She's going to kill Tony for this.

"I need you go to some hoity-toity fundraiser dinner for me," he'd said. "You know how much I hate those things. Get a new dress on me and enjoy the free booze," he'd said.

Things he absolutely did not fucking say? Tonight is really a blind date.

With Steve Rogers.

Dead. Murdered. Stabbed.

Darcy's admittedly been in a weird mood ever since her mother called yesterday to tell her that her sister's engaged. Lizzie is barely a full year younger than Darcy, but she's the beloved baby of the family and everything the girl does is celebrated in a grandiose fashion. The way her mom carried on over the phone, one would have thought her sister was marrying an actual prince and not her high school sweetheart from their little hick town she's been dating since they were twelve. If Darcy had to marry her high school boyfriend she'd blow her fucking brains out, but hey, she's happy if Lizzie's happy.

Or not happy as the case may be on this ruse of a date with America's Most Eligible Bachelor.

Maybe this whole scene is a dream date for some women (and let's be real, a lot of men, too). She's wearing a fancy lace cocktail dress and killer shoes that cost more than she earns in a month (thanks, Tony), and sitting across from Captain America at a dimly lit table in one of the swankiest restaurants in New York City. Of course with her awful luck, the color of her gorgeous dress with its beautiful scalloped edging, cap sleeves, and plunging v-neck might as well be called Captain America blue. Paired with the red high heels the sales girl talked her into, she must come across as some pathetic fangirl desperate to land The First Avenger. And, like, it's absolutely nothing against Steve. He's never been anything but super polite in the handful of conversations they've had in the last year, and he's undeniably gorgeous (especially in that navy pinstriped suit he's wearing) but she hates blind dates.

From the gobsmacked expression on Steve's face when she sat down across from him it's obvious that he was also set up by Tony, and he's not exactly happy about it either.

It doesn't help matters that his identity is no longer a secret. That cat was unfortunately let out of the bag about six months ago by a mole working inside S.H.I.E.L.D. and the media circus that followed was a maelstrom of insanity. Darcy can feel the weighted stares of curious diners on her, hear their hushed whispers as they wonder 'Is that really him?' Cell phones are aimed in their direction and it's unsettling to think this is going to be online before they finish their meal. She can't imagine how he deals with this kind of attention on a regular basis or how he's managed thus far to refrain from beating the paparazzi with his shield. Steve looks so uncomfortable that she can't help but feel bad for him.

The waiter comes over and tells them about the specials. Of fucking course her boss would pick a restaurant that specializes in molecular gastronomy. So not only are they going to suffer through the awkwardness of a blind date they didn't know they'd be on, they're going to eat foam and starve, too.

Tony Stark is such a fucking dick.

They both attempt to strike up conversation over drinks, but nothing clicks. Steve's not exactly helping either, sitting there with a perma-scowl on his face and giving her clipped responses to her questions. She actually brings up the weather after they order. The weather, for fuck's sake. Pathetic and cringe-worthy barely cover it, and no matter how handsome Steve is (and it's infinity), there's simply no spark here between them. All she wants to do is go home, get into her sweats, and hoover the leftover Chinese takeout in the fridge.

Things go from bad to worse when their "dinner" comes out. Small rectangle plates with three different bite size portions of "food" is placed on the table in front of them. Darcy eyes it with disdain and curses Tony under her breath, mentally plotting ways to make his life as hellish as possible without getting fired. She glances across the table and sees that she and Steve have found at least two things in common in the last fifteen seconds—neither of them want to eat the shit on their plate and they both currently hate Tony Stark.

Darcy signals the waiter and asks for more wine. If she's going to survive this hot mess she needs something to dull the pain. He nods and glances down at her chest for the umpteenth time that evening before walking away. Prick.

"How's your dinner?" Steve asks flatly.

"Disgusting," she replies, lifting her wineglass to drain the last few drops. "Yours?"

"This isn't food," he mumbles, glaring at his plate and poking at the transparent ravioli with his fork.

Darcy spots the waiter approaching with her beacon of hope (aka wine) and, as she could give a fuck less about proper etiquette right now, holds up her glass for a refill. The wine doesn't make it into her glass though. Of course it doesn't because that would mean an improvement on the evening. No, things reach a whole new level of awful when the squinty-faced pervert trips and spills wine down the front of her dress.

She gasps, her whole body momentarily freezing up as the cold liquid seeps through the material of her dress and slides down the valley between her breasts. Steve's face is unreadable as she pushes back her chair and hurries from the table.

He's going to kill Stark for this.

Steve stares helplessly at Darcy's retreating form and counts to ten in his head to keep himself from decking the man at the next table recording this moment on his cell phone. He's still pissed when he gets to ten, so he fishes his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket to text Tony.

Steve: What the hell are you doing, Tony?

Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with Pepper and the head of the New York City Arts Foundation. Tony'd asked him to attend the dinner with Pepper in his stead, and since Steve loves the arts and no one ever can actually say no to Pepper, he reluctantly agreed. So he put on one of his tailored show suits as he likes to call them and headed to the restaurant.

It became abundantly clear when he arrived and was seated at a table for two that tonight was not at all what he'd signed up for. With Tony Stark involved he honestly should have known better, but to say he was surprised when Darcy showed up is a vast understatement.

Tony: Having surf-n-turf w/Pep. How goes the date with my assistant, old sport?

Steve is fucking furious. He hates being played for a fool and tonight is nothing short of an ambush. His jaw clenches so hard he can practically hear his teeth creaking under the pressure, and he balls his hand into a fist repeatedly beneath the table.

Steve: You had no right. Stay the fuck out of my personal life.

Texting is nowhere near as satisfying as yelling at Tony would be, but with all the onlookers at the restaurant, it'll have to do. Whatever else Tony may have to say, Steve isn't interested. He dumps his phone back in his pocket and stands when he sees Darcy stalking back towards the table, face flushed in anger, or maybe embarrassment, with a large, wet stain down the front of her pretty blue dress. A camera flash goes off and there's no need to guess where it's pointed. He frowns and his brows pinch closer together as Darcy drops down into her chair and narrows her eyes at him. Smoothing his tie, he sits and stares back. "I'm sor—" he starts to say, but Darcy holds up a hand to cut him off.

"Can we please just end this?" she hisses quietly from her side of the table. "I don't want to make an even bigger scene, but I've had enough and I'm leaving."

He gets that she's pissed about tonight (fuck, he's livid about it), but she's been nothing but snotty towards him all night. He's beginning to wonder what he ever found charming about her in their previous interactions. The sour look on her face rankles, as though he is personally to blame for this sham of a dinner date. "Fine," he clips coolly.

"Fine," she repeats, tone icy.

Steve signals the waiter who scurries over with a hangdog expression. "Can I have the check please?"

"It's been taken care of by Mr. Stark, sir," the waiter informs him. "Ma'am, I'm so sorry about spilling wine on your dress," he says to Darcy.

Darcy's head slowly turns towards the waiter, gives him a look so venomous that Steve nearly winces from it. "Okay, one," she starts, tone soft but fully lethal, "don't call me ma'am. I'm not old enough for that. And two, you can shove that weak apology right up your ass. You're lucky I didn't tase you in the balls for staring at my tits all night." A laugh bubbles up in Steve's throat and he coughs to cover it, thankful she didn't unleash that fury at him at least. She pushes her chair back with authority and stands. "I'm leaving. See you around, Steve."

Steve sits at the table for a moment, watches her leave. He debates following after her when he spots her purse on the table and his manners kick in and demand he do so. "Darcy, wait," he calls and hurries to catch up.

As Darcy pushes her way out the back entrance of the restaurant to avoid any paparazzi lying in wait, she hears Steve call out for her. Thanks, but she'd really rather not; she pretends not to hear him and keeps briskly walking. Everything about this night has sucked fat donkey balls and she wants to distance herself from it as soon as fucking possible. She's hoping she can catch a cab and hightail it out of there before she has to endure another stilted conversation with Steve Rogers. Normally her intuition about people is spot on, so how could she have misjudged him so badly? A black town car slows to a stop and her anger over the whole evening reaches a fever pitch when Happy rolls down the window.

"Evening, Darcy," Happy greets with a jovial grin.

"Happy," Darcy says through gritted teeth, folding her arms indignantly across her chest. "I'd hate to think you had anything to do with this."

Happy throws his hands up and lets out the kind of long-suffering sigh that can only be achieved after working for Tony Stark. She mastered hers in just under a month. "I told Tony it was a horrible idea," he says by way of apology.

"Darcy," comes Steve's low voice behind her.

Darcy rolls her eyes and continues glaring at Happy, who's clearly staring in admiration at Captain Rogers. "Would you two like to be left alone?" she snaps at Happy. "You know what, I don't care what you do. I want absolutely nothing to do with Tony Stark for the next two days and that includes getting in this car with you. I'll walk." With that, she flicks her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Enjoy your evening, Captain," she tosses Steve's direction and quickly looks both ways before darting across the street as fast as she can in her heels.

Darcy doesn't make it more than ten steps before Steve calls her name again. She huffs, whirls around on him, stamping her foot on the concrete like a petulant child. "What, Steve? What?" The muscles flex in his jaw, his eyes hardening as he holds up the purse she left behind. Oops.

"You forgot this," he clips. "Figured you might want it back." There's a pang of remorse in her stomach over her bratty behavior when he hands her purse back. But that's wiped away as soon as he opens his mouth again and adds, "Just let Happy take you home or let me get you a cab. It isn't safe for you to walk alone."

Her eyes flash hotly and she glowers at him. "You don't have any jurisdiction over me, Captain. I don't have to take orders from you and I can get a cab just fine on my own, thanks."

Steve throws up his hands in exasperation. "Dammit, Darcy! M'not giving you orders. Are you always this fucking stubborn?"

"Excuse you!" she cries indignantly. "I can—" Thunder chooses that moment to literally steal her thunder as the skies open up and rain comes pouring down. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she yells, balling her hands into fists. The wind picks up, prickling her wet skin with goose bumps.

Steve grabs her elbow and tugs gently. "Come on, follow me. No chance of getting a cab now."

Darcy stays rooted to her spot on the sidewalk, jerking her arm free from his grasp as the rain puddles at her feet and soaks them both. Jutting out her chin, she glares at him through soaked strands of hair falling her face. "There's no way in hell I'm going back to that restaurant," she says through her teeth.

Steve snorts derisively. "Me neither." His hair is plastered down on his forehead and he reaches for her hand, grinning very much like the boy he isn't. "Be bullheaded later and c'mon! Let's get out of this damn rain." His warm, calloused fingers curl firmly around hers and she blames the shiver that runs the length of her spine entirely on the cold rain. Steve starts walking briskly down the sidewalk, pulling her along with him.

Her feet carry her as fast as humanly possible in the fancy heels she's wearing and if Steve is annoyed that she's not able to go faster, he's at least not showing it. They cover two blocks in a hurry; she has no idea where he's leading her or why they haven't ducked under one of the few dozen awnings they passed by already (or why they're still holding hands). Darcy's just about to open her mouth to complain when Steve pulls her under the awning of a diner. A neon sign in the window tells her it's Big Al's and her stomach growls as the heavenly scent of grilled onions and peppers hits her nose. "Thank you, Jesus! I'm starving."

The corner of his mouth ticks up and he seems more relaxed than she's ever seen him before. "Same here." He lets go of her hand to open the door and a bell chimes above their heads. "After you." Darcy walks into the diner and the blast of air conditioning on her dripping wet skin makes her shiver from head to toe. It's not crowded and the sign by the hostess stand says to seat yourself. "Table or booth?" Steve asks.

"Booth, definitely. I'm going to attempt to dry myself off a little first. Be right there." Darcy gives him a tight-lipped smile and sloshes her way down the narrow hallway for the ladies room.

She blanches at her reflection in the mirror. Hair soaked, mascara running down her face. Drowned rat in stained cocktail dress is the most apt description she can think of. She grabs a few paper towels from the dispenser and wipes away the smudged makeup. It's so cold her teeth chatter and she smacks her hand on the button of the hand dryer on the wall, sighing in relief when the warm air hits her skin. Once she stops shaking, she pulls an elastic out of her small purse and puts her hair back into a messy ponytail. Her best look ever it isn't, but it's a definite improvement. At least she's not sopping wet and freezing anymore.

She also feels less hostile and stabby than she did at the other restaurant. Oh, she's absolutely furious with Tony and that's not likely to go away anytime soon; but Steve was setup in all this, too, and had to deal with paparazzi on top of it. Darcy decides to cut the guy some slack and go out to the table with a better attitude.

Steve chooses a booth in the back away from the window, just in case any paparazzi followed them in the rain. He likes this diner. No one seems to know who he is when he eats here and if they do, no one's ever made a fuss about it. He ditches his jacket and tie, undoing the top two buttons on his shirt that were starting to feel like a noose around his neck, and rolls up his sleeves. Their waitress comes by and Steve orders coffee for two. Maybe he doesn't know much of anything about Darcy, but he can't recall a single time he's seen her in the office without coffee in hand or on her desk. It seems like a pretty safe bet, but with how the rest of the night's been, he isn't so sure. He pulls the pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, flips over the paper placemat in front of him, and starts sketching.

He's finishing a doodle of Darcy tasering the asshole waiter in the balls when she plops down into the booth looking fresh faced and pretty with her skin scrubbed clean and hair swept back into a haphazard ponytail. It's still patently obvious that she'd rather be anywhere else right now. This is all Stark's goddamn fault for butting into other people's business. "Feel better?" he asks, turning the placemat over again.

Darcy shrugs and makes a non-committal noise. "Thanks for the coffee," she says after a moment, reaching for the cream and sugar.

"Sure," Steve replies, picking up his own cup for a sip. She doesn't say anything else as she grabs a menu off the table, and he has little interest in enduring another meal with her exchanging nothing but clipped sentences, cool stares, and awkward silences. This is all Stark's goddamn fault. Maybe he should apologize, but the idea of making apologies on Tony's behalf only pisses him off even further. "Excuse me a minute," he says, sliding out of the booth.

He uses the restroom and splashes some water on his face, attempts to regroup. There's no apparent reason he and Darcy shouldn't get along. They've gotten along just fine whenever they've interacted before. Fucking Tony. An idea pops into his head as he opens the door and decides it's worth a shot.

Darcy's fingers are flying over the keys on her phone as he walks back towards the table, no doubt texting a friend about how horrible this night is. He would guess Tony, but he suspects she'll save reading the riot act to him in person. Steve stops but doesn't sit. When Darcy looks up from her phone, he smiles, holds out his hand, and says, "Hi, I'm Steve."

She arches a brow, glances at his outstretched hand. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she gives him a long, considering look. The corner of her mouth ticks up as she shakes his hand. "Darcy." He feels it again. That little jolt warming his skin beneath their joined hands. He chalked it up to coincidence in the rain. Now he's not so convinced.

"Mind if I join you?"

Shaking her head, Darcy gestures to the empty side of the booth. "Please."

Steve sits and relaxes back into the booth. "So."

Darcy smirks and dumps her phone into the tiny purse on the table. "So," she repeats, and for the first time all evening he sees that spark of mirth in her eyes that he's always enjoyed every time they've spoken before.

"How's your evening going, Darcy?" He grins and pours himself more coffee from the carafe.

Huffing out a laugh, she holds out her cup for a refill. "Kinda terrible actually."

Steve fills up her cup and gives her a sympathetic smile. "Sorry to hear that. How so?"

"Let's see," she starts, ticking each thing off on her fingers. "Found out yesterday that my younger sister got engaged. And then I got hoodwinked by my infantile boss. Totally thought I was attending a fundraiser dinner but in reality it was a blind date."

Steve pulls a face as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. It earns him another dry laugh. "Yikes. Tell me more about this bad date."

Darcy eyes him skeptically and wrinkles her nose, which should not be as damn cute as it (really) is, and humorously recounts the lowlights of the evening. Steve laughs and he's rewarded with a genuine smile. It's a great smile, he thinks.

The waitress walks over to take their order. He's relieved, and, frankly, a bit amused when Darcy orders real food. A double cheeseburger with everything, onion rings, and a chocolate shake with extra cherries. The last few bad dates he's had the misfortune of going on ate rabbit food while their eyes devoured him like a piece of meat. Steve orders the same as Darcy, plus an omelet, a double stack of pancakes, and a side of bacon. When Darcy laughs and gawps at him, his lips twist into a crooked smile. "What?"

"Dude, I don't know whether to be amazed or grossed out by your order."

He chuckles and rests his arms on the table. "Just left the worst restaurant in history, m'starving."

"Oh?" Darcy asks, a knowing smirk on her lips. She leans forward and rests her arms on the table. "Do tell."

Steve takes a big gulp from his coffee cup and looks at her over the top. "I drew it, actually. Wanna see?"

Surprise flickers across her face and she considers him a moment from her place across the table. "You drew it?" she asks. "Hell yeah I wanna see. Gimme!" Darcy makes a grabbing motion with her hands, and Steve smirks at her, amused, before flipping over the paper placemat and turning it around for her to see. He watches Darcy's face while she looks at the various scenes he doodled from their date—the surprise from both at the beginning of the night, the matching disgusted expressions over the food, the spilled wine, and ensuing threats—pleased to see humor lighting her eyes and curving her mouth when he describes them. She barks out a laugh at the taser scene. "Oh, god, this is amazing!"

"Thank you. I can draw one more of you poisoning your boss' coffee. If you want."

Darcy's head tips back and she roars with laughter. "Hell yeah I do!"

Steve grins and reaches for his pen. "Comin' right up," he tells her, turning the placemat around again. A much more comfortable silence falls over them while he draws. He puts Darcy in her blue dress rather than a work outfit, and every now and then he flicks his eyes up to look at her as he sketches to get the detailing just right. "You know," he begins slowly, finishing the last bit of shading on his drawing, "M'guessin' this date of yours really stepped in it and forgot to tell you how pretty you look tonight." Steve puts down his pen and lifts his head. Unless his eyes are playing tricks on him, there's color blooming high on her cheekbones and a soft smile on her lips. "Seriously, Darcy. That's a helluva dress."

Darcy's mouth ticks up playfully. "This old thing? Why, I only wear it when I don't care how I look."

Steve chuckles when she flips her hair for added flair and he relaxes back in his seat, rolling the pen absently back and forth on the table beneath his palm. "It's A Wonderful Life," he says.

"Yep. Great movie. It's one of my favorites," Darcy grins, face bright with it, and something twists warmly in his belly.

A smile steals across his face and he sits forward, mirroring her pose and resting his arms on the table. "Mine, too."