Hi! I've been working on this for a while, so here it is. Thanks to Devon Shea for reviewing, but unfortunately, no, Stevo and Buckaroo won't be interacting in this fic because this is the last chap :(

Ponce was a beautiful city. Set along Puerto Rico's southern coastline, it sat at the bottom of hills that sloped gently down into the Caribbean Sea. Intersected by a number of rivers that slowly flowed out into the sea, La Perla Del Sur was surrounded by the vibrant green of the rainforest that gave way to the whites and pastels of colonial and Art Deco buildings alike, and basked in the sun's rays from dawn until dusk. Though it was hardly quiet, there were moments when one found peace in the sleepy warmth of an afternoon in Ponce.

Crash!

And there were moments where that peace was but a dream. James winced, his right hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. His left hand came to rest at his hip and curled there in the fabric of his shirt. Inwardly, he cursed his father's line for what seemed like the umpteenth time in twelve years and, like always, God ignored him. It was a common theme in his life.

Steeling himself, he turned on his heel and marched down his hallway, past family pictures crooked on white walls, and to the right. He exhaled sharply and came to a stop at a splintered door hanging lopsidedly on battered hinges. The red paint, usually scratched and peeling, was marred by the brown of the fractured and unpainted wood underneath. He scowled.

"Did you just destroy your door?" he demanded. "Seriously?! What the hell!"

Something slapped against the ruin that was once called a door. James gaped, his brain processing the fact that his disobedient child had thrown something at it, and it took a moment to catch up. Rage replaced the annoyance that had been bubbling away since the onset of their argument, and he gritted his teeth against the pressing urge to yell at her.

He failed quite spectacularly at that.

"Fine!" he shouted. He stepped forward, bracing himself as he gripped the door by its edges, and pulled. It parted from the wall with a long screech from the tortured metal hinges. Over it, he yelled, "FINE! BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? DAUGHTERS WHO DON'T OBEY THEIR FATHERS DON'T GET DOORS!"

James threw the door back into the hallway. It landed, perhaps too loudly, with a smash that served well to emphasise his displeasure. Immediately, his shoulders loosened, losing some of the tightness held there, and the rigid cast of his spine slackened. There was a catharsis to smashing unfound in other stress relievers he'd tried. Chamomile tea just didn't measure up when dealing with the obstinacy of a preteen, as no doubt many parents before him had found. On that related note, he had formed a newfound respect for the restraint his mother had shown while raising him.

As some of the frustration left him, he turned back to Darya's doorway. Without him noticing, she had marched right up in his face, the scowl on her cherubic face so terrible it was as if he had murdered a puppy or something equally immoral. Standing with her hands on her hips, she was the very picture of a grim soldier going off to war against a great evil. It would be intimidating if she wasn't just taller than elbow height on him.

"Give it back," she ordered. Her voice was surprisingly low pitch considering that it went up two octaves when she was in a real rage. His wonder lasted only a moment, as when she repeated herself, it was more at an otherworldly screech than any truly human sound. "Give it back!"

"Give what back?" he said, incredulity colouring his tone. Pointedly, he looked back at the pitiful fragments of her bedroom door. "You've already smashed it to bits, it's not gonna go back on!"

"UGH!" she screeched, stamping her foot before turning on her heel back to her bedroom. "I HATE YOU!"

He scoffed, following her.

"I hate that you keep destroying my living space. We all have to live with disappointment, Darya. Trust me, it'll become the staple of your teenage years."

She flung herself onto her bed in response and shoved her face into her pillow. Muffled screams came from it. James only endured two seconds of it before rolling his eyes so hard he almost gave himself a headache and stalking out.

Pausing at the doorframe and running a finger along the broken hinges, he winced. So much for getting back his bond. His seedy landlord would take any excuse for a quick buck, and a smashed door fit the bill, even if James replaced it out of his own pocket. Asshole would probably charge James extra anyway, on account of James fixing the shoddy sink without permission.

"You are so getting toast for dinner," he called over his shoulder, and then went to work on removing the lump of butchered door from his hallway.

He kept to his word. Darya ate toast for dinner that first night, and again for the next four nights because she'd whinged and bitched and threw a plate at his head which – fortunately for the both of them – missed. Not quite so fortunately for Darya, though. Furious at the further destruction of his possessions, he'd condemned her to toast for the week and sworn that he wouldn't fix the door until she apologised.

"And stop acting like a child!" he had snapped at her retreating back. "You're not a baby anymore! If I'd pulled this shit when I was your age, my father would've belted me so hard I wouldn't be able to walk for a week."

Not that he ever had. While reckless, James was far from an idiot, and would never dared to even talk back to his father, let alone throw a plate. Hell, he wouldn't have spoken back to his mother, who was handier with a rolling pin than his father was with a belt. Only Harriet had been game enough to question their parents, but even she wasn't dumb enough to pull the shit with the plate.

Harriet… Darya looked like Harriet had. She had her nose, their mother's nose, and Harriet's cheekbones, though Darya's face was long like her mother's and her jaw more pointed. Sometimes when he looked at her, James thought about what had happened to Harriet – whether she'd moved away and married that James Coulson of hers, or if she'd stayed in New York. They had not been the closest of siblings – they butted heads far too often for that – but he loved her and missed her all the same.

Thinking about her was painful, for it made him think about his other sisters, and his mother too. It was unlikely that his mother was still alive, and he wondered how she had reacted when she'd been told he'd died. Had she sobbed, like she did when word of her cousin Ruthie came? Or had she gone cold as she did when his father passed? Who told her? Steve?

No, he reminded himself. Not Steve. Steve died the day after I did.

No doubt Eleanor had broken down. Ellie was softer and kinder and sweeter than the others, for all that she was older. She'd been there when he'd met Steve, he recalled distantly, and she had helped him patch up the stubborn moron. Faintly, he remembered that Steve had been sweet on her at one point, but Ellie had only ever mooned over Henry Halwell from the block over, and they'd been married before he shipped out.

And Rebecca, his youngest sister. She was the steady one, always calm and collected, her head always cool. Even as a little kid, she never lost her temper, unlike Harriet. He'd only seen her cry when their father had died, and even that was just silent tears during the church service. Had she cried for him when she found out? Had it fazed her that her older brother was gone?

He missed them all. He missed his friends and extended family and Brooklyn. Brooklyn … he had considered going back once or twice, and Darya's recent behaviour had it on his mind, but he always felt sick at the idea. To go home when it wasn't really his home anymore would be–

James was snapped out of his pondering by a familiar voice calling, "Hey Guerrero, you finished with that wheel alignment?"

He rolled out from under the hood of the Nissan he was working on, dropping the spanner he was using as he went. It fell to the concrete floor with a resounding clang. No longer encased in the car's insides, he sat up, noticing that his boss was hovering nearby. Twisting a rag in her hands, she watched him with a perfectly arched brow.

"Yeah," he answered, getting to his feet, "yeah, I'm done, just doing some minor tweaking now. Wha'd'ya need?"

Paloma jerked her chin to the waiting room. "There's someone waiting for you," she told him. "Young woman, didn't tell me her name. Just said she needed to talk to you."

"Right," said James. Alarm bells ringing in his head, he pushed the foreboding feeling hollowing out his chest back and grabbed the rag Paloma offered him. He wiped off the grease staining his hands before passing it back. "Give me five, Adriana, I'll be right back.

He ducked into the waiting room. It wasn't much, just a small room in a ramshackle building attached to the garage with only a few couches shoved around a small coffee table, It was so tiny that James felt claustrophobic just standing at the door. Opposite a vaguely familiar woman flicking through magacín on the faded corduroy loveseat was María Gomez, the elderly lady with the Nissan, and she flicked him a toothy smile as she saw him in the entryway.

"Hey Sra. Gomez, Adriana is just finishing up with the car now," he told her. She nodded and thanked him, going back to her knitting. Apprehension churning in his stomach, he turned to the other lady and he said, "I'm not sure if we've met?"

She stood up quickly. Holding out her trembling hand, James shook it cautiously, unable to peel his gaze away from the twitching of her fingers.

"Sr. Guerrero," she said in an unwavering voice that was at odds with her shaking fingers, "my name is Valentina Dominguez. I was your daughter's teacher. If you wouldn't mind, I think we need to talk."

His mouth went dry. Darya's teacher … well, if HYDRA knew about Darya, then it would be the perfect cover to draw him out. Choosing to make a move on his workplace was their style too; separating Darya and he would be priority number one, and what better time to do that than an afternoon when Darya was home from school and he had yet to leave work? But that was assuming that HYDRA knew about Darya, which he couldn't be sure of. He'd taken great pains in the past to ensure they remained unaware, and the only possible place of slip up was Natasha Levin two years past.

That, of course, was another possibility. Dominguez had said she was one of Darya's past teachers, and she mightn't be lying on that count if she had taught her alongside Max Robinson. But why would a British school teacher follow them to Puerto Rico? To take revenge for the Robinsons? To take them back to England to face the consequences of Darya's actions? Unlikely, but possible.

Even so, he felt justified in turning her away. He cleared his throat.

"I don't have anything to say to you," he told her, careful to keep his voice low to avoid disrupting Sr. Gomez. Glaring at her in a way that had made trained assassins piss themselves in the past, he gestured to the exit. "I think you should leave."

To her credit, she stood her ground. She whose hands had trembled upon meeting him stared right back at him. If anything, his hostility seemed to embolden her. She folded her arms across her chest, back ramrod straight and tilting her chin challengingly.

"No, I don't think I should," she barked. She shook her head slowly, not breaking eye contact as she did so. "I don't know you, Sr. Guerrero, and I won't presume to know you. But I know your daughter, and I know she deserves better, and I won't be scared off from telling you that. You will listen to me."

Huh, he thought. Unexpected.

His face twitched before settling into an impassive expression. She could have been a HYDRA agent, trained to lie without any indication of it, but something – in the set of her jaw, the light in her eyes – convinced him she was telling the truth. This tiny woman, virtually a stranger to Darya and he, cared enough about his daughter to look him in the eye and tell him he was wrong, which he knew was no small feat. Despite himself, he was impressed by her gall, and so, against his better judgment, he gestured to the exit and followed after her.

Maybe she was with some sort of social services? Usually they announced themselves, but perhaps they thought it was wiser to approach him through Darya's teacher first. It wouldn't be the first time a government tried unconventional methods to get a response from him. Not that it mattered whether she was government or HYDRA or both – he'd kill her if she tried to make a move against him.

Once cleared of the building, he gripped her elbow, leading her down the cracked pavements to a side alley tucked between and American-style diner and a hairdresser three blocks over from the garage. It was narrower than the alleys of his youth but just as decrepit as he remembered them being, with a small group of rats foraging around near dumpsters overflowing with trash. Dominguez's eyes went wide as he nudged her further down the alleyway and closer to the dumpsters behind the diner, and the shaking had returned to her hands. She shrank back from him as much as she could with her arm in his grasp.

"Sr. Guerrero!" she gasped, her voice finally as shaky as her hands. Yanking her arm out of his uncomplaining grip, she darted away. She braced herself the grimy brick walls, clinging to them as if to sink into them and escape him while eyeing the alleyway entrance that he blocked. "Sr. Guerrero, this is entirely inappropriate!"

"And visiting me at my workplace isn't?" he said mildly. His gaze darkened, glare deepening as he growled, "You wanted to talk. Talk."

Huffing, she eyed him warily and straightened. A look that warred between defiance and suspicion curled her lip and wrinkled her nose. Like a sunflower soaking up sunlight, his antagonism appeared to nourish her fight.

"She's brilliant," she said. "Laura-" his heart unclenched "-she's bright, and she learns quickly. Far quicker than the other students. I couldn't help her the way she needed help, so I had her transferred to an older class, but I worry that it's not enough. We're not equipped to help a student as advanced as her."

Relief had flooded his chest. Inwardly, he scolded himself for his unnecessary rudeness to Dominguez, who was looking less and less like a HYDRA agent or government lackey, and more like a worried teacher trying to help her student as she spoke. It wasn't like he could help it, though. Panic was always his first reaction when people called in unannounced about his daughter. His worry abated, his shoulders loosened and relaxed unconsciously.

Dominguez noticed. Strangely, this response encouraged her more than the anger had, so she went on, stepping away from the brick wall she'd backed up against.

"Our sister-school in New York has better resources and connections, they'd be better equipped–"

"So it was you that told her about that," he interrupted, his mood darkening again. He rubbed at his forehead with his right hand as the picture became clearer to him. This was the person that prompted the month of arguing and door-breaking and plate-throwing with ideas of New York and high school and settling down. "She can't go, and I've told her that. No doubt she's made you aware of that."

"And why can't she go?" she retorted, throwing her hands up. "Yes, Laura told me you said no, but she also told me that you both move around quite a bit. Odds are that you'll move again, and why not make it somewhere where she has a future? What's the issue? Money? There are programs for financial assistance that we can organise, Midtown is very flexible about it."

The laugh that came from him was as bitter as his morning coffee. Like money was the issue. It was more the added chance of HYDRA finding them and murdering them, or worse, that had him rejecting the proposal.

"You wouldn't understand, and I'm not going to waste my breath trying to make you," said James, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He looked away, exhaling shortly, before meeting her gaze again. "Don't talk to her about this again, it upsets her."

"But Sr. Guerrero–" she protested, but he cut her off with a look. Lips pressing together in displeasure, she nodded, and he turned away, starting to walk out of the alleyway. As he did so, she called out his name to his retreating back. Upon seeing him stop in his tracks, she went on. "She deserves better than this."

He exhaled.

"I know," he said, so softly he that he was unsure if she'd heard him. "She always has."

Her words settled heavily in his chest as he marched away. Sitting on his ribs, they reached down to his lungs and squeezed, but he was so used to that particular worry that anyone watching him would have no clue how it affected him. After years of telling himself the same thing, he was good at hiding the whirlpool of bile it incited in his stomach.

With a nod to Paloma as he re-entered the garage, he got back to work. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of oil and Colombian telenovelas playing in the background. He barely noticed the hours passing, so absorbed in thinking over what Dominguez had said, and was only occasionally disrupted from his work as, one-by-one, his co-workers clocked out for the day with a cheerful goodbye and a wave. By the time he was finished tweaking his last job, the sky outside had become cast in brilliant oranges and pinks, and the first of the streetlights had blinked on.

"Go on, get out of here," Paloma scolded him, "you've done more than enough for today, as usual. Go home and be with your baby."

James laughed. He grabbed a nearby rag, wiping off what grease he could, before chucking it to Paloma for her to do the same. In silence, they locked up the garage and flicked off the lights and appliances, and James debated internally whether to say something. They exited together, and it was only as each went to their car that he finally opened his mouth.

"She's angry with me right now," he said. Paloma paused, head tilted and mouth pinched slightly in concern. James blundered on. "I keep having to tell her she can't do things – not… not because I don't want her to have these opportunities, because I do, I really do and it kills me to say no – but because I want her to be safe, and what she wants to do isn't safe, it's dangerous, and yeah, she does deserve these opportunities, she deserves everything this world can give her and more, but she wants me to make a decision between her safety and her future and how the fuck does anyone make that decision?!"

Watching Paloma's expression changed was like watching someone take a fish to the face. Her eyes had grown wider, and her mouth gaped open slightly in surprise, which was an odd sight to James because she'd never, in the entire six months that he'd known her, looked stunned. Even so, her surprise only made the words fall out faster, unhindered and verbal for the first time since he'd found Darya.

"I try so hard. I just want her to be safe, and happy, but every time I try I fuck it up! I fuck it up by just existing!" he shouted. With a yell, he brought his fists down on the hood of his car. The hood crunched under his hands and when he lifted his fists from the metal, he found it warped to their shape. In a wavering voice, he muttered, "She deserves better than me."

There was silence for a moment, then–

"What," said Paloma. With a snap, she shut her still gaping mouth and paused, before opening it again to berate him. "Are you joking, Guerrero? What the hell. You work your ass off to give that kid everything she wants. Just because you're tough on her doesn't mean you don't deserve her, what the hell?!"

"You don't understand," he protested, shaking his head.

She looked like she wanted to slap him upside the head to help him find his common sense.

"Maybe I don't," she conceded. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down. "God knows I don't know you well because you're a goddamn recluse. But you're not a bad dad for trying to keep your kid safe, what the hell, bad parents don't even try. And besides, parents fuck up, it comes with the territory of raising a small human – hell, it comes with the territory of being human in the first place. Recognise your fuck ups and you'll be fine."

"So you think I've fucked up?" he asked. "The condemnation is helpful, really."

She rolled her eyes. "God you're dramatic. How would I know if you've fucked up, Guerrero, I don't know you," she said. "But if you're so worried, then obviously it's for a reason. I don't want to tell you what to do, you're not my kid, you're my employee and this is your personal business. But go home, think about why you're so worried about doing whatever it is she's asking for, and if, by the end, you still think it's too dangerous, then don't do it. I think you'll find, though, that if that was the true reason why you said no, you wouldn't be worrying like this."

James stared at her, stuck on that last point. HYDRA was his main reason for saying no, obviously, was she suggesting that it wasn't? He was conflicted, definitely, but that didn't mean that Darya's safety wasn't always his primary concern. It would always be his main reason for telling her no … wasn't it?

"And for the love of God," she sighed, "talk to your kid. Resolve it together. And no matter what tantrums she throws, don't lose your cool. It doesn't help."

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "You're right," he agreed, nodding.

"I'm always right."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yep." She patted him on the shoulder, her lips pursed as if she wanted to laugh at his misfortune but was too well-mannered to do it. "Good luck, Guerrero, you'll need it."

"Thank you," he said, but she had already waved him off and wandered over to her car.

Pausing at the car door, she looked back over at him. The challenging eyebrow that had been raised throughout their conversation had settled, and she was looking at him pityingly.

"Guerrero," she murmured, voice low enough that even he with all his enhancements was straining to hear her, "our kids always deserve better. And when you can, you give it to them. But if you can't … we're human. We're not perfect. Sometimes it means that your kid misses out, because that's what's best for them even if it doesn't look like it at first. Don't beat yourself up over it."

With a nod, she unlocked the door, and in a swift motion had sat down and closed it behind her. As he stood there, watching her pull out of the car lot, he felt … tired, as always, but the pressure was gone off his chest. Or maybe it was a different kind of pressure? He knew he'd have to talk to Darya, that he had no other option, and keeping his cool when she was raging at him was easier said than done, so he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. And he was still confused about what Paloma had said about his main reason for saying no.

But the reminder that he wasn't good enough, the constant thump-thump-thump, had … not so much disappeared – it probably never would – but lessened. The need to push himself beyond his limits had let up and he could breathe again, although it was like breathing through cotton sheets in a New York summer without a fan.

He'd needed the perspective. He'd needed to be told to think about it, to truly consider what Darya was rooting for as an option rather than shooting it down. He'd needed to be told that it was ok to make a mistake.

Especially when that seemed all he was capable of doing.

Was he making a mistake in choosing between Darya's safety and her happiness? Was that truly the question he was asking? Until that afternoon, he'd been sure that it was a determination between the dangers of going to New York where HYDRA could find them easier and Darya's future career, but after speaking to Paloma, he wasn't so sure.

His drive home was quiet, punctuated only by twinges of annoyance as he laid eyes upon the imprints of his fists in his hood. They made him wince every time he saw them, though the damage didn't appear too severe. Nothing that a few smacks and some paint wouldn't fix. He cringed. Fortunately for his sensibilities, the unit he and Darya lived at was only ten minutes by car from the garage, and it wasn't long before he was pulling into their car port and hopping out.

"Darya," he called as he unlocked the side door and let himself in. "Are you home? We need to talk."

Thuds met his ears. From down the end of the hall, Darya poked her head around a corner, her expression apprehensive. To his surprise, another dark-haired girl did the same and it took a moment of confusion as to where he'd acquired another child to realise that his daughter had a friend over.

"Um, hello," he said uncertainly. Two sets of eyes, one brown and one blue, blinked back at him. He cleared his throat. "I don't know if we've met, but now isn't the best of times. You can come back tomorrow if you want."

Twin sighs of disappointment carried down the hall. The child that was not his daughter skipped towards the door as the child that was his daughter trudged behind her. When they passed him, they exchanged hugs at the doorway and the other kid left with a wave goodbye.

Turning to him, Darya scowled. Almost on instinct, he started to scowl back, but remembered Paloma's advice, and rearranged his face into a more neutral expression. That seemed to stump Darya, who faltered for at least a second before her glare was back in full force.

Jerking his head towards the door, he asked innocently, "Who was that?" It was a bit of a laugh for him, of course: he knew exactly who it was.

Darya blushed bright red all the way to the roots of her hair. Folding her arms, the degree of fire behind her glare intensified. It would have been more intimidating if she weren't twelve and he wasn't an enhanced assassin on the run from a shady international Nazi organisation, but she tried.

"She's a friend," she said shortly, eyebrows twitching, daring him to comment otherwise.

He did so gladly.

"Oh," he piped up, "right. A friend. That wasn't Clarita then? The girl you keep talking about who has nice hair and a pretty singing voice?"

"Papá!" she screeched. She looked positively scandalised. "Yes, that's Clarita, but she's just a friend!"

"Did I say she was more?" he exclaimed, that faux innocence still colouring his tone. He smiled softly. "You know I don't mind, Darya."

The glare drained away from her face until she just looked very, very young. She huffed, but it lacked the heat it had had those past few weeks. There was a calmness about her eyes, a steadiness, and it was like looking into Rebecca's eyes sixty years past. It stole his breath away for a moment and left unshed tears in his eyes, and he had to look away to compose himself.

Darya was a living reminder that he'd never see his sisters again, or his mother, or Steve, or even those asshole punks down the road. Everyone he knew, as he knew them, were gone. The buildings, too, had probably changed, the shops turned to towering scrapers that touched the sky. New York as he knew it was gone, swallowed by time, and the thought of going back when he wasn't truly going back …

He cleared his throat and turned back to Darya. She was waiting patiently, her eyebrows creased in the middle in concern.

"We need to talk about New York," he said stiffly. Her eyes lit up, though she only nodded solemnly and followed him to their living room. Perching uneasily on the arm of a couch, he surveyed her as she sat down quietly onto the armchair. "Why do you want to go?"

Surprise coloured her features. After the past month they had had, but more specifically that past week, she obviously wasn't expecting to be asked why she wanted to go. He hadn't before then, after all.

She took a breath.

"I… Midtown has an amazing program," she started. "They've just started branching into supporting political science as a serious subject, and the testimonials from the pilot students who started in Midtown and went on to major in POLSIS in their college degrees are promising. It's affordable, and they have scholarships to help out, and coming from here, from my school and with the references the teachers here will give me, I'm a shoe in."

She paused, biting her lip. Her eyes darted between spots on the floor, and James knew she was thinking through what to say next. Not for the first time, James realised that his daughter was much more thoughtful than she let on. She met his eyes.

"This is … the best opportunity I have to actually become someone."

Exhaling, James looked down at his hands. Calloused and scarred, the right hand stood in stark contrast to the leather-gloved left, as it often did. It would be harder to conceal in New York, what with the greater population and more cameras, which meant a greater chance of HYDRA finding them. It would be harder to hide in general, although the beard he wore made it harder to identify him.

But a larger city could mean that HYDRA could miss them in the crowds. New York had around eight million people living in it, three million of those immigrants. Two immigrants from Puerto Rico? They'd blend in easily, and once Darya had a greater grip on an American accent, they'd have less trouble. And if HYDRA knew nothing about Darya, the better off they were, because it meant they were unlikely to be looking for a man and his teenaged daughter. Besides, who'd think to look for the Winter Soldier in a mechanic's garage or as a carpet cleaner?

Still, he hesitated.

"And after the way you've been behaving, what else can you say as to why I should consider it?" he asked. Piercing grey eyes held his daughter in place, even as she squirmed. "This program requires dedication and maturity. You threw a plate at my head for telling you not. Surely this shows me that you're not mature enough to dedicate yourself to the program like you should?"

She closed her eyes, sighing in resignation and biting her lip.

"I know I've been a brat," she said softly. Eyes not unlike his own peeled open, and he was caught in turn by her own blue gaze. "I've been rude, and angry, and I've tried to hurt you, and for that: I'm very sorry. I was being unfair to you, especially after everything you do for me and our family, and if you think that my behaviour means that I'm not ready, then I won't argue."

"I don't think you're ready," he said. She hung her head, and he hesitated again before biting the bullet. "But … I could be persuaded to think otherwise."

Her face jerked involuntarily in surprise, and she nodded quickly.

"I will, I'll persuade you," she said decisively. "I'll do everything I can to prove to you that you're right to put your trust in me. I promise."

And so that's what she did. For over a month, Darya washed his car, went and bought groceries while he was at work, did her homework early and well-enough that her principal called him to praise her, and helped clean the unit. After long days underneath hoods and getting covered in grease, she would make them dinner (although the extent of her cooking was mac 'n cheese which became tedious after four nights in a row). She got very good at making hot chocolate before bed and the taste was so familiar that it brought flashbacks to the night that his mother had managed to buy drinking chocolate for Ellie's birthday. And a week into her self-motivated servitude, she helped him fix up the door to her room.

The night that changed it all, though, was when she brought a Ziploc bag of crumpled dollar notes to him.

"I broke the door," she explained, "and I know Sr. Fue probably won't give you your bond back. I mean, it doesn't cover it, but I can keep saving, and–"

"Darya, mija, no," he said, pushing the bag back into her hands. Sickness curled at the pit of his stomach. "No. I have enough money saved, we're going to be ok."

As her mouth formed an 'oh', he was struck by how much he loved this little girl, with her tantrums and stubbornness and brilliant smiles. Compassion came easily to her, much easier than it came to him. There he was, telling her she couldn't do something with her life because it would be dangerous when, in reality, it was more that he was afraid. Afraid of New York and what it would look like without his family, but afraid, too, of her growing up.

Afraid of her not needing him.

He could handle the danger. He would handle the danger. It had been almost eleven years, and they were alive and together! They must have been at least somewhat successful at hiding from HYDRA, even if there had been close calls. And besides, New York was big and there were lots of people. They would be ok.

And so, even though the thought of a New York without his family made him feel sick …

"You're going to need a new, American-sounding name for when we get to the States," James told her. A warmth spread through his chest as she brightened up, and the wide grin on her face told him he'd done the right thing. "Maybe we'll make this one permanent."

Squealing like she was gifted an entire candy store all to herself, she bounced to her feet and threw arms around his neck, prompting a soft "omph" and almost cutting off his oxygen circulation with how tight she was holding him. Laughter that started deep in his chest bubbled uncontrollably out of his mouth, and Darya joined in. Wrapping his arms around her and returning her hug, he pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Thank you, papá, thank you," she breathed. The blue of her eyes shone with tears of happiness. "You won't regret it, I promise."

He smiled at her. The warmth in his chest was almost unbearable at that point.

"No, darling," he murmured, "I don't think I will."

They hugged again, and that time James could feel her tears dampening his shirt. It brought him back to when she was little and crying over a skinned knee, and suddenly he was struck by how grown up she was. His little girl, almost thirteen and more sure of herself than he was at– well, his age then. He wanted to hold her tight and never let go; to freeze them in that moment forever when she hadn't yet realised who he was and still looked at him like he hung the moon.

Slowly, they separated and he got a good look at her face. Darya's eyes were red-rimmed but crinkled at the edges, and the tears swum happily with her grin. He held her at arm's length, taking her in as his heart constricted in his chest and his eyes filled against his will.

"Well, I'm dying to know what you want to go with," he joked, but the quiver in his voice belied his carefree words. "Think carefully – it's only going to last the rest of your life."

Snorting, she rolled her eyes. "You're a loser," she giggled, bopping him on the arm and getting up. She stood in the middle of their living room, face twisted in thought as she looked around the room, though for what James was unsure. Her gaze alighted upon the book she'd been reading for her English class, and she beamed as she retrieved it.

"What?" he asked as he tilted his head, watching her with a fond smile.

She held up the book. "Darya and Dasha sound a hell of a lot like Darcy, don't they?" she mused. She thumped the book against his chest.

Considering it with unwavering hands, he read the gold-embossed title, Pride and Prejudice, and arched a brow. "Thought Darcy was the guy?" he questioned.

"Yeah," she answered, with the patience of one explaining something simple to a child, "but it's better than Elizabeth, for God's sake. Don't wanna sound like I'm fifty. And Mr Darcy was an ass and I'm awesome, so at least this way I can redeem the name."

He chuckled. "Well, it suits you," he said. "It's got moxie."

"Jeez papá," she said impatiently, "you're such an old man."

Darya darted off, no doubt to start packing despite not yet being accepted to Midtown or even having left her old school, but not before pecking him on the cheek. With a laugh, he sat back down into his armchair as she scampered off, winding Pride and Prejudice in his hands and gazing at it with a bittersweet heart.

Things are starting to look up though, he told himself. Really looking up.

After all, Bucky Barnes was finally going home.

Thank you for reading, I truly appreciate it. After the hell of the last month or so - assessment, hell survey, etc., etc. - it's been really hard to keep myself motivated to write. That's why I've written a lot of shorter things, just to keep myself writing, rather than focusing on this or on the next bit. But knowing that people are reading this - that they like it even! - makes me feel really happy, so please feel free to hit like or review. Comments are like 10/10 like pls tell me what I'm doing wrong :)))))))) And feel free to ask questions. I look forward to it. Also feel free to message me on tumblr, I'm race-jackson23.