Chapter Text
Darcy’s first kiss had taken place during a warm spring afternoon. She had been in her thirteenth year and Ian, the baker’s boy, similar in age. For a handful of weeks prior, he’d shyly smiled at her through the kitchen door while handing over baskets of golden loaves to Cook. And then had come the fateful day when the boy's delivery took him past Darcy while she hung the freshly washed bedding to dry in the sun. Behind a wide, white-hued sheet, they had talked between hesitant pauses until Darcy had grown bold enough to lean over and touch her lips to his. That kiss had been fleeting and feather light; two mouths touching for one sweet moment.
Clint did not kiss her that way. He held Darcy steady in a solid embrace while their eyes fell shut and lips brushed and soothed in turn. The press of another body against her own seemed such a simple thing, but with Clint, it sent flickering sparks skittering beneath her skin. Despite all their differences - thin fabric and pliant skin against rough leather and hard edges - together they joined in a perfect unison, bound in that one point where lips connected.
So lost in the perfect influx of sensations, Darcy made a face of displeasure when air replaced Clint’s touch upon her mouth. She was at once bereft and greedy for him to return. Eyes opening beneath furrowed brows, she did soften when his hand came to cup her cheek. Those bow-roughened fingertips lay steady as Clint drew just back enough to study her. For all the heated evidence in his expression that spoke of an enjoyment to match her own, a layer of concern lingered also. “Are you...”
“Sir.” Before he could even raise the question, Darcy interjected. She spoke with a boldness that would have surprised her before that moment. Before she knew how desperately naked her lips could be without his mouth upon hers. Her own slender fingers were already forming a lock behind his neck and tugging him back towards her. “Please be quiet and kiss me again.”
“No more sirs,” he breathed out, hoarse and ragged. “Not from you. Not anymore Darce.” Then followed the instant tightening of Clint’s arms as they pulled her hard against him. Not a hair's breadth of space remained as their bodies converged together while lips sought the other with an ardent haste. Nothing had ever felt so right apart from these urgent kisses and the press of this knight into every part of her.
There was no modicum of restraint this time when Clint brought hands to Darcy’s legs and lifted her clean off the floor. Any thoughts of decorum and sense became banished beneath the need beginning to uncoil within her and that Clint stoked brighter as his grip tightened on her thighs. In the short distance he carried her to the bed, that need became a wild heat which threaded through her veins and threatened to consume her from the inside out. And as Clint guided her to recline against the blankets, Darcy ran her nails deep into his hair and couldn’t help the noise of want that formed. The desire to succumb to his touch upon every last part of her was overwhelming. She had no other thought and urge but Clint. She ached for him. And she welcomed the weight of his body as it stretched over hers, sinking them back into the downy mattress.
“You’re so beautiful.” Clint’s voice was a low murmur as he formed a hot trail of kisses along Darcy’s jaw. His praise was simple, yet worthy of a princess. “So sweet and strong-minded and...” The words became muffled as he reached her neck. That longing inside Darcy flared up as Clint caught the tender flesh beneath a heavy kiss made up of lips and teeth. His breath skittered over her, tongue following with haste to soothe where he had grazed, and Darcy’s existence narrowed to that single spot upon her skin.
Was this what the poems spoke of? All those honeyed rhymes of passion and desire? Words seemed such hollow echoes of how bright the world had become. She was filled with a craving so new and foreign, yet so right she could not think to doubt it. Not when it left her feeling so vibrantly alive. So wanted and adored. As Clint guided lips and strong fingertips over her, she wondered how her flesh could ever stand to be bereft of his touch again. And when she gave way to impulse and twined one leg around his so as to draw them closer, to press him against her hip, the sound her knight made in turn proved thrilling beyond belief. She longed to hear that raw note rumble in his throat once more.
A heavy, measured thud of fist against the door broke Darcy’s sweet reverie. The unexpected noise caused confusion in her daze of bliss, until she heard Clint curse and the significance came crashing down. Limbs that had felt weightless suddenly tensed and she would have scrambled to break free, straighten clothes and try to plan excuses, had Clint’s lips not left her throat to press a kiss to her forehead. The simple gesture calmed her. “We’ve done nothing wrong Darce. Don’t think for a second any different.” He spoke so sure, even if all the rules of court and castle would say otherwise.
Whoever waited outside showed patience as Clint righted himself and offered Darcy a hand to life her from the bed. She tugged her rumpled skirt back into place and tried to smooth her hair with one hand. The rumpled blankets would tell all to even a passing observer, but time was too scarce to fix that dilemma. Clint appeared less concerned. He watched Darcy tidy herself before cupping her face with both hands. Nothing was said, yet the gesture spoke of comfort and protection. It took a nod of reassurance on her behalf before he released her to cross his quarters, steel his shoulders with a crick of his neck, and swing the door open.
“Barton.” Sir Steve’s greeting was clipped. Yet it also held no wrath. The captain’s face seemed at worse resigned as he stepped inside, though the expression fell neutral as he took in Darcy standing demurely against one wall. Their eyes met and Darcy knew he saw through the facade of dutiful servant she was desperately trying to project. This was a man whose very name struck fear into legions of enemy soldiers. Yet today, he simply bowed his head in acknowledgement of her presence. If he was angry about what transpired at the demonstration, and the potential disrespect it might have shown their hosts, the good Captain was hiding it well. “Darcy. Would you mind excusing myself and Sir Barton over here? We have a few things to talk about.” Steve’s tone was pleasant yet still Clint grimaced.
Darcy's mouth fell open, ready to protest in earnest any fault ascribed to Clint’s actions. Her knight’s tongue was faster. “Take some time for yourself Darcy.” His dismissal was as firm as it was kind and as much as she longed to defend him, she would do him a dishonour to defy it. So her words fell still but already her mind whirled like a spinning wheel. While Darcy dropped into a curtsey and left the two knights to their discussion, she began contemplating ways to set this right. It did not matter if her reputation was sunk into the dirt for a so-called dalliance with a knight. Clint could not bear any burden for having defended her honour that day.
Lady Jane! Of course Jane was whom she should seek for advice. As much as her lady preferred to track the movement of the stars across the sky, she was also well versed in many other matters, including the sometimes intricate rules of the court and decorum. A little flutter of nerves brushed through Darcy’s stomach with the thought of revealing the detail of her afternoon. They could share some secretes but there had never been the matter of romantic entanglements for either of them to discuss. Jane was a woman who trusted mind over heart, and might be critical of her rapidly growing affection for the knight. However even if her lady were displeased, Darcy felt sure Jane would put that aside to find a resolution to the situation with Clint. Not only due to the noblewoman’s affection for her servant but because Lady Jane could never resist a complex problem in need of solving.
Lifting up her skirts, Darcy made quick haste towards the courtyard. Sir Steve’s arrival at Clint’s door had given indication that the Avenging Knights' demonstration had concluded and indeed there were only a few lingering nobles amid the servants cleaning up discarded food wrappings and abandoned wine flagons. The crowds must have dispersed to take their leave to recover from the excitement of the day. Or gossip about the wonder of the Iron Man and his suit.
Chewing on her lower lip in contemplation of where her lady would have retired to, Darcy decided to aim in the direction of Jane’s quarters. There was a favourable likelihood that the lady was freshening herself before the evening meal. Or at least, putting on her freest flowing smock in order to sneak a few moments atop the old tower to plot her next star chart.
Darcy sought out the quickest route through the gardens and navigated past the dormant rose bushes and ivy-laced trellises when a voice ahead stilled her step. “My dear prince, your friends are simply spectacular.” A wall of thick bushes hid the form, but the sound of Lady Lorelei was unmistakable. Darcy resisted the urge to groan out loud. Duty said she should always be present should a noble need her assistance. And on a normal day she would do as required. But not today. She had not the time (or admittedly the patience) to currently deal with the woman. So duty became ignored and Darcy ducked behind a statue of Lord Selvig’s great-great-great grandfather. The ancestor had been a portly fellow and his marble form shielded Darcy well as Lorelei emerged onto the path with Thor by her side, the lady's honey words carrying in the air. “I see now why it only required you six to defeat the traitor Loki.”
“Indeed.” Thor’s simple reply carried an unfamiliar note of regret. To Darcy's ear the subject of his brother was not a favoured one to the Prince, yet Lady Lorelei pressed on.
"I must ask, your highness, what was the secret?" The woman asked as if she was a maid chasing a piece of mischievous court gossip. "A mastery of magic? An ancient weapon forged from Wakandan steel?" The relentless questioning sent Darcy's eyes rolling towards the sky. Were nobles not supposed to be the ones born with a sense of grace?
A measured pause preceded Prince Thor's reply. "For truth, it was no magic or mystery. It is the knights who stood by my side whom deserve every last word of praise." The humbleness was once more a surprise to Darcy. There was truly little resemblance to the glory seeking hound that had been encountered in the past.
Darcy pondered if she should tell Jane of the conversation being overhearing. It was a great disobedience to eavesdrop on a noble's private discussion. Even with the lady's affection for Darcy, a punishment might be unavoidable. Yet another indiscretion to add to her list for the day. The rueful thought crossed her mind but was quickly dismissed. For would not the lady wish to know the extent of Prince Thor's change? Especially when considering his hand in marriage? Perhaps he truly could be a worthy suitor for the Lady Jane...
Jane! Darcy could not allow her attention to wander while the pressing matter of her knight's reputation with his Captain was at stake. She needed the Lady's advice immediately. Peeking around the statue once more, and certain of the safe distance of the two nobles as they moved further from her location, she bolted forth in the direction of her Lady's chambers. The delay in the garden only added to her urgency and when she finally found solid footing on a stone-paved walkway, Darcy broke into a near-sprint.
"Good heavens!" The exclamation from Cook came as Darcy turned a corner and barrelled straight into the woman. It was only Cook's steady, heavy footing that kept them both upright. “What monster from the sky is chasing you, lovie?"
Darcy's chest heaved from the exertion of her efforts and her answer was ragged, even while she fought not to curse yet another diversion from her mission. "None, Cook. I... simply have an urgent message for the Lady Jane."
"It shall have to be delivered by one of the pages then." Cook's fingers curled around Darcy's arm. The grip was not malicious. However years of labour with pans and knives and heavy blocks of unwieldy meat meant Cook's grip was unyielding. "There is a castle of mouths that need a proper feeding after all the hullaballoo today." Cook could be forgiving of some things, but not her meals being served late.
"But..." Darcy's protest fell on deaf ears as she was marched towards the kitchen. Her head turned to stare desperately back in the direction of the knights quarters, as if her gaze could hope to reach that far.
She had failed. She felt wretched and frustrated but she clung desperately to hope. Perhaps Sir Steve would understand. Forgive in the most noble of ways and show much leniency in his treatment of his fellow knight. After all, what had Clint done compared to the stories about Sir Stark which oft featured grand mishaps and public spectacles? Often interwoven with tales of his adventures with women of various morals.
Darcy was not sure if that left her sensibilities soothed or feeling much, much worse when she wondered where she sat ranked in that list of women.
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Any hope of escaping her duties to hunt down Lady Jane was quickly buried beneath a mound of parsnips and rutabagas. After the indulgent treats consumed while watching the knights, Cook had deemed the castle in need of a meal bursting with roots and some plump, tender game. "Will be good for their constitution," had been the utterance while Cook swept back and forth, inspecting each simmering pot and the work efforts of her assembled helpers. Darcy's part to aid this plan was whittling her pile of vegetables down into bite size chunks so the nobles would not be forced the indignity of slicing them with their own knife.
She could however appreciate that the task left her somewhat less singed than poor Claire who sat turning the spit beside the fire. It seemed that Claire had been using the excuse of needing to attend to Sir Stark to shirk any other duty, even when the knight did not truly need her, and one of the hotter, sweatier jobs was her punishment for sneaking off with her beau Bennie.
Not that it proved to be a dampener on the fellow servant’s spirts. "Want to hear a funny story?" Claire asked when Darcy brought her a mug of water.
"A laugh would not go amiss." Darcy took a turn rotating the oiled meat to free Claire so as to take her drink.
"I'm sure you know that everyone was talking about Jim being gelded by your knight." There was undisguised glee in Claire's somewhat crass recall of the scene at the demonstration.
Darcy's tried to stomp on her friend's foot to halt any further teasing, though Claire neatly dodged the attack. "Sir Clint is not mine." At least… it was far too premature to think of him in those terms.
"You are the worst truth-twister Darcy. But that's not the point of my story." Claire took another mouthful of water before handing the mug to Darcy and reclaiming her space at the spit. "What I found out from Bennie, who heard it from the stableboy, who heard it from the milkmaid, was that Jim and his crowd of boys were all riled up because a certain person had been putting ideas in their heads."
The path the rumours had travelled was ridiculous to say the least. Still Darcy found herself rolling the empty cup between her palms and asking curiously, "Which person and what ideas are you talking about?"
Satisfied that she'd caught Darcy's interest, Claire leaned forward to ensure a whisper could carry between them. "A certain maid has been asking around from the moment they arrived if any of us has bedded a knight. Lady Lorelei's maid. And of course as soon as someone suggested it, everyone thought it was true."
The details drew a rueful shake of Darcy's head. Chambermaids were the worst for spreading hearsay. Access to the nobles bedrooms seemed to incite a need to share any little odd detail they witnessed while changing the sheets. "Why would her maid be talking about that? Wait..." A small niggle of suspicious took hold. "Are you suggesting Lady Lorelei was involved somehow?"
Claire's shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. "That woman? If she was part snake it wouldn't surprise me." Claire was never one to soften her opinions. "So I wouldn't put any form of trouble making beyond her. After all, she was really not happy when Sir Hawkeye basically emancipated you yesterday. Maybe she is trying to smear your reputation in revenge."
Darcy pondered this a moment or two longer. True, there was animosity between them, but she was a servant. She doubted Lady Lorelei even thought of her at all when they were not in each other’s presence. "The Lady is at worst simply fond of gossip." Lorelei's conversation with Prince Thor in the garden was proof enough of that. "Besides, it was not just me that was being asked about. She is probably testing if we are fulfilling our 'duties'."
Claire's eyes rolled upwards. "Even if I was not in love with Bennie, I wouldn't be stupid enough to lie with Sir Stark. He probably has lice. And who would even be suited for Sir Banner to bed? If it's true he can grow to thrice his size, imagine..."
Darcy ran back to her station before her worldlier friend could finish her contemplations.
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As much as she had chaffed against the delay, the time in kitchen with her friends had calmed Darcy's mind. But the issues remained unsolved. What had Captain Rogers said to his fellow knight after she had been dismissed from the room? Had Sir Clint's defence of her caused shame or dishonour? Would Sir Steve demand her distance from his brother in arms to prevent another such occurrence?
When time came to serve the meal, Darcy found herself at the far end of the table to Clint. And as much as she wanted to aim straight for him, she had a row of the castle's most important guests to serve also. As she wove between the other servants, ladling out vegetables browned to a crispy perfection, she forced her face to show no sign of discomfort as she approached Sir Steve's seat.
"Parsnips, Captain?" It was the only question she could safely ask, even while other thoughts burned on her tongue for release.
The knight looked up at her and presented a friendly smile. "Yes, please." Not disgust or chastisement. Simply a politeness as he had offered in every other interaction so far.
Was this a good sign? Or was Sir Steve putting on a pretence of civility? Darcy instructed herself to remain silent. Told herself over and over again with ever increasing firmness. Then her hand froze on the ladle and her mouth started spilling out words faster than her mind could still them. "It was not his fault, good sir. I do not know if he told you that, but it is true. Most utterly, completely true."
They stared at each other for a heartbeat before Darcy regained control of her senses and began to quickly fill his plate. Embarrassment threatened to flush her cheeks. Not so much that she had spoken up, because that had been the least she could have done for her knight. No, she had no true regret for that. But more that she had rambled and likely made little sense.
The man still watched her. Studied with a gaze that bore uncanny resemblance to Lady Jane's when she was near resolution to a question about why the moon waxed and waned the way it did. "Thank you, ma'am." Steve lifted his fork and inclined his head towards the far end of the table. "You should take some of these vegetables to Clint. He’s a little too fond of bread topped with cheese. This is better for him."
Relief made Darcy weak at the knees. It was not a blessing. But it was neither discouragement. Perhaps Sir Steve was not so rigidly attached to the rules of behaviour as outward appearances of a perfect soldier would suggest.
Darcy quickly curtsied, fighting to keep her appropriate smile from shifting into a blinding grin. "Of course, Sir." A weight was lifted from her. Not every obstacle had been overcome, but she would take this victory. She had to resist the skip that wanted to seep into her step as she walked down the table to Clint, ready to provide him with all the parsnips he could handle. And even after his plate was full, she was able to find plenty of reasons to keep returning to his seat.
Despite whatever had transpired between him and his leader, Sir Clint's reception of her was welcoming – very welcoming- and he provided his own share of gentle demands to ensure Darcy was constantly by his side, without her appearing more than an extra attentive servant.
"Could I have some wine, please Darce." He held out the empty flagon barely a finger width from his chest, guiding her to lean in close to attend to his request. "And if you would be so kind, pour it very, very slowly." The fact that there was this layer of mischief to his nature made the man even more endearing.
And being so near to Clint once more was ten-fold the intoxication than any drink could ever be. Darcy put aside one wooden jug in exchange for another before she lingered near his side. "I can do better than wine for you, good sir." Moving so slow it was nearly a dribble, she poured out his preferred ale. Bennie had proven good to his word in handing over the last of the scarce brew in exchange for his amusement at the earlier demonstration. And when Clint took a sip, she was momentarily, ridiculously jealous of the cup being able to touch his lips in front of all the nobles in the land.
"What does that face mean?" As if sensing her silly musings, Clint laid his drink to rest upon the table and turned blue eyes up towards Darcy. "No, wait." Their playful banter turned a modicum more serious. "Will you tell me later? When it is time to… retire for the evening?"
It was an invitation to return to his room. And behind his offer Darcy saw only hope, not expectation that she would say yes. The moments of intimacy already shared between them had not degraded the knight's treatment of her. She felt respected. And she liked it.
That didn't mean everything had to become sombre. She tilted her head in a pretence that she was merely considering the option. "I should warn you that I will most likely smell like roasted carrots by then. There are many pans still to scrub."
Clint had a face that flowed easily between expressions. Now he laughed and took a large gulp of his ale with the sole purpose to allow him to request a refill. "I see. So what treats have the kitchen prepared for tonight then? Stewed apples again?"
"Nay, good sir." Clint might wish her to drop the title, but they were still in ear reach of those who would not accept the breach of decorum. However concealed by the table, Darcy's leg somehow managed to defy good conduct and brush against his solid thigh. And by somehow, it was truly due to Sir Clint guiding his limb in her direction to make sure they connected. It was the briefest of contact yet still her breath caught. "This time the apples have been baked into a pie."
"Uh huh." Clint stroked his chin, as if oblivious to the way the gesture sent his shirt straining tight around his shoulders. If it was his game to drive her to distraction, he was winning by a mile. "And what if I was to ask you bring a slice of pie to my quarters after the meal has concluded? It has been a long day, after all, and I am in need of some extra sustenance." A pair of eyes more suited to belonging on a puppy were aimed at her. "I might even need you to stay and help me eat it."
For all that the world summarised Clint as an excellent archer, he was also clever of mind. Because that excuse was one that none could publicly object to. And even if the subterfuge was thin, whatever ill words people might speak of her tomorrow, all that mattered where the ones she could share with Clint that eve.
Darcy's curtsey was playful and it was her turn to send their legs grazing against each other. "Then I shall have to bring you an extra large slice, good sir."