"You know, I still don't know how to dance."

Peggy sucked in a shaky breath, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She quickly placed a hand over her mouth before she wrapped it around the cold metal of the microphone.

"I'll show you how. Just be there." Her voice wobbled as she let the cold sink into her fingers, willing herself to feel anything other than the overwhelming pain she knew she would feel. Her fingers gripped so hard she thought she would dent the metal.

"You'll have the band play somethin slow, I'd hate to step on your—"

The radio cut out with a crackle, then shifted quickly to static. Low and monotone, a sound that would fill her head for years to come. She ran a hand over her abdomen and let her tears fall. Twisting her hand, she spotted a wastebasket. She stood, and rushed to it, bending down to release all her stomach contents.

She twisted to slide down the wall, nudging the can away with the toe of her boot. She pulled her knees up and rested her head between them, wrapping her arms around herself.

She wasn't sure how long she cried there, long enough that colonel Philips came to sit next to her, wrapping a fatherly arm around her shoulders. He gently squeezed her shoulder.

"It will get better. I promise." She had no way to tell him that he was wrong. She had no way to tell— it wasn't important at that moment. Her stomach flipped again, and she drew her legs closer. Nothing would be alright. Nothing will get better.

————

Only two weeks later the war ended. B-17s and P-51s soared over the heads of the cheering crowd, their propellers sounding like constant trolls of thunder. Pamphlets and hats flew to the clouded sky, couples danced, music poured out of windows all around.

Inside, the commandos raised their glasses of amber and gold, tapping them together with a crystalline click. The liquor swirled up into a whirlpool of liquid. Peggy could not bring herself to be among them. Instead, she sat at the bar with her head in her hand, one arm draped across the bar top. She stared at the empty seat next to her, it settling deeper into her heart than she would have liked.

"What can I get you, Peg?"

Peggy looked up and plastered a fake smile on her face. Eric, her childhood friend, stood behind the counter wiping out a glass, white rag flopping limply against his hand. His brown hair fell against his forehead, blue eyes shining bright as he flashed a toothy smile. He set the glass down and reached his hand back, prepared to grab any bottle she wished.

"Just a glass of water, if you please." She let her smile drop only the slightest, then reached up to brush the hair out of her eyes. Eric raised an eyebrow, setting his rag on the counter, and placing his hands on either side.

"Peggy, I know you've been spending time with the Americans, but I will have you know that their prohibition ended 16 years ago, and we have one too many bottles here that need to be drunk." She huffed a small laugh, dropping her head off her hand.

"It's not that, it's just—" She absently rubbed at her stomach, and Eric's eyes went wide. He looked first to the solemn commandos, then to Howard Stark, who was standing away from the others, leaning against the wall.

"Er— congratulations. An American?" She nodded, and he looked around again. She looked to the wood counter, then prepared to speak.

"No, not any of them. Not anymore at least." Eric looked quite like he had been slapped in the face. His shock faded to sadness, and he placed a consoling hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He gave a squeeze to her shoulder. The only consoling action that anyone ever seems to think of. She took a breath.

"Eric, I'm going to America." Peggy stated, wrapping her hands around the glass.

"When will you be back?" He asked, dreading the answer. She dropped her eyes back down, and shook her head.

"I won't be."

—————

Seven months later, Peggy sat on her porch, watching the colors of the sky change as the sun slowly sunk from the sky. She looked down, to the tiny infant cradled in her arms, who smiled with a gummy mouth up at her. Peggy reached out a finger, gently tapping her daughter on the nose. Little Fern wrapped her small hands around her mother's finger, holding on tight.

"Someday, when you are older, I will tell you all about how your father saved the world. One day, my little sprout, I will tell you just who your father was." Fern giggled, and let out a little squeal, and for only a moment, Peggy could swear she could hear Steve's laugh. Her bright blue eyes looked exactly like her dad's, reflecting the colorful sky.

Peggy looked back out over her backyard, gently resting her thumb over the fingers wrapped around hers. She sucked in a deep breath, pulling Fern up to rest against her chest.

"Someday."

—————

Fern raced around the backyard as fast as her six year old feet would carry her. She laughed as her arms were thrown out wide, fingers spread, mud kicking up to stain the bottom of her skirt. Hooking her foot on the back of her ankle, she collapsed to the grass, laughing as she flipped to face the blue sky.

"Fern, darling, come eat lunch." Peggy called out as she placed a plate on the back table. Fern looked up, and rolled out of the grass to race over to her mother. She hugged around Peggy's legs, then grabbed her plate and plopped down on the stairs, toes being tickled by the grass.

Peggy sat next to her, ruffling her daughters blond hair. It stuck up in the humidity, and Fern grinned at her mother.

"What are you playing today, my little sprout?" Peggy asked, tracing her fingers in shapes down Fern's back. Fern flung out her arms, making the plate in her lap wobble dangerously, and nearly slapping Peggy in the stomach.

"Today, I am a pilot!" Fern returned to her lunch, and Peggy's face dropped, her hands falling to her lap. Fern side eyed her mom, and stopped eating her sandwich.

"Mommy? Are you OK?" Peggy could barely hear her daughter speaking over the sound of static in her head. She shook her head, and smiled down on the concerned child.

"Thank you sweetheart, I'm quite alright." Fern smiled again, and returned to eating, swinging her legs.

—————

Fern sat in her classroom, surrounded by 20 twelve year olds. She glanced at her best friend, who was avidly taking notes on absolutely everything. She looked out the window, the sound of the talking bouncing around her brain, without taking anything in. Penny nudged her arm, and pointed with the end of her pencil to the teacher.

Fern looked up to where the teacher was looking at her, waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat the question?" Fern asked, twisting her fingers. Mrs. Lance chuckled and repeated herself.

"I said, Ms. Carter, what are you planning on doing for Father's Day?" Fern sputtered for a minute, opening and closing her mouth, trying hard to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

"Uh— I, I'm not doing anything. I don't— my father is dead." She hung her head, arms crossed over the desk. The room was silent, even Penny, who drew back slightly. She drew in a breath, and smiled.

"It's fine."

—————

Penny walked into her home, calling out for her mother. With no response, she dumped her bag by the door and pulled out her homework to start. But whatever she did, she could not concentrate on her work. She placed her pencil down and thunked her forehead on the table a few times.

Her head shot up when the front door clicked open.

"Mom?" She called out. Peggy placed her purse down and walked back into the kitchen.

"Yes, my darling?" She swung down to sit next to her. She glanced at the paper in front of Fern, completely blank.

"Who was dad?" Fern asked, leaning back in her seat.

"Whatever brought this line of questioning on?" Peggy asked, brushing the blond locks out of Fern's eyes.

"We were talking about Father's Day in class, and I realized that you have never talked about him, other than to tell me that he was dead."

"Oh." Peggy paused, picking at a chip in her nail polish.

"Yes, he was killed in the war. He was a good man, and he would have been so proud of you." Fern nodded, picking up her pencil, bending it until it snapped.

"What was his name?" Fern asked, tossing the broken half on the table.

"Steve. His name was Steve." A tear slipped down her face, and Fern placed a hand over her mother's shoulder. She pulled her in for a hug, digging her fingers into the back of her dress.

"That's a good name." Fern smiled into Peggy's shoulder.

—————

Four years later, Fern was sitting in her room. Peggy was at work, so Fern was house ridden on the hot July day.

Fern traced over her lines, the picture forming as she relished in the breeze from the old metal fan in the corner. The heat flowing in through the open window. She dropped the sketch pad on her bed with a huff, and sat up, swinging out of her bed.

She waddled to the bathroom, sticking her head under the faucet and letting the cold water run. She sighed with relief and laughed to herself. Shutting off the water, she shook her head to rid herself of excess water.

Returning to her room, she stopped in her doorway. She trailed her fingers on the doorframe, then walked to the window. She could have sworn that the window wasn't that open. And her fan, her fan was pointed in the other direction. She looked around her room, then back, shutting the window. She gasped.

A reflection in the window startled her, and she whipped around. Standing there, was a man in a mask, shroud completely in black, save for his left sleeve, which his arm was entirely made of silver. His longer hair fell over his forehead. He moved his arm, quickly, and before she knew, a dart was embedded into her neck. She fell to her knees, her vision going black. The last thing she saw, was the toes of the combat boots her assailant wore.

—————

"Sir, we have director Carter's daughter. Should we ice her?"

Fern could see nothing, but could only hear. She could feel her limbs strapped to the table.

"Ice her."

Fern tugged weakly at the restraints, with every breath she took, her lungs felt like they were on fire.

"Where, sir? Next to the soldier, or in storage?"

Fern tried to cry out, but nothing made it past her lips.

"Storage."

Fern gave up, dropping her limbs.

"Yes sir."

She could vaguely feel herself being moved, then... Nothing at all, and she blacked out again.