Darcy/Bucky - 30s/40s music, Darcy dancing in the kitchen, cooking, and the music draws him in? I love the idea of a dancing Bucky. I also love your work but that's more then obvious ;)
The music isn’t quite right. It has all the elements of what Bucky knows, even the lyrics are near what he expects. But there’s a different sort of pep, a different beat — he’s never been a music guy, just knows if he likes something or not. It’s a good song if it’s one a girl would dance to, no matter if she was talented at it or not.
So nothing seems wrong, it just seems off, and Steve doesn’t listen to their music much, so it also seems off that it’s coming from the common room. Natasha setting up another joke, perhaps, but Bucky is still drawn to the room, and tenses in expectation.
Between couches and a coffee table, in the center of a whirlwind of papers and books, sticky notes of various colors, and what appears to be a poster board timeline is Darcy. She’s two-thirds asleep on her back, her laptop falling off her stomach and a pen on the floor from where it’s fallen out of her mouth, and exhaustion colors her face. He probably shouldn’t wake her, but it doesn’t look comfortable.
"I don’t think I’ve seen this much paperwork since the war, kid."
Darcy’s eye shoot awake and disorientated, blinking as she figures out where she is and who is talking to her, “I’m not sure you are old enough to call me kid.”
And that’s why Darcy’s a sweet girl. He gets enough of the geriatric jokes from everyone else, but they are suspiciously absent from Lewis. And Lewis has declared open season on everyone’s foibles. Maybe she’s just treading lightly, but he doesn’t think so. She has jokes about superpowered magnets being his ultimate weakness.
"Shit," she peers at her laptop screen, straining to lift her head to see it, and then drops back, "I’m never getting this done on time."
"What are you working on?" He asks, torn between moving the crooked laptop and sitting behind her and straightening out the papers.
"Thesis chapter due in, ugh, five hours." Darcy groans, "Well, that was restful." From the looks of it, it wasn’t at all.
"Wait, still? Weren’t you supposed to defend —" He stops when he sees the face that Darcy makes, aggravation and resignation in tandem.
"Pushed it back, again. My advisor hates me and has no respect for my day job. I had to go over his head."
The music changes again, and it’s still a song that’s on the edge of something he knows. Darcy pulls herself together, moving her laptop and the pen and sitting up to the coffee table. “Caffeine.” she says, mostly under her breath, and no, he’s not going to let her keep working like this.
"How much more you got?" He asks.
"Couple pages maybe. Not the world’s fastest writer though, I should coffee and plow right through before I pass out for good." She draws herself up to her feet and ambles in a slow beeline to a keurig set up for instant gratification.
The song finally registers in his mind, the lyrics recognizable, even if he doesn’t remember this singer. After I kinda straighten my tie she has to borrow my comb. He doesn’t sing it right, but he gets it now.
Darcy looks confused, “It’s like you don’t even know it, wait…” With a quicker walk she backtracks to her laptop, “Right. Fifties, that’s why. You weren’t all around then. But the song goes back to the 30’s.”
“I know, I was there.” Bucky holds out his hand, “I think I can remember how to dance to it. Let me help wake you back up so you can work.” He thinks he gets it, the need for her to finish before she can really relax, but he wants to help just for a moment. She takes his hand and he pulls her in to a mostly appropriate distance. It turns out that dancing is not like riding a bike. It doesn’t come right back to you, and it take more than a few steps for him to find a rhythm and it takes more to coax real movement out of Darcy.
She laughs, and she’s terrible at taking more than a couple of steps, but by the time the song and the next song is over, she’s moved closer to him. Darcy’s not light on her feet but she’s lighter in the eyes.
“I should let you work,” Bucky says, and that should be his time to let go, twirl her around and let her sit down in her self-made cyclone, but he doesn’t. Darcy leans in, presses her lips against his and he responds in kind. It’s brief and more than pleasant but he doesn’t press further, he doesn’t want to stop. “Should really let you work.” he says, softer and lower.
“Thank you,” Darcy’s smile is light too, something sweet and golden to remember in the daybreak of his mind, “I’ll find you later?”
All Bucky can do is nod, say yes after a beat and pretend that he’s like the song playing in the background, recognizable but not the same.
once i got very drunk in a bar and my mum had to pick me up so i was trying to act normal by keeping the conversation so i asked her if shes a virgin and she looked at me with pain in her eyes and said “i wish i was”
Forget the Myers-Briggs fucking personality assessment. I am dead tired of hearing if someone is an INFP or an ESLQ or whatever. I want to know if someone is melancholic or choleric. Bring back the four humors. I wanna see “Kaley, 16, phlegmatic” when I go to someone’s blog. Who is with me. Lets make this happen
here's a test i found. go wild, y'all. (im choleric.)
I’m phlegmatic. The phlegmatic temperament is fundamentally relaxed and quiet, ranging from warmly attentive to lazily sluggish. Phlegmatics tend to be content with themselves and are kind. They are accepting and affectionate. They may be receptive and shy and often prefer stability to uncertainty and change. They are consistent, relaxed, calm, rational, curious, and observant, qualities that make them good administrators. They can also be passive-aggressive.