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Darcy Lewis is no coward. She faces her problems head on, big and small problems alike (including aliens), and won’t shirk in the face of danger. She’s stronger than a lot of people think she is, and that’s something to be damn proud of.
Except when that danger involves a homecoming weekend reunion at her alma mater, apparently. And even then, it’s not really dangerous, she knows. A lack of common ground between her and her classmates, and her extreme hesitancy to talk about what’s happening in her life with people who just won’t get it--neither of those qualify as danger.
Look, there are protocols to working with the Avengers. While they’re a lot more open than SHIELD ever was, there are still plenty of NDAs and paperwork that one has to sign if they work at the compound or in Stark Tower. She’s got some leeway being technically employed by Jane and that they’re only contracted out to SI, but still. Not to mention that relationship of hers that technically isn’t a secret, not to anyone who matters, but she remembers how some of her classmates were. Calling the tabloids for an exclusive interview with ‘Captain America’s Girlfriend’s Besties’ is exactly the kind of stunt they would pull.
So no, she’s not running away, not at all. Call it a strategic retreat instead.
**********
The fallen leaves are crisp under Darcy’s feet as she strolls from the Metro station across the Mall to the museum of American History. It’s been ages since she’s been there; the last time she and Steve were in DC she only had time to have a wander around the Air and Space Museum while Steve was talking about whatever with the museum’s staff. It’s an absolutely lovely autumn day, Darcy thinks as she turns her face up towards the sun. The perfect day to play hooky from life in general.
An hour later she finds herself in an exhibit about the US Military, wandering idly past the contents of various soldiers’ footlockers, thick and heavy uniforms from the first women in the Navy during the First World War, and many other artifacts going back for generations. Some of the items Darcy’s learned about in passing, from various history courses in high school and college, but on the whole it’s a deep dive into a world she’s only really started learning about up close and personal as an adult.
All right, yes, it’s partly Steve’s fault/inspiration for this newfound knowledge. But the realization that schools only taught her a small part of what actually happened through the years is still startling, and she’s trying to fix that.
(Steve also has a LOT to say about how the government and the military have co-opted his story and image for propaganda purposes also, and it’s enough to make Darcy want to alternate between wrapping Steve in a blanket and giving him all the cuddles until the end of time, and diving headfirst into a barrel of whiskey to erase all of the images from her head.)
In one corner of the exhibit, an alcove that’s not quite hidden but still slightly out of sight, Darcy spots the picture. It’s smallish, maybe the same size as letter paper, and slightly blurry in that way that so many older black and white photos are. The soldier that the picture is showing is half in shadow, the details of the face and front of the body lost in the gloom. But the pale arm arched over his head to brace against the interior of the plane practically glows inside the darkness, and the long lines of his bare back, from his strong looking shoulders that have a spattering of freckles dusting them, down over his torso and the odd, dark streaks decorating his ribs, to his sculpted backside, all the way to the stretch of his well muscled calves, seems like he could have been a marble statue come to life instead.
And yet…
Darcy knows that ass.
Knows it intimately, in an up close and personal manner that only a few people could lay claim to. Held onto it for dear life and left imprints of her nails in it as the owner was going to town on her in the best way possible. Seen it in her shower after being out of town on blisteringly hard missions, scrubbing weeks of grime and stress off of his skin in the process. Seen it pert and perky in old sweatpants while stretched out face down on couch cushions, having accidentally fallen asleep while she was cooking dinner.
“Holy shit,” she murmurs under her breath, soaking in all of the details of the photo.
She tears her eyes from the picture and scans the alcove, trying to find something, anything that tells her a little more about the picture. Steve can’t have known about the existence of this photograph, Darcy thinks, because if he had there’s no way it would be seeing the light of day, let alone be placed out in the open in one of the biggest museums in the country. Darcy feels her brow wrinkle as the next thought flies through her brain, that the museum probably doesn’t even know what they’ve got with this picture, not if it’s buried back in an alcove with a solid two dozen other candid shots of soldiers on WW2 era planes.
The little plaque next to the photograph says as much, in the frustratingly simple words meeting Darcy’s eyes: ‘The Naked Soldier, by Anonymous. Photograph a gift from the Maria Stark Foundation.’
Naked is an understatement, Darcy thinks, even though the skin revealed in the picture isn’t really anything more explicit than a classical statue. Hell, it’s downright tasteful and artistic, when it comes down to it. But there’s a tenseness in the shoulders that she recognizes, the weight of the world that hasn’t quite shaken its way out of the muscles yet. A tension that she’s soothed out of that body herself, more than once, forcing Steve to lie prone on the bed while she massages his skin to the point where he’s an exhausted lump, sinking into the mattress and into an even deeper sleep.
The lack of further information on the plaque is more than disheartening, however. Darcy wants to know every single thing about this picture, including if Steve was in fact aware that the picture existed and that it was hanging in the goddamn Smithsonian. She suspects that he doesn’t, though, because she knows Steve all too well by now. If he was aware of the picture, she’d have heard about it.
A docent passes by, spurring Darcy into action. “Hi, can I ask you a question?” she says, stepping into the docent’s line of sight.
“Sure, go ahead,” the woman says, her voice calm but also restrained in the way that makes Darcy certain the woman has to deal with a ton of dumbass questions throughout the day.
“This Naked Soldier picture,” Darcy continues, waving a hand in the general direction of the exhibit, “is there any other information in the museum about it? I really want to know more.” Hopefully she doesn’t sound like a crazy person saying that, she thinks.
“I wish,” the woman blurts out, then looks around furtively, like she’s checking that no one else overheard her. Then she shakes her head, tiny black braids flying around, and gives Darcy a small smile. “It’s one of the most popular pictures in the exhibit, but there’s a sad lack of further details about it. The museum doesn’t even know all that much - I tried to get some more information on that picture specifically for my masters’, but I got absolutely nothing out of them.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Darcy sighs, though from frustration or relief, she isn’t sure.
“You’re telling me.” The docent shrugs, a knowing look taking over her face. “We do sell copies of it in the Museum store, at least.”
**********
One stop at the Museum store to pick up a stack of Naked Soldier printed postcards later, Darcy finds herself sitting in a cafe at a different museum, phone in hand for research as she dives into her lunch. She’s always excelled at research, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find more information online about this infamous picture.
Only...there really isn’t that much factual information out there. A ton of speculation, to be sure - analyzing every single little facet of the picture, from the shape of the plane to the type of gun that blister port was supposed to hold, to what branch of the military could claim that sort of a plane going by the interior details, all in the hopes that they could identify who the man in the shadows was. Uncomfortable speculation about what Howard Stark’s involvement in the picture was there too, considering that it was clearly documented that the picture was found in his possessions that Tony had donated to the museum after his death. Which told Darcy that most likely, anyone who had asked Tony for more information about the picture afterwards was probably told to fuck right back off to where they had come from.
There’s nothing out there that she can find that directly pinpoints Captain America as the figure in the photo. A guy with a fine physique, yes, but not the famous supersoldier. What Darcy does find, that raises her eyebrows a bit, is an article with quotes from Peggy Carter and Dum Dum Dugan, singing the praises of the donation from the Stark Foundation, and how it was a worthy tribute to Howard’s memory and accomplishments.
Which means that Peggy Carter had most likely seen the entire contents of what Tony had donated to the museum. And from what Steve has told her, she was certainly aware of what his body had looked like without clothing, from both a professional and a more personal standpoint.
Darcy knows that somewhere Peggy Carter is cackling her head off about just how popular this picture of the Naked Soldier has become, and being one of the rare few people on the planet who knows exactly whose bare ass it is in that photo.
The postcards get safely stashed in her bag, and Darcy turns her attention back to her lunch. Steve’s due to fly into DC that night (he’s got a meeting with one of the letter agencies on Monday, and is more than willing to help her play homecoming hooky in the meantime), and they’ve got late night reservations. She’ll pick his brain about the picture then...although, and she’s willing to admit this to herself, that a large part of the appeal is wanting to see the blush stealing over his cheeks once he sees it.
**********
The bar that they’re meeting up at is a genuine, honest to goodness speakeasy in one of the DC suburbs, filled with heavy woods, rich fabrics, candlelight, and cut crystal accessories, and Darcy adores it. It’s small and intimate, with requiring reservations and allowing a very limited amount of people able to enter at one time. The perfect place for them to actually enjoy a night out without getting interrupted by well-meaning but intrusive fans. She hopes, at least. They’ve been able to keep a low profile so far, but admittedly that’s because they spend a lot of time at home and avoiding people.
Darcy’s at a small table, just big enough for two people, in the corner of the room between two windows that peer out over the hazily lit streets of Alexandria. A candle flickers on the table, providing just enough light to see the cocktail menu by, and making her drink reflect golden shards across the glossy wood. If she’s honest, she’s not even sure what’s in the drink; she’d ordered it because the name referred to a pop culture injoke that make her cackle internally, and it melts in her mouth and settles in her bloodstream like nothing else she’s ever had before.
Soon enough, Steve walks in, waved in her direction by the host. He looks relaxed, which is always good to see, especially when he’s off duty for a few days and finally at peace. He steals a kiss from her lips as he settles in the chair next to her, slumping down almost bonelessly. “Finally got a few minutes to breathe?” she asks, running a hand through the neat hairs at the back of his neck.
“It’s a nice change from the past week.”
A waitress comes by, notepad in hand, and quickly takes Steve’s order. Her nonchalance and composure about who’s sitting at the table in front of her makes Darcy wonder just what sort of clientele the speakeasy usually gets, but one thing’s for certain - both of them appreciate her discretion and casual demeanor.
Once Steve’s drink is delivered and the first sip is appreciated, Darcy shifts the small, flat paper bag she’d been hiding away closer to her. Her fingers tap nervously on the bag, and she says, “So, I have something to show you that you may not like.”
Steve gives her a wary look, and takes another quick sip of his drink. “What do you mean?”
Darcy takes a deep breath, a vain attempt at trying to calm the sudden butterflies in her stomach, and slips one of the postcards out of the little bag, handing it over to him. Steve takes it, brow wrinkled with questions, and flips it over. He grabs the votive candle holder on the table, trying to cast a little bit of light on the image and see what exactly is in front of him. By the way his jaw drops, just slightly, and then clenches again, Darcy can tell the moment when it hits him. “Where did you get this?” he whispers roughly, cognizant of the fact that even though this bar is exclusive and quiet, they’re still in public.
“It’s in one of the Smithsonian museums,” she replies, equally as quiet. “There are no names attached to it, not in the museum or online, thank fuck, but I still recognized it, for obvious reasons.”
“I…” His voice trails off, jaw tight, no words coming forth, and Darcy grasps his hand. She runs her fingers over his, feeling them twitch minutely.
“You breathing?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“For what it’s worth, it’s an amazing shot. And nobody has to know it’s you unless you actually tell them.”
That small bit of knowledge is enough to get Steve’s shoulders to relax, for him to uncurl from his protective slouch. “You’re right. You are absolutely right.” He straightens up in his seat, and wraps his free arm around Darcy’s shoulders as he takes a sip of his drink with the other. “So why were you playing hooky at the Smithsonian today instead of being at the homecoming events like you said you were going to?” Steve questions.
Darcy ignores the sly look he’s giving her in favor of snuggling in under his arm and drinking down some of that cocktail that feels like fizzing gemstones in her veins. “Who said anything about playing hooky? I had a free morning. I don’t have to be back at Culver until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
**********
The rest of the night is...well, it’s just fun. The speakeasy atmosphere is comforting enough to relax Steve after the uncomfortable revelations. The drinks are strong enough that Darcy gets a bit of a buzz off of them, and delicious enough that Steve can enjoy them for the flavorful concoctions they are.
It’s over this last drink that Steve curls into her, burying his face against her neck, and whispering, “Are you really planning on going back to your hotel room tonight?”
“Hmmm,” Darcy hums. “I mean, Fredericksburg isn’t all that far from here, and the hotel does have a really comfy bed.
(Lies, all lies. Technically, the hotel room by her college is still under her name for one more night, but she’d packed up all her belongings and left them in the car this morning for this very reason.)
“Mine’s faster to get to,” Steve shoots back. His hand sneaks down, curves around her hip and pulls her that much closer. “And there’s a balcony.”
Darcy purses her lips, looking like she actually is thinking about it even though she made up her mind before Steve had even asked her. “Can we do breakfast out there?”
“You know it.”
**********
Darcy has a difficult time rolling her way out of bed the next morning. Between the late night, multiple cocktails, and some very friendly petting in the hotel room afterwards, moving and being productive is the last thing she wants to do. She can feel the sun on her naked body, and it would be all too easy to drift back off to sleep, relishing in the sensation of it all.
Yeah, the chances of her showing her face at homecoming weekend today too are slim to fucking none. Still, Steve did promise her breakfast on the balcony. And she can smell the coffee from here.
The breeze blowing in from the balcony is cool on her skin as she throws the covers back. It’s still practically summer this time of year in DC, but the breeze helps temper the warmth and makes it entirely delightful. There’s a bathrobe draped across the end of the bed and she wraps it around herself, snuggling down into the thick fabric. The perks of staying in hotels with a much higher pay grade than the shoestring budget she and Jane could usually scrape together, Darcy supposes.
Darcy steps through the balcony doors, and there’s Washington DC spread out in front of her, in all its suspect glory. Much closer, the room service cart has been wheeled to the center of the balcony, laden with coffee and flaky pastries and the more protein-based offerings that are Steve’s preference. The man himself is sitting at the small bistro table in the corner, wrapped in his own bathrobe, hair slicked back and damp from the shower, feet propped up on the chair opposite, and an intense concentration on the notebook in front of him.
Before Darcy can open her mouth to say anything, Steve looks up at her, smiles, and pushes a mug of coffee across the table at her. “Bless you,” she mumbles, shifting his feet onto her lap as she sits down. “How are you feeling this morning? Any less like you were hit by a bus?”
Steve closes the sketchbook and tosses it on the table. “The shock has passed, at least. I did some reading on the picture this morning and I’m still wondering how the hell Peggy let that picture even see the light of day.”
“So she did know about it? I’d suspected, but couldn’t prove it.”
“Oh, she absolutely did. She was there when the damn thing was taken.”
“I’m sensing there’s a story there.” Darcy raises her mug to hide the smile growing at the sight of the flush that spreads across Steve’s cheekbones.
“It’s really not that exciting.”
“I don’t know, any story that ends up with you naked on an airplane has the potential for a lot of excitement.”
“Not when the reason I had to strip out of the uniform was because I’d spent half a day hiding out in swamp water and was told to lose the outfit before my squad burned it off of me for the smell alone.” If a sip of coffee could be called smug Steve’s movements would definitely apply right then.
Darcy frowns, reaching for a pastry and tearing a hunk off of the corner. “That definitely kills most of the romance of the photo.”
For a moment Steve’s eyes go all soft, getting lost in the fall of the city on the other side of the balcony. “It’s still one of the better memories I have of that time. The mission was a success, and everyone came out of it in one piece, if a little worse for wear from the swamp water.”
Darcy, ever so calmly and nonchalantly, pops some pastry in her mouth, chews, swallows, and then says, “I bet Peggy enjoyed the view, too.”
The deepening blush on Steve’s face, all the way down into the V of his bathrobe, is enough to set Darcy cackling, loudly and joyfully.
**********
Back at the compound, a couple of months later…
One of the greatest things about the future, Bucky is convinced, is the over-abundance of properly comfortable socks. Warm, soft to the touch, just the right amount of fuzz (especially in the handmade ones) and found in every color of the rainbow imaginable.
And he’s pretty sure Steve, the bastard, made off with his favorite pair after the last batch of laundry. They have tiny little bulldogs on there. He’s very fond of them.
With that in mind, Bucky feels no guilt whatsoever when he breaks into Steve’s rooms in the compound. Frankly, it shouldn’t surprise Steve at all given that comfy socks are on the line. A quick scan of the place shows breakfast dishes still in the sink, but otherwise everything is where it should be.
Sock drawer it is, then.
The bedroom is suitably half-rumpled, that morning’s exercise clothes tossed over a bed made with military precision. The laundry, it seems, has been put into its respective drawers, as the only clothes immediately in Bucky’s line of sight are 1) dirty and 2) definitely not his comfy socks.
But sure enough, right on top of the sock drawer, are the bulldog socks, smiling right up at him. Bucky snatches them up, grumbling “Gonna kick his ass in for this.” Beneath the socks a piece of paper catches his eye, heavy, solid cardstock, not just some spare receipt or tag. “Now why would you keep that in here?”
Carefully, he fishes the paper out, which looks to be the back of a postcard from the Smithsonian, if he’s reading the details right. Nothing’s written there, just a lip print in a muted shade of reddish-peach, the same shade that Steve’s girl Darcy usually wears.
(He’s not a creeper, just has years of spy training under his belt. He notices things like this.)
There’s a kinder, softer part of Bucky’s brain that knows he probably shouldn’t go snooping around Steve’s romantic keepsakes, because some things should remain private. Then there’s the part of Bucky who missed his socks chiming in and any kindness goes straight out the window.
He flips the card over, and his brain grinds to a halt. Because, somehow, even with his frazzled and twisted inside out brain, he remembers this photograph. He was there when it was taken, and had thrown a blanket right at Steve so he could cover up his pasty white ass for the good of all humankind. And, if he’s reading the postcard right, currently hanging in one of the Smithsonian museums with an ‘Anonymous’ tag attached to both subject and photographer.
How the hell did he miss this one? He’d spent substantial time in many of the Smithsonian museums when he’d first broke free of Hydra, and hadn’t come across this photo once.
Regardless, the implications of the postcard are a damn gift, and now Bucky’s got visions of a delightful revenge best served cold. And as much as Bucky loves his fuzzy bulldog socks, he’s willing to let them remain in Steve’s possession for just a little bit longer. Gotta keep up the illusion that Bucky doesn’t know about the postcard, after all.
He snaps a couple of quick phone shots of the postcard, the full shot of all of Steve’s glory on the front, and the informational caption on the back. No one needs to know that Darcy is the one who most likely found the postcard - his beef is with Steve and Steve alone. Besides, he likes Darcy, and has no desire to do anything to hurt her. Steve though...that asshole deserves everything that’s coming to him.
The beloved socks are tucked back into place, the drawer closed, and Bucky’s out of the rooms like he was never there. He makes sure he’s a safe (read: less suspicious) distance from Steve’s rooms before he whips his phone out again and drops the incriminating pictures in a text message to Natasha.
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