"I've got my ticket for the long way 'round,
The one with the prettiest of views.
It's got mountains, it's got rivers,
It's got sights to give you shivers,
But it sure would be prettier with you."
"Cups"
Anna Kendrick

---

Darcy promptly starting obsessing about Captain America's body.

Mind you, it was just a hug – a simple, innocent, unassuming hug. But, it had wreaked havoc on her senses. It was impossible to hug a man like that and not obsess over the finer details of what was felt. Or, so Darcy assured herself in the privacy of her own bed.

It had only lingered for a moment, but it had been returned (however awkwardly) and that had been enough for Darcy's physical senses to be totally overloaded. She had escaped as quickly as possible and beat a hasty retreat to the elevator in order to spare her dignity, but the damage had been done.

She had leaned against the cool metal walls of the elevator and swooned. She could still feel the hardness of his body pressed up against hers; the contact had been light and it seemed all the more damning because of it. The memory teased her – tantalizing and provocative in its brevity. She had felt his warmth – she now knew what she had long suspected, and that was Steve's body temperature was higher than that of the average person – and it had seared her to the bone, right through her clothes, right through her skin. His warmth lingered on her and Darcy had been half-tempted to press the side of her face or her forehead against the elevator wall – anything to lower her own temperature.

The scent of his aftershave lingered in her nose. Darcy had also smelled him, that warm, musky, comforting scent that was all Steve. He smelled a bit like metal, a bit like sweat, a bit like Irish Spring and Pert. But mostly, he smelled like something undefinable that was simply "Steve". He smelled clean, like Irish Spring and Pert. He smelled like a memory half-forgotten; she couldn't quite name his scent, but Steve Rogers reminded her of a sense of safety, of belonging. His scent attracted her and wrapped her in a charming allure that she wanted always around her. The scent of him made her fall for him even harder.

"Get a grip, Darcy," she moaned to herself, now in bed and safely tucked away from any prying ears.

There was no grip to be had, however. The hug itself didn't necessarily replay itself incessantly inside of her head, but the sensations from her bold interaction did. Steve had been so hard, his body so unforgiving beneath her curves. Darcy grabbed her spare pillow – really, did she need a queen-sized bed when it was just her? – and muffled her next groan of desperation into its fluffy substance.

That brief contact with him had left her aching. Really, all she'd wanted to do was to climb up his body, wrap her legs around his waist, and kiss him breathless. It left her hot and bothered, too, to know that Steve was strong enough to support that sort of impetuous gymnastic endeavor on his person. Captain America wouldn't need a wall to help him support Darcy Lewis' more lusty adventures – oh, no. He could simply widen that stance of his, dig his heels into the ground, tighten those long, lean leg muscles, and just take her standing. No effort whatsoever.

And Dear Lord in Heaven, Darcy shouldn't have even thought the words "take her" to herself. Pressing a pillow into her face and squeezing her eyes shut did nothing to alleviate the image that flashed through her mind at the thought of Steve "taking" her. It was not necessarily a coherent thought – it certainly didn't involve any sort of detail and was really just a flash of sensation and the briefest of images, unformed and primal – but it was enough to make her think that her sanity might be permanently compromised.

Her. Him. In a shower. Together. Naked. Hot, steaming water. Soapy, sliding bodies. Steve standing with his legs spread firmly apart. Her in his ridiculously muscled arms, her own arms around his ridiculously muscled shoulders, her small hands trying desperately to hold on for dear life. Not that she needed to, because he had a firm, stable grip on her ass. Him inside her. Kissing. Friction. Movement. Moaning.

"Argh!" Darcy practically shouted in frustration.

Thankfully, her pillow all but silenced her inarticulate expression of hormonal futility. The last thing she needed was J.A.R.V.I.S mistaking her cry for one of fear and sending all of the Avengers crashing into her room in a fit of protective fury. Tony would be insufferable, Steve would thankfully, mercifully remained politely confused, but Thor would be the worst. The absolute worst. It would be like getting caught in the middle of a blowjob by one's older brother.

Come to think of that… Darcy lowered her pillow just enough so that she could peer thoughtfully at the high, white-washed ceiling above her. How would that play out? Thor and her and Steve? Jane wasn't a worry, since, for an astro-physicist, Jane was surprisingly earthy. She would probably encourage a physical relationship and probably (embarrassingly) celebrate it on Darcy's (bemused) behalf. Thor on the other hand…

Steve was, by a rather ironic default, one of Thor's better friends on the team. While the Asgaardian was better able to accept the technical advances of the 21st century – he was, after all, completely and utterly comfortable with inter-dimensional space travel – he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the finer points of a toaster. And Thor with a loaded weapon? Puh-lease. In a moment of insatiable curiosity, he had nearly taken Hawkeye out permanently (Clint had later retaliated by "accidentally" putting an arrow through Thor's foot when the Asgaardian wasn't looking. Which was a rather low blow, but it drove home the point – no pun intended – that Thor had no business on any end of an AR-57). Cap, on the other hand, could not only work a toaster, but knew better than to point a gun at anyone without the intent to kill or seriously disable. Steve also never had to be told not to throw his coffee mug on the floor, knew enough to steer clear of small women with an attitude (with or without tasers), and had a fairly well-informed opinion of major league baseball teams.

The two evened each other out. Thor could surf the web without being overloaded by its possibilities, Steve could maneuver through everyday Midgaardian life without leaving behind the impression that he had escaped from a mental institution. As a result, the two had established an easy sort of camaraderie – Steve kept Thor from drawing too much attention to himself in public, Thor found inventive ways to explain modern science in a manner that didn't make Steve defensive. Without ever making a big deal out of it, or even appearing to be particularly buddy-buddy (like Tony and Bruce), the two men-out-time looked out for each other.

It further complicated things by the fact that you could take the man out of Asgaard, but you couldn't take Asgaard out of the man. Thor thought in terms of "family" and took those terms very seriously. Jane was, unequivocally, "family" in Thor's way of reckoning and to her he showed supreme loyalty (as if leaving the throne of Asgaard forever wasn't proof enough). This loyalty – and inherent protectiveness – also extended to those Thor had first met in Midgaard along with Jane. Namely, Erik and Darcy. Erik came and went, refusing to be placed permanently in S.H.I.E.L.D's employment after being virtually Vulcan mind-melded by Loki, but Darcy had happily been bought for the price of a five-digit salary (at a range much higher than she could hope for as a political science grad student), government benefits (nothing to sneeze at, for sure), and job security (barring death-by-alien-invasion). So, it was to Darcy that Thor extended much of his brotherly affections. It also didn't help that she was a non-combatant, a civilian, and a woman; Darcy was no Sif and if Steve's outdated ideas of masculine duty rubbed her the wrong way, Thor's could be positively medieval.

For the most part, Thor wasn't (too) overbearing; if he got to be too much, Darcy would tartly remind him of who had struck him down with "lightening" within mere moments of first arriving to Midgaard. But, that didn't stop him from fussing over her like the brother she never wanted – where did she go when she went out? Did the other Avengers treat her politely? Had anyone ever done her wrong? Did she know how to defend herself? Did she always and without fail always keep her "lightening device" on her when she went out alone?

And, ad infinitum. Darcy was pretty sure that if Thor ever caught her making out with Captain America, he would probably hit Steve over the head with Mjolnir and lecture later. And if he ever caught them in bed together? Yeesh. Darcy could only imagine the lengths Thor might go to "defend her honor." The idea sort of scared her, frankly.

Alien "god" versus super soldier? She tucked the pillow under her chin and mused thoughtfully. Who would win that fight, anyway?

It would certainly be an interesting show of muscles and manliness, that's for sure. Darcy sighed, again, at the thought of muscles. Steve's muscles, specifically. And her thoughts spiraled downward…

Along with her hands. There was only one way she was exorcising those smoky, sensual, decadent thoughts of Steve's long-limbed body, muscled torso, and soulful blue eyes…

---

She lay on the bed, dressed only in her new, bright orange bra and panties. The room was cool and she shivered, although, whether from anticipation or from the chill, she couldn't discern. Her hands were above her head, held in place by a large hand that gripped her wrists firmly, but not cruelly. Darcy all but squirmed with need, but he had told her to lay still; his large body, pressed tightly to her side, ensured her obedience, since there was only so much that she could wiggle anyway with his thick thigh tossed so casually over hers.

He took his time, just touching her. It drove Darcy wild, his gentle touching – she'd never had a lover before who took so much pleasure in the simple things. But, she could understand why he did – he was a considerate man by nature, for one, and for another, he was still quite new to all of this. He hadn't become complacent in his carnal knowledge; Darcy wondered briefly if he ever would, really. Steve just seemed like the kind of guy who liked to take his time to things "right". She had watched him clean a gun, had seen him plan attack, had seen him lead; Steve always did things with purpose, carefully, and with perfect execution.

He was a Type A personality, for sure, hell-bent on perfection. Why would his approach to love be any different? There was no room for "second-best" or "haphazard" in Steve's ethical vocabulary.

She was A-OK with that, for sure. Darcy curled her toes, as the fingers of his free hand smoothed the skin along her ribcage. God, his hands were a-m-a-z-i-n-g.

"Cold?" if there was any amusement in Steve's voice, she couldn't hear it; if anything, he was utterly sincere in bed, totally transparent in thought, word, and deed.

It was part of why she loved being with him. Steve didn't do duplicity. What you saw was what you got and while his old-fashioned morals could get on her feminist nerves, at least she never had to worry about him "playing the game." Games were for children and this was certainly not kid-friendly. There was always sincerity in his touch, in his words, in his eyes. Darcy trusted his desires and in turn, learned to trust hers. There was no safer place than here, in his arms, in her bed.

"Yeah," Darcy turned her head and peered at him from over the smooth length of her upstretched arm.

She meant to say, "yeah, a little", but all that came out was that one single word. She found that she was absolutely incapable of stringing together a coherent sentence. When she inhabited a bed with Steve, the best she could manage were one-word statements: "Yes", "No", "Harder", and "Steve". Occasionally, she could manage two-word statements, her most favorite being "Don't stop!" He didn't manage to do any better when she was in control, but when he took charge, at least Steve was able to complete full sentences. Darcy couldn't manage that regardless of who was "on top".

In this particular instance, saying less was usually a good thing. For example, right now: Steve's face lit up in an almost-lazy smile and his hand, which had been dancing lightly across her covered chest and softly-rounded tummy, suddenly slipped lower. He went by inches and Darcy fought the fresh urge to squirm. Her breath caught in her throat, as she hoped upon hope that he was moving so intently toward the juncture of her thighs.

His fingers caught on the lace edge of her panties and he effortlessly lifted himself up on his elbow and leaned in for a kiss. It was all tongue, teeth, lips, and breath. Darcy melted, her body going completely, delightfully limp beneath him. She couldn't help it – his kisses had a way of doing that to her. Every. Time.

Steve, also, loved to kiss. Really, Darcy thought it might be his favorite thing. Not that she was complaining, but his lips were ever rarely away from hers in such situations. He'd been a little sloppy at first, a little unsure of himself, a little over-eager, but it didn't take him long to catch onto what Darcy liked.

She liked strength, dominance, and tongue. Actually, Darcy liked quite a bit of dominance, which had made things a little difficult at first, since Steve was not only inexperienced, but had also insisted on being such a damn gentleman in bed. Thankfully, he had gotten over that and, in his single-minded determination to please Darcy, had stepped up to the plate in all his magnificent testosterone and military assertiveness.

He was dominant now, taking what he wanted. Her hands were still pinned over her head and his tongue danced against her with a certainty that was breathtaking. His other hand had crept slowly beneath the waistband of her orange panties and was palming her smooth mound. Darcy whimpered into his mouth and lifted her hips in wordless want. For just a moment, Steve broke their kiss and laughed softly against her cheek.

"You never want to take things slow, do you?" his blue eyes mocked her mischievously.

"No," Darcy shook her head, her throat tight; she thought she might spontaneously combust if he didn't touch her.

"Well, that's too bad, now isn't it?" Steve's lips taunted hers with his words as he lowered his head down for another thought-stealing kiss.

Darcy felt herself go soft, her body melting helplessly in the wake of his words. She didn't like it slow; she never had, preferring instead to get down to business quickly while her partner pounded her into oblivion. It was easier that way; she didn't have to connect then, didn't have to feel.

Steve, though, forced her to feel – there was that dominance thing again. And so help her, she was such a sucker for it. As it was, in this time and place, she could feel every deliciously agonizing second of what Steve did to her. She could feel the heat from his body – the man really was his own private sun – and it warmed her straight to the bone. She could smell his scent – sweat, Old Spice, wintergreen toothpaste, and musk. She could taste the chocolate he'd eaten earlier, still lingering on his tongue. She could hear his breath in her ear – hot, ragged, and eager. She, Darcy Lewis, was completely immersed in the experience that was Steve Rogers.

A world of women would give anything to be in her place, to be on the receiving end of Captain America and his oh so talented fingers. He could never be Captain America to her, though, not in these moments, as a knuckle borrowed between her folds and started a soft, slow, torturous circle against her clit. No, she definitely didn't think of him as the First Avenger, or as a super soldier, or as a super hero in these moments – she simply thought of him as a man. Her man.
"Steve!" his name was a strangled cry as he hovered over her, his lips warm and wet against her throat.

She twisted, squirmed, bucked beneath him, as he repositioned his hand – still beneath the delicate fabric of her panties. The rough thumb of his pad tormented her and one long, almost-elegant finger slipped deep into her. The moan that dragged itself out of Darcy's throat was primitive and she felt him stir in response against her hip.

"Scream for me, Darcy," Steve's voice was deep and wanton against her ear; Darcy panted helplessly in response.

Another finger slid into her and he murmured against her, complimenting her on her tightness, on her wetness, on the raw need she couldn't hide even if she tried. (As if she would ever want to try!) The whole world, all of existence, narrowed down to just the two of them, to Darcy's bed, and to the steady rhythm of Steve's fingers inside her and against her.

Darcy hovered helplessly on the edge of her undoing and she embraced it eagerly. As he teased her mercilessly toward release, his fingers delving inside of her, his fingers dancing above her, Darcy gave herself willingly to him.

She knew, in every instinctive fiber of her body, that it was okay to let go – he didn't need to murmur encouragement in her ear, although he did. Darcy knew, in the mind-shattering moment of trembling limbs and ecstatic shout, that Steve would be there to catch her as she fell.

---

Darcy woke up the next morning in surprisingly good spirits. She had enjoyed a nice, quiet evening with her own thoughts, desires, and devices with nary a Steve or a Tony in sight to embarrass her. She'd also had a surprisingly good dream (albeit, a rather steamy one) and she was feeling a strange sense of magnanimous good will.

She also had come up with a plan. The hug from last night was kind of random – along with the invitation to the movies – but she'd dropped off to sleep while pondering how she would advance her attack over the next 11 days. "Slow and steady" was what had come to mind and she was curiously optimistic about her chances of success.

After all, Steve had returned her hug last night. He had accepted her offer to the movies and even had accepted her awkward attempt at bodily contact. In fact, now that she had gotten over the hormonal high of the hug, she was able to analyze some of the finer points of the previous evening.

Most particularly was the statement:

"You know, that's sort of my move."

This statement had also been accompanied by his own attempt at touching – when she thought about it, she could almost imagine the warmth of his hand as if it were back to resting just above her knee. There had been no attempt on Steve's part to remove that hand, either. They had sat like that – her arm (half way) around his shoulder, his hand on her knee, for a good 40 minutes.

And on the way back to Stark Tower, the awkwardness had lessened. It was easy to talk to Steve, to walk down the street with him, to spend time with him. Darcy was more than a little surprised by how well the evening had gone in general, truth be told. Steve hadn't really pulled away at any point or even subtly hinted that he disliked her attention.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to make her hopeful. As long as she didn't lose her cool, then hopefully Tony wouldn't end up making a fool out of her.

---

"Don't you guys ever take the day off?" Darcy griped good-naturedly as she stood in the doorway of the lab that Jane and Bruce shared.

Her hands were on her hips and she surveyed the array of scattered papers, the litter of pens and pencils, and the small pyramids of stacked Styrofoam coffee cups that decorated the premises. Darcy wasn't the neatest person in the world, but she sometimes thought that Jane's working space too closely resembled the nests of the rats that were forever associated with experimenting scientists.

Thankfully, as a physicist, Jane was exactly in the market for rats. Darcy had always appreciated that one small fact about her former "employer" – she secretly hated mice and down-right abhorred rats. Just the thought of them made her shudder in revulsion.

"Well, bad guys don't exactly take holidays and paid vacation," Bruce replied mildly from his (slightly neater) corner of the room, where he was staring intently at four different computer monitors.

"Yeah, well…," Darcy put her hands on her hips and turned her gaze expectantly toward Jane.

They were supposed to hang out on Saturdays and just do…normal things. Darcy didn't care what, but it couldn't include S.H.I.E.L.D (short of Fury just showing up out of the blue to ruin things), saving the world, weird science, or aliens. Usually, Jane was pretty good about setting aside time to just be an average "Jane Doe" and it helped that usually, Thor took Darcy's side and insisted on the virtues of taking a "day off".

Most of the time, though, Jane forgot what day it was. This seemed to happen more and more lately, actually, since some bad dude by the utterly over-the-top name of "Dr. Doom" had surfaced on the Avenger radar and had started making a nuisance of himself. Darcy tried not to feel too put out about the inconvenience of super-villains.

"Oh, it's Saturday, isn't it, Darce?" Jane swiveled in her chair and turned away from her own computer screen, her face stricken.

"Yeah," Darcy could now see what was on Jane's screen and she stifled a sigh of exasperation.

It looked Asgaardian, whatever it was. Definitely not a Doom-creation. In fact, it looked like the schematic of a weapon – some sort of spear or something – with what definitely looked like runes carved on the side of it.

Damn Loki, Darcy thought and fought the urge to stomp her foot in frustration.

It just seemed as if they'd never get far enough away from Loki's dead shadow, her, Jane and Thor. Even with his brother dead and gone, even with his own now-mortal-and-as-far-as-anyone-knew-permanent-status on Midgaard, it seemed as if they could never shake the Asgaardian connection. Even months after the Dark Elf invasion, Darcy still caught glimpses of Dark Elf, Asgaardian, and other Nine Realm technology on screens and schematics around Stark Tower.

She'd never be rid of it, her memories of rainbow bridges and Aether. Common sense told her that "duh! Of course!", but Darcy still found herself wishing that she could just put it all behind her and never think about it again.

Gawd, it was times like this when she wished for just a normal, everyday life.

Of course, as soon as she wished such things, she immediately reminded herself that she'd had a normal life once. And it didn't include Thor, or Jane, or…Steve.

"I just…well…we got a directive from Fury," Jane looked appropriately stricken and Darcy felt her ill-feelings abating just a little. "We just got some stuff in from one of our field teams that needs to be analyzed ASAP."

"It came in this morning," Bruce chimed in; Darcy glanced over at him and he, too, had turned to look at her and his expression was surprisingly sympathetic. "If it makes you feel any better, Fury called Tony and woke him up at 5:00."\

"We started working at 6:00," Jane's nose wrinkled in distaste and Darcy could only imagine what the summons to work on a Saturday had sounded like, coming from Stark.

It had probably been laced with plenty of expletives and foul attitude; the look on both Jane's and Bruce's faces confirmed Darcy's suspicion. Strangely enough, except for the lack of professionalism, Darcy couldn't blame Tony one bit. She'd be pretty pissed, too.

"Oh…well…does everyone have their eyes glued to a computer screen?" Darcy glanced at her watch; it was now 9:00.

Bruce and Jane had already been working for four hours.

"No, it's just the two of us and Tony, as far as I know," Jane picked up a still-steaming Styrofoam cup in one hand and rubbed her forehead in an expression of exhaustion with the other.

"Natasha's been sent off with Clint to investigate something that I can only assume involves this thing," Bruce waved his hand toward Jane's computer. "And Thor was talking to Fury about something in the conference room, last time I heard. Cap's been notified, too…but as far as I know, there's not really anything he can do to help."

Ouch, big guy, Darcy winced inwardly at Bruce's words; inaction did not sit well with the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.

"So, yeah…I guess the whole team is involved, more or less," Jane admitted with a yawn that she tried to stifle even while speaking.

Glad to know I'm important, Darcy's inner voice snarked, a bit hurt by the fact that she had woken up at 8:30 without a single clue that something potentially "big" had gone down while she slept.

"Okay, cool," she said instead and without any further ado, beat a hasty retreat out of the lab.

Her stomach growled as she fled toward the safety of the elevator and she decided, as she had nothing else to do, that she'd visit the kitchen and see about making herself something to eat. A part of her briefly pondered the idea of making something for Jane and Bruce, too, since she knew them well and doubted they'd had anything since coffee since they woke up. But, feeling bitter by the stark reminder that she just wasn't cool to actually be a part of the Avengers, she decided that the big, bad superheroes (and one absent-minded scientist who dated one such big, bad superhero) could fend for themselves.

"And hell have them," she spitefully added out loud, as she mashed the button for the kitchen's level.

What a difference ten minutes could make on a girl's mood…

---

And so it was, in a state of high dungeon, that Darcy stormed into the kitchen. Expecting to be in there alone, she stopped dead in her tracks when her eyes locked onto the broad shoulders of Steve Rogers. He was standing at the stove and had his back turned to her; the most delicious smell EVER wafted through the kitchen and Darcy realized with a jolt of surprise that Captain Freakin' America apparently knew how to cook.

"Hold up, now!" Darcy's bad mood dissipated in the wake of a mischievous smile as she introduced herself loudly into Steve's space. "When did you learn how to cook?"

"Oh, y'know," if Steve was startled by her sudden appearance, he didn't show it; he glanced quickly over his shoulder and smiled just as easily when he caught sight of her. "About 1930 or so."

Darcy paused a moment and scanned his face. Usually, when Steve brought up his past, he struggled to hide his bitterness. He had to turn his attention back toward the stove, but she angled herself near the island counter to keep an eye on his face and she didn't see any of the usual thinness around the corners of his mouth that gave away his anger. Encouraged by his surprising good humor on the matter, Darcy sidled up next to him and peered around the curve at his bicep at the pan in front of him.

"Aw, man! Eggs and bacon?" her stomach growled – loudly – in eager anticipation.

Embarrassed, she laughed and tried to avoid his amused gaze. She had been painfully aware of the fact, for some time now, that she was far from the elegant "dames" he would have once known. She'd seen pictures of Peggy – Darcy knew that compared to Lieutenant Carter, she wasn't exactly a lady. The funny thing was, Steve didn't seem to mind…but was that because he genuinely didn't care, or because she was relegated to "one of the guys" in his head?

He wouldn't be the only guy who had done that – even some of the more "modern" men she had met thought her bold, in-your-face ways were entirely too crass for a woman. This usually didn't bother Darcy, since she thought men who thought that way to be boring old ass-hats, But…well…she didn't really want Steve to think of her as unattractive…

"Hey, Darce?"

She blinked at the hand that was waving in front of her nose.

"Darce?"

She blinked again and made eye contact with very bemused Steve.

"You okay? He had raised an eyebrow and considered her suspiciously for a moment before turning back to the sizzling bacon in the pan in front of him. "You seem really…preoccupied…since yesterday."

Darcy swallowed hard and eyed him hard for a moment. Did he…suspect something?

"Naw, I'm okay. Just hungry," she laughed easily enough and playfully punched his arm.

His arm was like steel beneath the brush of her knuckles.

Hot! She wanted to just melt into a puddle of goo at his feet.

"And…what are you doing in the kitchen, anyway?" she prattled on, before she could get completely derailed by the thought of his bulging, unforgiving muscles. "I thought the team got tossed a bone today. Jane and Bruce have their noses to the microscope and it's not even noon yet."

"Oh, well," Steve shrugged and she finally saw the corner of his mouth tighten oh so slightly in disapproval. "It's mostly a job for everyone else. Fury didn't really have anything else for me to do, so I came in here and started up breakfast. Figured I could feed everyone, anyway. You know Tony and them. They'll get wrapped up in their work and remember to eat right before they pass out from exhaustion 18 hours later."

Darcy snorted – she did indeed know of what Steve spoke. She'd had to chase down Jane on more than one occasion and practically sit on her, just to get her to eat. Which was hilarious, because once she was pinned down and forced to focus, Jane could eat as heartily as Thor.

"You're a pretty cool guy, Steve," Darcy flashed him an awkward smile – she wasn't used to paying people compliments, but she figured he deserved one – and turned to hop up on one of the island stools.

"Cool? Whatcha' mean?" Steve turned slightly and watched her settle herself down, her elbows on the black marble countertop.

"Well, you know," Darcy waved her hand airily toward the stove, trying desperately to play cool herself. "Cooking breakfast for everyone and all that. You know you don't have to."

"Yeah, I do," Steve was perfectly genuine in his insistence; he turned toward Darcy fully and crossed his arms over his impressively broad chest.

She couldn't help but admire the way that made his pecs stand out.

"It's what a leader does. Takes care of his people and all that," he waved his spatula at her and Darcy had to bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

He was adorable.

"And if I'm going to be the leader of this ragtag bunch of misfits…well...cooking breakfast for my team when I don't have anything to do myself is a fine way to serve the folks who follow me in to battle. God knows they're not going to take care of themselves."

"Well, Thor would…" Darcy offered hopefully.

"True," Steve admitted, but then he laughed and shook his head. "Except, I don't think Odinsson knows how to cook, for one. And for another, he's just as likely to eat the bacon raw, so…"

"Yeah," Darcy wrinkled her nose and nodded in emphatic agreement. "Probably best to cook it before he can give himself trichinosis."

"Give himself what?" Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind. Trust me, you don't want to know. You're burning the bacon," the words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush as Darcy tried desperately to distract Steve from the finer horrors of modern life.

Sometimes, life was better lived in ignorance. When she found out about trichinosis in middle school, she hadn't touched pork again until her early twenties. Even then, she refused to eat pork unless it was organic and she had cooked it herself. And dear Lord, the time she had to dissect a fetal pig…

"Damn," Steve's husky voice brought her out of her reverie and she took a deep, thankful breath as he saved her from a grilling round of 20 questions.

There was so much that Steve didn't know – and the he felt he needed to know – that he hardly ever let an unfamiliar word pass him by without explanation. Darcy hoped that he would forget completely and not corner her later to demand a definition.

Of course, if he did, no harm done. At least it would be after he ate breakfast.

A hand startled her from her thoughts.

"Are you sure you're okay, Darcy?" Steve's blue eyes were inches away from hers and Darcy bit her lip.

"Yeah, no problem," she responded glibly – lying about her feelings and inner world came too easily and she felt a twinge of conscience over it. "You save the bacon?" disconcerted by his gaze, she found a handy excuse to look away toward the stove, where she spied the bacon pan pushed safely to the back of the stove.

"Yeah. I was asking you to hand me a plate so I could move the bacon out of the pan," Steve kept his hand on her shoulder and she could feel his warmth again; parts of her began to tingle that she wasn't quite ready to tingle in his presence so early in the day.

"Oh, sorry. Zoned out a minute," she moved to hop off the stool, but Steve's hand kept her firmly in place.

"You're really tense," he squeezed his hand on her shoulder and Darcy had to swallow a squeak of surprise.

Damn! But the man had a helluva strong grip!

"Turn around for a minute," he commanded and waved his other hand toward the general direction of the countertop.

"What?" Darcy – ever the one to question orders – blinked in blank confusion.

"Turn around," he put both hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her so she'd turn around.

Surprised, Darcy didn't quite know how to respond, except to do as he said. Once she was facing the stove, Steve dug his thumbs into her shoulder blades –

And Darcy nearly fell off of her stool.

"Oh my God."

It slipped out, an instinctive little groan that simply couldn't be stopped. His fingers were long and firm, his pressure consistent all along her shoulders. His hands were large enough that they nearly encompassed her shoulders entirely and Steve used that to his advantage. It just took two more simple squeezes, before Darcy flopped face-first down on the counter and rested her forehead onto the tops of her own hands.

"Too hard?" Steve worried from behind her, while his fingers did the most glorious tango along the base of her neck.

"No," Darcy did squeak this time and she was all but rendered completely speechless.

The moment was the magnificent bastard child of a wet dream. Steve stood behind her in his ubiquitous white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, massaging her shoulders. He hadn't been wrong – her shoulders were tight, but what Darcy didn't tell him was that her shoulders were always tight. She carried all of her stress, all of her worry, all of her emotions in her shoulders and they very rarely ever relaxed. The feel of his fingers digging into the knots along the top of her spine was simply too much to take. She moaned into the kitchen countertop, a waton slave at his every mercy and whim. If Steve had asked her to strip naked and spread herself open for her at that very moment, Darcy would have done it without a second thought or moral qualm.

"Does this help at all?"

His voice was smooth, like honey, a little rough, like a fine vodka. Darcy was practically drooling on herself, she was so awash in sensation. No one had ever just stood behind her and started rubbing her shoulders on a whim, just because. And she was pretty sure that the 70 Year Old Virgin behind her didn't have any ulterior motives behind his sudden expression of concern. It was…indescribable, the knowledge that she could just put her head down on the counter and let him take charge.

Darcy trusted Steve. She knew it…had known it since the first day she ran into him at Stark Tower, when they practically collided and she'd nearly dropped a tray of coffees on his shoes. He had reached out and grabbed both her and the tray, saving them both from certain disaster. His hands had been as strong on that day as they were now.

And knowing that she trusted him…trusted him enough to let her guard down and let him touch her, was both terrifying and oh, so unspeakably erotic.

He chuckled softly behind her and it almost sounded like a sexy, self-contented purr. Really, the man was unbelievable. How had he survived as long as he had without absolute and irrevocable corruption? He was so mind-blowingly sexy…

And doesn't have a clue, she managed to collect enough of her thoughts to formulate a complete sentence inside her head.

His fingers just kept kneading away; he had found one of her bigger stress points, a spot just below her right shoulder blade, and was steadily working it out. It hurt at first and she tried to pull away, but he steadied his left hand on her left shoulder and held her gently in place while he worked the knot of muscle out.

"Easy, now," he murmured, as his fingers dug deep into her tissue.

The kitchen smelled of bacon and toast; Darcy's stomach rumbled again, just as the knot in her shoulder finally gave way to Steve's patient pressure. His hands smoothed over the tender spot and back up around both of her shoulders, where he squeezed gently one last time before moving away.

"Noooooo," Darcy mewled, practically incoherent.

Steve laughed again, the sound sexy and decadent.

"I think I've done as much as good as I can. Feel better?"

She turned her head and looked up at him; he had moved to stand behind her and had leaned his hip against the edge of the counter.

"You're so fucking sexy, you know that?"

They just came words. Those damned words just slid right off of her tongue and through her teeth. She meant them – every syllable – but she didn't mean to say it out loud. It was just…the way he leaned so casually against the counter, his white t-shirt filled out to its max capacity across his chest, the way his hands had soothed her, the way his laugh had made her melt as certainly as his massage.

Steve's eyes flared wide in something disbelief. And then…the blush crept up his neck and across his face, and his gaze turned shy. Darcy carefully pushed herself back up into a sitting position, her palms pressed against the cool marble beneath her fingers. They stared at each other, dumbstruck, wary. Steve's gaze wavered and he licked his lips nervously; Darcy couldn't help herself, her eyes locked on the flush that had crept even to his mouth. And she couldn't help fixating on that flash of pink tongue – what would it feel like against her skin?

Oh, so help her. She wanted him.

"You're a good looking dame yourself…Darcy."

His words were hesitant, but his tone was sure. He said her name slowly, like a caress. Darcy met his eyes and time seemed to stand still for a moment; for sure, she couldn't breathe, just for that second or two as their eyes locked onto one another.

There was something in his eyes, something indescribable that she hadn't ever seen before. He seemed to be searching for something in her gaze, too. What he was looking for, she couldn't fathom, but after a moment, he seemed to have found what he was looking for. His mouth titled up in a slow smile and he finally pushed himself away from the counter and away from her.

She wanted nothing more than to reach out toward him and pull him back toward her oh, so willing body.

"Pass me a plate, will you Darcy?"

Her stomach growled, ever un-lady-like. He laughed.

And so help her…Darcy laughed, too. And it wasn't forced. It was just that easy to laugh around him.

I'm such a goner. Suuuuuch a stupid, stupid goner.

And worse…she was starting to suspect that somehow, he knew.

Notes

Happy New Year everyone!! I hope 2014 is the best yet!!

And wow!! Five 10.00 votes?! I hadn't realized that folks had been voting, so THANK YOU! What a great way to ring in the New Year. :)