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So, it turns out that getting shot hurts a lot. Like, a fuckton (which is totally a word and she’s totally allowed to use it because, hello, she’s just been shot). But it’s never A) been something she’s expected, B) planned for or C) ever wanted to feel, because she’s really just a glorified secretary/lab assistant/data entry tech. And getting shot is so totally not a part of the job description (and she knows this because she read through it at least a dozen times before agreeing to sign the contract). Sure, there was a whole ‘hazards clause’ in the contract, but her particular pay grade and security clearance were never really covered in detail.
Until this morning, that is.
Because this morning she, whether out of valor or stupidity or a momentary lapse of all logic and judgement, volunteered to go on a mission. The original agent had to back out at the last second, and Darcy matched their general description. And it sounded easy, just a quick surveillance mission. In and out, easy as pie.
Ha. Yeah, right. Because that’s exactly why she’s slumped against the wall with a bullet hole in her side. With what she can remember from her high school anatomy class she’s pretty sure that it’s hit something pretty vital if the amount of blood is any indication.
It also hurts like a son of a bitch. A blinding, stabbing, searing, white-hot pain that she wouldn’t wish upon her worst enemy.
Okay, so she’d totally wish it upon the douchebag who shot her. And speaking of said douchebag, she’s pretty sure that one of the agents shot him. But she’s not entirely sure because the second she got shot and the bullets started flying, the voice in her head (and ear, thank you SHIELD) told her to run and find a safe place.
She found one. She’s just not exactly sure where she is.
“Agent Lewis, come in. What is your position?”
“Is that you, iPod thief?” It sounds like him, which she knows is bad because from all the office gossip she’s picked up on she knows that he only gets on the radio when things are bad.
“Yes.” There’s a pause and she can picture his face tightening. She’s never forgiven him for that, and he always reacts the same way whenever she brings it up. “Do you know where you are?”
“New York City?” Darcy knows that now is not the time for cute, flippant Darcy, but she can’t help it. It’s a total defense mechanism when she’s scared or in trouble or, you know, shot.
“Just keep talking. I think I’m getting closer to your location.”
“This so isn’t fair. I’m not even supposed to be here today.” It’s the truth. It was her day off, which just adds to the shitcake that today has turned into.
“Did you just quote Clerks?”
“Yes. You know Kevin Smith’s stuff?”
“I do. I’ve seen everything, even Jersey Girl.”
“Hey, I actually liked Jersey Girl.” Darcy’s starting to get cold now, which she knows is a sign of shock but she doesn’t tell Coulson because maybe if she doesn’t mention it then it’s not actually happening. “Anyone who kills off Jennifer Lopez in the first twenty minutes of a movie is golden in my book.”
She’s shaking now, the blood all sticky and warm against her cold hand. The pain is sort of a dull ache now, more an annoyance than anything and all she wants to do is sleep. It’d be easy, too. All she has to do is lie down on the ground - she’s already slumped against the wall, so it’s not that far. But that requires moving, and even her brain is a bit put out by the thought of moving now. Still, sleep sounds amazing at the moment so she tells her brain to shove it and relaxes her muscles, even the hand pressed to the wound and starts to slump down even further.
And that’s when Coulson rounds the corner, and he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
“Hey, hey - stay with me now.”
He’s on the ground in the blink of an eye and pulls her into his arms while pressing a thick bandage to her side.
“Are you a ninja?”
This actually pulls a chuckle from him, and she hopes that the blood loss isn’t making her imagine that because it truly is a wonderful sound.
“A ninja never reveals his secrets.”
“I thought that was magicians. Are you a magician too?”
“Only with paperwork and the ability to get others to do it.”
“Ugh. Do I have to fill out my own form for this? Because I know there’s like, five or six alone just for getting shot on a mission. Never mind a mission I wasn’t even supposed to be on.”
“No. I’ll give you a pass and do the forms for you.” She’s pretty sure she picks up a hint of remorse in his voice, like he’s upset that she’s been hurt. “Just this once, though.”
“Thanks boss.”
“I’m not your boss, Darcy.”
“I know.” Her eyes are getting too heavy, so she lets them fall shut. She feels like she’s floating in that warm space between being fully awake and asleep and maybe if she keeps talking he won’t make her come out of it. “You’d be a cool boss, though. But it would also suck because you look too damn good in a suit for there to not be any inappropriate thoughts on my behalf.”
She’s not even aware of saying it, nor does she feel Coulson stiffen slightly behind her. The words are just flowing out now, with no rhyme or reason or thoughts of consequences.
“Make sure they don’t bury me in something ugly. And don’t let anyone get Jane the un-frosted Poptarts, unless they’re prepared for a huge meltdown.”
“You’re not dying, Darcy.” The words seem to be for both her benefit and his. “The medical team is almost here. Just hang in there. Please.”
She thinks she’s imagining the please at the end of that, but she can’t be sure at this point. Everything seems all fuzzy, even the tears that are now rolling down her face. Darcy’s never been big on crying, especially in front of other people, but she figures that now is an exception. Because despite Coulson’s words, despite his reassurances and the distant voices of the medical team approaching, she’s convinced that she’s going to die.
“I’m sorry, Phil. I should have left sooner.”
“Shhh. It’s not your fault, Darcy.”
“I’m so sorry....”
And it’s then, just as the medical team arrives at her side and the edges of her vision go black and start to turn in on themselves that she realizes she called him Phil, and that he’d been calling her Darcy the entire time.
~~~
Waking up happens in stages.
First there’s the sounds. Hushed voices full of concern, the shuffling of feet, various machines making noises. Then it’s the feeling of floating, but different from before because she can feel fabric and pillows below her. When smell comes next and she can detect the scent of antiseptic her brain pieces everything together and comes to the conclusion that she’s in a hospital.
And that she’s alive.
Other sensations flood in then, mostly pain and discomfort and she lets out a pitiful sounding whimper. Someone grabs her hand and when she’s able to convince her brain that, yes, she can open her eyes, her vision clears to see Phil Coulson at her bedside. And judging by the amount of wrinkles in his suit and the dark circles under his eyes, he’s been there for quite some time.
“Hey.” Her voice is all awful and scratchy sounding and she’d kill someone for a drink of water.
Phil (Phil now - not Coulson) must be psychic because he helps her up a little and spoons some ice chips into her mouth. They feel like heaven against her cracked lips and parched throat and when she nods he spoons in some more before setting her back down.
“How long was I out of it?”
“Three days. It was...touchy there for a while.”
Now that she’s (mostly) conscious and aware of things she can see just how concerned he is. And there’s something there, something in his eyes and the way his voice faltered just a little that makes it seem like more than just the concern that a supervisor has for an employee. And more than just friends, too, even if they were just slightly beyond acquaintances before this. But there’s something about near death experiences that forever alters stuff like that and she knows that they’ll never go back to being just friends.
And somehow, she’s okay with that.
“Did we really discuss Kevin Smith movies?”
“Yes.”
“And did I really tell you that I think you look good in a suit?”
“Yes.” There’s a twitch of a grin there. “And there was something about inappropriate thoughts.”
She knows she’s already pale from all the blood loss, so the blush that she feels creep up on her had to be a pretty stark contrast. But Phil ignores it, or at least doesn’t say anything, which she’s grateful for because she’s on far too many painkillers to have a coherent and serious conversation with him about that particular subject right now.
“Can we just forget that I said that?”
“No. But we can discuss it when you’re feeling better. And not heavily medicated.”
She grins at him, a goofy little tired looking grin. “Deal.”