glory and gore - r - darcy/bucky - part four [a]
title: glory and gore (go hand in hand)
category: thor/captain america
genre: romance/action/drama/humor
ship: darcy/bucky
rating: R
prompt: au - assassin!darcy goes for bucky
warning(s): explicit violence; mental/physical abuse; strong language
word count: 6,803
summary: In the high-stakes game of sniping people, Darcy Lewis is the best assassin for the job. And she's just been given her biggest mark yet: The Winter Soldier. Usually, this wouldn't be a problem; she'd happily add him to her list of accomplishments. Only, then she goes and does something stupid; she falls in love with him.
| darcy & bucky | camille | polyvore | 8 tracks |
previous: part one, part two, part three,
glory and gore (go hand in hand)
IV.
Darcy didn't often dream, or she didn't remember her dreams, so far as she could tell. But she started to. She blamed it entirely on Barnes. Him and his wistful talk about freedom and safety. She didn't dream of him, though. Not at first.
In the beginning, it was just laughter; the kind that snuck up on her, ringing in her ears like a whisper of a memory. Distant, just out of reach, but resonating all the same. She woke in the morning, confused, disappointed, and flopped back down, head buried in her pillow and wondered if she wanted to chase the sound back to its beginning or if it was smarter to forget it entirely. Whether she chose to or not, she wasn't certain, but she drifted off again, and the laughter came. Childlike and young, full of giddy excitement. And a picture formed, fuzzy around the edges, bright with sunlight and green with long grass tickling her legs.
She was in her yard. Back home. Walking just out of reach, watching herself, her hair dark and curly, springing in every direction, running around, just out of reach of her daddy's arms as he chased her. And her mother, looking so young and carefree, sat on the stairs leading up to the porch, a glass of lemonade on her knee, condensation dripping down onto her skin. She was smiling, her chin perched in her hand, watching her family run in circles. Darcy, the little girl version of herself, couldn't be older than six, and she wasn't nearly as fast as her father made her think she was. She had to take three steps for his every one, but he let her believe that she was just too quick for him to catch. Her laugher lifted up into the air, dancing on a warm breeze, and blew right past her, collecting on her skin and in her ears and trapped in the much more tamed curls of her present hair.
Innocent. That was what she was. What they all were. Her. Her family.
It was a time long past, almost forgotten, and when she woke again, it left her feeling empty.
She was not innocent. She might have the memories, she might remember her parents' faces back when things were good, but she wasn't there anymore, they weren't those people anymore. Her innocence was dead. The laughter had faded. It was stupid of her to try to hold onto that. And for what? Why? Because some man told her he dreamt of her?
She snorted, shoving up off her bed. She needed a shower and coffee and a nice big dose of reality. If he was dreaming of her, then somebody should clue him in that it should be a nightmare, not a fairytale. She wasn't the princess, but the dragon. There were no pearls, only scales. No diamonds, only fire. She would not be who he strived for in the end, who he fought for. She was the enemy. And just because he didn't get the message didn't mean she should buy into it, too.
Sure, she was saving him, sticking around to keep an eye out for whoever was supposed to take her place, but that didn't make her a hero. In the end, she would still be her, still be the woman behind the scope, the first person suggested when someone needed a high-roller hit. She was the best and she had earned her place through blood and bone.
So no more dreams, she decided. Not for her or him.
She would keep her distance, he would move on, and she would do what she did best.
Kill and survive.
She has a recurring nightmare when she's a little girl.
She isn't the best swimmer and one summer her parents take her out to the lake. They tell her not to go out too far.
"Only up to your bellybutton, Darcy," her mom says, and she nods.
But then she's standing in the lake, squishing the soft mud up under her toes, and she wades a little deeper. She sees the other kids swimming farther out and she thinks she can, too. It starts out okay. Her mom taught her how to doggy-paddle and she was good at it, better than the other kids her age. But the further she gets the more tired she feels, and her chin keeps dipping low into the water, enough that it catches in her nose and makes her sputter. But she keeps trying, because she's stubborn, and the others kids don't seem so far ahead. She's small though and her arms just sort of give out on her, slowing down until they stop completely, and she slips under. She pops back up but not for long, and then she's under again, choking, sinking.
Her mom saves her, an arm around her stomach, hauling her up out of the water and dragging her back to shore. Darcy coughs up what feels like half the lake, but she's okay. She cries and sniffles and her mom scolds her in between hugging her so tight it almost hurts.
That night she has her first nightmare about drowning. Her mother doesn't get to her in time or doesn't come at all and she sinks like a stone, right down to the bottom, staring up at the retreating sun until it's dark, little air bubbles leaving her, floating up to the surface, until there's no air left in her lungs. She wakes up crying, calling out, shouting for help, and her mom rubs her back, shushing her soothingly, until she falls back asleep.
The nightmare lingers though, enough that she doesn't get much sleep for a long time. Eventually, they come less and less, until it's mostly a memory, with a few hiccups each summer.
But she's not much of a swimmer even as a teenager. She sunbathes and wades up to her knees, but avoids going much deeper. And even later, when her hands are wet with blood instead of water, it's drowning that scares her.
She didn't know there were other ways to drown, but she learns.
Darcy wondered sometimes, what he meant. Free and safe. What happened in his dreams that he felt that way? What were they doing? What could she be doing to evoke that feeling in someone else? It just didn't fit with the image of herself she had in her head. She wasn't what people thought of when they wanted safety. She was the opposite. She was death and danger and very, very unsafe. And sure, he didn't know that, exactly, but shouldn't he? He was the Winter Soldier; shouldn't he feel that about her? Some instinct or something? Didn't he know she was the wrong person for him to be getting wrapped up in?
It bothered her.
Where were his survival skills? How the hell was she supposed to keep him safe if he was so damn willing to befriend assassins?
She lasted a week and a half of just watching him from afar, but then, like an addict, she needed a fix.
So, she took a walk to the coffee shop she'd visited before, the one he passed on the way to Goldie's Gym. And she waited, picking at the cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup as she leaned against a red brick wall, eyeing the patrons seated at wrought iron tables or on benches in the square. It was part habit and part because she'd felt eyes on her for a while now. Whoever was following Barnes was close and she wanted to see who it was they'd hired to replace her.
She spotted Barnes walking down the sidewalk then, his duffle bag hitched over his shoulder, hood up over his head, face bowed, and one hand tucked in the pocket of his jacket. She would be woefully disappointed if he wasn't holding a weapon in there, she decided. Because so far, his awareness to incoming danger was really worrying her.
He looked up and, while she knew she should, she didn't look away, instead letting him stare right at her. She'd wondered, more times than she could count, if he recognized her when he wasn't drunk off his ass on vodka.
She got her answer when he pivoted left and started toward her.
Standing a little taller, she raised her chin, eyeing him curiously. Would he confront her? Ask her who she was? Why she was always around?
He came to a stop in front of her, his lips pursed, and looked a little more wary than she was used to seeing him when he was this close. Of course, he didn't have hours of copious drinking behind him to take the edge off. She didn't miss the glazed look in his eyes, but she did miss how relaxed he usually was.
He readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, dropped his gaze to the coffee in her hand, and then looked up at her, his brow furrowed. "You busy?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "Just holding this building up with my back. It's a tough job, but somebody had to do it."
His lips twitched and he glanced away.
"Why? You need a sparring buddy?" she asked, looking at his bag.
"You box?"
She shrugged. "I do a lot of things."
His head tipped curiously before he nodded. "If you're up to it... There's a gym around the corner. Empty most of the time."
Pushing off the wall, she considered asking him why he seemed to think asking a veritable stranger to join him was a good idea, but considering the fact that he had an assassin tailing him, keeping close was better than reminding him to be more paranoid. So, she joined him as he backed up, and took up the space at his side. She'd scoped out Goldie's Gym before, getting a lay of the land while he wasn't around. He wasn't kidding when he said it was mostly empty; she knew he and Rogers were about the only two who dropped in regularly, and she was pretty sure that was equal parts nostalgia and wanting to be left alone.
Barnes led her right inside, dropping his duffel bag to the floor by the punching bag and stripping off his zip-up hoodie before he grabbed out a pair of gloves from his bag.
"So you've boxed before?" he asked her, wanting clarification.
Darcy eyed him as she circled the bag. It was old, patched up in places, but still sturdy. "My dad boxed. When he was younger, before he joined the ARMY."
"He served?"
She nodded.
"What's he do now?"
Shrugging, she said, "Rots, mostly. He died a while back."
He stared at her a moment and then nodded shortly. "Sorry."
She made her way back toward him, hands on her hips. "You gonna show me how it's done?" she asked, her voice ripe with sarcasm.
Barnes shook his head. "Was looking forward to seeing you in action…" He held the gloves out for her. "Might not be a perfect fit… My hands're bigger than yours."
Before reaching for the gloves, she pulled her sweater off so it wouldn't hinder her movements and tossed it toward her bag. Then she reached out to take one glove from him and slid it on her hand before she held the other out for him to help her with. When she felt good about the fit, she knocked them together and then turned toward the bag. "Am I just showing off here or should I be downplaying my skills so you can feel superior?"
His mouth curled up on one side. "I wouldn't ask for your best if I didn't want it."
She raised an eyebrow at that but turned to face the bag, readjusting her feet and raising her fists up. She jabbed at the bag at first, starting out slow, finding her center, getting comfortable with the gloves and the movements of her arms. It was easy to get lost in it. Darcy loved training. It wasn't as good as a real fight, with a flesh and blood opponent that moved and ducked and struck back. But it was good enough. She could feel herself building up a sweat and wished she'd dressed more for the occasion instead of her jeans and tank top. She was glad she'd taken her sweater off, though, as she wiped her forehead with her arm.
He was staring at her. When she turned her head, she found him standing just off to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his brow furrowed and his head tilted. "You're dropping your elbow," he said, stepping forward. He reached over and touched his fingers to her right elbow. "And you're using your left too much; makes your right side vulnerable."
Darcy dropped her gaze to his fingers, still tucked under her elbow. "Am I getting into a fight soon that I need to know that for, coach?"
He slid his hand down under her forearm and raised it up. "It's important to know your weaknesses, right? You don't always plan for a fight. Sometimes one sneaks up on you."
Darcy watched as he pulled the glove free of her hand and tucked it under his arm before he focused on her fingers. As she flexed them, he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles in small, light circles.
"The one you don't use as much, the side you don't protect enough, that's the one you should focus on. Because if somebody ever catches on, they'll exploit it, and it doesn't matter how much you try and throw your right hand up, they're going to expect it." He brought her hand up and rested it on his shoulder, his fingers dragging down the top of her forearm. "Once you acknowledge it's a weakness, that you've got a hole in your defense, then you can do something about it… Awareness, that's what it boils down to." His fingers skimmed the inside of her arm and she shivered. His eyes raised then, catching hers, and his mouth tilted in a faint smile.
Her gut tightened and she bit back the words that stung her tongue, wanting to tell him that he was weak there, too. She'd felt him flinch when she touched him in that same spot the last time they were together, in the dark comfort of his room. But she didn't, because it was a flimsy excuse and because he looked so… relaxed. Gone was the glaze of alcohol from his eyes, the slur of his words, but the hand reaching out for her was still present. He still touched her, still brought her in close, and she shouldn't like it, she knew she shouldn't, but she did.
A sudden clanging noise grabbed their attention then and Barnes reacted instinctively, twisting abruptly, standing in front of her like a shield, his hand reaching back, landing on her hip. His shoulders were tense and his chin was tilted forward, the whole of his body was strung tight like a bow string, ready for attack, ready to destroy, and it was… gratifying. From the moment she'd met him, he had been skulky, yes, but mostly harmless. This was the first time she was seeing something of the soldier; the man who could, and would, destroy whatever was put in his path to reach his endgame.
The shuffling of feet drew their eyes before a man, who couldn't be younger than 70, ambled into the gym, muttering to himself, jangling keys in his hand. The owner? she wondered. Regardless, he wasn't a threat. He nodded at them distractedly before climbing the rickety metal stairs up to the office, leaving them to their solitude once more.
Darcy watched him go before turning her attention back to the man in front of her. Barnes' fingers flexed on her hip before he released her and turned back around to face her. His shoulders relaxed only a fraction and she couldn't help but wonder if that brief moment of panic had released a rush of adrenaline through him. She wondered too if he'd been hoping for a fight, if the idea had made him excited, or if it had rubbed him wrong. But she couldn't read signs of either emotion on his face, instead he pulled the glove out from under his arm and asked, "You wanna try again, see if we can get that elbow up?"
She stared at the glove a moment, wondering if she should push for more information or go with the flow. Did he react that way because it was instinct or because he knew somebody was following him? Had he fought at all since he partnered back up with Rogers, or was he only working out to relieve stress and stay in shape? More importantly, would he really fight if it came to it, or would he rather run? Because she'd known former assassins, people who walked away from the game and vowed never to pick up a weapon again, never to use those skills no matter the situation. Was he one of them? Or was eager to get back into the ring?
But he wouldn't answer those questions and, with things as they were, he wouldn't understand why she was asking them. What they had was tentative at best, at least without alcohol to take the edge off of things. So she didn't burst the thin bubble they'd created; instead, she nodded, holding her hand out for him to slide the glove on. But even as she turned back to face the punching bag with him beside her, telling her to get her arm up, to use her right hand more, her mind still wandered.
She couldn't help but remember how he moved to defend her. How he expected an outside threat instead of the one standing right behind him. How he chose to protect her. It was silly, it was… ridiculous. Because she was the one saving him. She was the one looking out for him. She wouldn't call herself a hero, but if anybody was the damsel in this situation, it wasn't her. But that didn't change facts. When he thought a threat was imminent, he put himself between it and her, and that said a lot more about him, about them, than she expected it to.
They continued with her boxing until he decided she was blocking better and utilizing her other arm. It rankled her a bit that he was giving her tips, not because he was wrong, but because he was right.
She was sweating more than she wanted to be, but it felt good, energy zipping through her that had been far too muted before. While she enjoyed her job, sometimes laying low for weeks and observing from afar meant she didn't get to move around like she was used to. She did yoga in her apartment, but she had to keep close to her target, aware of anything else that might come creeping out of the shadows.
Barnes handed her his water bottle from inside his duffel bag and eyed her as she knocked it back, guzzling down as much as she could without pausing for air.
"You, uh, busy after this?" he wondered, tracking her tongue as she licked her lips.
Darcy shrugged. "Not really. Why?"
He looked away from her, his eyes drifting over various pieces of workout equipment. "Kinda hungry, could use some company."
She raised an eyebrow, staring at his profile a moment. "Anything specific?"
"I make a good spaghetti," he said, his gaze finally drifting back to her, intense and heavy as he searched her face.
Her mouth turned up on at the corner. "Boxing and spaghetti, is that how you get all the girls?"
He let out a quiet laugh under his breath. "Why? Is it effective?"
Darcy bit her lip, shaking her head a little. "I like spaghetti," she said.
Nodding, he said, "Okay. Uh, I don't think I have everything at the apartment. You mind coming to the grocery store?"
"Sure." Tipping the water bottle back, she sprayed her mouth full again and swished it around, swallowing it down and then capping the bottle, tossing it back.
Catching it, he put it back in his bag and then looked up at her.
"So? You wanna show me what you're made of, Mean Machine, or do you want to get straight to the spaghetti and meatballs?"
Mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, he grabbed up the boxing gloves and slid them on. "Who said anything about meatballs?"
"Hey, if you're going to make me spaghetti, go big or go home." Darcy stepped out of the way and took up a position to his right for better observation. She would be lying if she said she wasn't looking forward to seeing him do some serious damage to the bag.
"Yeah? You gonna help me cook?" he wondered, getting into position.
"Why help when I can happily watch you slog away while I put an unhealthy dent in a bottle of red wine?"
He chuckled under his breath, but didn't argue, instead putting his full focus on the bag.
And she realized, watching him move, watching him focus and decimate the bag in front of him, that the fighter was still in him. She shivered, biting her lip, watching the flex of his arm, the play of muscle over his shoulders. Even his footwork was impressive. In a weird way, the whole thing was beautiful to her. She could admire his strength, the instinctual movements of his body, the predator that lived just under his skin.
Suddenly, keeping her distance felt like a very remote possibility.
[continue.]