A clean slate.
What kind of promise to make to someone as disgraced as him, and what a fairytale to believe on his end. John could hit himself for entertaining the delusion that a slate so bloody like his could ever be wiped clean.
(He frequently does hit himself for it. The bruises never linger long enough for anyone to notice.)
There would be red smears everywhere, trying to clean off the remnants of his solicited and unsolicited approaches to problems. Swapping the original shield for his own hadn't changed that.
After all, it's not the weapons fault that it's tethered to a violent hand which is tethered to a violent body which is tethered to a violent mind.
Somewhere along the way, he's turned into a weapon himself.
A missile ready to be aimed. A landmine placed in dark soil. Valentina's little means of mass destruction. He wants to believe he was created, not born inherently wrong. Just twisted into a handy grenade by people who wanted artillery that followed orders without needing to be programmed.
After all, it's not the weapon's fault.
Olivia looks at him differently nowadays. It's not the same look she used to give him when he told her about his military missions overseas. Instead it reminds him of his mother. When he screwed up as a child, her face did the same thing. Blankness and a silence that screams of everything but emptiness behind it. Avalances of unsaid words, painted over with a hushed "Just be safe." Sometimes he feels like he's reading a file where every other sentence has been redacted.
"Be safe. Don't show up on the news."
"Come home in one piece. Stifle the anger this time."
"I love you. I'm scared I won't recognize you when you come back."
He returns from a mission after six days with a gunshot wound that hasn't begun to heal properly —despite the serum— and an uncertainty in his steps that betrays the reassurances he repeats for Olivia, time and time again.
She's sat on the edge of the bathtub, renewing his blood-soaked bandages. When the alcohol burns against his open skin, he sucks in a sharp breath. Olivia tilts her head with concern, but continues anyway. There's that look again and he wants to shake her, he wants to scream and shout, what are you not telling me? Why am I a stranger in this house when your hands on me still feel like home?
But he swallows his tongue. It wouldn't be fair to her.
He's the one who keeps coming back, always missing a small piece. At some point there will be too much gone for her to recognize him.
When Olivia finishes cleaning him up, she throws his old shirt into his lap and gives him a kiss on the forehead. The small gesture makes his chest ache and his eyes sting with unshed tears. Weapons usually aren't treated with such care. Once they've fulfilled their duty, they are placed in dusty and dark rooms with all the other weapons.
That night, John's side of the bed remains empty.
If Olivia wakes up, she might hear a faint weeping coming from the living room.
*★*☆*★*
so, john and olivia make me insane, especially the time we didn't get to see between tfatws and thunderbolts :')
i was thinking about writing a longer version of this for ao3, would anyone be interested? 👀
