Chapter Text
They didn’t have much to pack, so Marcella hung around, citing saving trips and gas.
“So Darcy. How’d you meet this carnival act? And then end up on the run from lord-only-knows who with him?” Marcella asked with a wry grin.
WELL I CAN’T ANSWER THAT SECOND ONE, BUT THE FIRST IS ACTUALLY KIND OF A FUNNY STORY. IT ALL STARTED BECAUSE I TASED MY BOSS’ BOYFRIEND, AND THEN DRANK A THIRTY YEAR OLD BOTTLE OF WINE.
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It was Darcy’s first day in the tower and Darcy Lewis was most definitely annoyed with the God of Thunder. And SHIELD. And her mother. Generally everyone really. Which included that traitorous little Hydra sneak Ian. The lying, deceiving little bastard had looked so…so… incompetent when she hired him.
So basically Darcy was hating on the world that had left her to deal with evil dark elves (lord of the rings had nothing on those guys), a mother that made no sense, and an entire lab of heavy equipment to unpack by herself.
It was one of those days. Specifically, one of those days where Darcy had somehow ended up being left to move heavy equipment into Avengers Tower by herself.
Don’t get her wrong. Darcy was all for independence and self-reliance, but a decent pair of biceps would have been seriously handy.
After having moved half the equipment in, almost breaking two metal contraptions and a toe, Darcy decided it was time for a break. One that involved brownies.
“Alright. There has to be a kitchen in this monstrosity somewhere.” Darcy told herself with her hands on her hips, surveying the disaster that would be Jane’s lab eventually.
“Indeed there is Ms. Lewis,” came a smooth voice from seemingly nowhere. “In fact, I can direct you to it.”
Well that was weird.
“Am I hallucinating? Have the last three weeks really been just some sort of nightmare? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure the ceiling just spoke to me.” Darcy said to herself, backing slowly towards the door with her hand over her heart, eyes wide.
“Have no fear Ms. Lewis, you are not having a neurological malfunction,” said the ceiling. Which thankfully hadn’t formed lips or anything, which was a check in the not-hallucinating column.
“Did Mr. Stark inform you that I also inhabit this building as his personal assistant-slash-butler?” the voice inquired.
“That would most likely be a no, considering I have never actually met Mr. Stark.” Darcy responded, her back firmly against the outside wall now.
If she had been questioning her life choices before, this took it to a whole new level.
“I… see.” Answered the voice. “In that case Ms. Lewis, let me introduce myself. I am Mr. Jarvis, Mr. Stark’s personal assistant, butler and overall housekeeper. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The voice paused while a machine in the corner overcame its duct tape casing and fell apart with a loud clang.
“ I apologize for the oversight regarding your orientation. May I be of assistance?”
That… was unexpected.
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Well, okay then. Nice to meet you too Mr. Jarvis.”
God forbid let it be said Mrs. Lewis had raised her daughter without basic manners.
“Thank you Ms. Lewis.”
Darcy’s stomach growled.
Still unsettled, but at least convinced she hadn’t gone off the deep end, Darcy tried to use her brain.
“Could you possibly direct me to that kitchen you mentioned?” she requested.
“It would be my pleasure. The communal kitchen is three stories up, and through the formal living room. The door on the far right of the room, next to the Velasquez will put you directly in the kitchen. I will take the liberty of pre-entering the security codes for you.”
Wait. A Velasquez? Damn Stark had some good art taste. Or maybe it was Ms. Potts.
Still backed against the wall, Darcy asked one more question
“What security codes?”
“Oh yes. As you have not yet met Mr. Stark, I inferred that this oversight would also have resulted in you not obtaining the appropriate security codes required to move between floors on this level. It is a security precaution, as other parts of the building are open to the public.”
“Oh. That makes sense. “
Straightening her shoulders, Darcy took a deep breath, looked to her left and turned the door handle.
“You said three floors up, yes?” she confirmed, right before she left the room.
“Indeed I did,” Mr. Jarvis confirmed.
Three floors. She could do this.
Taking the marble stairs slowly, Darcy passed all sorts of fancy things decorating the stairwell. A Ming vase in the corner, a tablet marked with what looked like hieroglyphics framed next to a piece of the original altar of St. Paul’s Cathedral, all reminding Darcy of how out of place she was here.
The only realized what half of those were, was because Mr. Jarvis told her.
Finally arriving at the third floor, Darcy made her way through the living room, with a quick glance at the aforementioned Velasquez, and into the kitchen.
Which, thankfully, was organized almost exactly like her aunt’s.
Quickly ascertaining that there were no brownie supplies buried anywhere in the custom cabinetry, Darcy re-evaluated her expectations.
“Mr. Jarvis, what’s a good substitute for brownies that this kitchen actually has?” Darcy questioned with her head buried in a cabinet full of boxes of three-year-old quinoa.
“As I am not yet calibrated to your preferences, Ms. Lewis, I am forced to rely on my knowledge of Mr. Stark’s. “ The voice paused.
“According to the delivery invoices, there should be a thirty year old Brunello in the wine cooler.” Mr. Jarvis continued.
Oh. Huh. That should not have been surprising considering the contents of Stark’s stairwell.
“That will do most splendidly Mr. Jarvis.” Darcy confirmed.
Grabbing the bottle from the translucent refrigerator, Darcy made a pit stop for a wine glass and a corkscrew, along with an apple and then trudged back down three stories to the lab.
Once there, she glared at the pieces of machinery yet to be unpacked, opened the bottle and flopped down in the middle of the cement floor.
“Hey Mr. Jarvis, I’m guessing since you appear to be a computer and like everywhere around here, that you could maybe project the New Mexican star-scape on this absurdly bland ceiling?”
“Your wish is my command Ms. Lewis.”
Which is how Darcy met her first Avenger half an hour later, halfway through a bottle of wine and lying on the floor in a pitch-black room.
The first one back from Fury’s stupid management integration and training exercise, Clint stomps downstairs to the lab and angrily punches in his code, and flings open the door with a thunk.
“Goddamnit it Stark, you told me that was a weapons exercise, not a human resources flunky being ambit- “
There goes Darcy’s peace and quiet. Maybe if she just lies still the shouty man will go away. It seemed like a very good plan to Darcy, one that didn’t involve people making her do her job.
At least, it was a good idea until the shouty man starts to stomp angrily around in the dark, stepping on something squishy, and something else that crunches?
“OWWW WHAT THE FUCK DUDE? That was a seriously good bottle of wine! AND MY LEG!”
“Jarvis, lights please.” Clint requests forcefully.
As Jarvis slowly brings the lights up, Darcy comes into his focus, sitting up awkwardly, legs splayed out, while protecting her glass of wine in her left hand. Next to her is the smashed neck of the Brunello bottle, and a growing puddle of red wine.
“Who the fuck are you?” Clint rudely inquires, looking down at the vaguely familiar disheveled brunette on the floor.
Fed up beyond belief, Darcy growls, and athletically stands up by tucking her legs beneath her and rising, all while keeping the glass of wine steady.
Score 1 in the grace column at least.
“Who am I? WHO AM I?” She growls at him, stalking closer to him with every syllable.
“The better question,” she continues “is who the fuck is the man who stepped on me in the middle of the floor and didn’t even ask if I was allriiigfsdagjfdg-“
Darcy cuts off with an unintelligible shriek, having stepped in the pool of red wine now slicking up the smooth concrete floor. Falling backwards with no hope of recovery, Darcy drops the glass of wine and futilely tries to rotate to her front to catch herself on her elbows.
Grace score, negative fifty bajillion.
Seeing the impending disaster, Clint lunges forward and wraps an arm around her waist, letting her momentum pull him into a weird tango-style dip position, with Darcy’s head a mere inches from the concrete floor.
Wide-eyed Darcy looks at him with a combination of gratitude and adrenaline.
Heaving her back into a standing position, Clint brushes some glass off her shoulders, then runs his hands into her hair to check the back of her head.
Even though he’s still manhandling her, Darcy only just stares at him in shock. Unknown shouty man had just saved her from a serious concussion at the least, and a major head injury at the worst. Kind of made up for the bottle of wine, which really she shouldn’t complain about ‘cause she took it from someone else in the first place.
When he pulls her closer to peer at her head some more, Darcy comes back to her senses. Slapping at his hands, she backs up a step and tugs at her now mottled red white shirt, tugging it into position with a tiny frown.
“I’m guessing from the demonstrated damsel-saving abilities, that you’re one of my new super heroic roommates?”
When he frowns at her question, Darcy answers his previous inquiry with a huff, embarrassed to have flailed so badly in front of the man who was probably an Avenger.
“I am Lady Darcy Lewis, Taserer of Thor, Friend of Fandral the Fine, Assistant to the Lady-Scientist Jane Foster, and most likely your new housemate, depending on who the hell you are.”
Clint’s frown disappears as she explains, and quirks up into a grin. Playing along with her obvious attempt to rescue an injured pride, Clint dips again, but this time into an extravagant bow reminiscent of a medieval court jester mocking his king.
“Well my lady, I am Sir Clint Barton, former minion of SHIELD, known to many very impressed damsels, as Hawkeye. “ He announces with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows.
Failing to keep a straight face, Darcy breaks and starts laughing so hard she cries.
Which is how Jane, followed by the rest of the team, finds them a moment later, with Darcy bent in half crying and Clint stuck awkwardly in his bow, grinning like a madman, surrounded by glass and dark red wine.
“Typical.” Jane mutters, surveying the disaster. Grabbing one of the many rolls of duct tape laying around, she chucks it at her newly minted assistant.
“Darcy, get a grip and get back to work! “ She shouts, walking around them to the machine that had fallen apart in the corner.
Wheezing and wiping her eyes, Darcy straightens up and offers he arm to Clint, who has also recovered from his bow.
“Well, Sir Clinton, would you care to escort this damsel through the very dangerous adventure of setting up a science lab?”
With a grin, he takes her arm and steps forward.
“It is a most perilous task,” he agrees as they both survey the mess to be dealt with, “but it would be my honor Lady Darcy.”