Chapter Text
What the Minutes Say
We are but minutes—little things!
Each one furnished with sixty wings,
With which we fly on our unseen track,
And not a minute ever comes back.
We are but minutes; use us well,
For how we are used we must one day tell.
Who uses minutes, has hours to use;
Who loses minutes, whole years must lose.
—Anonymous
Paris, France
March 20, 1967
Darcy folds her newspaper and lays it on top of the two others she’s read in the last hour, leans back in her bistro chair, closes her eyes, and tips her face to the early spring sun. She’s seated on the sidewalk outside of Cafe de Flora at a tiny rickety table with two chairs, as has been her habit when weather allows since she arrived in Paris two weeks ago.
She’s become addicted to her afternoon grande creme (a large cup of white coffee) and newspaper. She’s often approached by one of the young men who gather in cafes around the city to talk about art and politics and for the most part she welcomes their company. She enjoys perfecting her French through conversation and immersion in the culture—language is ever evolving and it’s a useful way to grasp slang.
There’s one in particular she’s taken back to her hotel a few times—he’s young and lovely, an artist with dark curly hair and soulful blue eyes.
He’d been a welcome distraction for her on Bucky’s birthday on the 10th.
Over the years, she’s developed her own rituals around significant dates. It usually involves a bottle of whiskey and sinking into her memories for a while, followed by reconnecting to the present with human contact.
She picks her lovers carefully.
It had been five years after the war before the pain of losing Bucky and Steve had healed over enough that she could remember them and feel a sort of wistful resignation rather than a soul deep ache.
Funny how their loss started as an open wound then finally became more like a bruise—a pain which she could ignore but from which she was never entirely free.
Gradually, her body had awakened, and while she didn’t want romance and commitment, she did want companionship, harmless flirtation—maybe sex.
And dammit, it was okay for her to want that again.
She didn’t entirely believe it, but Will and Peggy had told her over and over again that she needed to start living. What was the point of fighting a war and surviving it, otherwise?
They didn’t think she heard their whispered conversations about her, Peggy expressing concern that all she did was work and Will assuring her that she was healing in her own way.
Given where she lived and worked, there were plenty of options for flirtation. People in Los Angeles and in the entertainment business in particular, were far less prudish than anyplace she’d ever been.
She’d spent years at parties fending off men, many of them quite attractive—most people in Howard’s business/social circle thought nothing of forwarding their interests through affairs.
Eventually, she’d chosen a handsome young actor looking for his big break in Hollywood. He was intense, ambitious, and creative—fine boned and not terribly tall, much younger than her yet not naive at all.
She’d known the score, Jimmy was looking to get famous and she was looking for companionship, touch— something.
Just to feel something.
Even so, the first time they’d had sex she’d cried in the shower afterwards, feeling like she’d lost Steve and Bucky all over again.
Eventually, she came to the realization that sex could be separate from love. It could be about straight forward lust—it could be about satisfying a bodily need. She didn’t need to be in a committed relationship to have physical closeness with someone.
Her battered heart wasn’t ready to let anyone in anyway.
Despite the transactional nature of their relationship, she actually liked Jimmy, undeterred by his tendency to brood, drink too much, and drive too fast. He was passionate and charismatic and told her she was beautiful and smart.
They settled into a friendship that included occasional sex.
If you’d asked her before the war— before she’d lost everything— if she’d ever be so casual about sex she wouldn’t have believed it. But it made her feel alive—and nobody’s heart was at risk.
He escorted her to various social events and she introduced him to a few contacts in the business. Eventually, his career had taken off and they’d seen less and less of each other, both of them busy with work and lacking motivation to keep things going.
She’d been sad when his fast driving ways ended his life in 1955, but not surprised. It had been readily apparent James Dean was never going to grow old.
She wasn’t either, actually. At least outwardly.
It had been ten years after the war and at the age of 37 before she realized she wasn’t aging like everyone else she knew.
She’d gone to visit Peggy one weekend in Washington D.C. six months after the birth of her daughter Audrey in June of 1955.
At 36, her friend had looked tired but happy, satisfied in her work and with her family. It was a mystery to Darcy, who still hadn’t felt the desire to form any type of committed relationship herself—her work usually took priority and she was unwilling to compromise about how and where she spent her time.
She and Howard were the dysfunctional duo, the workaholic inventor unable to settle for one woman in the midst of such variety and herself unable to form deep intimacy and trust given her personal losses and the secrets about herself she didn’t dare reveal.
Howard had once jokingly declared they might as well marry each other if they couldn’t find anyone by the time they reached 40.
There had been a long moment where Darcy tried to shift her perception of him enough to consider it before they’d both shuddered with distaste and vowed to never speak of it again.
Peggy was Director of the the ridiculously named Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law-Enforcement Division otherwise known as S.H.I.E.L.D. —the successor to the SSR that Howard had proposed to protect the interests of the United States and its allies after the war.
Her friend no longer engaged in field work since marrying Daniel Sousa late in 1950 and soon after becoming pregnant with her son Michael who was born in February of 1952.
She’d settled on one end of the sofa as Peggy patiently fed her daughter Audrey a bottle and they’d caught up with each other while her husband took Michael out for a couple hours.
“You look good Peggy—motherhood agrees with you,“ Darcy said, observing the glow of happiness that lit her friend’s face.
Peggy smiled wryly, running her hand gently over her daughters wispy dark hair. “There doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day, I’m tired all the time and seem to have lost my waistline—but it’s worth it,” she said, lifting her gaze to Darcy, her dark eyes assessing as always, “ You haven’t changed a bit.”
Darcy shifted self-consciously, lifting a hand to pat at her hair, “Well—um, sure I have. I got my hair cut, that’s different.”
Peggy eyed Darcy’s hair, which she currently wore in a short cap of soft curls.
“Yes, it’s shorter. But look at me Darcy—I’ve started to get gray hair.”
True, Peggy had glints of silver shining in her dark hair.
“And, my figure has changed.”
Darcy interrupted, “But you’ve just had a baby!”
“Yes—yes. I know, but you look exactly the same as when we first met.”
“You think so?” Darcy asked and Peggy nodded slowly, frowning slightly as her sharp eyes evaluated her.
She paused to consider Peggy’s observation.
Darcy didn’t spend a lot of time looking at herself.
One of the reasons she’d cut her hair short is she didn’t like to fuss with it and she wanted to look professional and neat. She was simply too busy running interference for Howard to primp excessively.
Other people she knew complained about getting older—Howard complained about his inability to go on 48 hour work benders anymore, Tony moaned about his slow recovery after the last New Years party. Will had asked her very seriously a couple of weeks before if the silver hairs showing up at his temples made him look distinguished or just old.
All of the changes were minor and so incremental that she’d hardly noticed. It took Peggy, whom she did not see often since she’d moved to Washington, to make her really think about it.
Darcy’s hair remained dark and shining, her skin smooth and wrinkle free. Her waistline was trim, though with her metabolism she quickly grew gaunt if she got distracted by work and skipped some meals.
She did look the same as ever.
“Maybe it has something to do with my abilities,” she said quietly.
Peggy shifted Audrey to her shoulder to gently pat her tiny back and replied, “Yes—I know you aren’t serum enhanced like Steve was, but Dr. Erskine hypothesized that the healing factor he possessed would slow aging. If you think about it, aging is merely the breakdown of the body at the cellular level.”
True.
How had she never considered this possibility? How could she possibly keep her mutation a secret while everyone around her grew older and she remained the same?
She needed a plan.
()()()()()
Eventually, she’d killed herself.
Well—not exactly.
She’d hung on for seven more years, implementing gradual changes that Peggy had suggested to age her appearance.
She slowly altered her dresses to give the appearance of a thicker waist, put away her pretty heels in favor of more conservative styles, adopted a bouffant hairstyle which she hated, and took to wearing a pair of horned rim glasses she hated even more to make herself look more matronly.
She worked to shift the majority of her money (she’d grown quite wealthy thanks to Howard’s generous salary and Tony’s almost prescient knowledge of the stock market) into accounts in Switzerland and opened a trust with Will as the executor for the event of her death.
They still had the Iowa house, meticulously maintained (technically owned by a shell corporation she and Will had formed to help move her assets) and any of the belongings she couldn’t bear to be parted with were stored there.
But the last straw came in September of 1962 when an interesting pair of men fell in beside her and introduced themselves as she walked from work to a local cafe to pick up lunch.
Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr wanted to talk to her privately about a matter of utmost importance.
How aggravating.
People occasionally approached her in an attempt to get close to Howard.
She tried to brush them off politely but the game changed when Charles looked at her with his compelling blue eyes and time weirdly froze around them—cars stopping, people still as statues in mid stride, and they were abruptly surrounded by silence.
He quietly said, “We’re looking for people like you—like us. People with special talents.”
Erik nodded beside him, tossing a coin into the air which slowly circled in the air over his palm.
Ah.
She remembered the boy who’d disappeared from Auschwitz—the one who could move metal with his mind.
She’d blinked at them, turning to study the frozen world around them before cutting her eyes back to Charles, “You’re doing this?” She said.
He nodded.
She sighed deeply and said tiredly, “What do you want with me?”
Erik remained conspicuously silent, coin spinning, his eyes intent on her as Charles outlined their proposal. The formation of a team of mutants. Working with the the government in something called Division X to stop mutants who are using their powers to do harm.
“We are at a tipping point in history Miss Garland—humanity is at stake, this is our opportunity to show how mutants can help rather than harm. We can make a difference—prove we can peacefully coexist,” Charles said.
She raised an eyebrow, turning her gaze on Erik, who’d remained impassive during Charles’ impassioned speech.
Her curiosity got the best of her and she said, “Und Sie? Sind Sie einverstanden?” And you? Do you agree?
Only the slight widening of Lensherr’s steel blue eyes betrayed his surprise when she spoke German and his lips twisted into the precursor to a snarl before he schooled his handsome features into placidity and said, “For now.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Interesting.
Charles frowned slightly at Erik and said, “You could be a valuable member of the team with your talents.”
Darcy's eyes narrowed and she said, “What do you know of my talents ?”
Charles tapped his temple with one finger, and smiled wryly, “I can read your mind,” she startled, her thoughts racing— Run, she had to run. He continued soothingly, “Don’t worry—it’s just surface thoughts. I try to be polite. There are many of us, with a kaleidoscope of talents. We could all learn from each other. And with your experience—“
Darcy said abruptly, “I’m not a soldier anymore—not for a long time.”
Erik shifted next to Charles, his expression sharpening.
She didn’t count the occasional rare times since the war when she’d acted as anonymous backup for Peggy in various S.H.I.E.L.D. operations.
Reconnaissance and sharp shooters worked best from a distance—she’d insisted on the use of a code name— Pilgrim . She never was in close contact with any agents other than Peggy or on a few occasions Dum-Dum who still did field work for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Her occasional moonlighting as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative remained off the books.
Charles’ persuasive voice whispered in her head— with us, you could explore the limits of your powers—you would be free to be yourself—always.
Darcy hissed, “Get out of my head.”
Charles was decent enough to look abashed and said quietly, “Apologies.”
Darcy exhaled slowly and squared her shoulders, “I’m going to have to politely decline. I have—other— obligations.”
Xavier looked disappointed but not surprised.
He withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her—the world around them abruptly spinning into motion. The coin dropped into Erik’s hand as the deafening silence that had surrounded them the last few minutes was ended by the returning sounds of traffic and people talking. He tightened his fist around the coin briefly before tucking it into his pocket.
“If you change your mind—contact me,” Charles said.
She glanced briefly at the card and dropped it in her purse.
“I won’t,” she said, and walked away.
Two months later she stood in the rain on a rocky outcropping off of the Pacific Coast Highway near Big Sur at 2am and watched the ocean waves lap against the crumpled remains of her car on the rocks below. Two cars idled behind her, and Howard and Will stood solemnly by her side.
Howard murmured, “The tide is coming in—the authorities will think your body washed out to sea.”
Darcy sighed, “Darcy Garland is dead, long live Elizabeth Grant.”
Will’s fingers tightened convulsively on her shoulder and she tucked herself closer to his side, wrapping her arms around his middle.
Elizabeth Grant was 26 years old, a serious and driven woman with no close family left to her. She was going on a tour of Europe—a rare frivolous adventure achieved with a small inheritance before starting a new position at Massachusetts General Hospital in April as a trauma nurse specialist.
Her new identity, courtesy of Peggy’s contacts and Darcy’s money, was airtight.
She’d kept up with advancements in nursing and had spent the last 6 weeks furiously studying so she would be prepared and up to date for the interview a week ago, immediately after which she’d been offered the position. The letters of recommendation and school transcripts were forgeries of course, but they represented her skills accurately.
Funny how her career had come full circle.
Although initially leery about returning to nursing, she’d finally decided the position would work after she’d shadowed an E.R. nurse to find out if the battle fatigue she’d once suffered would be triggered. It wasn’t.
The nightmares from the war had long subsided, new memories layering over the old to cushion her psyche from past traumas.
If she had to start a new life, she wanted it to count.
It would be hard to not see Will, Tony, and Howard nearly everyday as she had for years, but it was time. Everyone had grown older without her and her visitors from several months ago had alerted her to the possibility of government discovery.
Everyone other than the four people in her life who knew about her mutation would think she’d died.
It pained her to enact such a hurtful deception, her mind turned to Jarvis and Ana, and Bucky’s family, grown less familiar with time.
But it’s necessary.
Howard said flippantly, “Well, this is a shitty way to end your vacation weekend in Carmel, Darce. I mean, plummeting off a cliff on your way back to L.A.? Tragic. The office is gonna be a mess for months.”
Darcy slapped Howard’s shoulder, “Is that all you’re worried about? Geez. My assistants should be able to handle things just fine. I’ve been slowly preparing them for a couple years after all.”
It was true. They’d known she’d have to leave eventually.
Howard had helped her set up a bank account under her new name which would be receiving some large sums of money in the coming months, once Darcy was officially declared dead. Her fortune would go into the trust they’d arranged and eventually be funneled through the shell corporation to Elizabeth Grant.
Will nudged her shoulder, “Well Elizabeth, I guess we better get going if you want to make your flight to New York.”
“Yeah,” she said, taking one last wistful look at her car before turning away from the cliff.
She turns to hug Howard tightly, who despite his discomfort with physical affection (outside of sex) returns her embrace, whispering in her ear, “If you need anything—anything at all—just call.”
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.
“I will,” she says, her voice hoarse from suppressed tears.
She pats him gently on the back and steps away, finally letting go.
()()()()()()
Darcy tilts her head at the sound of a familiar gait approaching and leans forward in her chair to take a last sip of her lukewarm white coffee, scanning the crowded sidewalk for an old friend.
She spots her weaving through a crowd of people half a block away—looking very unlike herself in a knee length powder blue sheath dress, her face shaded by a stylish hat and somewhat obscured by dark sunglasses. Her hair is blonde, likely a wig, but Darcy recognizes Peggy by the sound of her kitten heels clicking on the sidewalk even before she murmurs, “ Darcy ,” from half a block away as she pauses to admire a dress hanging in a shop window.
She calmly sets her cup down and her lips curve upward as her friend draws closer.
Peggy is 48, still a beautiful woman, but past the prime of her life.
Darcy is 49 and looks 25 though her identification proclaims her to be 32.
She dresses for her supposed age in bell bottom jeans, stylish brown leather boots with a block heel, and a thin fitted navy blue and white striped sweater. Large round white framed sunglasses hide her eyes and she wears her dark hair parted in the middle, hanging halfway down her back.
She’ll probably look 25 for a long time—Howard’s tests couldn’t determine if she was aging extremely slowly or not at all.
They haven’t seen each other in three years—the last time Darcy had been called in as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.
It was reconnaissance on a group selling stolen technology in East Germany, their wares uncomfortably similar to top secret designs Howard had developed for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Peggy had been her contact point and she’d worked alone, as she preferred.
The organization Peggy and Howard had founded is getting too big for Darcy to work with and remain anonymous, however. The Cold War is going strong and the conflict in Vietnam is in full swing, spies and secrets abound, but it’s not for her anymore.
She never wanted to be a soldier, but she’s joining the Army yet again.
Peggy drops into the seat across from her and says, “Hello Beth, I hope you weren’t waiting long?” And signals a waiter who quickly arrives to take her order of an espresso and croissant.
“Not long,” Darcy says.
Darcy had planned her time in Paris to coincide with Peggy’s family vacation to London. Daniel and the children are there while Peggy is taking the weekend to meet up with Darcy.
After the waiter moves away Darcy whispers, “Why the disguise?”
Peggy shrugs, “You never know who’s watching.”
She lowers her sunglasses to give Darcy a critical look.
“Hmmm,” she says quietly, “are you absolutely certain about Vietnam, darling?”
“Yes. It’s time for a change—I’ve left my position at the hospital. There’s nothing new for me to learn there,” Darcy says.
And she’s restless—the routine of her days had become stifling.
Peggy sighs, “Fine,” and reaches into her bag to withdraw a file which she slides across to Darcy.
Darcy flicks through it, scanning rapidly. She’s to return to the States in a week for Army Nurses training then on to the 95th evacuation hospital in Da Nang.
She can be useful there—help the young men forced into a conflict not of their own design much like she did more than 20 years ago.
She’s ready.
She slides the file into her bag just as the waiter returns with Peggy’s order and waits for the man to retreat before saying, “So any new gossip?”
Peggy hums as she tears a piece from her croissant and pops it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“Have you heard Howard is getting married?” She says, a smug grin curling her lips.
“What? No .” Darcy says disbelievingly.
“ Yes. To Tony’s sister Maria,” Peggy says.
“Are you kidding? She’s 20 years younger than him,” she squawks and Peggy murmurs, “20 years—oh dear,” and smirks at her.
Darcy feels her cheeks heat with a blush, “It’s not the same for me,” she says, lowering her voice to mutter, “I can’t believe Will didn’t mention this in his last letter.”
Peggy shrugs and says, “To be fair, it is rather sudden and you’ve been gadding about Europe for the last six weeks. He’s been on about his legacy or some such nonsense.”
“Oh my,” Darcy says, “Tony must be beside himself.”
Peggy laughingly replies, “Indeed.”