Warning: Themes of PTSD, war, disability and really cute fluff with Steve.

Word Count: 1584 words.

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I stand on one tip-toe, desperately reaching for a glass cup. My tongue flicks over my lips in concentration and I try to keep balanced. My fingers brush the glossy surface of the cup, teasingly close. I stand even closer to the tip of my toes, feeling the cup meet my palm. I let out a short huff of success, only to my stifled by a yelp as I loose my balance and fall.

Glass shatters all around me, cutting my legs and the palms of my hands as I hit the ground. I let out a curse, followed by tears of pain and frustration. I try to stand, but the bench is too high for me to pull myself upward and balance on one leg, letting me plop back down into the floor. My body feels useless and vulnerable without my prosthetic, unable to do anything except for fail. My thoughts wander to that day, the day where I lost it.

The blazing sun beats down on my back, sweat dripping from my forehead and onto the knife-like sand. My heavy gear weighs down on my shoulders, slowing my sprint. Every step I take slips a little, my feet unable to get a grip on the environment below me. I hear gunshots echo in front of me, followed by a few screams. Gripping my gun closer to my chest, I run faster towards the village and my group.

They advance on the men running around with machine guns, walking past the gorging pile of dead bodies. Looking for a vantage point, I spot a tall building towards the outskirts of the city. It's seemingly deserted, so I continue my journey into the village. My breathing is heavy and I can hear my pants over all of the noise. My heart thuds wildly in my chest, the nerves of battle not allowing me to keep still.

As I near the building, the sounds of gunfire seems to grow quieter. I slow my pace to a fast walk, bringing my rifle to my eye, aimed at anyone who may cause a threat. My feet fall in front of each other with expert practise, unheard and calculated.

I feel my helmet tip forward on my head a little, the straps too loose. My view of the outside world narrows slightly, and I flick my head up to tip the protective gear to the right position. I approach the building, kicking in the door and busting the lock. The room reveals itself before my eyes, empty except for a wooden table and stairs going towards the next floor.

My pace quickens so I'm almost running up the wooden stairs. Small beams of sun make their way between the cracks in the roof, shining onto my eyes just as I pass. Momentarily blinded by the light, I stumble towards the roof of the building. After another two flights of stairs, the sky seems to open up before me, lighting up every inch of my sun-tanned face.

My gaze wanders to the conflict a few metres away, where I can see a group of men waving their machine guns around wildly, speaking in their native tongue. One of them aim at Jackson, one of the members of my group, a tall, lanky guy. My platoon reacts, splitting off into groups and fighting some of the attackers. I set my rifle on the edge of the building, aiming into the smokey area below.

The same man stays aimed at Jackson, and I line up the little cross on my weapon with the flesh right between his eyes. I take a deep breath, an unsuccessful attempt at relaxing. My fingers squeeze around the trigger, planting a bullet in the man's skull. He collapses, and Jackson whirls around to give me a hand signal in thanks. He grabs his communicator and brings it to his face, barking something into it. After a few anxiously long moments, he signals for me to come down towards him.

I give him a thumbs-up, sprinting down the creaky stairs and out into the streets. I take a few steps into the road, checking for threats. My journey down the avenue continues, my feet stepping on crushed glass, newspaper and other debris. A man emerges from behind a building, yelling something in another language. Before I can react, he pulls a clip from a grenade and throws it in my direction. I turn to run, taking a few precious, thudding sprints before it explodes, sending a wave of pain across my body.

I hit the concrete like a ragdoll, my leg crunching as I land on the ground at an unattractive angle. My entire left leg feels like a blazing length of pain, and I'm unable to lift my head to assess the damage. The world seems to be swimming before me, the sky and the road and the ground blending into a mess of colour and light.

I run my fingers over my thigh and calf to feel for injuries, each light brush feeling like agony. I pull away when I feel a thick, liquid-like substance. I bring my hands to my face to inspect them, only to be met by a layer is deep red blood. Pushing myself up with a wobbly arm, I catch a glimpse of what remains of my leg. A horrified scream escapes my lips, echoing throughout the small town.

My cold and fragile form lays on the cold floor, curled up into one of the cupboards. Tears fill my eyes, great ending to spill over and consume me. Sobs wrack my body, sending horrible choking sounds echoing throughout the room. I bite my lip, trying to calm down and stifle the noise coming from my throat.

I glance down to my thigh, running my hand down my leg and running my fingers over the scarred flesh above where my knee should be. My gaze flickers to the permanent wound, the tears in my eyes filling my eyes once more and sending me into hysteria. I clamp my hands over my eyes and rest my head on the kitchen bench, rocking slightly back and forth.

"Miss (y/l/n), are you in need of assistance? Shall I call for Doctor Cho?" FRIDAY asks.

I take a deep, quick breath. "No! No, please don't." I say, barely audible. "Don't let anyone know, please leave me alone."

"Of course Miss."

A few more shaky breaths work their way out of my lungs, and I can't seem to stop the water flowing freely from my eyes. My throat feels raw. I feel like I'm drowning, being pulled under by the war and all the things it has done to me. The things I've lost. The things I've done.

"(Y/n)?"

I bury my head further into the cupboard, not letting the owner of the voice see my face. Soft footsteps begin to near me, and I wrap my arms around my head to hide myself. My breathing slows in fear as their shoes crunch on the shattered glass.

"(Y/n), what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

I freeze, completely awe-struck. I know that voice and who it belongs to. Embarrassment washes over me, leaving me to cower on the tiled floor. I feel warm hands rest on my arms, softly tugging on them to bring them away from obscuring my face. I'm greeted by the heatbroken expression on Steve's face. His eyes are full of concern, blue iris' focused on me.

The sight makes me feel guilty within an instant, and I bring my hand to my lips in a short gasp. Steve brings his hand to cup my face, bringing the other towards my hand. He once again brings it away from my face, turning it over and looking for the small pieces of glass embedded in my palm. His movements are slow, and he looks down towards my legs to check for my prosthetic.

"(Y/n), why aren't you wearing your prosthetic? Is something wrong with it?"

I shake my head in shame.

"There's nothing wrong with it Steve." I say, my voice wobbly. "It's what's wrong with me." I look towards the ground.

Steve looks hurt, like a rejected puppy. He releases my hand and puts his own under my chin to raise my gaze to look him in the eyes. "There's nothing wrong with you (y/n). You're beautiful."

This brings more tears to my eyes, and I lick my lips. "My leg... It's... Disgusting."

"Your leg is not disgusting. Don't you ever tell yourself that. Don't your ever convince yourself that you aren't worth the same as everyone else because you served for your country and came back with an injury. It's a symbol of who you are (y/n), a fighter. You didn't give up then when you crawled to your platoon with one leg, not when you went through therapy and most certainly not now, not when I'm here. I won't let you."

I smile weakly. "Thank you."

Steve smiles a little. "We need to get you cleaned up. Did you try to grab the glass yourself and fall down?"

I nod.

He wraps and arm around my waist and one of my knees, picking me up and off the ground. I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my face into his chest.

"I love you, Steve."

"I love you too, (y/n), and don't you ever forget that."