"Your Dad is hard core, (Y/N).  I think he made the drum major cry just now."

"Are you serious?" you groaned, bending down to lift your snare harness from your shoulders, carefully setting the drum on the cart next to you.  "He takes things like this too far.  Anything with regimen and orders are his thing, and he gets way too into it."

"At least he's just the stand-in for the week, right?"

"You're telling me. Not only do I get to hear him barking orders here, but then I get to go home and hear all about missions and tactics from him and mom."  You shrugged and pushed the tips of your drumsticks into your bag, slinging it over your shoulder and giving your friend a quick goodbye hug.  "Man, once we throw in the old war stories with Uncle Steve, I almost know enough to be on that team myself.  I suppose I'll talk to him and see if I can get him to let up a little. I'll see ya bright and early for round two tomorrow."

"See ya tomorrow," she agreed, with a slight raise of her hand to point behind you.  "Hey, your Dad's heading this way.  I'm outta here."  She turned and was gone before you had a chance to reply, shaking your head the speed she used to flee when you were now caught in his sight. 

"Chicken," you mumbled under your breath, looking back to him with a wide grin.  "Hey, Dad!"

"Hey, kiddo," Bucky replied, giving you a small hug as you met, but he looked clearly distracted by the stack of papers in his hand that he was quick to bring your attention to as well.  "I'm working on a new lineup for the color guard and I need your opinion.  I think if I move the guy in the first position to the third..."

"Yeah, Dad, about that," you deflected, "I heard that you made the major cry?  What the hell is that about?"

"Excuse me?  Language."

"Sorry...sorry," you apologized as quickly as you could, your hands up in defense, "but come on, you can't just make people cry, Dad.  What could he have possibly done that was so bad?"

"He has no idea what he's doing.  His job requires someone with a backbone, and sweetie, this kid is weak.  Couldn't even stand up for himself when I confronted him."

"This is the second week of camp.  Of course he doesn't know everything yet, Dad!  You are getting way too into this and you need to chill."

"I...I need to chill?"

"If that wasn't clear, I'm sure Uncle Steve has a few pointers..."

"I need to chill?" he asked again, but his face was morphing from an expression of shock into one of a little bit hurt.  "Do think I'm doing a bad job?"

"No, Dad," you sighed, "I just think you're being too hard on everyone.  This isn't the Army, it's a high school marching band.  We're here to have fun too, and I'm the one who has to hear about it when you get too pushy.  It's kinda embarrassing."

He looked away and down to his hands and the papers that he fought to hold steady, trying to calm the slight tremble building in them.  "Oh...okay," he replied in a mumble, his fingers absentmindedly flipping through the pages for a few minutes before he reluctantly handed them to you.  "Okay, um...well, could you give these to the director for me?  I...um, I have to be somewhere." 

He thrust the pages out and into your hands, the papers nearly falling apart before you could get your grip, and they scattered onto the ground in front of you.  "Dad, I didn't mean..." you backpedaled, but he was already beyond the sound of your voice before you could say any more.

~~~

When you walked into the tower an hour later, you didn't see any sign of him, and your heart began to race from the fear that you had really hurt his feelings.  You couldn't help but feel ashamed at how you had handled the whole thing, though you really didn't know how you were going to fix it either.

"Mom?"

"Your mother is in the gym, miss." FRIDAY replied.  "Would you like me to call her for you?"

"No, thanks, FRIDAY.  I'll just head there." 

You hoped that your dad hadn't been home yet and that you would have the chance to try to explain yourself to her before she had heard the story from him, and with each step your anxiety began to build knowing that nothing could be that simple. Particularly when it came to anything involving your parents. 

"Maybe I should bring Steve," you whispered to yourself, thinking that having backup was the smarter way to go. Before you knew it, you were at the gym door and could hear your mother slamming someone to the mat with a groan that echoed into the hallway even before you had the doors open.

"Hey Mom," you greeted quietly, avoiding her eyes, "hey Uncle Clint."

"Hey, (Y/N)," he grunted, pushing himself up slowly.  "Come to get your ass kicked too?"

"Possibly," you sighed to yourself, slowly allowing your bag to slide down your arm and into your hand, leaving it to rest on the bench.  "Mom, have you seen Dad yet?"

"No."  Natasha reached a hand down to help Clint up and glanced your way, "but I talked to him, and he seemed pretty down.  You've got your work cut out for you.  He's upstairs if you want to get started."  Once he was back on his feet and just barely into his stance, she quickly took Clint to the mat again with a loud slap. 

"Go for her right knee," you offered, "she twisted it two days ago sparring with Uncle Thor." 

"Thanks, kid," he smiled and took stand with much more confidence.

"So Mom, what do I say? Other than that I'm sorry and that I'm the worst child he could ever ask for?"

"I think that should do it," she hissed in reply and obviously upset that you had just given her opponent an advantage.  "Unless you'd like to give Clint any more pointers before you go?"

Clint looked at you expectantly while she gave you a warning in her eyes that you had already taken a step too far over the line.  But since you had already traversed that far, what was a few more steps, really? 

"She's ticklish under her left arm at the sixth rib."  You laughed and broke into a sprint to get away, feeling the graze of her fingers against the back of your shirt, but her advancement was broken when you heard her scream and break into uncontrollable giggles.

~~~

You held your hand at the door for what felt like forever, wanting to knock but not prepared for what you would say after you did.  You needed to apologize, definitely, but you also wanted to tell him that it was hard to have him working so close to you and your friends if he was going to be so enthusiastic, for lack of a better term.  There was no good way to say it, or at least none that you could come up with, so you decided just to go with the moment as it came.

"Dad?" you called out with a soft rap of your knuckles against the door.  "Can I come in?"

The latch clicked and the door opened slowly, but only far enough for you to enter; when you stepped inside you saw him sitting quietly and looking out the window over the city. The dim haze of sunset filled the room and cast a shadow over his face that gave away his pain.  He didn't turn to acknowledge you, instead beginning quietly without knowing if you would even hear him. 

"I embarrass you."

It wasn't a question, and it hurt like hell to hear it come from him.  Of course he didn't, and you were fully at blame for the pain in his voice now.  "No, Dad. Never.  I didn't mean that, and I'm so sorry."

"I'm hard to take sometimes, I know that.  I guess maybe I just...I just found something other than fighting that came easily to me and I got excited about it."  Bucky stood with a loud sigh and turned towards you with a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.  His eyes were far too sad to accept it.  "I'm the one who should say sorry.  To you and that poor kid.  I was definitely too hard on him."

"Eh, he really doesn't know what he's doing.  You read him pretty spot on."

"Is that so?" he smirked. "Now you're agreeing with me?"

"Actually, I've been looking at the plans you gave me to give to the director."  You pulled the sheets from your back pocket and laid them out on the table, seeing a way to get to him.  "I agree with your idea to rearrange the guard."  Bucky took a few steps to stand behind you, crossing his arms over his chest as he followed along.  "It would make it easier to make the formation change after the first cadence, and then back again after the fourth if you moved him to the third position. I have an idea too about moving the line."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, get this," you said more excitedly.  It was actually fun to see him take an interest with you when he wasn't barking orders.  "Most bands put the percussion in the back, right?"

"Right?"

"But if we move the section into the middle, it puts a nice segregation between the brass and the winds, at the same time making it easier for the drill team and guard to hear the beat to keep their footing in step."

"Sure, that makes sense," he agreed, with a rub of his hand along his cheek, thinking aloud with you, "but a move like that would have to go through the director because we'll have to change the entire routine.  What do you think the line leader will say?"

You paused and took a deep breath, standing straight and slowly turning to him with your arms now crossed, mimicking him.  The look of incredulousness took him aback and he immediately knew his error; you were the leader.  He put up his hands and reached out for you, but you scoffed and pulled away.

"I'm gonna act like you didn't just say that, Dad."

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry! I forgot..."

"Mom!" 

"No, no, no, don't get your mother!" he called after you when you hurried from the room and into the hallway with a clear goal of getting to her first.  "(Y/N), wait!  Don't bring your mother into this!  I'm sorry! (Y/N)!"