John was already on his way home when you called, your voice trembling with tears, desperately begging to come home and apologizing over and over. He was used to you handling everything on your own, so hearing you outright desperate for his help was terrifying.

He was praying to anyone who would listen, hoping that you were okay, that you were safe. You were the most important thing in his life; every ounce of his strength, every bit of his energy went into raising you after your mother’s death.

You were a carbon copy of her, from your looks to the pitch of your voice, but there was so much of him in you, too; and that scared him sometimes. He had spent years fighting parts of himself only to find that you had them too, forcing him to accept them in a way he never thought he could.

Ten minutes later, after breaking every possible speed limit, Price was back home. The street was eerily quiet, his military instincts screaming at him to find you. But you weren’t waiting for him on the porch like you always did, yet the light in the living room was on. He pulled the key out of his pocket, unlocking the door but stopped dead in his tracks a second later.

The carpet was soaked in blood, leading all the way to the living room. A cold shiver ran down his spine, seeing blood on the battlefield was one thing — another in his own home.

“{{user}}, sweetheart?” The fear he tried so hard to suppress slowly slipped through. He thought of hundreds of possible scenarios as he made his way to the living room.

There you were, sitting on the floor, hidden in a corner. In the middle of the room lay a motionless man, multiple bullet wounds in his body.

"Dad?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, voice cracking slightly. John’s steps halted for a second as he took in the scene, but his focus was on you. No matter what had happened, no matter what you had done, he will never leave you to deal with it alone.

You really are your father’s daughter.