“This would be a great time to break out some heroics,” Darcy informed him, chewing her lip as she listened to the noise outside the room, increasing gradually as the enemy got closer. Which enemy, she had no idea. The Avengers had so many at this point that Darcy had just learned to categorize everyone as friend or foe, and considering the bullet wounds on Captain America’s (“Just Steve is fine, please”) patriotic abdomen, shoulder, and thigh, these people were clearly foes.
They’d moved two floors up from the original chaos, but Darcy was pretty sure someone had caught on to where they were hiding. The tower was currently without power, leaving them fewer escape routes as certain floors went into lock mode and the elevator wasn’t budging. The surprise attack had come at night which meant that most of the businesses in the lower floors were, thankfully, empty. Unfortunately, that also meant fewer people to raise an alarm on what was happening, and since the rest of the team was away on various missions, visiting Asgard, and/or on vacation (great time to buy your own island, Tony, really, thanks), that left even fewer options for rescue.
Panting a little, Steve checked his weapons and bullet supply. Darcy had to squint to see much of anything in the dim emergency lighting. (She’d be taking that up with Tony when he got back too; that had to be some kind of hazard, seriously) Steve had clearly had a few guns hidden on his person for just this kind of occasion. Under different circumstances she might’ve asked where and suggested a preview later, but she was a little worried she might soon have matching bullet wounds, and she didn’t think they were at that stage yet in their non-existent relationship.
“Look, I’m working on a plan to get us out of here, but with no way to contact the others, we’re limited on exit options…” he told her, grimacing as he pressed down on the wound in his leg.
Darcy nodded at him vaguely, her ear turned to the door; she could hear someone approaching from down the hall. Her French was a little rusty (thanks college language credit), but she was pretty sure they were about to be found.
Steve was busy muttering to himself about air vents and how to get to another floor while Darcy grabbed an (illegal) tazer from her purse and, just to be sure, scooped one of Steve’s guns from the floor.
“–I know I heard Barton say something about a safety issue with one of he vents connecting to his floor from this one, but I can’t remember if it was this office or the next one and–”
“That’s great,” she interrupted. “Listen, if I die in a blaze of glory, I want to be put on one of those little ships that they shoot flaming arrows at as it’s sent off to sea or whatever, like Viking style. I’ve already talked it over with Thor, and he’s cool with it, because we’re Shield Siblings or whatever. Remember that, because my mom wants to do the creepy ashes on the mantle thing, and that freaks me out. Especially since I’d be sharing space with Uncle Larry and my mom’s childhood cat, Mister Bugsy. I have more dignity than that!”
With a sigh, clearly thinking she was panicking, Steve shook his head. “Darcy, you’re not going to die. Just stay calm and I promise I will get you out of–”
She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, stealing a kiss off his adorably surprised mug. Had she more time, she would’ve lingered - he had soft lips and the bluest eyes - but alas, duty called. So she shoved him back, reached for the door handle and said, “If anyone asks, I said something really witty before I did this, capiche?”
And then she was out the door, tazer and gun at the ready.