his eyes steady, his face expressionless, utterly unsurprised at finding her there.  They’d stared at each other from across the room, both frozen in memories, horror, or something else - she didn’t know, until Clint, worried and uncharacteristically observant, dragged Natasha from the room while Steve did the same with Bucky, back to their own respective quarters.

The next morning at breakfast, a mutual understanding or at the very least some kind of line drawn in the sand of peace had come between them and they stood next to each other in the kitchen cooking, working over each other and somewhat collaboratively, without a word between them.  Tony, Clint, and Steve had simply looked at one another in confusion, shrugged, and then went on to eat the plates set in front of them with gusto.  Leaving Darcy to just stare at all of them like they’d lost their ever-loving damn minds.  What the hell was going on?  

She’d tiptoed around Bucky a bit ever since, because where Natasha treaded carefully, Darcy was even more cautious.  Steve had been a huge lead in making Bucky more human, less… frightening.  More… approachable.  Still, Darcy had waded carefully around him, because she didn’t know.  There wasn’t enough information on the table for her to feel one way or another, approach him in any specific manner, act any particular way around him.

The Bucky sitting with Darcy now, so simply, and just to keep her company so that she would know for sure, 100% that she’d been found and wasn’t alone anymore, was hard to associate with the same Winter Soldier that Natasha knew, respected, and possibly feared so greatly.  Perhaps the Winter Soldier had hurt her, deeply, traumatically.  Perhaps he'd rescued her and it was... bad, but they'd both been witness to the experience.  Darcy didn’t know, and Natasha hadn’t told.

Foreignly to her, however, despite not knowing much more than glossy details regarding Bucky’s past via Steve, and despite Natasha's wariness or whatever it was with her around him, the fact that Bucky was a face she recognized, the first face she'd seen in such a long time that she felt a connection to.  It helped her.  Besides, with the knowledge that he single-handedly possessed a specific skill set that he could be deadly dangerous to anyone in his path if he so chose, and was sitting away from her, giving her needed breathing room and space, and doing his damndest to appear unthreatening despite what she knew of him, ultimately made Bucky feel like the safest person to sit near her right now above anyone else.  He had at least two weapons, two that were visible, at least, the rifle which she glanced at more than once while they waited, and his shiny arm, that kept whining and shifting as he clenched and unclenched his fist.  



If only she'd had a gun.  

He understood something in her that she didn’t have to speak about.  Somehow knowing what had been done to her without having to ask.  Which was very good, because she didn’t ever want to talk.  She didn’t want him to ever leave.  The desire to cling to him, to attach herself physically to him and never let go was so strong she would have had to work to keep her body in check had she not been physically unable to shuffle to him.  And yet, she was detached, and removed, unable to actually physically request what her body was begging her to do.  Something held her back, something made her not trust.  He was male.  



He was male. 

She was also very presently concerned about how she would feel once the Captain came into the room.  

He was all things good, steady and fair.  He was honest and gentlemanly and earnest and... he wouldn’t... understand.  How could he?   Darcy couldn’t begin to understand.  She began to tremble in worry at Steve’s reaction to seeing her.  She would bring him down to her level, which was low.  She would tarnish him somehow.  He needed to stay away.  



She needed to stay away from everyone.  Nobody was safe.  No where.

That voice within her argued with herself.  She was being saved, it whispered.  This was a good thing, the moment she’d been waiting for. 



But instead of feeling joyous or relieved, she felt… nothing.  She felt blank.  The colors of her canvas had run off, leaving smears and streaks of mud in its wake.  Drip, drip, drip... pieces of her melted from her canvas.

They were too late.  

Her eyes swept over to look at the little window, closed off today by metal shutters.  Bucky’s eyes followed hers, tuned into her in such a way it felt discombobulating, searchingly, calculating, eyes narrowing with swift understanding as he saw what she saw, and understood what that little window meant to her.



He understood.  It was a gutting feeling, sympathy, pity, validation.  It hurt her, to have someone understand something so big.  And also, so trivial.

Then he looked back at her, his eyes softening in cognizance.  His head tilted to the side as he truly assessed her physical form, his expression darkening as he followed the open cuts along the length of her bare legs, up her torso, the cuffs the collar.  His jaw clenched as he took in the knife wedged in her shoulder, and the huge gash she had across her face, his gaze remaining gentle and observant, but made no move to touch her.  Her swollen eye that she could hardly see out of, her matted hair, her cracked lips.



She coughed, wet and sickly.  She was dying.

Sitting silently with her now, just as he’d promised, he kept her company.  He had attempted keeping up a running commentary, she thought he had been, at least, but must have noticed her zoning out and hadn’t pushed her to come back until she was ready so he allowed himself to trail off, which she deeply appreciated.  The noise in her head was already loud.  

The fact that he hadn’t left - his promise to her felt like a lifeline in which she now emotionally clung to as promised and awaited his followthrough.  He kept quiet now, there was nothing to be said.  What could anyone possibly say about her, about this wreck of a person she now was?  

He’s stayed with her though, which was everything to her in this moment, she wouldn't forget this moment, him sitting near her but not too close, keeping his promise not to leave.  It had been so long since she hadn’t felt completely alone and left at peace with another human being that she was inexplicably grateful for the few moments between just the two of them that, to give her time, to prepare her for what was to come, and allow her to to simply soak up the feeling of not being alone anymore, not forgotten and unwanted.  

They had come.     

She still didn't believe it, and he was sitting right there in front of her.  She had known they would come for her, but had convinced herself otherwise.

It had been such a long time.

It was a marvel Bucky could even recognise her, really, covered as she was from head to toe in filth.  Her own filth, their filth, mud from the cell.  Layers of dried blood, semen, spit.  Her hair stringy, filthy, half covering her face and eyes - she knew she resembled something out of a horror film.  Shackles on her wrists and neck, deep cuts covering her body.  



The knife.  They had stabbed her and just left it in.  

Swallowing was hard, her mouth so dry.  She thought longingly of ice water, and then shook at the thought.  Nothing cold.  Something warm would be better, like hot chocolate, or apple cider. Even one of Bruce's weird teas from various places of the globe.  Anything to soothe the burn. 

Bucky’s gaze never left hers, but she refused to acknowledge his gauging evaluation of her.  Please, let him stay quiet; she didn’t want to know what he thought, what he saw.  He knew what it was to be bound and tortured.  He’d been remade into a weapon; she had just been ruined.  She couldn’t think about what he saw, what he recognized and compare what was different.  The old her would have pelted him with question after question, wanting to hear his point of view and draw her own conclusions from what he did say, and what he didn’t.  Collect all the information until she had the whole picture.

But she couldn’t look at him.  He saw too much.  And she couldn't give anything away.



They'd hurt her for it.  Use it against her.  Leave her.

There is no such thing as trust.



At least there was a window, she had thought in the first few days of her captivity and had been so very grateful since, eyes flicking towards it now.  Even if it hadn't allowed any real amounts of light in. The window was an acknowledgement that the world had continued to exist outside these walls.  There was somewhere to go back to. 

He glanced back at the window.  He seemed to understand not only her thought process, but her need to block him out, her need to remind herself of the outside world.  

Was she so easy to read?   

Subconsciously projecting to him the few thoughts that had been hers to keep, the little certainties that had kept her going all this time?  It was good that he could read her without her ever having to say anything. 



There was just his silent breathing and her random coughing spells.  The drip of water from window to floor.  But otherwise, the room held silent.



The cell had become her only place of peace.  She didn't want anyone else to come in, or be to be pulled out.  Both scenarios induced pain.

It didn’t take long, however, before she and Bucky could hear distantly his boots running down the hall, as his calls grew louder and it wasn’t long before she heard Steve’s real voice instead of the crackled echo via the coms, as he neared and approached her cell.  

“Buck…” Cap skidded to a stop as soon as he walked into the room and saw them, saw her - his shield shiny and bright, the white star gleaming - a beacon of safety but also a weapon that he held close to the chest upon entering the room, always on the lookout, always prepared for a fight.  

He would have fought for you had he been here.  She knew it.



But she'd been alone.  Forgotten.

It hurt her to look at him.  His expression held every fear she’d expected.

He was aghast, his face contorted in horror.  Even looking away at the window, she could see Bucky glaring at Cap.  Why?  Because he hadn’t kept his poker face?  It wouldn’t have helped.  She knew what she’d become.  

“Steve,” Bucky admonished softly.

It was strange seeing that disapproval on Bucky’s face, and directed towards Cap.  They had come for her; she knew it was a good thing.  Her mind was telling her so.

She just couldn’t believe it.  It didn’t feel real.  Because, perhaps… it wasn’t.

Her heart hurt.    

Why had they left her here for so long?

Cap took a few steps forward, his eyes widening as he took all of her in for the first time, his enhanced eyes and tactical mind assessing more than the normal person would upon first entry.  His shield dropped; its heavy clang rattled in her ears as it hit the ground, not even bouncing a little, just slamming into it like the opposite poles of two magnets clamping together.



Darcy jolted in fear.

“Oh my God," he breathed.  

They were here to rescue her, to help her.  But the uncomfortable and unsettling realization that even trusted, even as they were here to rescue her - they were still men, standing over her in the cell, and that only meant one thing.  She knew what they wanted.  

She couldn’t take it from them.  It was too much.  She couldn't be one or the other for them.  



She couldn't do it.

She whimpered, her mind warring with itself over what to make of the contradiction, and shuddered with the effort of figuring out this new game.  This wasn’t supposed to happen here in her dark, safe place.

You can trust them.  

They will hurt you.  

They’re your friends.  

They could break you with one hand.  



It's Captain America and Bucky Barnes.  Heroes.  And you know them.

They could kill you.  

Why haven’t they killed you yet? 

What did they want her to do?



Pet or Whore?  What were the rules?

She stared at them with wide eyes; she wanted to hide her face but she couldn’t.  Had to watch them.  Had to figure out what new game was coming next, what to expect.  Could she protect herself against them?  

Could she escape?  Idiotic.  She'd tried, and tried.  And failed.

This is not the kind of place you escape from.  She’d come to that weighted realization early into her captivity.  But escape was a laughable imaginative dream, especially hobbled with injuries and weighed down with metal and fatigue.

Her helplessness was suffocating.

Being exposed in front of them, in a way that had nothing to do with her nudity, was overwhelming.  To be vulnerable here meant she couldn’t gather her wits, couldn’t hoard strength or prepare for the next onslaught.  She needed them to leave, needed to be alone in the dark, needed them out. 

She needed...

Why would they care what you need, Whore?  

What could you give them to earn your freedom, Pet?

Bucky was still crouched relatively close, though he’d begun slowly inching backwards away from her as her distress intensified.  How did he know to do that?   Could he smell waves of distres from her?  That hadn't been in his file.  



Had she said she wanted them to leave out loud?  That hadn’t mattered to any of the other men.  



Leave me alone.

Cap, either not noticing what Bucky did or not caring, moved closer until he towered above them both.  Unable to voice the panic she felt in his shadow, her breaths quickened until she was hyperventilating.  Panting, clawing at her throat, and then screaming wordlessly, wildly.  A dull clanging sounded as her cuffs hit the collar, and the reminder of her remaining restraints chewed away at what little remained of her control.  Every step he came closer, reaching towards her…

Oh God, he was going to touch her.  She had expected it, and yet - it hurt, a new fresh, unexpected pain.  Not him, not from him.  Please, no!  

The panic bit into her mind like sharp metal edges into skin.  

She lost her fucking mind.

“No!” she shrieked, her voice cracked but shrill.  “I don’t want it, I don’t want to, please no!”

The way Cap recoiled at her words, it was like he’d been hit by someone else’s shield for once.  It looked like it had hurt him.  She didn’t want to hurt him but she couldn’t help it, couldn't stop.  She tore at the collar and the skin beneath it, begging incoherently.

Get it off, let me out, let me die, please...

“I don’t understand the rules…” she choked out.  "I have to know them before I can play."

The silence that followed was long and thick, like cement.  It actually made her think of a tall Mahogany tree.  In her mind, the leaves were no longer green, but white.  Wind, racing and spirling around the leaves, close but not quite touching yet… she could see the exact moment the wind hit the leaves, causing them to tear and break away from the tree, like torn and tearing sheets of white paper flowing in the air, not flying, not falling… just floating in the silence.  She imagined she was a floating paper leaf, having been torn from her tree.  

She floated.

“The rules...?”  Steve questioned, trailing off, aghast, looking at Bucky with wide eyes.

“We aren’t gonna hurt ya, sweet thing,” Bucky whispered at her, so, so gently.  Had she said something out loud?  Why were they still so close?  They were hovering, they were in her space of safety - this was hers, damn it.  They didn’t hurt her here.  

They waited until after they dragged her out.  She couldn’t leave.  They had to go.

“Get out,” she screamed, choking on the unfamiliar taste of her own demands.  “Get out!  I’m not her!”

“Darcy,” Cap said her name so calmly, with such compassion and she felt sick, and violently jerked away from that word.  “What do you mean?”  His voice trailed off, his concerned confusion evident and rapidly growing by the minute.

“We are absolutely not leaving you here,”  Bucky told her, still infuriatingly calm.  He wasn’t necessarily gentle… could one really be “gentle” holding a rifle in one hand like he was, poised to fight, to murder on her behalf?  

Her eyes narrowed at the rifle.  He was collected; he knew the situation, he understood her, he comprehended so much about this situation it was dizzying, and he treated her thus. He shuffled slowly towards her, kneeling next to her, palms up in front of him - on the ground, submissively.  She knew the posture, she’d been taught so well.  

What was he doing?

He slid his hands towards hers, his hands open and gently spread as if to catch her should she fall.  “We ain’t here to hurt ya,” he told her, his murmured voice a soft blanket of comfort.  "You’re safe right now.  It's over.”



It would never be over.  

He didn’t tell her she would be okay.  It was as if he somehow knew she wasn’t and would never be.  He made no silly promises or false, laughable statements.  

“We’re gonna get you outta this mess.  Deep breaths, dollface.  Like this.”  He demonstrated, still remaining low in front of her, making himself as small as possible, in front of her, trying to get her to breathe with him, or simply distract her enough that her body took over breathing where her mind stuttered and made her body forget.  Whatever he was doing though, it was working.  

She felt herself beginning to calm, the fuzzy edges of grey in her vision beginning to clear.  

She trembled, hands shaking, teeth chattering.  She attempted to swallow again, her voice raw, her dehydrated body making her tongue stick to the top of her mouth.  It was then that she remembered the collar.  It made everything worse, breathing, moving, swallowing.  It had to be removed.

“Collar... off, please…"  The words weren't more than a whisper, her throat raw, terror clinging to every word as she worried their reaction to her request.  Should she have trusted them enough to ask?  Would she be punished?

She flinched back, fearing the worst.

“Darcy,” Steve breathed, unable to contain his horror, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.  “Oh my God.” 

“Steven.” Bucky scolded sharply this time, his eyes glued to her.

Darcy stopped breathing at the sound of her name and the unexpected sharpness of his tone.  Cap had said her name a second time - her eyes once again jerking to the floor.  Two times was two times too many.  She’d been taught better.  

Pet, you know better.   Playthings don’t have names.



"I didn't!" she pleaded.  

It had been ingrained in her in such a short time.

The conditioning ran deep; she moved unconsciously to brace herself for the expected pain.  Just this small change of posture was enough to jostle the knife and complete the circuit.  She bit down the scream of agony that threatened to make itself out of her.  To scream would cause further punishment.  She could hold it in, she could do it.  Darcy, you can do this. 

Her stomach lurching as if she’d eaten rotted food, she couldn’t stop her mind spiraling away from her.

A thing, you’re just a thing. 

Playthings don't have a name, Whore.  You're just a warm, wet hole for us to sink our cocks in.  

Why was this happening to her.  What had she done?

She had a name. 

She was a person. 

Her name was Darcy.



No!  No, don't think it.  Playthings don't have names.



The mantra repeated in her mind, haunting her. 

She glanced at her window, pleading with her heart to beat slower, to calm down.  Don’t give yourself away, she begged.  Don't be stupid.  She felt herself zone out again.  

It helped.

“What just happened?” Steve fixated on her immediately, eyes raking over her, frowning.  His words were direct and commanding as he stood over her, tall and broad, taking in both Bucky’s non-threatening position and Darcy's submissive posture, her bowed head.  "Darcy?"  He watched the way her face went carefully blank.  He'd noticed.  Shit.

“Maybe don’t call her that right now, Cap,” Bucky muttered, so quietly only a super soldier would have heard it if the room hadn’t gone so deadly quiet.  

She winced, careful to only move her head. 

“Don’t call her what?” Steve demanded.  “What the fuck have they done to her?”



Darcy flinched, hard at that.  

“Don’t say her name,” Bucky told him quietly, understandingly, pausing as if wondering how much to say in this moment.  Determining whether it was the right time, or place to open up knowledge that he knew simply by reading her body language, her terror, and the few, fleeting sentences she’d let out in panic.

“What?  But why?” His voice now soft, losing all of his strong, angry, indignation, so unexpected, seeming genuinely lost.

“It hurts her, Stevie.”

Darcy shuddered.  How the fuck did Bucky know this about her?  

How does he know? 

You didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t know anything.

He called you your name, though.  

That isn’t your name. 

Your name is a punishment . 

They hadn’t called her the other names.  She couldn’t say them now, didn’t want them to know what she had become.  Couldn’t be them.  Didn’t want to please.  Wouldn’t do what she was told.

They say they want to help you,  but they won’t give you what you want. 

But then you said NO and they STOPPED.

She felt utterly lost and confused.

Steve stared at Bucky.  “Her name hurts her,” he repeated slowly, incrediously, blinking under his cowl, his mind quick at work, discerning the problem.  Not quite in disbelief; but not fully understanding what was before him.

Bucky nodded his head minutely, his eyes so soft as he looked at her, his arm whirring as it repositioned itself once again submissively in front of Darcy.  



"I'm right, ain't I, Doll," he said gently. 

She didn’t know what he wanted from her.  

She refused to look at his hands, instead, choosing to remain staring at the floor, away from both of them.  

Perhaps if she looked away, they wouldn’t see her either.  

Steve stared at Bucky for a long moment, and then stared at Darcy.  His panic rose as he re-assessed her in the way Bucky that had, somehow seeing more than she believed he could; but unlike Bucky, instead of resonating a calm, sad understanding - tension and confusion rolled off him in waves.

Shock.  It felt like shock, and denial.  She recognised it; that’s exactly how she’d felt the first time she’d set foot in the cell.

The idea of being able to deny her reality was too much.  The collar was suddenly too tight.  She couldn’t breathe.  She needed water.  They were seeing too much.  They were so close, almost touching her.  Bucky was so close.  They were so big, and were men - she needed them away from her.  

The collar tightened, and Darcy’s world shrank until it contained just that cold chokehold and her burning lungs.  It was getting tighter by the minute.  Dying like this wasn’t mercy, wasn’t what she’d asked for.  She raised her hands to her throat and began pulling, frantically.  

“Take it off,” Darcy wailed, panic fully setting in as she clawed with bloody fingernails and little strength at the collar.  “Please, please, no more.  Take it off!”

“Easy, easy, Doll,” Bucky said, low and soothing.  

Darcy paused, pulling in shallow breaths; taking in the new word, the endearment.  

Here came the new rules.  She couldn’t be her, couldn’t be them, but she could be someone new.  Someone who could want.  Could be rescued.



Whore, Pet, Doll... she had so many names?  Playthings don't have names.  She wondered what the rules of Doll would be.  

When he saw her response, her sudden attention, the small tilt of her head, he addressed her again.  

"Doll," Bucky said again, his voice steady and calming, letting her get used to the endearment, testing her reaction to the new name.  

He glanced carefully all around the collar, seeing how it was connected, trying to look without touching how they had put it on.  

"Doll, we can’t take it off yet,” he sounded apologetic.  He glanced at Steve, saying softly, “we’re gonna need tools from the Quinjet.  And a sedative, because it’s gonna require some physical leverage to get it off.”

Steve nodded, looking at it as carefully as he could from where he stood as well.

Darcy whined, pulse racing once more.  “It’s getting tighter, I can’t breathe,” she gasped.

“Okay, alright.” Bucky was quick to respond, crooning at her as one would do to a wild horse.  “Easy now.”  He took a deep breath, evaluating how and what to say next.  “Doll, it's not getting tighter.  You’re feeling panicked, and that’s alright.  You’ve got every damn reason to feel the way you do,” he swallowed his anger, looking away for a moment to contain it.  

“I can’t breathe, Bu-,” her voice was thin and full of nerves, trailing off as she began his name and quickly stopped mid-way through.  Was she allowed to say his name?  Would he hurt her for it?  



"Sir.  I'm sorry, Sir!" she stuttered.

“I would never hurt you.” He swore to her, firmly.  His promise was... unexpected.  Sincere.  Honest.  "It will never, ever happen.  And you never have to call me Sir."

Bravely, that allowed her to look up at him, right into his eyes, and his eyes softened as he looked back into hers.  She would have to test it.  



Lies.  You will regret it.



“Please, Bucky.  I need it off,” she whispered, waiting... waiting. 



His expression told her that he'd been waiting for the test, had somehow known to expect it even, and was very purposeful in not giving a reaction, knowing somehow that body language spoke more than words to her at this point.  "It's alright.  You're safe, it's okay.  Won't ever hurt you, Doll."



He hadn't hit her.  He'd passed.  Or she'd passed.  It was all so confusing.  But one thing was clear.  "Doll" could need things now.  "Doll" could say his name without ramifications.  He would allow it.  I will never, ever hurt you, he'd said.  



He'd promised.



Promises are lies.



"Doll" was allowed to request needs.  It felt freeing.  So far, she could handle the rules given.

Steve had pulled his cowl off, rubbing a gloved hand at both eyes.  Was he crying?

"I will, I swear it.  I'll take the damn thing off as soon as we are out of here,” Bucky swore.

She shuffled uncomfortably, the movement sending a shockwave of fresh pain down her body.

“Steady now, I know it hurts, I know.  Try and calm down.  It’s hard, I know I’m asking a damn lot, but you can do this,”  Bucky’s voice was gentle, his presence grounding.  

She tilted her head, trying to listen to him, working to focus on what he was saying.

He inched his hands towards her again, closer, almost touching her…

She didn’t want it, he was too close, he couldn’t touch her, no one could touch her, she didn't want to be touched. 

“No, don't!”  She jerked back so hard as she screamed, slamming her head into the wall behind her, and she wailed, broken, choked, and childlike as panic fully set in once more.  The word she’d voiced was nearly as terrifying as the encroaching hand.  It had been so long since she had been someone who could say no. 

“Buck,” Steve warned, taking a step between the two of them and then freezing, the move unplanned as was obvious on his expression.  The Captain, unable to stop himself from trying to protect, even if he wasn't sure which of them he was protecting.  His hand had dropped from his face when he moved in front of Bucky, his eyes rimmed with red, and his feet planted where he’d stopped, his body poised and prepared without thought for action.

Bucky was already backing off, pushing away from her as fast as he could until he hit the wall opposite her, almost behind Steve.  He had his hands up, palms facing her - in supplication.  

"You're okay, Doll," he said quietly.  "Nobody’s gonna hurt ya.  You're safe now.  Just breathe.  We're gonna get you out of here.  No one’s gonna touch you if you don’t want it.  I promise.  We’re just gonna wait on Bruce for a minute - he’s on his way.”

I promise, he kept saying.   



You’ve been promised pain here.  She was afraid.

It has been delivered.  

Why shouldn’t this be?  It would prove to be lies, in the end.  



Men were liars.  It made her unbearably, unreasonably angry.  

It echoed within her.  She wanted to believe him so badly. 

Why was Bruce coming?



Captain America stood between them, shield out, protectively.  Guarding.  Processing.  Frozen.  His expression blank. 

“Take a second, feel the ground beneath you,” Bucky murmured, his voice deep and masculine.  Protective.  She scratched around the dirty floor beneath her, her fingertips brushing against the gritty floor she’d grown so accustomed to.  It was damp beneath her, soiled and dirty.  

“Look at your window.”  Her eyes flitted upwards.  It had been her window.  Her small square of solace in this small cell she’d never wanted to be in, and now never wanted to leave.  Her head ached.  She turned, so slowly, the collar pulling tight at her throat.  She was panting now, taking short breaths - but breathing nonetheless.  

There was freedom in looking at that window; it had been her reminder of the possibility of rescue, had kept her sane, and in looking at it - even for this small, dictated moment - she felt the calm certainty of a world that existed beyond these walls.  For a moment she forgot that she wasn’t alone, that she was half unbound, and held tight to what remained of her hope.

They have come to rescue you. They are finally here.  They didn't forget about you.

“That’s it.  We’re here now, you aren’t alone.  Take a deep breath.  Just one,”  Bucky interrupted her moment of safe haven, his even commentary helping to ground her to the present.  

They were here.  She needed help.  The cold air stung her sinuses.   Her lower lip trembled.

And then Captain America came out of his shock, dropped his shield, and began to move around the cell in a frenzy of motion, startling her.  "Where is a blanket?  Buck - grab something - we need to cover her."  He pushed on the comm.  "Bruce, need you here now.  She's bleeding, there's... blood.  Bucky - Why are you just standing against the wall?  Shit, where are her clothes?  It’s fucking freezing in here.  What the hell - chains... The ground is wet.  Why is the ground..."  

He glanced around, eyes wide and horrified,  "What the fuck is this room?” 

“Cap, comm is still on.  And uh, you’re gonna need to give us some context, Cap.”  Tony’s voice over the comm was tense, “None of that sounded very…” he trailed off, lacking an adequate descriptor.

“We need a blanket, or clothes or…,” he trailed off, looking around as if to find something in the grimy room.  

“We’ll find something,” Tony replied over the comm, his voice grave.  “Romanoff?  You reach them yet?”

“Almost there,” she replied immediately, the sound of her running boots hitting cement echoing down the hall, getting closer.

Steve hovered over Darcy, hands open in midair, afraid to touch.  His voice still loud and slightly frantic as he asked what he could do, what did she need.  The more he hovered, the more panicked she got, the more anxious she felt, and the higher her voice escalated.  She was gasping and sobbing noisily, clawing at her neck, at her throat.  Her nails on the cell wall behind her, bleeding... she was lost, she was so lost…

“Steve…” Bucky started, as he stepped forward towards his friend, to reach him, to pull him back, to aide him - Darcy didn’t know...

“For fuck’s SAKE, back away from her - get out!  You are making it worse!  Идиоты! (Idiots!)  отойди от нее (Get away from her!)”  Natasha snapped, stepping into the room and pointing towards the door. 



Darcy felt nothing but terror.  There was no fight and she was unable to escape.  Stuck, frozen, at their mercy.

Bucky gave the Black Widow a dark look.

Steve froze again instead, his expression a mixture of complete horror and a man aghast and unbelieving of what he was seeing with his own eyes in looking at her.  Staring at Darcy as if he couldn’t believe that she would be afraid of them.  



"Stevie," Bucky said softly.  

Darcy shrunk deeper into herself at his grayish face - as if he might be physically ill at any moment - it took Bucky’s hand steering him by the arm and then shoving his lower back gently to get him out the door, where Thor now stood. 

Mighty, powerful, God of Thunder, Thor.  

She’d prayed to Thor.  Begged him to find her.  

He hadn’t come for her.   

It hurt her, deeply, seeing him now.  She let out a wounded sound, her pain radiating off of her in waves.

He stared down at Darcy, thunderstruck, hammer pulling at his arm towards the ground as if he no longer held the strength to hold it up, his skin paling as blood drained quickly out of his face.  

He said nothing, so fierce, so still, this giant - his gaze sweeping over her, taking her in as she was, frantic, naked, and ruined.  He didn’t reach out to her, didn’t even try to take a step towards her.  He didn’t make an attempt to enter the room.  He simply stepped aside ate allow Steve the room to exit the space and then stepped back, taking over as much of the doorway as he could to prevent Steve’s re-entry, or possibly anyone else's, dare they show up.  He was now a guard, using his body as a barricade.  

She dared a glance at him.  Her eyes only made it to his armored chest, unable to look him fully in the face.  It hurt to look at him.  Why hadn’t he come for her?  

She’d pleaded... They'd hurt her so much.

It was as if he somehow just… knew.   Everything that had happened, he saw it in a single glance at her.  It was disconcerting and unfair, that he could see through her so plainly.  That all that she had been through, her thoughts, her pain, was on open display, as if she were in a window display at a shop.  The overwhelming sadness she now felt in actually seeing him - right there in front of her - it made her want to cry.  She had already begun.



Her heart felt broken.

She dared a glance at him, and quickly looked away.  Thor was watching her, his eyes full of hurt for her, his expression so deeply grieved.  He possibly did see and know everything she’d been through, all they had forced her to do, all that she had become in trying to be better at what they demanded from her - maybe he did.  

His expression in looking at her was full of something old… something she had never witnessed on his face before.  It held the knowledge of centuries past, of seeing things he still couldn’t comprehend, something he could never think of to mentally prepare for.  And was all at once, witnessing yet again, something he would never be able to forget.  

He saw beyond what she was, terrified in this room, naked and vulnerable.  He could see what she’d gone through, and what she had done to survive.  

Come on, Pet, show me how much you want it.  You can do better than that, can't you?  Oh, you cry so pretty.  

He could see so much, how was it even possible?  The knowledge that somehow he knew - he knew it all - it was impossible, yet she could see it in his face -  made Darcy feel ill.

“It is so very good to see you, ástin mín,” Thor said, his eyes serious, his body tired and aged as he took her in, as if all of his great power had left and he'd been shot down to earth as nothing more than a mortal being; human.  

His eyes flashed bright blue, crackling with light that went down his arm to Mjölnir, the voltage going back up as quickly as it went down, yet he did nothing more than stand there, now guarding the door instead of standing there in sudden shock.  Thunder erupted outside, and pouring rain fell from the skies.

Bucky remained where he was, crouched down against the wall in front of Darcy.  Hadn’t moved an inch after he resumed the space of where he originally had began after pulling Steve out of the room.  They could all hear Steve's harsh whispers in the hallway trying to explain her condition without actually saying much of anything, descriptive verbiage leaving him silent in his attempts as he communicated into the comms to Tony, Bruce, and Clint, letting them know she’d been found and was alive.  The comms kept making white static noise in between conversation, and it actually helped ground her and encouraged Darcy to remain present.

Natasha gave Bucky a hard look with narrowed eyes, a look that would normally frighten the strongest of men, to which Bucky returned evenly, unflinching and unafraid, holding her gaze for a long moment, refusing to give into her demand that he leave.  Her eyebrows twitched, irritation and then... she allowed it.  A softness - so unexpected - followed by a look of understanding crossing her expression, something mutually shared between the two of them.  



He straightened, standing back up to his full height, as if a decision was made that he'd forgone to disclose the inform regarding it those around him.  Natasha gave him a questioning, lingering look, not in disapproval, just a quick glance of confusion which he chose to ignore as he instead, tilted his head in Darcy’s direction.  Frowning slightly, she slowly turned towards Darcy, taking her own moment to fully assess what she was dealing with.  Her face betrayed nothing.  

She glanced back at Bucky after her quick assessment, her eyes angry and soft as she looked back at him, and he nodded imperceptibly back at her.  His dark, serious eyes bored into Tasha’s and an understanding passed between them.  They both directed their energies back at Darcy, almost in tandem. 

What even.  

When Steve had been moved out of her bubble, Darcy had taken the moment to try and calm down, to just breathe, as Bucky had first instructed before Natasha showed up.  She was still panicked and shaken, eyes wild, and nerves shot to fuck, but she wasn’t screaming anymore, wasn’t begging.

Bucky tilted his head to Natasha and she stepped towards Darcy, slowly and carefully, allowing Darcy time to watch her every move as she neared.  Her hands faced upwards, just as Bucky had done, in submission or supplication - Darcy wasn’t sure which one -  as she knelt down and slowly reached out towards her.

For the first time, Darcy didn’t flinch.  She wasn’t afraid of Natasha.  Natasha felt safe in a way that the other's hadn't.  There was a longing there, hope rising in her chest, painful and sharp, but good in an awful kind of way, a desperate need to feel safe.

“Kotyonok (Kitten),” she said gently, softly.  Another name.  

Another set of rules?  

No, not with Tasha.  

Nothing made sense in Darcy’s confused, broken mind.

Natasha reached down to the ground, sliding her knuckles across the filthy floor toward Darcy until she reached the edges of Darcy’s hand.  Brushing the tips of Darcy’s fingertips with her own, so gently, so comfortingly, in a very similar manner to what Bucky had first attempted... Only this time, Darcy allowed Natasha’s small touch, taking in the moment just to feel the gentle caress and warmth of safe hands.  

Hands that weren’t seeking to hurt her.  

Yet.  

The thought was there.  It whispered to her in the dark.  Would it always be there?

Darcy shuddered at the touch as comfort quickly became terror, and yanked her fingers away.  She wanted Natasha close, but couldn’t bear to be touched, even by someone so trusted.

“You are safe now, Kotyonok,” she promised.  “There is no one left here that will hurt you.  We’ve taken care of them and they cannot hurt you anymore.  We are going to take you home now, okay?  You are safe.”  She repeated gently, steadily.

Darcy paused, overwhelmed by the absurdity.  This wasn’t real.  It was all a hallucination.  But better to speak to a hallucination than feel so utterly alone anymore.  If this was death, she’d rather it be this than be alone during her final moments.

Darcy shook her head, there was so much confusion and blankness, such a lack of understanding, unable to form thoughts or words until she all but stuttered, in a broken, wailing whisper.  “No, I’m not going home.  I’m not safe.  This isn’t real, but I want it to be real - so much.”  She shuddered, tears streaming down her swollen cheeks as she reached out towards Natasha, desperate for that feeling of comfort again, before snatching her hand back before Natasha could grasp onto her.  Her mind wouldn't allow it.  



You haven't earned it. 

“I’m dying."  Her voice was suddenly clear, and stated as fact.  She knew it, felt it.  She believed it.  

"Natasha..." Her shredded voice broke as she finally looked up at her friend, tearful blue eyes meeting steady green ones.  "Please... I’m dying, Natasha.  And I.. I want it.”

Steve sucked in a deep breath.  You could hear him from down the hall.  Bucky's jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists.  She could hear the metal whirrings moving of his mechanical arm.  

“No, Kotyonok, no," Natasha murmured comfortingly.  "You are not dying today.  It is not going to happen.  You are going to live, Darcy.”  Darcy flinched hard.  Natasha blinked, taking in that reaction in the same way Bucky had.  Her eyes even slid back at Bucky at that, his tiny nod of confirmation all she needed before refocusing back on Darcy.

What could they both see?  Her insides were on the outside.



Darcy could suddenly see similarities between the two of them in a way she never had before.  So many tiny things were popping up - how had she missed them before?  

“I swear it,” Natasha promised.  “You know me,” she said.  “You know who I am and what I am capable of.  I will not let any man harm you.”  Bucky flinched imperceptibly.  Natasha reached out towards Darcy again and Darcy’s eyes dropped to the floor, waiting for the pain to strike.   

She felt Natasha turn and glance back at Bucky.  She imagined a fierce understanding that ran deep between the two, a silent conversation.  Turning once again back to Darcy, Natasha’s eyes burned passionately, yet were so very kind at the same time; understanding.  Patient.

“Listen to me, Kotyonok,” she said softly.  “We are here.  Really and truly here.  It took us too long, I know.  But we looked for you every single day.  You were our mission, and you were not forgotten.  We’re going to take you home now.”  Her breath trembled but she continued, pushing through her emotions.  “And I’m sorry, Kotyonok, I am so very sorry, but we are going to have to touch you to get you out of here.”

Darcy couldn’t breathe.  There were so many things in what Natasha had just said.  She'd seen through Darcy and acknowledged so many fears she'd had this whole time.  How had she seen them, how could she tell so quickly?  Instead of feeling warmth, she felt... distant.  Cold.  She couldn’t take a deep breath.  Dots of gray threatened her vision.  She didn’t want hands on her.

“Take a breath, Kotyonok,” Natasha commanded.  “I will get you through this - we all will.  You are not alone.  No harm will come to you anymore.”

Darcy’s voice was barely a whisper in reply. “Please, please end this.  Let this be over.  I need it to be over.”

She paused, sucking in a deep breath, tears pooling under her swollen eyes.  “I'm so tired, Natasha. I... I want it to be over.  I want to be done,” she whispered into the dark.  “Please, I'm so tired.  I can’t go home.  I think..." her voice broke.  "I don't want to try anymore.”

Bucky sucked in a silent breath.  Steve’s breath hitched from the hallway, his boots thumping a path as he walked back and forth to try and gain control of himself as Bucky and Natasha had.  Thunder clapped loudly and unexpectedly above them and Thor’s grip on his hammer tightened.  Darcy wasn’t sure how Mjolnir’s handle hadn’t splinted in his grasp.

“What's going on?  Basement's clear.  I'm on my way to your location.  And by the way, comms are still fucking on.” Clint whispered harshly, his sudden, unexpected voice crackling loudly over the comms.  “Did she just say… Darce…she didn’t just...”



She flinched, waiting for the hit.

“Hawkeye!” Tony interrupted quickly, too loudly to be accidental.  She wasn't ready.  “Wheels up - everyone get moving out.  I’ll take the helm - Clint, you help get medical set up.  Cap, meet you and the rest of the team out in five.  Let’s get out of this shithole.” 

There was a shuffling, and some muffled arguing; Tony most likely dragging Clint out of the building, crackling through the comms, so loudly that Steve, Bucky, and Natasha all quickly turned the sound down on their comms simultaneously.  Clint’s words of dismay and denial echoed in the cell, followed by Tony’s authoritative direction, reverberating like a gong in Darcy’s brain, making her feel both lightheaded and drained.  

Darcy’s body throbbed in anguish.  She couldn’t stop the whimper that left her, even though she was damned near chewing through her lips to prevent sound from escaping.

Someone shuffled behind Thor.  

“Bruce,” Natasha requested, keeping her voice calm and light.

Thor stepped out and Bruce shuffled in slowly, medkit in one hand.  A syringe specifically in the other.  

Needles.  Please, no.  No more.

Darcy shrieked, panic clawing at the back of her throat.  “No!”  she struggled.  “No needles.  Please, no more needles.  Please, please - leave me alone.”

“What did they give her?” Steve demanded.  “Needles?”

“We don’t know yet, Captain,” Bruce replied softly, green edging upwards on his neck and he closed his eyes, breathing, allowing his heart rate to lower once again.

“Bucky, please,” she pleaded, now that Natasha had betrayed her by calling in Bruce to give her something via syringe, tears now streaming down her cheeks.  She stared at his rifle and he followed her gaze down to the weapon before frowning slightly and glancing back at her, his expression wary.  

“Just point and shoot.  It will be quick,” she begged.  “Make it stop, I want it to stop.  Please.”

Steve let out an anguished cry, so unlike the Captain in this moment, hiding his face behind his hands, as was evident as his gasps become muted, and Thor pulled him into a quick side hug. Steve allowed the embrace for maybe all of two seconds before calming almost as quickly as he'd erupted into upset, pulling back to stand a few feet away.  Thor released him slowly, his hands holding Steve carefully as if not believing Steve was altogether himself quite yet but respecting the man’s decision, keeping attuned to him carefully as he turned his attention back to Darcy. 

Bucky paled and his eyes darkened as he looked back at her, but rather than lifting the rifle towards Darcy, he pulled the strap over his shoulder and placed the gun on his back, away from her.

“Darcy.  Doll, no, never gonna happen,” he said and Darcy flinched again at the sound of her own name.  He looked apologetic.

“No?” she whispered in the dark.  This was her room of safety…why were they taking this from her?  Why wouldn't they let her go?  

But that word didn't mean anything.



This was all she had left.  This was her choice, her decision.  

Bruce looked ill and angry, a twinge of green seeping into his skin, but he was holding it off, taking deep breaths and remaining calm.  Natasha laid a hand on his shoulder, helping to ground him.  “Hi," Bruce said softly.  "It's really good to see you."  He took a deep breath.  "Unfortunately, in order to get you out of here, we're gonna have to move you and... I'm sorry.  It’s going to probably hurt..."  His voice trailed off and he stammered, so unlike him in moments like this.  She could only imagine what she looked like to him, to them all.  "A... a lot."  He held up the syringe.  "This is only morphine, and it will help with the pain, nothing more.”

She shook her head, only to wince and stop when the collar swung and tugged at her throat.  “No - please.  Please, no.”  Her heart raced. “I don’t want it, it hurts every time...”  She struggled to shift away from them, but the knife in her shoulder shifted, a fresh wave of agony she somehow kept forgetting about, and she couldn't help but cry out.

The blood was hot on her back again.  How could she still have any blood left?  Anything warm inside?  She was cold to the core, she must be by now. 

Bruce looked at Natasha as if to say, “What do I do?”  Before she could answer, however, she looked over at Bucky as he had already moved forward, plucking the needle from Bruce’s grip, stepped forward, gently grasped Darcy’s arm as she attempted to struggle away, “No - Bucky, no!  I said no!” and sunk the needle into her arm.  

How dare he?  How could he?  He had promised.



"No..."  her voice slurred.  "You promised."

He had betrayed her.  She looked up at him, wounded.

He’d called her Doll.  What were the new rules?



He was silent, his expression hard.

She was so weak, she couldn’t fight him if she tried.  She couldn’t lift her hand or her head anymore.  Her body grew heavy quickly, and she felt a warmness spread up her arm.  Like blood flowing up against gravity. 

“Make it stop,” she begged weakly.  “I don’t want it.”

"James..." Natasha said softly.  "Careful of the knife."  

"I see it."

His arms caught her as she tipped over, one warm, one cold, both solid, the chains dragging roughly against the cold cement floor.  One under holding her beneath her neck, the collar shifting slightly yet she felt no pain, the other under her knees.  Her chest was cold, her knees too.  

“I’ve got you now,” he told her protectively.  "Gonna take you home."

He wouldn’t drop her.  He was so strong.  Super strong.

There wasn't a choice.  He was moving her.  He had her, and he was going to take her home.  



Home.  Was it over?  Could she be done now?



She could fall, finally, caught.  Safe.  She felt safe.  

He held her close to him, to his chest.  He was warm.  Oh my God, he was so warm.  It seeped into her naked flesh, causing pinpricks of pain as her core adjusted to the feeling of warmth again. 

Steve had taken something off, she'd heard him rustling around with his clothing, perhaps the top of his Captain’s uniform top and draped it over her limp body, murmuring his actions before following through, as if she had enough energy or care to stop him.  As if they would listen if she said she didn't want it.  



It smelled like home, though, and was warm, and she began to relax.  

And suddenly, finally, after all this time, cold and alone in this cell of horror, she felt warm, and cared for.  Bucky’s warmth as he held her and Steve’s jacket covering her, still holding the heat from his body, had her wrapped up in warmth with the promise of taking her home.  

They had come for her.  

She had stopped believing they would.  



Finally, she was going home.

Darkness came for her, and it felt so different to be warm as she drifted away from her body. 

She wanted to be safe.

***

* ástin mín (“my darling” in Old Norse, signifying paternal and protectiveness)

Chapter Text

***

Darcy came back to herself slowly, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.  She was being rocked back and forth in warm arms, a comforting motion broken only by the stinging pain each movement sent shooting up her body.  Cold pricked her skin, icy needles stabbing into her, causing her to gasp and flinch.  Everything felt cold except where she was pressed against the body holding her.  Bucky.  He was breathing deeply, and she felt herself be calmed by his steady breaths.

Voices murmured all around her.  Low sounds from familiar voices, like a household awaking on a holiday after a night spent celebrating, giving those who still needed rest time to sleep in.   Darcy couldn’t tell if it was a memory or a yearning for a missed experience, but the noises made her want to both drift back to sleep and rise into full wakefulness, the balance tipping in favour of joining the conversations, seeing her family.

But her family was gone.  They were all gone now.  Her grandmother… She could no more feel the warmth of that memory than she could warm her own shaking body.  Darcy sighed.  At least she had Jane.  She wondered again where Jane was and what she was doing.  She wasn’t here.

She drifted, swaying gently…

“Try and stay awake, Doll,” he urged her, though his voice felt very far away... as if he were speaking to her through a tunnel.

“Set her down here, Bucky, on her side,” she heard Bruce say.  “Watch her leg there…”

"...and her shoulder, Bruce," Steve’s voice now, low and quiet.  "There, see?"  There was a soft graze of touch against her shoulder, and the voices all went quiet.

Darcy felt a jolt, and couldn’t contain the cry that left her.  The pain pulled her back from where she had drifted to, anchoring her to the present with its heat.  Not warming her, but consuming her.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve soothed.  “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Elevate her feet above the level of her heart.  She’s in shock.”  Darcy felt her feet lifted and set delicately back down on several pillows.  She was cold all over, trembling, and sucking in air and then losing it all when she convulsed from the pain in her broken ribs.  Her heart beat like a fist against the wall of her chest.  She hurt.

The hand that had been under her neck as she had been settled on the cot moved to lay gently on her forehead, strong and light, but warm. 

“She’s burning up,” Bucky said quietly.  A firm hand settled on her collar, stilling her as fear trickled through her veins.  “Just me, Doll,” he said gently, quickly recognizing her panic for what it was, despite her silence.  “Keeping a promise.”



I will, I swear it.  I'll take the damn thing off as soon as we are out of here.  He'd promised.

“Natasha, hand me that IV bag.  Need to get a line started.”  Darcy heard the clinking of metal and rustling of plastic, and her body shook in anticipation of more pain.

“On it.”  Natasha’s response was steady and calm.  Darcy knew these voices.  They were here to save her.  But she was in the light, and the light meant pain.

Darcy felt the prick of a needle slide into her arm.  She struggled, half asleep but aware, wanting to look, wanting to stop it - stop the needles, goddamn it, I said no more.  She weakly lifted her hand to try and bat away the hand sticking her only to have it caught by a larger one and held.  “Shh…” she heard Steve murmur.  She used her remaining strength to try and lift her hand from his grasp.  He noticed her tiny shift in movement and let go, the warmth of his hand leaving prickling cold behind in its wake.

Her eyelids felt as if they too had metal welded on to hold them in place.  Tired.  She was so tired...

“Get the cuff around her, I need a blood pressure reading.  Try to keep her awake until I can see where her BP is at.”

Someone grabbed her arm and wrapped something around the top of it.  Darcy’s eyebrows knitted together as she tried to take in her surroundings.  There was a tightening on her arm, a pinching compression, and then it eased slowly.  That wasn’t right.  The pain was supposed to stay. 

“Blood pressure is dropping,” Tony, sounding stressed.  “What’s her pulse/ox?”

A monitor was slid on her finger.  An escalating beeping sound filled the carrier and a momentary silence fell over the group as they all listened for a reading.  The hand in her hair remained, thumb brushing at her forehead slightly, gentle and soothing.

“It's low.  I don’t like it,” Bruce muttered.  “Steve, set her up with a face-mask.  Nat, let’s get an EKG going.”

“Starting her on oxygen now,” said Steve from somewhere above her, then the wheels of the tank trolley rolling towards her.  The squeak of the tubing and hiss of the open valve, then the touch of something on her face.  Darcy felt a steady stream of cold air hit her nose and mouth.

In that moment, Darcy was back in the cell, the walls and floor frigid, the air so cold it burned.  Her teeth clenched and she tasted blood.  It was only in this moment that Darcy realized how warm the ship temperature was, for her to notice the chill of the air stream from the oxygen tube.

“Just hold it beside her mouth and nose.  Don’t touch it to the cut on her cheek.  Definitely going to need stitches,” Bruce sighed, and Darcy felt someone - probably him - probe her cheekbone.  “Looks like it’s also infected, I’m going to start her on some serious antibiotics.”  

More hands were touching her now, on her neck, her chest.  Something sticky and pulling at her skin, and she felt like the slightest tug would tear her apart.  A whine began to build in the back of her throat.

“EKG is up and recording.”  Natasha’s voice again.    

Tash.  She is safe.  Natasha will keep her safe...

“Clint, try and stabilize the knife.  Use gauze and tape.  We don’t need it moving.”  Bruce’s voice was steadier now, the familiar authority of his medical training grounding him. 

Clint’s hands touched her back then, and the pain lit her up like he’d connected a circuit.  Her eyes and mouth opened, no sound escaping as the pain gripped her, but tears flooding her eyes.  How long had it been since she had enough water in her body for tears?  Her muscles flexed uselessly, animal instinct trying to flee the pain. 

“Numb it,” Bucky ordered.

A burning cold liquid was sprayed on her back, and then there was numbness... and her muscles eased. 

Oh my God.  It was cold, she hated cold, but this felt good.  Not like the hard wet floor sapping the heat from her body, or a sharp knife against her throat.  This was like rain on a sunburn.  It was mercy.  She cried some more, this time with relief...  

“JARVIS, get the ambulance on standby at the tower, ETA twenty-two minutes, clear a path to the hospital the second she’s transferred.”  Tony was taking care of what needed to be done, as per his skillset, bossing his AI butler around easily swinging back into control.



“No need,” came Clint’s reply, “I called in a favor.  We’re going straight to the helipad at Bellevue.”

There were hands touching her all over, everywhere, working on her, working to fix her.  They had stilled her, but the touch was no longer steadying.

Two hands started fiddling with the collar around her neck, one warm, one cold.  Bucky.  The collar.  He had promised.  This close to her ear, she could hear the quiet sounds of its internal workings.  His hands stilled, and Darcy held her breath. 

What was he going to do?  Would it hurt in coming off like it did when they'd put it on?  



Am I safe?  

He leaned close to Darcy’s face as he pulled the collar up and peered underneath.  He sucked in a short breath of air and stilled momentarily before delving into action.

“We need to get this collar off of her neck, now.  Right now.  Seven Hells.  Steve, I think we’re gonna need a…,” there was a moment of silence as he worked the problem through in his mind, thinking on it for a moment.  “Grab me that screwdriver,” Bucky commanded suddenly.  “Damn it to Montauk and back,” he said angrily.  

She wanted to shrink back from him, from his anger.  

What had she done?  Had she disobeyed?  What would be her punishment?

“I… I’m sorry,” she tried, her voice no more than a whisper.  

Darcy felt pressure on the side of her neck, intense and sharp.  It pulled her in from her calm observations, gasps and sobs taking over from her calmed breathing.

“Sorry,” she mumbled again, fighting against the drugs, fighting against this pressure.  The punishment was coming.  She wouldn’t survive it.  She couldn’t breathe.  Her heart and head were both pounding now.  Light seeped in as she worked to struggle to open her eyes again.  The pain helped, pushing back the fatigue.  She lifted her heavy arm, summoning all her focus to reach out, intent on pushing him away.  

“Stop now… Easy, doll,” Bucky commanded softly, grabbing her wrist gently, so easily, and settling it back down on her naked abdomen, and then quickly letting go, as he worked at the collar.  “Not raising my voice at you.  Not at you, never at you, sweet thing.  You didn’t do nothing at all.” 



He put his finger underneath a section of the collar under her ear and cursed.  



“Those fucking bastards,” he spit out before catching a glance at her terrified expression.  

“You’re good.  You’re so good,” he murmured at her, softening his voice.  “Just breathe for me, yeah?”  

Steve had put the tool in his hands without even looking, as if they’d had their fair share of trading tools together at some point in their lives, as Steve looked down at Darcy as he stood next to Bucky as he went back to work at her neck.  Steve’s face twisted up, filled with fury before he carefully controlled it as he focused on Bucky's efforts, and Darcy’s reaction to the pain Bucky was causing her in order to help her.  Bucky turned something and she let out a soft hurt sound as pain shot up from her neck through her skull.  

“I know it, I know, darlin,” he said so softly to her.  She watched him and in turn, he glanced up at her, and she could see him, for just a moment.  Bucky’d never looked at her so openly before, and she knew in that moment that he understood something about what she was experiencing in a way that no one else possibly ever could.  Reaching out to her, he settled a few fingertips against her cheek bone.  For only a few seconds, but it caught her breath.  

“Breathe, Doll,” is all he said before looking away from her and getting back to work on the collar, his blue eyes focused once again on her neck as he concentrated.

His skin had been warm against hers.   

His hand.  Her bare stomach. 

She was naked.

She was still naked.  The realization that all this was going on, the touches, the clinical observations, the touching - were all being done by her friends while she lay weak, bare, and vulnerable.  

It woke the drowsy horror she had lived with in her long hours of captivity.  Here she was in the light, under hands she could not stop, hurting.  The things that had been done to her, the thing she had become, laid bare for all to see.  

She remembered him cutting her clothes off with a knife.

She wanted to hide.   She wanted to scream.  Why?  Her voice was as useless as her body. 

She didn’t want these men, these heroes, these gods… her friends, her crushes… to see her, mortal and broken, bleeding and empty.  

She wished they’d put her out of her misery when they found her in chains.

God, where was Natasha?

She closed her eyes and cried softly.  Stop , she didn’t say.  Leave me alone.   Her mouth could not form the words.  And so they kept prodding at her, pressing, feeling.

They kept touching her, and her muscles went rigid as they took up her unvoiced protest.

Lightning flashed from all sides of the jet, lighting up the skies around them in an eruption of color.  There was a blinding flash that even Darcy could see through her closed eyelids.  Thunder growled sharply, striking and deafening, growing.  Put a bolt through me, let me fry, end this.

“Thor, cut that shit out,” Tony snapped.  “I’m trying my damndest to get us back to New York in one piece.”

The storm came to an abrupt stop.  There was silence except for the quick movements of those working on her, the sound of machines beeping, and in the background, opera, mid-song.

There was music.   



"Should I turn it down?" Clint had asked.



"Leave it.  I need it," was all Bruce replied.

She’d forgotten… 

There hadn’t been any music... back there.  It was part of the onslaught against her senses, but she was so damn grateful for it.  She’d never have thought to imagine opera music.

It ached something fierce in her chest, in her heart.  An emotion rushed through her, and it hurt to listen, and yet at the same time she was so goddamn grateful to hear it.  It grounded her.

This was no hallucination.

Bruce must have been listening to it before he was needed in her cell.  He did that.

The woman singing distracted Darcy for a moment, as she strained to hear over the sounds of those working on her.  Someone pushed several sticky cords to her chest and breast.  It felt like hair wet with sticky blood, stinging slightly as it pulled away from her skin when she was rolled over.  

She didn’t like it.

Steve gently raised her arm up to examine her broken fingers.  Bruce began pushing lightly along her hip and leg - there was nothing, nothing - and then, pain.  It was excruciating and she couldn't help but cry out.   

“My Jane will want news of our success in finding Lady Darcy,” Thor said - his usually booming voice sounded mumbly and reluctant.  He sounded torn.  “I shall travel ahead and prepare her.”

“Alright, big guy,” Tony agreed, gently.  “We’ll see you in twenty.”     

Darcy heard the back door of the Quinjet open, and the rushing roar of wind as Thor flew out and circled round ahead of them.  Darcy wanted to go too, to be pulled by Mew-Mew out of this place and into the dark clouds. 

The hands on her neck were more invasive by the minute, prying at her.  Darcy trembled, cowering.  

They had put it on her and shoved her to her knees.   The weight was heavy on her neck, pulling at her, pinching her.  She remembered the sound of the drill.  She shuddered.

She yanked her hands away from Steve’s careful grasp, and grabbed at the hands on inspecting her collar.  They were Bucky’s hands, poking at her.  With a fucking screwdriver. 



It hurt.  

She clawed at him, desperate to pull him off.  Her hands met metal; the chain, the table, the collar, she was so sick of metal hurting her.  Scrabbling, scratching - she couldn’t think, her body only knew to react.  “NO!  Don’t touch me!” she hissed, unseeing.

“Take it off, you bastards!” she had screamed at them.  And they had laughed.  The blow hit her before she could inhale for her next stream of anger, shocking her speechless.  He had leaned over her, pulled a cigarette out of his mouth and breathed out right in her face.  “What did you just call me?” he had asked.  

She’d never had the chance to reply.

“Doll, you're alright.  Told you I’d get this thing off of ya as soon as I could, and I swear, I’m only doing as promised,” he told her, now somehow standing slightly behind Steve, his expression shaken.  

She understood each word, but couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.  The sense of safety they exuded was at war with their unwelcome touch. 

The background beeping noise had sped up.  It grounded her.  There hadn’t been any beeping where they’d kept her.  She opened her eyes and looked up.  Steve had a hand on Bucky’s chest, as if he had quickly shoved Bucky backwards and placed his body in between the two of them.  

Did Steve think she could hurt Bucky?  She peered over at Bucky; he looked absolutely gutted, his eyes downcast.

“Hurts,” she gasped at Steve, squeezing her eyes closed, her hands now criss-crossed protectively over her collar, as though they could block off the pain.

“I know, baby,” Bucky murmured softly, apologetically, as he shoved Steve kindly but purposefully out of his way moving back in her bubble.  His working hands hovered above her as he allowed her a moment to grab her breath and make an attempt at finding center before continuing with his promise.  Baby.   He’d called her baby.  She couldn’t think.

He’d put his flesh hand under hers, his now touching the collar and she was forced to move hers away from the collar.  She grasped his hand instead, gasping at the warmth of it.  She wanted to hold it to her cheek.  She wanted to spit on it.  To bite.  She wanted to push him away.  

And yet, she clung and her eyes drifted close once more.

“Bucky,” she wept.  He’d found her.

He’d found her.

“Right here, Doll,” he comforted quietly and she gave up the effort of trying to reopen her eyes.

She’d wanted to cling to his Bucky’s hand and never let go.  But after a few long moments, he gently moved her hands away from the collar so he could gain access.  Large hands - Steve, her brain supplied - took her wrists from him this time, holding them down.  Steve had taken Bucky away from her.  Bucky’d let her go. 

Of course.  

No one would ever want to touch her after this.  

They carried on working on her.  She heard their voices and could picture where they stood as they puzzled over her, like she was a lock to be picked, a problem to be solved.  It didn’t feel like a rescue any more. 

“Steve, I’m having no luck whatsoever with this screwdriver,” Bucky said darkly.  “I need you to just... pull the other side of this slowly.  We're gonna have to pry the damn thing apart and the angle is bad.  It’s stuck, like it’s welded, but I can’t see a seam,” she heard Bucky take a deep breath.  It felt to Darcy like he was holding in a storm, quelling his temper so the energy dissipated instead.  The only outward sign was the way his human hand shook.  He was still holding the collar in that hand, and she could feel the tremors of his suppressed rage where the metal clung to her skin.  “There’s... Stevie there’s screws.  Looks like, three maybe?”

“Screws?” She felt her wrists be released, and a shift of warmth as Steve moved to Bucky’s side.  “Where?”

“Digging into her neck.  But her skin… there’s ridges, it’s like it’s healed around them or something.  Let me just pull this aside to get a better look…” he went silent as he worked at her neck, his hands moving under her ears, behind her head, and circling back again.  Darcy felt him pull the collar away from her neck on the left side, a different pain flaring up, this time creating spots of light that danced on her closed eyelids.  Her nerves were overwhelmed, her skin on fire.  She struggled again to open her eyes. 

Light flooded the area, unfocused and blurry.  She blinked slowly against the twin brightness of the flaring pain and the Quinjet’s lights.  Her eyes zeroed in on Bucky's, dark and intense as they assessed the damage to her neck.  Steve’s large hand passed over Bucky’s as they pulled and twisted the collar as gently as they could.  They steadied and guided one another, careful to keep the pain to a minimum.  

It wasn’t enough.  She whimpered, shoulders tensing, face scrunching up and pulling at the deep, aching cut on her cheek.  Darcy flinched with a hiss, letting her face go slack, only to feel the pinch and stretch where the skin of her neck was caught in the collar.  Every movement set off another pain and another flinch, an endlessly escalating feedback loop.  Her shaking intensified.

“It’s connected to her here, here, and here,” Bucky pointed, barely touching her. 

“Gently,” is all he said as they began to pull.  They must have gotten the screws out at some point.  Time had gone muddy as the pain overwhelmed her in waves.  Steve was under her chin now, peering underneath the collar as Bucky manouvred it.  He inhaled suddenly.  “Buck, stop.  Stop .  Hang on a sec," his hand grasped Bucky's, stilling them and the movement of the collar.  

"Bruce, take a look under here.  This damn thing’s gotta come off.  Look, the skin is trying to…it’s stuck with...not welded, it’s connected to her skin... How is this possible?” Steve exclaimed.  “Her skin has healed around the metal.”


"It's like mine," Bucky said, his voice almost a monotone.  Steve gasped.

“It looks as if it’s been healed for months, not days or weeks,” Bruce's face was hovering now, looking, puzzling, too close. 

“They must have given her something,” Bucky said slowly.  “It doesn't make sense to have healed this quickly... Natalia, come here,” he commanded.  

“What do you see?”  He stared at her while she looked closely, color draining from her face as realization dawned on her.

“The same thing you do,” she said softly, holding his gaze.  

Both looked appalled.

Steve’s face transformed as he watched the exchange between the two of them as he considered, then apparently understood, what the other two were saying. 



Guilt.  His face showed guilt.  That didn't make sense.



Steve's jaw clenched as he swallowed, though his eyes remained soft.  It all sounded like gibberish to Darcy. 



Isn’t it obvious what you see?  I’m a broken thing.  Scraps. 

He opened his mouth to respond to Natasha, and at the same time his eyes met Darcy and noticed that her eyes were open and she was watching.  



I'm right here.  See me, but don't look.



Staring at Steve, pleading with her eyes.  What for, exactly, she wasn’t sure.  To be seen.  To not just be a thing beneath unwelcome hands.  I’m not a thing.  The collar’s weight was off her throat but somehow, it felt harder than ever to breathe.

Her lip wobbled.

Steve stepped forward, facing her fully, his body blocking out everything else - there was only him.  He held her gaze, steadying her.  There was so much said without words.  No pity.  He didn’t smile or try to reassure her in any way.  He didn’t give her platitudes and sympathetic, empty words. 



He reached for her hand, his long fingers closing tenderly over hers, holding on.  She felt grounded, momentarily, her mind calming even as the monitors’ beeps picked up, going wild and shrill.  "I'm here," he told her.

“Doin’ real good, Doll.” Bucky spoke softly to her as he held the collar at a slightly open angle for Bruce to see.  It felt like he was holding open a wound.  Natasha nudged Bruce and pointed at their next hurdle. 

“Oh my God,” Bruce couldn’t control the horror that seeped into this tone.  His hands moved closer, reaching to touch her.  “Here, you’re going to have to use the scalpel."  Darcy froze, her hands unconsciously tightening on Steve's fingers.  

“Numb it first, here.”  A scalpel and small cylinder passed through her field of vision. 



Knife.  



They were going to slit her throat again.  The memory burned her, her heart threatening to stop.  Terror.  She felt only terror.  It trickled over her, as if she were standing under a waterfall of ice, freezing her and stealing her breath.



Steve squeezed her gently, confusing her being frozen in fear as calming down, before letting go of her hand and leaning over her, his body now threatening to overwhelm her, coating her neck thoroughly with the anesthetic.  And then once again for good measure. 



He lay on top of her, his sweaty, disgusting body pushing into her until she cried out.



Her heart was thumping like it was a prisoner in her chest, like the panicked tightness of her throat was the only thing keeping it contained. 

Darcy tried to jerk away, her body desperate to escape, but her limbs felt slow and drugged.  “Stop… ,” she mumbled.  “Sto… No….Don’ touch it.  It ‘urts.”  Her tongue was thick.  Nobody heard her.  Her hand hovered in the air, reaching for something to hold on to to hoist herself up with...there had been chains last time... she had said no and they had listened...

One of Steve's hands reached for hers again, only this time, he didn't grab her hand, but her wrists.  Holding them together, he gently, but firmly, held them together - to the bed, holding her down.  She couldn't fight his grip, even if she wanted.  As if she even could.



She was held down.  She couldn't move.



This was punishment.

Hands were now pulling at the collar on her neck, prying it slowly off of her, away from her skin, dragging her with it.  She felt the raw skin on her neck tearing, bleeding, and it was god-awful, the noises she was making.  High-pitched whining gasps, pleading cries, mumbled begging.  She wasn't sure if she was really feeling the pain they were inflicting on her.  It felt like that part of her had shorted out, and now had gone beyond pain and fear, to the deepest and oldest parts of the brain where ancient instincts hummed.  Skin crawling.  Hands clawing.  She couldn’t take one more god damned thing, she’d burst or dissolve or explode, she couldn’t... 

And then Steve’s grip changed, still holding onto her but no longer holding her down.  His fingers caressed her wrist gently.  

She kept her hands where he’d put them and was careful not to fight him.  

She could be good.

Steve blinked, seeing something change in her and glanced at Bucky, a mixture of confusion and disbelief etched upon his face as he questioned what he had read in her expression.

Bucky’s eyes met his, and she saw some answer pass from him to Steve.  It was disturbing how well the two read each other, and could converse with each other without anything more than an eyebrow twitch and facial expression.  Darcy found herself staring at Bucky as he once again placed his focus back on her.

“I'm sorry, Doll.  I know that hurt.  You were so good, you did so well,” Bucky praised quietly, his eyes now fixed onto hers.  She felt his hand back in her hair, caressing her gently and she wept.  

“Bruce, damn it.  Give her something.”  Steve gritted through his teeth.  “NOW.”

“I already have,” Bruce sounded on edge, sickened, queasy.  “I don’t know how she’s conscious right now.”  At this, Darcy felt a shift within her, in her chest, something behind her eyes.  It slid into place like drapes being closed on a sunny day, and she allowed herself permission to stop trying so hard to stay awake.  Bruce was safe.  Bruce was here.  She’d always made sure he was fed and watered - he was just returning the favor.  She could just… 

Drop.  

“Bein’ so brave, Doll,” Steve said softly, comfortingly, though his voice like an echo, muffled from being so far away, as he echoed Bucky in his praise, his gaze sliding from Darcy to Bucky, and back to Darcy.  His voice shook only slightly. “Just a little longer - we’re almost there.  You’re doing so well, being so strong.”

“Her throat was cut,” Natasha said blankly as she peered closely, dispassionately observing the damage uncovered by the collar’s removal.  Darcy could feel the warmth of Natasha’s hands as she held them just shy of actually touching Darcy.  “They put the collar on after they cut her throat open.”

Darcy didn’t want to remember that part.  But it was actually the other way around.

“What the hell?” Bruce exclaimed, green bubbling in his hands, up his arms, into his neck…

“THOSE FUCKING BASTARDS!” Clint erupted, hands in his hair, pulling, in distress as he came to stand beside Natasha.  Her leather vest creaking as she glanced quickly to Clint.

“Bruce,” Cap said, a voice of calm and reason, ignoring the commotion.  “Take a walk.”

Steve's hands abruptly left Darcy, hovering in the air, waiting to see if he was needed.  Bucky took a step forward as well, ready to put himself between Bruce and Darcy as well if needed.

Darcy heard a rustle as Natasha dragged Clint away.  She heard distressed whispers from across the Quinjet, and then a hitched sob.  

Clint was crying.    

“Brucie Bear,” Tony said over the loud speaker.  “Calm down, bud.  Come on over here and grab a juice pop.  Get one for me while you’re at it.”

Bruce’s body shook and he took a deep breath before stepping away, looking at his watch, counting as he walked towards the front of the Quinjet.  The monitors slowed their beeping as she felt Bruce’s move, his quiet under-the-breath counting as he walked further away.

Steve released a shaky breath, his hands clenched into fists.  He stepped back away from the bed, and then turned away, almost in a perfect about-face, facing the wall.  His shoulders were tight and tense, and wavered slightly as he inhaled unsteadily.  

Bucky gave Darcy a long look, though she didn't understand the meaning.  She wasn't Natasha, or Steve, who could hold conversations based on eyebrow twitches and blinking.  



Bucky stepped away from her then, joining Steve and laid a metal hand on his shoulder.  He shook his head minutely at Steve, a warning, as if to say this wasn't the time to start punching up the interior of the Quinjet.  But there was also warmth and comfort in Bucky's eyes, and Steve nodded back shortly, turning back around, quickly wiping his cheek with the back of his gloved hand as he did so, hiding the tear that had unintentionally fallen, and took another deep breath, staring off into the distance, his mind occupied elsewhere.  

Darcy let her eyes drift close.  There was no retreat from this pain, no sleep yet, but she couldn't bear to see them all in pain over the state of her. 

Steve had suddenly looked much older to Darcy in that moment.  He’d been built to fight a war, and here he was decades later with nothing to show for the fight.  Between the horror of battle and the loss of everything he had known, she didn’t know how he was still standing.  Holding his memories in one hand, as he fought to make this strange and terrible future one worth living in? It was more than anyone should have to bear.  And he just...kept on moving. , and utterly lost.  A flash across his face that showed his true age, old as he really was, for just that single second.  Having seen too much horror, too much war, too much inhumanity.  The loss of everything he knew, having to live and breathe and grow in an unfamiliar new world.  The struggle... the constant struggle of  moving forward and trying not to look back.  And equally, the constant need to remember what was - to keep it real and alive for him, to remind himself that it was real - as sad as it was to remember all he had lost - he had lived in a different world, with different perspectives and mannerisms and speech.  In a time of war, even.  A time where modern medicine didn’t exist and he had struggled in a way no one in Darcy’s world could even imagine.  

He navigated the new world better than anyone could ever expect, and even Darcy at times forgot how short a time he’d actually been awake since the ice - and even that first year alone before he found Bucky - and thank god for that one piece of living history.  So he didn’t have to be alone.  So he didn’t have to remember everything that was, alone.  It was truly awful, all that Barnes had been through, but Steve hadn’t experienced the decades as Bucky had, and it was so easy to forget the crushing blow it must be every day to be Steve.  To never recognize anyone or anything.   

He allowed himself a moment to let it all in, and then… suddenly, it was gone.  He pulled himself together, the Captain taking over, fierce and protective, confident and with a plan.

Darcy envied him then, in that moment.  To allow the panic in for a single moment, then to breathe it out and force the calm back up.  She couldn’t seem to get over the feeling of spiraling panic.  Perhaps she was just weak.  She'd never be as strong as the Captain.  Or any of the Avengers for that matter.  She was just an intern.

Who had gotten very lost.  And very hurt.

Natasha left Clint to sort himself out and came to stand over Darcy.  Her eyes lingered on Darcy’s for a moment and she took her in, reading her, seeing her.  Natasha's understanding gaze deep and knowing as she assessed Darcy, eyes narrowing as she moved down the length of Darcy's body, taking in all of Darcy’s injuries, cataloguing them.  Darcy shifted under her gaze, uncomfortable and well aware of what she was taking in.  The bruises, the cuts, the dried blood between her legs.  The broken leg, the aching hip, the slice on her face, deforming her.  Her cut throat, the knife in her shoulder, surrounded by gauze.  Darcy closed her eyes, refusing to watch Natasha take her in.  Refusing to take a tour of her injuries and the things she had lost.  She wanted to escape, she wanted to hide, she wanted the dark.

Natasha, out of all of them, gently covered Darcy’s hip, legs, and feet with a blanket she’d pulled from one of the lower cabinets, tucking it around her as best she could without touching any of Darcy’s major injuries, smoothing the ends down over her feet before letting go.  Darcy pulled her hands up over her heart, the metal cuffs ice cold against her breasts, another reminder of something she’d rather not think about. 

Her arms shook at her chest, and she held herself as best she could, trying to warm herself as the last part of the metal collar was finally pulled away from the back of her neck.  Air hit the torn skin there, cold and biting;  a new hurt.  She felt a wetness on the thin skin of her collarbone, blood most likely, dripping slowly from her neck.  She was positive the skin all the way around her neck had come off with the collar.  The feeling made her nauseous.  She blinked heavily.

“Hand me those gauzes, I’m going to clean the wound on her neck and face and cover it until we can get to the hospital,” Bruce stated.

Bucky put a hand under Darcy’s chin, pulling her head up slightly so that Bruce could clean and examine the wound.  Darcy cringed at the touch; she couldn't help it.  Bucky's other hand cupped behind her neck, his thumb grazing her uninjured cheek in a slow back and forth motion, supporting her head but also holding her firmly in place for Bruce.  She felt Bruce's hands move to her shoulder blade, fingers lightly pressing into different parts of her injured skin.

“Tony, she's gonna need an O.R.” 

“Already on it.”  Tony replied, and then continued talking quietly to Jarvis.  Darcy couldn’t make out what he was saying anymore.

Darcy heard packaging being ripped above her.  She felt her IV line being moved around, pulling above her arm slightly.  She ached to pull the needle out.  To refuse any more intrusions, even from these gentle hands and familiar voices.  If she could have moved her head she’d have bitten through the tubing, but the drugs robbed her muscles of what little strength that remained in them.  Bucky's hands moved away from her, laying her head gently on the pillow beneath her head.

“They just left it in?  Why would they do that?”  Steve murmured, running a hand through his hair, glaring at the knife in Darcy’s shoulder.  “How deep is it?”

“Deep enough."  Bruce frowned.  “Maybe three inches.  Four?  It’s angled downwards and again, it looks as if the skin has begun to heal itself around the edges of it, which I'm having a hard time believing what I'm seeing right here in front of me.  It's possible that it might have nicked the top of a lung.  No way to know until we get a CT.  Hopefully, when the surgeons get in there, they'll find nothing major.”

Darcy felt hands move over her.  She didn’t want hands.  She didn’t like hands.  

“These are definitely infected," Bruce murmured, gently prodding at her.  "Let me get some blood samples started.  I need to see if she’s septic.”

Natasha's small hands reached down to Darcy's, hands grasping around hers and holding tightly for a moment before releasing them.  

“Run a pregnancy test, Bruce.”  Natasha spoke softly, so softly.



All eyes flew to her, all faces falling. 



Darcy glanced at Natasha and then looked away, her sob silent and internalized.   She hadn’t had her pill - what had Steve said?  Three weeks?  Her captors definitely hadn’t used protection.  She hadn’t thought about it before now.  Shit, what was she going to do?   She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t take this.  

Silence.  She needed silence. 



She needed the dark.



She needed it to be fucking quiet and pitch black, because she couldn’t stand the noise, the talking, the beeping…

“Stop...  Please... stop.  Please, be quiet,” she begged weakly, voice cracking.  Oh my God.  

Steve looked horrified.  Bucky gritted his teeth, his jaw locking and unlocking as he stared at the wall above her, his struggle obvious as he worked to internalize his anger.  Natasha watched her carefully out of the corner of her eye, shifting blankets around her and continuously moving to keep her hands busy.  Bruce just stared at the floor, sympathy and sorrow on his face.

The medicine was starting to take effect again, dragging Darcy down with it.  She heard glass being shuffled over her head.  Felt another prick on her other arm.  She wanted it to stop.  She needed it to just be still, for a moment.  So she could breathe.  She just wanted to breathe.  Her chest was so tight.  She was tired of needles, she was tired of it hurting.  She hurt, she…

She couldn’t open her eyes anymore.  They had shut, finally.  There was something wet on her face, sliding down into the cut on her cheek, burning her.  Tears.  

She was crying.  

The monitors were so fucking loud.  They shrilled, making her all the more anxious.

“This is fucking unbelievable.  She’s still conscious.”  The voice above her growled softly, belonging to the hand that had moved from her forehead to her hair, now gently petting her, attempting to keep her calm.  Bucky.  Darcy couldn’t decide if it was a welcome touch, and she fought to focus on her surroundings so she could assess the danger.

“How is she awake?  Did you give her a high enough dose, Bruce?  Is it not safe to put her under?”  Steve’s voice was harsh, evidence of how badly their steady captain’s control had frayed. 

“It's her adrenaline.  She’s fighting the drugs.”  Natasha reasoned.  "There are also a lot of potential unknown variables."

“We’re close, Darce.  Shouldn’t be long now.  Try to go to sleep.”  Bruce’s gentle voice was like a balm.  Or maybe he’d added something to her IV?  Whichever it was, she felt herself sinking further down, away from the noise.  

Heavy boots stomped over to them, the sound echoing in Darcy’s mind.  “What do you mean she's still awake?  Why the fuck haven't you put her under?  Look at her!  Look what those fucking bastards did to her!  She's hurting, damn it.”



Darcy jerked, flinching away.

“Barton,” Tony barked with command.  "You're up.  Get over here and take the controls."

Clint growled in complaint, but his footsteps tapered off as he walked over to the cockpit.  Her mind quieted as he did, and she sank again.  It was almost peaceful. 

They hit a patch of turbulence out of nowhere.  Someone shouted out a curse, and Darcy whimpered at both the pain as well as the noise. 



It brought her back towards wakefulness.  Incoherent, but familiar in the confusion, she told herself what she'd been telling herself all along.  She had to get up, she had to get out, she had to…  

"Easy, easy.  I've got you.”  It was Bucky, his voice low.

She felt her wrist be lifted, the cuff inspected.  Her heart leapt; she could hear it two ways, thumping inside her head and in the monitor’s sudden rapid beeping.

Everyone was too close. 

“...shouldn’t be feeling too much of the pain,” Bruce’s voice faded in and out of the fog of her exhaustion.  “...can’t give her more without anesthetizing her.  And I don’t want to do that until we are in the ED.  ...risk of damage to her heart… it’s ill-advised."  She faded in and out, only getting patches of what Bruce was saying at a time.  "She’s been malnourished, she’s dehydrated, this leg needs to be set, her arm needs to be set... in really rough shape….” 



There was a moment of silence when she thought she’d finally fallen asleep, but then his voice was back.  “The only thing I could really do is put her in an induced coma, but that could have serious side-effects, and I don’t have the blood results I’d need for it.  It's too risky.  I’d rather not if she can hang on just a little longer.”

She would hang on.  Darcy wasn’t going to let them do what they wanted with her unconscious body. 

“Put her under,” Steve demanded.  “She shouldn’t have to be aware of anything right now.  She's in goddamn pain, Bruce.  Look at her!"  



"Cap," Tony began.



"Shit, this should never have even happened.  Look at the condition we found her in.  It's... How could they..."



"Steve,"  Bruce interupted.



"It shouldn't have taken us over three weeks… three goddamn weeks to find her!  Hell, she wouldn't have even been taken had it not been for…”

“We are not going to discuss that here or now,” Natasha threatened softly.  “She’s alive, and we got her out.  We are going to focus on her right now.”

“Natasha, look at her,”  Steve was somehow arguing without disagreeing at all.  “Look what they…”  He stumbled for words, his voice cracking as he searched for how to put into words what he was seeing in front of him.  “How could they… Why didn’t we… How could someone do this to another person?  I’ve seen... I thought I’d seen the worse things people could do... but this?  To an innocent woman?”

“Steve,” Bruce sighed.  “She’s not really awake and she so long as we've got her stabilized, she shouldn't be feeling much pain.  Look, she can’t even open her eyes anymore.  She’s conscious, but she’s not really fully aware of what’s going on.  She probably won’t even remember... any of this.  I’ve given her a high enough dose that she shouldn’t be feeling much of anything right now.  I’ve numbed the area around the knife, and her neck.  I’d rather wait until we get to the ED to put her under anesthetic if it can be helped.  We don’t know what kind of drugs are in her system yet.  We don't know anything about what they've given her.  I see tiny specks of blood - she's been given something.  But until we know that, and as we don’t know the full extent of her injuries yet, I don’t want to do anything more than necessary to possibly cause a negative reaction unless it's medically necessary to do so.”

“I hate seeing her so hurt.  She just looks so small...” Steve trailed off.

Darcy felt a hand rest on her ankle, squeezing gently.  She didn’t want it there, didn’t like it.  She didn’t have the energy to shake it off.  

“Darcy, it’s alright.  We’re flying in the Quinjet to the city.  We’re gonna arrive at the hospital shortly.  Rest for now, Kotyonok,”  Natasha murmured to her, hand gently moving a stray, greasy hair off of her bruised face.  Her fingers caressed Darcy’s forehead.

Darcy needed her to stop.  Please stop touching her.

The beeping from her pulse/ox monitor had been steady, but was now growing faster, more insistent.  Her heart started pounding in her chest, a low, ringing sound began to echo in her head.  Her breathing sped up.

“Bruce?”  Tony questioned.

“Natalia,” Bucky said, letting go of the wrist he was inspecting and stepping forward.  “шаг назад.” (let go)

The hand on her head lifted, giving her a moment’s reprieve from the confusing and anxious stress it was giving her.

Steve also removed his hand from Darcy’s ankle.  Darcy felt relief melt through her chest, and the beeping from the monitor echoed the sentiment as it slowed, steady and even.

The relative silence stretched out to fill the Quinjet as the knowledge sank in that the team’s presence, their touch, was distressing to Darcy.  All she could feel was grateful that they’d finally understood.  If they didn’t touch her, they couldn’t hurt her.  And her ruined worthless body wouldn’t taint them. 

“Well, that’s disturbing,” Tony announced.

“Tony,” warned Steve.  “Don’t.”

“Fuck,” Clint ranted, his voice loud and carrying, as he piloted the quinjet.  Darcy wanted to shrink away from the vehemence in his voice.  "Fuck them, fuck this.  What the fuck kind of fucking people does something like this to someone?  She's just a fucking little girl!”

“She’s twenty-four,” Natasha said slowly.  “She’s not a little girl.  And she's been through hell.”

“She doesn’t feel safe.”  Bucky murmured.  

“How can she not feel safe?” Clint interrupted, his voice carrying.  “We just rescued her.  She’s safe now, therefore, she should feel safe,”  he reasoned.  

“She’s not going to feel safe for a long while,” Natasha replied softly.  “It will take time.  But she’s strong.”  She leaned in, close to Darcy.  “You are so strong, Darcy.  So incredibly strong.  We will all be here for you, Kotyonok,” she whispered. “You won't be alone.”

“She’s in shock.”  Bruce looked up from his scanner, defending her.  “She can’t be expected to be reasonable at the moment.”

“This is bullshit,” Clint swore.  “What the fuck did they do to her?  Someone better start talking, I need to know.  She’s been missing for three fucking weeks!  What did those bastards do to her?”

Darcy’s chest tightened.  She couldn’t breathe...

“Let’s not discuss it now,” Bruce advised, adjusting his glasses.

“Shouldn’t we remove the knife?” Tony asked.

Darcy’s heart sped, and if she could have lifted her arms again she’d have pushed them all away.

“No, I want to leave it in until surgery.  Trust me, it’s safer that way,” Bruce sounded sad, but confident.

“I can’t believe those bastards left it in her.  Why would they do that?  What the fuck?”  Clint ranted in disbelief.  

Natasha said softly, “The particular placement of the knife was perhaps planned.  They kept it in so she wouldn’t bleed out.  Didn’t puncture anything life-threatening.  It was likely used as a further means of torture.”

“A further means... Jesus.”  Clint was bitter.

“On top of all of the other torture?”  Steve asked quietly, his voice wavering.

There was another heavy silence that filled the room.  Darcy could feel all eyes on her, and all she wanted in the world was to be somewhere alone, somewhere away, somewhere without prying eyes, without people looking at her, touching her…  

She trembled, despite the drugs warming her up from the inside.

“What about the cuffs?” Steve asked Bucky.

“They’ll wait until she's put her under to remove them.”  

“She’s freezing.  Hand me another blanket.”  There was some rustling to her left, and then she was draped in soft cloth.  It was warm, heavy.  The gentle pressure had her dropping down  hovering just on the cusp of unconsciousness.

“Watch her leg there…”

“Here, help me just…”

“Grab me another…”

“Darcy… doll… just hang on.  We’ll be there shortly.”  Bucky’s voice cut through the murmurs, giving her something to latch onto in the spiraling darkness, his thumb brushing her ear.

Darcy finally allowed herself to drift off, the voices around her losing their clarity, withdrawing their hard edge.  Gentle murmurs lulled her back under and she fell willingly, into the depths of nothingness, wishing she could just stay there, at least for a good, long while.

***

Chapter Text

***

Consciousness slowly crept up on Darcy.  She rose through a thick fog in slow motion, floating, but being pushed down.  Lungs on fire, she struggled, unsure which way was up but pushing onwards in the hopes of finding air.  She slowly became aware of someone crying out, keening and constant.  It was loud and hurt her ears.

She tried to lift her hands to cover them, but couldn’t.  She was muddled and held down, weight without form keeping her immobile.

Her eyes flew wide open, and somehow still felt like she was unconscious and dreaming.  The world around her was in slow motion, greyscale and out of focus, the people walking by, reaching for her, passing in the distance, all too blurry to make out.  

Until it wasn’t, and suddenly, haltingly, everything came into sharp focus.  Any sense of understanding evaporated, and all that remained was fear, and pain.

There were no familiar faces, only people in scrubs and lab coats.  Hospital staff bustling around but not near her.  The bright lights above her flickered and burned her eyes even when she squeezed them shut to try and sink back into unconsciousness.

A sob escaped her.  She couldn’t hear any of the voices she had fallen asleep to.  Where was everyone?  Another cry followed, and another, until she was weeping uncontrollably. 

Her body burned.  Everywhere.  Pain without a source ran through her body like blood.

The sharp and constant ache in her shoulder hurt the worst, sending pounding waves of agony into the base of her brain.  She felt incredibly nauseous.  Her leg, which she saw but didn’t truly register, was covered in a bright orange cast from toe to hip, with a large cut up both of the sides, like the cast wasn’t quite closed.  Her face was covered with a thick gauze - it was claustrophobic, smothering - and her neck...there was something wrapped around her neck, and she couldn't breathe and she was suffocating, and…

“Okay, sweetie. I know you are hurting - I know,” an older nurse with a kind voice, someone she didn’t know, someone that didn’t register. “You are in recovery right now. You’ve just gotten out of surgery and I’m going to help you with the pain.  I know it hurts right now.  How are you feeling?  Can you give me a number between one and ten, ten being the worst pain?”

The nurse held a syringe close to the IV on Darcy’s arm.

“Te.. ten,” Darcy croaked, crying, eyes wide and tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Ten, God, TEN!”  She whimpered, “It hurts - please, it hurts!”  Darcy gasped, her chest aching as a sob forced its way out of her, small voice cracking.  Her voice was almost inaudible - she was pushing words out, but barely any sound was coming out.  

The pain overwhelmed her, her hip throbbing, the bright lights burning her eyes, cruelly reminding her that light hurt.  Craving the safety that came from the dark, needing to distance herself again from the hurt, she closed her eyes tightly, desperate to shut out the pain.  She couldn't curl in - she couldn't move.  Her casted leg felt like a dead weight, holding her down.  It felt as if she were still in chains...

She began shaking.

“Okay, you’re going to be fine,” the nurse comforted gently.  “I know it hurts, but I’m going to make it better.  This is going to help.”  The nurse pushed the plunger, sending something down the IV tube, and kept talking to her soothingly.

Two sets of footsteps made their way to the side of the bed, a whispered conversation coming to an end.  “Thank you, doctor,” Natasha said as she came close, and the doctor stepped away, the rustling of metal rings shifting above Darcy’s bed, the curtain opening and then being closed behind her.

“Natalia.”  A deep, male voice from behind Darcy’s head.  Bucky.  Darcy settled immediately.  She hadn’t been left alone.  She was being guarded.

“James,” Natasha replied, exhaustion evident as she sunk into a chair perhaps a little less gracefully than usual.  No further words were spoken between the two, but in that moment, Darcy was so grateful for their presence, reminding her and surprising her yet again, that she wasn’t alone like she thought.  It felt like a comfort, like a warm blanket wrapping around her heart, relaxing the pain in her lungs and chest, easing tension from her shoulders.  She felt herself calm down, felt her breathing become easier, deeper and more even.  The weight of the drugs taking over, she felt heat flooding her veins, a foggy thickness pulling at the corners of her mind, pulling her down, down, down...

The chair beside her squeaked against the tile floor as the nurse stood.  “I’ll be around the corner - just over there - if she wakes up again,” a gentleness in her voice.

Darcy felt a rustling of movement next to her, and heard a chair being slid closer to the bed, before a small hand settled gently in her hair, fingers carefully working through her tangled locks...

"The doctors say that she'll sleep for a while," Natasha's murmured voice was soft and muddled, like a mother's murmuring comfort to her child, as she spoke over Darcy to Bucky.  Darcy relaxed further as Natasha talked, and listened as Bucky responded, but Darcy didn't know what either had said.  She didn't care.  His voice was gentle and deep, and she let their voices lull over and soothe her.  Somewhere between the soft, murmured conversation, and the reassurance of gentle fingers combing through her hair, Darcy let go.

She felt heavy as a warmness spread over her chest, her body finally giving in and she fell into oblivion, momentarily away from the hurt and pain.

***

Something was pulling at the bandage on her face, and it discomforted her.  She grunted, trying to swipe at the movement.  A metal hand gently grabbed her wrist and held on, holding her away to keep her from touching her cheek.  She fought weakly against the hand holding her down, but it didn't budge.  Another hand was laid on her cheek - the one that wasn't bandaged up, a warm, human hand, and her body betrayed her by leaning towards the warmth. 

“...just need to let the nurse change this bandage,” he said. “I know it hurts - it’ll be quick. Sleep, doll...”

“...please don’t leave me...,” Darcy whimpered brokenly, clinging now to his metal hand - to it, to him - both a familiar presence - his presence.  She wouldn’t forget, ever, that he had been the one to find her.

Gripping his metal arm tightly, his presence offered safety and the reminder that she wasn’t by herself, that she wasn’t alone in this. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her under his watch.

“Doll, I’m not going anywhere,” he promised gruffly.

Sleep was once again taking over, and Darcy relaxed into it, eventually allowing him to gently set her hands back down to her stomach when she was finally too far gone.  He didn’t let go of her, though.  He simply rested his metal hand atop hers, unmoving, keeping her safe.  She felt the covers pulled up and tucked under her chin, and felt his other hand softly caressing her hair, soothing her until she knew no more.  

***

Every moment she was awake enough to see the light, feel hands on her, struggle and fail to move away, tension and nausea sank their teeth into her.  



Darkness was safe, and there was so much fucking light.

Darcy had woken up several times over the past few hours, coming in and out of consciousness as they worked on her.  The drugs they gave her were helping in waves, at times rolling high enough to drown out the agony her body felt, and at times falling low, so she would edge to consciousness, pain causing her to groan and shift, irritating her already agonizing hurts and causing them to raise the dosage again to drown the pain again.



She never knew if she was talking or begging, if she was asleep or awake - it was all murky and confusing.  There were moments when all she would hear was a deep voice beside her, gentle repeating, "Shh... shh, baby.  It's okay."

When she was fully awake, she didn’t want to hear the words they were saying to her, asking her about.  She didn’t want to really think on it or remember it or acknowledge it.  It took effort to block their words out, energy that she didn’t currently possess.  Darcy dug deep.  She focused on the sounds around her, the wheels to the bed under her, squeaking gently as she was pushed down the hall.  Her stomach churned, queasy from the flashing lights and the sharp movements.  Her eyes squeezed shut.



Not safe, not safe.

She heard the beeping sounds from machines going off in rooms all around her, loud and screaming.  The scratch of pen to paper as someone took notes or sketched something.  The atmosphere was cold and the air smelled of a harsh disinfectant.  She heard the rustling of sheets being gathered around her as once again, her warm covers were lifted and cold fingers were prodding at her - always touching her, voices around her methodical and asking more questions that Natasha and Tony took turns answering steadily.

Darcy tuned out.  She was able to ignore the words, hearing only the sounds of voices, letting them pass her by without seeping in.

She was so tired.

Steve’s voice cut through her quiet haze above her, low and commanding, as he responded to the doctor’s question on explaining how she had been found.  She tried to ignore him, but she couldn’t.  She was forced to listen as he began describing in agonizing detail, the room she’d kept been in and the state they'd found her in.  He talked about how scared she had been and how she'd flinched away from him, his voice hitching slightly but he carried on, from them, he'd corrected.  His hands moved, growing more agitated, his eyes worriedly glancing back at Darcy as he spoke, and he took a few steps away from her, leading the doctor further away, as he continued to speak with him.

Bucky, the one who had found you, had remained steadfastly beside her.  He had yet to truly speak to her, other than a few comforting moments in her panic or pain, to ease her comfort and try and calm her down.  He didn’t speak up or answer questions that were asked of the group - Steve was the one taking care of what needed to be taken care of in that department.  And when he didn't, Tony stepped forward and took care of the rest.  

Bucky's steady presence near her, guarding her, perhaps, may have been the only thing keeping Darcy down at the moment.  Natasha had come in once or twice, and Bucky had spoken with her - oftentimes switching from English to Russian, and then back to English as if both momentarily forgot what country they were in, or more interestingly, what time period they were in. 



Darcy found both of their presences immensely comforting, even if she couldn't focus on their words due to the pain, even in the moments when they were speaking Russian and Darcy couldn't understand even if she'd wanted to.  She felt confident that she didn't want to be touched.  At times, it felt like any touch at all would absolutely be too much for her to handle, and she knew with certainty, that if she were to be touched, she would 100% flip the fuck out if anyone tried to come near her with so much as a hand to hold.  Other times, however, like when Natasha had combed Darcy's hair with her fingers, or Bucky caressing her uninjured cheek right before sleep took over - she found that she not only craved that touch, but she felt as though she needed it and might die without it.  

It was very confusing, and conflicting, and she didn't understand it at all.  Everything felt too big to put any real thought to.  Labelling emotion felt like trying to find a needle in a canyon.  She couldn't see big picture and she certainly couldn't focus on small picture.  She felt overwhelmed, and even that felt underwhelming when thought.  She struggled with being able to feel out or get a grasp on anything of value or importance.  Not on what she was feeling or how she was feeling, what she wanted or didn't want.  What she needed or what she craved.  She could only feel overwhelming distraught.    



She wasn't hungry.

The fight or flight response thrummed deep within her and it was all she could do to remain on the bed.  Her limbs were heavy and she wasn’t sure that she could actually lift her head off the pillow, but she was thinking about it.  It really wouldn’t take much to just sit up and shift off the bed.  Just a few steps and she’d be outside, breathing in the fresh, outside air for the first time in what seemed like too long.  She imagined the bright blue, cloudy skies above her and dreamed of breathing in clean, crisp air.  She could almost feel the wind on her face, could almost imagine the warmth of the sun on her skin.  She wanted it - no, needed it - so badly.  It felt like freedom to her, and she wanted to run towards it and never look back.  



Nana had taken her to the Grand Tetons once, when she was eleven.  They'd gone to see Mormon Row, and while the barn and the building was supposed to be the grand affair, Darcy ran past them, all of them on her left.  She ran and ran, and there was nothing but sky for miles and miles.  The ground went all the way until it met the sky, and the majestic Grand Tetons made the most glorified backdrop one could imagine.  Not once, had Nana called out to her, warning her not to go too far, reminding her to come back, never once taking from Darcy the feeling that she was so huge in this vast, open space.  She remembered laughing, so gleeful, so free.  She could have run for miles.  Nana captured a picture of her that day.  Her hair was caught up in the wind, a wide-toothed grin mid-laugh upon her face, joyous.  



There had been joy.

Never wanting to get too closely to her current present, ever again, she wanted to run away and to keep running, away from the uncertainty, the oblivion, the horror and cruelty.  She wanted to find her wide, open space once again - to chase after that feeling of joy that she'd once had.  



She didn’t want to need the few comforting touches from these larger than life heroes that by happenstance surrounded her, in order to keep her settled, to keep her grounded, to keep her.  She wanted to resist them, to never be touched again.  She wanted to fling her arms out wide, and laugh to the clouds above, all the way to the end of the world, so much bigger than she.  Alone and free.  Desperation to escape.  



She would never be free.  A single tear slid down her cheek.



And in juxtoposition… a deep, unsettling longing settled in her gut at the thought of never wanting touch again.        

Bucky’s right hand - his warm hand - remained in her hair, his thumb occasionally caressing her forehead or ear, and again - at this moment - she found that it helped settle her.  It calmed her.  She didn’t dare lean into the hand, but she didn’t shy away from it either.  It simply kept her in the bed, kept her there.  His even, steady pressure against her skin reminded her that she wasn’t alone and that he'd gotten her out.  It helped keep the anxiety and fear from crashing against her.

She knew she should feel afraid.  She knew she was afraid.  

But right now, she felt small and was so tired.

“I’m gonna go grab us some coffee,” Clint murmured to Natasha, upset and needing some time to regroup.  Darcy hadn't realized Clint had even been there.  She was having a difficult time staying present, staying focused.  She heard him say, “be right back,” and then he was gone again.

She drifted in the clouds.  A long time passed, or perhaps a short time - Darcy couldn’t keep track.  Hours passed, and hospital staff came and went - sometimes poking her, sometimes moving her limbs, sometimes just coming in and having a chat - conversations that Darcy found impossible to try and keep up with, it was all a confusing, thick haze - until Natasha repeated something to Darcy, hands on both sides of Darcy's face, clearly trying to get Darcy to focus in, “We’ll be right here, Darcy, when you get out.”

Her name was being used.  That meant punishment.  What had she done?  Worse, what had she not done?



Darcy felt confused.  Where was she going?

Her friends were hovering around her.  She felt them move around her.  Heard them shuffle.  Were they leaving her?  Darcy struggled to keep up, to latch onto the conversation around her.

An orderly came up behind her and began pushing her gurney through a set of heavy double doors.

What was on the other side of those doors?  



Darcy didn’t want to go.

“Where… what?  No!”  She whispered suddenly, her voice nothing more than a wheeze.  “No, stop. STOP,” her voice was so weak - she had no voice.  "I'm sorry," she stammered.  What had she done?  



Show me how sorry you are, plaything.



Her eyes popped open as she struggled valiantly against the drugs trying to keep her down.

Natasha was holding onto the bed rails, looking down at Darcy, concerned.  Tony was staring down at his phone, as if it contained some answer to solve this.  His brow furrowed and he fidgeted unhappily.

“What’s happening?  I'm sorry.  Please.  Where are you taking me?”

Natasha stepped in close, steady eyes comforting her.  “Darcy, you have a small complication with your hip and the doctors need to take you back to surgery for a quick procedure to fix it.  You won’t be gone for more than an hour or two.”



Darcy, Darcy, Darcy...  

She did the only thing she felt she could do - she began begging, feeling completely out of control as terror rose up within her, choking her, for them to not let them take her away, to not leave.  “I don’t want to, please.  I don’t want to go.  I'm sorry, I... Please… please…” She mouthed, her voice offering no help to her.  The orderly was pushing.  “No, I want to leave. I want to go home. Please don’t make me go.”

She couldn’t go.  Her casted leg felt as if it were weighed down with bricks.  Why couldn’t she move?   She tried to move her other knee up so she could climb off the bed.  But her leg wouldn’t move.  She was confused.  She couldn’t breathe.  She couldn’t swallow.  Her head pounded.  She clawed at the bed, weak, yet determined.



"I want to go home," she begged.

Steve looked like someone had punched him in the gut.  He walked towards her and reached out as if to comfort her.  “Darcy,” he said softly, brokenly.

She flinched harshly.  She couldn’t help it.  They would punish her cruelly for reacting.  



Get up, bitch.  She'd struggled to stand.  They would only beat her down again - what was the point of getting up again?  I said stand up!  She struggled, but pulled herself up again.  What's your fucking name?  



She hadn’t even thought, her body just reacted, desperate to get away from the beating. 



It was just Steve, her mind supplied.  You like Steve.  Steve is nice and safe.  He's Captain America.  But still, where her mind hesitated, her body revolted.  Her body was a ball of tight rubber bands, so tense, as she leaning away from him.  He withdrew, his quick reflexes making the movement seem purposeful, though a devastated frown settled on his face that he couldn't hide.  He glanced over to Bucky, looking slightly ill and conflicted.

Bucky nodded at him, and that was all Steve seemed to need.  He returned the nod, and looked back down at her.  

“Hey, it's ok.  I know you're scared and have been in and out of it because of all the drugs - I've been there.  But I promise you, you are safe, and these doctors and medical staff are going to take care of you,” Steve told her softly, stepping close.  His solid build created a small shadow over her, that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you again, ever.”  His voice and expression were honest, and part of her yearned to believe him.  But how could he promise that?  Everything that had happened to her... he hadn’t been able to stop that. 



She didn't believe him.

Steve took a solid breath and let it out. “I’m gonna touch your arm, okay?  I'll hold your hand if you want me to.  That’s all.  Tell me if you want me to stop, and I will stop.”

Her breath hitched.  She froze, unable to nod or shake her head no.  It was too complicated, what he was asking, and she didn't know... she was just unsure...

He reached towards Darcy again, slowly, watching her face as he leaned over, laying his hand on Darcy’s arm, gently but holding her still nonetheless.  Darcy reflexively pulled against him, as if she'd been burned.  She yanked, but her body was so against her.  Weak and useless.  She felt out of control.  This was just like the room.  What she wanted didn’t matter.  She wasn’t in charge.  They left her to bleed out, in pain, when they wanted.  This was just like that.  She had no say.  They were going to do to her what they wanted, and she didn’t get a say.

A broken sob escaped her.  She flinched away from Steve, trying to escape him, pulling away to the other side of the gurney.  “No, don't!  Stop,” she whispered brokenly, achingly.

Steve immediately let go of her, his face sympathetic, but not disappointed.  He left his hands hovering nearby, to stop her again if she tried to move.  He wasn’t threatening at all, he had tried to offer comfort - but Darcy felt fear.  Steve wouldn’t hurt a fly - he was gentle and kind and helpful but… he was still a man.  He most likely had manly urges.  Steve wouldn’t hurt her, she did know this, somewhere, inside.  But she didn’t want to trust him.  He was a superman.  He could hurt her if he wanted to, and she had no power or control to stop him.  The loss of control weighed heavily within her.  She trembled, curling into herself, cringing away from Steve and everyone else around her.

She was terrified and out of control.  Terrified of her friends.  Because they were all people.  Men, like the men who had hurt her.  Those men had taught her that all men had the ability to hurt her, and that if they wanted it, she couldn’t stop it.  Her NO didn’t mean a damn thing.  They took her voice.

All Darcy had was her voice.  And that is how they broke her.  And that is why she didn’t want to think about it, or remember it.  And now, she needed her voice back, she needed control… and her friends were taking it from her.

She didn’t think these men in front of her would hurt her, but she didn’t trust them enough that they wouldn’t - because they could.  If they wanted.  And she was helpless to fight back.

And again, they - someone else - was taking away her choice.  She was saying no.  She had said no all along.  And those men had ignored her, and these men were ignoring her now.

It crushed her.  It broke her.  Her expression crumbled.

And Darcy completely melted down.

The Darcy from long ago would have slapped herself upside the head for throwing such a tantrum, for crying in front of people.

Darcy wasn’t the kind of girl who cried.

She definitely didn’t cry in front of others.  She had the ‘buck up and chin up’ mentality, when life gave her lemons.  She made fucking lemonade and to hell with it all.  She was the kind of girl who defended the girl who cried.

Darcy was horrified at her own terror and her inability to control the outpouring of fear and emotion.  She recognized her hysteria, but she couldn’t seem to stop or control it.  It trickled out of her, like water pouring and gushing out along the cracks of a dam, breaking down the barrier until every resistance crumbled in its wake.  Cold fright held her on a precipice and her hands clenched on the sheet covering her, knuckles turning white from her tight grasp.

Tony looked panicked.  He looked right and left, as if he didn’t know what the appropriate next step was.  It was very strange to witness - he usually was the man of action.  Shifting from one task to the next, multi-tasking at a level no one else could keep up with.  And yet, here he stood, dumbfounded.

An orderly attempted to push Darcy towards the door.  He was a young man, looked barely eighteen, with bright green eyes, and piercings covering both ears.  



NO..no, no...

“Wait,” Steve said, yanking on the gurney, causing it to jerk to a forceful halt.  “She’s not ready.  Give her god-damn minute.”  The orderly looked terrified and took two steps back, hands coming up in front of him.

“Steve,” Tony started softly, his skin pale and clammy.  He looked nauseous, as the day’s stress caught up to his body.  “She has to go, even if she doesn’t want to.  You know it.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.

Darcy hated Tony in that moment.  There was violence in her heart, and it burned in her veins.  She would never forgive him. 



She wanted to scream.



She wanted to rage against the injustice, but she was too torn apart, too broken.  Everyone had turned against her, all wanting to punish her.  She had no one, she was alone.  



She had said no.



Tears streamed down her face, wet drops falling to her hands, her covers - soaking her.  She laid there and wept.  Just... sobbed her broken heart out.  She just... couldn't anymore.

“I know, kiddo,” Tony comforted, his voice hoarse and full of sadness. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Darcy said suddenly gasped through the tears, sitting up despite the sharp and horrific pain, and before she could lean over the bed, Natasha had thrust a small bucket in front of her.  She vomited.  Oh, it burned so much.

She hadn’t eaten much in weeks.  She was dehydrated.  She dry heaved some more, and it burned.  Her eyes filled with blurry tears, blinding her.  She was sick until her stomach cramped.  When she was finally finished, she coughed.  Her lungs were full of fluid and made a crackling sound as she exhaled.  Between the burning in her throat and the noises from her lungs, she felt for a moment like a fire trying to catch, like if she could summon just a spark more, she would burst into flame and consume herself.

Tony had grabbed a rag from somewhere.  It was warm and damp.  He started to lean towards Darcy, to help her and Darcy groaned and working to shrink away from him.  Natasha took it from him, and lifted it towards her face, washing her, helping her.  Darcy didn’t fight her, allowing it, feeling less flighty with Natasha than she had with Tony.  Darcy was weak, even attempting to reach for the rag herself - to take over for Natasha, to do for herself - was too difficult, and exhausting.  Her hand fell to the bed weakly.  Tony took the bucket from her and walked to the side of the room to dispose of it.

Natasha gently wiped her cheek with it and then her hands.  The rag was warm, and although Darcy felt the heat against her skin as she gently cleaned her skin, all she felt was clammy fear.  She looked down at her arm, and noticed how her skin looked almost translucent with her veins showing through as if someone had taken a marker to her, drawing lines up and down her arms.  Tears coursed down her cheeks, eyes flooded.

Bucky stepped up beside Natasha.

“Hand me a clean rag,” he requested.  Tony handed him a clean one, taking the dirty one from Natasha to dispose of.

Bucky put the rag to her forehead, gently wiping the sweat from her clammy skin.  His face gave nothing away.  His eyes were kind, but his jaw clenched tightly.  She glanced over at Steve.  Steve looked devastated, but held her gaze steadily.  His expression told her that although he felt a mess on the inside, he would remain strong strong for her.  He had another rag in his hands and had been wetting them in the sink.  He walked over to Darcy and set the rag on over her mouth, covering her lips.  They were cracked and bleeding, and she was so very thirsty.  He squeezed the clean rag, and water drops gently fell through Darcy's lips, wetting her mouth.  She sucked the rag, letting the coolness in it give her a momentary relief.  When the rag was dry, he took it from her and set it back in the sink.  

"More?" he asked her.  

She shook her head.  

Bucky was wiping behind her ears now, comfortingly.  Steve's arms crossed as he looked down at Darcy, different emotions flickering across his face.  Sadness, despair, a loss of control... determination. 

“Please, Captain, don’t make me go…” she pleaded, her voice a crackled mess as she pushed the words out of her straining throat.  



His head tilted uneasily at the title, and he stared at her momentarily in confusion before his expression turned to rage and gritting his teeth, he looked away.

She started crying as soon as he looked away, crushed, and then refused to meet her eye again, unable to answer her.  "I'm sorry," she cried weakly.  "I promise I"ll..." Darcy looked around to the others in the room, and no one would meet her eye.  No one had seen her cry before, and they were obviously uncomfortable.  

She turned to Bucky, to beg him.  He had been guarding her - he was on her side.  



He'd come for her.  He'd found her.  He'd rescued her.

“Please, please - Bucky," she gasped.  "I can’t go, you... they can’t make me,” tears streamed down her cheeks, burning the flayed skin on her cheek. “Don't make me go alone.  I can’t go by myself, I won’t do it.”  She began struggling to get off the bed, making it so far as to roll precariously near the edge.

“Easy,” Bucky tutted softly as he pulled her lightly back into the bed, his voice low and soothing.  Steve moved near her feet, hands untucked again as if he was cautiously waiting to see if he would have to grab her quickly or not.

Bucky stretched across her abdomen and leaned over her then, his metal hand going across the bed to land on the bar opposite of Darcy.  His chest wasn't four inches from her own.  Darcy stilled immediately, shrinking into the bed, cringing and pulling her body tightly into her, making herself as small as she could.

“Barnes,” Tony warned tightly, “you are scaring her.”  

Bucky didn't even blink.  He just looked deeply into Darcy's eyes, taking in her panic and fear, and gazed back at her, steadily and full of compassionate understanding.  He remained steady.

Steve gave Tony a quick shake, no - don't interrupt - but didn’t say anything to him.  Natasha stepped over to Tony, putting a hand on his arm, giving him pause.

“Darcy," Bucky said calmly after a long moment, his voice catching her by surprise even though she had been waiting on it and expecting it.



Her name.  This was punishment.  She knew it.  It was her own fault.  She flinched, and attempted to throw an arm above her head as if to protect herself.  His body was in the way and she was unable to move.



She didn't know what she'd done.  She didn't understand the rules.

“Doll," he corrected, his eyes silvery-blue eyes so sad.  "You have to go into surgery," he told her gently, but he was very serious.  The kindness threw her, it made the punishment all the worse.



It was so cruel.



"You have to do this - your body needs to heal.”

Darcy crumbled.

“You’ll be fine, doll.  They’re going to fix you right up, I promise.  But you have to go.  I’m sorry, it’s just not an option for you not to go in.”  He gently swept a wisp of hair from her cheek.  “I know we’ve been riding you all day, staying on your case since we picked you up, taking away your control of this situation.  You are doing good, Doll.  So good.  Bein’ so brave.  You are so strong.  You keep on bein’ brave just a bit longer.  I know this is hard.  This is so unbelievably hard.  But look at me.”

Darcy glanced up at him, tears leaking down her cheek, her shoulders tightening up, tense and painful.

“We're not leavin' you alone here.  We’ve got you.  You just keep on bein’ brave - just a little while longer - and let us take care of the rest.”

Steve laid a hand on Bucky, and Bucky glanced over to him.  Steve gave him a small, lopsided smile.  Bucky’s eyes softened.

He met Darcy’s gaze one last time before stepping away.  Darcy’s eyes flitted to his metal arm moving away from her, her shoulders easing as he stepped away.

When he moved away from the bed again moments later, Darcy weakly sobbed.  She wasn’t brave.  She hadn’t been brave at all.  She’d been scared and belittled.  Tortured and tormented.  But his words echoed and she took a jilted breath.

“That’s good, Darce,” Steve said, stepping into the space that Bucky had been previously occupying - the Cap in him now leading, confident and sure.

“Take another,” he instructed. “Like this,” and he demonstrated, filling his lungs with air and then slowly, breathing out.

Darcy tried to inhale, but it came out as a gasp. “That’s good, sweetheart,” Steve said. “Try again.”

Sweetheart.  That was new, Darcy thought.  All of these names... it was so confusing.  She wasn't going to be able to keep track.  



It was Steve, though, that had called her Sweetheart.  Sweetheart.  She rolled the new term around in her mind.  The newness of it shook her out of her terror a bit, and that allowed her to relax  ever so slightly.

This time, Darcy was able to pull air into her lungs.  She inhaled sharply, and exhaled shakily.

“Good, Darcy.  That’s real good,” Steve said gently.  “Deep breaths, now.”

Natasha nodded at the terrified orderly, and gestured for him to take control of the transport again.  The orderly nervously came up behind them and began pushing the bed again, giving cautious glances to the Avengers present, almost making it through the double doors for the second time, when Darcy went into full panic.

The door.

She absolutely could not go through the door.

Her fear completely revolved around that damn door.

Bad things were on the other side of the door.  Of doors.  All doors.

Doors were terrifying.

She shot up, the pain in her body from the jolt barely noticeable in her heightened adreneline, her body arched against the bed, and she couldn’t go, she wouldn’t.

Bucky and Steve grabbed at her quickly from both sides, and firmly pushed her back into the bed.  Gently, but she was weak against them, casted and bandaged - weighed down.  

She was again being held down against her will.  They had to know how this hurt her.  And yet, they kept doing it.   

“NO,” she screamed, her voice shrill and violent as she bucked unconsciously against them.  “Please don’t, please no, I’ll be good, I can be so good for you - I'm sorry - please!  I'll do anything.  Anything.  I don’t want to go, please… I’ll be good for you,” she wept, beside herself in fear.

Everyone startled at that, and Steve let go of Darcy as if he’d been burned, a look of absolute horror and devastation on his face.  Darcy shook with wide eyes, refusing to meet their eyes, refusing to see how he saw her.  "No, don't..." she pleaded, her words confusing and jarring.  She didn't want him to look at her that way.

Bucky didn’t let go, though, in fact, he seemed to grasp her all the more tightly.  He was currently the only one now keeping her in the bed.  She most definitely would have gone over the side had he not kept a tight grip on her.  His hands moved from her shoulder to against her arm, holding on to her instead of holding her down.  She trembled but didn’t yank away.



She was held down.  They would force her.  She didn't want it.

“Darcy, we will be with you, the entire time.”  Steve promised solemnly in his best Captain America voice, deep, and clear, and authoritative.  He looked pained.  “We won’t leave you."  He gentled, "Sweetheart, I swear...”



That word again.

“You are already good, ” Nat swore, her voice cracking just slightly as she interrupted - her solid emotional armor buckling under the stress.  “I promise, Koyotak, you are so good.”

"I can be good," she mumbled, crying.  "I can make it good for you.  I'll... try harder.  I don't want to go.  Please, please don't make me..."

"Doll," Bucky stopped her, his face inches above her own, speaking to her quietly now, just between he two of them, low and comforting.  "You are being so good.  You are good.  Let us take care of you, Doll."

“We won’t leave without you, Darce,” Tony promised.  "We'll stay the whole time."

“You will all need to wait in the waiting room,” the nurse pointed down the hallway to the left, having come in after hearing the commotion.  “Orderly, let's get her to surgery.”

Darcy reached out and grabbed onto Bucky, tightly, to try use him as leverage to climb off the bed again, common sense and rationality completely failing her.  She had to leave, she had to go.  

Steve’s hands reached up and grabbed her wrists, over her bandages, pinning her back down to the bed.  Darcy bucked violently on the bed, mouth falling open in agony as pain erupted around her as her body flailed.  Her mouth stayed in a silent scream and she couldn't breathe, she couldn't inhale - oh God, oh God, she wanted to die.  It was all too much.

“Darcy, love, calm down,” Steve commanded.  Her name.  It sent shivers of fear down her body, icy cold in her veins.  “You’re safe, Sweetheart.  We’ve got you.  Breathe, baby.  Breathe.”

“Sedate her,” Bucky suggested tightly to the nurse, the dark undertone to his voice reminding the others of what lay beneath his calm manner.

Bucky took her arm gently from Steve, looked apologetically at Darcy, and held it for the nurse.  A needle sank into her arm, and Darcy screamed silently, unable to move her arm away.

“No, Bucky!” She cried out, furious.  She hit him weakly with her other fist.  “NO!”

Bucky very calmly grabbed her both of her wrists and held them together, gently squeezing them as she ranted, even going so far as to run his thumb up and down her wrist, in an effort to give her comfort.  If she had had any strength at all, she could have easily shoved him away, but she was tired and without strength, and now the medicine was kicking in, pulling her under.  She grew warm and couldn’t stay awake anymore.  She cried out, her voice losing steam and growing weaker.

“I said no, Bucky,” she rasped. “I told them no,” she cried, over and over, she repeated.  "I told them no."

Bucky laid her arms to her side, his hand warm and soothing.  "I know you did."

"I told them no, so many times," she fought to speak, her throat tight and full of hurt.

“You’re safe now, Doll,” he repeated gently.  “Easy.”

“No one will stop,” she whimpered, falling back, her traitorous body being dragged under by the drugs.  "Please, no."

The Avengers were shaken.  None of them wanted to leave her.

“If you would just wait down the hall,” a nurse said, coming to stand next to the orderly, “we’ll get her taken care of.”

Bucky spoke up firm and flatly, “I won't be leaving her.”

The nurse looked at him like she wanted to argue… but after a quick glance to his metal arm, and a glance to the Captain, watching him cross his arms and stand a bit taller, her jaw shut with a click and she nodded shakily.  

The medicine kicked in fully and where Darcy’s panic had given her strength, the medicine stole her adrenaline, leaving her weak and whimpering, half unconscious and half out of her mind with fear.

But when Bucky stepped up and held her hand, gesturing for the orderly to lead on, she was able to finally let go.  “You are not alone,” he whispered.  "I won't let anyone hurt you.  It’s over, now.  You survived it, Darce.  No one will even be able to get close.  And when you're healed from surgery, Doll, I promise if you say no - about anything - I will ensure that it is respected.  I swear to you."  

She listened.  She was angry, but he was right.

She wasn’t alone.  She was being unreasonable.  They weren't telling her no to disrespect her, they were telling her no because she had lost her mind and was being unreasonable.  It was comforting, she thought, that they were looking out for her, even when she was so far from herself even she couldn't recognize what was going on with her - and that he would help enforce her saying no after this surgery.  

It's just... she had said no.  She had said no.  She had screamed no.  She had begged no.  And those men laughed at her.  

They had laughed at her.  

It hurt so much.  

But Bucky had promised he would help her, he would enforce her no's in the future.  He would help her.  She wasn't alone.

She just had to keep telling herself that.  

She tugged her hand away from his, not wanting the reminder of being touched at the moment, even if he was being incredibly sweet, and caring, and comforting.  She was so angry.  She refused to acknowledge the look of sad understanding that flitted across his face - so quickly it almost didn’t happen, before he settled back into his blank and calm Winter Soldier persona.

He was quickly becoming a stationary center for her to gravitate towards, to help keep her grounded, to prevent her from flying away into the dark abyss.

And she was very grateful to him for it.  To all of them.  They had rescued her.  They had gotten her out, taken her away.

Removed her from those men.  Darcy shuddered.

They were keeping her safe.

But they were also forcing her to go, taking her control, taking away her ability to say no.

She felt hurt, unreasonably - she did realize she was being unreasonable, but couldn’t help it.  She was so angry.  She was in such enormous pain.  She trembled.

She felt incredibly alone.

Bucky’s metal arm grasped the bar on the bed, as he helped push the bed through the doors, his calm gaze steadying her instead of frightening.  She hiccuped weakly.

"I won't leave you alone," he promised her again.

It hurt to breathe.

***

Chapter Text

***

There was a time in Darcy's life when she would define her person as being incredibly brave.  Not many things scared her.  She invited the challenge and welcomed the opportunity to spread her wings.  In truth, she just hadn't ever experienced anything truly terrifying before.  But now she had, and she couldn't quite wrap her brain around how to just "be" anymore.

Something had woken Darcy, but she couldn’t do more than lay there, letting her body slowly come to from a deep sleep.  She felt weirdly weighted and restful, slow, but not hurting.  She was warm and tired, and opening her eyes felt oddly difficult.  So she laid there and rested, hovering somewhere between waking and falling back to sleep.

A small hand reached over her and shifted some hairs from her forehead.  Darcy flinched internally, not ready to be fully awakened and not wanting to be touched.  It was indescribable, the feeling she had toward the delicate touch, a negative emotion washing over her, an internal cringe, a want to flinch away.  But then the light touch was gone, and Darcy felt herself breathe and relax once again.  She sighed deeply, head lolling to one side.

“Darcy?”  Jane whispered, her voice small, afraid and sad, all at the same time.

Darcy let out a small whimper.

“She may finally be waking,” Thor spoke softly.  “I shall get the nurse.”



A door squeaked open and Darcy’s eyes shot wide open, the sound jerking her awake.  That horrible, terrible, traumatic sound of a door opening.  Light flooded into her eyes, and it was too much.  She covered her eyes with her hands, and struggled in the bed.  To sit up, to move away, to roll over - anything.  But she was stuck on her back, her leg connected to a… what was her leg connected to?  She squinted, unable to make out the blurry image that lay in front of her.

Jane.  Where was Jane?  She glanced around quickly, her eyes desperate for her friend.  Jane looked... terrified.



"Jane?” she rasped. “Wha…?”



Jane flinched as she gazed at Darcy with sad eyes.  Her chin trembled.  Her hands clung tightly against the bar of Darcy’s hospital bed, her fingers turning white against her tight grip.



“Are you hurting terribly, Darcy?  Oh, my God, of course you are - what am I even saying, that's such a stupid question.  Hang on - Thor just left to go get the nurse.”



A soft snore came from across the room.  Darcy’s eyes, still blurry from sleep, grew in alarm.



"It's okay, it's just Steve and Bucky."  Jane pointed across the room.



Bucky had the blue ball cap Darcy had given him, which made her feel sharply removed and vulnerably pained.  Like a memory that should have brought her joy had turned into something churning and dark, inky and black, something moving in the shadows - but with claws, yanking at her in a way that caused hurt.  It made her regret noticing the hat at all, as sick and uncomfortable as it made her feel.  In a way, Darcy felt that she should look at that hat and think of that memory and feel relief.  She should be thrilled to be back.  Away from that place.  But all she felt was wariness and discomfort in looking at it, and for some reason she couldn't explain, she did not want to remember that memory.  Didn't want to think of anything that happened before.  She didn't understand this, but knew without a doubt in her mind that it was important.  


Bucky had the now apparently offensive hat pulled down low, his eyes hidden by the brim, his arms folded across his broad chest and had stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles crossed.  His head had sagged to the side - chin to chest, fully, deeply asleep.  Steve sat curled up on the floor to the side of him, his body leaning full tilt against Bucky's leg, his head resting trustingly against Bucky’s knee, eyes shut and mouth open slightly as he breathed deeply.  How someone so large could curl up so small was a conundrum. 



“They’ve been standing guard for two days.  And up for almost a week.  We've all been searching... this whole time.  We were looking..."  Jane went silent, trailing off before finding the words to continue.  "But then we got a lead and they were out, trying to find you.  The two of them refused to leave, couldn't sleep - and then a few hours ago, crashed, finally,” Jane whispered.  “Thor said to just let them be.”



Darcy groaned pitifully, trying to shift just slightly to ease the pulsing pain in her shoulder.  She shook her head slightly, to try and clear some of the fog away.  Her head ached, her cheek and throat ached.  She reached down, groping along her body, feeling more panicked by the minute as she came across wires and tubes and gauze and casts... 



“Darcy, it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay."  Darcy flinched.  "You’re just waking up for the first time after surgery.  The doctors said you would still be groggy from the anesthesia, so just take your time.”  Jane tried to soothe but her tone, rising quickly in pitch, gave away her worry as she reached out towards Darcy, her hands ghosting over Darcy’s arm, the lightness prickling at Darcy's skin, attempting to rub up and down in an effort to calm her.



It did not calm her.  It was horrible and wrong.  Darcy's breath quickened, short and threatened.  Her jaw clenched tightly and her eyes squeezed shut against the harsh light of the room and the door that Thor had left open on his way, apparently.  Darcy couldn't see anything outside of the door - it made her deeply nervous.  Jane was talking, her confusion and worry at Darcy's agitation and nervousness growing as evident in the fact that her words got faster and she was near babbling opposed to be anything near calm.  She kept using Darcy's name... kept saying it, over and over - she was trying to get her attention, but it hurt, it hurt.



"Please," Darcy begged, unable to elaborate.



Darcy pulled her one good knee up as she struggled to sit up on the bed, agony rushing towards her from her back as she pulled muscles in her back, a quick and painful reminder of... of the knife and…



They had stabbed her with a knife and left it in her.  Why had they done that?



Darcy's face crumpled, before desperately shoving those spiraling thoughts away.  Her breath hitched sharply as Jane continued slowly petted Darcy’s arm, fingers now slightly digging in in an attempt to calm her.  "Darcy, honey, it's alright, it's alright," Jane repeated, her eyes wide, her voice panicked.



It hurt her.  



"No, stop!" she shook, an animal cornered.



Jerking herself as away from Jane as possible, attempting with all her might to climb away and escape.  She glanced down at her mutinous immobile leg, now casted in some kind of blue/green plastic with holes in it, stretching from her toes to just over her knee.  It prevented her from bending that leg, but it wasn’t connected to anything like she had previously thought it was.  She wasn't tied down.  She could move.  She just had to...



“Darcy, Darcy… stop!"  



Darcy attempted to cover her ears, desperate to make that name stop.  Her hands went ahead of her and shoved, as hard as she could, though in her weekend state, she didn't make much progress.  She didn't care who it was, where she was, it was all too much and it hurt.  Her name meant pain.  She was nothing, she was a plaything, nothing, nothing...



"I said GET UP, you useless Whore.  Fucking STAND UP NOW," he'd screamed at her.  They'd pushed her past her breaking point.  She hadn't been able to move a muscle.  Glued to the ground, face smashed against the stone floor, she shivered uncontrollably, expression shattered, her entire being frozen in fear.  Her head still spinning - he'd punched her.  She'd almost blacked out.  On the ground before she knew she had fallen.  She couldn't move, couldn't get up.  He'd been so furious with her.  He'd reached towards her, and it came from somewhere - some place deep and within.  She'd turned and shoved, with all her being, with all her might.  She'd never know where that strength had come from.  



He'd stumbled back a few steps.  For one split second, she had felt like herself again.  A fighter, proud, independent.  Capable.



She'd regretted it immediately.  Less than a second after her moment of glory, he'd made her pay.  In all honesty, she hadn't been in control of her actions.  Hadn't even realized what she was doing until it was already done.



The same thing had happened here and now.  The past and present were overlapping and it was confusing.



"You’re going to fall,” Jane squeaked, reaching for her yet again to try and yank her back on the bed.  Darcy tilted on the precipice of the bed, in her fear to escape, her body rocked slightly, threatening to fall off the other side.  It wouldn't hurt too much, she thought to herself.  She could take it.



Steve’s eyes shot open and he was on his feet in a flash, rushing to her side.



“Steve, no, I've got her - go... go get a nurse - quickly,” Jane choked as she hovered over Darcy, holding onto her to both keep her in the bed as well as a sad attempt to comfort her friend. “Thor went to go find one, but he’s not back and…”



“I’ll get a nurse,” Steve said, shoving at Bucky to make sure his friend was also up (he was) as he quickly exited the room.  Bucky, already awake and watching, concerned and quiet, was already up and standing at the edge of the bed at Darcy’s feet.  He was close enough and super enough that he would easily catch her before she could make it to the ground.  Darcy knew that they all three knew that.  She wouldn't escape.



Jane still hadn't let go.  Darcy struggled against her friend, needing Jane to let go of her, to stop touching her, to stop holding her here, captive.  She had to escape, had to get out of here.  Surely, her friend would understand - would help her.  It wasn't safe.  Didn't she see that?  Couldn't she understand?



“Jane,” Darcy whimpered.



“Yeah?”  Her friend looked like she was going to cry.  Actually, her eyes were bloodshot and swollen as if she hadn't done anything but cry.



Darcy looked down at Jane’s hand on her.  “Please don’t...” Her voice cracked, broken, and pitiful.  A whine escaped her.  Bucky’s jaw tightened.



"I don't understand, honey."  Jane’s confusion was evident.  “What?  Don’t what?”  She reached again towards Darcy’s face.  It was a mistake.  Darcy shoved her hand away, eyes flickering to Jane’s face, fear crashing into her in waves.  Darcy started to tremble.



“Best not to touch right now, Dr. Foster,” Bucky murmured.



Darcy couldn’t look up at him to admit the truth of it.  She felt embarrassed by it.  She didn't want it, but also didn't want to acknowledge it.  Not verbally, at least.  Didn't want to have to say it, or have to try and explain.  She couldn't...



Jane jerked her hand back from Darcy as if she had been burned, her eyes filling with tears.  Confusion and dismay, first, and then hurt quickly flitted across Jane’s face, immediately followed by a crashing sorrow - as if she had been forcefully punched in the gut, her face falling.



Janie, happy and beautiful Jane, took a gulping breath, her lips trembling, and she started sobbing.  Right there, in front of Darcy, in front of Bucky even, and Darcy couldn't handle it, couldn’t escape - it was too much.  They wouldn't let her leave, she wanted to leave.  At the very least, wanted to roll into a ball away from Jane, but couldn’t do much more than sit, horrified, and watch Jane fall apart right in front of her.



“Oh Darcy, oh my God.  I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” Jane gasped, hiccuping. 



I dare you to tell me plaything.  Are Whores entitled to names?  



It haunted her.  Over and over and over.



She assessed Jane, frozen as she was in the bed, feeling held down without a hand on her.  Brave and fearless Dr. Jane Foster, brilliant and unparalleled in her fields of study… but also - her best friend who forgets to eat because she's so immersed in her work, Janie who never blinks twice when Darcy points out that she hasn’t bathed in over a week because she'd been so caught up in that great big brain of hers, working out some unexplainable science that was beyond what anyone else could even begin to comprehend…



Jane, who barely noticed the ongoings of the real world… because she was so busy doing SCIENCE that she couldn’t be bothered with the to-dos of day to day life, who couldn't be bothered to find the time to eat or go to the bathroom or pay her bills or even function without Darcy reminding her to… and here she was, standing in front of Darcy, completely present and absolutely falling apart because her friend - her best friend in the entire world, was hurting and in pain and bad things had happened to her -  and Jane - Jane who couldn’t be bothered to notice anything, ever, had finally stopped and was starting, noticing everything, for maybe the first time ever, and was completely beside herself, horrified at what she was seeing.



She was horrifying to look at.  They'd told her so.



Turn her around on all fours - that's it - so I don't have to look at her stupid face.  What a stupid little Whore you are, trying to push me away.  That's alright.  You're gonna get what's coming to you, and you won't enjoy it much.  But I will.  So, so much.  Push her head down.  Keep it there.  Don't want to look at it when I'm shoving my cock in warm pussy.  Does that make you cry?  Fight and wiggle all you want, plaything, dancing on my cock.  I like it.  Just like that.  



And Jane was so smart, and so brilliant, that she understood immediately that Darcy couldn’t be touched, didn’t want to be touched, and why… she worked it all out in front of Darcy, so quickly, immediately and in horror, and her every feeling and emotion was falling across her face for Darcy to watch and it was terrible.  All of it was terrible.



Crushing disappointment fell on Darcy, guilt quickly and speedily seeping in, filling her own eyes with tears, as she watched Jane work it all out, and watched her struggle in what she concluded.



Jane knew she'd been a virgin.  She was probably the only person who Darcy had ever told.  Most people assumed otherwise, and Darcy had let them... Did she know what they'd done to her?   Had the doctors told?  She didn't want anyone to know, needed it to be a secret.  She needed it to not have happened, it wasn't real, none of it - she didn't want to think about it.



"Stop, Janie," she begged.  She didn't want her to see.  Didn't want to watch Jane fall apart because of all the things she knew.  She understood too much, and it was painful - it hurt, that someone understood, when Darcy herself couldn't seem to... couldn't wrap her brain around... it was all too much.



Jane, in her horror, couldn’t even move, couldn't even cover her face, she just stood there in front of Darcy and just sobbed, seeing her, understanding and being overcome with disbelief and such sorrow, and Darcy couldn’t do anything back but stare back at her, in fear and in equal amounts of shame that she was witnessing Jane, strong and fearless, fall apart right in front of her.  Her eyes clenched into fists in the blanket and she stared, her lungs tightening and causing her to pant, anxiety flooding her.  She was going to lose it if Jane didn’t step back.



Bucky had moved across to the other side of the bed, to stand next to Jane and wrapped one arm around her waist and the other on her wrist, steering her away from the bed.  Jane stumbled, unable to move her feet it seemed, as she was held up by Bucky as he spoke softly to her, leading her step by step away from Darcy’s bed.  And all Darcy could do was lay there and weep.  She'd wanted Jane so badly, and now she couldn't stand to be in Jane's presence.  She was filth, and shame washed over her in buckets.



Steve had left the hospital door open when we went to find the nurse.

That awful, fucking door.  There was an unexplainable fear about the door.  It absolutely terrified Darcy - the other side.  The light coming from the hospital hallway, the sounds of people walking around, moving carts, talking quietly, it couldn’t be ignored.

Darcy’s eyes drifted from Jane still sobbing, to the door, her distress and unease growing.  She lay there in something close to shock, her fear freezing her in place as she stared at the door, waiting.  Her eyes burned against the bright florescent lights, tears seeping down her cheeks, falling in large drops from her chin to her hands clenched in her blankets.  She could feel her heartbeat accelerating, and the anger and hurt starting to take shape within her, multiplying, and...

There were steps, hurried, and growing louder until an unknown man appeared, followed by Bruce, Steve, and Thor.

The tiny room grew smaller.  Darcy’s breathing became more shallow, more quick.

Thor glanced at Darcy first, taking in her crumbled posture, fearful expression and watery eyes, and Darcy watched as he then glanced over to Jane.  Bucky had sat her down in the chair and was kneeling beside her, patting her back.  Jane was hunched over in the chair, hands covering her face and just sobbing her eyes out.  It was noisy in the otherwise silent room.  Bucky was speaking softly to her, as he glanced over at Darcy, keeping a careful eye on her as he worked to calm Jane down.



Thor’s eyes softened immediately and he moved to Jane, nodding a quick thanks to Bucky as he pulled her gently out of her chair and into his strong arms.  With a quick glance of regret back at Darcy, he led Jane out of the room.  “No,” Jane sobbed.  “But…I need… she needs...”  Thor closed the door softly behind him with a small click.

Darcy felt terrible for causing Jane pain - this is all your fault, Darcy, all of it.  It caused a tightness in her chest that made it difficult to breathe.



Darcy immediately felt better, however, that the door was closed.  She internally gave a great sigh of relief.  And then frowned, because it was just a door.  C’mon Darce, she thought.  Get in the game here.  It’s just a fucking door.



They would stand outside of the door, waiting.  She could see the shadows of their legs, just standing there, waiting.  They would stand there for five minutes sometimes, or thirty, letting her know they were there, but waiting, waiting.  Sometimes knocking ominously, the boom harsh and echoed in the empty room, making sure she was filled with terror of what would come before it actually happened.  "Were you scared, Pet," they would finally ask her when they came in, before undoing her chains and allowing her to crawl out of the room by a leash.  They would laugh when she cried.



She felt guilty that she was relieved to see Jane go.  Jane loved her and she loved Jane.  It was just too much all at once and she was groggy, confused, and tired.  She wanted to roll over and sleep forever and just be done.  Talking seemed so exhausting and thinking about having to talk was just overwhelming.  She wished everyone would just leave her alone, to give her some space.



She also didn’t want to be left alone.  At all, ever again.



They would leave her alone for days, it seemed, in between times when all she wanted was for them to leave her alone.  She'd gotten to a place where she wasn't sure which cruelty was worse.  The abuse or the time alone, waiting for it.



Bucky, as if sensing her thoughts and internal struggles, walked over to the chair nearest her bed.  He said nothing, but he looked her over carefully as he settled into the chair.  She watched him nervously, like a hawk as he got close.  His protective expression remained the same as he eased back comfortably in the chair, knowing she was watching his every move and making his movements slow for show, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles.  He kept a watchful eye back on her, but he said nothing.  Didn't make her talk.



Apparently, he was just going to sit there and watch her.



That made Darcy all kinds of uncomfortable.  She shifted slightly towards the other side of the bed.  "Careful," he murmured, stilling her with one word.  It felt distressing to have him so close, keeping such close tabs on her.  At least it didn't seem as though he would be making her talk, and he wasn't losing his shit in front of her, which also felt like relief.  But, at the same time, having him near made her feel... safer.  Which was a weird combination, causing her more unease and distress.  Her stomach rolled uncomfortably.



Steve had shoved his hands in his pockets when he entered the room, and after a visual sweep of the room, had moved to the far side of the room, back leaning against the wall as he watched the two of them.



Bruce, with his shirt half untucked and hair a bit askew, bounced slowly from one foot to the other, his nerves and discomfort obvious.  “Hey, Darcy,” he said kindly, putting his glasses on.



She flinched sharply.



Her eyes darted to him in response before they landed on the unknown person in the room.  She tried to look him over carefully, but the room was still too bright, and she had been forced to close her eyes, despite her desperation not to.  The light still crept through, and she covered her watery eyes with her hands in an attempt to block it out.  



The dark was safe.  



But there were four men in the room now.  And she was incapacitated, in just a hospital gown, in the light - they could do anything they wanted.  

Darcy couldn’t move from her current position balled up by the right side of her small hospital bed, but it didn't keep her from trying.  Exhausted, and needlessly fumbling in an attempt at pulling away from the men in the room, she grasped the railing, holding on tightly, as if to tether herself from being pulled away.  Because she had been pulled away before when the door had opened, when she’d had nothing to hold on to, and bad things happened, and she didn’t want to let go.

She wasn’t sure she was going to be able to let go.



“I’m Dr. Kaushik,” the man beside Bruce said, his tenor voice accented heavily. Darcy struggled to peek at him against the bright lights.  It was difficult and her eyes watered.



Bruce’s face, sad since he'd noticed her reaction to his greeting, warmed into a small and hopeful smile, encouraging.  Darcy, unable to return the smile, drifted her gaze to the doctor.  She didn’t know him.  She didn’t want him in the room.



Dr. Kaushik’s eyes were soft and brown, and he wore spectacles.  He was much older, almost seventy-five if Darcy could take a guess, his face covered in wrinkles that spoke of knowledge and education.  He looked wise, she decided.  Wise, but unwelcome.



“You look slightly uncomfortable at the moment, Ms. Lewis.  Could you lay back down on the bed?”  He asked kindly, and didn’t move towards her, didn’t make a motion to reach for her.



Darcy blinked.  No, she really didn’t think she could.  She was hurting and the more she moved, the more she hurt, and she wasn’t going to let go of the railing.  Her eyes squinted and she raised her arm, pulling against her IV in doing so, to once again shy away from the light.



“Bright,” Darcy whimpered, not taking her eyes off of the four men in the room.  They were a few feet away from her, purposefully standing back to give her space, with the exception of Bucky, not intimidating in the least, but Darcy wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to handle the closeness of them to her.  She swallowed thickly.
 


Bruce frowned, and fixed his glasses that had slid down his nose.  “The lights?” he questioned as he looked up at the ceiling.



“Hurts.”  Darcy fought the urge to cover her eyes.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of these men in her room.  But her eyes were red and burning, and tears were falling.



“Of course,” Dr. Kaushik said softly, understandingly.  He walked over to the switch across the room and flicked the lights off.



There was still ambient light from the windows, but the room was more dark than light now.  It still wasn’t dark enough, though.  Anxiety flooded through her.  The light was threatening.  Bad things happened in the light.  She was safer in the dark.



It made no logical sense to her, she did realize.  But it was how she felt, and she needed the dark again, she needed a moment - just one moment to breathe.



“It...it’s not enough,” she tried to begin to explain, her teeth chattering as she clung harder to the railing on the side of the bed, away from the men. “It's too much - I can’t…”



Bucky stood suddenly, moving towards her, and pulled something out of his leather jacket pocket.



“I have something that may help… it would help me sometimes after…when…” he struggled for a moment as he glanced at Steve.  Steve nodded encouragingly.  Bucky took a deep breath and glanced back at Bruce.  “Here, just let me try something.  We'll find out quickly if it hurts worse than helps.”



Darcy cowered away from him as he neared.  He didn’t hesitate as he pulled her gently, but firmly, towards him with her good arm, and slipped something over her head.  She couldn't fight him.  It covered her eyes.  An eye mask of some sort, soft, and…



It was dark, but see-through.  Like someone had flipped the lights out suddenly but she could still see, could still make out shapes and faces.  For some reason, this filled Darcy with a sense of relief.  The light had been a constant stress since her rescue, and in this single moment, her anxiety trailed away to allow her this moment to breathe.



Bucky released her arm, and Darcy took another deep breath as relief flooded within her and she felt her body relax, letting go in a way that she hadn’t realized how tightly she had been holding herself.



Pain from her shoulder flared though, as she relaxed, and she couldn’t stop the broken whine that escaped her.



“What number would you say your pain level is at?” Dr. Kaushik asked, pen in hand with a clipboard, poised to write.



They were going to make her talk.  She didn't want to.  She forced herself talk anyway.  They would punish her if she didn't respond right away.



“Shoulder, eight or nine,” Darcy whispered, voice weak.  Young, perhaps.  Did she sound young?  “It was maybe a four or five a few minutes ago.”



“Do you think you can sit back against the back of the bed?” he asked.



Darcy nodded slowly, then shook her head.  The bandage on her face pulled and she winced, turning her face from the men in the room.  She reached up towards her throat.  The bandage there felt loose, the tape not quite sticking to keep it held to her skin.  They had removed the collar, she reminded herself.



There had been a collar.  Her mind drifted.



“Okay… would it be alright if…” The doctor said as she heard him step towards her.



Darcy tensed, head jerking towards him as she heard him step closer.  “Yes, no.. please no, yes I mind...” Darcy stuttered, clinging harder against the railing.



There was a heavy pause in the room; an uncomfortable weight.  Someone took a step towards her.  She felt it.  “Darce…”

They would punish her if she responded to her name.  The lesson had been taught swiftly and viciously.  



“Please, no!” she shrunk back, her mouth betraying her.  But she wasn't there - she was here.  She was in between places and felt disjointed.  Confusion swept over her, making her feel lost and discombobulated, as if her lens on the world fractured, like the webbing of a cracked windshield.  They hadn't come, she'd imagined the entire thing.  Darcy was still back in the dark cell, the water dripping towards the floor, the cold seeping into her skin.  The man held the knife threatingly above, hovering over her.  His looming, sweaty body covering her, pushing against her, hitting her, cutting her.  But she wasn’t here, she was there - she was back in that room - she couldn’t breathe.



“Sweetheart.”  The Captain commanded her attention, bring her back to the here and now.  “You are safe right now.  Take a deep breath, honey.  No one is touching you, you’re okay.”



Darcy blinked at the hospital room with Bruce and the new doctor, and Steve… and Bucky.  Bucky was here too, and they were hovering over her, stepping towards her.



They were going to touch her - she knew it.  



She covered her head with her hands, her IV pulling tightly against her hand - it hurt, and shifted backwards, tipping dangerously close towards going over the side of the bed.



“Woah!”  Bucky shot forward and caught her before she could go over.  He was forced to grab her hard as her weight shifted over the side of the bed and yanked her back towards him to keep her from falling.



The pain was immediate, and her face crumpled in a silent scream of agony, back arching as the pain it her full-force.



She heaved, but pulled into herself, willing herself not to vomit.  Her body broke out in a clammy sweat.  Her pulse raced and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.



His arms came around her, now, in a probable attempt to steady her, but to Darcy, they felt like vices holding her down.  She was unseeing and confused as he shifted her and settled her gently back onto the bed.



Steve had come to the other side of the bed, his hands itching to hold onto her but settling for the railing of the bed instead.



She tried to get away and failed, Bucky’s arms tightened around her keeping her in the bed.  She groaned and whimpered, trying to turn off of the injured shoulder, trying to shift away from him.



“Bu...cky,” she said unevenly, hiccuping.



“Yeah, doll?” he questioned softly.



“Ten,” she wept.



“Ten?” Steve questioned softly.



“Her pain level,” Bucky responded quietly.  He turned towards the doctor.



Dr. Kaushik had already moved forward and was pushing a button on her IV, giving her much needed pain relief.  Bruce was making notes on her chart, his pencil scratching lightly against the paper.



Her body shook and shivered as she sobbed silently.  Steve walked away, wetting a cool rag and squeezing it in the sink.  Bucky took a moment to take off the see-through blindfold Darcy had around her eyes.  Steve came back and set the cool cloth on Darcy’s closed eyes.  The coolness of the rag was a soothing balm to her red, swollen eyes. She hiccuped softly.



“Just rest now, sweetheart,” Steve said softly.



“You are safe, doll” Bucky reminded firmly.  “I swear it.  Close your eyes and rest now.  Just sleep.  We got ya.”  She felt a hand on top of her head again, trying to soothe her and ease her into sleep.



“We’re right here.  We’re not leaving you,” Steve murmured.  “Not gonna let anything happen to you.”

“Sleep now, it’s okay,” Bucky soothed.



She wasn’t sure what was worse, the pain of being awake and trying to deal and not be able to - being the reason she was being drugged back into oblivion… or the pain of knowing she would only wake up to it all over again.  It was becoming a circle of hell that she wasn’t sure how to escape from.



She needed to get out of this hospital room.  She needed to go home.



The rag felt cool and comforting on her face.  Bucky’s hand in her hair soothing her, lulling her back to sleep. Somehow, she didn’t seem to mind this touch, with her eyes covered in the dark, reminding her that she was safe and not alone.



Oh God, what was she going to do?



Her traitorous body relaxed as the medication took effect, head rolling backwards to the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, as sleep took her once again.

***

Chapter Text

***



The next several days were a blur of sleep and drug-hazed semi-awareness.  Her hip burned periodically, but if she didn’t move much it didn’t pull.  Her shoulder was very sensitive to movement and she cried every time she twisted slightly towards it.  



Darcy was vaguely aware that different people were taking turns sitting with her, because every time she woke there was someone new - but also always Bucky and Steve.  The two of them seemed to be a constant in the room and she would find herself beginning to relax when her eyes would settle on them upon waking.  



Neither men moved around a lot in the room - there wasn’t much room to move around in anyway.  There were several chairs in the room, but it seemed that more often than not, Bucky would stretch out in the chair and Steve would settle at his feet.  Sometimes, even laying a head on Bucky’s knee for support as they rested.  



Steve seemed most comfortable with a pencil and drawing paper, an old book with what looked like real, leather-bound edging and a long piece of thin leather that would wrap around the book when he was done.  He would sit on the floor, one leg curled beneath him with the other up to use for a makeshift table.  He used Bucky’s legs as a back support, to which Bucky wouldn’t even blink or seem to even notice much when Steve made use of him.  Where most people would shy away from Bucky, Steve just crawled up in his space like he belonged, and Bucky would allow it, as seemingly to him, it became quickly obvious that this was normal behavior of Steve when around Bucky.  Bucky didn’t even react to it, much like a parent doesn’t react when a toddler drapes themself all over them mid-conversation with another adult.  Not that Steve was a toddler, or Bucky even parent-like.



What Darcy found even more fascinating was the fact that at times, Bucky would reach over and just hold the back of Steve’s neck.  Sometimes, gently massaging it, sometimes his fingers would linger in the back of Steve’s hair, but he just rested a hand on Steve’s neck, thumb even stroking Steve’s collarbone at one point, and Steve would relax against him immediately.



No one else who entered the room looked at the two of them twice, as if this was a completely normal occurrence.  The few moments Darcy was awake, she couldn’t take her eyes off of them, and on more than one occasion, it wasn't due to her overwhelming fear.  



Steve was always occupied, whether it was with his doodling and drawing, or running errands as needed, or fixing Darcy’s bedding or getting her a refill of ice chips, or even sweet-talking the nurse on duty for an extra vanilla pudding or two.  Where Steve was almost constantly in motion, Bucky barely moved.  He would on occasion, stretch his legs out and lean back in the chair, or sit upright.  Occasionally, but also more rarely, he would stand and lean against the wall on guard more than "just visiting", but for the most part, he didn’t move or leave his station of Darcy-sitting.  And that’s what it felt like.  He was standing guard.  



Steve remained, it seemed, simply to support him while on guard duty and to help out Darcy when need be.  But he stayed, the two of them did, hovering without hovering, intent on making sure she was safe, but not needing or asking anything from or of her in return.  They were fine simply existing in the same space as she, and now that she had that in her grasp, she didn't know how she'd make it without.  Everyone else came by to just pay a visit Darcy, in and out, none staying very long, especially when Bucky started frowning at them clearly announcing their visiting time had come to an end, and Steve, reading it and understanding the look before anything was actually said, then took it upon himself to gently begin to maneuver said visitor towards the exit.



When Tony came by, he paced the room next to her bed, his thumbs beating a mile a minute on his Starkphone.  His visits seemed to be more about sharing his presence rather than actually stopping his work to look at anyone or speak to anyone, but that was very Tony.  He rarely sat in a chair, his nervous energy propelling him to go, go, go.  Darcy thought she might find his constant whirlwind motion in the room stressful or anxious, but the normalcy of it lulled her back to sleep.   When she woke, every time, he was long gone.  



Natasha crept in every so often, hugging a mug of steaming hot tea and a bringing a book.  She would read aloud quietly in Russian to Darcy, not that anyone around her except for Bucky could understand.  Although he probably wouldn’t admit it, she’d caught the tilt of his head as he stared off in the distance, increasingly captivated in the storytelling on more than one occasion.  Darcy, hovering in that place between dreams and wakefulness, found the soft words soothing.  Natasha always touched Darcy’s arm and gave her a long look before leaving, as if she could look straight into Darcy’s soul and see her inside out.  “Be strong,” she would whisper on her way out.



Jane came in twice more, and both times only lasted a few minutes, tops.  She would look at Darcy, her eyes sweeping her from head to toe, taking in all of Darcy’s hurt and damage, and would break down.  Both times Thor had to gently take her by the shoulders and lead her back out of the room.  It hurt Darcy to see Jane so wounded by how she appeared.  She wished she could do something to ease Jane’s guilt.  She wished Jane would stay, would wrap her arms around her, would hold her hand.  It hurt her deeply, secretly, that Jane couldn’t see past what had been done to Darcy and just see Darcy again as she was.  Jane’s reaction told her more about how people saw her now than anything else.  



She knew everyone only saw her as ugly and broken - it’s how she felt, it’s how she saw herself.



She guessed she was only trying to fool herself into believing they would still look at her in the same way again.  That maybe they would see past what had been done to her.  



It wounded her.



Bruce didn’t come in and stay.  He stopped by once or twice, shuffled through some charts and made a few notes.  He adjusted her medications a few times, and took several blood samples. He always paused by Bucky and Steve and asked what meals they would like and he would have them delivered.  He'd offered to bring Darcy tea, but she hadn't felt up to it.



Clint had been banned from the hospital room after his first visit, where he thought it had been a good idea to bring his dog, Lucky, to visit Darcy.  “He will cheer her up, guys!” He exclaimed when they refused him entry.  “She loves Pizza Dog.  And look - I even brought pizza!"



Bucky had snagged the three pizza boxes from Clint's hand, glared at Clint and pointed for him to go.  "Aww, Barnes," Clint said sadly.  "C'mon Lucky.  Let's go get us our own pizza."  Steve tried to hide his grin as he ducked into his drawing.  "The one with the mushrooms, onions, and extra peppers is for Darcy," he called out.  



"Thanks, Hawkeye," Steve called out after him.  



***



Thor came back on his own - just once - and requested that Bucky and Steve leave him and Darcy alone to speak privately.



Darcy watched them shuffle out the door, neither seeming overly excited to leave, but respecting Thor’s wishes to be alone with her for a moment.  Bucky glanced back at Darcy, a quick check-in.  “I’ll be right outside,” is all he said before shutting the door.  



Thor turned to Darcy, always so tall and muscular.  He had changed out of his battle armor and cape and was wearing a simple hoodie and t-shirt with some sweatpants.  Even with the outfit change, he still had an aura of a god and it was as if electricity sparked whenever he was near, giving her tingles from head to toe.



“Darcy,” he said her name softly.  She tried to look into his eyes, but she only made it so far as his chest.  Her hands shook.  “I am truly sorry that it took so long to find you,” he started.  “I can’t imagine how it felt for you to be in that — place.”  He spoke the word as if it were venom to his lips.



“I wanted a moment with you to explain, if you would be so generous to allow me to do so, that you may know the truth of what occurred.  It gives me enormous grief to imagine what you were thinking day after day when we were unable to get to you.  We had war on Asgard and I, unfortunately, had to take my leave of Midgard to defend my home.  It pained me greatly to leave without your return, but I had hope that Heimdall would be able to assist me in our search for you.”  



Thor took a deep breath and dropped his eyes, pausing in grief.  “Heimdall was killed in the battle.” 



Darcy wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to offer comfort.  She struggled, mourning with her friend, still in grieving herself but understanding now why her pleas had been ignored.  Seeing Thor hurt, her friend, made her ache.  “Without his resources, we were limited in our search options.  Upon my return to Midgard, Tony’s robot machines led us to several false locations before we found you, but it was never intended that it would take so long.”  He looked at her sadly and she turned away, feeling lightheaded and sick.  "It pains me, the evils that humans can do to one another.  There was no battle, no great war.  No need for such… brutality.  Especially against someone such as yourself, small, with no training, no ability to defend…” he broke off, lighting coursing his veins before he sagged, letting the anger go.



“What was stolen from you, my brave lightening-sister, should never have been taken from you.  You survived a great trial and tribulation that few should ever be forced to suffer through.”  Thor looked away for a long moment, gathering his thoughts.  “Your fear at present is valid.  Peace will come again in time, you shall see.  Be patient with yourself.  This… experience will have changed you, my sweet friend.  In ways that you have yet to see, in ways that you have yet to comprehend.  You don’t know it yet, but you are so much braver than you know.”  He looked directly at her, putting a hand under her chin and just rested there, waiting for her to meet his eyes.  She glanced up, eyes full of tears.



“You will heal, and you will be strong,” he said.  “You are not only a survivor - you will rise from this.”



His words echoed in her mind, in her soul.  He left her with a short bow.  



Bucky opened the door before Thor reached it, holding it open as Thor exited.  He entered the room slowly, noticing the tears coursing down her cheeks, the bandage covering the side of her face soaking wet.  She didn’t want him to look at her that way - he understood far too much as it was.  He watched over her carefully as she sunk back into her pillows and did her best to pull the sheets up to her bandaged neck.  



She accidentally pulled on the stitches in her shoulder and let out a small whimper.  Bucky settled back in the chair nearest to hers, setting his hand through the metal railing - not touching her, but being purposefully close.  She really didn’t know how she felt about that.  At all.  She could ask him to move, to leave… but she wanted him close.  For now, at least, in this moment, it was fine.  It was good, even.  She could always change her mind, later.  He would respect her wishes - he’d told her so.



I will make damn sure they are respected, I swear it.



She desperately wanted to believe him, but she wasn’t sure she was up to testing it yet.  Steve came in a few minutes later with three cups of steaming coffee.  She knew he'd gotten one for her, and knew that he knew she wouldn't be awake long enough to drink it.  But he got it for her nonetheless.  



The automatic pain meds pumped into her and she felt the weight of exhaustion pull her to rest, relaxing into sleep, knowing she had Thor and her friends on her side, and her bodyguards keeping watch over her.



***



Over the next few days, nurses poked at her and prodded, pinched her and woke her up all hours of the night.  When the pain ratcheted up and became too much, they medicated her back to sleep.  



She had stopped talking.



She just didn’t feel up to it, it took too much energy.



Blessedly, no one tried to make her talk, no one pushed her to do anything more than sleep and pain management.  Bucky and Steve still talked to her as if she was replying, as if it were all completely normal.  She couldn’t remember what normal was.



***



“What are we gonna do?” Steve asked, glancing at Darcy’s heart monitor again to ensure she was deeply asleep.  It was a rare moment they had everyone visit Darcy at once, excluding Natasha and Clint who had been sent out that morning on a mission and Jane who had finally succumbed to sleep in her quarters, thanks to Bruce giving her a sleeping aid.  



“My Jane feels Darcy’s pain greatly,” Thor replied. “My fear is that it won’t be a good influence on Darcy at present.”



“While we all relate and sympathize, it won’t do Darcy any good to be around that right now,” Steve agreed.  “We’ve got to keep our own feelings in check around her.  She needs to feel safe and be positively reinforced that she is safe.  That requires consistency, emotional and otherwise.”  Steve sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck.  “While we all want to express our emotions about all that has happened to her, we need to let Darcy deal with her trauma in her own way, on her own time.  Natasha would be the obvious choice after Jane -“



“Why, Natasha?” Tony asked.  “You’re the one with the experience dealing with someone who has gone through trauma.”  He glanced over to Barnes.  “No offense, metal arm.”



Bucky rolled his eyes.



“Because… she’s a woman?” Steve replied slowly.



Tony rolled his eyes.



“Well, as much as Romanoff might be our best option on the basis that she’s a woman, Shield has her out on undercover missions at least every other week.  Clint with her, so he’s out, too.  She just isn’t available for anything long-term.  And I think what we’re looking at is pretty long-term - at least at present.”  Tony pulled a bag of dried blueberries out of his pocket and stuck his hand inside, glancing over at the hospital bed.



“Darcy needs someone she feels safe with right now, and currently the only ones she will let within touching distance are you two.”  He popped two blueberries into his mouth.  



“I’m not sure “let” is the accurate term,” Steve argued, but softened when he looked at Darcy.



“She’s so hurt… I’m looking at it… at her… and I still can’t wrap my brain around what she has gone through.  And we don’t even know everything because she hasn’t been awake enough to talk..."  



“And when she is awake, she panics,” Tony continued.  “So we haven’t gotten very far.  X-Rays and CT scans showed enough.  We have a good idea, at least of the physical aspect of it.”




Bucky's eyes darkened, watching over to Darcy protectively.

“Darcy has been changed by this experience,” Thor said.  “She will heal from the physical traumas quickly enough.  It’s the emotional traumas we must build trust on at present in order to begin healing in the long-term.  She will need a calm presence as she regains trust.  Her panic will subside once she begins to feels safe in her current surroundings.  While trust remains recognizable to her in those surrounding her in the here and now, trust is something that must be earned as it cannot remain without proof thereof.”  His cape swept to the side as he turned.  “I would offer my services as a support to Darcy, but I do not yet know when I will need to return to Asgard.  I cannot remain here much longer when there is much that needs my attention.  Loki has still not been found and I will need to find him before he causes further mischief.  



“You mean mayhem and death, right, Thor?”  Tony interrupted.



Thor gave Tony a long look.



“I also cannot yet leave Jane in this state.  I have never seen my beloved so distraught.  I fear she is growing increasingly unsettled and may require further support outside of what I am able to provide.  I will need your word you will care for her when it is time for me to take my leave."



Steve frowned, glancing at Bucky.



“Alright, big guy,” Tony said.  “Get Jane sorted out and let us know when we are needed and then we’ll discuss our next step.”



Thor nodded his agreement.



Steve had stepped over to where Bucky was sitting, tucked closely beside Darcy.  Bucky sat next to her, his hand caught underneath hers as she gripped him tightly - even in her sleep.



“Buck?” Steve asked, kneeling down next to him.  “What are you thinking?”



“She’ll go home with us,” Bucky stated, looking firmly at his friend.



Steve nodded.  “Alright.”



“Thank you," Thor told them softly.  "As much as Jane will be displeased, I believe that she will agree for the time being, that this may be the healthiest course of action for her friend's recovery,” Thor said.



Tony clapped his hands together gently.  “Great, that’s settled.  Now we just need to get Darcy on board with the plan.  Alright, Man With a Plan and Buckaroo,” he slapped an arm on Steve’s shoulder and nodded at Bucky.  “You guys settle things with Darcy and I’ll get the tower set up for medical support.”  



Steve nodded.



“Do we know when she will be released?”  



Bruce walked in at that moment, waving discharge papers.



“So long as she is being moved to a place of proper medical recovery, she can be discharged. She’s going to be on pain meds and antibiotics for a bit longer, but we can take her off of the IV,” he shuffled some of the files.  “I have a few of my own tests I need to perform in my lab once we get her moved into the tower, based on what her blood work here has shown.”  



“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, concerned.



“I would rather not say until after I’ve performed a few more tests.  As far as the hospital side goes, we will have rotating nurses come in to offer support and assistance as needed.  She will have several follow-up appointments and a few different doctors to see post-recovery.  The medical team highly recommends she see a trauma specialist as soon as she feels up to it.  In six to eight weeks she may need to do some physical therapy to help with her leg.”



Thor nodded.



“I’ve been away from Jane too long.  She wants to be here, but keeps getting overwhelmed with emotion.  Jane feels a sense of responsibility and guilt for what has happened to Darcy,” Thor said.



“What?” Steve asked, surprised.  “Darcy’s abduction had nothing to do with Jane.”



Thor gave him a knowing look.



“Darcy was out of the tower getting snacks for movie night that night,” he replied.  “Jane has informed me that she had requisitioned Darcy an extra trip for "necessary caffeine" that afternoon.   I believe that Jane feels in doing so, she is at fault for her friend’s capture.”  Steve let out a huff of frustration, pushing a hand through his hair.



“It wasn’t random, her being kidnapped, Thor.  If anyone is to blame, it’s me —“



“It’s not just you,” Bucky interrupted, quietly.  “It’s my fault, because of what —“



“We cannot let our feelings of guilt allow us to fall into despair, Steven, James,” Thor said softly to each of them.



“We have yet to decipher the reasons behind her capture.”  Steve looked up at Thor, lost for a moment.  



He nodded slowly. “I…we know.  It's just… you’re right, Thor.”



Thor set a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “I must away - I shall take my leave to Jane knowing Darcy is in good hands.  Please remind her that we are here should she request it, when she awakens.”



“Of course we will,” Steve answered.



Thor left, closing the door softly behind him.



Tony looked up from his phone.  "“I’ll have Happy organize her medical release and transit to Stark Tower.  I’ve got nurses on standby and a medical team on call should the need arise.”  



He punched his thumbs into his phone a few more dozen times.  “The guest room in your quarters is now set up for her.  I’m stocking your kitchen now…” he frowned at his phone.  “Do you want to have meal delivery or cook your own meals?”



“Umm…” Steve paused, glancing at Bucky.



“We prefer to cook our own,” Bucky replied decisively.



Steve quirked a smile and nodded, as if to share a small secret.



“Once a Great Depression-er, always a Great Depression-er…” Tony muttered as he flipped through screens.



Steve crossed his arms and glared at Tony.



“Not judging, Cap!  Seriously, this is a no judgement zone.  No judgement coming from me.” Tony raised his hands, palms towards Steve.  “There, done.  We can order more once you get settled and have a better idea of what you need.”  



Tony let his hands drop, and he sighed, seemingly... older and exhausted - a very rare thing for Tony Stark.  He turned to them solemnly.  “This isn’t going to be easy.  You both know it, we all know it.  Everyone is here for you guys, just like we’re all here for Big D.”



Tony scratched his head as he looked over at Darcy where she slept.  “Let me know if things start getting too hard, or if you need a break.”



“Tony…” Steve started.



“No Cap, listen.  She’s been through… shit.  Fucking, everything.  You haven't seen what they put in her medical file.”



Steve frowned at Tony.



"I know, I know.  I shouldn't have looked.  But... I wanted to make sure we had everything we needed set up for her at the tower."



He looked at Darcy, his face falling slightly.  "It's worse," he said in a whisper.  "What happened to her, whatever you think happened... it was worse for her than that."



Steve's glanced at Darcy, his expression wavering.  "She's stopped talking," he said softly.



Tony glanced at her sleeping form.  She looked small, wrapped up in blankets.  He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, her breath still sounding wheezy, her chest rattling slightly with infection.  They'd given her a breathing treatment in her sleep, to try and help her breathe easier.  She wasn't responding too well to anything touching or getting near her face.  It was best, for now, to try and treat her as best they could while she was out.   



"She fears her name," Bucky murmured.  "They've taken it from her."



"We'll help her get it back," Steve told him determinedly.



“She’s going to need… more...," Tony stressed.  "She’s not the Darcy we all know right now.  I'm not sure we're gonna get that same kid back.”



Bucky's eyes narrowed.  "She needs time."



Tony took a deep breath, eyes sobering.  “All I’m saying is that if she needs more and you can’t do more than you already are, you have us to lean on, alright?  You don’t have to soldier it.”



Tony glanced at Bucky as he reached his hand behind his head, scratching his neck.



“Steve, if it becomes too much…”



Bucky interrupted, “If Steve has difficulty handling us both, he’ll send out for reinforcements, Stark.”



Steve frowned at Tony.



Tony pointed at Bucky.  “He said it, don’t have to say anything more.  It’s said.”



He started walking towards the door.  “Keep us in the loop.  I'll send you both a copy of the medical file.  You need to be aware of some thing since you're the ones caring for her.  See you when you get to the tower,” he said as he left, with one long look back at Darcy.  



Steve sat down heavily, and stretched his long legs out to parallel Bucky’s.  He quirked an eyebrow to Bucky.



“It’s what needs to be done, Steve,” Bucky said.  “She needs us.”



“On board, Buck,” he replied softly, putting a hand on Bucky’s.  



“You got me,” Steve squeezed his hand.  “Til the end of the line.”



Bucky gave him a wry grin back, flipping his hand over and squeezing Steve’s hand back.



“’Til the end of the line.”



***

Chapter Text

***

It took a little longer to be released from the hospital than anyone thought.  Darcy’s doctors questioned Tony endlessly on the facilities available at the tower, to which he responded easily with a plan for every scenario.  What few things he didn’t have immediate answers to, he was on the phone with Pepper, as a third party intermediary between doctors and Pepper, sorting out the few things they hadn’t already prepared for, talking a mile a minute until she finally huffed at him and demanded that he hand the phone over and she would take care of the rest of it.  By the time he had allayed their practical concerns and Pepper had sorted the nightmare amount of paperwork, two days had passed. 

Despite having theoretically been part of the conversations leading up to her release, Darcy wasn’t exactly sure where she was headed or what was happening.  She had awareness that they had told her one more than one occasion, repeating even when she was groggy and had shown confusion, but when trying to recall what had been said, all she could remember was static.  Not that it had mattered to her much.  When it became clear she wasn’t in a state to answer questions or follow much of any conversations directed towards her, or show much of an interest in said discussions surrounding her, everyone had stopped expecting responses from her.  

In all honesty, she found anything regarding “what comes next” taxing and abstruse.  It wasn’t that she didn’t fully understand or care, per se, but rather couldn’t find the energy to expend on focusing on it.  As long as she wasn’t going back to her quarters.  That had been the only question she’d had a response to, or rather, that she’d had a visceral reaction to that someone had picked up on. 

“Do you want to recover in your quarters?” 

She had felt vehement with a response of no, but unable to communicate that to them, her fear like ice in her veins that they would make her go despite her refusal.  Or potentially worse, that they might respond negatively to her for saying no.  

She was terrified of being left alone.  

It had been Bucky, closely watching her during the one-sided conversation, and only because he had been paying keen attention to her escalating panic at every mention of her apartment, partitioned himself between Tony, the doctors, and Darcy.  His broad shoulders momentarily sheltered her from the inquisition, as he put a hand up, halting the discussion without so much as a word.  He glanced back at her and tilted his head towards her, as if to ask her permission to speak on her behalf.  When no response came, as she had been unable to do more than stare back at him, trembling, he took it upon himself to deliver her answer.

They had accepted Bucky’s response for her easily, and the topic hadn’t come up again.  Maybe it was because they’d seen what a toll it took on her to express a preference.  Maybe they just didn’t want Bucky’s glare aimed at then again.  Whatever the reason, she lapsed into grateful exhaustion, unable to follow the back and forth as everyone else debated her post-hospital needs.  

She’d go wherever they took her, so long as it wasn’t home.

You will never go home.  You will die here.  

The details of her home were fixed in her mind like a snapshot.  She could recall exactly where she had left her Captain Crunch cereal box on the coffee table of her living room, next to her Pusheen purse, her Lydia Davis book, and her new Haley Reinhart CD.  

When she’d moved in, Tony had waved a hand at her and told her she could decorate, construct, remodel, as she so desired.  “Just tell Pepper what you want, she’ll handle the invoices,” he said generously as he reached for another cup of coffee.  Permission from a billionaire to construct the apartment of her dreams?  Darcy had been thrilled and had taken full advantage of that offer.  And disgusted with Jane that Jane didn’t seem to care what her’s looked like.  

“It’s fine, it has everything already.” 



“Builders grade,” Darcy complained. 



“And furniture that looks like it belongs in a hotel lobby.  And it’s all… shiny and bleak and hard and not homey.  Like, at all, Jane.” 



“I won’t be here other than to sleep anyway and I don’t have time, anyway.  I’ve been working on a new theory I dreamed up last night and have to go build a thing to make it work.  Besides, I’ll probably end up bunking with Thor anyway,” she’d smirked. 



Darcy had grinned hugely back at her. 



“I’ll see you later,” Jane had rushed away from her, waving a hand at the apartment.  

The apartment wasn’t the biggest in the tower, not by far.  Those quarters were reserved for the Avengers - but her apartment had been perfect, in Darcy’s eyes.  Especially after she’d had contractors build bookshelves along the walls, to be filled with books and things she’d collected throughout her life, and she’d been thrilled to have the kitchen redone so that she had two ovens instead of one, and had absolutely insisted on a bathtub when she realized Tony had only installed a shower in her bathroom.  

She knew there had been dirty clothes in her laundry basket in that bathroom.  She usually did laundry on the weekends, and it had only been Friday when…

She was going to die there, in that cell.  She would never see her home again.  No one was coming.  

The sink in the kitchen would still be full of dishes, left dirty because she had never gotten back to wash them before movie night began.  She thought of her two fish, Gus and Floyd, who were surely long dead by now.  Another loss to mourn.

She thought of her bright yellow knit hat, hanging on the hook by her front door; Jane had surprised her with that hat for her birthday and Darcy had been delighted with it.  Her brilliant friend had learned to knit and everything and it had become one of Darcy’s most prized possessions.  The effort behind the gift holding much more value than the gift itself in her eyes. 



The idea of wearing that kind of color seemed like lunacy now.

And what about her paintings, the whole wall of color splashed with her emotions.  Her grandmother had first gotten her hooked, ever since she was a child after she’d first come to live with her.  It had begun with coloring.  They would sit at her grandmother’s card table, the one in her downstairs living room, walls covered by bookshelves, containing depression cobalt glass figurines and vases.  Darcy cherished that room, with it’s double rocking chairs, and sewing corner. 



She hadn’t spoken much at first, when she’d come to live with her Nannie when she was so young.  But they had colored together in the beginning.  

The introduction to a love of art was enormously special to her, and she remembered her grandmother being such an incredible colorer, teaching her shading and going so far as to create patterns of flowers and zig-zags within her art.  Darcy thought she was the most talented artist she’d ever known.



It was when they moved to painting, following the long, standstill moment as she sat staring at her first blank canvas that her grandmother carefully suggested she simply paint how she felt instead of any definitive thing.  That in creation and in art, there was no such thing as right or wrong, or good or bad.  It was all interpretive, and as such, Darcy had all of the freedom to do as she wanted.  Not knowing what to do and without any specific plan in mind, a color of paint was chosen and the brush moved under her hand, beginning a secret therapeutic outlet; an outpour of feeling and emotion.



Whenever she got in a specific kind of mood, she would sit down and try to paint that feeling.  She had a wall splayed of her mood paintings, now grown like a collage of color, and it was one of her most favorite things in her home.  Dark blues, grays, and empty whites for when she felt sad, and swirly greens and cobalt blues when she felt smart.  Light pink and yellow when she wanted to dance with joy and black, streaked with red when she was so angry she couldn’t do more than grit her teeth and cry in frustration.  The paintings weren’t more than blobs of paint at times, not even anything as specific as impressionistic or abstract, but they were colorful, and they defined her in specific moments, and they felt important.

Her living space would have been unchanged since she was last there.  She wasn’t sure what would happen when she stepped back into her quarters and breathed in her home.  Would it seem like she hadn’t gone? As if time had stood still and… nothing had happened?  Like she hadn’t been taken, and… hurt?  Would the time - her missing weeks - catch up with her all at once?  Could she pretend everything was the same and she was back to normal?

She wasn’t in a hurry to go back home.  While she understood she could, she didn’t believe for some reason that she could go home.  It was as if she hadn’t been rescued from that place, because a part of her remained there.  She had believed, near the end, brokenly, that she would never be rescued.  Had understood that she would die there. 

She had wanted to die.

They had taken so long.  

At some point, when her heart was as broken as her body, she had stopped hoping for rescue.  She had laid down the last of her hope on the cold, wet floor, and had waited for either her captors or death to come for her.

Even now, staring at the ceiling of her hospital room, she felt the all-consuming agony of that wait.  Everyone kept telling her she was safe, but she still had no real say in what would happen next.  It would hurt less if she didn’t hope.

She couldn’t feel it.

Couldn’t feel anything at all.

Was she safe?

She would never be safe.

Bucky and Steve didn’t seem antsy or tired cooped up in her small, dark hospital room.  Her eyes hurt terribly when the lights were turned on, and the medical team had warned everyone to keep the lights dim as she adjusted to the light again.  It would take time, they’d said, but her vision would return to normal in time as she adjusted to light again.  Just take it slow, they’d recommended.

Everything will take time.

Wait.  

Darcy kept glancing at Steve and Bucky, waiting for them to grow bored of sitting in the room with her, and leave her, but they didn’t.

She would be alone if they left.

The single thought terrified her.  She didn’t want to be left alone.  

They stayed.

They just settled into the space like they’d belonged there the whole time; Bucky guarding Darcy and Steve keeping watch over both of them.  Bucky rarely stepped out of the room outside of bathroom breaks, and Steve didn’t question him on it or hint at him to leave.  Both men seemed equally determined to take care of her, and refused to leave her alone.  

Bucky’s unerringly accurate translation of her body language resulted in their constant, careful presence.  How he knew what she wanted even when she herself wasn’t sure, was a mystery, and surely there were much more important things they could be spending their time and energies on.  But she didn’t protest and was grateful when they didn’t leave. 

At the same time, she wasn’t sure they would leave even if she asked it of them.  

Am I safe?

And the fear of her wishes not being respected kept her from speaking out.  If she didn’t ask, they couldn’t trample on her choice.

No one could know.  

There was a strange block within her when she thought about speaking at all, in general.  Did she want vanilla or chocolate pudding?  Did she want a lozenge to suck on?    

Negative feelings surrounding any attempt at talking that spun around her in a dizzying jumble of chaos that she was painfully aware didn’t make sense to her.  In some ways, speaking words felt enormously big, like a balloon one puff of breath away from popping.  In other ways, it was as if pieces of her had completely shut down, now that the immediate danger had been taken away.  The fear wasn’t erased, but something inside her, like a window closing, had shut and she felt done in a closed-off way she hadn’t remembered feeling before.  It was numbing, that feeling, and yet, she was painfully aware of its existence.  The numbness created a hole within, a dark abyss, that she knew was full of hurt and grief; a well filled to the brim with water, awaiting her toe in so that something below could latch on and drag her under into the darkness, into the deep.

She would be lost.  It was despair - in that numbness.  The panic of looking in at what darkness waited below too overwhelming to contemplate looking too closely to what had closed within her.  The numbness was there, but it was only the latch, almost like a bandaid, flimsy and rickety, yet holding somehow, protecting her from what was beneath.

If someone asked her to speak, in all honesty, she wouldn’t even know where to begin, anyway.  The thought of having to talk stressed her out.  She had broken out in hives already as it was just thinking about having to talk.  About it. About anything at all, really.  She simply didn’t want to think.  She didn’t want to remember.  She didn’t want to make any decision.  She didn’t want anyone to ask her questions, or look at her in sympathy, or ignore her and leave her alone.

She desperately didn’t want anyone to know.

But she felt enormous fear that they already knew.  That they could see it on her, as if it covered her, like a blanket of shame for all to see.

Plaything.  Whore.  Pet.  

She was desperate to not be found out.  Desperate, clawing, hope barreled through her, swelling up, whispering sweet falsities that she could keep it hidden.  That they would never find out.  

When they look at you, they see it, plain as glass on a window.

You’ll never be able to hide it.   

They can see what you did.  

She couldn’t speak, and so she didn’t.  

Bucky and Steve seemed to understand the chaos she was feeling, and were good not to push and hover.  They just shared the space with her, and kept it so she wasn’t alone, helping her when she needed a hand, but other than that retreating to the other side of the room and simply allowing her to rest.

Bucky’s weirdly accurate intuition extended to her physical needs.  She was beginning to be awake a bit more and sleep a bit less.  She was still sleeping the majority of the day, mostly due to the drugs they were giving her - for both pain and anxiety.  She wasn’t sure what the exact cocktail was, but it kept her drowsy and kept the worst of the pain at bay, and so she didn’t argue about it.

She had taken to waking up coughing and choking, her hands rushing to her neck, chest tightening with anxiety.  So many of these wakings left her trapped on her back, struggling against the ghost of everything that had weighed her chest down, awaiting rescue from something that wasn’t there anymore, something heavy and weighted and hurtful — and Steve would cautiously walk over to her and help raise her bed a few inches into more of a sitting position, setting a small cup with a twisty straw in front of her so she could drink a few sips.  He would gently push her hands away from clawing at her neck, down to the covers and wait patiently while she took in a few swallows of cool liquid in between gasps of panicked breath.  It felt so good on her parched throat, to drink as much as she wanted — clean, fresh, ice water — before turning her head away with a grimace, remembering what she had been forced to do in order to drink… to survive.  Her hands had balled up into fists, tight until her knuckles turned white.  Steve, his blue eyes frowning in concern as he took in her clenched fists, had simply sat the cup back on the table near her hospital bed, and reached over to cover her hands with his in a quick, warm squeeze until she unclenched her fists.  Their eyes had met, and the look he gave her made her want to release her fear and curl up in his arms.  When he looked at her like that, she felt safe.  She had breathed, one breath, and then another.

He didn’t say anything to her, which was odd.  No motivational speech nor sympathetic murmurs.  His eyes softened at her, seeing something in her expression that made him give her a tender look in return.  

The moment passed, and with a soft squeeze, he let go of her.  Nothing grand had happened, no loud noises of surprise or shock.  It had been a bubble of safety in that single moment, and she had felt held, without being so.  Steve returned her bed down to where it had been previously and then went to ease back down in his chair across the room beside Bucky, watching her protectively until she fell asleep once again..

She’d woken up screaming once, terrified and kicking the covers to the floor with her good leg.  Her body had been sweaty and shaking, and she’d felt disgusting.  Her stomach churned and she clamped down on the urge to vomit.

Seeing her clammy and shivering, Bucky had quickly but calmly grabbed a small pink bin from one of the cabinets and filled it halfway with warm water.  He’d squirted in a few drops of liquid soap and stirred it around with his metal hand until it made small bubbles.

With a few long strides, he’d stalked to the door, opened it, ignoring Darcy’s flinch, and called Natasha in from the hallway - apparently she had been standing just outside of Darcy’s room - to come and help Darcy clean up.

Darcy hadn’t been given much say in the matter.  She’d told herself she hadn’t felt like talking anyway.  She’d gulped in short, trembling breaths.  

She wasn’t sure what Bucky wanted from her, and not knowing made her feel vulnerable and scared, she retaliated by turning her head away from him, refusing to give him a response when he neared the bed.

He didn’t comment as he approached her, quietly assessing her distant posture as he slowly raised Darcy’s bed, enough that she could sit up more than lay, and gently grasped her ankles to help swing her legs to the side of the bed, forcing her head to turn and look at where he was turning her.  She’d had to reach onto the bed with her good arm, to hold on to keep her balance as she turned, and she’d frowned at him, unsure that she wanted to be sitting up at all, and very sure she didn’t want him anywhere within her vicinity at that moment.  When he had Darcy carefully sitting of her own volition, he reached towards her again and she flinched, letting go of the bed and almost losing her balance before grabbing onto the side of the bed once more.  Her breath became labored.

She heard Steve in the background, a soft warning, “Buck…”

“We’ll keep watch outside,” Bucky told her seriously before he stepped back away from her.  He murmured something Russian to Natasha and she responded with a quick, single nod, before he grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him from the room, shutting the door firmly with a soft click.

Natasha looked Darcy over, her face softened, and suddenly, Natasha became more warm and approachable than Darcy had ever seen her.  Why had they closed the door?  ”You will feel so much better with a wash, Darcy,” she said, taking note as Darcy flinched.  Her voice softened.  “We can’t take a shower yet, but I can help you here in bed.  Do you want to do this by yourself, or may I help you, lyubov moya?  

Darcy stared at the closed door behind Natasha.  She trembled with the unexpected exertion of sitting up.

Natasha turned her head, following Darcy’s gaze to the door behind her, before she looked back at Darcy.

“They won’t come in.  They will respect your privacy,” she said.  

Natasha frowned slightly, as if not quite believing that was what Darcy was fearing as she stared at the door, but pretending as only Natasha could that it must be the more obvious of issues, as she picked up the rag, her motions slow and cautious as if to prepare Darcy of every movement, and began to wash the good side of Darcy’s face.

Darcy flinched sharply as her hand came near the cut on the other side.  Natasha didn’t touch it, or the stitches on Darcy’s neck, but tutted softly as she smoothed the rag over Darcy’s clammy skin.

Darcy didn’t even want to think about those cuts, those stitches.  Her breath caught and her chest tightened.  Her hand hovered over Natasha’s as she came near, barely restraining the urge to grab Natasha’s hands, to stop her.  But Natasha only carefully washed around the areas, cleaning behind Darcy’s ears and wiping her forehead into her hair, the back of her neck and Darcy allowed it.  She couldn’t look at Nat though.

She kept her eyes trained on the door behind Natasha.  It wasn’t safe.

They stood outside of the door, taunting her with shadowed silence.  Waiting, waiting… they would come in and hurt her, but until then, she had to wait for it.  

It had been an added cruelty.

Had the waiting been worse than the pain?

At times, so much so.

Natasha slowly helped bathe Darcy in all of the places the hospital gown didn’t cover.  Her arms, her neck, her foot and leg that wasn’t in a cast.  General areas, Darcy calculated.

She rewet the small rag and handed it to Darcy.

“Now you,” she said firmly, her eyes soft.  “You wash the rest.”

The wet rag felt heavy in Darcy’s hand, her energy gone with the effort of sitting up a mere five minutes.  Her hip burned from her most recent surgery, her leg cramped in the cast and her shoulder ached.  Shaking her head slightly, feeling dizzy and sick, she let the wet rag fall to the bed, and watched as the bed started to get damp in the spot beneath it.

“No, Kotyonok,” Natasha said, picking up the wet rag and setting it in Darcy’s hand again.  “You wash the rest.”

Darcy’s eyes slid from the door to Natasha.  She didn’t want to touch her body.

“You can do it,” Natasha encouraged.  “I’ll turn my back but I’ll be here if you need me.”

Darcy watched as Natasha turned towards the wall away from her.  Her legs spread, shoulder width apart, and her arms clasped behind her back, at attention.  This was Natasha on guard.

Darcy struggled for a moment, trying to put the rag under her hospital gown but not having the coordination on drugs or the strength to sustain even sitting up alone this long.  She wanted to sit in a bath, allowing the hot water to boil her skin alive.  She wanted to sit in a shower, letting the water fall on her like rain, in hopes that she could follow the water down the drain.  She didn’t want to wash herself with this soapy hospital rag, in her hospital bed that smelled like sweat and tears and hurt.

Her breath hitched and Natasha peeked around.  Seeing Darcy begin to cry, she gently took the rag away from her and set it in the soapy bin.  “That’s fine for now,” she said, “we’re done.”  Helping Darcy lay back down on the bed, she lifted and supported her legs as she twisted, careful not to cause Darcy more pain.

Darcy shivered from the exertion, her breath labored and harsh, tears filling her eyes but not yet trailing down her cheeks.  She turned slowly, painfully to her side and pushed her face into the pillow.  She wanted to scream, wanted to tear her eyes out.  Blinding rage hit her, and she wanted to hurt, wanted violence, wanted to tear.

“Shh,” Natasha said gently.  “It will come.”

Darcy didn’t even know what that meant.  Her rage boiled up and then dissipated as exhaustion pulled at her. Instead of pounding at her pillow, she sunk, unmoving, into the bed, still shivering.  She was just tired and thinking hurt.  It made her chest ache and her head pound.

Natasha quickly cleaned up the soapy bin and washed out the cloth in the sink.  Darcy shifted into her pillow, anxious and tired.

“When you are ready,” Natasha said, walking out of the room, shutting the door behind her and for a blessed moment, Darcy was alone in her room.  Her shoulders relaxed, the ache in her chest released, and she let out a trembled sigh.

It didn’t last for long.  The next moment, Bucky and Steve came back in again, that damned door opening again and Darcy flinched - unable to look away.  Steve walked over to Darcy’s bed and began pulling the covers up around her, gently tucking her in as Bucky dimmed the lights further, turning the small room dark, and took a chair, coffee in hand.  Steve patted gently at her covers once, twice, offered her a drink to which Darcy ignored, and then went to sit on the floor, curled up again at Bucky’s feet.

Darcy didn’t sleep for a while after that.

***

“Alright, Ms. Lewis, it’s your lucky day.  I have your discharge papers here,” the new nurse chirped the next day as she came bustling into the room, turning on the bright lights upon entry.  She was looking down at the chart as she walked into the room, not even looking up in Darcy’s direction as she walked around.  “Aren’t you excited to get out of this hospital?”

Darcy jumped in fright and whimpered, quickly shifting from a peaceful doze to shaking in her bed in seconds, cowering behind her raised arms.

“Hey!” Steve jumped to his feet, dropping his coffee as he erupted out of his chair, sloshing liquid on the floor.  “Turn the lights back down - we can’t have it that bright in here.  Haven’t you looked at her chart?  Her eyes are recovering from light sensitivity.”

The nurse froze, staring at Steve, her eyes widening in recognition.

Bucky had taken quick strides over to Darcy and covered her eyes with his own hand, gently easing her back down on the bed.  “Shhh,” he whispered.  “Steve’s got it handled.  Close your eyes.  Deep breaths.”

Darcy drew in a shaking breath and whimpered, her hands reaching up to hesitantly take hold of Bucky’s arm, tightening her grip quickly as the nurse bumped into the foot of the bed, surprised by Steve’s reaction.  He said nothing, just hummed at her softly, even as her nails dug in slightly.

“Thank you for the discharge papers,” Steve said as he reached around the nurse to flick the lights back off and then reached to remove the chart from her grip, “but we would appreciate only staff who are familiar with Ms. Lewis’ case enter her room.”

The nurse’s mouth dropped open. “Of… of course, Mr… Captain… er… Rogers.  My apologies,” she stammered.  “I’ll go get the charge nurse for you instead.  I’m so sorry, sir.”

He held the door open for her as she exited, closing it firmly behind her, turning around to look over Darcy.

Bucky made a move to remove his hands from her eyes, and Darcy, groggy and frightened, clung tightly to him, not letting go.

“Alright, doll,” is all he said. “I gotcha.”

Darcy didn’t let go of Bucky’s arm for a long while after that.  He didn’t seem to mind.  He only reached behind him and pulled the chair closer to the hospital bed as he sat down, leaving his hand covering her eyes.  His presence was soothing to her and he sat with her until her shaking eased and she fell back into a light doze.

***

Bruce came in after a while pushing a wheelchair.  “She doesn’t have to stay in a hospital bed anymore,” he said.  “Especially since we are simply relocating her to the tower.  She won’t be walking on that leg for several months, but she doesn’t have to stay laying flat from here on out.”

He rolled it over to Steve.

“Just be careful to keep pillows lining the seat and back - she’s still got stitches in her shoulder and neck, as well as her hip and side.  She’s going to be very, very sore for a while yet.  I recommend only using this when you have to transport her, or help her go to the bathroom.”

Steve glanced warily at Bucky.  Bucky side-eyed Steve carefully back, patiently waiting for Bruce to continue.

Bruce scratched his forehead.  “Honestly, it may be easier to just carry her, since it’s… you know… you two.  But with the difficulties she’s currently experiencing with… physical interaction we’ve been having at the moment, use the chair as needed.”

He noticed Steve’s wary expression.

“Just use your best judgement.  The team trusts you and is here to help if you need it as well.”

He started pulling pillows out of the cabinet in the room and laying them carefully on the wheelchair.  “Really, though, I’d rather her not be in this chair much.  It’s not going to be comfortable for her at all.  Mostly she needs to be laying down in a bed or on a couch and recovering, at least for the next two weeks - take it very carefully.  Her stitches will come out sometime next week, but I can take care of that in the tower - no problem.”

He pulled the legs up on the wheelchair so they were sticking straight out.  “Do this to the chair when you have to use it - she won’t be able to move her leg in that cast and I don’t want her using the extra energy to try and keep it up.  Lay her legs on these pillows here and it will be best for her.  Just don’t let her lean back on her right side - her stitches may pull and they could break and I don’t want to see her back here with another surgery to re-close the wound.”

Steve nodded, listening carefully, glancing at Bucky.  Bucky nodded, too.

“Alright, we're all set for the move.  Tony’s got a car on standby outside.”

Bruce pulled two medicine containers out of his white coat pocket and a syringe, which he started opening, throwing the plastic wrapping in the trash after he’d unwrapped it from it’s protective casing.

“Who wants to do the honors of waking her up and letting her know the plan?”  He asked softly.  “I’ve got a pain topper to give to her via IV so we can move her without hurting her.”

Bucky stepped forward.  “I’ll do it,” he said.  “Steve, start gathering up the stuff for us to take with us.”

Steve grabbed the ice cup - a nice, large plastic cup with a handle and lid and a large straw sticking out of it.  He took the lid off and dumped the ice in the sink.

Bruce began unhooking Darcy from the machines above her head, the chords a tangled mess, but Bruce seemed to know what was what and organized them quickly as he disconnected them one at a time.

Bucky put a hand on Darcy’s forehead, hand gently petting her hair.

“Doll,” he said.  “Can you open your eyes for a minute?”

Darcy shifted slightly and groaned.  Her eyes groggily open, blinking slowly as she looked up at him.  She squinted, and a blurry Bucky came into view.

“We’re going to move you to the tower, now,” he said.  “Bruce is going to give you a shot so you don’t feel any pain in the move.”

Darcy’s eyes slowly closed and she mumbled something, her words jumbled and nonsensical.

"You go back to sleep now, we'll take care of everything,” he comforted gently.

She was asleep again in seconds.

Bruce stepped by the bed and connected the syringe to the IV in her arm, and pushed the medication through the tubing.  After he threw away the disposable syringe, he removed the IV from her arm.

“Hopefully, we are done with IV,” he said.  “You’ll need to get her to eat when you get her moved - maybe some broth or jello.  She hasn’t had much and you will need to introduce foods slowly so she doesn’t react badly.  Start with the liquids and move up.  I’ll be there to help if you need it and we can always put another IV in if we need to.”

He put a dressing on her arm where the IV had left a bruise and a sluggishly bleeding hole, and moved around the bed to repeat the procedure on her hand.  “Ideally I’d leave the cannula in her hand just in case, but I worry something will trigger another of her panics and she’ll rip it out. 

After bandaging that one up as well, he looked to Bucky and said, “It might be easiest if you could pick her up and then we can set her in the wheelchair and roll her outside to the car.”

Steve looked down at Darcy, a dubious expression on his features.

Bruce, noticing Steve’s expression, said, “I gave her a big dose to help with the move.  She shouldn’t wake up.”

Bucky reached down and pulled the covers off of her, and gently put an arm under her neck - he was careful not to put any pressure on her shoulder - and reached the other arm under her legs and lifted.  She barely weighed anything at all.

He adjusted her slightly in his grip and he stood up.

“It’d be easier to just carry her down to the car,” he said gruffly.

Steve grabbed the chair from Bruce and set the bag of things he’d collected in the seat.  “I’ll push this down behind ya, Buck,” he said.  “Bruce, will you lead us to the car?  I’m not sure where Tony has it parked.”

“Sure, no problem. Follow me,” Bruce replied, as he held the door open for Bucky to walk through, carefully turning Darcy so as not to hit the sides of the door as he walked through them.

***
 

When Darcy opened her eyes, she wasn’t in the hospital room anymore.  The bed she was in was massive, filled with fluffy white pillows, silky white sheets, a thick, cozy, white duvet, and a white cashmere blanket.

The room was… nice.  Huge and open with dark brown hardwood floors, a light teal color on the walls, with a large, open window to her left with a beautiful view of downtown Manhattan.  The window had white, billowy curtains which rustled softly as if blown by a breeze.  The light entering the room was ambient but muted, a window shield of some sort to block out the brightness of the sun.

The furniture in the room was a warm white, with a dark wood top - very farmhouse style - with an old fashioned dresser and vanity with mirror.  There was a small two-person couch at the end of her bed, soft leather brown, with white and teal pillowcases.  A reading chair sat to the right, creating a small living space surrounding a large TV.

She was on the left side of the bed and looked over at the night stand near her.  There sat a large glass of ice water with a handle, a small bowl with three pills - two white and one brown, a TV remote, and a lamp.  She wanted to run her fingers along the grain lines of the lamp’s wooden base, but didn’t dare.

From the view, she could decipher she was back at Stark Tower.  It wasn’t quite the same as any she had seen before, so she must not have been here before.  

The sight of the closed door was equal parts a relief and a source of unease.  This place should be safe, she had to have been brought here by the friends she had fallen asleep surrounded by at the hospital.  But she couldn’t know that for certain.  She wanted to call out, to hear a reassuringly familiar voice respond, but the terror that she might be wrong kept her silent. 

She sat there in the most comfortable bed in the universe, frozen in fear, sheets clutched around her.  Looking down at herself, she saw that someone had changed her out of the papery hospital gown and into pajamas.  Her own teal tank top and shorts.  From her room.  

They had gone inside her apartment.  Her home.

It wasn’t safe.

She thought briefly that she should be more upset at the idea of somebody changing her outfit like a doll, but compared to being rescued the way they’d found her, it hardly seemed worth worrying about.  In truth, she felt strangely more uncomfortable about the fact that someone had entered her apartment when she could not, than worried about the fact that someone had changed her clothing while she was asleep.  Or knocked out.  Whichever one.

The cast on her leg was new; unlike the solid one at the hospital, this one was plastic and had holes cut out of it, showing bits of skin.  Darcy reached out and touched a part of her thing. It didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t numb.  She could feel it.  Her hands flew up to her hair next, and her fingers were immediately tangled in its knotted mess.  Her hands unconsciously shifted to her sore throat.  

The vanity mirror was facing the other wall so she couldn’t see herself. 

Annoying. 

She wanted to see how bad it was, her neck, her face.  She knew they had cut her, had made her ugly.  As ugly on the outside as she now was on the inside.  Her body ached a bit as she looked around and knew that if she tried to get out of bed, she wouldn’t make it far, and that was without even thinking of putting weight on her broken leg and recovering hip.

She wanted to walk.  The urge to move around sparked in her and she had to squash it down, feeling angry and despondent.  She wasn’t free.

Her fingers traced her throat gently, noticing that the bandages were still there, almost all the way around her neck.

The collar was there.  Had been there.  

She could still feel it.

Thinking about it made a shiver go up her spine.  A reminder of her throat being slit, of blood dripping down her neck, down her cheek.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and she began to shake.  She could almost hear the chains moving as she shifted against the cold wall and wet floor.  She could hear footsteps outside, down the hall - coming closer.  The room was becoming darker.

She stared at the door, willing it to remain closed.

There was a knock, and she froze, her throat closing up, her grip on the sheets tight and shaking.  She whimpered and shrank back in fear.

The door opened and Steve walked in, hands held up in supplication when he noticed her distress.  “Hey, it’s alright - it’s just me,” he said, soothingly.  “You are in Stark Tower, in Bucky and my quarters.  This is going to be your own room for now.  Bucky has his own space down the hall on the right and I’m directly across the hall from you.”

He picked up the ice water and stuck a straw in it.  “It’s time for some new meds, so why don’t you take these real quick and then we can sit and talk about a few things.”

He picked up her pills and held them out to her.  She shook as she reached an open hand out to him.  He set the pills in her hand and watched as she put them in her mouth, giving her the water to drink and then taking it back when she was done.  He didn’t make mention of her shaking hands.

Her throat was dry and scratchy, and the pills had felt like huge lumps going down.  She swallowed a few more times, coughing slightly.

“Bucky’s just stirring the soup - he’ll be in here in a minute.  Mind if I sit on the edge of the bed here?”  He asked, pointing to the corner of the bed furthest away from her.  Strangely, though, he didn’t make a move toward her or the bed, patiently stationed where he stood as he waited on her to respond.

It shook her.

She looked down at her hands clutching at the sheets, trembling.  She couldn’t look at him, or answer him.  She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide under the covers.  Her breath caught.

“It’s okay, Darcy, if you aren’t ready.  It’s fine, really,” he said softly.  She couldn’t look at him.

“I won’t assume to know what you are feeling right now, or try and understand the things you’ve gone through.  I am not here to make you talk, or force you to relive any of what you’ve experienced.  But I want you to know that firstly, you are safe here.  We won’t let anything happen to you here.”  His tone was earnest.  Darcy dared a peek at him; his eyes were so blue, his eyelashes long.

“With that said, I am here, and Bucky is here if you do need to talk.  About anything.”  He looked at her softly.  “It will stay between us, in confidence, always.”

God no, she didn’t want to talk.  About anything.  Ever.  No.  Hard NO.

Darcy turned her head away and shrunk a little bit into a ball.  He seemed to take that in stride, almost as if he were expecting that reaction from her.  She frowned.

“We thought it best for now, that while you are in recovery, you stay here with Buck and I.  We are going to be here to help you stay on top of your meds, help you get around as needed, and be a support system to you while you get back on your feet.”

She cringed and he cleared his throat.

“However, I realize that some of the things you’ve gone through are extremely personal and highly sensitive, and because of that - I want to make sure that we all have some ground rules so that we all stay on the same page.  So that we don’t…” he paused, carefully choosing his words, “accidentally hurt you…” he stumbled a bit, “…or cause you unnecessary pain or anguish.”

He took a deep breath, continuing forward. “It’s important to understand boundaries and to respect them.”

Her eyes welled up, the tears threatened to fall.

He paused, his expression understanding and sympathetic, but strong as he looked at her.

“I know — I know you’ve had many of your boundaries trampled on and torn to pieces, and Darcy,” he paused and took a deep breath, looking into her eyes seriously.  “I want you to understand that while you are in my home, in our tower, that I will ensure that you are safe, and that your boundaries are respected.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

She glanced at him before looking back down at her hands.  She nodded jerkily.

“Good.  Thank you for nodding, that’s good,” he said.

There was a quiet knock on the door and Bucky pushed it open gently.  Steve turned to him with a small smile.  She hated that fucking door.  What was on the other side of it?  Would they pull her out?  She trembled.

“Hey Buck,” he said. “Come on in.  We’re discussing boundaries.”

Bucky nodded.

“You remember when Bucky first came to the tower?” Steve asked as he looked over at Bucky, his eyes dimming slightly in memory.  Darcy glanced down at her hands.

“I was a mess,” Bucky inserted.  “Hadn’t had a boundary respected in…” he trailed off for a long moment, shoving his human hand into his hair.  “Hell…I couldn’t even remember.”

He glanced at Steve.

“Steve’s got a therapist friend and he said to set up strict boundaries for me, for him, for us… it started with safety, so I wouldn’t hurt Stevie if I got… confused.”  He struggled before continuing.  “Doc gave us some different kinds of suggestions and… it helped.  Is helping me feel…” he stumbled again, “safe.”

Steve nodded.  “We do regular check-ins and it’s helped us be there for each other, and also gives us all a chance for a breather when that’s what’s needed, too, or time to ourselves to unwind and… come back to ourselves with needed space until we can communicate better and try again, maybe in a different way.”

Darcy stared at the door.  It was cracked open and her nerves were shot just thinking about that fact. 

After still getting no response from Darcy, Steve glanced at Bucky, momentarily unsure. Bucky nodded.  “For example,” Steve said softly, “Buck, what’s your color?”

“Green,” Bucky replied quietly.  Steve gently bumped shoulders with him.  Bucky grinned at the floor.

“We like the color system for normal day-to-day check-ins,” Steve explained.  “Green means all is good, we’re happy, we’re fine, we can hang…”

“Yellow is for when we aren’t sure,” Bucky continued.  “Sometimes, when I have trouble… understanding what I feel in that moment, or what I need.  If I’m just unsure about something - it’s a yellow.”

Darcy glanced up at him, the door forgotten momentarily, her interest piqued.  He smiled gently at her.

“And Red is for when we need to stop,” Steve said firmly.  “When we need to say no.  When we need a moment alone, or are overwhelmed and need a breather.  If we’re in a crowd and we need to leave - it’s a red.  Or if something triggers us and sometimes we… lose ourselves or get lost - that’s a red.”

“I made a promise to you, doll,” Bucky reminded her.  “You say the word, no or red, and I will make sure it is respected.  Steve will too.”

Steve nodded.  “Any questions?” He asked.  Darcy just stared.

“Doll,” Bucky asked, his voice low, “Could you tell us your color right now?”

Darcy opened her mouth, but couldn’t give a color.  The clock on the wall ticked.

“If you can’t say your color, then it’s an automatic red,” Steve explained carefully, taking a small step away from her, giving her space.  Her chin wobbled.

“If you need to be left alone, you can tell us.  If you need us to stay, but not talk, you just tell us that, too.  But if you say red, or can’t give a color, or…” he cringed, his Brooklyn coming out in his nervousness, “don’t say nothin’ at all, we will stop what we are doing currently and let things settle.”

Darcy wasn’t sure she believed them, that if she said red they would stop and leave her alone.  She just wasn’t… she didn’t believe they would.  She wasn’t sure she wanted them to leave… Maybe they would, but it wasn’t worth the chance.

They waited, not rushing her, not pressuring her.

She covered her face with her hands.

“Yellow,” she whispered finally, into her hands, tiredly, her voice cracking at the end of the word.  She couldn’t say red, she wasn’t ready.  Couldn’t say nothing or that would also be red.  She wasn’t ready.  She drooped towards the bed, her shoulders sinking.  Why was everything - every little thing - so hard?

Bucky nodded encouragingly.  Steve’s face lit up.

“That’s so good, for letting us know.  Thank you,” Steve praised.  “I know that was hard and we are proud of you.”

Darcy felt exhausted.

“Doll, you look like you are about to keel over.  Let’s lean you back down — there you go,” Bucky said, his voice husky as he helped her lie back on the bed, “and let rest for a while.  We’re done talking now, you gave us your color - yellow.  So we’re gonna pause and take a breather.”

“And by breather, we are going to recommend a nap,” Steve said gently.  “You’ve had a busy day, moving from the hospital to here.”

The color yellow used to mean joy to Darcy.  It was such a happy color.  And now it defined her unsure state of mind.  She wasn’t sure she liked the color yellow anymore.

“Just rest up for a few hours and Bucky’s got the soup simmering on the stove.  It’ll be ready in a little while…”



“Always tastes better when it gets to simmer for a few hours,” Bucky commented while Steve nattled on.



“...and Nat said she would come around this evening to help you try to take a full shower,” Steve continued.

Darcy froze.

Bucky noticed, and gently shuffled Steve towards the door.  “She yellowed, Steve,” he murmured softly.  “Let her be for a while - it’s been a long day.”

Steve glanced back, his face fallen in apology.  “Sorry… I’m sorry.  Didn’t mean to… Have a good nap… rest... Darce,” he said, following Bucky out of the room, and started to close the door behind him.  He paused midway and glanced back at her.  He'd noticed her flinch at her name, and it made her cringe all the more.  She hunched her shoulders, her heart beginning to race.

“Whatever you need,” Steve told her seriously.  “You are safe here, I promise.”

She didn’t believe him.

Concern flitted across his features before he masked it with a small smile, though it definitely did not reach his eyes.  “Do you want this open or closed?” he asked.

Darcy’s mind went completely blank and she shut down.  Her hands fell against the bed and her eyes filled with tears, blinding her.

Her eyes were open, but she didn’t see anything, didn’t feel anything.

“Sweetheart?” Steve asked, taking a single step back towards her.  “Darcy, what is it?  You okay?”

The last thing Darcy saw before she fainted was Bucky scrambling over Steve to get to her before she hit the ground.

***

Chapter Text

***

“Shit!” Steve gasped as he watched Bucky grab onto Darcy’s good arm, putting a stop to her tumble off of the bed.  His other hand cradled her head gently just before it hit the floor, catching her, and he lifted her back up.  She was frighteningly underweight, not that she had weighed much to begin with.  He could feel the outline of her ribs under his hand. 

“Got ya, doll,” Bucky said as he laid her limp body back into bed, rolling her gently onto her side so she’d be comfortable when she woke up.  Steve hurried over to the bed and picked up her wrist, feeling out her pulse.  It was erratic and fast.  Darcy’s skin was clammy and ghostly pale.

“JARVIS - ON. Passcode 001942,” Steve said firmly, glancing apologetically at Bucky.  Bucky froze, his eyes shifting away from Steve as his metal arm clenched into a fist.

“All systems activated for Rogers’ and Barnes’ Quarters,” JARVIS’s disembodied voice filled the room.  “How may I be of service?”

“Run a full diagnostic on Darcy Lewis,” Steve ordered.

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied.  “Running diagnostic now.”

“What happened?”  

“I’m not sure,” Bucky said, though the way his jaw worked as he fought off his unease made Steve think that he might have some idea of what.  Bucky brushed a piece of hair out of Darcy’s face as he carefully checked her over, pressing his metal hand against her throat, counting her heartbeats.  He glanced warily at Steve.



“Talk to me, Buck.”



Bucky’s expression darkened.



“I can see you drawing up a strategy in that big head of yours; fill me in when you’re ready.”



The tension in Bucky’s body was visible.



“I think she still feels trapped, even here.  We’re…” Steve watched him as he hesitated.  “The two of us, I mean,” Bucky stumbled slightly looking at Steve and then himself, before sighing in defeat.  “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.  I think she’s scared of us, Steve.”



“Then we’ll earn her trust, Buck.  Whatever it takes.”



The two of them had done enough missions together to know what they each weren’t saying.  No matter what he said about this course of action, regardless of the sparse intel available, Bucky would continue to shelter Darcy from harm unless he found someone he thought could do it better.  And Bucky knew that Steve was going over every option, mulling over each thread of action and outcome, until he had selected the strongest ones to twist together into a strategy, into reins by which he could steer events rather than letting them run wild. 

“Darcy Lewis’ scan is now complete,” JARVIS interjected.  “Mr. Stark has uploaded her medical files into my system so that I have a complete assessment.  Medically speaking, she is in the same condition as upon arrival.  Ms. Lewis appears to have fainted — possibly due to stress, but more likely due to exhaustion.  She is otherwise healing in normal parameters.”

Bucky’s eyes swept over Darcy and he swallowed thickly.

“We’ve gotta get her to rest, Steve,” he said softly.  He reached up and scratched at the back of his neck.  “She’s just waking up in a panic over and over and not getting any actual rest in between.”

“And so she’s too tired to deal with the reasons she’s having the nightmares that wake her up in a panic,” Steve continued warily.

“She’s only truly sleeping when we drug her down, Stevie,” Bucky murmured.  “And I’m not sure that counts as rest.”  He looked down at her with soft eyes.  “We gotta do something.”

“Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark or Dr. Banner?” JARVIS asked.  Bucky shifted, teeth grinding as his jaw clenched.

“Give us a sec, JARVIS,” Steve said, putting a hand on his forehead and rubbing it.  “Let me think.  Buck —“

“Based on my analysis of her previous REM patterns, my scans inform me that Ms. Lewis will be waking up in the next few minutes,” JARVIS interrupted.

“Notify Bruce that Darcy has fainted,” Steve said resolutely, “and that she is waking up.  Send him the scans.  He can communicate his recommendations.”

“Yes sir,” JARVIS replied.  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain Rogers?”

“Standby, JARVIS,” Steve told him, eyes sweeping over to Bucky; the tight shoulders and averted gaze spoke volumes to him about Bucky’s discomfort at having the AI listening in the background.  The posture he was assuming never led to anything good.

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS agreed.

“What’s your color, Buck?” Steve demanded.

Bucky paused as he took a shaky breath, taking stock.  “Green,” he said quietly.  “Yellow-ish, too.  Sorry.”  He glanced at Steve, who, for all his age and experience, was looking somewhat lost.



"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for, Buck," Steve replied automatically, but even to him, his response felt more automative than genuine.  



Bucky nodded resolutely, shifting away from Steve, having heard it before but not taking it to heart.  The step away tugged at Steve, but he didn't reach for him yet.  Waited, giving Bucky the moment to sort and settle things out.  “I don’t know," Bucky murmured, continuing.  "It’s hard to… But I’m mostly green, I think.  For right now.”  



Bucky's eyes settled on Darcy as he worked his jaw.  “I’m trying.”

Steve nodded, his own eyes checking Bucky over.  “You speak up if that changes.”

Bucky nodded shortly.

Steve leaned closer to Darcy, gently pushing a stray piece of hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“So what’s the plan, Steve?” Bucky asked, examining the bandages on Darcy’s cheek.  It seemed he and Steve had the same idea about making the most of her unconsciousness to give her a thorough once-over. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than sending her into a panic.

“For today?” Steve shifted towards him, resting his hands on his hips.  Bucky tipped his head.  “I want to get some food in her, to start with.”

Bucky nodded.

“I also think she would rest easier if she could… take a shower?”  Steve’s voice lifted as he formed the sentence, sounding as if he was asking the question even to himself.  “I’m actually not sure if that will end up being a good thing at the moment or not… but…”

“The nurses wiped her down good at the hospital - best as they could, at least - before her surgery,” Bucky murmured.

“Natasha said they didn’t get too far when she went in to help.  That she’d tried to pace it on Darcy’s terms, but that she wouldn’t… I mean, you know Nat, she didn’t exactly say what Darcy wouldn’t do, but it was implied.  Darcy wouldn’t… wouldn’t touch… ah hell, I can’t even say it.”



“Wouldn’t touch where they raped her.” Bucky’s voice was flat, quiet, matter-of-fact.  It was almost the Soldier’s voice.  Steve paused, knowing to tread carefully with Bucky when he saw the beginning signs of dissociation.  

“Yeah.  While it wasn’t more than a bird bath, Nat seemed proud of her anyway, like they got further than she’d expected, considering.  She told me to trust my gut, tread carefully, and to follow the cues Darcy gives us.”  



Steve trailed off.  He looked over for reassurance; Bucky was looking at Darcy now instead of the floor, and chewing contemplatively on his bottom lip. 

“What do you think, Buck?” Steve asked him.

“Yeah, to both of those things,” Bucky replied quietly.  He paused for a long moment, gathering his thoughts.  “She’s been in a grimy cell for weeks, Steve,” he said, his voice rough.  “Been to hell and back, and then stuck in a hospital bed with no more than a half-assed sponge bath for another week.”

Steve watched him carefully, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“When you’re held somewhere like that…” Bucky trailed off and stared far away before continuing.  “It gets in under your skin.  Even after a wipe down you still... feel it.  Still feel dirty even if you don’t look it.”  Bucky blinked and shook his head, as if hoping to shake off the memory that made it so easy for him to empathise with Darcy.  “Bruce said she needed a shower, if we could manage it, to at the very least help prevent the spread of infection.  We gotta keep her safe, even if that means stepping over her lines until she can do it herself.”

“She’ll feel better clean, even if it's gonna be a rough go of it,” he told Steve gruffly, failing to meet Steve’s laser-focused gaze.  “If we can get her into some warm water, it might help relax her enough to get some shut eye.”

Steve nodded, apprehensively.  “At the very least, it might help steady her.”

“Maybe we can get Natasha again to try and…”

“Agent Romanoff is currently deployed along with Agent Barton, on a mission for Shield.” JARVIS interrupted, startling him mid-sentence, causing Bucky to jerk back away from Darcy. He moved fast, getting halfway across the room before Steve could even blink.  Bucky’s body tensed, ready for a fight, his eyes darting around the room, as a deadly stillness crept into his limbs.  Steve was already on defense, wariness setting in as he also stood slowly, preparing to use force if necessary to pull Bucky back into the present.   

“My apologies, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS added contritely.  “Your heart rate is accelerating...”

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve cut the AI off, taking a careful step towards Bucky, trying not to telegraph his focus on the Soldier’s posturing.  “Remain on standby.”

He forced his body language to be as relaxed and open as he could, as he carefully made his way towards his friend.  One slow step, and then another, while Bucky eyed him warily, looking ready to bolt - or fight - at a moment’s notice.  On the plus side, Bucky appeared to make no effort to move further away.  But he also didn’t take a step towards Steve.  His face had gone blank, and Steve knew this was when he had to be the most careful around Buck.  The fight or flight instinct was deeply ingrained, and either way the result was likely to be violent.  Steve would do whatever necessary to ensure he could de-escalate the situation as quickly as possible, with the least amount of damage.  

“Easy, easy, Buck.  It’s okay.  I got ya, pal.  You’re safe with me.”  He closed in, stepping purposefully between Bucky and Darcy as he eased into Bucky’s space, and slowly reached up, telegraphing every movement, as he gripped Bucky at the back of the neck in an effort to help ground him.

***

“When you touch me…when the touch is kind,” Bucky had stammered.  

“It’s alright, Buck,” Steve had reminded him gently.  “Take your time.”  

The evening had ended with the two of them watching a film in their quarters, Bucky settling in on the floor leaning against Steve’s legs; he’d had a rough go of it that day.  His anxiety had been through the roof, set off by nothing and everything all at once, and he’d been unable to handle being around the group that evening.  Some days were more overwhelming than others, simply put.  Steve, overly observant as always and taking it, like most things he did, in stride, had simply reached out and grasped his hand gently.  He’d pulled Bucky up from his spot on the floor and had them both moving towards the elevator as Steve gave their farewells.  A chorus of “goodnights” and “see you guys in the morning” followed them out; every one of them knew what it was like to just need to be... away.

Steve had pushed Bucky gently, so gently, against the wall of the elevator and pressed his body into Bucky’s, chest to toe, leaning on him rather than really hugging him.  Bucky could already feel his stuttering breath calming just from feeling Steve’s weight against him.  

When the elevator dinged, Steve had slipped a hand behind Bucky’s back and pulled him down the hall and into their apartment.  He’d talked the whole time, speaking softly about this recipe Darcy had sent him on Pinterest.  She, upon learning that neither of them could bake, had remedied that problem immediately, demanding that they join her in both the app and in the kitchen.  She had, in her words, ‘no patience for any 1940s gender role nonsense they might be smuggling.’

When it was just the two of them, Bucky and Steve, Steve would allow his more natural Brooklyn/Irish cadence to seep through.  Just listening to the phrasing, the lilt and rhythm of his words, everything about it was tantalisingly familiar.  A feeling somehow both impossible to forget, and not quite remembered, would come sweeping over Bucky, and just like that he could breathe again. 

Steve had sat down on the couch, briefly letting go of Bucky; he’d tried to let Bucky choose where he wanted to be, when he was like this.  Sometimes Bucky sat on the furthest edge of the couch, not wanting to be touched, but unwilling to be alone.  Other times he would sit practically on top of Steve (which was frankly how Steve preferred it),insatiably touch-hungry even as they were plastered together.)  And then there were times like this one, when Bucky just needed to feel touch, but not feel seen.  An odd conundrum, but one they'd stumbled across on quite by accident.  He’d put himself on a different level to Steve, literally, on the floor at his feet.  There, they'd discovered, Bucky could just “be” until the world stopped feeling too big, and he could once again regain his focus. 

This particular night had been one of those days, and Bucky had quickly settled on the floor, taking long minutes to feel comfortable enough to ease back against Steve’s legs.  When he finally got there, he released a breath he’d apparently been holding and sagged, trusting Steve to hold his weight and keep him steady.

Steve had reached out as soon as he'd felt Bucky relax against him, and had begun pulling his fingers through Bucky’s long hair, feeling the softness slide through his fingertips from root to end, before repeating the movement, fascinated with how the different shades of brown and auburn and black shifted between his fingers.  

“It helps,” Bucky had whispered into the dark of the room.

“What helps?” Steve had whispered back, not pausing in his ministrations, keeping up the gentle petting, his need to keep whatever Bucky had to say secret, private, these frozen and rare moments of time when Bucky would open up and tell Steve something… anything, really.  Bucky was so unaccustomed to keeping things inside, unable or unwilling to let anything escape.  Steve was beginning to understand that most of the time, the pain was just too much, and speaking of certain things caused more pain and anguish than just holding Bucky and allowing him to process it internally.  It was always a thin precipice that Steve walked, always worried that he might push too hard or worse, not enough, when Bucky needed to let something out.  Most often, he’d found that waiting Bucky out, patiently and gently, that Bucky would at least open up in pieces, enough that Steve could usually put together what he was saying, or more, what he didn’t say, to understand what Bucky needed to tell him.  

“Touch,” he had replied, brokenly.  “Your touch helps ground me when I can’t reach out for it.”

Steve’s eyes filled with unshed tears, but he steadied his voice when he replied, “I’ll always reach for you, Buck.  Always.”

***

Steve could feel Bucky’s quickened breath, his trembling, nervous energy, now that he had his hands on him.  

Bucky’s blue-grey eyes had narrowed as Steve approached, but now that Steve was standing in front of him, blocking everything else out and appearing calm and unthreatening, he had allowed Steve’s touch.  Good, Steve thought, he wasn’t totally gone yet, then.  Steve took that opportunity and pulled him gently, but bodily against him, chest to chest.  He felt Bucky’s accelerated heartbeat against his own and felt him tense further as Steve held him close, gripping him tightly as he squeezed his hand on Bucky’s neck.  

Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Bucky sagged against him, a huff of breath leaving him as he relaxed against the Captain.  

“I’ve got you.”  

Turning his nose into Steve's neck, Bucky breathed in, calming.

“Natalia and Barton are on a mission?” Bucky mumbled against Steve’s collarbone peeking out through his shirt in an effort to stay present, his nose brushing against Steve’s neck and he breathed in deeply, Steve’s scent helping to ground him. 

“What mission, JARVIS?” Steve questioned calmly, as he nuzzled Bucky in return, holding him close.

“They believe there is a lead on Ms. Lewis’ kidnapping case.”  Bucky tensed in his arms.   “Transferring data to your private server now, Captain.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed.  “Transfering data in, JARVIS?” he questioned.  “You can access our private server?  I thought Tony had isolated us entirely from his internal servers.”

“Captain, that information is not entirely accurate,” JARVIS responded.  “Allow me to notify Mr. Stark…”

Before Steve could question JARVIS further, Bucky had shoved away from him, breathing rapidly, bracing himself in a fighting stance.  His eyes darkened as they darted around the room, as if the light that made Bucky Bucky had diminished, hardening into someone else.  Something else.  

“Captain Rogers, shall I contact Mr. Stark regarding Sergeant Barnes?  Scans indicate increasing distress.”

“JARVIS, what?  Of course not...” Steve responded, turning to him with concern, but wary as he lifted his arms defensively, palms facing upwards as he shifted to put himself between Bucky and Darcy once again, this time, more protectively.

“Buck,” he started, eyes wide and cautious. 

“No, I can’t do this.  This location is compromised, we have to get out!  Steve, it’s not safe here,” Bucky growled, jaw clenching as he struggled, desperately clinging to himself, fighting off the Soldier.  "We'll take her with us." 



“You are safe, buddy.  No one’s coming.  It’s alright,” Steve murmured as he stood frozen, helpless.  One wrong move and everything could go south too quickly.  Damn it, he’d just had him in his arms.  Bucky would be horrified when he came out of it - Steve didn’t want to think about what this might do to him, to the growing confidence he had been slowly building up.  And Darcy… Steve held his breath as anxiety rolled over him, feeling his already-frantic heartbeat pick up.  He could feel the tension tight in his chest and shoulders, his body preparing for a fight he hoped wouldn’t happen.  Forcing himself to stay exactly where he was, he took a careful breath.  Bucky's super soldier ears were just as sensitive as his own, so he tried valiantly to sound relaxed.  Unthreatening.  Normal.  He might as well be trying to hold onto a handful of water.  Breathe deeply, he told himself, forcing himself to relax enough to let air fill his lungs.  



“Take a moment, Buck.  Breathe.  Look around you,” Steve couldn’t tell if anything he said was getting through, and watched Bucky crouch with clenched fists, preparing to fight an enemy that wasn't there.  Steve bit down on his lip, watching warily.  He wasn’t even sure if Bucky was aware he was there anymore. 

“Darcy’s with us, pal.”  Steve maintained a calm expression, hoping it outweighed his wide, panicked eyes.  There was nothing he could do to calm the speed of his heartbeat, try as he might to feel inwardly what he was desperately putting on outwardly.  Bucky would be able to hear it, and would use Steve’s panic as evidence that he was right to feel unsafe, not grasping that it was Bucky’s behavior… or rather the Soldier’s potentially threatening behavior, causing Steve’s anxiety. It was a vicious cycle that didn’t bode well in their current standing, not with Darcy so close, so helpless.  

Steve couldn’t even think right now of how he would deal with Darcy’s added terror if the Soldier did something he couldn’t foresee or control...

Bucky’s breathing didn’t slow.  He grabbed his head with both hands, as though he could shake the terror out of it.  Their eyes met, and Steve felt immediately like he was being swept off his feet by the waves of fear that ticked and twitched across Bucky’s face.

“The AI, Steve…”  His eyes darted unsteadily around the room.

“I know and you are safe with me.  It’s alright, Buck.  You can do this, push him back.”  Steve took a step toward Bucky, heart racing, hoping like hell he was taking the right course.  Steve held a hand out without touching or crowding, schooling his nerves to steadiness and allowing Bucky as much time as he needed to track and process his every move, until his hand hovered gently over Bucky’s jaw.  

Something soft and vulnerable settled on Bucky’s features as he looked at Steve.  While fear and distrust fought a war in Bucky’s eyes, his face turned toward Steve, and he surrendered to the bond that had kept the two of them connected through war and ice and time.  Making a difficult choice, his eyes half-closed and he leaned into Steve’s touch.  His shoulders sagged and he leaned fully against Steve, trusting him to hold his weight.  

Relief flooded Steve.  That was a good sign.  “Look at me, please,” Steve murmured softly, pulling Bucky all the closer, holding him tightly.  Bucky obeyed. 

“It’s you and me here, pal,” Steve said, trying to infuse his words with a strength and calm he didn’t truly feel.  “I’m not gonna let anything hurt you.” 



It didn’t take long for the man to start shaking in his arms.  It didn’t seem to matter that Steve concentrated on being calm, or whispered that he was safe and no one would hurt him.  Bucky didn’t know that.  Not right now.  Steve drew in a breath and took a different approach.  

“Darcy’s here and we gotta help her, Buck.”

Bucky took a shaky breath and let it out slowly.  “Stevie, don’t know if I can…” he whispered, eyes darting around the room.  Steve felt the silent plea through the frantic grip on his arms, for him to help, to make this right, to give Bucky answers and assurances even if he wasn’t sure they were true.     



“You have to fight this, Buck.”  Steve tilted his head, looking down at him, expression serious.  “Darcy needs us and we need JARVIS.  Without us right now, she’s all alone.  Or rather, she’d be with Tony.”  Bucky let out a soft breath of laughter.  

“She needs us,” Steve repeated with conviction, “and I know from the second we found her, we knew we were in this for the long haul.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend on handing her over to anyone else.  I won’t presume to say what Darcy wants, but I think we need to help her as much as she needs us.  I know we got the tools to do it, and we’re both too stubborn to stop once we’ve set our sights on helping someone.”  He sighed.  “I don’t gotta tell you all this, you know it.”  Bucky nodded against Steve’s shoulder, tucking his face into Steve’s neck and breathed in.  “We made a decision, that day in the hospital, together.”  Bucky breathed in deeply. 

“We’ve been through hell and back, through a couple different circles each, with no reason as to why.  I sure would like to make something good out of all the bad we survived.  If she was a stranger, you and I both know we’d still be here helping her, because we are maybe some of the very few who truly can.  

“But it’s Darcy, so it’s more than that.  I know we haven’t talked about it much, not to one another and at least for me, it’s not even something I truly acknowledged to myself until she was gone… but…  she is important.  To me.  I can’t fully explain it, but Buck… she was just there one day, and it was like she’d always belonged with me.  Made me feel like somebody.  Made me feel like I could have a home here.  Almost like I went away to war and she was waiting for me when I got back.  

“And then I got you back, and everything just sorta clicked into place for me.  Like we were headed in a direction we were always meant to be goin’ in.  She’s goddamn special, and I know you feel it too.”  Steve looked down.  “I realized when they took her, that I hadn’t told her how much she had become to me.  Hadn’t said a word.  I don’t know what she must even think about me, or you, or us.  But I didn’t give away anything, I was scared.  I didn’t know how to deal with all the things I was feeling, and then I had you back, and it was selfish of me to want more…”  

He looked at Bucky beseechingly.  “She’s so fucking important to me, Buck.  I don’t know what that means more than that.  That’s all I got right now.  But I know - I feel it in my gut - that I gotta be here for her, and you - that she needs us both to be here.  

She’s got nobody, and…” Steve choked up.  “After my Ma died, and you came after me when the funeral was over, after I watched them put her in the ground and couldn’t bear it anymore and left,” he looked at Bucky, “and you came after me and told me I had a place with you.”  His voice trembled.  “I only got through that ‘cause you were with me.  And then on that... the day of the train,” he stumbled.  “I was alone after that.  I couldn’t bear it.  And damn it, I woke up here and I was alone all over again.” 



Tears slid down his cheeks.  “I didn’t think I’d make it a day, or the one after that, not without you with me.  But then Tony was there, and Nat, and Thor, and the rest of the Avengers, and they became a family to me.”  And then Steve smiled, through his tears.  “And then Darcy showed up.  She held my hand until you came back to me, Buck.”  He sighed, his heart heavy.  “I wouldn’t have made it without her.  ‘Cause even finding a new family like I did, I was so lost.  And she was a candle in the dark.”  He glanced back at Darcy.  “She’s hurt now, and lost.  We took her out of a dark place but she brought some of it with her.  You and I, we know you don’t just shake that sorta thing off.  I don’t just want to be here for her, I gotta.  I saw it at the hospital, when you knew what she needed without even knowing you did.  We can do this for her, and we both know she’d do the same thing for us.”   

It hurt Steve, to push him like this, like he was betraying him and choosing someone else above Bucky’s needs.  He held Bucky all the tighter, a restraint as much as a warm reassurance, as he moved closer, pressing a kiss on Bucky’s cheek while he rubbed circles into his back.  As big as Bucky was, and strong, Steve was still the larger of the two.  He reveled in it, as he always did, the feeling of Bucky small and vulnerable in his arms.  It didn’t occur often, Bucky leaning into Steve’s strength, allowing himself to trust without fear, knowing Steve would have him, hold him, until he was on even keel again.   

“I can do this alone if I need to,” Steve said gently.  “If it’s too much, just say the word.  And whatever you need will be okay, Buck.  But I’d rather do it with ya, pal.”  

Heartbreak suffused Bucky’s expression at that, and he looked up to Steve.  A child lost, terrified and confused.  Withdrawn and afraid.  Bucky trembled.  “It’s okay,” Steve whispered, a calm voice that was contrary to the feelings in his eyes.  He could be strong for him, strong for them both.  “I’m gonna keep you safe, pal.”  

Bucky drew in a shaky breath, looking at Steve now, proving to him that he had found his footing, showing Steve that he could do this.  That Steve could count on him.  “When I found her like that…” he couldn’t go on.  Not yet.  “She’s important to me too, Steve.”

Steve nodded against him.

“So how are we gonna do this?” he whispered after a pause.

“Between you and I,” Steve encouraged softly, ever so softly, his expression warm and comforting, “we’re gonna figure out what will make Darcy feel safe here — even if it’s just for a few moments at a time.”



Both men paused for a moment, their hearing picking up the sound of the air conditioner turning on, silent as it would be to the normal person, but the sound foreign enough to their upbringing, that it still tended to surprise both of them when they weren't paying attention to it.

“Normalcy and routine helped me the most,” Bucky croaked, struggling as he gripped Steve’s hand tightly in his, holding him close, desperate for anything to help ground him.  Bucky reached up and rubbed away the stray tears that had escaped on his other sleeve.  “You know that.

Steve nodded, letting him take whatever strength from him he needed.

“She hasn’t talked yet,” Steve said, his thumb rubbing gently against Bucky’s hand held in his as he looked over to her, his voice tinged with anger, or something darker, like a promise of retribution.  “Not really.”

Bucky glanced over at Darcy as well. “She’s not ready to talk yet,” he said softly.

“I don’t like not knowing her boundaries,” Steve glanced at him uneasily.  “We could hurt her... more…” he trailed off.  “Without even meaning to.  We don’t even know what triggers she has because she’s not communicating."  He gave a frustrated huff.  "God, I can’t handle the thought of accidentally causing her further pain.”

“I don’t think she knows her own boundaries right now to begin to try and tell us,” Bucky reminded him.  “They’re all… jumbled up.  We knew this was going to be hard, Steve.  You can do this - we can do this.  Like you did with me.”  

Steve’s heart broke watching Bucky pull himself back together.  He had come so far.  He’d been so afraid.  After all he’d gone through.  It hurt like hell thinking about all the years he’d slept under the ice, while Bucky was put through unimaginable torture.  Steve felt like he’d gotten off easy.  Even now that they were here, together, it felt like he was still curled around a grenade, not knowing if or when it would go off, hoping his willingness to take a hit would be enough to protect the ones closest to him.  

“We provide whatever she needs the most to feel safe.  Right now, Buck, that does seem to be with you.”  Bucky looked away, but nodded. 

“She needs space to heal on her own terms.  First thing for right now, we need to make sure she isn’t in pain while she’s healing.  Her body has been through…” he struggled, unable to voice it.  “Her body needs to heal first.  For the rest, we create a safe space for her to recover, and try to allow her the opportunity to open up as much as she can, when she can.”  

He didn’t say how much worse it would be if she kept her pain inside until it became part of her body.  It was something Bucky struggled with daily; Steve could always see it, whether it was simmering under the surface or so unbearable he was screaming it out. The way Bucky held himself coiled tight, holding himself together, and the way he exhaled in Steve’s arms and let himself be held, were transformative experiences for them both. 

“It will take time before she feels safe here.  Longer than that before she believes it,” he whispered, his shaking subsiding as he brought his emotions back under control.

“That’s not going to happen today… or anytime soon,” Steve said, shaking his head, and trying yet again to pull out of the dark spiral his thoughts threatened to twist into.  None of them could afford the luxury of Steve wallowing in his guilt; he had to keep both of them anchored in the present, in safety and sanity.  Navigating Darcy’s trust was going to be the most challenging obstacle.  The fact that they were both men didn’t help; some of the hospital staff had objected strenuously, and Steve was thankful the rest of the team had backed them up.  The circumstances of her rescue, and Bucky and Steve’s own very personal experiences with trauma recovery, weren’t enough to convince every doctor.  In the end, it was Darcy herself who made the clinching argument; as close as Bucky stuck to her, she seemed to pull towards him in equal measure.  In her sleep, she reached for Bucky, held onto him and calmed at his touch, when not even Steve could approach her.



It was something Steve in particular would have to tread carefully in regards to.  The idea of her being… afraid of him, made him sick to his stomach.  Insecurities threatened to overwhelm him as he tried to envision all of the things they would need to do for her, just basic things, and how they were to go about it without making things worse for her..   

“Maybe the shower isn’t a good idea,” he said, worriedly, allowing some of his doubts to air out. “We shouldn’t push anything.  I just… feel the need to do something for her… anything, really,” he gestured vaguely, and combed helpless fingers through his hair, “to make her feel even marginally better.  Maybe we can get her to talk.  Fuck, I don’t know.  I don’t think she’s gonna, Buck.  She hasn’t been able to say more than a few words, much less been able to handle anyone’s presence much since we got her out of that,” he could hardly spit it out,  “that fucking place.”  

He hated this feeling of helplessness.  He’d felt it too many times in his life, both young and old, at the same time.  Before, when Buck had fallen off the train, or with Peggy when he was forced to put that goddamn plane in the water.  When he’d woken up, alone, or when he’d found Bucky and they’d put him in that cell.  Finding Darcy like they had - it piled up.  It often felt like he was carrying heavy boulders upon his shoulders, and he was sinking deeper into the ground as if trudging through quicksand from the weight of it.  He could only carry so much, could only keep walking this path of life for so long before it all became too much.  Right?  But he had to keep going, he had to be strong, had to lead.  

They needed him.

Bucky shook his head, seeing that terrible emptiness in Steve’s eyes that he got sometimes, and took that moment of vulnerability on Steve’s part to reach up, and tug Steve a little closer, grabbing onto the back of his  neck and pulling until their heads banged gently together.  

“No, I didn’t mean for us to get her to talk to us or open up,” he murmured, his breath soft against Steve’s lips.  Steve exhaled, harshly.  “Or to tell us what she went through.  Of course it’s not going to happen today.  She’s not remotely near ready for that.  She’ll do it in her time, when she’s ready.  A shower would help her right now, I think.  If we can get her on board with it.” 

Steve mumbled his assent, fingers caressing Bucky’s wrist now, holding on and keeping him close.  

“Maybe we can give her some distance from the fear for a little while?”  Bucky offered.

Steve gave Bucky a small squeeze before he stepped back, crossing his arms as he thumbed his own chin in consideration.  “Distance her how?”  His voice was almost back to normal, even if his eyes were anything but.

Buck’s arms dropped to his sides as he thought for a moment.  “Normalcy and routine, like I said.  Getting a rhythm to the days, maybe a rough schedule  of sorts - something she can track, meals and movement, that’s what I remember helping most at first.  Other than you being here, ‘course.”  

His voice lowered as he glanced around the bedroom, still clearly on edge.  “It’ll help me, too… if we are gonna keep JARVIS…”

Steve swallowed hard and gave him a serious, hard look before glancing down at Darcy.  His shoulders hunched, stress evident as he weighed the needs of both Darcy as well as Bucky’s mental health and stability.  “I think we gotta leave JARVIS on for now, Buck.”  He stole an apologetic look back at Bucky, “She’s just too… fragile right now.  We may need help.  Legitimate, emergency help.”

Bucky went quiet.  The clock from the living room ticked quietly, but it echoed in the silence.

“What if I can’t handle it, Steve,” he asked warily.

Steve didn’t have a good response to that.  But he pushed forward, lacing his fingers together and sighing.  “She needs us, pal.”

Bucky nodded slowly.  “I’ll just have to… deal,” he said slowly, worriedly, glancing down at Darcy.  “For her…I think maybe, I...” he trailed off, overwhelmed with indecision.



“Just try, pal,” Steve pleaded.  “I’m here,” he reminded him.  “I’m gonna take care of you both.”  He raised their hands, kissing the back of Bucky’s.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes.  Ms. Lewis will wake momentarily,” interrupted JARVIS.

Bucky froze in place, then shuddered violently as his face went dull and hauntingly blank.  Steve watched him shift and shuffle, struggling to try and find himself between the mission and the threat.  Between Darcy and JARVIS.  

Steve could tell he was fighting with himself, desperately trying to ignore the way his body was screaming for him to get the hell out of there, or to stay, fight, and protect.  The need to keep her safe outweighed all other options.  The mission always came first.  Steve recognized Bucky go through what appeared to be one of his therapy checklists as he watched Bucky recognise the state his body was in, actively took note of where he was, and forced himself to take a deep, grounding breath. 

Bucky shook his head minutely in an effort to clear his thoughts.  “We can’t leave her in this room, Stevie,” he said gruffly, desperately trying to stay present.  “Let’s put her on the couch in the living room.  We can make it comfortable enough for her, set up some bedding and some pillows.  Kind of like we used to when you were sick.  Make dinner, hopefully get her to eat something, and we’ll go from there.”

Steve nodded carefully, his eyes glued to Bucky, whose eyes were in turn fixed on Darcy.  Steve couldn’t look away; Bucky wouldn’t. 

“I’m trying, Steve,” is all he said before Darcy groaned, her casted hand flinging out away from her, as if batting something away.  Steve caught her hand and tucked it gently beside her before she could come in contact with anything that might cause her pain.



“All we can ever do, pal,” Steve replied, and for a moment things felt almost normal between them.  Bucky felt it too, he could tell.  An iota of the tension drained out of Bucky, and he nodded, resolute. 

“Alright, here we go,” Bucky said.  “Let’s try to move her real quick - it’s gonna hurt her.  Shit, every time we fucking move her, it’s gonna cause her actual pain.”  He growled in frustration.  

“There’s no way to get around it,” Steve said calmly, his confidence growing as he knelt down beside her.  “We gotta do the best we can here.”  

He turned his attention to Darcy.  “Darcy, sweetheart, we’re just gonna move you to the couch in the living room,” he murmured to her softly.  “We think you’ll be more comfortable there.

Darcy frowned in her sleep, pain obvious in her expression at being moved.

“We’re not gonna to leave you alone in here, not after you passed out, so we’re gonna carry you out to the living room,” Steve told her as he reached under her legs and behind her neck.  “Gonna be quick, trying not to hurt you.”  She barely weighed anything at all as he slowly, gently, lifted her into his arms.

She groaned softly.

“It’s alright, doll,” his chest rumbling against her ear as he tucked her head under his chin.  “You’re okay now, Bucky and me - we gotcha, ain’t gonna let nothing get to you here.”

“Your Brooklyn is showing, Stevie,” Bucky smirked as he grabbed a blanket from Darcy’s bed and followed Steve into the living room.

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve grumbled lightly.

“Make me, punk,” Buck shot back, smiling.

***

Jane had been sitting there for over two hours, by Tony’s count.  Well, two hours in that spot, anyway; she’d spent the better part of the day staring out at the city from a window seat, before moving to the kitchen, listlessly pouring herself another cup of coffee and planted herself on a stool at the kitchen island.  To which she then hadn’t moved from the island stool for over two hours and counting.  

Something about the way she was acting had bothered Tony enough to have JARVIS keep tabs on her after Thor left.  For a man of science, he also tended to trust his gut more often than not, and his gut was being loudly concerned about Jane. 



With everyone else preoccupied with Darcy, be it her recovery or seeking out her captors, Jane had been left alone, to her own devices.  That should have meant things were back to business as usual, not that anything felt “back to normal” in any capacity.  But it was the state she and Tony, and even Bruce occasionally,  tended to default to.  It looked exceptionally lonely from the outside, the isolated genius routine, but what it actually was, or at least could be, was peaceful.  An escape even. 



On the flip side, it could also be the opposite of what could be considered breathing room.  The isolation could lead to the spiraling of negative thoughts.  While alcohol tended to be Tony’s preferred choice of dealing with the stress and anxiety of negative feelings, he didn’t know Jane’s coping skills for when things got shitty when Darcy wasn’t there.  Darcy, usually via way of distraction, was often Jane’s way of dealing with all things challenging, and more often than not, the simple day to day motions of eating, sleeping, bathing, etc…



Thank God for Pepper.



So Tony had decided to do the watch-and-wait approach towards Jane, checking in with JARVIS regularly to make sure she wasn’t operating outside of what was considered “normal parameters.”  JARVIS hadn’t alerted Tony once yet regarding Jane’s behavior because technically, she wasn’t doing anything outside the norm.  

She hadn’t done anything.  

Barely even moved, even from one location to the next.  

She was simply drifting.  Not eating, not sleeping, not talking.  Just zoning out and staring at things.

And that was very much not how Jane operated.

She wasn’t consuming anything but coffee, which was actually pretty normal in Tony’s book, but thanks to JARVIS’ monitoring she’d exceeded his own impressive personal record of Days Survived On Coffee Alone.  

Most disturbing of all, she wasn’t doing anything with all that caffeinated energy.  No math-doing, no note-taking, no Olympic-level word vomit that rivalled Tony’s own as she talked herself through another Nobel-worthy physics puzzle.  

All the habits that drove Tony crazy combined to make what Darcy had named the “Crazy Science Tornado.”  Tony didn’t think of himself as an overly anxious person, but waiting for Jane to show some sign of storm activity was making him jittery, and not in the good coffee-related way.  

She should be jumping between projects, jotting down formulas on the wall, piecing things together with duct tape (Tony still shook his head in horror at that.  She had been given a billion-dollar, state of the art laboratory, and still… he couldn’t get her to stop with the fucking duct tape.) 

Darcy had been there through it all.  Tony had amused himself on more than one occasion by watching Jane flit around in a Science Panic, Darcy strolling calmly in her wake, holding a fork up to Jane’s face and shoving food in between words.  Everywhere Jane went, Darcy followed, filing her notes and taking photographs of the work on the walls or windows when Jane’s overzealous antics got ahead of her ability to find paper and pencil.  

Occasionally a timer would go off on Darcy’s phone, and she would kindly, but firmly, yank Jane away from her work, artfully counteracting her attempts to grab paper and pen to keep working.  Eventually, Jane wound up being shoved into her own quarters, and given orders to shower, sleep, and at least stay in her room for the next eight hours, asleep if possible.  And Jane, shockingly, did as she was told.

Darcy, having proclaimed herself Jane’s “wrangler” (and having Jane begrudgingly confirm that she does in fact occasionally need a little help taking care of little things like ‘eating’) Darcy set out to expand her stable.  Tony, much to his delight, had also been deemed a Crazy Scientist.  He was thinking of having team shirts made.

Somehow Bruce had escaped any such label, which was offensive and Tony had profusely argued that Bruce was possibly the craziest of all when he truly lost himself into the deep and dirty of whatever project he’d worked himself into.  The man could disappear for days on end, rivaling even the worst of Tony’s obsessive workshop benders, devoted into his experiments, but for the sheer fact that Bruce tended to make sure he ate, drank, and slept during said obsessive benders, Darcy had proclaimed him the sanest of the three and therefore, hadn’t required him a title worthy of needing a “wrangler” as Darcy so sarcastically had phrased it.  

Less than a week into her residence in the tower, Tony got a first-hand look at what it felt like to be wrangled. Being dragged bodily away from work that was very important, actually, while being scolded by a petite persistent powerhouse like Darcy, was borderline offensive.  He especially did not enjoy Bruce’s amused half-smirk and farewell wave.  As she marched him towards his quarters, Darcy informed him that JARVIS had been keeping her updated, and that he’d hit 34 hours without sleep.  If he didn’t follow her self-care orders, furthermore, she had threatened to have his bathroom visits monitored, too.  Like he wasn’t an adult who could do what he wanted.  And she had the gall to say all this with a tone of complaint , talking about how offensive it was to leave her with yet another crazy scientist.



Darcy had shoved him into his bedroom, drolling commands at JARVIS like she’d lived in the tower her entire life, and took them up to his penthouse as he blurrily stared at her, too tired to fully comprehend what was happening but aware enough that he should be feeling very offended.  She’d shoved him into his bed, with him mumbling arguments the entire time about how she was crazy and this was his tower and he was an adult who could do what he wanted, when he wanted, because he was Tony Stark…

He couldn’t lie; he was still devoted, completely and passionately, to Pepper, even as he fumed at being put to bed like a child, he noticed plenty of things did have the thought that he wouldn’t mind watching her walk around his bedroom every day.  She continued in spite of his protests until he was in bed and under the covers, then she gave him a peck on the forehead and he couldn’t notice anything but her.  As she dimmed the lights and walked away, she gave a quirky half-smile over her shoulder and said, “Night night, crazy scientist.”

Yeah, he could fall for her, in another life.

But seeing Jane now, without her wrangler, without her friend… it was heartbreaking.  His brain began reviewing notes and cataloging facts of seeing Jane the past few days. 

She had been silent since leaving the hospital the other day.  And still.  

Which only meant one thing.  

She was hurting, she’d completely shut down, and she was currently all alone.  

Jane, the brilliant Dr. Foster was in his tower, and therefore, he felt responsible for her well-being.  Darcy would find her current state unacceptable, and so in her stead, Tony felt the need to fill a missing piece.

He didn’t cook often, and it was an even rarer occasion for him to cook for someone else… but JARVIS had updated him before his arrival that it had been a long time since she’d last eaten anything.  Too long for even a Stark, and he could go quite a long time before remembering to eat.  Or until Darcy dragged him out of his lab.  Or Bruce physically put something he’d made under Tony’s face as he tinkered and then waited until the smells of said delicious, homemade food drew Tony’s attention from his work.  It was usually then, and only then, that his stomach would growl fiercely and his body would let itself known that it was starving and possibly should go to bed after.  If they could do it for him, he could do this for Jane.   

“Here,” Tony said as he slid a plate of perhaps not perfect, but certainly edible scrambled eggs over to Jane.  He’d even added some spinach to this last effort because he was fancy like that and hoped on some level it might cover up any burned parts.  He peered down at her through his fancy sunglasses he’d built to make himself look cool inside.  Inside sunglasses.  Because reasons.  And he could.  

She was a small thing, Jane.  He always forgot how tiny she actually was because she was always bouncing everywhere with her hands flying, with sharpies in her mouth, and standing on things yelling equations and throwing pop-tarts at Darcy when Darcy gave her sass.  

He’d never been very protective over a person before – Pepper could take care of herself, aside from the odd supervillain incident - but as Jane curled in tighter on herself, he felt certain that he’d made the right decision. 



Jane had been inconsolable when she’d discovered the extent of Darcy’s injuries.  Every new detail that was let slip had set off a new wave of horrified tears, so much so that Thor had asked them to refrain from sharing anything but the most general of explanations. 



Even so, Jane wasn’t stupid.  She’d seen Darcy with her own eyes, and although the surface was only part of the damage, she’d clearly put enough pieces together to see the shape of the whole horrifying experience.

As he was watching and worrying, she uncurled slightly.  He could see her face now, with the perpetual purple bags under her eyes.  Her skin was almost the same shade as her white knuckles that maintained a death grip on her coffee cup.  If JARVIS hadn’t notified Tony that she may be in need of wrangling, how long would she have sat here, spaced out, staring at a blank wall?

“You need to eat something, Doc,” he told her, giving her a quick once-over as he took a sip of his own coffee.  She was wrapped up in a veritable cocoon of cardigans, including a maroon toboggan covering her head.  His stomach twisted at the sight; it reminded him so much of Darcy on days when she was dressed for comfort, in soft and fluffy layers that softened her curves without diminishing their appeal.  What was with these two and their knit hat obsession?  Where did they get off calling him crazy?

And yet, on Jane, the wintry clothes only added to her ghostly demeanor.  She still looked chilled to the bone and fragile, like she was wearing armor that she no longer trusted to keep her safe. 

Looking at her now was like looking into a mirror, a reflection of himself on the nights he woke up screaming in terror, when he’d yanked the covers away and climbed into the shower in pure blown panic, his desperation turning the water temperature hot enough to match his preferred temperature of coffee, in order to stay awake rather than go back to the nightmares about the chilled cave. 



The cold was a memory felt by his whole body despite the heat of the water, and when he realized his shaking had nothing to do with the cold, but rather fear itself, he’d then retreat back to his bed, hiding under the covers like a child, still shivering long after his body had warmed back up.  Getting his racing heartbeat to slow was another story, however, and he would often lay there for hours, tucked deeply within his covers, debugging code until he was tired enough to fall into a dreamless sleep.  

On other nights, he awoke in such sheer terror, that he was forced out of his bed and away from the safety of his covers, shying away from the idea of water being poured over his head, stumbling into his lab in desperation to get his hands working and his mind focused on something else, anything else.  

The nightmares followed him around, haunting him, and he worked to escape them.  

Some days, escapism was easier than others.  The distance… time itself… seemed to be the only thing truly helping.  The nightmares were less than they were, the need for daily escapism, lessened.  But how do you help someone when time seems to be the only cure?

Tony set down his empty mug and let his body run on autopilot, resetting the coffee machine for a fresh batch. 

“Listen, Doc,” he began again...

“Told you to call me Jane, Tony,” she mumbled, her eyes sweeping over to him quickly before looking down at her hands, and he nodded to acknowledge the correction, relief quickly spreading through him that she had at least acknowledged him.  She was present at least.  

“You made eggs?” she asked dully.

“I did.”  She didn’t need to know that it had taken him four tries to put something edible on a plate.  

Picking up the fork he had laid out next to the plate, she poked at the eggs unenthusiastically.  Tony watched her spear a mouthful, bring it up in front of her face, and stare at it.  Then, just as robotically, she put the fork down and dropped her head into her hands.  

“Well jeez, at least give them a nibble.  I have it on good authority that my eggs are actually great, which is not the vibe you’re giving me.”  Tony tried for a jovial tone even as his gaze kicked up a notch from Sympathetic to Troubleshooting.  Bundled up in layers but shaking like she’s cold; thoughts too tangled up to concentrating on eating.  She’d barely touched her coffee, either, which wasn’t a great sign; it was a near-universal truth that even the most unhinged and preoccupied of scientists could drink coffee in their sleep. 

As though on cue, she raised her head just enough to reach out for the coffee mug, and lifted it to her mouth with shaking hands.  Tony let his body steer itself again, and turned his observations over in his mind while he cleaned up.  Once she’d had a decent amount to drink, he nudged the plate towards her again. 

“Steve’s been texting me, keeping me up to date.  They’ve got her settled in the guest room. She’s mostly been sleeping, which I guess makes sense since they’ve only been home a few hours.”

Jane nodded, and stared down at her plate.  Her chin trembled. 

“How’re you holding up, kid?” he asked gently.  She looked up at him then, her eyes suddenly focused and intense though her tone remained flat. 

“It’s my fault.” 

Tony shook his head.  Is that what she thought?  

“Really isn’t,” he corrected her, tilting his head in her direction.  He chugged the rest of his coffee down and moved to refill the mug once again.

“Question of the day, Tony,” she glanced down at the plate of eggs he’d made her as if they offended her.  He didn’t know what she was going on about, they were perfectly seasoned.

“Did you ever wonder how Hydra knew about my research in the first place?  How they even knew to look for it?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed, his brilliant mind already leaping to where she was leading.  “Run of the mill, Jane.  People break in and steal shit.  It happens.  Shouldn’t have happened, but I worked it out with JARVIS.  Won’t happen again.”

“Not this time,” she closed her eyes, pained.     

His concern shifted, hardening, as pieces of a puzzle began knitting together in his mind.  “What did you do?” he breathed.

“I sent an email,” she began, her voice rough with disuse.  “To a colleague, whom I considered a friend, about my work.”  She spoke almost monotonously, with no inflection or enthusiasm.  “Told him what my research was on, and that it was post-testing.”  She took a deep breath.  

“I told him that it worked and that I had proof.”

Tony held his breath, his hands now gripping the edges of the island countertop, knuckles turning white as he stared at her in disbelief.

“Told him that I was sending in my research to the Nobel committee that week.”

Tony stared at her, the wheels in his brain working a mile a minute, drawing conclusions before the questions had even been asked.

“When?” he whispered, horrified.

“It was earlier that morning, before I talked to you and Bruce that day.”

“Who was it?” Tony demanded.

Jane covered her face with her hands.  “His name was Dr. Levi Hoffman.  We met through a mutual friend at Culver.  He was a vaccine researcher and worked at Fralin Biomedical Research Institute.  We’ve been colleagues for years.  We would write to each other, back and forth, always discussing what we were working on, giving each other notes and suggestions.  Encouragements.  I thought he was a friend.”

She looked up at Tony, grief so evident in her small stature that he could see her crumbling beneath the crushing weight of it. 

All at once, Jane’s behaviour was totally understandable.  It was all a bit too extreme for someone who had lost their Emotional Support Intern, but to have been the cause of… of everything Darcy had been through?  Yeah, now it all made terrible, perfect sense.  

One could sit and point fingers all day at “who done it,” but really, what would it accomplish?  Jane was sitting here, wracked with pain and guilt.  Alone, and hurting.  She hadn’t been the one to kidnap Darcy, to hurt her.  She never would.  They loved each other, like sisters.  It wasn’t her fault this happened.  

Well, it was and it wasn’t.  Christ, the guilt this young woman must be carrying.  

Most of the Avengers carried a heavy weight of guilt around in one large capacity or another.  But Jane was what… 26, 27 years old?  Much too young to be burdened with something like this.  

“I didn’t know he was Hydra.  I had no idea.”  Her voice finally trembled, the first sign of emotion, rising as she pleaded at him.  “He’s dead.  Natasha shot him in the head when they rescued Darcy.  She showed me his face when they got back.  I didn’t know until then - I swear, I didn’t know!”  She sucked in a breath.  “They wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for me.  None of this would have even happened…”

“Jesus Christ.  Jane, you can’t believe that what happened to Darcy is your fault.”  Tony was at a loss for words.  

Jane shrunk further into herself.

“It is my fault, it is,” her eyes blurry with unshed tears, her chin trembling.  “I never imagined the conversation you and I would have that day, or the arguments that followed.  It never even occurred to me to consider if this work was something that I should even be doing or not.  That people would be… hurt because of it.  People I love.”

She looked to Tony despairingly as he shook his head at her.  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.  “I am so sorry.  She will never forgive me.  It is all my fault.  Everything.  All of it.  She has every right to…” Jane broke off, unable to continue.  

“Jane.”  He was horrified she felt this way.  “Honey, no.  What happened to Darcy is in no way your fault.  You can’t do this to yourself.”  

She looked up at him, expression blank.  It was eerie.

“You know I have to tell her.”

“No you don’t,” he breathed.

Jane wilted.  “Tony, she deserves to know,” she whispered softly, lowering her gaze, her hair falling over her face as if to shield her from Tony’s response.  “That I’m the reason…” her throat tightened, tears spilling out of her eyes.

Tony walked around the island and stood in front of her.  Placing a hand under her chin, he waited until she met his eyes with her own.

“Listen to me, kid.  Level with me.  We’ve all seen the tv movie version of what happened to me. The shit we found her in? Wouldn’t even fly on HBO.  No fucking way are you laying that on her.  Not now.  Not ever.  She needs you.  And this is not your fault, Jane.  None of it.”

She looked away, sick with guilt and refusing to believe a word of defense to her actions.  It was her fault, what happened to Darcy - all of it.  It hurt her to know she was at fault.

“Incoming text from Captain Steve Rogers,” JARVIS informed him before he could continue.  Tony’s fingers were a blur as he started typing a response before he could possibly have finished reading.

“What is it - is everything okay?” 

Her self-disgust must have been evident on her face, as Tony grimaced at her, and then his phone, as he side-eyed her before coming to some kind of conclusion, schooling his features carefully.  He set the phone on the countertop, and poured the rest of his lukewarm coffee down his throat before nodding in Jane’s direction.  

“You’re up, kid,” he told her gently.  “She needs you.”

Jane froze.

Tony studied her in concern with a frown that wrinkled the edges of his eyes.  “Steve’s messaging me.  Darcy’s awake and he’s asking if you will come and help her clean up.”

The color drained out of Jane’s face, making her paler, if that was even possible.  She swayed slightly and Tony, who had been watching her carefully, grabbed onto her to help steady her.  He looked her over carefully, now weighing all the variables he was now privy to.

“You gonna be able to do this?” he asked, his question gentle but in a tone that made her aware that if she couldn’t commit to helping her friend, and she would - of course she would, even if she felt she didn’t deserve to… that he would get someone who would.  And that wasn’t fair to Darcy in any way, shape, or form.  She could do this.  She would do this.  He believed that she could pull herself together to do this.

The poor girl looked like she might be sick.

“Eat your eggs,” he told her.  “I’m gonna go talk to Steve and let him know you’ll be around when you’re done.”

She couldn’t look at him.

“You’re not alone here,” he said softly.  “We’re gonna take care of you too, okay?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled.  “You need to put your focus and energies towards helping Darcy.  Don’t waste that on me.”

There was so much to unpack there, it threw him for a beat.  Her chin trembled as she stared at her plate.

“You aren’t fine,” he told her gently.  “And what happened to Darcy is not your fault.”

A tear slid down her cheek before she roughly brushed it away with a shaky hand.

“Eat your eggs, go wash your face, and I’ll let Steve and Bucky know you’re coming.  We’ll talk more on this later.  JARVIS, make sure she finishes what’s on her plate.”

Grimacing, she pulled the plate close, her hand shaking as she picked up her fork, and he headed out to go have a very important and informative face to face with Steve and Bucky, confident that Jane would be able to pull it together as they hoped she would.  He also wanted to let them know in confidence how much Jane was currently struggling, and give them a heads up on what to look out for.  To help Darcy, yes, of course, absolutely.  

But also, that collectively they all needed to keep a close eye on Jane for a while.  That she was not doing okay right now either and needed support.  He sent Steve another text, quickening his steps as he made his way down to Cap’s quarters. 

When they could get the two girls together, some comfort and healing would take place.  He felt sure of this.

***

Chapter Text

***

Darcy woke up to a flare of pain shooting up her leg as she was being settled into a fluffy couch.  She felt a soft pillow being wedged behind her, and her casted leg was raised momentarily before being set down on another pillow.

Gentle hands were touching her, and then letting her go.

Darcy's eyes felt as heavy as the pile of soft blankets currently cocooning her in warmth.  It made it all the more difficult to open them.  

Soft music reached her ears, something melancholy and timeworn, punctuated by the pops and crackles; vinyl, her practiced ear declared.  Footsteps to the side of her and a pot clanging gently against a stove.  The comforting smell of warm, homemade food wafted through the room, pleasant and lulling.  Her stomach growled softly and she groggily opened her eyes.

Steve's bright red oven mitt drew her eye; he stood at the stove, stirring a large pot of something with his bare right hand.  There was a slow, vaguely squeaky noise to her other side and she glanced over to see Bucky sitting down in a rocking chair, next to a soft lamp, gently swaying back and forth, back and forth.  Each movement caused a gentle slow squeak, thankfully more comforting than annoying, and tugged at her; a childhood memory she couldn’t quite recall.  He was flipping through the pages of a worn hardback novel, surely too fast to actually be reading it.

“Soups on,” Steve called out.  “Come and get it,” he sang.  He was a bit off key; it was actually kind of nice, Darcy thought, to know he wasn’t awesome at everything.

Bucky set the book back down on what looked to be a real wood, handmade coffee table in front of Darcy’s couch and peered over at her.  “You feelin’ hungry, doll?”

She frowned down at her hands, still cocooned in the blankets.  What was she even doing out here?  Trying to take in the room all at once was exhausting.  Even the quick glances she snatched now felt almost more than she could take.  There was something in the vastness of how open the room felt to her that made her want to hightail it and hide.  She squinted, expecting a flash of burn from the light of the room, but the room was dim, not dark.  Her brows furrowed together. 

The colors of their apartment were gorgeous, with deep walnut-colored furniture and kitchen and sturdy exposed beams in the vaulted ceiling.  White curtains drawn, so that only a small amount of ambient light shone through the seams.  Blue pillows and decorate fixtures, with a tasteful hint of red here and there throughout the room.  Trust Steve to decorate his apartment in red, white, and blue.  

There was a beautiful bookshelf set up behind where Bucky was sitting, full of novels, most hardback, some soft cover, but all seemingly loved and worn.  

The walls were covered with beautiful pencil drawings, with an incredibly detailed rendering of the Brooklyn Bridge taking pride of place on the mantle.  There were a few smaller drawings; the Howling Commandos lined up in a row, leaning against a huge fallen tree.  Their expressions carrying a mixture of fond exasperation and laughter.  Tough and muddied and as worn out as their gear.  The details in each personality were extraordinary, and Darcy could almost hear their laughter and playfulness, the picture brought to life.  There was a beautiful drawing of a motorcycle and Steve’s shield, and another that Darcy found herself lingering on for a long moment.  It was a drawing of a much younger Bucky and Steve.  It must have been them right before the war; they weren’t children but also not the men they were in front of her.  Still boys, with wide grins, looking for all the world as if they were millimeters away from erupting into outright laughter.  Bucky’s hair was cropped short, and both were wearing newsboy hats and suspenders, their arms wrapped behind the other as they sat on steps in front of an old, rickety, wood and broken screen door.  It was just a simple charcoal drawing, but it exuded such feelings of warmth and of happiness.  One special moment of their incredible bond; a memory from their past together, frozen in time.  Darcy felt guilty for staring.  It felt private, as if she’d stumbled across an open diary, pulled into the most intimate thoughts one can express.

She looked away from the picture, to the fire crackling below the mantle; a whisper of heat spread over her face and neck.  

There were more drawings, and paintings too, but she stopped looking when she realized that Bucky, who had had set his book down - she wondered what he was reading - and was eyeing her expectantly.  Allowing her to finish her exploration of the space and waiting patiently for her response.

Oh.  She flushed.  What had been the question?  Was she hungry? 

She couldn’t remember feeling anything but. 

She heard her stomach grumble lightly again, but she didn’t feel hunger.  Only the dull, persistent pain of actual starvation that she had grown increasingly and uncomfortably aware of.  Her mouth was dry and she fought off the urge to cough.  For one horrible moment she was surrounded again by wet metal and stone, ice-cold collar around her sore throat.  She tried, rather unsuccessfully, to shift away from him, not wanting to be seen while the memory had her in its clutch, she had been so thirsty, so desperate.  

Her stomach twisted at the thought of putting anything in her mouth, so she turned back to him and shook her head, afraid that he would bring the food to her anyway.  But… it smelled so good, whatever Steve was cooking on the stove, and without conscious thought found herself shrugging lightly, carefully.  She didn’t know the right answer.

Bucky studied her carefully for a long moment.  She couldn’t look him in the eyes.  

Don’t you dare look at me, you stupid bitch.  Who the fuck do you think you are?   

“Let me get you some in a mug and we’ll go from there,” was all he said as he got up, his legs long as he shook out his pants before he made his way over to where Steve was now ladling the soup into what looked like large coffee mugs.  He was almost exactly as tall as Steve, though slightly thinner.  His hair was tied up in a low bun with several long hairs escaping in the front, He grabbed two of the three mugs and made his way back to the living room.  She was surprised when he bypassed the rocking chair and sat down on the coffee table right next to her, setting one down beside himself and holding onto the other with his metal hand.

He was too close now.  Darcy shrank back a little, her hackles raised. 

Steve had wandered over after, and her eyes darted over to follow the movement of his feet.  He was barefoot, and she felt a small tickle of amusement at that.  She had never seen Steve barefoot before.  In socks, sometimes, at…

...at movie nights.  

Don’t.  Her face fell at the memory.  She didn’t want to go there.  Wasn’t ready to remember.  She swallowed heavily and tightened her jaw. 

“Forget something?”  

Bucky nodded and Steve handed him two spoons.

“Thanks.”

“O’Course, Buck.”  Steve’s lips turned upwards at the corners as he padded back towards the kitchen.  "Want a drink?  I made tea.”

“That awful codswallop that tastes like feet?”

“You been chewing on your socks again?”

“It even smells like feet.”

Steve chuckled lightly.  “I made iced tea, just cause I knew you were gonna complain about it, you lunk.”

Bucky’s eyes twinkled as he grinned at his friend.  

Darcy felt befuddled at the simple day-to-day back and forth of conversation.  It had truly been so long since she’d been exposed to the relaxed cadences of normal conversation.  It was both strange… and not, both at once.  Like she knew this wasn’t a hole that was supposed to exist, but hadn’t noticed it was missing until it reappeared, somehow shifting everything she’d grown accustomed to just enough so that it felt forbidden and wrong .  The wrongness of the simple normality stretched open a chasm beneath her that she was barely straddled over, the dark something below churning underneath her, threatening to pull her down… down…

“Want to talk about it?” Bucky turned to her quietly.  He’d ducked down to her eye level, catching her gaze and holding it.  There were specks of gray in his icy blue eyes.  God, his eyelashes were long.

Unconsciously, she’d found herself observing him, taking in the worn red henley he wore over a simple black tshirt.  Did he even own other shirts?  Weary and exhausted, she leaned back, resting as she considered him, before her brain came screeching to a halt.  Realizing what she was doing in horror, she quickly looked away, ashamed and blinking hard, forcing back tears that she refused to allow to well up.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.”  

Her traitorous chin wobbled and she felt a flash of molten hot anger course through her, furious that she couldn’t control herself better.  

That’s right, little girl.  Show me how pretty you cry.

“Easy,” he tutted at her, comprehension flitting across his features as he leaned back away from her.  “You’re alright.”  She frowned, the pull of her skin tightening the cut on her cheek, making it ache in time with the rhythm of her heartbeat.  She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye, though it was barely there.  It was almost as if he expected the reaction she gave.  What he saw in looking at her, she wasn’t sure as she didn’t even understand herself, but she knew he got it and that he understood.  The realization made her feel a little less alone.

“Let’s try it while it’s warm, yeah?”   

He scooped up a spoonful from the mug he still held.  “I’m gonna hold this for you, because you're gonna have trouble eating this with only one arm - take it from me, I would know.”  He winked conspiratorially.  

He raised the spoon towards her, saying, “Stevie makes the best chicken noodle soup you’ll ever have.  He always could do more with less than anyone you’ve ever seen before.”  Pride shone through him, and Darcy could see then that to Bucky, Steve making soup this good was just as impressive as him regularly saving the world.  

Bucky held the spoon out to her, close enough that she could lean forward and eat from it without straining to reach.  ”Here,” he said, putting his other hand beneath the spoon to catch any spills. 

“Open up.”

An echo of those words clanged through her brain like cymbals crashing together.  

Those abhorrent words.  How many times had they said that to her?

Open up those pretty lips, or I’ll break your jaw to keep them open.

She shoved at him hard, desperate to push him away, fighting -- always fighting.  God, she had tried, before quickly realizing what she was doing and in her horror, froze, waiting for the retribution she knew would follow.  

Hands hovered close to her face.  She stiffened in silence, her fear turning any words she might say to ash, and turned away, she couldn’t help it, clamping her lips tight together in a desperate attempt to keep them away, out of her mouth. 

She wouldn’t give in, she couldn’t...

He grabbed her so tightly, she could feel the fingerprint bruises forming already.  You bitch, what did I tell you?  You watch those fucking teeth.  Don’t you dare try and bite down.  You bite me, girly, and you won’t like what I’ll do to you.   The taste of dirty salt from his sweaty fingers plunged in her mouth, on her tongue, invading so deep it made her gag.  Her body recoiled, gut rolling and heaving, and her heartbeat fluttered.  She arched back, desperate to get away, but they held her down.  She couldn’t move.  

It hurt in more ways than she could have known.  

His fingers pinched her carelessly and she cried out for him to stop, begging, pleading.  He paid her no heed, forcing his thumbs between her teeth, grunting at her that same command, “Open up,” before carelessly shoving himself inside her. 

He pushed in deeper every time, blocking her throat, choking her.  She tried desperately to push back but he held her head close against his body as they tied her down.  Her head was spinning, dizzy from the lack of air, and no matter how much it made her struggle, he held her and used her exactly as he wished.  Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she gagged around him, trying desperately to snatch a breath into her aching lungs.  

How could it feel good to him?  

He hadn’t slid in easily, she couldn’t breathe, she didn’t want it!  

Everywhere he touched her burned.  

Oh, god, she couldn’t breathe.

Darcy heard someone cry out.  It echoed in her head, but it felt like someone else.  It was so strange; she was here, this was happening now to her, but it seemed as if she was experiencing it from a distance.  

“Shit, what did I do?  I only said…” Bucky sat back quickly, glancing up at Steve.  Bucky’s eyes darkened with comprehension as he settled on hers again.  Soup splashed from the mug in his hand as he jerked away from her, his eyes widening in horror.

“...fuck.”

“Shall I alert Mr. Stark that there is a situation arising, Captain?” JARVIS questioned.

Bucky’s eyes flew to the ceiling.

Steve cursed from the kitchen, hurriedly turning off the stove and throwing down the mitts on the cabinet.  The boldness of their bright color confused her as to where she knew she must be.  

Red was the color of blood.  Her blood.



She felt neither here, nor there.

There was something very Suess-ian about that thought, her mind supplied unhelpfully. 



Red.  The color felt paramount, but overwhelmingly far-reaching, both at the same time.    

It felt to Darcy like that scene from Jaws, where the camera zooms into Brody when he notices the shark in the water for the first time.  It was as if she had been looking in on herself from the eye of a camera, but had only seen blurriness.  The focal point had sharpened, bringing her suddenly and with excruciating clarity into focus in the here and now.  Seeing, and being seen, simultaneously.



“I’m sorry,” she croaked, sucking in air like she’d just surfaced from an hours-long dive.  “I’m sorry.”  She cowered away from Bucky, her body tensing as she prepared for the beating that would surely follow.  He was so big next to her, so broad and powerful.  He could hurt her so easily and she wouldn’t be able to fight back; wasn’t strong enough.  Her mind felt muddled, the knowledge that he wouldn’t, Bucky would never, not strong enough to overpower what her body had learned to expect.

She flinched sharply, flinging her good hand up to protect her face.

Bucky stumbled back away from her, tripping over the mug on the floor in his haste to put distance between them.  The unexpected motion made her stomach clench up in knots as she cowered away from him, jolting her injuries in the process.  Her body throbbed.  It was all she could do to lean forward and vomit on the floor next to her.  Next to the trash can set there for moments just like this, her eternally unhelpful mind pointed out. 

She heard nothing.  No footsteps, nor any of the smashing noises she had come to expect from the room where they hurt her.  There was no draggin clang of metal from her chains.  

Her hand gripped her throat, feeling the weight of metal that her fingertips couldn’t seem to reach.

It had happened to her, she had been there.

“... flashback.”  His voice sounded garbled, as if he were speaking to her through a tin can.

She wasn’t there now.  But how could she believe that, when it felt as real as anything she’d felt since waking?  Oh god, she was slipping back. The irregular plop, plop of rain dripping into her cell kept time with her heart.  It was so cold. 

The phantom pain between her legs ached and she attempted to curl into a ball, tightening her legs together, wanting to bring her knees up and smash her face against them in an effort to hide.    

Before she could move a muscle, large hands were upon her, pushing at her, keeping her down.

They took turns holding her down.  

“Sweetheart, don’t move, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” he told her.  Steve.  She stilled immediately.  

He let her go, humming at her softly, his hands on her only for a moment, but she could feel the burn of his touch as if he was still holding her down.  Her unease grew the longer he stayed close, his hands hovering over hers as if preparing to stop another attempt at movement.  She was struck all over again by how immobile she was and how vulnerable it made her.  Her leg wrapped up in a cast, her arm braced against her chest in its sling.  Couldn’t hide, couldn’t escape.  

Steve spoke to her, but despite the concerned expression on his face, his unease was evident by how he kept glancing back and forth between the two of them.  “Hey, easy.  You’re alright.  I know you know this, but I’m gonna remind you anyway ‘cause it looks like this is one of those moments that we need to assess our surroundings and do a check-in.” 



She inhaled sharply, her eyes flicking up towards him before quickly looking off to the side. 



“You are in our apartment.  You aren’t back there anymore, we got you out and you are safe here.”  He emphasized the word.  

“Both of you are.”  He said, turning towards Bucky.

“I know what happened, Steve.  How they - what they did to her.”  Bucky’s voice was hoarse, trembling along with his human hand with barely-suppressed revulsion.  “Stevie, they-”

“Shh, we’re taking a breather, Buck,” Steve hushed him quickly, interrupting him mid-sentence.  Glancing quickly at Darcy, most likely to check and see if she was following his command of not moving or not; she wasn’t going to fall for this show of gentleness, surely it was a ruse to see if she would disobey and earn herself another punishment.  Seeming satisfied that she hadn’t moved a single muscle, he drew away from her, stepping deftly over the coffee table to him, and cautiously raised a hand as if to lay it on Bucky’s shoulder to offer him comfort.    

Bucky flinched hard, looking away from Steve, heavy shame evident in the way his shoulders curled away.  He tensed, looking about ready to flee, his dark blue eyes shifting into cold, steel gray, before shifting back. 

“Don’t, Steve.  I…” 

Steve let his hand drop to his side like nothing had happened.  Exuding patience, somewhat desperately and forced, his open stance and calm gaze practically shouting that he’d wait as long as it took for Bucky to look up at him again.  Like a starving man sitting in a jon boat, pole in hand and lure under the gentle rocking water, awaiting a single tug so he could catch his dinner. He would wait as long as it took because there wasn’t anything more important.

“Pal, ease up.  You didn’t do anything wrong,” he kept his voice low and soothing.

“Captain, shall I inform Mr. Stark that there is a situation arising?”  JARVIS repeated.

“Not at present, JARVIS.  Stand down.” 

“As you wish.”

Bucky had stilled, lowering his hands slowly, though his muscles remained tensed.

Darcy watched as Steve tilted his head to the side, watching Bucky.  His expression shifted, jaw tightening, morphing from comfort into concern.  Steve was widening his stance, too, almost imperceptibly, as if bracing himself for an impact. She’d seen him do it time and time again, when the news aired coverage of his battles.  Why was he doing it now?  

Steve drew his palms up, non-threatening and open, but remained assertive in his stance.  

“Stand down, soldier,” he commanded.

Bucky stood stock-still and motionless.  His dark eyes honed in on Steve’s, his hair falling in his face as his head tilted forward, almost imperceptibly.  Something unspoken passed between them that had Steve suddenly reversing in direction, withdrawing away from Bucky, his back remaining towards Darcy.  Even as disconnected as she currently felt, Darcy could tell that their interaction was strange, that something increasingly alarming was happening, or about to happen.  Steve lowered himself into a crouch next to her, shading her body with his own, carefully maneuvering the coffee table and sidestepped the spilled soup and her puddle of sick without once looking where he was going 

“We knew there would be triggers, Buck,” Steve said, keeping his voice low, as he shuffled closer still to Darcy.  “And we knew we’d probably step on a land mine or two along the way.”  

Her heart was beating a mile a minute and she couldn’t draw in sufficient breath.  

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he told her, without so much as a glance back at her yet, keeping his watchful gaze trained on Bucky.  “Try and calm down.”  

“Ms. Lewis’ heart rate is exceeding normal parameters, Captain.” JARVIS suddenly interjected.

“I am aware.”

“Should I inform Dr. Banner?”

Bucky’s face finally shuttered.  Backing away from them, he shook his head, blinking repeatedly, before making eye contact with Steve.  For a single moment, he let his fear surface.  Terrified, the expression on his face was open and childlike, eyes wide and afraid.  “Steve?”  His voice broke as he reached towards Steve with his human hand.

Steve took a hesitant, hopeful step forward.  

“Captain, I have an incoming message from Dr. Banner.”

“JARVIS, No!”  

Like a window slamming shut, Bucky’s face went blank, losing all emotion at once.  

In a breath, his panic was gone, something dark and cold taking its place.  With subtle shifts of his posture, he went from simply standing to towering menacingly.  The tilt of his head and the set of his muscles made him suddenly taller, broader, more intimidating.  Bucky settled into a stance that was something like a soldier at parade rest, but with an eerie inhuman stillness. 

Terror swelled up from deep within Darcy.  The urge to hide from him warred with the instinct to keep this new threat in her sights, and to do as she’d been told.  She couldn’t move.   

Steve had told her not to move.  

She couldn’t get air. 

Steve glanced back at her, his expression stormy, and he cursed softly.  He closed his eyes, taking in a slow, measured breath and squared his shoulders as if bracing for battle. 

Darcy knew what the Winter Soldier was capable of.  While she didn’t understand what had set off this current train of events, she was coherent enough to know something had gone very wrong and they were drifting into potentially very dangerous waters.  She wasn’t sure what she would do if Bucky decided to attack Steve.  Or her.  She darted back and forth between the two, growing increasingly on edge.  

“Alright, Buck, okay,” he murmured quietly to his friend, seeming to think out loud as he planned out his next steps.  “We hit red headon, didn’t we pal.”  

Steve’s arms were shaking almost imperceptibly as he pushed a hand through his blonde locks, a repetitive gesture she’d watched him do when stressed.  His hair was growing long - he needed it cut soon.  His natural color was gold, with highlights as if lightened in the sun, and darker at the back and sides, where he would have had it shaved short as a soldier.  The perfect combination of light and dark, spun into gold, as if Rumpelstiltskin had taken his wheel to it.  She wondered briefly if he used lemon juice in his, like she used to in the hot, summer sun. 



Darcy didn’t know what to make of what was currently happening.  Steve’s tone remained reassuringly calm, but it was in such opposition to his body language that she felt her alarm increasing.  

“Sir, if I may,” JARVIS began.

“Damn it, JARVIS!  Stand down until further notice.” 



Darcy recoiled at the anger in his tone.  

“Yes, Captain.”

And there was silence.

“It’s gonna be okay.  You’re fine.”  

She wasn’t sure which one of them he was talking to.  Maybe he was talking to himself.  Darcy mentally balked at the idea of being fine.  None of this was fine.  She needed to get the fucking hell out of there.  She wanted to run away, to escape.  Or possibly find a cramped, dark closet - one with a lock on the inside, or… maybe even find her car.  She’d had an extra taser in her car once upon a time.



She glanced down at her casted leg.  It was like an anchor, dropped into the middle of the ocean; deep and heavy and unmoving.  She wasn’t going anywhere.



The Captain had told her not to move, and she wasn’t about to rock the boat on her first test.



She felt uneasy about attempting to peer up at them without drawing attention to herself with him so close.  He would know; she would be found out.

The Soldier was watching.



The Captain held his back to her - he wouldn’t know, a voice whispered inside.

But when he found out, he might punish her.  She felt a sob welling in her chest.

Darcy heard Steve take a shaky breath.  

“Let’s not take any wooden dimes here, Buck.  We’re just gonna take a moment and get our bearings, is all.”

Wooden dimes? 



The Captain was visibly upset and Darcy felt compelled to not give him any reason for that upset to become anger directed towards her.  But wooden dimes?  There was something about that phrasing that settled something in her shoulders, that eased a tension that was strung tight - hadn’t noticed it until it loosened.  The old Darcy would have spoken up and poked fun of Steve’s use of a phrase like that.

It turned into hysterical laughter bubbling up, wanting to escape.  She held it in, struggling to control her facial muscles so as not to be given away.  

She was losing it; her mind.  She was very well aware. 

What was going on?  Why was Steve retreating?  Did he think Bucky would attack her?  A wave of nausea rolled in the pit of her gut and she worried she might be sick again.  

Bucky had stayed with her, had protected her… He’d found her… She’d held on to him, desperate for his comfort.  Wanted it.  

At the hospital, he’d been there with her, so strong and she’d needed that so badly...

He’d felt… safe.  He’d rescued her.  Bucky was safe.  

The Soldier wasn’t safe. 

She was such a fucking a fool.  

Steve turned.  He was almost touching her.



Darcy tensed, struggling to inhale, her good hand shooting up as a physical barrier between her body and the two of them.  She shook with the effort, but braced herself determinedly.  A volcano of worry burned ominously in her chest, threatening to explode. 

“Breathe out for me, sweetheart,” Steve-- no, the Captain told her, shifting his entire focus to her, though his eyes remained on the Soldier in front of him.  Cap seemed so in control.  She wanted to cling to that, desperately yearning to believe the words he was saying.  

He was picking up where Bucky had left off, but she didn’t trust it.  Wouldn’t trust it.

She felt like a fish, floundering on land, gasping without any relief.   

He’d turned to her fully, back to Bucky, his eyes dark and serious; urgent.  He was either worried enough about her to put his focus completely on her, or trusting Bucky enough not to attack.  Seeming to need her to understand the danger they were in.  She was fearfully aware.

“I swear on all that is holy, goddamn it, you are safe with me,”  said The Captain vehemently.  “I’m not gonna let anything hurt you.”  

The words fell flat.  Being safe and saying no were both bullshit lies.  They were both just words, and there was fuck all power or meaning in either of them.  Saying no might change the pain, but it wouldn’t make it stop.  She’d said it in chains, in the hospital bed, here in this apartment, and nothing had stopped, and she still wasn’t safe.  She was just being ignored in a new place.  There’s no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy, no safe.  Even if there were such a thing, you didn’t get it by saying no.  Saying no got you punished.



She wouldn’t survive another punishment.  Couldn’t bear to.

The Captain’s jaw clenched and his eyes bore into hers, respecting and not pushing the imaginary boundary between them that she had created.  She tried to freeze her muscles in place; not even her expression could be allowed to say no.

Don’t move, don’t move.  Her hand trembled.  Shit.



The Captain noticed it all the same, his lips going flat and running a hand through his hair in frustration, before throwing a glance back at Bucky.  “C’mon Buck.  Don’t flip your wig.  We’re all just gonna to stop here and breathe ‘til we get back on solid ground.  Okay?”  His tone now deceptively light, as if he were attempting to lessen the severity of the current situation. 

Bucky didn’t respond.  Tension pierced her chest, tight and hot. 

Darcy’s hand remained between her and Steve, a shaky but determined barrier, one she willed him not to push past.  She wasn’t sure if she could handle him getting nearer again.  

Fight me again, little girl, and I’ll choke you with my dick until you can’t breathe no more.  Don’t believe me?  Try me.  

She couldn’t swallow.  She could still taste…

The Captain hovered closely.

There was something she should say.  Something he had told her to do.  She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember.  Her chin wobbled.

“Breathe out, sweetheart.”  His deep blue eyes honed in, giving her a quick once over, taking in the shaky hand she held up between them and the expression on her face.  Something sharpened in him, she could see it, like he was a sample under a microscope, coming into focus with one precise twist.

She tried.  God, she tried to make her lungs work, but they refused.  Something was wrong.  Her heart jackknifed inside of her chest.  White and blinding, the pain from it grew within her.  Gray dots danced around the edges of her vision and she felt a tingling sensation on her lips.  

“Darcy,’ he demanded, his eyes searing into hers.  “Honey, you have to breathe.”  He surged towards her when he realized she couldn’t - she was trying, her throat was tightening up - but she jerked back, shying away from the touch before she even realized what she was doing.

Sorry, sorry… she shouldn’t have pulled away.  Such an idiot, she couldn’t stop making these colossaly and monumentally stupid mistakes.  She’d been keeping herself on a tight rein, doing everything she knew of to keep danger away, to be good , only to disobey him right to his face and fling herself off the precipice into the horrifying inevitable. 

Steve pulled back and looked at her gently, his eyes softening around the edges as he blinked at her.  

He was supposed to be upset.  Why wasn’t he angry?

Her one saving grace during her captivity, and the talent that had made her feel special both within a group of super people, had been her ability to read those around her, usually with spot-on accuracy.  But she couldn’t get a read on Steve now.  He was upset but he was controlled.  He was fiercely ready for a fight but remained gentle and patient, like he was looking at her now.

It wouldn’t be long until the game would be turned on her instead of simply around her.  How would she walk the line of knowing what to expect if he kept giving her the unexpected?

She felt unhinged and unsettled.    

She wasn’t safe.  It wouldn’t be long before he’d… they’d… he… The silent trembling of her limbs felt odd; the nervous, icy sensations flaring through her ought to crack and groan like glaciers.

“Damnit,” he cursed unhappily.  “I’m sorry, I’m going about this all wrong.”  His eyes closed for a long moment as he worked to gather himself.



Color.  He wanted color.  She was supposed to say a color to make him happy.  It was on the tip of her tongue. 



A childhood song echoed in her memory, red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue… I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, too... ”  

“Okay.  Okay, okay,” he murmured to himself.  While he outwardly remained calm, his fiery blue eyes shone through with an edge of panic, like that of growing wildfire.  “Buck, we gotta cook with gas here.  It’s all going sideways.”  

Bucky gave zero response.



There was something in getting a glimmer of fear from him that finally began to settle her.  

“As soon as we’re all back on even ground, we’re gonna take a very needed respite.  Let’s get there together.  Try and exhale, doll,” he soothed, and she was finally able to release the breath she’d been unknowingly been holding.  “You too, pal,” he threw out.  

Her breath hitched, her second attempt failing.  But she had tried.  That had to count for something, didn’t it?  

“Good,” he praised, his face breaking out in a warm smile, his shoulders relaxing ever so.  On one hand, she realized that breathing wasn’t an accomplishment to be encouraged upon doing, because it’s… you know, involuntary, and it’s just breathing.  But seeing such a massive, concentrated, physical reaction to it from him?  She could take the praise.  It filtered warmly through her chest, melting some of the aching cold that had wrapped itself around her throat and heart.  She relaxed just a little more, and let herself unhale.  

The fresh air was a balm upon her throat and lungs.  She rubbed roughly at her chest, massaging away some of the stabbing tightness that remained.     

Also… That word, good.  It felt… nice.  

That word woke something undefinable in Darcy, and The Captain noticed.  His brilliant gaze snapped to hers, as if something had awoken in her eyes, too.  The look he gave her burned through her, like gas poured over a fire pit.  The longer he watched her, the bigger and hotter the thing inside her grew.  Something about being seen fuelled it, roaring up and crackling to life.  She’d seen him look at her like this in a hospital.  Now, it seemed like some sort of beginning or understanding; a key turning into place.

She tried again, and finally managed another breath, less strained but still shaky.  The effort left her shaky, head dizzy and heart fluttering like hummingbird wings. 

“That is so good, thank you,” Steve praised again, this time watching her carefully as the words rolled off his tongue.  “Doing so good, doll.”  

Much to her surprise, she found herself relaxing into the praise.  It felt like hitting her stride during a run; everything still hurt, but she could endure it now.  She would be good for him.  Steve had forgiven her, it seemed, for pulling away from him.  

He reached a hand up, slowly, cautiously, giving her plenty of time to track its movement and cupped her cheek gently.  This time, she allowed it.  She understood this type of touch.  This was her penitence.  Her chance to earn his praise and to be absolved of punishment.  

His thumb swept over her cheek gently, silently asking if she was alright.  

She had known this time would come.  Her heart clenched and cracked, things she’d once been certain of shattering and falling away.  She’d always known that she wasn’t capable of avoiding the inevitable.  It had been foolish to ever think otherwise.  As much as she had prepared herself, and feared the lies being told, the truth hurt her more than she believed it could.  

She had wanted to believe him, so very badly.  She hadn’t realized she was crying until he was swiping at it with the pad of this thumb, so softly, as if he weren’t breaking her.

There was a deep sadness about him weighing on his shoulders, the kind that grows heavier the longer it’s carried.  Of course he wouldn’t take pleasure in this, but he was a man who did what was needed.  What she deserved. 

Darcy carried her own weight, draping over her like a silk sheet that numbed as it covered.  It molded to her skin, a layer of protection, and she let herself sink down beneath it.  Down, down into where the remnants of her soul had taken refuge.  She was herself, but also someone different.  She became what she had been forced to become to survive.  

Slowly, unrelentingly, like molten lava advancing across a landscape, she reached a shaking hand up to his wrist and held onto him.  Kept him there, close to her, tracing his veins with her own thumb.  Caressing him.  He’d followed the movement, eyes narrowing at her hand in confusion first, and then his eyes flicked up to hers, meeting hers in question.  They were both breathing oddly; deep inhales that they held for longer than normal, as though expecting to be submerged at any moment.  She realized he was waiting to see what she was doing, before making the next move.  It was deliberate, and smart.  She scratched him with her nail, tantalizingly, and he froze, taking in a sharp breath, keeping it in his chest.  Was it her turn to remind him to breathe?  

Turning her head ever so slightly, she opened her mouth to enclose his thumb around her lips, to capture it between her teeth, to suck and pull.  To show him how she could be good.  

His eyes widened, and then darkened, and he shot up and had pulled away from her in a blink of the eye.  He moved away from her so fast, her hand was left hanging in the air, her mouth still open. 



The wall stopped his momentum backwards, and he held himself against it, staring at her, his expression thunderous.

She’d done it wrong and he was incensed.  Absolutely shaking with rage at her.  

She needed to get down, on the ground, on her knees.  She tumbled off the couch, keening quietly to convey her regret and dismay. 

“Darcy, no!”  Steve took several alarming steps back towards her.

Her terror overwhelmingly outweighed the pain.  He would kill her, she couldn’t hold him off.  Beseechingly, she turned towards Bucky, in a desperate last-ditch attempt to escape the punishment coming to her.

“Bucky,” she shrieked.  “Please…”

His head tilted towards her, but he didn’t move a muscle.

There was no one to help her.  

There was only punishment.

***

Chapter Text

***



Streaking through her like hot bolts of lighting, a white flare of absolute agony shot through her, burning and all consuming, striking her down.  It was all too much and her pain ratched up, going from a three to an eleven in mere seconds, forcing her chest upwards and her back into an arch; desperation pulling at her to do anything to try and get away from it. 



It hurt, it burned, oh God, it hurt so much.  There was only pure white, bright and blinding, searing pain, and then an empty dark abyss.



“Darcy, Darcy… wake up, honey,” said a muffled voice above her.  “You’re alright, it’s okay.  Fuck, I’m sorry.”  A twisted part of her thought on how similarly he sounded to the way Charlie Brown’s mother spoke to her children in one of the holiday specials Darcy used to watch, the mother’s voice muted, blaring, and with no discernable syllabels.

Darcy felt like she was falling in a sudden drop, suddenly weightless, about to hit, about to land…and then… nothing.

“Damn it!”

***

“Stop!” she shrieked.  “Please, please, stop!”

She’d thought, at the start, that nothing could be worse than the dim, dank cold of her cell.  Here, under the harsh flickering lights that hurt her eyes, illuminating her blood when it sprayed on the floor, she found herself longing for the four crumbling walls of the room that they kept her in and the gentle reprieve of darkness.

“You haven’t said anything of value.  Haven’t given us anything to work with.  It is…disappointing, to say the least.”   The older man caressed the whip in his hand as if it were beloved; something to be cherished.  Her eyes were drawn to it, captivated by the gentleness in which he held it in his hands.  How could such gentle hands be so brutal with her?    

“You don’t think that deserves punishment of some kind?”

The cruelness of it continued to surprise her, over and over again.

“No,” she wept, hysterical.  “I don’t know anything, please!”  He walked around her slowly, tapping a finger on his chin, deliberating over his options.

“Oh, I beg to differ.”  He smirked.  “The thing is, in my previous experience,” he chuckled. “I have found that complete honesty usually follows more of a… harsh approach.  You see, I believe that you know more than you’re letting on.  I think we just haven’t reached the point where you have accepted that you will be giving us the information we want.”

He paused, twirling the tool in his hands and leaned in close to her.  She tried to buck away but the chains held her down.

“When it hurts bad enough, you’ll squeal like a pig on a spit.  Spill all those little secrets you cling so tightly to.  You’ll say anything to make the pain stop.”  He grabbed her face roughly, jerking her chin upwards to face him.  “You don’t talk, you get punished.  You step out of line, you get punished.  You fight me - you so much as look at me in a way that I don’t like, you get punished.  That’s how it works around here.”  He shoved her away from him, as if she disgusted him.

He whipped her back bloody, hit after hit, hot, burning streaks of agony that left her screaming.  “Please, no more.  Please,” she cried weakly.

“Begging like the Whore that you are.”  He smirked cruelly at her, tilting his head in thought.  “Perhaps I might be persuaded to compromise, somewhat.”  She heaved, trembling in anguish, her back raw and burning like she’d been flayed open.  “I wonder what you would be willing to do to escape the whip?” he wondered casually.

She sobbed, weak and past the point of seeing through the pain.  “Anything, I’ll do anything, please,” she cried.

“If you don’t want the punishment to continue, then I will make you a generous offer.  Distract me, and I might be persuaded to forgo the whip for today.  I do enjoy a variety of entertainment in my day to day.”  

Darcy’s heart plummeted, a drop that felt as though she’d swallowed a large metal ball; the thud of it landing deep in her gut, knocking the air completely out of her lungs.  This was an entirely new evil, and one she hadn’t anticipated.

He unzipped his pants, and pulled himself out to her, stroking himself as he hardened, eyes gleaming at the horror he was seeing on her face.  “Whores love what's given to them.  Learn that quickly.”  He glanced around, as if hoping one of the other’s might catch him, a wicked, gleeful expression upon his face.  

“You better take your goddamn time enjoying what I’m offering you.”

She looked up at him from where she kneeled before him, eyes full of tears.  Her horror shifting her into a state of shock.

“Open up.”  He shoved his thumb into her mouth, forcing her jaw apart.  “You are going to suck me while you finger your own cunt, until you are wet and moaning around my cock.  I wanna watch you beg me to fuck you.  Let’s see what a good Whore you can be.  If you want to be good, you better damned well find a way to enjoy what’s being offered here.”



He smiled cruelly at her.

“And if not, I can think of something else that I’ll make sure you won’t enjoy nearly as much.”

Something cracked within her, broken and shattered beyond repair and Darcy made a decision.

***

She’d tried and failed.  It was the only thought that spun around in the dizzying merry-go-round of her mind. 

Though she felt like she was floating through the air from one memory to another, Darcy realized that she was, in fact, being picked up with great care and laid upon a soft surface.  Blinking to clear her vision, she pried open her eyes only to see the Captain studying her with an uneasy, calculating focus.  He found something in her that caused a shift behind his gaze that she watched happen, like a lock clicking its release, giving way, and suddenly the tension faded from his muscles and he was Steve again instead of Cap.