Sundays were the best days for Moira Mackney and her daughter, Berry. On Sundays, they started their day with a long, talkative cuddle in Moira's bed, almost two year old Berry whisked from her crib and into Moira's room across the hall, kisses and snuggles and sweet baby giggles before hair brushing and scented lotion for sensitive porcelain skin, mother and baby, clothes arranged and diaper bag packed. They had brunch at their favorite sidewalk patisserie, bitter dark chocolate and buttery scones with fat berries and clotted cream, rich espresso for Moira in a delicate china cup, light frothy milk with a hint of cinnamon, not too hot, in toddler Berry's fanciest sippy cup. After brunch, they strolled along the riverfront, Berry pointing out things she wanted to see or do or touch with an imperious slender finger, happily leading the expedition from her pram, her long spindly legs kicking happily as Moira steered them in and out of pigeons, in and out of storefronts, closer to a young man with dreadlocks and the most beautiful skin wailing mournfully on his saxophone, closer to a tall, spare elderly woman who drew the mother and daughter with fast, deft strokes, taking the money Moira pressed into her hands with a solemn expression and laughing eyes, and finally into the park, their final destination as afternoon nudged evening. Berry's stroller was abandoned near their favorite tree, a huge oak with spreading branches, a blanket arranged just so until Berry was bouncing in her seat, hands outstretched beseechingly to her mother who picked up her daughter and swung her around, once, twice, before depositing her in the very center with another sippy cup, this one full of ice melted into water after their walk, sinking down to join her with her own water bottle.

They lay in the dappled shade, Moira's wavy mahogany hair mingling with Berry's crown of strawberry blonde, Berry cooing to dogs that snuffled close on their masters' leashes, playing with her fingers or toes or Moira's tip-tilted nose until without protest, between one breath and the next, she slipped into the sleep of the innocent, her rosebud mouth open as she dreamed.

Sundays were the best days for Moira Mackney and her toddler, Berry.

Until the Sunday Berry was kidnapped.

OoO

"Walk us through it again, Ms. Mackney," the constable urged, notebook open, pencil poised, and Moira had to choke back the angry words that wanted to spill out, her hands clenched so tightly together below the table that she felt her short nails digging into her palms. "You came in late Saturday night..."

"Yes, closer to Sunday morning, a little after four."

"It was an unexpected delay?" asked the other constable, tapping his pen on the table.

"Yes. The mission..." She almost stumbled, stopping herself but not quite in time if the look shared between the officers was any indication, "assignment went longer than planned."

"And your babysitter wasn't in the home when you arrived?"

No one had been 'in the home' when she arrived, the home that was a glorified gated flat in an extra safe neighborhood with good schools and better safety precautions, a doorman and a keyed entry elevator, not the earnest young college student she'd carefully interviewed and investigated and background checked until she was satisfied, no masked men with guns and angry voices, no sleek women in black leather with apologetic faces, no tall, calm men with eye-patches lecturing her about duty and patriotism, and certainly not her adorable little Berry, bright eyes and wet kisses and bright, cheerful, "Mommy, mommy!" Moira deliberately relaxed her hands. "There was no one in the flat."

"And the alarm had been disabled?" The man quirked his eyebrows together, a paternal frown of concern and judgment. "I understand it was a fairly sophisticated system, not easily tampered with."

"Every lock is made to be broken," she said before she thought, a knee-jerk response, and watched the woman jot something down before ripping off the page and standing up to go to the door. It opened at her knock and her hand, with the paper in it, disappeared for a moment. When it came back, it was empty, and the woman returned to the table, her sharp face even sharper as she observed Moira observing her.

"Yes, well, this one wasn't standard issue." An understatement: it wasn't even widely available on the market, just to princes and kings and somehow to a lowly translations clerk, working in London on loan from the Smithsonian who lived in a fairly high-dollar flat and yet seemed to live within her government-paid budget.

"No," was her answer to a question that he hadn't asked and she knew it had been a mistake to involve the local constabulary, there were secrets that weren't only hers to keep, but when she'd come out of her flat looking wild-eyed and angry and her next door neighbor with his handsome Irish Setter had seen her and asked where her daughter was, whatever she'd said had sent him scurrying back into his apartment, pushing her before him, promising to contact the authorities and she too shell-shocked to stop him.

Moira heaved a sigh and held up a hand as the man started to speak again. She ignored the way he sat back and frowned or the leaning in of the female constable, placing her hands out and open on the table, palm up, to show she meant no harm. "I'm sorry, let's just set aside the formalities. There are three things you should know. I'm not only a translations clerk. Berry's father is someone very important in the states." She wanted to scream or to cry or to beat her fists on something, someone had taken her Berry, but instead she continued, calmly, "And you should call the Director of SHIELD." Without waiting for a response, she rattled off a series of numbers, again when the female of the pair seemed to realize they were a telephone number along with an access code. As the man rose to leave, sharing another of those speculative, suspicious looks with his partner, Moira said, tiredly, knowing the desperation she'd managed to bank was leaking out, spilling over her words, "Please hurry. My daughter's life could be in danger."

OoO

Of course it had to go up the chain of command, she'd expected nothing less. She'd also expected to be detained at the station until they could verify who, or what, she was and why she had a direct access line to the man who held the Avengers' leashes. She spent a few hours trying to imagine the Director's reaction when he got the call, his frustration, his profanity, and wondered if he'd hide this, too, from his team.

She would not, absolutely would not, imagine what Berry's father was thinking or feeling or doing, what he said when, or even the more likely if, they told him the little girl he'd never seen, never held, never touched was gone, poof, like a ghost. She would not, absolutely would not, imagine (hope) that it was Berry's father who had her, precious, tiny, innocent Berry who loved fiercely and deeply.

She would not, absolutely would not, imagine (hope, wish, ache) that Captain America would come swooping in to save his missing child (his missed love).

To her mortification, and she imagined to the relief of the constable, she was crying when they came to tell her the Director would see her now.

Berry had been missing five hours, three minutes, and a handful of seconds.