(A/N: Well guys, this is it. I want to thank each and every one of you that has read, reviewed and favorited my little story. This story started with a little idea of 'What if Bucky had a girl he left behind'; 'What if she was black?'; 'Well she would have to have something cute about her...'; 'Dimples!' Then the first version of this story was written within a week. I wrote everyday and it was originally ten chapters. Somehow, I couldn't stop writing. I posted the first chapter and was so surprised that people like it so much. Ten chapters quickly turned into 15 and before I knew it, I was writing a whole story about Darla Lorraine. To show how long ago I wrote this, 25 by Adele had just come out and a lot of my story came from listening to: 'When We Were Young', 'Million Years Ago', and probably most of all 'All I Ask'. I'm long winded and I apologize but I just wanted all of you to know that when ya'll cried, I did too.

Now, without further ado: The epilogue of Bucky's Dimple and the prologue to Val and Darla.)

The song for this chapter is 'Hello' by Adele.

The decades passed quickly and Darla did not live, but she survived.

She saw the war come to an end, she saw a man land on the moon, she saw Martin Luther King demand justice, she saw him shot down, she saw Kennedy get elected, she saw Kennedy die, she saw televisions began to take over, she saw computers, she saw men become nurses, she saw Brooklyn become gentrified, she saw New York become digital, she saw Dorothy Dandridge in Carmen Jones (She feels she could have done it better), she saw Alaska become a state (Why did they want that icy land?), she saw Hawaii become one too (She could get behind that), and most of all, she saw the world go on without Bucky and Steve, just like she had to.

Every year they came out with a new oven and she would buy it to put in her house. Her neighbors started to change around her, but she was still friendly Miss Darla. She'd bake pies every Friday and hand them out, sometimes people would pay her for them. Little did they know, the little lady on the corner was hiding a fortune.

Darla still got a check every month in Bucky's name, a condition that was attended to by Steve, then later Peggy. She was, for the lack of a better word, rich.

Her friends stayed the same throughout the years. Her walls were lined with pictures of her and them; Peggy and her at the turn of every year, or whenever they could get together; Her, Roselyn and her family, including Baby Abe growing up; Howard and his wife Maria, there was even a picture of Darla holding their newborn son, Anthony; and, nestled in the corner of the living room, was the photostrips of Darla and Bucky.

As time passed, Darla aged, as people tended to do. The copper woman never remarried, though she was asked many times. She was beautiful after all, but she would always say her heart had died years ago.

Though Darla's skin was wrinkled with age, her mind had not suffered, unlike her dear friend Peggy. Nevertheless, when she was eighty-eight Darla had to be put in a nursing home; she simply couldn't care for herself anymore. She left the row home to her nephew Abe, whose daughter now lived in it with her family.

And that is where she was today, at the ripe age of ninety-four. She lived in the same nursing home as her best friend, the two being nearly inseparable just as they were when they were serving together.

"Peg, come on now," Darla said, sitting next to her friend's bedside, "Sharon[s gonna be here any minute and ya still haven't eaten breakfast. She's gonna be awful sore if food's on ya plate."

"Darla I don't like it, they give me cream of wheat every day!" Peggy complained with a frown. "I hate cream of wheat. I want oatmeal."

"We gave ya oatmeal yesterday and ya didn't like it." Darla told her friend, "'Memba'? What if I put some sugar in it, you'll eat it then?"

Peggy frowned but nodded, watching the copper woman do as she said. She took a bite of the meal and nodded, satisfied. "I'm so glad ya here, Darla. These people don't know what they're doing!" The English woman muttered and Darla laughed.

"No problem, Ironsides. I'mma just go back to my room now, okay?" Darla grabbed her cane and slowly made her way out of the room. She got back to her room and climbed in the bed carefully, rolling her table over and eating her own breakfast.

A knock sounded at her door and she looked up, a pretty smile on her face. "Ya late, Valencia Renee." The old woman quipped, her eyes narrowed playfully.

A young woman with ebony hair and a pie in her hand smiled sheepishly, chiming, "Sorry, Miss Darla."

A little further up north, a man was walking down a Brooklyn street. Despite the weather, he was wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap while his left hand was covered with a glove. He was perfectly inconspicuous, though his eyes were searching around him.

His eyes were blue and his face was covered in stubble, to the naked eye he was handsome; to the trained eye he was deadly. The man looked down at the address he had written down and checked the house numbers, before finding the townhome he was looking for.

The mysterious man swallowed thickly and absentmindedly adjusted his hat and smoothed his clothes before shoving the paper into his pocket. He looked over the house with narrowed eyes, trying his best to remember the last time he was in front of the brownstone. Vague, faded memories of a small copper woman came to his head, but he could not make out her face.

Taking a deep breath, the man walked up the steps and knocked on the door, his heart beating like a drum. He stood there for a few more minutes before knocking once more. Getting no answer, he leaned over to the window and looked through the thin curtains, before discerning that no one was home.

The man, with every watchful eyes, looked around him and walked down the steps, then to the alley behind the house. He quickly found the backyard and hopped the fence, watching for nosey neighbors. He landed in a crouch and stood, checking the sliding door for a lock. Lucky for him, it wasn't. He shook his head at how unsafe it was, as he closed the door behind himself.

The man listened for any sound in the house for a silent moment, finding none. He slowly walked from room to room, trying to come up with anything that would help him remember. The man walked through the dining room, though it didn't help. He walked into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, a flash coming to his mind.

"Jamie who are these people and why haven't I met them, befriended them and stolen their kitchen?"

"Jamie?" The man muttered to himself; was he Jamie? He thought his name was Bucky… or was it James?

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where pictures were littered all over the wall. His eyes slowly trailed over the pictures, all of them having one woman in common, the woman from his dreams.

When the man wasn't having nightmares, his dreams consisted of this woman. She was beautiful and young. She had brown eyes, a rounded face, and two indents in her cheeks. She was always laughing and she always touched him lovingly, the most tender touch he could remember. But who was she to him?

The man's eyes fell on the corner of the room where picture frames were sitting on a side table. He sat down on the old couch and picked one of them up. It was a signed, black and white, headshot of a woman'. Her black hair was cropped short, she had lipstick on her lips and her eyes were bright, while her mouth was spread into a large grin.

'Hopes this brightens ya day soldier!

Love Darla Lorraine Frederick

'Dimple''

He trailed a finger down the woman's cheek. Her name was Darla. Darla Lorraine Frederick. He furrowed his eyebrows at 'Dimple'; did people used to call her that?

He put the photo down and picked up another one. This one was a photostrip of 'Darla' and a man who looked like him. 'He' was dressed in a soldier's uniform, the same one he had seen in the museum, and she was dressed in a dress with a the man's uniform hat and a veil pinned to it. The two in the photos were brightly smiling, kissing, and laughing. In one photo, the woman was holding up dog tags that were around her neck.

The man sat there for a long time, just staring at the photostrip in his hands. Little flashes of scenes came to his head, but none of them seemed to be complete. He was in a church, she was smiling up at him… The man from the bridge was kissing the woman's cheek and patting him on the back. They were all signing something, he was carrying her.

Finally, after another few minutes of staring, he took the strip out of the picture frame and shoved it in his pocket. He did the same to the headshot of the woman and stood up, going into the foyer of the house where mail had been delivered.

The man picked up the mail and looked through it, skipping over bills and coupons. None of the mail was addressed to Darla. He got to an envelope with neat cursive script on it that was addressed to an 'Mister Abraham Jackson Jr.'; the return address read:

'Misses Darla Barnes

VA Retirement Home

1030 Liberty Lane, Washington DC'

His heart dropped; she was still alive.

The man dropped the rest of the mail on the wooden floor and carefully opened the letter, making sure to keep the return address in tact. The pink paper was folded neatly and smelled of roses. The writing of the letter looked very familiar to him.

'Dear Aby,

Everything is fine as always in here. They treat me very well. Ya know I would raise hell if they didn't! I miss ya to pieces, I wish ya would visit me more! I know the trip is treacherous. How's ya wife? She was such a pretty thing, I miss her too. And that daughter of yours is just as wild! She looks just like ya mama used to. Acts like her too. Keep an eye out for little Rosie; ya cursed her with that name!

Ya won't believe this Aby; ya Uncle Stevie is alive! And just as young! He's got a cute little girlfriend, too. And get this: she's colored! Yep, skin just as pretty and dark as mine! She's so nice, Aby. She comes to visit me every month, and I tell her stories about all of us growin' up. She just listens to my crazy talk, she's such a peach! Her name is Valencia. Her father is some important man in ya Aunt Peg's old company, ya know, the one Howard's son works for, too. She's so pretty, I knew Stevie would find love. I don't think Peg's niece is too keen on it, though. Look at me ramblin' again. A damn mess I am.

With Stevie being alive, I can't help but think that maybe… maybe Jamie is out there somewhere too. I know it sounds crazy, like the ramblins of an old bitty, but Jamie could still be alive and lookin' for a way home. Do take care of 'em if he shows up to my door, won't ya?

Aunt Darla'

The man read the letter over and over again, connecting the dots in his head. Darla was in a retirement home in DC. She was alive and she had the answers to who he was.

The man tucked the letter back into the envelope gingerly before putting it in his pocket. He left the home through the backdoor and jumped the fence. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked out of the alleyway, watching the sun began to set over the city. He paused for a moment.

He supposed he could sit in watch the sunset, if just for a moment.