In retrospect, Darcy is really completely okay with the fact that when Thor opened his eyes on an alien planet, Jane's face was the one he imprinted on like a rugged blond duckling. He's gorgeous, yes, but he's way too easy to get angry or jealous, and Darcy just doesn't have the patience to explain things like how Earth girls don't enjoy the "invigorating musk of battle" that happens when Thor avoids deodorant.
But the thing is, he makes Jane happy. Even if he were the most attractive guy around (which, in the Avengers Tower, he actually isn't), that would be enough to keep Darcy away. Jane's obsessive about her work, cranky even on a good day, dismissive of Darcy's academic work, and sometimes painfully naive about human nature, but she's somehow become one of Darcy's best friends.
Darcy's pretty sure that she can thank Thor for that, too. When he visited Puente Antiguo, captured Jane's heart, and promptly disappeared for a different galaxy, Darcy had to pick up the pieces. Somewhere around the time that Jane was crying into Darcy's hug, trying to explain between sobs that she'd never done this before and it was completely irrational to cry over some guy anyway, Darcy fell a little bit in love.
So it's impossible to think of Thor without thinking about Thor-and-Jane, with the result that most of the time, Darcy just doesn't. She'll still tease him when he wrinkles his nose at the glass of prune juice she gives him ("a warrior's drink," Darcy tells him sagely). For the most part, though, she tries to glide around the whirlwind of testosterone-steeped charm that is Thor, because it's hard to see him as a real person.
She'll always be looking at him through Jane's eyes, after all. It means that she can't help but love what she sees, but that it's never going to be hers to touch.
Before she meets Tony, Darcy's not sure which she's more scared of: having to fend off a billionaire with wandering hands, or having said billionaire not look twice at her. This is Tony Stark, after all, and from what the tabloids say, she's right in his flirting demographic (female, buxom, under thirty, and breathing). After Jane moves into the Tower, she tells Darcy that Tony's really not that bad -- but given Jane's very possessive alien boyfriend, Darcy doesn't think that says much.
On her flight to New York, Darcy's reading material is a folder of information about everything from the packet's author (JARVIS, an actual live-in AI, which is awesome) to the locations of the in-house coffeeshop, deli, and spa (again: awesome). There's a packet about the Tower's efforts to promote diversity, including various non-discrimination and sexual harassment policies, and at the end of it is a separate letter from "Pepper Potts, CEO, Stark Industries."
Congratulations! You're reading this letter because you have the dubious honor of being a woman under sixty who will be working in regular contact with Tony Stark. As someone who has survived in those conditions for far too many years, I hope to dispel certain rumors.
- No, Mr. Stark and I are no longer involved; yes, we maintain a positive working relationship; no, I will not provide further details.
- Any public accounts about Mr. Stark in an ongoing relationship are false. The man barely has time to eat and sleep, let alone maintain a long-term connection.
- Any public accounts about Mr. Stark in a short-term sexual encounter with women are probably true, but your position will be terminated if you leak information about them to any online, print, or other media.
- Mr. Stark also engages in sexual liaisons with men on occasion. If you learn of such liaisons, you will gain no benefit from blackmail attempts. If you leak information about them to any online, print, or other media, your position will be terminated, and you will be sued.
- Mr. Stark's enjoyment of an attractive figure may be infamous, but your career advancement and continued employment rely solely on your job performance. Trust me on this one.
- Despite his occasional inability to understand the seriousness of sexual harassment, Mr. Stark does wish to maintain a positive work environment for all employees. If any of his remarks or actions are causing you difficulty, please speak to me personally; I will take your complaint seriously and take action on your behalf.
The letter's strangely comforting, and Darcy finds herself really, really liking this Ms. Potts. She ends up rereading the letter until she practically has it memorized, so when she meets Tony for the first time and sees his gaze sweep lingeringly up and down her figure, she can meet his handshake -- "It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Darcy. Any time you want to work in the fun lab, you let me know." -- without a trace of a blush.
Other than occasional flippant offers for Darcy to "help him with some after-hours experimentation," though, Tony generally leaves her alone. In fact, she sees relatively little of him; when he's not busy with official Avengers or Stark Industries work, he's busy designing things in the lab. "Tony's joining us for dinner" becomes a running joke, because it inevitably ends with Steve taking a plate downstairs (since he insists Tony would starve himself otherwise).
But one Wednesday morning, Jane's pacing furious circles in the lab, and Darcy makes the mistake of asking why. Her reward is a ten-minute rant about egotistical billionaires who can't be bothered to sign a few pieces of paperwork, thereby completely holding up valuable research that's dependent on classified materials that Jane can't access without said paperwork.
Talking it out seems to calm Jane down, so Darcy doesn't interrupt until Jane seems to have reached a stopping point. "I can go ask him to sign it for you, if you want," she offers. "I mean, I'm good at being annoyingly persistent."
Jane gives her a grateful smile and shoves a manilla folder into her hands.
On the elevator down, Darcy unbuttons her lab coat, arranges her cleavage optimally, and pulls her hair up in a bun, securing it with a stray pen. Combined with her geek-girl glasses (she still hates the term "hipster" on principle), she's pretty sure that she's rocking the "sexy scientist" look.
When she gets to Tony's lab, her keycard won't let her in, so she flutters her eyelashes upward. "JARVIS, care to give a girl a break? I promise I'll go a week without making my cheese toast that drips everywhere in the toaster oven."
"Very well, Miss Lewis," JARVIS says, in a tone of voice closely approximating a sigh. The lock clicks open.
When she opens the door, a wave of Metallica hits her head-on, and Darcy grins. "Hi, Tony!" she shouts over the music.
The clash of tumbling metal objects, on the other side of the lab, is followed by Tony poking his head up. He's wearing an oil-stained wifebeater and a pair of welding goggles, which he pulls up to his forehead when he sees Darcy, creating a surprisingly hot steampunk effect.
"Darcy!" he exclaims, giving her a bright but distracted smile. Then his gaze drifts down to the folder in his hands, and the smile fades. "Give them to Pepper," he shouts, pulling his goggles back down and turning away.
Yeah, no. Darcy straightens her shoulders and enters the lab, picking her way over bits of metal that let off occasional sparks. When she's almost reached Tony, she says, "JARVIS? Could you lower the volume?" The music quiets to something less eardrum-shattering.
Tony looks up again; this time he's distinctly pouting. "You messed with my music. Not cool."
"Yeah, first of all? This music hasn't been cool for twenty years. Remind me to send you some iTunes playlists. Second, I know we're both busy, so let's cut to the chase. How much will I have to let you sexually harass me before you sign these papers so my boss can do her work?" Darcy arches an eyebrow, puts her hands on her hips, and does her best impression of Black Widow.
For the first time, Tony really looks at Darcy like she has his full attention. "I think I might be feeling sexually harassed myself right now. Although I'm feeling pretty okay about it. But seriously, give it to Pepper or Cap or someone else who isn't me; I don't like getting handed stuff."
Darcy rolls her eyes, pushes aside some of the electronics cluttering the workbench, and sets down the documents in front of Tony, then slides up behind him until her chest is about a millimeter from the back of his neck. This close, she can hear his breathing beginning to speed up; his neck keeps twitching, like he wants to turn to look at her, but doesn't want to get a face full of bosom in the process. She wraps her arm around him and places her right hand on his, slipping the pen between his fingers. "Now," she murmurs into his ear, "would you please sign these forms?"
"I'll -- yeah, I'll do that," Tony says quickly, and does.
The instant he finishes the final signature, Darcy steps back, picks up the folder briskly, and heads to the door. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Stark!" she tells him, and leaves the lab glowing with victory.
The next time that Darcy comes down to the lab for something, the music automatically switches to "Short Skirt, Long Jacket." Darcy laughs aloud; she's pretty sure now that she and Tony have an understanding.
Darcy's read her share of Captain America fanfic. Not really her fandom, but everbody's read the epic crossover where he and Lex Luthor have a secret genetically-engineered kid, and the one where he's the Secret Noble Love that draws Snape to the side of Good. (She may also have read more than a few "Cap gets brainwashed into being a sex slave" PWPs, but she'll never admit it.) Basically, thinking about Captain America in a sexual context: not that difficult.
Until she meets Steve Rogers. The first two minutes are intensely, painfully awkward, because she keeps flashing back to particularly memorable fic scenes, and her cheeks feel positively crimson as she stammers out an introduction. ". . . and it's, um, really an honor to meet you. Um -- sir? Am I supposed to say sir?"
"Just Steve's okay," he says, and lets go of her handshake. "Nice to meet you too, Darcy."
Then Darcy really looks up at him, and he's almost as embarrassed as she feels. His eyes keep twitching, and she realizes suddenly that oh, yeah, her cleavage is kind of on full display today. Captain America is being distracted by my boobs, she thinks dazedly. I'm, like, a real life Mary Sue.
She realizes belatedly that silence has been stretching for a few moments too long. "Hey, Cap, stop monopolizing the nice young lady," Tony (Tony Stark!) says. "I'm sure she'll be happy to stroke your shield later."
"Oh!" Steve starts. "I, um, wasn't -- I mean --"
"You're really not used to dealing with women, are you," Darcy realizes aloud.
"He really, really isn't," Tony interjects.
Steve shrugs apologetically. "No one really noticed me, before, and then I was just -- busy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"Nah, I'm good. Glad to know that the push-up bra's doing its job."
Captain America blushing that hard is officially the cutest thing that Darcy's ever seen. She resists the urge to pinch his cheek. Steve shifts from foot to foot.
"Aaaanyway, I'll be moving on now," Darcy says at last. "Nice meeting you!"
It's a few days before she gets a chance to look at photos of Steve before the experiment, and her heart clenches a little bit. He looks like one of her high school boyfriends, the one who coded her an adorably terrible Flash choose-your-own-adventure for Valentine's Day. She tries to imagine how Chris would've felt if people started revering him as a national icon.
After that, it's not like Darcy goes on a crusade against Captain America fanfic, but it feels too weird to read it herself. Yeah, she can still see the aesthetic appeal, but ruffling his hair (especially when he gets his Very Serious Hero expression) comes a lot more naturally than perving on him.
No matter how biteable his ass looks in spandex.
Of all the Avengers -- including the alien demigod and the giant green Jekyll and Hyde imitator -- Natasha's the one whom Darcy finds the most surreal. Yeah, okay, the universe is vast and diverse and filled with all sorts of weird supernatural shit, but nobody should be able to knock out six trained mercenaries while wearing three-inch heels, avoiding sniper fire, and maintaining her cover as a tipsy socialite. Nobody.
The fact that Natasha can then come home to the Avengers Tower, put on off-duty outfits that are beautifully classy, and make perfectly barbed comments about Tony's taste in music doesn't help with the "too amazing to exist" vibe. Natasha's nice enough to Darcy, in the way of a polite acquaintance, and she's just too intimidatingly perfect for Darcy to shoot for anything else.
It's all in the realm of hero worship, until Tony makes an ill-advised joke one evening about Tasha and Director Fury. Clint puts one hand on her dangerously motionless arm and interjects, "You can't kill him, Nat, he pays the rent." Then he turns to Tony. "Besides, you'd be more plausible if you were talking about her and Agent Hill."
The conversation immediately devolves into a wrestling match between Clint and Natasha (who's winning despite a self-imposed handicap of not using her arms, Jesus). Darcy's only half paying attention, though, because the other half of her brain short-circuited with the knowledge that Natasha likes other women.
She's too busy processing the very, very vivid mental images that this knowledge evokes to notice that everyone else in the room is staring at her. Apparently her glazed-over "I'm not thinking about you naked and finger-fucking me, really!" face isn't as subtle as she'd hoped. "I'm gonna go do -- something. Now." She suspects her retreat isn't very subtle either.
Natasha finds her the next day while she's on her lunch break. "Follow me," she says. "Let's talk."
Oh God, I'm about to die keeps echoing in Darcy's head, but Natasha just leads them to a pretty garden alcove near the café. Natasha sets down a mundane brown lunch bag and begins to unpack it methodically. "So," she begins, peeling open a yogurt cup. "I'd be willing to have sex if it'll clear up this awkwardness."
Darcy chokes on her tuna melt. "You'd -- what?"
"I like you. You increase Dr. Foster's productivity, you help keep Stark in line, and you make Banner happy." A spoonful of pink yogurt disappears between Natasha's even pinker lips. "The longer you keep building me up as an untouchable fantasy, the more that our working relationship will suffer." Natasha quirks a half-smile. "Also, it wouldn't exactly be a chore. I like brunettes."
Darcy narrows her eyes. "Let me get this clear. You're offering to have sex with me to improve our 'working relationship'?"
"It seemed the most expedient way to solve the problem," Natasha shrugs. "You're young, but you seem trainable enough for it to be enjoyable."
Darcy's sure that there's a hidden insult in there somewhere, but she's still operating on about 20% brain capacity. She opens her mouth, stops, starts to formulate words, then stops again and really thinks about the offer. "I don't think that's actually what I want," she hears herself say, despite the sinking feeling that this will be the only opportunity in her life to sleep with someone this unbelievably gorgeous.
Natasha nods, satisfied by the answer. "I suspected as much. The opportunity's still there if you change your mind later, though."
"Thanks? I think?" This may be the most surreal conversation of Darcy's life.
"You're welcome. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, would you like to join me for the rest of lunch?" Natasha's moved on to her apple, which she holds up for a moment, examining its surface for flaws. "Companionship with other women can be a rare pleasure, in the environment we work in."
"God, tell me about it," Darcy agrees.
Things don't instantly lose all their awkwardness, and Darcy may still think of Natasha as more of a mentor than a friend. But she never does end up taking her up on the offer, and she finds that she doesn't regret it, either.
Clint is, in Darcy's opinion, proof that God hates her. The man is everything she has ever wanted from the universe, wrapped up in a purple bow: competent as hell, delightfully snarky, willing to listen and take direction, and walking around with arms and an ass that beg to be groped, no matter what SHIELD's mandatory sexual harassment training would have to say about it.
He's basically perfect, but he's also awesomely approachable when he wants to be, and he's willing to let Darcy get drunk and cuddle the hell out of him. (And if she plans ahead and wears her most temptingly low-cut shirts for the aforementioned intoxicated snuggling, well, you can't blame a girl for trying.) Finally, as the cherry on the Death By Orgasm cake, he's genuinely interested when she starts to geek out about international policy, listening intently and adding first-hand observations from his operations abroad.
So here's the reason that God hates her. Clint is:
A) to all appearances interested in men and only men,
B) still hung up over some unnamed (and clearly insane, if he turned Clint down) guy, and
C) never going to see Darcy as more than a cute kid, despite popular opinion that says that a fifteen-year age gap should be a bonus to most guys.
Whatever. Darcy's okay with becoming Clint's BFF. Really. God knows the man needs some actual friends in his life, after all, and who else is going to introduce him to the wonders of trashy late-night streaming Netflix? Plus, the advantage of being stuck in the "kid sister" category is that she can totally feel him up under the guise of drunken snuggling, without having to worry about wandering hands in return.
(Not that she'd actually mind his hands wandering certain places. It's the principle of the thing.)
Anyway, the point is: Darcy really likes Clint, and even if she's used him as fantasy fodder on a couple of occasions, she's totally at peace with being his friend.
But did she mention that God hates her?
She heads down to Clint's floor one evening, looking for a buddy to watch Tony's Saturday Night Live appearance with. (There's a rumor on Tumblr that he's going to be doing an "Ambiguously Gay Duo" skit, and she really, really hopes it's true.)
"Hey, JARVIS," she asks as she heads down the hallway, "where's Clint at the moment?"
"Mr. Barton is in his bedroom suite, Miss Lewis. However, I believe that he would prefer not to be disturbed at the moment."
"Awesome, thanks!" Darcy feels a bit guilty at ignoring JARVIS's warning, but she's pretty sure that Clint will forgive her for waking him up; he can't have been asleep that long already.
She's just about to knock on his door when she hears a sound coming from inside that is definitely, definitely not snoring. There's a strangled cry, then a "Fuck -- yes --" punctuated by gasping breaths.
It would, Darcy thinks, be a complete violation of Clint's privacy and their friendship to keep listening. It would also be, bar none, the hottest thing she has ever heard. The longer she stands frozen, debating, the more words filter through the door. "Want -- god, want you to split me open, fuck me hard. Please. Need it so bad."
This is very, very wrong, Darcy decides; the Captain America in her head is giving her an extremely stern look. She turns around and starts to walk away, when she hears a voice float through the door. A different voice. "I love seeing you like this, Clint. I want you to slide it right in, as deep as --"
Darcy bites down hard on her tongue, because otherwise she is going to yelp in shock, and that would be really, really, really bad right now, because holy shit that's Agent Coulson dirty talking to Clint, and she is walking back to the elevator as fast as she can possibly go.
When the elevator's doors have closed securely and the car's moving upward, Darcy exhales shakily. "Um, JARVIS? Has Tony invented brain bleach yet? Because I need it. Short-term amnesia would be fine too; I'm not feeling very picky now."
"Might I suggest a combination of blunt head trauma and acquiescing to my suggestions in the future?"
"Yeah, yeah, 'you told me so,' I get it. I'm just gonna ... go back to my room now. Tequila and a cold shower sounds really, really good. You can record Tony's SNL thing, right?"
"It would be my pleasure, Miss Lewis."
The next morning, Darcy asks Clint if he wants to watch the tape of the performance, which according to Tumblr was as close to live-action Iron Man/Captain America slash as the network could get without being sued. "I went to find you last night," she adds, "but JARVIS said you were already checked in for the evening."
"Yeah, early night," Clint shrugs with perfect nonchalance. "Sorry to miss all the fun."
Clint is so totally proof that God hates her.
Darcy likes Bruce. When she first meets him, with his slightly-dorky clothes and his habit of looking away nervously when people are watching him, he reminds her of her mandatory-elective biology lecturer, a post-doc who was scary smart about everything except what to do with all the 18-year-olds who had crushes on him. (They had a Facebook group. Not that Darcy was in it or anything. Well, okay, fine -- she'd always had a soft spot for the geeky, shy ones.) Anyway, the man's spent the past few years making a career out of being calm and disarming, so while Darcy understands why some people are still skittish around him, she doesn't see it herself.
They don't talk much, for her first few months living in the Tower. It's not that she avoids him; she sees him when he's sharing lab space with Jane, if nothing else. Bruce is just ... quiet. Sometimes she'll be listening to her music in the common lounge, catching up on Facebook, and she'll look up to see him setting down a mug of coffee for her -- dark and sweet, just the way she likes it. But he never volunteers much, and Darcy gets the sense that he doesn't like to be pushed.
Things start to change one day when she's sitting out on the balcony, reading by the deep-gold light of a late summer evening. She hears the crunch of gravel and sees Bruce walking out with a datapad and a big mug of tea. "Mind if I share your sunset?" he asks.
"Make yourself comfortable," she shrugs, returning to her book.
They read in silence until the horizon's a hazy crimson, the sun halfway set below the skyline. Occasional sirens or thumping beats float up, but they're faded, this high up.
"Sugata Bose, huh," Bruce breaks the quiet. "Work or pleasure?"
Darcy grimaces slightly. "Neither? I kind of had to skip my last semester when SHIELD took over my life, so I'm still finishing up my senior thesis. I had this naive idea about solving relations between India and Pakistan, and then the Thor thing happened, and then the Loki thing, and let's just say that I have a different perspective on colonialism. So that pretty much pushed me back to the starting line. Now I'm just trying to read widely and let things simmer until something interesting comes out -- and god, sorry, I'm babbling, I do that a lot."
"Don't worry about it," Bruce smiles. It's a really nice smile. "You know I used to live there?"
"Wait, seriously? Before or after the green dude showed up?"
"After. India seemed like a good place to hide from SHIELD and do some good with my life." He shrugs, his smile fading slightly. "In retrospect, I guess I was a cliché -- the white Westerner trying to save himself by saving the suffering masses. But some of my patients would've died without medical aid that they couldn't afford. It's hard for me to feel too guilty about helping."
"Wow. That's ..." Darcy searches for the right word, and winces when she fails to find it. "That's really cool. Would it be totally weird if I asked you some questions about what it was like, living there? I've never actually been."
"Not weird at all. Ask away."
Darcy sets her book down on her lap, and the two end up talking until she looks up and realizes that they've missed the sunset completely. Bruce's anecdotes surprise her with their self-awareness; he's constantly shifting levels of analysis, moving from raw physical descriptions all the way to questioning his interpretation of his opinion about his reaction to events. It's the kind of intense self-honesty that probably helps with managing the Hulk, but mostly it's entrancing to see a genius at work, constantly crafting his own narrative voice.
When Bruce bows out for the night, blaming a lab experiment that needs monitoring, the balcony feels a lot emptier than when she started her book.
After that evening, Darcy starts running into Bruce more often outside the lab. His experiments make his schedule too unreliable for a standing commitment, but she starts setting out an extra chair on the balcony at sunset, and more often than not, it gets used. He tells her about India; she starts to bounce around ideas about nationalism in a post-extraterrestrial-attack world. She'll suggest music for his lab playlist, and he'll explain the scientific concepts that Jane and Tony seem to think are self-evident, without ever making her feel dumb for asking.
One day, when they're relaxing on the balcony and the elephant in the room gets too large to ignore, Darcy finally asks, "So what's it feel like when the Hulk comes out?"
Bruce glances at her. "You didn't say 'what's it like to be the Hulk.' That's nice of you."
"You're stalling," Darcy swats his elbow. "Seriously, I'm curious. And I've Google-stalked you enough to know that you never talk about it in interviews."
"Fair enough. It's ... painful, at first. The other guy doesn't feel much pain, but until he's there, all the nerves in my body are getting stretched and rewired. After that, I don't have clear memories -- more like bursts of emotion or sensation. My ability to analyze and remember information just isn't there until I change back."
"God," Darcy whistles lowly. "That sounds awful."
Bruce laughs, and it's a sharp, bitter thing. "The Hulk causes millions of dollars of property damage and injuries, and it's my feelings that are awful?"
"I figure that between SHIELD, Stark Industries, and your guilt complex, there's enough angst about the Hulk to go around. So yeah, I'd rather worry about you."
Bruce doesn't say anything, but when Darcy looks at him sideways, he's watching her, thoughtful.
"I mean, your brain's the one thing that you actually have some pride in, right? So to get that taken away, and to have to keep doing it to yourself every time SHIELD needs you to go smash something -- it really sucks." Darcy takes a breath. "I like you, okay? You're sweet and smart and incredibly thoughtful. You let me ramble at you, and you don't treat me like an idiot. So pardon me if it pisses me off that you and your role in the Avengers are mutually exclusive."
When Bruce still doesn't say anything, Darcy starts to wonder if she's upset him for some reason. She turns in the chair to face him, and he's still looking at her with a wondering expression so intense that it's ridiculously hot.
"You're really beautiful," Bruce says.
Darcy's breath stops.
His eyes go wide. "Oh wow, I'm sorry, I've made you completely uncomfortable; I shouldn't have said that. I promise I won't --"
"Stop talking," Darcy says, and she's already getting up, crossing over to his chair, and leaning down to kiss him.
Bruce's chin is scratchy where he hasn't shaved in a couple days, and his mouth tastes like chamomile and mint. Darcy keeps their first kiss short and sweet, pulling away just enough to give him a chance to respond. He looks a bit dazed, and his lips are reddened and wet. "This okay?" she asks softly.
"Yeah," Bruce says. His smile is wide, involuntary, and utterly gorgeous. "Definitely okay."
"Good," Darcy says, and climbs up to kneel over him on the chair. From here, she can cup his face in both hands and kiss him slowly, deeply, punctuating each kiss with just a little slide of her hips. It's quiet enough for her to hear every soft gasp he makes, every helpless oh.
When his arms reach up to wrap around her waist and back, pulling her body snug against his (and making his dick's interest in the proceedings unmistakeable, but Darcy's too classy to comment on it), Darcy makes a mental fist-pump of victory. Then Bruce breaks his lips away to bite at her throat, right at the edge of her jaw, and Darcy stops thinking about much of anything else.
They stay up there until the stars are out, making out like teenagers until they're panting for breath and giggling. Afterwards, Darcy relaxes into Bruce in the not-quite-big-enough chair, her cheek soft on his shoulder. "So, there's a rumor out there."
"Mmmm?" Bruce makes a noise of vague interest.
"The rumor says that you can't do anything that gets your heart rate too high, so orgasms are off-limits." Bruce's body does a little shudder under her at the word "orgasms," and she hides a grin.
"Um, Darcy?" Bruce finally says. "I'm a little worried that you decided to do, uh, all this, if that was still an open question to you."
Darcy nips at his earlobe, just to feel him twitch pleasurably again. "Believe it or not, I'm not just interested in you for sex. As much as it would be nice if that were eventually on the table."
She can't see Bruce raise an eyebrow, but she suspects it happens. "Darcy Lewis, the person who tells me about writing porn for strangers on the internet, isn't just interested in sex? I'm shocked, I tell you."
"Yeah, yeah." A soft smile drifts over her face as she thinks about each of Bruce's teammates. "It happens more often than you might think."