Better This Time by Jackie for sweetestpiglet
Title: Better This Time
Pairings/Genre: Darcy/Clint; private detective AU
Rating/Warnings: PG-13ish
Word Count: ~4500
Summary: Darcy's usually right. One day Clint will realize this.
Notes: For sweetestpiglet! I hope you enjoy what I've put together for you! There's a second part I'm working on (with PORN! AND THOR! AND DRUG DEALING! OOOOH INTRIGUE), but I hope this will suffice for you. :D
Wanted: Part time secretary for private detective. Light filing, answering phones, general office assistance, some outside work may be required. Serious inquiries only. No law enforcement background necessary. 112 75th Street #5 - M-F 8-5.
---
Darcy reapplies her cherry red lipstick for what feels like the hundredth time since she left her apartment, admiring her reflection in the window of a parked car. She knows, logically, she shouldn't be nervous - secretarial jobs are a dime a dozen - but even with a bachelor's degree from one of the best universities in the country, finding a job has been a challenge. Filing someone else's work was not exactly what she had in mind when she walked across that stage in her cap and gown, but times are hard and the Netflix subscription doesn't pay itself.
She glances down at the slip of newsprint in her hand again, verifying the address. Yup, this is it, she thinks, gazing at the old brick walk up. The building is adorable in that way only New York can be - aging red brick, exposed fire escapes, air conditioners dotting windows here and there. Darcy's a little in love with it. Smiling, she adjusts her best shirt once more (the light blue one that brings out her eyes) and digs down deep for her courage.
"Let's do this thing," she mutters.
Office #5 is on the second floor, the door vaguely nondescript - the only thing noting its tenant is the small gold "Barton Investigations" along the middle of the window. Darcy plasters on her best "I'm fucking awesome and competent" smile and enters, heart in her throat. This is the fifth job she's checked out this week alone. Please, she prays to whatever god there might be. Please let this work out.
"Hello?" she calls as she enters, glancing around the smallish room. There's an aging brown leather couch to her immediate right with a large black coffee table in front of it. Towering bookshelves line the walls, packed full of titles like "Criminal Justice in America" and "Rights and Responsibilities of Law Enforcement." Darcy runs her index finger down the spine of one book and smiles. At least someone on this planet still likes hard copy.
A muffled "goddammit" pulls her out of her reverie, spinning around to spot the owner of the voice. Or rather, the ass of the owner of the voice. Darcy's not one to complain - certainly not when that ass is bangin'. The ass, and presumably, the rest of whom she can only assume is its owner - Barton, she guesses - is under the large wood desk in front of the bank of windows, cursing up a storm.
"Hello?" she repeats, stepping closer to the desk, curiosity fully piqued.
"Shit," the voice comes again, this time clearer and significantly more masculine as he climbs out from under the desk. Standing fully, the man turns, attempting to brush dust from his front. "Damn router went out again," he says, half to himself, a frown marring his face.
Shit, her brain mirrors. He's really damn hot. That's not okay. I mean, it's okay. But it's not okay. Not if she wants to work for him. Darcy's got rules and one of them is 'do not bang your boss under any circumstances.' But damn. Damn.
"Anything I can help with?" Darcy asks, a bit more timid than she'd like. To be fair, her brain is still rebooting from sexpants over there.
Barton gestures in a vaguely annoyed motion toward the desk. "The internet went out again. It does this a few times a week - old building and whatnot. But this time I can't seem to get it to work again, my ISP put me on hold for over an hour, and this damn smart phone is no smarter than I am."
Darcy moves toward the desk, dropping her bag on the top and ducking under to poke at the router herself. "Yeah, well, keep in mind these things are designed by humans, so really, they're not meant to be that much smarter than you are," she says, flipping the modem over. "Ah-ha!"
She hears Barton's quick steps behind her, coming over to duck down and look at what she's doing. Probably to make sure she isn't breaking anything. Her IT classes at school had been annoying as hell with all the guys playing like she didn't know what she was doing just because she had a vagina and a killer rack. To be fair, she does have a vagina and a seriously killer rack, but she'd challenge any of those doors to a programming war any day. Darcy doubts that's really Barton's intention, but it still rubs her the wrong way. Just a little.
"What's wrong?" he asks, dropping to one knee.
Darcy works her magic and starts to wiggle backwards, out from under the desk. "You just needed to do a hard reset." She pulls herself up and turns, trying to ignore both how closely they're standing and how effing good he smells. Life is just not fair sometimes. Barton's eyebrows are still pulled dangerously tight together in concern. She laughs and rubs her thumb along the crease between them, smoothing it out as his eyes widen in surprise. The moment is tense for half a moment before he finally speaks.
"That's all?"
"That's all," she replies, turning back to his computer and opening the browser, throwing her arms up in victory as the Google homepage loads. "Voila!"
Barton gapes at her for a moment before recovering himself and holding out one hand. "Who are you again?"
She takes his hand and smiles broadly, enjoying the callouses on his fingertips immensely. Darcy can appreciate a man who works for a living. Her mom may have been a shit mom in so many other ways, but at least she taught her a decent work ethic. She finds herself suddenly nervous, though. She came here with a reason - she wants, no, needs this job.
"Darcy Lewis," she replies. "I'm here about the secretarial position?"
"Well, Darcy Lewis," he says. "When can you start?"
---
The whole "working for a PI" thing turns out a lot better than she'd hoped. Darcy initially just wanted (needed) a job, but working with Barton (Clint, he'd insisted) was actually turning out to be fun.
They settle into a routine pretty quickly, one that seems to be based on mutual amusement of the other and just a hint of "you're lucky I'm tolerating you" on occasion. Darcy learns Clint takes his coffee black, but with lots of sugar (because he's five years old and hates the taste, clearly). He learns not to talk to her before she's had at least one bear claw in the morning (that had been a rough lesson in "Darcy is not a morning person" for both of them). The hours are a bit erratic, but Darcy can't even be mad at that. She's actually doing a lot more than just filing and answering phones. It feels cool. Like she's in a noir movie from the 50's or something.
She quickly starts spending more time at the office than she does at home, returning to her matchbox-sized apartment to change, nap, and shower before heading back out to work the mean streets. Which of course means "sit in the car complaining about Clint's old man music while he tries to tail a mark."
It's Thursday of the second week before Darcy gets a night off. The overtime is going to be fabulous on her paycheck, but girlfriend is tired.
She's just settling in with her Chinese food and Arrested Development when Jane calls. Darcy glances at the phone, debating not answering it before succumbing. She'll just call back.
"Hey ladyface, didn't get to talk to you last week," Darcy says by way of answer.
"Darcy!" Jane cries, voice a bit too high and excited for Darcy to handle without at least three shots of tequila in her. "Where have you been? I've missed you."
Darcy smiles fondly at the pout she can hear in Jane's voice. They'd been roommates at Ye Olde University before Jane got her job in New Mexico and Darcy decided to try her luck on the east coast. They're more than roommates, though - they're best friends.
"Sorry, sweets, I started a new job and it's been keeping me crazy busy," she replies, shoving some kung pao chicken in her mouth as she goes. The next sentence comes out a bit mumbly, but Jane's fluent in hungry!Darcy. "I'm working for this private investigator."
"Oh my god, you finally got a job?" Jane asks. Darcy knows she doesn't mean it to, but it stings a little. Damn that pride.
She snorts into the phone and picks out a few peppers. "Yeah, it's pretty cool actually. I've been helping keep notes on stakeouts." Darcy frowns down at the chicken that escaped into her cleavage. "Well, and getting coffee for the much beleaguered Señor Barton."
"No way," Jane breathes. Darcy preens a little at the idea of Jane being in awe of her for once.
"Way!" Darcy replies. "And yes, I'm mocking you. Anyway, it's cool. He's a cool dude, though he has terrible taste in music. It's all Fog Hat and Steely Dan. I just want to shake him and be like 'oh my god, have you never listened to Phoenix or Guster or something?' Like, come into this century, please, grandpa. He's smart, though. Not like you smart with the chemistry and whatever. But smart. So….yeah."
There's a pause for a moment where Darcy has to look at her phone to make sure she didn't drop the call. "Uh. Hm," is all Jane has to say.
"Hm? What's up with the hm?" Darcy asks, frowning as her DVD player kicks into screensaver mode.
"I'm just thinking," Jane says, a slight hesitation to her voice.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"Ha. I'm thinking maybe you might like this guy."
Darcy blinks a few times, looking around her apartment a bit dazedly. "I'm sorry what?"
"You like him?" Jane prods.
"Uh, I mean, he's my boss, Jane," she replies, dropping her chopsticks.
"Yeah, I know that, dork," Jane says, and Darcy can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I'm just saying - be careful. And not just because he's your boss. You're too lovely to be wasted on someone who doesn't deserve you."
It's Darcy's turn to roll her eyes, but she can't fight the small smile. "Thanks, Mom. I'll be fine. He's just got a really nice ass, okay?"
"Ooh, pictures please!"
"I'll text you tomorrow." Darcy settles back against her couch and snags one of the egg rolls from the container. "So, tell me about your life. How's the job?"
Jane somehow manages to ramble on about air purification in southern California for almost half an hour before Darcy interrupts her with a yawn.
"Aw, sorry dude, I'm wiped," she says, tossing the last bit of chicken back in the carton.
"It's okay!" Jane replies, chipper as ever. "I'll talk to you next week. And don't forget - I expect pictures of Bootylicious Barton."
"Oh my god never call him that again goodbye Jane," Darcy says, all in a rush as she hangs up the phone.
The nice thing about Chinese takeout, Darcy thinks, is the easy cleanup. She gathers the containers and tosses them in the trash, depositing her chopsticks in the sink to be washed in the morning. As she crawls into bed a few minutes later, Darcy reflects on her conversation with Jane. Her attraction to Clint is undeniable, that much is true, but Darcy pretty much blames that on having a pulse.
She dreams of smoggy hills and long pickup rides that night. It's the first of several dreams featuring Clint. Darcy tries not to think too hard about what that might mean.
---
Darcy's just finishing up the filing for the Skowalski dognapping when Clint calls her over to his desk. It's been about six weeks since she fixed his router (dirty) and they've fallen into a good routine. Darcy finds herself helping out more and more on the little cases - doing research on locations and people while Clint does the heavy lifting (actually catching people in the act, taking pictures and whatnot). So it's not terribly surprising when Clint drops a file in front of her and grins.
"Another missing family pet?" she deadpans, flipping over the front cover to read the summary.
"Hey now, we had that kidnapped Jones girl just last week," Clint says defensively. "If you don't want this then I can always just take it back…" He reaches out a hand and Darcy snatches the file away.
"At least let me look at it first, Grabby McGrabberson."
A quick perusal of the file explains why Clint's showing her this in the first place. Apparently, Mr. Muskett's cheating on his wife. With whomever would have him. Usually busty brunettes. Darcy looks down at her ample chest and sighs.
"Am I bait?"
"Yup," Clint replies, smile far too bright. She kind of hates him a little sometimes.
"Fine," Darcy says, standing and placing the file back on his desk. "But he has to buy me a drink at least."
"All I need is one," Clint says to her retreating back. "Mrs. Muskett knows he's cheating, I know he's cheating, hell, the cockroaches know he's cheating. We just need proof so she can burn that prenup." He leans back in his squeaky office chair and crosses his ridiculously attractive arms across his equally ridiculous chest. "Besides, you should take it as a compliment I think you're pretty enough to be the other woman."
"I'm choosing to ignore that," she replies, turning her back on him to continue her filing. She can't fight the smile and blush that follow, though.
---
There's a lot more to detective work than just running around catching people cheating on their spouses and eating bad takeout in Clint's ancient Camaro, Darcy discovers. There's a ton of leg work involved - research, background checks, talking to people, tailing the mark, the list goes on and on.
The Indian takeout on the coffee table is getting cold, but naan is better with cold chicken karahi in Darcy's opinion anyway. She's sprawled out on the creaky leather couch, files open in front of her as she looks for anything that could help their case. Clint kicked off his shoes ages ago, his stockinged feet up on the edge of the coffee table as he lounges in his desk chair.
"What got you into this crazy biz in the first place?" she asks, flipping another page without looking up.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Clint lean forward to grab one of the takeout boxes and shrug, blue button up moving with his body seamlessly.
"Like anyone else does, I guess," he says, leaning back in his chair and looking off speculatively. "I was a cop for a couple years, decided I wanted to go a different route. I'm not really a team player." He laughs quietly to himself, a private joke Darcy doesn't quite get yet.
"You were a cop?" she asks, scoffing into her file. Darcy rolls on to her side to face him, seeing him in a new light. She'd figured he'd been in some kind of law enforcement in the past. "I have a hard time seeing that."
Clint shrugs again, avoiding her gaze. "Yeah," he drawls. "I wasn't a good cop, mind you. Something about a 'problem with authority.'"
Darcy gasps in mock surprise. "You? I'm shocked!"
"Hey now, I'd say you've courted a problem with authority yourself, Miss Arrested for Assault with a Stun Gun," he counters.
"Me? I do just fine with authority, when it's deserved. When people are bossy just to be bossy? Call me a brat, but that really grinds my gears." Pulling herself into a seated position, Darcy snags her hair back in a messy bun. She levels Clint with an even stare. "Being the boss isn't just about giving orders and being a dick. It's about delegation, taking responsibility for your employees' actions, and knowing when to be a douche and when to play it cool. And when not to sexually harass your employees. Especially when they're armed with 50,000 volts of electricity in their purse."
She smiles a bit evilly and Clint recoils, pulling a loud bark of laughter from her.
"Besides," she continues loftily. "Those charges were dropped."
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a few moments, both of them enjoying the stillness before Darcy glances at the clock on the wall.
"Oh shit, I should get home, it's getting late," she says, standing and gathering her things. Clint collects the files and lays them on the table for tomorrow's perusal. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bossman."
She has one foot out the door when she hears Clint's quiet "goodnight, Darcy," from behind her. Darcy pauses, smiling as she closes the door with a soft click.
---
The OP goes down at a little bar tucked away on a side street in Brooklyn. McGinty's is cute in that old world kinda way - part old fashioned speakeasy, part modern bar room. Darcy loves it the minute she steps foot inside.
The previous week, she and Clint met with the owner, eccentric billionaire Tony Stark - apparently one of Clint's old school friends (though they'd shared a look Darcy wasn't really sure how to interpret). He'd introduced them to Bruce, the bartender; Natasha, their singer; and Steve, the piano player/bouncer with great aplomb.
"So," he'd said, surveying Darcy slowly. "You're the bait?"
"Yup," she replied, lips popping on the word. "Why? Don't think I can handle it?"
Tony raised an eyebrow, a small smirk crossing his face. "Nah, I think you've got this."
She didn't even try to hide her preening.
The bar looks different at night, but that's to be expected, Darcy supposes. It's beautiful in a way only bars can be - polished wood, dimmed lights, dark red curtains covering the exposed brick walls. She can understand why Tony loves his little pub so much.
Natasha's just gone on stage, Steve tickling the ivories next to her, when Darcy saunters in. A curl of anxiety settles low in her stomach, but the thrill of being included in a real investigation shoots up her spine, chasing it away. She spots her mark almost immediately - Mr. Muskett's leaning against the bar heavily, staring into his pint as if it holds all the answers to the universe. Darcy squares her shoulders, ready for battle as she heads across the room to settle in next to him.
"Jack and Coke, Bruce, thanks," she murmurs, crossing her legs fluidly. She hopes she looks more graceful than she feels, because right now she feels like the gangly kid she was at 13 years old.
Natasha's husky alto sweeps over her as Darcy sips her drink, carefully ignoring the man to her right staring at her cleavage. Something about Natasha's voice is calming - soothing in a way she hadn't expected. Especially given that the woman scares the crap out of her.
"You must be new here."
Darcy glances up from her drink to find Muskett looking at her, crooked teeth yellowed, his lips pulled back in a predatory grin. He doesn't even pretend he's not staring at her rack, which, okay, is pretty awesome, but some men just have no sense of decorum. To be fair, she didn't wear the red dress with the plunging neckline for kicks. Natasha had actually been the one to help her pick it out - the curve-hugging dress fits Darcy like a glove. A glove Muskett apparently desperately wants to get his hands on.
He stands and closes the gap between them, settling on the bar stool immediately to her right. Bruce looks to Darcy for the "help me oh god" signal, but she shakes her head as she turns to smile at Muskett.
"I've been here a time or two," she replies, sipping on her drink slowly. "You come here often?"
"Mmm," he hums appreciatively, staring straight down her dress. Darcy resists the urge to roll her eyes.
'You're the bait,' she tells herself. She knows Clint's in the corner, taking as many pictures as possible while this slime ball scoots closer and closer to her. All they need is one good shot and she can get the hell out of his proximity.
Darcy shifts her purse against her side, fingers wrapping around the can of mace she keeps in there in case of emergencies. She's careful to keep the smile plastered on her face - keep him thinking everything is fine just long enough to get the signal from Clint.
Muskett slides his arm around her back and Darcy represses a shudder, a never-ending line of "do not want do not want" running through her brain. Her grip on the mace tightens incrementally, her grin sharpening into something harder as Bruce nods to her out of the corner of her eye.
"Sir, if you want to keep that arm, you'll want to get it off my back," she monotones.
Muskett just chuckles and draws back, hands in mock surrender.
"Hey, sweet cheeks, I was just-"
"You were just nothing," Darcy replies, eyes narrowing. "You have ten seconds to get away from me or you'll get a face full of pepper spray, and I assure you, this shit is military grade."
Muskett's eyes widen and Darcy allows herself a small smug smile before realizing the music has stopped.
"Is there a problem here, Miss Darcy?" Steve asks, looming over them both with his ridiculously beefy arms crossed across his chest.
"I'm fine, Steve," she replies, sliding off the stool, placing one hand on his arm. "I think it's time for this gentleman to leave, though."
"Agreed," Steve says. He steps forward into Muskett's space and stares him down. "The lady said it was time for you to leave, sir."
Muskett's eyes are full of terror as he stumbles off the stool and heads toward the door. "I just wanted to see if she-"
"Leave," Steve repeats, stepping forward a few more steps.
Muskett is out the door before Steve's foot hits the ground again. A hush settles over the group assembled as they process what just happened.
"Got it," Clint says from the corner.
Darcy catches his eye with a smile. "Boo-yah!" she shouts, arms in the air.
---
She's all squished up against Steve's bulk in the small booth near the bar when McGinty's finally closes for the night. The six of them crowd around a pitcher of cold beer and share stories from their past, each one more ridiculous than the next.
"You did good tonight, kid," Clint remarks, sliding into the space next to her and stealing a sip of her beer.
"Well, thanks grandpa, glad I could be of use," she replies, rolling her eyes. "Now get your own damn cup." She snatches her glass back, carefully ignoring the puppy eyes Clint's turning on her at maximum force.
"Maybe you should be the bait in all our escapades." Clint leans forward, pouring himself a tall glass of cool, foamy beer. "It'd save me from having to dress in drag from time to time."
Darcy turns to face him, mouth dropping open slightly. "I'm sorry, what?"
Chuckling, Natasha leans across the table and places one hand atop Clint's. "We haven't had to do your makeup in ages," she teases, winking at Darcy.
"I don't even know how to process that information," Darcy replies, mouth still agape.
"He was one ugly woman, I can assure you of that," Tony says, dropping down across from them and snagging Clint's drink.
They're still laughing as Clint stands and bows slightly.
"Thank you, ladies and gents, but I'm going home to process these photos."
Darcy takes one last sip of her beer before sliding out of the booth. "Oh wait," she says, adjusting her dress as she stands. "Walk me to the subway, por favor. My mace button got stuck and this neighborhood is rough for a girl as pretty as me." Darcy bats her eyes up at Clint jokingly. Something in his jaw tightens as he swallows.
"Yeah, sure," he replies, nodding.
They wave to the rest of the group as they head out of the bar. The subway station is only a block away, but Darcy's not sure she'd walk that block in the daylight wearing jeans, let alone in this badass dress at night. They walk together silently for a bit, Clint's hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, Darcy carrying her heels in one hand. She's glad she brought her Chucks along in her purse. This walk would be torturous without them.
"You did a good job back there," Clint says quietly.
"Yeah, you said," Darcy replies with a nod. "Did you get everything you needed?" She sneaks a look at his profile and catches him grinning. It's infections, she finds, as her own smirk crosses her face.
"Yeah," he says. Clint stops suddenly and looks up at her. "You've been really great these last few weeks, Darcy."
She can feel the blush rising in her cheeks as she smiles and looks away. "Thanks," she mumbles, not daring to look at him.
All at once, Clint's in her space, one hand on her cheek. "Really," he breathes. "Excellent."
Their lips brush in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it movement. It's so fast, Darcy's not sure it actually happened until Clint steps back a few more steps, eyes wide. She smiles at him a bit goofily and reaches forward to grab his hand.
"You know," she says, turning them so she can loop an arm through his. "My neighborhood is pretty rough at night, too."
"Uh-huh."
"And I probably shouldn't be on the subway alone," she continues, pulling him toward the station.
"You know," he says, looking down at her. "You might be right."
"I usually am." Darcy's cheeks hurt from smiling so much tonight, but as the E train flies by and Clint's hand rests on the small of her back, she thinks maybe she could do with a bit more of that.
Pairings/Genre: Darcy/Clint; private detective AU
Rating/Warnings: PG-13ish
Word Count: ~4500
Summary: Darcy's usually right. One day Clint will realize this.
Notes: For sweetestpiglet! I hope you enjoy what I've put together for you! There's a second part I'm working on (with PORN! AND THOR! AND DRUG DEALING! OOOOH INTRIGUE), but I hope this will suffice for you. :D
Wanted: Part time secretary for private detective. Light filing, answering phones, general office assistance, some outside work may be required. Serious inquiries only. No law enforcement background necessary. 112 75th Street #5 - M-F 8-5.
---
Darcy reapplies her cherry red lipstick for what feels like the hundredth time since she left her apartment, admiring her reflection in the window of a parked car. She knows, logically, she shouldn't be nervous - secretarial jobs are a dime a dozen - but even with a bachelor's degree from one of the best universities in the country, finding a job has been a challenge. Filing someone else's work was not exactly what she had in mind when she walked across that stage in her cap and gown, but times are hard and the Netflix subscription doesn't pay itself.
She glances down at the slip of newsprint in her hand again, verifying the address. Yup, this is it, she thinks, gazing at the old brick walk up. The building is adorable in that way only New York can be - aging red brick, exposed fire escapes, air conditioners dotting windows here and there. Darcy's a little in love with it. Smiling, she adjusts her best shirt once more (the light blue one that brings out her eyes) and digs down deep for her courage.
"Let's do this thing," she mutters.
Office #5 is on the second floor, the door vaguely nondescript - the only thing noting its tenant is the small gold "Barton Investigations" along the middle of the window. Darcy plasters on her best "I'm fucking awesome and competent" smile and enters, heart in her throat. This is the fifth job she's checked out this week alone. Please, she prays to whatever god there might be. Please let this work out.
"Hello?" she calls as she enters, glancing around the smallish room. There's an aging brown leather couch to her immediate right with a large black coffee table in front of it. Towering bookshelves line the walls, packed full of titles like "Criminal Justice in America" and "Rights and Responsibilities of Law Enforcement." Darcy runs her index finger down the spine of one book and smiles. At least someone on this planet still likes hard copy.
A muffled "goddammit" pulls her out of her reverie, spinning around to spot the owner of the voice. Or rather, the ass of the owner of the voice. Darcy's not one to complain - certainly not when that ass is bangin'. The ass, and presumably, the rest of whom she can only assume is its owner - Barton, she guesses - is under the large wood desk in front of the bank of windows, cursing up a storm.
"Hello?" she repeats, stepping closer to the desk, curiosity fully piqued.
"Shit," the voice comes again, this time clearer and significantly more masculine as he climbs out from under the desk. Standing fully, the man turns, attempting to brush dust from his front. "Damn router went out again," he says, half to himself, a frown marring his face.
Shit, her brain mirrors. He's really damn hot. That's not okay. I mean, it's okay. But it's not okay. Not if she wants to work for him. Darcy's got rules and one of them is 'do not bang your boss under any circumstances.' But damn. Damn.
"Anything I can help with?" Darcy asks, a bit more timid than she'd like. To be fair, her brain is still rebooting from sexpants over there.
Barton gestures in a vaguely annoyed motion toward the desk. "The internet went out again. It does this a few times a week - old building and whatnot. But this time I can't seem to get it to work again, my ISP put me on hold for over an hour, and this damn smart phone is no smarter than I am."
Darcy moves toward the desk, dropping her bag on the top and ducking under to poke at the router herself. "Yeah, well, keep in mind these things are designed by humans, so really, they're not meant to be that much smarter than you are," she says, flipping the modem over. "Ah-ha!"
She hears Barton's quick steps behind her, coming over to duck down and look at what she's doing. Probably to make sure she isn't breaking anything. Her IT classes at school had been annoying as hell with all the guys playing like she didn't know what she was doing just because she had a vagina and a killer rack. To be fair, she does have a vagina and a seriously killer rack, but she'd challenge any of those doors to a programming war any day. Darcy doubts that's really Barton's intention, but it still rubs her the wrong way. Just a little.
"What's wrong?" he asks, dropping to one knee.
Darcy works her magic and starts to wiggle backwards, out from under the desk. "You just needed to do a hard reset." She pulls herself up and turns, trying to ignore both how closely they're standing and how effing good he smells. Life is just not fair sometimes. Barton's eyebrows are still pulled dangerously tight together in concern. She laughs and rubs her thumb along the crease between them, smoothing it out as his eyes widen in surprise. The moment is tense for half a moment before he finally speaks.
"That's all?"
"That's all," she replies, turning back to his computer and opening the browser, throwing her arms up in victory as the Google homepage loads. "Voila!"
Barton gapes at her for a moment before recovering himself and holding out one hand. "Who are you again?"
She takes his hand and smiles broadly, enjoying the callouses on his fingertips immensely. Darcy can appreciate a man who works for a living. Her mom may have been a shit mom in so many other ways, but at least she taught her a decent work ethic. She finds herself suddenly nervous, though. She came here with a reason - she wants, no, needs this job.
"Darcy Lewis," she replies. "I'm here about the secretarial position?"
"Well, Darcy Lewis," he says. "When can you start?"
---
The whole "working for a PI" thing turns out a lot better than she'd hoped. Darcy initially just wanted (needed) a job, but working with Barton (Clint, he'd insisted) was actually turning out to be fun.
They settle into a routine pretty quickly, one that seems to be based on mutual amusement of the other and just a hint of "you're lucky I'm tolerating you" on occasion. Darcy learns Clint takes his coffee black, but with lots of sugar (because he's five years old and hates the taste, clearly). He learns not to talk to her before she's had at least one bear claw in the morning (that had been a rough lesson in "Darcy is not a morning person" for both of them). The hours are a bit erratic, but Darcy can't even be mad at that. She's actually doing a lot more than just filing and answering phones. It feels cool. Like she's in a noir movie from the 50's or something.
She quickly starts spending more time at the office than she does at home, returning to her matchbox-sized apartment to change, nap, and shower before heading back out to work the mean streets. Which of course means "sit in the car complaining about Clint's old man music while he tries to tail a mark."
It's Thursday of the second week before Darcy gets a night off. The overtime is going to be fabulous on her paycheck, but girlfriend is tired.
She's just settling in with her Chinese food and Arrested Development when Jane calls. Darcy glances at the phone, debating not answering it before succumbing. She'll just call back.
"Hey ladyface, didn't get to talk to you last week," Darcy says by way of answer.
"Darcy!" Jane cries, voice a bit too high and excited for Darcy to handle without at least three shots of tequila in her. "Where have you been? I've missed you."
Darcy smiles fondly at the pout she can hear in Jane's voice. They'd been roommates at Ye Olde University before Jane got her job in New Mexico and Darcy decided to try her luck on the east coast. They're more than roommates, though - they're best friends.
"Sorry, sweets, I started a new job and it's been keeping me crazy busy," she replies, shoving some kung pao chicken in her mouth as she goes. The next sentence comes out a bit mumbly, but Jane's fluent in hungry!Darcy. "I'm working for this private investigator."
"Oh my god, you finally got a job?" Jane asks. Darcy knows she doesn't mean it to, but it stings a little. Damn that pride.
She snorts into the phone and picks out a few peppers. "Yeah, it's pretty cool actually. I've been helping keep notes on stakeouts." Darcy frowns down at the chicken that escaped into her cleavage. "Well, and getting coffee for the much beleaguered Señor Barton."
"No way," Jane breathes. Darcy preens a little at the idea of Jane being in awe of her for once.
"Way!" Darcy replies. "And yes, I'm mocking you. Anyway, it's cool. He's a cool dude, though he has terrible taste in music. It's all Fog Hat and Steely Dan. I just want to shake him and be like 'oh my god, have you never listened to Phoenix or Guster or something?' Like, come into this century, please, grandpa. He's smart, though. Not like you smart with the chemistry and whatever. But smart. So….yeah."
There's a pause for a moment where Darcy has to look at her phone to make sure she didn't drop the call. "Uh. Hm," is all Jane has to say.
"Hm? What's up with the hm?" Darcy asks, frowning as her DVD player kicks into screensaver mode.
"I'm just thinking," Jane says, a slight hesitation to her voice.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"Ha. I'm thinking maybe you might like this guy."
Darcy blinks a few times, looking around her apartment a bit dazedly. "I'm sorry what?"
"You like him?" Jane prods.
"Uh, I mean, he's my boss, Jane," she replies, dropping her chopsticks.
"Yeah, I know that, dork," Jane says, and Darcy can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I'm just saying - be careful. And not just because he's your boss. You're too lovely to be wasted on someone who doesn't deserve you."
It's Darcy's turn to roll her eyes, but she can't fight the small smile. "Thanks, Mom. I'll be fine. He's just got a really nice ass, okay?"
"Ooh, pictures please!"
"I'll text you tomorrow." Darcy settles back against her couch and snags one of the egg rolls from the container. "So, tell me about your life. How's the job?"
Jane somehow manages to ramble on about air purification in southern California for almost half an hour before Darcy interrupts her with a yawn.
"Aw, sorry dude, I'm wiped," she says, tossing the last bit of chicken back in the carton.
"It's okay!" Jane replies, chipper as ever. "I'll talk to you next week. And don't forget - I expect pictures of Bootylicious Barton."
"Oh my god never call him that again goodbye Jane," Darcy says, all in a rush as she hangs up the phone.
The nice thing about Chinese takeout, Darcy thinks, is the easy cleanup. She gathers the containers and tosses them in the trash, depositing her chopsticks in the sink to be washed in the morning. As she crawls into bed a few minutes later, Darcy reflects on her conversation with Jane. Her attraction to Clint is undeniable, that much is true, but Darcy pretty much blames that on having a pulse.
She dreams of smoggy hills and long pickup rides that night. It's the first of several dreams featuring Clint. Darcy tries not to think too hard about what that might mean.
---
Darcy's just finishing up the filing for the Skowalski dognapping when Clint calls her over to his desk. It's been about six weeks since she fixed his router (dirty) and they've fallen into a good routine. Darcy finds herself helping out more and more on the little cases - doing research on locations and people while Clint does the heavy lifting (actually catching people in the act, taking pictures and whatnot). So it's not terribly surprising when Clint drops a file in front of her and grins.
"Another missing family pet?" she deadpans, flipping over the front cover to read the summary.
"Hey now, we had that kidnapped Jones girl just last week," Clint says defensively. "If you don't want this then I can always just take it back…" He reaches out a hand and Darcy snatches the file away.
"At least let me look at it first, Grabby McGrabberson."
A quick perusal of the file explains why Clint's showing her this in the first place. Apparently, Mr. Muskett's cheating on his wife. With whomever would have him. Usually busty brunettes. Darcy looks down at her ample chest and sighs.
"Am I bait?"
"Yup," Clint replies, smile far too bright. She kind of hates him a little sometimes.
"Fine," Darcy says, standing and placing the file back on his desk. "But he has to buy me a drink at least."
"All I need is one," Clint says to her retreating back. "Mrs. Muskett knows he's cheating, I know he's cheating, hell, the cockroaches know he's cheating. We just need proof so she can burn that prenup." He leans back in his squeaky office chair and crosses his ridiculously attractive arms across his equally ridiculous chest. "Besides, you should take it as a compliment I think you're pretty enough to be the other woman."
"I'm choosing to ignore that," she replies, turning her back on him to continue her filing. She can't fight the smile and blush that follow, though.
---
There's a lot more to detective work than just running around catching people cheating on their spouses and eating bad takeout in Clint's ancient Camaro, Darcy discovers. There's a ton of leg work involved - research, background checks, talking to people, tailing the mark, the list goes on and on.
The Indian takeout on the coffee table is getting cold, but naan is better with cold chicken karahi in Darcy's opinion anyway. She's sprawled out on the creaky leather couch, files open in front of her as she looks for anything that could help their case. Clint kicked off his shoes ages ago, his stockinged feet up on the edge of the coffee table as he lounges in his desk chair.
"What got you into this crazy biz in the first place?" she asks, flipping another page without looking up.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Clint lean forward to grab one of the takeout boxes and shrug, blue button up moving with his body seamlessly.
"Like anyone else does, I guess," he says, leaning back in his chair and looking off speculatively. "I was a cop for a couple years, decided I wanted to go a different route. I'm not really a team player." He laughs quietly to himself, a private joke Darcy doesn't quite get yet.
"You were a cop?" she asks, scoffing into her file. Darcy rolls on to her side to face him, seeing him in a new light. She'd figured he'd been in some kind of law enforcement in the past. "I have a hard time seeing that."
Clint shrugs again, avoiding her gaze. "Yeah," he drawls. "I wasn't a good cop, mind you. Something about a 'problem with authority.'"
Darcy gasps in mock surprise. "You? I'm shocked!"
"Hey now, I'd say you've courted a problem with authority yourself, Miss Arrested for Assault with a Stun Gun," he counters.
"Me? I do just fine with authority, when it's deserved. When people are bossy just to be bossy? Call me a brat, but that really grinds my gears." Pulling herself into a seated position, Darcy snags her hair back in a messy bun. She levels Clint with an even stare. "Being the boss isn't just about giving orders and being a dick. It's about delegation, taking responsibility for your employees' actions, and knowing when to be a douche and when to play it cool. And when not to sexually harass your employees. Especially when they're armed with 50,000 volts of electricity in their purse."
She smiles a bit evilly and Clint recoils, pulling a loud bark of laughter from her.
"Besides," she continues loftily. "Those charges were dropped."
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a few moments, both of them enjoying the stillness before Darcy glances at the clock on the wall.
"Oh shit, I should get home, it's getting late," she says, standing and gathering her things. Clint collects the files and lays them on the table for tomorrow's perusal. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bossman."
She has one foot out the door when she hears Clint's quiet "goodnight, Darcy," from behind her. Darcy pauses, smiling as she closes the door with a soft click.
---
The OP goes down at a little bar tucked away on a side street in Brooklyn. McGinty's is cute in that old world kinda way - part old fashioned speakeasy, part modern bar room. Darcy loves it the minute she steps foot inside.
The previous week, she and Clint met with the owner, eccentric billionaire Tony Stark - apparently one of Clint's old school friends (though they'd shared a look Darcy wasn't really sure how to interpret). He'd introduced them to Bruce, the bartender; Natasha, their singer; and Steve, the piano player/bouncer with great aplomb.
"So," he'd said, surveying Darcy slowly. "You're the bait?"
"Yup," she replied, lips popping on the word. "Why? Don't think I can handle it?"
Tony raised an eyebrow, a small smirk crossing his face. "Nah, I think you've got this."
She didn't even try to hide her preening.
The bar looks different at night, but that's to be expected, Darcy supposes. It's beautiful in a way only bars can be - polished wood, dimmed lights, dark red curtains covering the exposed brick walls. She can understand why Tony loves his little pub so much.
Natasha's just gone on stage, Steve tickling the ivories next to her, when Darcy saunters in. A curl of anxiety settles low in her stomach, but the thrill of being included in a real investigation shoots up her spine, chasing it away. She spots her mark almost immediately - Mr. Muskett's leaning against the bar heavily, staring into his pint as if it holds all the answers to the universe. Darcy squares her shoulders, ready for battle as she heads across the room to settle in next to him.
"Jack and Coke, Bruce, thanks," she murmurs, crossing her legs fluidly. She hopes she looks more graceful than she feels, because right now she feels like the gangly kid she was at 13 years old.
Natasha's husky alto sweeps over her as Darcy sips her drink, carefully ignoring the man to her right staring at her cleavage. Something about Natasha's voice is calming - soothing in a way she hadn't expected. Especially given that the woman scares the crap out of her.
"You must be new here."
Darcy glances up from her drink to find Muskett looking at her, crooked teeth yellowed, his lips pulled back in a predatory grin. He doesn't even pretend he's not staring at her rack, which, okay, is pretty awesome, but some men just have no sense of decorum. To be fair, she didn't wear the red dress with the plunging neckline for kicks. Natasha had actually been the one to help her pick it out - the curve-hugging dress fits Darcy like a glove. A glove Muskett apparently desperately wants to get his hands on.
He stands and closes the gap between them, settling on the bar stool immediately to her right. Bruce looks to Darcy for the "help me oh god" signal, but she shakes her head as she turns to smile at Muskett.
"I've been here a time or two," she replies, sipping on her drink slowly. "You come here often?"
"Mmm," he hums appreciatively, staring straight down her dress. Darcy resists the urge to roll her eyes.
'You're the bait,' she tells herself. She knows Clint's in the corner, taking as many pictures as possible while this slime ball scoots closer and closer to her. All they need is one good shot and she can get the hell out of his proximity.
Darcy shifts her purse against her side, fingers wrapping around the can of mace she keeps in there in case of emergencies. She's careful to keep the smile plastered on her face - keep him thinking everything is fine just long enough to get the signal from Clint.
Muskett slides his arm around her back and Darcy represses a shudder, a never-ending line of "do not want do not want" running through her brain. Her grip on the mace tightens incrementally, her grin sharpening into something harder as Bruce nods to her out of the corner of her eye.
"Sir, if you want to keep that arm, you'll want to get it off my back," she monotones.
Muskett just chuckles and draws back, hands in mock surrender.
"Hey, sweet cheeks, I was just-"
"You were just nothing," Darcy replies, eyes narrowing. "You have ten seconds to get away from me or you'll get a face full of pepper spray, and I assure you, this shit is military grade."
Muskett's eyes widen and Darcy allows herself a small smug smile before realizing the music has stopped.
"Is there a problem here, Miss Darcy?" Steve asks, looming over them both with his ridiculously beefy arms crossed across his chest.
"I'm fine, Steve," she replies, sliding off the stool, placing one hand on his arm. "I think it's time for this gentleman to leave, though."
"Agreed," Steve says. He steps forward into Muskett's space and stares him down. "The lady said it was time for you to leave, sir."
Muskett's eyes are full of terror as he stumbles off the stool and heads toward the door. "I just wanted to see if she-"
"Leave," Steve repeats, stepping forward a few more steps.
Muskett is out the door before Steve's foot hits the ground again. A hush settles over the group assembled as they process what just happened.
"Got it," Clint says from the corner.
Darcy catches his eye with a smile. "Boo-yah!" she shouts, arms in the air.
---
She's all squished up against Steve's bulk in the small booth near the bar when McGinty's finally closes for the night. The six of them crowd around a pitcher of cold beer and share stories from their past, each one more ridiculous than the next.
"You did good tonight, kid," Clint remarks, sliding into the space next to her and stealing a sip of her beer.
"Well, thanks grandpa, glad I could be of use," she replies, rolling her eyes. "Now get your own damn cup." She snatches her glass back, carefully ignoring the puppy eyes Clint's turning on her at maximum force.
"Maybe you should be the bait in all our escapades." Clint leans forward, pouring himself a tall glass of cool, foamy beer. "It'd save me from having to dress in drag from time to time."
Darcy turns to face him, mouth dropping open slightly. "I'm sorry, what?"
Chuckling, Natasha leans across the table and places one hand atop Clint's. "We haven't had to do your makeup in ages," she teases, winking at Darcy.
"I don't even know how to process that information," Darcy replies, mouth still agape.
"He was one ugly woman, I can assure you of that," Tony says, dropping down across from them and snagging Clint's drink.
They're still laughing as Clint stands and bows slightly.
"Thank you, ladies and gents, but I'm going home to process these photos."
Darcy takes one last sip of her beer before sliding out of the booth. "Oh wait," she says, adjusting her dress as she stands. "Walk me to the subway, por favor. My mace button got stuck and this neighborhood is rough for a girl as pretty as me." Darcy bats her eyes up at Clint jokingly. Something in his jaw tightens as he swallows.
"Yeah, sure," he replies, nodding.
They wave to the rest of the group as they head out of the bar. The subway station is only a block away, but Darcy's not sure she'd walk that block in the daylight wearing jeans, let alone in this badass dress at night. They walk together silently for a bit, Clint's hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, Darcy carrying her heels in one hand. She's glad she brought her Chucks along in her purse. This walk would be torturous without them.
"You did a good job back there," Clint says quietly.
"Yeah, you said," Darcy replies with a nod. "Did you get everything you needed?" She sneaks a look at his profile and catches him grinning. It's infections, she finds, as her own smirk crosses her face.
"Yeah," he says. Clint stops suddenly and looks up at her. "You've been really great these last few weeks, Darcy."
She can feel the blush rising in her cheeks as she smiles and looks away. "Thanks," she mumbles, not daring to look at him.
All at once, Clint's in her space, one hand on her cheek. "Really," he breathes. "Excellent."
Their lips brush in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it movement. It's so fast, Darcy's not sure it actually happened until Clint steps back a few more steps, eyes wide. She smiles at him a bit goofily and reaches forward to grab his hand.
"You know," she says, turning them so she can loop an arm through his. "My neighborhood is pretty rough at night, too."
"Uh-huh."
"And I probably shouldn't be on the subway alone," she continues, pulling him toward the station.
"You know," he says, looking down at her. "You might be right."
"I usually am." Darcy's cheeks hurt from smiling so much tonight, but as the E train flies by and Clint's hand rests on the small of her back, she thinks maybe she could do with a bit more of that.