“… at this point I'm not even sure I consider it a crack ship. They're so meant for each other, meme! It's true love!”

-August 2012

A popular ship on FFA. Inspired by a discussion about the popularity of Thor/The Avengers's Darcy/Clint in the fandom and that pairing getting an essay on ship_manifesto. Naturally anons came up with an alternate (superior?) Darcy pairing for Clint, and one anon wrote a ficlet for it that could serve as a ship manifesto. They later wrote a sequel for it. After anons mentioned they were still eagerly hoping for Volume III in a "crossover fic you want" thread, writer!anon obliged.

In early April 2013, author!anon tentatively titled the work:

(1 July 2012)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Less well-known is the effect of a well-cut pair of breeches on many of the latter-day lionhearts of this world.

“My dear brother,” cried Georgiana Darcy to her elder brother Fitzwilliam one day as they passed through the latter's strikingly well laid-out grounds in the former's freshly-painted phaeton. “Who is that I see standing by the roadside? It cannot be one of the villagers, surely.”

Mr. Darcy owned that it could not, given the outlandishness of the man's costume, and, seeing the odd clutch of arrows that extended from the quiver sling across the stranger's back, opined that he might be one of the wandering gypsies who sometimes frequented the neighbourhood of Pemberley. “I believe there is a fair to be held in R—— a few days from now,” he said, and gestured to the driver to stop. Dismounting from the carriage, he was sure to hold himself between it and the stranger, for fear that any sudden move might alarm or distress his sister to the point of swoon.

“You there,” he called to the man. “This is private property. I'll thank you to state your business without delay.”

“Business?” said the man, and his manner of speaking convinced Mr. Darcy further that he was a foreigner, if not a gypsy then perhaps from Bohemia or even Greece. “Right, business. I'm a – would you believe me if I said I'm, uh, Robin Hood? How far back in time have I gone, anyway?” He paused appearing to contemplate Mr. Darcy's nether portions. “Nice breeches, by the way.”

“Jacob,” Darcy said, taking another step to interpose himself more firmly between the intruder and the young Georgiana. “Take Miss Darcy home and then fetch the constable. I believe this man to be a blackguard.”

The stranger sighed and put his face into his hands. “Why does this s— always happen to me.”

(4 July 2012, At another anon's request)

Darcy straightened his back, allowing the ruffles of his shirt to fall in their most intimidating manner. Now that his adored sister was safely away with the phaeton, he permitted himself a little more in the way of menace.

“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly astonished by your behaviour. The word you said not a few moments past made my very ears blush to hear it.”

The stranger cocked his head on one side, as if peering at the appendages that Darcy had referred to.

“Sounds painful.”

“And in the presence of a woman, no less.”

“True. Blushing ears is totally embarrassing when it happens in front of chicks.”

“You will keep a civil tongue in your head, man.”

The stranger looked like he was chewing the inside of his cheeks for a moment. “Nah,” he expostulated. “Not sure there's space. Plus, gross.”

Darcy was quite confounded by the man's demeanour, so outlandish was he. “These foreigners,” he said to himself. “They are truly the oddest folk.” He began to hope for the arrival of the constable without delay, for though he was convinced of his ability to prevail should it come to a brawl, yet he did not wish to suffer the indignity of a physical altercation with such a creature as this.

“So is this your house, or what?” the man said, gesturing at Pemberley where it stood in the regal haze of late summer. “Nice house.”

“It is,” Darcy responded. “I am Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and this is my property.”

“You must be rich,” the man said.

“I have ten thousand a-year.”

The man made an undignified noise through his nose. “Right. I hope you get promoted to a job at McDonald's soon.” Then a frown creased his countenance. “Wait,” he said. “Darcy? As in Oh, Mr. Darcy?”

“I do not know what you are referring to, sir,” said Darcy.

“I thought you were fictional,” the stranger said. “Well, I guess if Thor's real…” His expression suddenly changed to one of the greatest concern. “F—”

For Darcy, it was the final straw. He opened his mouth to challenge the stranger to a duel for his disgusting language, when he found himself pre-empted. The stranger charged at him, catching him around the waist and bearing him to the ground with no little violence.

“What are you–” Darcy started, and then to his great horror saw a monstrous beast, like something from one of the tales of old, slither through the air where his head had been not a moment before.

“F—-ing Chitauri,” said the stranger. “Must have come through the portal with me.”

Darcy, for all his terror, became suddenly aware of the closeness of his body to that of the stranger as they lay entangled on the ground. He felt a hotness growing along his thighs.

The stranger looked down at him and grinned.

“Oh,” he said. “Mr. Darcy.”

(23 September 2012)

“I'll thank you to unhand me,” said Darcy with all the dignity he could muster whilst trying to avoid tripping over a tree root. The stranger, his hand gripping Darcy's forearm rather more tightly than necessary as he dragged him through the delightful thicket that Georgiana so adored, looked back and made a decidedly uncouth noise.

“Right,” he said. “And then you'll go running out there and demand the Chitauri leave your property this instant, and then I'd have to explain to every woman in the world how I let Mr. frickin Darcy get mauled by aliens. So, uh, no, not gonna do that.”

“Sir,” said Darcy, determined that he should be accorded the rights of his station, or at the very least that he should not suffer any more grass stains to be added to the fine collection he already sported. “I refuse to countenance this behaviour any further. You will explain to me what that creature is and how it came to be in Derbyshire, rather than the far-flung parts to which it undoubtedly belongs. And then we shall call the constable to deal with it.”

The stranger stopped moving at that, and Darcy, with the momentum accorded him by their headlong flight, stumbled into the man's broad, leather-clad chest. Overwhelmed for a moment by the rich smell of – but no, what was he thinking. He stepped back, dusting himself down, and found that the stranger was staring at him.

“You are a crazy person, did you know that?” the stranger said. “That thing out there is a giant alien killing machine and you're going to call the constable?”

“The constable is a fine man,” said Darcy, raising his chin. “Here in England, the rule of law is both respected and cherished.”

The stranger slapped his palm to his face. “Fucking England,” he muttered. “It's an entire island of insane a–holes.”

Darcy drew himself up. “Take that back, sir,” he said. “Or I shall be forced to do violence upon your person.”

“Spare me,” said the stranger, and the grabbed Darcy by the shoulders and spun him to face the edge of the thicket. “Look at it,” he said, gesturing at the great worm that even now undulated in mid-air over Darcy's gardens. Its tail smashed an ornamental fountain of which Darcy was particularly fond, and the fragments embedded themselves in the flowerbed which the chief gardener had only recently planted with spring bulbs. Darcy winced.

“It is a most destructive beast,” he said.

“It's a g–d— disaster is what it is,” said the stranger, coming to stand beside him. “At least there's no-one else around here.”

A thought struck Darcy that was almost too distressing to countenance. Nonetheless, he could do no less than voice it. “Pemberley,” he said. “It's moving towards the house.”

The stranger shrugged. “Guess it's not gonna be a nice house much longer,” he said.

“You don't understand,” said Darcy, and for the first time since the stranger appeared, he found himself truly afraid. “Georgiana,” he said. “My sister is there.”

The stranger blinked. “S—” he said. “You sure?”

Darcy nodded, the very thought curdling his blood. “I sent here there,” he said. “How could I have been such a fool?”

“Hey,” the stranger said, gripping him once more by the arm, but this time with a deal of gentleness. “You didn't expect an alien monster to appear out of nowhere and try and eat you. I mean, that kind of s— happens to me all the time and even I didn't expect it.”

“I must rescue her,” Darcy said. “I fear the constable will not arrive in time.”

At that, the stranger's face fell into a grim smile. “Well, then,” he said, shouldering his quiver of arrows more firmly. “I guess you and me are going monster-hunting.”

(2 April 2013 - “Meme, in a burst of unexpected creativity I wrote you more Clint/Mr. Darcy.”)

When Darcy was a young man, he travelled across France and Switzerland to Italy. His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had always informed him that the Italians were quite dreadful people, and Darcy, fired by curiosity, had wished to see such degeneracy for himself. Alas, all he found was an extraordinary collection of beautiful art and an almost as extraordinary collection of young English gentlemen, just down from Cambridge, marvelling and swooning over the glories of lost civilisations. Disappointed, Darcy came to the conclusion that nothing in this world was truly wild or strange, but only said to be so by people who had an exaggerated sense of their own civility.

Years later, ruefully inspecting the remains of a stone cherub recently smashed by an enormous serpent-like beast from the nether reaches of hell and attempting to ignore the contemptuous snorts of a gypsy archer who seemed not in the least taken aback by the aforesaid beast, Darcy was forced to admit that his conclusion might have been a little hasty.

“F— me, that is some ugly-a– s—,” said the archer, glaring at the cherub as if it had personally offended him. “Where'd you get that thing, Costco? Three for a dollar?”

Darcy straightened his jacket – a rather fruitless task, given its parlous state after their precipitous trip through a little-frequented part of the rose garden – and attempted to maintain some dignity.

“At times I find myself quite unable to understand your argot,” he said.

“I don't know what the f— you just said,” said the stranger. Apparently his propensity for shocking language was only increasing. Darcy hoped that when they found his sister, he would be able to keep her out of earshot.

“Do you know how to slay the beast?” he asked, in lieu of response to the vulgar remark.

“Sure,” said the stranger. “You got any nuclear weapons around here?” He made a show of looking around, as if he expected such an object to be ensconced among Darcy's hydrangeas.

“I have a blunderbuss in the house,” Darcy said.

“Blunderbuss, right,” said the stranger. “You know what the problem with the olden days is? No f—— clue about the wonders of radioactivity.”

Once again, Darcy found himself baffled. It was clear the stranger had learned English from some quite outlandish person.

“I believe there are plenty of balls in the gun cabinet,” he said, in case fear of lack of ammunition was what had the stranger worried.

The stranger paused and raised an eyebrow, looking Darcy up and down in a manner to which he was not in the slightest accustomed. “Normally I'd be all over an offer like that,” he said, “but right now we got bigger fish to fry. Come on.”

He ducked low and began to move towards the house, and Darcy followed, flushing for reasons that he could not quite comprehend.

(2 April 2013)

Something about Pemberley seemed to be attracting the creature; it undulated in the air around the house, croaking occasionally like a raven of marvellous size. Thankfully, it had only grazed the parapet once or twice, causing the downfall of a number of Grecian-style nymphs of which Darcy's mother had been immensely proud, but as yet resulting in no structural damage. Darcy imagined he could see Georgiana's pale face at the window, although of course it was merely a reflection of the lowering sun.

“How are we to pass by undetected?” Darcy inquired of his companion as they crouched in the herbaceous border, separated from the grand sweep of marble steps that led to the entranceway by a mere fifty yards. With the beast slithering immediately overhead, it might as well have been five hundred.

“I'm thinking undetected probably isn't gonna happen,” the man replied, drawing an arrow from his quiver and fitting it to his bow. “On the other hand, there's no reason it has to be us it detects.” He aimed at a particularly well-manicured privet tree and let fly. A moment later, the tree burst into flame.

“Egad,” ejaculated Darcy, for there can be no other word more suited to the feeling of watching one's prize topiary spontaneously combust.

“If you say so,” said the stranger, watching the beast intently. It seemed to see the flames from the corner of its eye, turning with a shriek like the all the hounds of the fiery pit.

“Ready…” said the stranger, a hand on Darcy's arm, spreading surprising warmth through the torn sleeve of his jacket. “Ready….”

The foul creature swept past them on its way to the burning bush, and the stranger turned to Darcy.

“Run,” he said.

And run they did.

(15 November 2014)

The elegant marble steps that led to the grand entrance had never seemed quite so treacherous as they did to Darcy on that late summer day, as he bounded up them three at a time, the outlandish stranger easily keeping pace with him. Indeed, despite the oddness of the man’s costume, it seemed much more suited to feats of athleticism than did Darcy’s.

“These breeches really are rather tight,” he commented, rather more to himself than to his companion, once they both stood in the hallway catching their breath.

The stranger inspected the offending item of clothing with an attention that was quite out of keeping with the trivial nature of Darcy’s remark. “I’ve got no complaints,” he said, with the sort of leer that Darcy associated with sailors and foreigners. “But if you want to take them off, I won’t object to that, either.”

Darcy found himself once more wrong-footed, for he felt it must be quite impossible that the stranger’s remarks could truly be freighted with the extra weight of meaning that they seemed to him to carry. After all, he was a gentleman – a man,M. first and foremost – and such things were not done, or at least, they certainly were not spoken about openly!

And yet, he conceded (though only to himself, of course), the customs of foreign parts were at times very odd indeed. Could there be a place were it was not at all strange for a man to make such forward remarks to another man? Surely there could not! And even if there were, Darcy was an Englishman, born and bred, and he surely could not stand for such insults. And so he pretended that he did not perceive the additional undercurrents in the stranger’s words – for after all, perhaps the man was simply unfortunate in his choice of wording, seeing as he was clearly not a native speaker of the King’s English. And he certainly did not admit to himself that the words, far from falling on his ears as insults, rather made something low and hungry light in the deepest parts of his person.

“So, are we gonna find this sister of yours, or are you gonna keep on thinking about taking your pants off?” the stranger said. “Honestly, I don’t mind either way.”

“Georgiana!” Darcy cried, and turned swiftly to the grand staircase, ascending it as fast as his constricting breeches would allow, and not admitting even to himself that they seemed rather tighter now even than they had a moment or two ago. But at the moment he reached the first landing, the picture window that his father had ordered from Italy with his own hand burst inward, struck by the loathsome tail of the beast that still twisted and slithered outside. The glass flew in all directions, and although Darcy did his utmost to avoid the largest of the fragment, a great red shard nonetheless sliced across his thigh, opening a wound that pulsed red, as though echoing the colour of the glass.

“Motherf—–,” said the stranger, dashing up the staircase behind him. And whether it was the coarseness of this language, or the shock of the injury, Darcy did not know. But he found himself stumbling forward into the stranger’s arms with not the slightest care for appearances, or indeed for anything other than the fact that the floor seemed to suddenly be tilted at an absurd angle and for some reason the light seemed to be growing very dim.

Somewhere above him, the stranger said a word which cannot even be placed upon this page in censored form, for fear that the paper itself will shrivel with horror. And Darcy, as he lost consciousness, decided that if it was to be the last word he ever heard, he should be most put-out indeed.