“I’m flirting with you.”
Darcy takes a sip of her black Russian, eyeing Steve Rogers dubiously over the rim of the glass.
“Ever heard the saying ‘show, don’t tell’, Rogers?” she asks, leaning in to be heard over the music. “It applies to flirting, too. You can’t just walk up to a girl and announce it.”
Steve seems to be doing less of the concentrating and more of the glancing nervously over his shoulder.
“Actually, who am I kidding?” Darcy amends with a shrug. “You’re Captain America. You could be wearing a sleeping bag and still pull chicks. You can ‘flirt’ however you like.”
Steve turns back to her and shuffles a little further into her personal space. “Let me try that again,” he says. “Please pretend to flirt with me so that woman over there will get the hint and leave me alone.”
Darcy is tempted to shoot a glance across the room, but now that she knows the score she’s not about to risk blowing his cover. “That,” she smirks, “is something I can do.”
She lets a visible heat seep into her gaze and twirls a lock of hair around her finger.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Steve says, swallowing drily and only succeeding in tensing up further.
“If you want to sell this you’re gonna have to flirt back,” she reminds him.
“Right,” he agrees, looking utterly lost as to how one might go about that.
Darcy manages to suppress an eye roll, but just barely. “Here, try my drink.”
She knows he can’t get drunk anymore, but she’s hoping just the flavour of the alcohol might trigger a bit of Dutch courage. He takes the glass from her, their fingers brushing, and as the liquid touches his tongue Darcy could swear she sees his shoulders relax a fraction or two.
“Now look me in the eyes and tell me how it tastes,” she says, her fingers covering his as she takes the glass back.
“Smooth. Sweet,” he says, licking his lips thoughtfully, and damn, she kind of wishes he was wearing a sleeping bag right now. It would make things so much easier when she jumps his bones in like 0.2 seconds.
She takes his hand and draws him back a few steps until they’re next to the wall and half-drenched in shadows. “Now, think of some dumb story about you and Bucky being jackasses when you were kids,” she said, arranging herself artfully against the wall, “then brush my hair out of the way and lean down and whisper it in my ear—and don’t flinch when I put my hand on your ass.”
Steve blinks a couple of times as he processes her instructions. Then, like a good soldier, he goes to work. He leans one hand against the wall and uses the other to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. “I remember this one time—it was a stinking hot summer’s day,” he begins, his lips close enough that she can feel each warm wisp of his breath.
It turns out the story is actually a pretty funny one, involving the accidental theft of an ice truck, among other things, and her fake flirtatious giggles come out sounding more like genuine chuckles.
The further he gets into the story, the more natural his posture becomes. He slots himself comfortably against her, and even manages not to tense up when she slides a hand deliberately down from his hip until her fingertips are in his back pocket.
She brushes her lips lightly against the side of his neck, but he must be getting into the swing of things now because he doesn’t even trip over his words as he tells her how they finally managed to return the truck without getting caught.
Darcy notices a woman staring at them openly as she makes her way across the dancefloor to their side of the room.
“The woman you’re trying to shake off, what does she look like?” Darcy murmurs against the shell of his ear.
“Blonde hair, green dress,” he says, though he seems more interested in playing with a strand of her hair than he does in checking on the status of his target.
“Well, she’s heading right for us, so I’d say it’s all or nothing at this point,” she says in hushed tones as she slides her palms up and down his back. “Think you could handle a kiss?”
With a bob of his adam’s apple, he nods, and Darcy wonders briefly what the hell she thinks she’s doing, making out with Captain America in full view of a crowded room, but then Steve’s lips are on hers and pretty much everything else becomes white noise after that.
It starts off so slow and gentle at first—not hesitant, just respectful and sweet. His lips are warm and soft and she can’t remember the last time a closed-mouthed kiss had such an impact on her. That Black Russian was her first drink of the night, but she’d swear the blood in her veins is straight Kahlua now, sweet and rich, warming her from the inside out.
Their lips don’t stay closed for long, though. Darcy’s tongue doesn’t bother to confer with her brain before it flicks lightly at the seam between Steve’s lips, and there’s nothing unpracticed about the way his lips part and his tongue returns the gesture.
One strong arm snakes its way around Darcy’s waist. The effect is that it eases her hips away from the wall and closer to him, which she has absolutely no problem with. On some level she registers that her hands have started roaming over the planes of his perfectly muscled back.
Darcy’s lips part easily at the request of Steve’s tongue. She can’t pinpoint exactly the moment when it goes from still-maybe-a-fake-kiss to definitely-no-longer-a-fake-kiss, but it’s sometime around there, with Steve’s tongue deep in her mouth and his hand buried in her hair.
She gives as good as she gets, sliding her fingers into the short hairs at the nape of his neck and going up on her toes to press her whole body up against him.
When they finally come up for air, Darcy sinks back against the wall, not at all sure about the strength left in her knees. Steve stays right there with her, foreheads touching as they catch their breath.
Eventually Darcy recalls why they started doing this in the first place and looks around for the woman in green. “I can’t see her anywhere. I guess it worked.”
Steve does a scan of the room as well, but his focus quickly returns to Darcy. Specifically, to the side of her neck and the way she shivers when he kisses her there.
“You mean, like, pretend to leave together?” she murmurs breathlessly, her thoughts wandering off in various directions when she tries to marshal them. She’s pretty sure he liquefied her brain back there.
“No, I mean, come back to my apartment,” he murmurs between neck kisses, “for—more of this.”
“For more fake kissing, you mean?” she smirks, tipping her head to give him better access to her neck.
She feels his lips widen with a smile. “Darcy, if that was your fake kiss, there’s no man alive who could handle your real one.”
Darcy grins, her head swimming with compliments and hormones. She finds his hand and pushes away from the wall. “Let’s go.”