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Jane is very, very angry. She is. She’s furious and she will not be distracted from said fury. She huffs. “Two degrees,” she snaps and beside her Darcy taps at the shoddy, duct-taped remote in her hands. They’re being petty, getting what little, eventually pointless revenge in any way they can. That’s Jane’s story and she’s sticking to it. “One more.” “We’re at 98,” Darcy dutifully reports and Jane hums in response. There’s a moment of expectant silence. “He’s shedding the t-shirt.” Darcy squeals something that could be ‘gimmegimmegimmenow!’ and snatches the binoculars from her boss. “Go git em soldier-boy!” she crows and whistles. “Take it off! Take it all off!” Jane laughs, reluctantly. “Oooh! Boxers! Purple and silky! Thug Numero Uno has some sick taste.” There is another moment of silence, this time disbelieving. “Pants too?!” Jane squeaks and makes grabby hands. Darcy throws out a strategic elbow to ward them away from the prized binoculars. “Nah. Just a low waistline, calm your titties boss-lady.” The intern giggles. “That poor little belt is doing its duty for America. Sacrifice appreciated little dude!” Darcy neatly dodges Jane’s next fumbling lunge but falls victim to the one that follows with a snapped oi and a drag of painted nails across the rough, black case of the field glasses. Jane ignores her and nearly brains herself with them, flicking the focus wheel from where Darcy’s messed it up. She’s immediately disappointed. “Undershirt,” she mourns and Darcy pats her knee in commiseration. “Sucks. But, y’know. Helloooo biceps.” “Hello,” Jane agrees, and hello to that one cheeky little sweat drop courageously making its way down that well-muscled arm. “Two degrees.” “Aye, aye, two degrees.” Quiet rules again on the sunny little rooftop in Puente Antiguo with the best line of sight to Dr. Jane Foster’s former lab. A steady stream of jackbooted thugs (Darcy’s words) parade out the door, carting Jane’s life work into some deep, dark Government storage to never been seen or heard from again (probably). This is directly related to the reason Jane and Darcy are currently perched on the roof of a neighboring minimart with the remote control to Jane’s workshop’s reliable, efficient but admittedly incredibly unattractive heating system. Jane cringes as El Hombre Habanero (also Darcy) fumbles and nearly drops her IR signal scanner. “You are lucky you are hot, bucko,” Jane hisses. “And. You know. A Fed with license to kill?” Jane flaps a hand. “That too. One more-“ The binoculars drop to her lap and Jane turns wide, wide eyes to Darcy. Darcy stares back. “…Honey golden cheerios,” the intern asks, “or pretty in pink early spring rosebuds?” “…I didn’t see.” “Twenty says cheerios. “Deal.” “What are we betting on?” Jane and Darcy both jump. Jane shrieks and Darcy pitches the nearest projectile at the interloper’s head. The crumpled Mars Bars wrapper bounces neatly off Erik Selvig’s nose. “Don’t sneak up on me!” Jane yells at the same time Darcy groans, “Dude the place is crawling with spooks are you trying to scare someone into going ninja warrior on your ass?!” Erik raises conciliatory hands and grins through his apology. “So what are we betting on?” “The color of the Incredible Hunk’s nipples.” Erik pauses halfway through dropping into a lawn chair. Darcy smiles angelically while Jane refuses to meet her mentor’s eyes. Slowly Erik straightens. “I’ll just… leave you to that, yeah?” His retreat is speedy for a man his age. The awkwardness he leaves behind only lasts as long as it takes Darcy to snag the binoculars from Jane’s lap. “Woo!” She cheers. “Cheerios! Breakfast of Champions! Pay up boss lady.”
Later, when Darcy is greeted by a cheeky smile, too-sharp eyes and a low baritone wondering ‘Where’s my cut?’, the crumpled twenty Jane winged at her intern’s curly head will find itself neatly tucked into the waistband of one Clint Barton’s tac pants.