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“So,” Jane said, setting the take-out bag down next to Darcy’s computer, “want to tell me about it?”
Very carefully not making eye-contact, Darcy pulled open the bag and peered inside. Oh God, Vietnamese--Jane was actually serious about this. “Tell you about what?” she tried, and she could practically hear the eye roll.
“Darcy . . .”
At least there was pho. “Look, it’s not like it’s an epic story or anything,” she said, passing Jane the com tam and some chopsticks as the older woman drew up a spare chair. “Twenty-two years ago Tony Stark slept with my mom. When she got pregnant despite, she assures me, two separate types of contraceptives, she decided it was a Sign. Waited till I was born, then showed up at Stark Industries with DNA tests to get palimony so she could afford day care and not quit her job.”
Jane chewed thoughtfully on some vegetables, then shrugged. “I can’t imagine Tony Stark as a father.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Darcy muttered around a noodle, not quite meeting Jane’s eyes. “I saw him maybe once every three years or so growing up, when something, usually Pepper, reminded him I existed.”
“Ah.” A longer pause, and then, “Do we hate him? Because I can totally hate him if you want.”
Darcy snorted a laugh at that, releasing the tension in her shoulders she’d been unaware of until it was gone. “Nah, we don’t have to hate him,” she said. “It’d make meetings way awkward.”
“You sure? Erik’ll be easy to convince and I’m sure we could get the rest of the science division on our side. And Coulson. Coulson doesn’t even need a reason to hate Tony.”
It did not escape Darcy’s attention that, despite her offer, Jane already thought of him as ‘Tony’. If nothing else, the man could schmooze. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer,” she said, “but it’s not necessary. I mostly got over hating him after puberty. Ages thirteen through seventeen were absolutely all about the Tony Stark Is a Fucking D-Bag Club. Literally. I had a clubhouse and membership cards. It was a Thing. These days, though, it’s . . . it’s actually not a big deal.”
“Pretty big jump from the ‘We Hate Tony’ club to ‘not a big deal,’” Jane mused. “How weird, you have actual maturity.”
“Shut it, you.” Darcy stuck her tongue out at Jane, just to prove that any and all accusations of maturity were fully missing the mark. “Look, it turns out it’s a lot harder to hate your absentee, alcoholic, womanizing bastard of a father after you spend three months thinking he’s dead and then he turns into a super hero. Who knew.”
Jane actually winced at that. “Oh, right. I’d . . . actually forgotten about how he became Iron Man.”
“Yeah.” Darcy sighed, setting what was left of the pho to the side of her computer and shrugged. “He turned out not to be dead, and I went to see him and it turned out I was actually glad he wasn’t dead. There was almost hugging, which would have been awkward, so I told him I was going to Berkley and majoring in Poli-Sci and he threatened to disinherit me.”
“Why would he . . .”
“’Political Science is NOT A SCIENCE, Darcy!’” she exclaimed, and it was obvious she was quoting Tony, right down to his manic hand gestures and the crazed gleam in her eye. “’You are NOT ALLOWED to study statistics! It’s math for people who don’t understand that math is REAL.’”
Jane almost snorted rice out her nose, which was totally worth the awkward heart-to-heart. Besides, it was Jane. Darcy was not going to admit this to ANYBODY on pain of death, but secretly Jane was kind of the best boss ever and a lot closer to a friend than a boss on top of that. So.
“So, yeah, if he ever asks about how I do with the astrophysics thing, feel free to say I have no idea what you’re talking about ninety percent of the time.”
Jane rolled her eyes at that. “Darcy, ninety percent seems over-generous. Ninety-five, at least.”
“Yeah,” Darcy admitted easily, “but I make a mean cup of coffee and you’d be lost without my spreadsheets.”
“There is that.”