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It was a nice dream, the kind involving many of her friends and neighbors in various states of undress, in showers, or sweaty, or well oiled. And if it included Natasha and Pepper alongside Bruce and Tony, well, who was Darcy to argue with her subconscious? Which was why being jarred awake by the jarringly un-dulcet tones of Credence’s Fortunate Son was so damned unfortunate.
Rolling and groping in the vague direction of the nightstand, Darcy overshot and fell off the side of the bed, landing in a naked heap on the plush Persian rug and nearly clocking herself on the edge of the night stand. She reached up and grabbed the phone, pushing the answer button. “Do you know what fucking time it is?” she asked, bleary, her eyes catching on the glowing green 3:00 on her fancy, Stark Tech alarm clock.
“Darcy?” A small, scared voice said. She woke up a little. It was rare for Steve to use her first name. Trying to get him to call the ladies of the tower things other than “Miss” was taking effort. “I think I need help.”
“Okay,” she said. She began imagining where he could be that he was a) in need of help of any kind, and b) calling her. Jail came to mind, but was quickly dismissed. “Where are you?”
“I’m …I don’t actually know,” Steve said. “I went to this art opening in SoHo, I think. And…I think someone put something in the…I don’t know.”
Darcy’s eyebrow went up, but she was already pushing off the floor and hitting a light. She was wearing boy shorts and a tank, and figured this was going to require significantly more clothing. “Hang tight, Cap, I’m coming to you.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was riding in a car, navigating to the S.H.I.E.L.D tracker in Steve’s StarkPhone, with the one Avenger she was fairly certain would keep this discreet and be able to help her handle it if things went sideways.
Before long, they were pulling up next to a converted warehouse in the meatpacking district. A metal door identified the space as “The Tea Room Gallery”. Clint checked the holster under his jacket, and then nodded to Darcy.
They pushed in the door and climbed the stairs into something that looked like a bad, 19th century Opium Den. Gauze chiffon hung from the rafters down to the walls, ending above easels with unframed canvases on them, spot lighted from the middle of the room.
In the middle of the room, an overlarge hookah was surrounded by piles and piles of pillows. And on top of the pillows was an assortment of bohemian artists straight out of central casting. An overlarge man was holding court to one side, puffing away and blowing smoke rings. One another pile, a man in an oversized top hat was gesturing wildly with a tea cup and a bottle of Champagne. A girl with rabbit ears giggled at him and held out a tea pot, catching the spill.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked. They turned to find a small, blond young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, in a blue, pin up girl dress with a white belt and a black beaded fascinator.
“Maybe,” Darcy said, watching Clint eye the room. “A friend of ours called us for a ride. Is this a gallery?”
“Yes!” The girl smiled brightly. “The owner is there, the larger man. Monsieur Chenille. And the artist is the gentleman in the hat, El Sombrerero Loco.”
“O…k…” Darcy said. “Our friend is a tall guy, blond, kinda clean cut looking.”
“Oh, the Last Boy Scout? Last I saw, he was in the back corner. I think Queenie had gotten a hold of him,” the girl said. “If you need anything else, just ask for Alice.” With that, she drifted off towards the tea party.
“They are all barking mad,” Clint mumbled, then jumped as a man seemed to materialize from the wall behind him.
“Lord, boy, we’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad…”
“I am going to be really mad if I don’t get home and back to bed,” Darcy growled, stalking off in the direction that the woman had pointed her in.
Coming through the haze of fabric drapes, she spotted Steve. He was backed into a corner, trying to fend off a very, very amorous woman in a red, slutty dress. A sparkly tiara sat in her beehive, little ruby and rhinestone hearts glittering in the half light.
“Hey!” Darcy said, loudly. “Back the fuck off, Lady!”
The woman swung around, rage on her face. “How dare you! Off with your head.”
Darcy was done. Before Clint or Steve could move, her arm shot out in a move that Natasha had shown her, dropping the woman like an unconscious rock. “Off with your head, you fucking head case,” she mumbled. “Let’s go, Cap.”
Clint and Darcy hurried him through the main space and out the door, moving quickly to the car. Soon, Clint had them zipping through the less crowded night time streets of New York, Steve thanking them repeatedly from the back seat. “There were these mushroom canapés that said ‘Eat Me’, and they were delicious, and then everything just got really wibbly-wobbly…”
“And what have we learned here, Steve?” Darcy asked.
“Don’t take canapés from strangers?” he responded.
“Good boy,” she responded, seeing the laughter in Clint’s eyes. “We shall never speak of this again.”