I wrote a thing. I blame Kari. Fuuuuuck I DO NOT WRITE FANFICTION ANYMORE WHHHYYY.

I just have a lot of Darcy feels, okay, especially in relation to her being best bros with every Avenger ever. This is just some shit little snippet scene thingy of domesticity and pop culture and trust me you do not any of you want to read it, I just demand that Kari does because it is her fault.

—-

Darcy sat at the large, round kitchen table in the Avengers’ living space in Stark Tower, idly watching all her friends with a wistful look in her eye and a wry slant to her mouth. She was surrounded by beautiful, awesome people, and while she generally just wondered how this was her life and rejoiced in the quirkiness of the universe, lately her feelings about the situation had become a little more… frustrating.

Or maybe that was frustrated.

Darcy hadn’t gotten laid, or even been on a date, in well over a year. There was a point when being surrounded by eyecandy became counterproductive in the battle against loneliness and sexual frustration, and then another point where using your best friends as eyecandy became just even privately weird, and Darcy had long since passed both of those points, and had waved forlornly at the “No Return” signs as she rocketed past.

Leaning her elbows on the scuffed surface of the table and utterly ignoring her half-eaten toaster strudel (you could binge-eat only so many boxes of pop tarts with the actual-facts god of thunder before you swore never again), Darcy heaved a gusty sigh.

Nudging Barton’s ankle under the table, where he was sat conveniently next to her, she listlessly demanded, “Clint, tell me I’m pretty.”

Not bothering to look up from the funnies section of the Daily Bugle in front of him, Clint took a pull off his coffee, then replied, “Were I unwed, I would take you in a manly fashion.”

“‘Cause I’m pretty?” Darcy prompted.

“‘Cause you’re pretty,” Clint dutifully replied, nodding.

Still not even so much as turning towards each other, they both shared simultaneous, near-identical smirks.

Sitting across from them in his tan cargo pants and tight white tee, Steve’s face screwed up in wary bewilderment as he glanced between Darcy and Clint, his fork arrested above his plate bearing a load of scrambled eggs. “What the—huh? Clint, what—you’re married?”

Almost against his will and certainly against his better judgement, Steve’s eyes flicked over to where Natasha leaned against the island counter with her toast and glass of orange juice, still dressed in her pajamas. His gaze made a hasty tactical retreat, however, when she slowly raised that one challenging eyebrow that somehow managed to convey both incredulity, you-have-got-to-be-shitting-me, and a sharp edge of I-dare-you-to-say-that-thought-out-loud.

Darcy and Clint finally slanted their eyes at each other and they snickered, grinning. Tony, meanwhile, stopped drowning the plate of waffles in front of him in syrup and snatched up his omnipresent tablet, fingers flying in erratic arcs and curves over its transparent surface. Tilting his chin slightly as if calling over his shoulder, he called, “JARVIS, put Firefly on the queue for Steve’s mandatory modern educational programming. Serenity, too, while we’re at it.”

“Shiny, Sir.”