title: glory and gore (go hand in hand)
category: thor/captain america
genre: romance/action/drama/humor
ship: darcy/bucky
rating: R
prompt: au - assassin!darcy goes for bucky
warning(s): rape of a minor (trigger warning); explicit violence; minor character death; explicit consensual sex; strong language
word count: 5,490
summary: (au) In the high-stakes game of sniping people, Darcy Lewis is the best assassin for the job. And she's just been given her biggest mark yet: The Winter Soldier. Usually, this wouldn't be a problem; she'd happily add him to her list of accomplishments. Only, then she goes and does something stupid; she falls in love with him.

glory and gore (go hand in hand)

I.

Darcy should probably be flattered. And, sure, in a way, she was. She'd heard of him. Who hadn't? All right, there were a lot who hadn't heard of him. It was kind of a tick in the win column if an assassin stayed unheard of. Helped with that whole discretion thing. But, in this case, it was a little different. The Winter Soldier was infamous. He was what they called the perfect assassin. A ghost. Coming and going, leaving no trail, and over so much time that he had reached a whole new status of legendary. If she were the type of person who had idols, he would be hers for how proficient he was. But Darcy didn't dabble in idolizing others when she was pretty proud of her own capabilities.

Darcy had been in circulation for 8 years now and she'd earned herself a praise-worthy reputation. Some people dreamed about corner offices and raises and building a family, but Darcy, she was content with who she was and what she did. There was no shame to be found. She was a highly paid, extremely talented, assassin. And her new target was none other than Bucky Barnes, former HYDRA asset, the Winter Soldier.

It was, to say the least, an honor to have a folder handed to her with such an esteemed target. She'd taken out her fair share of big names, but this was, by far, the biggest. Not in a global, political way, but in a 'this man is a myth' kind of way. It was on par with, or even a step higher than, taking out Captain America himself. So ,sure, she was flattered. Daunted, too. But nobody could ever say that Darcy Lewis didn't take on any challenge offered to her.

Darcy is five the first time she holds a gun; her fingers are too small and she has no idea what it means, what she's holding, or what kind of damage it can do. But her proud papa, smart enough to take out the magazine, hands it to her and tells her, "This is your legacy, right here. Your daddy grew up on guns, your grandpa too, you're gonna be a natural, sweetheart."

He's not wrong.

She's nine when she holds a gun and it feels right; the grip fits beneath her fingers so perfectly that she feels a tug at her heart. It's like coming home, meeting a new best friend, finding that puzzle piece she didn't know was missing until just that very moment. It's a simple handgun; one of her dad's. He has more than enough of them, being retired military. For as long as she can remember, he's been eager to show her how to shoot soda bottles off the fence posts in the backyard. Soda bottles become targets become hunting in the summers, mostly deer. He praises her for being such a good shot, for picking it up so easily, for becoming so familiar with guns that they become an extension of herself.

He never wonders what she'll do with that tool; she never wonders what it can become.

Darcy is her father's daughter. She grows up underfoot, always reaching for his hand, doing everything she can to impress him. Her day begins and ends with his laughter and love. He treats her like a princess and never falters in telling her she is the apple of his eye. Even when she makes mistakes, when she screws up in school, when she gets in fights with the neighbor boys, when she just can't get the hang of riding a bike without training wheels, he is right there by her side, telling her she is amazing and smart and she will always make him proud.

Her father dies when she's twelve years old; he leaves her his weapon's collection. She takes a special interest in the hunting knives she's only ever seen in his worn, callused hands or tucked into a loop on his belt when he took her on hunting trips. He never lets her touch those, but when he's gone, her fingers wander to them, often.

Her first step was to study him. From afar, of course. If she got too close, he would make her in a heartbeat. Darcy was proud to be taking him on, but not so stupid that she thought he wouldn't recognize a fellow assassin. Whether he'd retired from the biz, or not, and she was fairly sure he had. So far as she could tell, he was holing up with Captain Rogers, previously at Stark Tower as they worked on deprogramming him and now in an apartment in Brooklyn. She would put money on that being the reason a hit was called on him now. Stark Tower would've made it a hundred times more difficult to get at him, but out in the open like this, he might as well be a sitting duck. And, now that he was deprogrammed, it made him a less prepared duck, or so the people hiring her must have thought.

If she were being honest, she would admit that the fact that HYDRA had programmed him to be their lapdog had taken some shine off his previously unmatched skills. A puppet wasn't nearly as admirable as a fully functioning person, aware of what they were doing and actively pursuing a kill because it was their job, what they were good at, and nothing would stop them. And, if she wanted to analyze it even more, she could admit that it bothered her. Just a ripple under her skin that told her it was wrong. She wasn't the best person to ask about right or wrong, she was an assassin for Chrissakes, but that was her choice, and that played a big part, didn't it?

Darcy had a moral code, skewed as it might be. She liked to know who it was she would be killing. Others in her field took the opposite route; better not to know so they weren't haunted by ghosts. But Darcy liked to know who they were, from the ground up. That way, she could actively decide whether they deserved it or not. And, for the most part, she had been lucky. Most of the people she was hired to kill, by her estimation, had deserved a bullet between the eyes, not that the person hiring her didn't too, but she wasn't getting paid to take them out… Yet. It was important to remember that an assassin was only loyal as long as the money was coming in. She didn't pick sides; she picked money. Which was why, on the few occasions when she knew a mark didn't deserve it, she usually decided to walk away, citing business differences to anybody who asked questions. And maybe that didn't accomplish much; they would still die, wouldn't they? But it was off her conscience. And nobody ever said she wasn't selfish.

In the case of James "Bucky" Barnes, he had a target on his back for two reasons. He knew too much and he was too capable. She supposed that came with an addendum of 'and he probably held a vicious grudge.' Darcy couldn't blame him for that one. If somebody took her freewill away and turned her into something she wasn't, using her at their discretion, pointing her where they wanted, she'd eat her own bullet. It just wasn't in her. She was too stubborn, too independent, to ever bend to someone else's will. As soon as she understood what happened, she would be a loose cannon.

Which, she supposed, was what happened with Barnes. She'd seen the fallout, seen the footage on the SHIELD/HYDRA take-down. And she'd seen the aftermath, the folder of pictures that followed Barnes through his journey of self-discovery before he found himself outside of Rogers' door, asking for help, looking like a sad hobo. It was… eye-opening, to say the least. To see someone so big, so larger than life, reduced to a confused, scared little boy. And that was what he was, even if he was her age, older if she considered the year he was born and not just the time he spent outside of the fridge. He was a blank slate with nothing but hurt and confusion clouding everything he did.

It took more than just the shine off the idea that she was given such a high profile target. It took so much out of it that she considered walking away. Not because she didn't think she could take him, not because she feared the wrath of the man she'd admired for his fortitude, but because he didn't deserve it. He was finally free of the leash and they wanted to send him to the pound to be put to sleep for disobeying. Call her an animal lover, but she wasn't too keen on the idea.

And that, well, that presented a problem.

Her mother spirals when her husband dies. She sinks into a depression and hides in her bedroom for, what feels like, forever. She nearly loses her job at the hospital when she calls in sick too many times, spending her days and nights curled up in her bed, asleep or staring at walls. It only makes her depression worse. She starts drinking to try and relieve the pain, but her late-night cryfests and trips down the yellow brick road of 'better times' only make it difficult for Darcy to keep herself together.

Darcy learns quickly that her mother isn't just going to snap out of it. She wakes up too many mornings to her mother passed out in the living room, vomit down the front of her nightgown, and the shine of childhood dulls into a responsibility too heavy for her shoulders.

She loves her mom. She's willing to do anything to help her. She comforts herself with memories of who her mother used to be, who she hopes she'll be again. But comfort fades and resentment grows. She spends less time at home and hopes her mom will notice, even yell at her, just care, even a little bit, but she never does. In fact, she stops looking at her directly, and Darcy knows it's because she looks so much like her father and the resemblance only grows.

She wants to shake her mother, demand that she look at her, pay attention to her, take care of her, love her, but she doesn't, and she watches the woman her mom used to be fade into oblivion, replaced with an empty shell.

Maybe it's addiction, maybe it's grief, all Darcy knows for sure is the sting of abandonment won't go away any time soon.

Darcy was no newb to surveillance. She had enough gadgets and tech on her that she could spy on anybody if the interest ever arose. Setting up shop across from the low-key apartment building Rogers and Barnes were living in, she rented out a two-bedroom suite under a pseudonym and set up shop. She had recording devices taking up half of the living room to record and play everything for her to hear, able to cut down on most of the outside noise and just listen in directly to what was happening at Casa Rogers. Surveillance of Barnes was easier than a lot of her other marks; he wasn't the most social of butterflies, instead keeping to one of two places; Rogers' apartment or Goldie's gym. Occasionally, he wandered the neighborhood, but, more than once, she'd seen him get spooked, whether by memories or shadows, she wasn't sure, but it sent him scurrying back home pretty quick.

He wasn't much of a talker; it took him a bit to come out of his shell, but Rogers was persistent and it seemed to work, drawing Barnes out more and more, bringing out a side of him that was clearly more Bucky than Winter Soldier. Darcy had gone far and beyond to learn more about him pre-HYDRA, pulling up old history books to see what they had to say about Sargent Barnes prior to his alleged death. She didn't have the time to check out the museum in DC, but she did a virtual tour thanks to the website and felt a little more brushed up on just who it was she was supposed to be sniping.

He avoided windows. She noticed that right off. He never stood too close to them, preferring to avoid any open places, and often looked around, searching for anybody who might be tailing him. There were a few times when she knew he'd felt her watching, his shoulders hunched his steps slowed and, she imagined, tiiny hairs raised on the back of his neck. But he was good about not giving himself away, and often managed to evade her, disappearing into crowds or sneaking off down back alleys, until she was turned around. He must have remembered the neighborhood better than she expected, because he was getting good at escaping her watchful eye.

Good, but not infallible. He would be hard to kill, but not impossible. In fact, if she really wanted to, she could have taken him out a handful of times already. But she hadn't. Maybe it was the nature of the kill. Sniping him felt… wrong somehow. Beneath him and his experience. But hand to hand combat would be harder. Sure, he looked weaker than ever, jumpy and uncertain, but he was still lethal. There was a reason that HYDRA kept him on. He was a dog, sure, but he was a well-trained dog, and it wasn't all from their brainwashing. Part of her, a very eager part, wanted to test that training. She wanted to prove to herself that he was more than just a tool, but a soldier. She wanted to see him fight, to move, to engage her in the dance her blood sang for.

Darcy loved a good fight. She loved to see an opponent come at her, no holds barred, only to have them see just how capable she really was. Too many had underestimated her in her life; nobody who stood toe to toe with her ever would again. If they lived to talk about it, that was. And, they rarely did. But maybe he would be different; maybe he would be the fight that took her off balance, that matched her speed, her agility, her relentlessness.

There was something in him, something dark and fierce, that lingered in his gait and his expression, especially when he was alone. When he prowled the streets, wary and suspicious. At home, it was different, he didn't view Rogers as a threat. He let down his guard. And seeing both halves of him, it was an unusual experience for her. The image she had of him, of a panther stalking the shadows, didn't quite fit with the man that sat grumpily in his apartment, making excuses not to join Rogers whenever he went out. And then there were the nightmares, the ones that left him screaming, that jarred her in her seat, leaning forward, wondering if he was under attack, only to realize he was fighting off Rogers before he realized where he was, who he was.

A voice in her head that sounded a lot like her mentor told her it was a weakness; that he was weak, and she was doing him a favor putting him out of his misery. But Darcy didn't think it was weakness; a vulnerability, sure, but not weak. He was fractured, he'd been traumatized, and it would take a while to work through it. She would know. She was no stranger to trauma.

Her mother remarries when she's fifteen. Her step-father's name is Carl. He's older, with a receding hairline, sallow skin, and straight white teeth that he bares in a smile that's more snarl than grin. He drinks too much, yells too often, and hits her mom one too many times.

Once was enough, she thinks, but her mother doesn't agree. They fight about it, often.

"You can't let him put his hands on you like that."

"Darcy," her mother sighs. "You don't understand."

"What's there to understand? That asshole thinks he can push you around and he has no right!"

"This is adult stuff. This is between me and my husband. I don't need you butting in. You—"

"So I should, what? Just let him hit you? Are you crazy? No! If he touches you again, I'll kill him myself."

"Darcy Marie!" her mother shouts. "You will not say things like that in my house, do you hear me? You will respect Carl."

"He—"

"This conversation is over. You need to go to your room. And when Carl comes home, you're going to apologize for the way you've been acting."

"Bullshit I am," she scoffs, backing up toward her room. "I don't care if you think it's okay. He hurts you again and I'll hurt him."

She shoves her way into her room and slams the door behind her, frustrated tears stinging her eyes.

She doesn't know what to do, but she's angry. She's so, so angry, and she knows it's not going to do much. But she wants to. She wants so badly to scare that asshole so he never comes back. To make her mom realize what she's doing.

But she can't.

Three weeks. Carl lasts three weeks before he hits his wife again.

Darcy starts keeping a bat in her bedroom. She sleeps with it. And she tells herself… one day. One day she's going to make sure he never hurts anybody again.

Darcy had long come to accept just how much of a breach of privacy her job allowed her. She had to say though, she particularly enjoyed listening to Rogers' and Barnes' conversations. Sometimes she made popcorn to eat when she listened in. What was the point in pretending it wasn't prime entertainment when there was no one around to see her indulging? So, she got comfortable in her living room and turned on the listening devices, feet up on her coffee table as she closed her eyes and let their voices wash over her…

"What was her name?" Barnes wondered.

"Who?" Rogers asked.

"The dame you got set up with. You took her out for drinks last night, right?"

"Oh, uh, Sarah. Yeah, she was nice."

"Nice?"

"Sure. She walks dogs. And I actually looked into that. She not an undercover; she just really likes dogs."

Barnes snorted. "You gotta get over that. You said it yourself, Carter was just doing her job."

"Yeah? Because getting spied on by the neighbors is just something I should expect now?"

Barnes hummed. "You pissed she was spying on you or that you were interested in seeing where things could go with who you thought she was?"

There was a long pause then, before he admitted, "I have no idea, honestly. At first, yeah, I was pissed that they were keeping an eye on me. I'm not a kid; I don't need a babysitter. But…"

"But you started liking her. Looking forward to seeing her," Barnes said knowingly.

"It was just nice. Being just neighbor Steve. A normal guy. No American flag or shield or any of that."

"Yeah… Is that who you are though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you 'just neighbor Steve'? 'Cause if I remember correctly, and I do, you were never just anything… Might not always fit with your love life, punk, but you're a soldier. You're Captain fuckin' America. That's not goin' anywhere. Not even for the hot nurse next door."

Rogers snorted. "That your love advice, Buck?"

"It's all you're getting. Are we gonna watch this movie, or what? I still got 40 years to catch up on."

"Sure. But I don't know why we're watching Diamonds are Forever," Rogers muttered. "All you ever do is complain that Bond's not doing it right."

"That's half the fun."

Darcy grinned as she sat back on her couch and cued up the same movie on her laptop so she could watch it along with them. Rogers might not appreciate it, but she personally enjoyed Barnes' running commentary; caustic and full of mocking, her favorite.

The problem with Carl only escalates. He's not only abusive, he's… handsy. He starts hugging Darcy whenever he feels like it, which is often. He holds on for too long, burying his nose in her hair, and rubs his hands over her back; her skin crawls every time.

He smells like whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. It makes bile crawl up her throat whenever she gets too close and gets a whiff of him.

She avoids home whenever possible, spending more time at her friend's houses when she can. Otherwise, she takes her daddy's guns and she finds somewhere deserted to shoot at targets. It helps her focus, drains the stress, and grounds her. When she has to go home, she feels a little less vulnerable when she can smell gunpowder on herself.

She pretends the targets are Carl's face. That should've been a warning.

After nearly two weeks of surveillance, the popcorn was no longer a staple and she started feeling a shift.

Barnes' and Rogers' friendship was… an enigma. Or maybe she had just been shit at making friends. That was probably more likely. She'd had friends, plenty of friends, but nobody that she was really close to, nobody she confided in or looked to for guidance. Not until later, not until she became what she was now, and even that blew up in her face. But Barnes and Rogers, their friendship was real, it was solid.

"You should get out more, or come with me to the Tower…" Rogers told him.

"I went out today."

"Did you meet anyone? Talk to anyone?"

Barnes' lack of answer was answer enough.

Rogers sighed. "I know it's been difficult… But at least at the Tower, you know people… I'm not around as much, I'm sorry for that, I want to be here, but there's… There's just so much to do and…. You said you were feeling better."

"I am."

"Buck, you're hiding…"

"I'm not like them, and they know it. I know it. You know it. I don't fit there."

"You could, if you wanted to. All of us have pasts, things we regret, things we've done that we don't think anyone will understand. Trust me, they'll understand better than most."

"Walking around the Tower feels like being in a science fair," Barnes muttered. "You won top prize with your fucked up assassin."

"It's not like that…" Rogers sighed. "Yes, they're wary, they're still getting used to things. It takes some adjustment. But hiding out isn't helping; if anything, it's making it worse."

There was a pause then, before Barnes, his voice softer, the edge finally dulled, asked, "What if I never get better?"

Rogers stayed quiet, and Darcy found herself leaning forward in her seat, eager to hear the answer.

"What if this is just who I am now? I have my memories, Steve, all of them. So who's to say this isn't as good as it gets for me?" Barnes laughed then, but it was bitter and short.

"I don't regret you. Not any part of you. You're my best friend, Bucky… When I said the end of the line, I meant the end of the line. I don't expect you to bounce back and be who you were. But I do expect you to try. To get out there, to make friends, to just… be a part of something. Because you deserve that. You deserve to have friends around you."

"I do. I got you, don't I?"

Rogers sighed, but his answer was sincere, "Yeah, you do. Always."

"Maybe that's all I need."

"I just… I want you to be happy."

"Yeah… I know."

For the first time in the eight years she'd been doing this job, Darcy felt like she was intruding. She wondered what the said about her.

She's sixteen the first time Carl kisses her.

She slaps him; it reverberates through her arm and rattles her bones. Adrenaline pumps so completely through her that she's dizzy with it. She thinks she should run, but she mostly just stands there, shocked. A voice inside of her calls her weak, calls her pathetic, tells her she shouldn't give him a chance to try again. She eyes the kitchen knives in the block on the counter and wonders how long it'll take to grab one and sink it deep into his belly. But he laughs at her, rubs a thumb over his cheek, and then just walks off into the living room, flopping down in the arm chair and turning on the TV. Like it's nothing. Like it didn't even happen.

She's not sure what it means.

She starts locking her door at night, but every sound, every creak of the house, wakes her up.

She hides a hunting knife under her pillow, grips it so tight her hand hurts every morning when she wakes up.

She's ready for him. She's not sure what that means or what'll happen, but she's ready.

The first time she let Barnes see her, she bumped into him in the street. It was a test. What would he do? Would he recognize her? See just how lethal she was in just a glance? She'd purposely stopped following him for two days. She let him think that his tail had left, let him relax. She kept an eye on him at the apartment only, and even then, it was only the recording of his and Rogers' conversations each day that she listened to. And then, on the third day, she went for a walk. There were three different routes he took to get to Goldie's gym, and he always switched on the walk back to the apartment. She took a chance on which one he would take that afternoon and picked up a coffee from a street vendor before making her way down the sidewalk, keeping her pace slow, even lazy, like she was in no rush to get anywhere, just out enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon.

He was coming toward her, head bowed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. While it looked like he wasn't watching where he was going, she knew he was carefully taking in every person that walked past him, how close they were getting, memorizing faces and mannerisms, looking for any sign that anyone around him was the enemy. She dropped her gaze to her purse and rifled around inside, searching for her phone which she'd already passed over three times, mumbling to herself that she needed to clean it out, when—

"Oof." They collided, shoulders slamming into each other hard enough that she spun on one heel, catching herself before she could be thrown to the ground. "Asshole," she complained, wringing her hand out from the hot coffee that spilled over the back. "You wanna watch where you're going next time?"

He was staring at her, brow furrowed, mouth pressed in a frown, and she knew he was taking stock of her. He could have walked away, never even looked at her, but he had. And that meant one of two things; she was made or she confused him. In the time she'd been watching him, he was careful, always managing to avoid people, ducking out of their way or staying under the radar for the most part. And, in other cases, he managed to intimidate without even really trying. Then again, it was probably an unconscious state, managing to look menacing without even trying to. It was engrained in him by now. But this was the first time he was forced to interact with anyone outside of who he'd met through Rogers since his liberation from HYDRA.

"This is where you apologize," she told him, brows hiked demandingly.

His lips pressed into a line and he dropped his gaze away for a moment. "I…" He nodded, short and awkward. "Sorry."

Well, this was no fun, she decided. He was quiet, reserved, so wary it was just sad. Not even an assassin got any joy out of kicking a puppy.

"Questionable excuse for an apology accepted…" She looked him over quickly. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I hit you kind of hard."

It wasn't a smile, not exactly, but his lips twitched. "Taken harder hits." Just as quickly as his unexpected show of good-natured humor reared its head, it was tamped down. He turned away, frown returning, and then looked back at her, eyes narrowed, and left. No goodbye, no clarification, nothing, just walked away.

It might have amused her, his complete lack of social skills, if she didn't know exactly why they were so unpolished.

Not for the first time, she found herself disliking the people that hired her, that used him up and spat him out.

Turning on her heel, she walked away, tossed her coffee in the garbage can, and made her way down the street, chewing her lip as she considered the job ahead of her. Because it just got a lot more complicated.

The second time Carl kisses her, he doesn't let her get a slap in. He hits her before she can even pull her hand back, and she falls to the floor on her knees. It hurts, her legs and her face, and there's blood dribbling from her split lip. She screams when he grabs her hair, yanking her up from the floor, her back arched, and he paws his hand down her chest, sliding it back up to circle her throat to squeeze in warning.

She whimpers; scared, angry. Her eyes are blurry with tears, darting around, wondering where her mother is, why she isn't helping her.

Her daddy would kill him, she thinks. He would slit him from belly to throat and not even blink.

But her daddy's not there. He's not coming.

No one's coming.

She has to do this herself, she thinks. She has to look out for herself. Because no one else will.

Carl tears her sweater open, fabric splayed apart and ripped nearly down to the bottom. His hand dips into her bra to touch her in ways only boys she's given permission to, boys she wanted to, have. He doesn't ask. She hates him for it. Hates him for thinking he has any right. Hates him for how he's destroyed her mother, her family, her home. She hates him for the putrid smell that turns her stomach and the fear that shadows her every step this last year and a half. She hates him so completely that it burns inside her, like a fire licking at her blood and setting it aflame.

And then something just… clicks. And that hate becomes action.

He's torn the strap of her bra and it's hanging useless when she throws an elbow back that catches him in the cheek. He stumbles back, cursing up a storm, and she shoves up to her feet.

She hits him first with a pot that was sitting idle on the counter, empty except for a little bit of filmy hot dog water at the bottom. The pot slams into his mouth, sends one of those straight, white teeth flying, and she raises it up like a hammer of justice.

But he comes at her all the same, doesn't even pause, slams into her middle with his shoulder and pushes her back against the counter. It digs into her back and sends the air rushing out of her lungs. It gives him the upper hand like he wants and they scramble against each other. The pot slips from her hand, so she claws her fingers down his cheek, tearing open skin and spilling blood. Triumph and pride rushes through her.

She's not sure where it's going or how it'll end. She's not really sure how it would have gone, because then her mother's there, yelling, "What the hell is going on here?"

And Carl – God, she hates that man – turns around and starts yelling that Darcy is crazy. That he just gave her a little kiss, "real father-like" he says, and she lost her shit and attacked him.

Maybe it's because Carl looks worse than her, maybe it's because her mother's been drinking so much lately, maybe it's because her mother still can't bear to look at her, but she takes Carl's side. Tells Darcy to "clean up this mess, for Chrissakes, Darcy, it was just a kiss."

And then that thought before, that nobody will ever look out for her again, becomes a reality.

[Next: Part II.]

author's note: So, this story is about 75 percent done on my computer. I didn't want to start posting it until I was nearly finished. There'll be a lot more darcy/bucky interaction coming up. This is just to sort of set the groundwork for Darcy and where her head's at in this particular case.

I will warn you, however, there's a non-consensual scene coming up that could be triggering for some people. I'm sure at this point you can tell who will be perpetuating that assault and it does pave a path for Darcy moving forward. It's not something I usually write, I tend to avoid it, but it does mold Darcy in a lot of ways. That said, if you're not comfortable reading that, it is in the next chapter, so be forewarned and please do take precautions. I wouldn't want to trigger anyone.

Thank you for reading! Please review; they're my lifeblood.

- Lee | Fina