Chapter Text
Darcy was seven the first time she fell in love. Some people would probably call it an unconventional romance since the recipient of her affections was a stray dog that lived on her street, but Darcy had developed a fuck-the-haters mentality pretty early on. Her dad was severely allergic to pretty much everything with fur, so bringing him inside the house or even around the back into the yard was a strict no go. Darcy saw that as a challenge, not a deterrent.
He was a purebred mutt with huge, dark chocolate brown eyes, a bent tail that had obviously been broken at least once, and masses of fur that curled like springs. She named him McScruff the Wonder Dog and loved him with all the loyalty and devotion that her young heart could muster.
"You're my dog now," she told him. It was raining out and they were hiding in the little ramshackle fort she'd built in the woods behind her house. McScruff smelled of wet dog and bad breath and possibly dead squirrel, but that didn't stop Darcy from taking his face between her hands and leaning in until their noses were touching. Her mom had always told her that eye contact was important when you were trying to make a point, so she did her very best to look him right in the eyes, even though it made hers cross a little bit. "And I will never, ever let anything bad happen to you."
McScruff snuffled and gave her cheek a sloppy kiss, which meant he loved her too.
Things were great until Darcy was nine and Tommy Jerkins moved in down the road. He was a year older than Darcy, and clever enough to be cruel without getting caught. It was a fluke that Darcy stumbled across him throwing rocks at McScruff at all. She'd screamed, her voice loud and shrill enough to bring her mom running from the house, but Tommy talked himself out of trouble and Darcy couldn't talk McScruff into the house. It was only a matter of time, really, because McScruff was the kindest, sweetest, gentlest dog in the world, but he was still Darcy's dog, and there was only so far you could push any part of Darcy before it started pushing back.
The day after Tommy ran home crying with a bloody, bitten leg, animal control came to take McScruff from Darcy's fort while she was in school.
She never even got a chance to say goodbye.
The second time Darcy falls in love, she's twenty-five, hung over as all get out, and has a real chance of getting shot, which is actually more alarming than the giant green guy who's holding her hostage. Then there's the kissing and the falling and the nakedness, and somewhere in the whole mess of the thing, Darcy can't help but notice sweet brown eyes and soft, curly hair.
It's McScruff all over again.
Darcy's contemplating the best way to convince the med team to put her into a medically induced coma until all of her everythings stop hurting when a quietly cleared throat makes her jump. That's just kind of one big ow all over, and she can't quite keep from wincing. When she slides her sunglasses far enough down her nose so that she can peer over them, there's Banner with a horrified look on his face. She blinks up at him while her glasses slip perilously low to the very tip of her nose, and Banner clears his throat again.
"Your wrist." His voice is almost meek, definitely a little on the strangled side, and Darcy is so used to dealing with scientists like Jane and Tony Stark that it takes a moment for her to get past his tone to what he actually said.
"Oh," she says and sits up a little straighter. There's a ring of bruises blossoming dark and ugly around her right wrist, just low enough to peek out from underneath the edge of her sleeve. "It's nothing. Plus, it's a nothing that's not your fault."
"I grabbed you," he says, and yep. That's definitely the voice of a guy who's choking on his words. "I watched the surveillance videos and I saw the other guy grab your arm. I'm so sorry."
Shit, this guy is really good at the whole puppy dog eyes thing, Darcy thinks. Also, that officially rules out any jokes that she might have made about the bruises that are starting to show up on her waist and the slight twinge in her ribs when she inhales too deeply, but the wrist thing really isn't Banner's fault, so she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. (Under the circumstances, it probably shouldn't be funny that he shrinks a little at her glare, but fuck it. She just made the freaking Hulk flinch. That's a little funny.) "Okay, this is me forbidding you to feel bad about things that you A) didn't do and B) maybe kind of accidentally did a tiny bit while you were having a temper tantrum that would put one of those toddlers in tiaras to shame. Not that I'm blaming you."
"I'm so sorry," Banner tells her again, because he doesn't listen; technically he tells the potted plant slightly to her right since he can't quite seem to make himself look at her. Darcy's pretty certain he tracked her down to her desk. He usually spends all of his time either broing it up at Stark Tower with its namesake or in his lab at the far, most deserted end of the facility. (It's possible he's here to see Coulson, since his office is all of three feet from Darcy's desk what with her being his assistant and all, but she's going to go with the answer behind door number one. It's just better for her ego.)
"Dude, chillax," Darcy says. He's still staring way too intently at Fergie the fern, which is so not flattering when Darcy's having a hair and boob day this good. She scoots her rolly chair back enough so that she can pop up and circle around to the front of her desk. Poking at Bruce Banner is almost exactly like poking at a sleeping giant, and pretty much anyone would agree that's a whole other level of stupid, but that doesn't stop Darcy from putting the pad of her index finger against the hollow of his cheek and pushing until his eyes more or less meet hers.
"Seriously. You did not leave me with the kinky looking wrist bruises. This is so not an issue. It's a non-issue. Getting a one handed hug from your Mr. Hyde wasn't even the most perilous part of my morning. It didn't even make the top three of life scarring shit that happened before noon."
"Really?" Banner finally does look at her then, all adorably perplexed eyebrows that nearly disappear into messy hair that Darcy wants to pet. She wonders if his hair is sentient. It looks like it could possibly be sentient, and it seems like nothing could feasibly be classified as 'too improbable' in a world where gamma rays can turn mild mannered scientists green and her boss faking his own death is just another day at the office. She hops up to sit on the edge of her desk and pulls a face.
"Let's just say that I never want to try any kind of combat training with Natasha ever again." She pauses when Banner snorts a laugh. He looks almost surprised about it, like he wasn't expecting that to happen, and Darcy smacks at his shoulder. "Not funny! I have bruises in places that should never be bruised."
There's that guilty look again. That's really not going to work for Darcy, especially now that she's seen him smile, because hello cuteness.
"So not your wrists, then," Banner says. "But I still-"
"Nope," Darcy cuts him off. She pushes at his chest. It would be so much easier to stop touching him if he would stop leaning into it like he's not used to the sensation, and maybe she should talk to Fury about instituting a Hugs for Heroes program, because no one who saves the world should be this fucking touch starved. "No more apologizing. This is a no apologizing zone. Don't make me post a sign, because I totally will. I will post a sign and get Natasha to enforce the fine, and the only people who won't owe me money by the end of the day will be Director Eyepatch and Tony Stark."
"Okay," he says slowly. He's giving her the kind of looks that Jane does when Darcy's just said or done something that makes her doubt her sanity, but the corners of his mouth are twitching the tiniest bit. That's got to be a good sign.
"Granted, I would definitely put those signs everywhere if Stark was the apologizing type," Darcy says. She holds her hand out and Banner only hesitates for a moment before offering her his to help her off her desk. Not that it's a long drop or anything, but a girl's got to get what she can, where she can. "Can you imagine how much money I could rake in if someone could invent a machine that would make Stark apologize for all the things he does that deserve one?"
She stares up at Banner, who hasn't seemed to notice yet that they're standing a lot closer than is generally considered socially acceptable or that he's still holding her hand. When he doesn't answer, she says, "A lot, for the record. It would be a lot of money. Like, buy a penthouse in Manhattan and pay in full at the closing, a lot."
"You've thought about this," Banner says, half statement and half question. His thumb is slowly rubbing back and forth across her knuckles, oddly similar to the way her aunt used to rub at the worry stone she'd always carried in her pocket. It's nice, she decides. Plus, it's making her stomach feel all warm and fluttery. Darcy would totally be willing to be Banner's worry stone.
"Not really." Darcy grins up at him and leans back just enough to snag her purse by the strap. "But I'd be more than willing to tell you about all the ways I want to spend Stark's money over a late lunch." She pauses. "Your treat, of course."
"Lunch?" Banner's eyes flicker to the door of Coulson's office. Maybe he's here to see the boss man after all, which would be disappointing for so many reasons. She has just enough time to get a good sad going over it and mentally start reviewing all the ways she could con him into having lunch with her anyway before Banner looks back down at her. "Why is it my treat?"
Darcy laughs and disentangles their hands so that she can hook her arm through his. He still looks slightly dazed and doesn't try to pull away when she leans up against him. "Easy. You're not allowed to apologize, but that doesn't mean you can't try to make it up to me with falafels."
"Seems reasonable enough," Banner says, and lets Darcy lead him toward the exit. And that right there? That is the definite beginning of a smile. Darcy's pretty certain she can award herself about a billion life points for that one. A billion points seems about right for making the world's biggest Mr. Grumpy smile.
"I'm always reasonable," she says with a little head bop against his shoulder. "I'm the epitome of reasonable. If there was an Olympic event for reasonableness, I'd take the gold every time. And my abundance of reasonableness is why I've arranged the ways I'd spend Stark's money into categories. Category one: All the shoes."
"All the shoes," Banner asks with an arched eyebrow and something that's close to a laugh. "How many shoes does one person really need?"
Darcy looks at him as seriously as she can manage and says, "All of them."