A/N: This was requested last week by enswimmer. It was a really good request that had a lot of great detail in it, so this chapter is a bit long (not my longest, though). I hope I got everything in here that you wanted to see, enswimmer! Let me know what you think :) Thanks again for requesting! And everyone else: thank you for all the votes, reads, comments, and general love! I adore every single one of you endlessly.

Happy Spring!

Winnie

Words: 7K

The bedroom floor creaks as your heavy, weighed-down feet take you towards the door. Arms outstretched to keep yourself from stumbling in the dark; you quietly shuffle towards your escape. You pause in front of your vanity mirror before going out the rest of the way: making sure you're wearing both leg braces properly and that your long blonde hair is pulled back into a clean enough braid. The soft glow from your cell phone screen is suitable enough to find the doorknob and guide you out into the apartment hall.

You have to be quiet. You can't risk your dad waking and hearing you escape... oh lord, he'd have your head if he knew what you were up to right now.

You're thankful for your dad's habit of leaving the kitchen light on as you hobble through the apartment. A crooked picture frame on the wall has you pausing for a moment. Your dad might have his quirks—being overprotective and telling ridiculously cheesy jokes being two of them—but you can't stand seeing anything sitting haphazardly on the wall. So you break away on your path to the front door to straighten the image: smiling as you step back and see that the photograph is now perfectly aligned with the white baseboards down below. The photo itself is one of your favorites: taken by your redheaded Aunt Natty on your fourteenth birthday. You were fitted with braces on your crooked teeth, a wrap-around brace for your bent-spine, and a glucose reader injected into your arm. But despite everything, your family made your birthdays the best of anyone's alive. That year everyone went to Disneyworld to celebrate. You wish you could remember what you said to convince your Uncle Bucky to wear those gaudy, sparkly Minnie Mouse ears...

You step away from the picture and turn towards the door—cringing as your shoe scuffs the floor and makes a godawful noise that screeches through your ear. You freeze—praying that your dad hasn't heard and woken up from his deep slumber—but relax after a moment when all you hear is the hum from the bathroom fan. A sigh leaves your lips.

Out of the apartment you heave a deep breath of relief. A smile dares to cross your red-painted lips. You smooth out the fabric of your clingy t-shirt that rises just high enough on your belly to give your dad a heart attack if he were to see. Your skinny jeans are ripped in all the right places and illustrate your hips and curves to the point that you feel like a real figured-woman in them. You're petite for someone your age, nineteen, and you try not to be bitter about it because it's in your DNA to be small and weak.

It's what they call Pre-Serum Steve Syndrome.

It's almost a joke among your family after all these years. Can't reach something on a high shelf? It's the P.S.S.S. Can't run a few yards without needing your inhaler? Blame it on the P.S.S.S. It's your own way of coping with things, and it's everyone else's way to try to make your dad feel better about unknowingly spawning a child so physically weak. It's not your dad's fault you were born this way: small and fragile like a damn daffodil trying to survive the floods of spring. Hell, he didn't even have anything to do with your birth—not a single thing. It was HYDRA that cooked you up in the belly of a willing participant. Your mother, someone who has no emotional attachments to you and still works for HYDRA today, was a carrier for the science experiment that was meant to cook up Captain America's strong, superhero spawn-baby. Joke was on them when you were born defective, just as pre-serum Steve Rogers had been all those decades before. Thankfully, before you could be "put down" as planned, the Avengers swooped in to save the day. They raided the HYDRA base without even knowing what was inside. It took a DNA test aimed at trying to locate your parents that led to the discovery that poor unsuspecting Steve Rogers was now a father of a pitiful, lonely baby girl with big blue eyes and a bald head.

Thankfully, your hair eventually grew—just like your dad's love for you. After all, a family was all he ever wanted in the world. With you: he has it. He has everything he could ever want.

And now here you are, three days after your nineteenth birthday, sneaking out of the house.

You feel guilty about it—you really do. But there's not much else you can do. You're trying to lead a semi-normal life here! If only your dad would loosen the reins a bit, you could finally feel like an actual human being for a change. Just as much to blame is the rest of your family. The superheroes are all so protective of you: even the ones who are retired and moved out of the base. Tony Stark has every one of your electronic devices traced. Aunt Natty didn't let you watch rated R movies until you were eighteen.

They're beyond over-bearing. They're smothering.

Remembering the Stark-phone-tracking thing you decide to ditch your cell once you get downstairs. For now you load up into the elevator and head down towards the main floor where you can make a proper escape. You know you'll be caught on video tape tomorrow morning, but tonight you just don't care.

You need some space.

When the elevator stops so does your heart. It's five floors to early.

This is your Uncle Bucky's floor.

"Fuck," the curse leaves your mouth as the doors split open wide. You're revealed to be standing in the middle of the lift—trying to cross your arms to hide the nature of your flirty outfit beneath.

Bucky Barnes, the White Wolf, pauses mid-bite of an apple. He eats all the time—even at this ungodly hour he requires a snack. "Fuck is right, Sunshine." A sort of evil smile etches across his face. "What the hell are you doing up at 3 a.m.?" He knows he's caught you in the act of something VERY bad—very anti-Steve Rogers. He loves it, secretly of course, when you defy your dad. It makes him giddy with pride.

"I'm, uh, going to get some food."

Uncle Bucky narrows his eyes. "You have food in your apartment."

"No, we ran out." You're a horrid liar, yet still you try.

Uncle Bucky scoffs. "So what are you doin' all dressed up? Planning on meeting anyone special down there at the fridge?" The man, aged somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five now (you can never remember because he doesn't look a day older than 25) rolls his eyes at your lack of response. "Seriously, kid. You gotta get better at this whole lying thing." He steps into the elevator with you and punches the key for the downstairs gym. The crunch of his apple annoys you. He never properly chews with his mouth closed—never in your life has he, and he refuses to do it now.

"Please don't tell dad," you turn and beg Uncle Bucky with folded hands.

Bucky looks down at you over his apple. He sighs, smiling lightly. Looking at you now it's hard not to remember all the times you've pleaded this very same statement before: when it'd been the night before Christmas and he caught you sneaking downstairs to try and catch Santa when you were six. "Please don't tell dad," you had whispered through the dark. He had chuckled and led you by the hand downstairs—quietly, so not even Steve heard, and gave you a little peek of the dressed and present filled tree. Then there was your birthday when you were eight, and you were so impatient that you and your best friend dug into the cake early. Bucky had walked into the kitchen, seeing you and your dumb friend with your hands covered in bright blue frosting. Through a mouth of chocolate you'd gasped, "Please don't tell dad!" Then there was that time you desperately needed medical attention on a belly-button piercing gone wrong. You had tried calling Aunt Natty, but she was on a mission somewhere, so had no choice but to go to the second best secret keeper on base. Uncle Bucky was there, alcohol solution in hand, as you begged, "Please don't tell dad."

And Bucky never has, and he doesn't plan to break any promises to you anytime soon. He loves you more than he's ever loved any person before. You're his little niece: the only person who really makes him belly-laugh anymore, and the only child who's ever made him feel like he's wanted one of his own. But when he thinks this, he remembers that having his own child would mean less time with you, and he can't bring himself to wish the thing any longer.

Bucky breaks his train of thought and sees you standing in front of him again. He shakes his head, swallowing a bite of apple, and replies, "It's that SHIELD boy again, isn't it?"

You cringe. "You know about him, too?" You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Every damn person in this place seems to know about him!"

"Of course we do. The kid shows up for a tour and the only thing he can damn near look at is you. You weren't very subtle either, you know. You must've interrupted your dad's tour a thousand times." Bucky chuckles as he thinks back to it a few weeks ago. "He ask you out or somethin'?"

"No, well, sort of." You start nervously fiddling with your jacket sleeves. "It's impossible for me to get off base, but he can get on pretty easily..."

"Ah—so we got a bit of a Romeo-Juliet story going," Bucky chuckles. The elevator stops at his floor. He steps out into the hall. "Alright, I won't tell your dad." You start grinning before he holds up a metallic finger—effectively hushing you. "On two conditions."

"Sure," you reply.

"No funny business," Uncle Bucky begins. "I know you know what that means, so I'm not gonna go into the nasty details."

You groan. "Fine, fine. Second condition?" You bounce impatiently on your toes.

"You gotta be back before sunrise. And don't forget your inhaler."

"That's three," you argue.

"Your inhaler is a given, Y/N. I don't want you hyperventilating over this dumb kid and knocking yourself into a coma."

You roll your eyes. "I have it." You pull it out of your pocket and wave it in the air. "Happy now?"

Bucky nods. "Yep. Now go on, Juliet. Romeo's probably waiting for you." He turns away from the elevator just as the doors start to close.

You can't help but grin as you're left alone again. Thank God for Uncle Bucky's everlasting commitment to keeping you happy, otherwise the suffering of your dad's wrath would be the damn worst thing you could ever endure. The eyebrows of disappointment, stern finger waves, and days on end where he can hardly look you straight in the eye are almost as bad as the eternal grounding-sessions where you're not even allowed to leave the apartment floor. He's strict as hell, and you—naïve and nineteen—think that being punished by your single parent is the worst thing that could ever happen.

Boy, are you wrong. And the world's going to prove it to you soon.

...

"You're cheating."

"You're just saying that because I'm kicking your ass," Peter Parker scoffs. He proves your point though when, on the next lap of Mario Cart, he rams his shoulder into you and pushes you off of the couch. You land on the floor with a soft "thud". Bucky laughs hysterically from the lazy lounger in the corner.

"You'd think for someone with children of their own you'd be nicer to adolescents," you reply sarcastically to Peter's teasing. You hoist yourself up from the ground and settle back onto the couch. Secretly you love being shoved around on occasion. It makes you feel less fragile, and it shows that not everyone sees you in the same way your dad does: breakable. Thankfully, your overprotective dad didn't get the memo that you ran out to meet the SHIELD boy Matthew a few nights back. No one but Uncle Bucky knows, and you're happy to keep it that way for now.

"Hey—one and a half children," Peter corrects you—drawing you out of your thoughts. "MJ's due next month." He sticks his tongue out between his lips as he slams you on another lap.

"Why are you so good at this?" you grunt. Your eyebrows gnarl as you try again to beat the Spiderman at the old video game.

Peter scoffs. "I grew up playing this game, kid. I've got at least ten years over your head, here. I doubt you were even born when it came out."

Tony Stark comes sauntering into the room. You can smell his familiar cologne before even seeing his short shadow being cast across the nearest wall. Bucky grunts lowly from his reading corner. He knows that the presence of a Stark means work to do.

"You ready to go, Parker?"

"Yeah, yeah." Peter waves feverishly before resuming his hunched-shoulder play position. "After we finish this round."

You can practically feel Tony rolling his eyes. He comes closer into the room with his hands in his pockets.

"Where are you guys going?"

Tony never tells you the missions—just like your dad. But you know Peter's got too big of a mouth to stay quiet about it. It's why he blew his secret-identity thing just a few years into the whole deal. "Peru. There's a huge-ass HYDRA base there that needs a good cleaning up. Then we're gonna bomb it."

"Bomb it?" You raise a brow. "Isn't that a little extreme?"

Tony sighs, "Parker's being dramatic."

Peter only shrugs. "Wishful thinking. I haven't seen a good blow job in months."

Your laughter causes you to immediately forfeit the game. You buckle forward, hand on your tummy, while Tony pinches his nose and chuckles through a disappointed sigh.

"What are we talking about in here?" your dad's voice joins the mix. He's giggling slightly at the sight of you buckled over in giddy laughter.

"Parker's most recent blow job," Bucky replies from his reading corner.

Dad's face pales. "Parker." He scowls threateningly at the man.

"What! It's not what I meant! It just came out wrong, I swear..."

Meanwhile, you've found yourself in a coughing fit. You dig around your pockets with shaky hands to find the little red inhaler that'll save the day. Four puffs later and you're good to go. Your dad watches you carefully, his watchful eyes unmoving on your face, as you alleviate the problem on your own.

"Sorry, so sorry," Peter says. He squeezes your knee softly.

"Don't apologize," you giggle, "It was the funniest thing I've heard all day." You wipe the tears from your eyes and settle back into your seat. "Anyway—what were we talking about?"

"Peru. We gotta go," Tony pipes up. He seems impatient: more than usual, which is saying quite a lot.

"Fine, fine." Parker stands to his feet. He reaches out to ruffle your hair on his way past. "Rematch when I get back?"

"I'll be practicing," you reply with a broad grin.

Your dad, the famous and still youthful-featured Steve Rogers, blocks your view of the TV. Before he can say anything, you're piping up with, "You're going too?"

He nods. A regretful look passes over his face. He gets this way before every mission: always has since you were first brought into his life all those years ago. He feels guilty for leaving you with the fear that he may never come back. But with so many dangerous missions under his belt you've sort of gotten over that fear and now expect him to come back through the door every time—always with a little souvenir that he bought because it reminded him of you. You must have a thousand snow-globes, blankets, and trinkets by now.

"Buck's gonna stay here with you," Dad says. His face hardens at your annoyed groan that sounds through the air. "Don't start with me, Y/N..."

"Seriously? Dad, come on. I don't want Uncle Buck to stay here with me."

Bucky whines, "Wow. Okay—cool. Nice to know you love me..."

"No! Not what I meant," you hastily correct. You shoot your uncle an apologetic glance. "What I meant is: I don't need him staying with me. I don't need anyone at all, actually."

"We've talked about this before," dad begins. He's already crossed his arms in that defensive stance that you know so well.

"Yes, and you said that we would talk again after my nineteenth birthday. Well—it's been a week now. I'm officially nineteen."

Bucky's come to stand near your dad Steve. Tony's left the room completely. Dad glances to his friend, who only shrugs and says, "You did say that, man."

"Not helping, Buck." Dad glares at Uncle Bucky.

You stand up—too quickly, unfortunately. You stumble a bit, unevenly balanced with the leg brace straps loosened, and dad lunges forward to catch you. He grabs you by the elbow before you can even realize that you've nearly tumbled. Your cheeks flush as you realize that this isn't going to be helping you plead your case. How can he trust you to stay home alone if you can't even sit up properly without someone else around?

"I know I told you we'd talk about it, but I just don't think this is a good time."

"Then when would it be a good time?" you challenge. You take your arm out of his grasp. "Dad, it's been nineteen years. I know you're secretly afraid that someone evil is going to break in here while you're gone and hurt me," his face reddens at your words like a smack, "but no one even knows I'm alive. The only people who know I exist are living here."

Bucky nods. "Good point."

"Still—not helping," dad snaps. He points at Bucky until he agrees with a nod to permanently shut up.

"Please, dad." You earn your dad's attention again with your pleading tone. His blue eyes dart down to land on your soft-featured face. His own features suddenly soften. "I just wanna feel my own age. I want just a few days to lay around and not have to feel like I'm a little girl who has to have a babysitter."

Dad lets out a long sigh. He smiles, it's strained but it's there, and reaches out to cup your cheek in his hand. "I don't expect you to understand, Y/N. You'll always be a little girl to me. You're..." he pauses as he really—really looks at your features. A soft sort of noise leaves his lips. "You're my whole world."

"I know, dad." You press your hand atop his that is still resting on your cheek lovingly. "And I'll be fine while you're gone. I always am. And I always know that you're coming back for me."

He nods very faintly, almost agreeing.

"I say let the kid live it up a little." Uncle Bucky noses his way back into the conversation with a huge, smug grin on his face. He knowingly winks at you and you laugh—feeling better that he's siding with you.

"You're just saying that because you're a pushover," your dad grumbles. "Always have been."

"That's true, too." Bucky shrugs because he knows it's the truth. He was the one to always break and give you presents early and dessert before dinner. Your dad was there to make sure you ate your veggies and did your homework. Uncle Bucky was there to help you ditch classes and teach you how to fling pieces of broccoli off the end of your fork into the trash at the other end of the room.

"I promise I'll be good," you tell your dad. "And I'll clean my room while you're gone, too."

"The room I've been begging you to clean for months now?" your dad chuckles.

"The very same one," you laugh back.

When he briefly closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, you know that dad's about to break and you're about to win. It doesn't take much to win your dad over, but this topic—letting you stay home alone—is one of the very few he won't commit to.

"Alright."

You try not to squeal too loud in joy. Dad settles you down by holding onto your shoulder. "It's only going to be a few days. And there's going to be serious rules implemented while I'm away."

"Okay, okay, okay," you hurry to agree. You shoot Bucky a big smile and he laughs—turning and walking away to probably go and pack for the mission he's now invited on.

You're finally getting to break away. Right now you feel like the world is in the palm of your hand.

You have no idea how bad it's going to crush you.

...

You flop onto the end of a fluffy bed—bouncing up slightly. Your eyes travel around the room that you haven't been in for a few weeks now, at the very least. The Brooklyn safe-house has been used for a variety of uses and for an assortment of Avengers over the years. It's just a few blocks down from where your dad, Captain America, met his best friend Bucky Barnes a long time ago.

You pull out your cell phone to glance at the time on the screen. It's two o'clock on your first day of freedom. You somehow managed to convince your dad to let you spend a few days completely alone. For the first time in your life you don't have a babysitter breathing over your shoulder to make sure you don't breathe wrong and die. The only conditions he'd had were that you had to stay at the safe-house and keep quiet about it from everyone outside of the Initiative circle.

The phone vibrates just as you're about to put it away again. It's Matt—asking how you've been. Your heart pitter-patters as his name appears on your screen. The cute SHIELD boy hasn't left your mind since that moonlit date in the bed of his truck last week.

You type out a quick, purposefully aloof message back to the boy and then go to start unpacking your things. You make it as far as your bathroom toiletries before your phone starts to properly ring.

"Hello?" you speak into the receiver.

"Hey! Y/N! I can't believe you actually got away for the weekend," Matt's voice comes through the line. It sounds sort of crackly and you have to strain to hear him properly.

"I know, right?" you chuckle lightly. You had no problem revealing to Matt about your amazing plans: he is SHIELD, after all. And the Avenger's Initiative is backed by SHIELD. Your dad really shouldn't have any problem with that. He'd have more of an issue with the fact you're romantically involved with a boy—especially one that's a few years older—than anything else.

You flip on the TV for some background noise. You find your favorite channel, E!, and settle down as Matt speaks again.

"You think I could come over and see you?"

You bite down on your lip—not in a cute way. It's a way that screams, Oh my god—dad would kill me if I was dumb enough to say yes.

"I wish," you breathe into the line. "But I don't think we should risk it. Knowing my dad and Stark, they probably have this whole place set up with cameras."

"Safe-houses don't have cameras. It's a SHIELD thing—privacy or something dumb like that."

"Really?" For a moment you toy with the idea before letting your more sensible side take over. "No, no. We shouldn't. I feel bad enough for sneaking around behind my dad's back already."

Matt audibly sighs. "Alright. I guess I understand."

You hate to disappoint him, especially when you've been trying so hard to impress him, but you can't find it in your heart to let him come by. You promised your dad you'd be alone. You cringe at the heartbreaking thought of your dad's sad face if he was ever to learn that you lied straight to his face. You love him far too much to disobey him THAT much.

"So sorry, Matt." You stand up and pace towards the bedroom window. You look out at the pretty rain and lean against the wall.

"Actually, I'm the one who should be apologizing to you."

You glance down at your painted fingernails. "Why's that?"

"I'll let you figure that out on your own."

It's less of what Matt's just said and more of where the sound of his voice has come from that startles you into gasping. Standing in your doorway and flanked by two men dressed in black combat suits is the boy you were kissing on just last week. He's let the arm with the phone fall to his side as he stares blankly at you.

"What the f..." Your voice goes hoarse and then disappears altogether as the two men accompanying Matt stomp into your room. You scurry farther into the wall as they come closer—arms outstretched as if meant to grab you.

"Like I said," Matt goes on with a lame shrug, "Sorry."

...

"Heard from Sunshine lately?" Bucky asks Steve as Nat leads them out of the jet and onto the HQ roof. They're tired and sore from a long three days in Peru.

"Yeah," Steve replies. He pulls out his phone as if checking to see if there's something he's missing. "We talked earlier this morning. She's been kinda short with me but I think she's trying to enjoy the peace and quiet."

"Can't really blame her," Nat replies from a few paces ahead. "She hasn't been alone her entire life."

"Hey, you guys know why I do it. Don't act like you don't," Steve should sound annoyed but he mainly sounds regretful. Has he made a mistake? Has he been too protective? Or did he make a mistake this weekend in letting you on your own? Are you going to want to permanently break away after this? He's already been struggling with the idea that you're no longer the little girl that needs him like you used to. Even with all your ailments and disorders you manage to take care of yourself. He feels like he's watching you grow up now rather than hold your hand. It physically pains Steve to think that you're well on the way to never needing him again.

"She know we're back?" Bucky changes the topic.

"I texted her right when we landed and told her to be ready for me to come get her in the next hour." Steve looks up to Nat. "Would you wanna drive me down there, Nat?"

"Sure." She props the door to the building open for herself and lets it close on Bucky's face. He expects this, letting it halfway shut before stopping it with his boot. He rolls his eyes. The couple has been bickering the past few days about something dumb and she's been more than passive in her aggressions.

"I'll come, too. I haven't been down to that neck of the woods in a good while," Bucky invites himself on the field trip.

"Alright. I was thinking we could stop by that ice cream place that Y/N likes on the way back." Steve steps into the elevator with his two friends. "I'll just drop my stuff off in the apartment and meet you guys downstairs."

That's what he does, too. The only things he grabs to take are his wallet, phone, and the cute trinket he's bought you after this trip. It's a hand stitched, shiny teal colored coin purse he found while going down one of the street markets while undercover in Peru. He annoyed his stakeout partner Sam by breaking off and buying it, but Sam eventually got over it when Steve told him it was for you.

Belongings in his pockets Steve meets Nat and Bucky in the garage. The couple is bickering lowly in Russian when he comes up behind them. Nat continues to gripe about her husband—refusing to let him sit beside her in the front seat. Bucky grunts and takes the back.

"What are you two going back and forth about anyway?" Steve stupidly asks.

Nat rolls her eyes. Neither of them wants to reply.

"Never mind," Steve chuckles. It's at times like this that he's just fine to be raising a child on his own. He doesn't need anyone else in his life. The only girl in his world is you. In fact, you are his whole world. With you around, nothing else matters.

The outside of the safe-house is painted light blue. Steve's the first to climb out of the car. He's impatient to see his daughter again. He glances back at his phone. Strange, he thinks, that he hasn't heard back from you since announcing he's home. He worries that you're going to be upset that he's back. Could it be possible that you don't even want to see him?

Steve lets himself into the house. It's locked, but he has a key. A stroke of pride comes through him as he sees you've locked it twice just like he made you promise.

"Hey, sweetheart!" Steve announces his presence with a jovial shout. It's not until the door swings open the rest of the way that his heart falls down to the ground beneath his feet and his mouth dries like sandpaper.

The house is ransacked.

Glass is shattered out of windows and mirrors onto the ground. Evidence from a fight, a short one by the looks of it, is written all over the walls. A bullet hole has gone through thin floor boards. Furniture has been toppled. Women's clothes, clearly yours, are thrashed about heedlessly.

"Ебена мать," Nat curses quietly in her mother tongue. She's come up behind Steve and immediately drawn her gun. She keeps it pointed up through the crook of Steve's elbow.

Steve immediately tries to pull on his professional façade. It's nearly a failed cause though when he truly starts to look around. The blood he finds spotted on the furniture and the floor leading towards the unlatched back door have him screaming your name. Bucky and Nat make quick sweeps as if hoping to be lucky enough to find some evidence of where you've gone.

Steve's run out the back door. The fence has been plowed down by some sort of large truck. The wheel prints are still etched into the damp grass. He bends down when something red and plastic catches his eye sitting up amongst the clover weeds. He can feel his heart wrenching within his chest as he holds your asthma inhaler up to the light.

"Steve!" Bucky's voice calls for Steve to come running back into the house. Steve only stops once he's made it to the bedroom where Bucky's planted himself in front of the wall that used to hold a mounted TV. Painted on the wall in what looks to be thick red blood is the bone-chilling phrase: HAIL HYDRA.

...

Your forehead is pressed against something hard and cold. You're too busy forcing your lungs to work properly to worry about the blood that seeps down your brow now as you clutch onto your throbbing, aching stomach wound hunched over in the small space of your iron-rodded cell. You hardly have enough energy in you now to open your eyes. You've been stripped of your braces and clothes for the most part—leaving you cold, naked, and exposed in only thin beige garments that are soaked through with blood, sweat, and salty tears.

You have no idea how long you've been locked up here. You haven't seen a human face since the day they dragged you out of the safe-house. Once you fell asleep and woke up to a dog dish of water on the floor. Only when you neared it did you realize it was thick sugar-water meant to keep you stable if only for a few days longer. You've just ran out of your last drop of the syrup you've been rationing for days now in order to keep yourself alive and sane. But your sanity is wearing thin, as is your poor health. You barely survived the first asthma attack. You've been in a constant state of wheezing, spinning, horror since you've gotten here. You can feel your lungs aching with every moment that passes. One wrong breath and you know you won't be able to stop the next fit: and combing your current state without having your inhaler, it would surely mean a timely death.

You don't understand why this had to happen. Why were you stupid enough to trust Matt? Why did HYDRA want their hands on you so bad as to plant a double-agent in SHIELD just to find you and bring you in? What are they going to do to you? Are their evil plans simply to watch you starve?

Above all, you wonder if your dad knows you're gone yet. You know that if he knows it's killing him inside, and the thought alone makes you want to cry. But you can't cry—it'll only induce an asthma attack. You can't afford an attack now. At this rate, you may survive another two or three days steadily bleeding. But throw an attack into the mix and you might not even make it another night. Judging by the hours you've spent counting seconds just to pass time, you guess it's been four or five days in captivity.

The only thing you want in the world is to see your dad again. You want him to be mad at you for doing something stupid. You want him to take you to see a silly Disney movie matinee and buy you every single box of candy you like from the bins. You want him to wrap those big, sweaty arms around you and squeeze so tight that you can hardly breathe. You want to see him roll his eyes as you tease him across the dinner table and hear him laugh as you both team up to mock Uncle Bucky. You want him to come kneeling down next to you and dry your tears just like he'd do when he'd sit beside you for one of those hundreds of physical therapy meetings where they cranked and yanked on your broken body in attempts to put you back together again. You want to hear him tell you that he loves you and everything is going to be okay because he's never going to ever let anything bad happen to you ever again: because he loves you—you're his sweet baby girl.

You want your dad.

Some people might have been praying for Captain America and his team of superheroes to save them if they found themselves in this same awful place. You? You pray for your dorky, lovable dad and the rest of your dumb, sailor-mouthed, family to come and take you home.

Loud noises start stirring up from somewhere above your cell. Feet scatter across floors and alarms sound. You move your hands, stupidly so, away from your bleeding wounds to cover your ears from the sharp noises that only scare you more. Blood smears all along your face and neck as you curl tighter into your ball in the corner and try to force yourself to breathe. The last time you went this long without your inhaler was that time you lost it at the park. Your dad had been there, thank god, and had everyone else in the park searching for it while he sat you on his knee and coached you—kissing your forehead occasionally and reminding you that you were strong and could overcome everything. You'd wheezed and coughed, the world spinning as it is now, and tried so desperately to hang onto his words.

"It's going to be okay, sweetheart. Dad's here—I've got you. I've got you and I'm never gonna let you go. It's alright. Don't be scared..."

His voice runs on repeat through your mind and tears start to trickle down your bloodied cheeks. The alarms only get louder. Your fears grow. You don't know what this all means for you. You don't understand anything at all at this point. The world doesn't make sense. You just want to go home to your dad, that's all you know.

When Bucky Barnes comes barreling down the hall he's got Natasha at his six and Sam Wilson at his side. Gunshots ring out everywhere until finally he's cleared enough to keep jogging on. Steve's caught up with Tony on the other side of the building searching for the daughter/niece/angel that's been missing for four days. Turns out the messages Steve had been getting while in Peru were all sent from this HYDRA base. It took Stark a few hours to track the place down. The moment the location was pinned to this deserted spot a few hours south of Soho the team was well on their way. Everyone is here today: even Wanda, who hardly goes on missions anymore since Vision passed away.

Bucky comes up on a locked door. He kicks it down hard and swift with his boot. The sound of metal hitting cement rings through everyone's ears.

On the other side of the downed door is what is clearly some sort of makeshift prison. Bucky's heart both falls and soars as he realizes that he may find his niece down here in shackles somewhere: praying that you're still alive.

Nat's thinking the same thing. "Found cells."

"Is she there?" Steve's voice comes through the radio. "Is Y/N down there?"

Bucky ignores his friend for now. He's too busy jogging down the endlessly long hall in search of you.

He finds you.

You're in the same place, crouched in a corner with blood running down both sides of your face, and your back heaving up and down with struggled breaths. Bucky can't control himself as he rushes towards the locked bars of your cage and screams your name.

You look up from between your hands to see three very familiar faces. You would smile if you had the energy left in you. But your joy is short lived as you watch a dozen more HYDRA agents file in from upstairs. You try to wheeze a warning to them but only manage to make yourself gag—chest collapsing and eyes rolling shut with the strained effort. All you're really aware of after that is the distant sounds of fighting—like the ones you see on action movies you watch with your dad—playing off in the near distance. The pattering of your failed heartbeat is the second loudest thing between the cement walls of your cell.

Soon, with the noises of war still playing aloud, someone is cradling your head in their hands. You don't know who it is quite at first but their touch is soft and sturdy so you don't even attempt to put up a fight. It's only when you feel the piece of hard plastic being pushed into your mouth that you realize what it is that's going on. Someone's brought your inhaler back. They're trying to save you—bringing back your last dying breaths.

You suck in the medicated air from the plastic tube. Your hands reach to latch onto the person who now leans you into their side. It takes a skimming of your fingers against their upper arm and chest to know exactly who's come to save you now.

Your eyes pop open wide. Looking down at you with thousands of pounds of love and sadness in his eyes is your dad. His face is all muffed up and he looks tired—more tired than you've ever seen. He rocks you softly as you begin to whimper and cry.

"Hey, hey, hey," he hushes you with gentle breaths and soft-spoken words. His fingers comb your hair. "It's okay, darling, it's okay."

"Dad, dad, daddy..." you've weakly managed to push the inhaler away now that your breath is back. You whimper his name again and again almost in disbelief. Tears are running down your face.

Steve holds you against him, away from the scene in the hall, and covers your wounds with one of his large, warm hands. The other of his hands goes to try and dry your tears. His fingers are shaky but his voice is sturdy and strong as he says to you, "It's going to be okay, sweetheart. Dad's here—I've got you. I've got you and I'm never gonna let you go. It's alright. Don't be scared." He hushes you between words, soothing your tears with little kisses to your cheeks, before tucking your aching body under his arm while he waits for the hellfire in the hall to calm enough to carry you home. "Don't be scared. Everything's gonna be okay now." He smothers down your sticky hair. "I love you, sweetheart. I love you and I've missed you so, so much."

You bury your face into his collar and try your hardest not to cry. Grappling onto his sleeves, you whisper back, "I wanna go home..."

"We will, we will. We'll go home, I promise." Captain America stands up with your body in his arms just as the last HYDRA agent falls dead. "I promise you, sweetheart. Everything's going to be okay."

And it was. By the end of the day you were back home safe. The world was right again—you were right back home where you belonged: with your dad Steve Rogers, because you were his whole world.

And as it turns out, he was yours.