@silvyfish from [x]
Sleep claimed her before she even fully crashed into the bed, gentle -- or as gentle as one could be when surviving off McDonalds coffee and anxiety for two days. It had been a stretch of all their abilities and patience, but Jane’s ultimate project had been finished (atleast, until the next ultimate project had been done), and Darcy had happily walked away from the lab, happy and delirious and maybe after having had two celebratory shots of Tequila.
Things didn’t look familiar. Or, they sort of did and Darcy had banked off of sort of until she found a bed that sort of looked familiar. Later, if someone had asked (and they were certain to) how she’d come to that particular bed in that particular penthouse that she had no business being in, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. Hell, if you’d asked her as she settled herself down into the cool, soft sheets that whispered in a way she’d never heard before as they rustled, she wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone. It was if Darcy had a GPS in her head that operated when nothing else did, and she’d simply instructed closest comfiest bed, and here she was.
Sleep welcomed her.
Unconsciousness was all she knew.
But the click of a safety on a gun is something that disrupts even Darcy’s sleep, and she rolls over in an instant, wide-eyed, desperately taking in the strange man while she echoed his earlier mantra of shit, shit shit.
Hands up, she falls from the bed in a tangle of sheets she shouldn’t even be able to look at for fear she’d dirty them.
“Wow, you are not my husband. Wow. Shit.”
