"She did what?"

Even Jimmy winced at the ridiculous pitch his voice hit. The receptionist, to her credit, didn't comment and repeated herself. As she did, James found himself running his shaking fingers through his hair.

"Ok, ok, I'll be there in half an hour," he said briskly, placing the phone back on the receiver.

A wave of light-headedness overtook him, and he found himself bracing against the wall with his left hand. Panic wrapped around his ribs, squeezing his lungs and leaving him winded. His right hand found his chest, rubbing at the tightness there, but it wasn't until he could hear Greg shuffling outside that he managed to push up off the wall and leave the office.

"All right?" said Greg, giving him a concerned look.

His boss, Greg, was a portly man with thinning brown hair, crooked teeth and bushy eyebrows that displayed his entire emotional state. They were currently furrowed, crinkling his grease-stained forehead in a way that accentuated his receding hairline. He reached out, and Jim had to conceal the shudder of revulsion that went through his spine as Greg squeezed his right shoulder.

"Uh, yeah," Jimmy said in a choked voice. He swallowed, and continued, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry Greg, I have to go."

"Go?" repeated Greg. "Go where?"

"It's Da– Tasha. Something's wrong, apparently she got into a fight at school, and the head teacher wants me there. I know you need me to finish that Agila out back, but I really need–"

Greg cut him off with a nod.

"Quite. You run along and sort out that girl of yours." The older man waved off Jimmy's fleeting smile of gratitude.

It took Jimmy five minutes to stop his hand from trembling enough that he could steer his car. Driving one-handed was possible for him, but it was safer to do things when he had full control of his body, especially when that tight, panicky feeling had never truly left him. He took a few deep breaths as he slotted the key in the ignition and started the car.

She's ok, he told himself. The lady said she wasn't hurt or anything, she's ok.

It didn't help.

Jimmy had been through enough in his life that he knew 'alright' was too vague a term. Just because she was physically alright didn't mean she wasn't upset or being treated unfairly. And knowing Darya and her loathing of people poking and prodding at her, she might be hiding her injuries and not even be physically alright. It wasn't enough, to know that she was 'alright'. The thought just made his chest tighten more and his right hand tremble.

Well, if you hurried up and drove instead of freaking out over whether she was OK, you'd get there faster and would be able to see for yourself, taunted a voice in the back of his head. Instead you're wasting time debating yourself over the multiple meanings of 'alright'.

Jimmy's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror, meeting his own gaze in the reflected rectangle.

Shut the fuck up.

The rest of the twenty minute car ride was conspicuously silent. His hand had stopped shaking.

When Jimmy finally pulled up at the gate, a blonde lady in a neatly pressed skirt hailed him over. She greeted him with a strained smile and a handshake, introducing herself as the deputy head and offering to take him to the head teacher's office. With a nod, they were off, the uncomfortable silence deafening. The deputy was clearly judging him, and finding him lacking.

That wasn't an anomaly. His constant freezing left him at the age he was when he fell, and even ten years since he hadn't aged, so Jimmy knew he looked young, too young to have a ten year old daughter by civilised standards. It happened more often when he and Darya were out together and people heard her call him papá, but anyone who saw his youthful face and knew he was a father to an almost-teenager assumed the worst.

Or maybe the deputy wasn't judging him for that, but for having raised a daughter who fought other students. If so, that was another thing that couldn't be helped. He'd tried to teach Darya a strict sense of right and wrong, of standing up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves, which had translated in her mind that hitting people was occasionally acceptable. It wasn't as much of a surprise when he considered that there had been a lot of Steve Rogers stories at bedtime, so he felt comfortable enough blaming her strange honour code entirely on Steve.

As it always did when he thought of Steve, his heart gave a pang. What he wouldn't give to have Steve with him; what he wouldn't give to have Steve meet his brilliant daughter.

His train of thought was interrupted when he and the deputy turned into another corridor and his daughter came into sight, perched on a grey plastic chair and scuffing her school shoes on the linoleum. Her dark hair was messy and falling out of the pony tail he'd gathered it into that morning, and she was worrying at a thread on her skirt. In comparison, the kid seated next to her looked much worse for wear: he was holding a bloodied tissue to his nose and studiously ignoring the girl at his right. They were both being watched by a stout woman sitting underneath a sign denoting Reception.

At his approach, Darya's head snapped up and she went fire engine red. The kid next to her scoffed and turned his nose up, which was an impressive feat considering he was still holding the bloodied tissue to his nose.

"Hey, dad," said Darya, her breezy tone forced. "Fancy seeing you here."

Jimmy levelled an impressed stare at her. She wilted.

"What happened?" he demanded.

She bit her lip, rubbing the back of her neck.

"It's complicated?" she offered.

"Uncomplicate it."

She said nothing. Awkwardly, she shifted on the chair, refusing to meet his eyes. The deputy head teacher, standing a few paces away, motioned for him to join her. He nodded, throwing another unimpressed look at Darya, and joined the deputy in front of a door with a shiny plaque that read 'Patricia Raymond'.

"Mr Levin, the Robinsons are with Mrs Raymond now," she told him, gesturing at the door. "If you'll follow me."

They entered the office. Spacious, and all rectangular sides and comfortable furniture, it boasted a stately walnut desk behind which a stern woman sat. Opposite her were the couple he assumed were the Robinsons. They were coifed and pressed to an extent Jimmy, having survived in mechanic sheds and convenience stores for the past ten years, hadn't seen in a very long time.

The stern woman got to her feet, holding out a hand. He shook it, and took the seat she gestured too, angled a little away from the Robinsons.

"That'll be all, Miranda," nodded Mrs Raymond. She waited until the door had clicked behind the deputy to note, "Well, I think we all know why we're here. Let's get down to it."

Ever since Darya was a little thing, she'd liked to talk. Papá this and papá that, she nattered on and on, sharing with him the most mundane of things. As they travelled and their collective knowledge of language expanded, her chattering had become something of a translation game, a repetition of the same idea in multiple languages as an attempt to practise her verbal and mental grasp. She'd never been quiet in his presence, always switching from tongue to tongue with the fluidity of water.

Unless, of course, they were fighting. And so, Darya had been silent the entire ride home.

It had been Jimmy ordering her to apologise to the Robinson kid that kicked off her silent protest. She'd gaped at him, face red with fury and indignation, and gotten a hard set to her jaw that told him she was going to fight him, only to be halted when he'd snapped at her. Unused to feeling the force of his anger, she'd complied with a grimace and lack of authenticity that he didn't have the strength to argue against, and they'd stalked off to the car with silence boiling between them.

From there, it had only gotten worse. He'd tried to ask her for her side, but with Darya refusing to talk to him, it had devolved into a full blown lecture that gave him spotty flashbacks to his mother doing the same to him. She'd just sat sullenly in the back seat, glaring out her window and ignoring him. If it weren't for the occasional flinches as he bandied around the words "irresponsible" and "disappointed", he'd even say she wasn't listening at all.

And then they were home, and Darya was slamming her bedroom door behind her faster than he could warn her not to. A framed picture of a toothy toddler fell off the wall.

God damn that Irish temper, he cursed as he locked and deadbolted the door behind him. He knelt down and retrieved the photo, wincing as the spidery web of cracks caught the hallway light across the toddler's smile.

Looking down at the frame, he felt tired, and old. It was a kind of bone-deep weariness that he imagined effected men his actual age often, but his was less to do with his physical state and more his sense of who he was. In that moment, for all that he looked twenty-five, he felt his eighty-four years quite keenly.

Most of it was Darya, if he was being honest. God knew he loved his daughter, but parenthood was draining. When she'd been a small baby, it was changings and refusing to go to sleep. Later, it had been tantrums in the supermarket when they were in a hurry and refusing to eat her dinner. It seemed he was at the "hitting other children and refusing to talk to him" phase, but God only knew how exhausted he'd be once he got fully into the teenage stage. And that wasn't even considering the amount of energy his body unconsciously poured into worrying.

The worrying. It was constant. It ranged from trivial to serious, and it kept him up often enough that he'd taken to religiously drinking chamomile tea in an attempt to calm down before bed (although that presented problems in and of itself). And it was as volatile as he was: one moment, it would be a background worry about whether she'd taken a coat to school, and the next–BOOM, full blown panic attack in the middle of the workshop like a fucking edgy sop.

He was tired of it. He was tired of how weak he was, how less he was, how wrong (how not-him, not-Bucky in Bucky's skin). Some days he just wanted to go to sleep, enter a blissed nothingness and never wake up – and some days, he tried to. He always felt bad about it after, because Darya was always sweet and brought him food and cuddled up to him, even though he couldn't summon the energy to say a word. Without her, he wasn't sure how he'd survive.

She deserved much better.

So much better.

With a sigh, he shuffled over to the kitchen, dropping the photo frame onto the far counter and flicking on the kettle. The mugs he gathered down from the cabinet were faded and chipped, and the paint of the golden smiley face was peeling somewhat, but they had never failed to bring a smile to his face. He busied himself with teabags and set the mugs on the counter before filling them with boiled water. Then he turned away from the counter to go and stand in front of his daughter's bedroom door.

He cleared his throat.

"Darya," he called. "We need to talk now."

There was no answer. He felt a twinge of annoyance and rapped on the door.

"Darya!"

"I don't want to!" she yelled back, voice muted through the wall.

He leant against the door. "You'll have to talk to me eventually," he reasoned. "Get it over and done with now. I've got some tea brewed up. How about we have a cup of tea and talk like adults?"

"Go away!" came her muffled response. "Go away! I don't want you here!"

Stung, he recoiled from the door. Her answer rattled around his brain, reminding him of a time oh so long ago where their positions had been exchanged. Obviously it was something she hadn't forgotten, either, because there was clearly no hesitation in how she'd thrown that in his face.

"Darya," he tried again, swallowing down his pain. "Darya come out here right now or you'll go without dinner! Darya!"

There was no answer.

"Fine!" he shouted. "Fine! Be like that!"

He snatched his mug from the counter and grabbed his journal from the top of the fridge. If she wants hers, she'll have to come get it, he thought spitefully, tossing away his teabag. Ignoring the other mug, he retreated to his room.

But after about an hour of pretending not to hear Darya crying in her room, he gave up trying to inscribe his thoughts into his journal. As he passed through the kitchen, he noted that the tea he'd left for her had gone untouched and had cooled. Almost compulsively, he tipped it out into the sink and washed it out before turning his attention to Darya's room.

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and opened the door.

The lack of lighting hit him first. Curtains drawn against the paling afternoon sun, the room was cast in shadows. It made it hard to make out the figure curled up on the bed at first, but the serum meant that his eyes adjusted quickly enough that he noted the glint on tears of Darya's face before she turned from him.

"Oh really? Are we back at ignoring now?" he sniped. "But I so loved the yelling."

She huffed, but otherwise stayed still, ignoring him in silent resistance. Such dramatics prompted an eye roll so intense that it almost gave him a headache. Pushing her feet away, he sat down on the end of the bed and crossed his arms.

With a wry smile, he asked her, "Do you know why I made you say sorry?" After a few moments of silence that told him she wouldn't respond, he continued, "Because having a disagreement with someone doesn't warrant punching them in the face. Violence should always be a last resort, and you should never use it unless you absolutely have to."

"That's rich coming from you." As he gaped at her, Darya sat up, face contorted into a sneer. "You should never use it unless you absolutely have to. Do you think I don't notice you coming home late all bloody? And I know that Mr Castleigh doesn't pay you enough for school and the flat both. I'm ten, not stupid."

For a moment, words caught in his throat and his mouth went dry. With narrowed eyes, he recovered quickly by levelling an unimpressed look at her, but inwardly, he reeled. He hadn't realised that she'd noticed him slipping out at night, but he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him. She was right about not being stupid.

"Considering you just got suspended for punching another kid," he said, "we're going to have to disagree on that point. What were you thinking? He wasn't even talking to you, couldn't you just let it go?"

"No," said Darya, jaw jutted out defiantly. "Max was being awful about James' mums, saying all kinds of terrible things. You always want me to do the right thing – what part of standing up for James wasn't the right thing?!"

"The hitting part!" he fired back. Her lips formed a hard line. "What possessed you to hit him?"

When her gaze held his, there was a familiar glint in it that transported him sixty years back, and when she told him, "I don't like bullies," it was like a long-dead Brooklyn boy was speaking through her. And yet, that glint reminded him also of the night Steve had cried about being wrong, about being sick, and Bucky Barnes had just hugged him and told him that nothing would ever be wrong with him. That same glint swum in his daughter's eyes, and he wondered how he could've been so insensitive and blind.

It prompted Jimmy's brow to crease and tell his daughter, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Her mouth twitched at the corner.

"I know," she said softly, her shoulders slumping.

His heart swelled. "C'mere," he murmured and pulled her to him. She didn't hesitate, attaching herself to his side like a limpet. Into her hair, he said, "Come on, we'll have spaghetti for dinner, and then bed."

She nodded into his neck.

"But," he added, "don't think that you're off the hook for this. Don't worry about what I go around doing, you're better than me, so there's no excuse for you to go around hitting people. You understand?"

She nodded again. He nudged her, getting up from the bed.

"Come on then, pasta time."

Jimmy's night was restless. For all that his anger towards Darya felt somewhat justified, he still felt guilty about their fight. Well, it was less of a fight and more of a one-sided lecture, he reasoned with himself. Not that that made the guilt better; if anything, it made it worse. It meant he hadn't gotten more than a few hours' sleep all night.

As he lay there in bed, willing himself to fall asleep, the landline beside his bed went off. Involuntarily, he groaned, rolling over to pick up the call with a raspy, "Hello?"

"Mr Levin, this is Patricia Raymond. I'm calling about the incident yesterday."

The head teacher? He cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mrs Raymond?" he replied. "I'm not sure why you're calling, I thought you said Natasha couldn't come back to school until next week?"

The other end of the line was quiet for a moment.

"That is correct. Unfortunately, something has come up that warrants further discussion," she said stiffly. Jimmy's stomach turned unpleasantly. "I regret to inform you, Mr Levin, but Max Robinson was hospitalised yesterday afternoon, and I have just been informed that he passed during the night."

He went numb.

"What?" he choked out. "What do you mean he passed?!"

"The doctors believe it was a brain haemorrhage. He'd been slowly bleeding for hours by the time they realised something was wrong, and unfortunately, nothing could be done."

Jimmy just– it was like there was something in his head that couldn't connect what was being said to what it meant. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, then that would mean that Darya– no, it wasn't possible, because –

"I saw him yesterday and he was alright!" he protested. "This has to be a sick joke!"

"I'm very sorry, Mr Levin, but it isn't a joke," she said. "I'm sure you can understand that, due to the terrible nature of the situation, the authorities been informed and have told me they will visit you later on in the afternoon to collect your daughter's statement and to assess the situation."

"The police? You're sending the police here?" he sputtered. "She's ten! And she didn't mean to kill the kid–"

"I'm sure that will be cleared up, Mr Levin," she bit out. "I'll give you a call later as well to discuss Natasha's future with the school. Good day."

Abruptly, the dial tone cut in. In a daze, he set the receiver down and shoved the covers down. It was only when he stood, almost lost, in the middle of his room that an uncontrollable panic started to set in.

If the police came to his house, there would be a report that they'd file in their systems, one that would have the names Natasha and Jimmy Levin all over it. And any report, however vague, would be open to HYDRA inspection, especially a report that came from south London. Jimmy had tried to erase any links the Levin identities had to their last names, but he wasn't omnipotent, and past experience from Barcelona and then Bucharest warned him that underestimating HYDRA's reach was too dangerous to comprehend.

If the Levins were gone when the police came, they'd still file a report, but Jimmy and Darya would have a head start, more time to get away. And if they found them, well – HYDRA would find that their old attack dog was not as easily controlled as it once was.

And so, he got dressed and started packing. After so many years on the run and the several close calls, he'd gotten the packing down to a T. The weapons were gathered first, retrieved from their various strategic spots around the room, checked for safety and then piled on the bed. He then stripped his cupboard and drawers, tossing clothing into his duffle as he went, and did the same for the few personal effects he had before arming himself and proceeding into the kitchen.

Of the kitchenware, only the mugs from Spain made it into his duffle. Everything else he could purchase at the next location if needed. He contemplated the television in the living room, and concluded that, if he had time, it was nice enough to take with them and sell for extra funds. And with that, he dropped the duffle by the counter and went to wake up Darya.

It took a minute or two of stroking her hair and calling her name for her to rouse herself from oblivion. When she did, it was with lots of blinking and yawning. As Jimmy quietly explained to her that he needed to her to get changed into casual clothes and pack her bag quickly, the sleep slowly drained away, leaving only an alert calm.

"What's going on, papá?" she asked him. She'd already gotten up, divesting her nightie and pulling on pants and a t-shirt in almost one fluid motion. "What happened?"

He contemplated telling her about the boy, but soon decided against it. For all that she'd punched the kid, he was certain that she hadn't wanted him dead. It had been an accident, either a miscalculation of strength or an unnaturally thin skull. To tell her would only crush her heart and leave her unable to forgive herself. She was too much like him, in that respect.

"Nothing's happened," he said gently, "but we need to go now. We've been here long enough as it is."

The dubiety in her eyes, so like his own, told him that he hadn't convinced her, but she obeyed him quickly enough. As she packed, he gathered their belongings and loaded them into the car. By the time that was done, Darya was ready to go, and so they both ambled to the car in near-silence and left.

About ten minutes into their drive, Darya asked him, "Where are we going, papá?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not sure," he said, "but I've heard Poitiers is nice this time of year. What do you say, Dashenka? Up for some French hospitality?"

"Always," she said with a solemn nod.

They shared a grin, and started their next arm of their journey.