C’s corner: Hi my loves, hope you’re having a lovely weekend. So yesterday was Wyatt Russell’s birthday, but I couldn’t post anything because… life 🫠 But here’s a little soft drabble I whipped up instead of cleaning. 🫣 I also have a True Brandywire little smut drabble that might make an appearance tomorrow… for now, enjoy my loves. 🫶🏽✨
"You’re pouting,” you announced from the kitchen, setting two mugs of coffee on the counter.
“I'm reflecting.”
“You sighed loud enough for the neighbors to file a noise complaint.”
John Walker looked up from where he’d sprawled across the couch, all broad shoulders and dramatic despair. His gray t-shirt stretched across his chest as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I turned forty.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m old.”
You blinked. Then laughed.
He looked personally offended. "I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You walked over, nudging one of his knees with yours. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m a forty year old man.”
“Correct.”
“You could be dating someone younger.”
“I could.”
He frowned deeper.
“But instead,” you continued, climbing onto the couch beside him, “I’m dating the world’s most decorated professional overthinker.”
His lips twitched despite himself. "It isn’t funny.”
“It kind of is.”
“I’m getting wrinkles.”
You leaned in dramatically, squinting at his face. "Hm.”
“What?”
“I think that’s called smiling.”
He huffed. "I’ve got gray hair.”
“I see two.”
“Two too many.”
You reached up, threading your fingers through the short blond strands at his temple.
“They look good.”
“They make me look old.”
“They make you look distinguished.”
“They make me look like somebody’s dad.”
You grinned. "I fail to see the problem.”
He groaned, dropping his head against the back of the couch. "You deserve somebody your age.”
That John Walker argument angst request hurt so much 😭 Please tell me there will be a part 2 where they kiss and make up? 🙏🙏🙏
yeah I was never gonna leave the big man sad ;__;
Recommended listening: Daniel Seavey - Love's a Gun (this song is so John coded to me it's actually crazy)
gif by @qvicksilversass
In a way, it made perfect sense that he would stumble across you here, in the middle of a crisis, giving others everything you had, being where you were needed most.
He had looked like it was his second job for nine months. Day one, he found anything too ratty to be donated in the dumpsters behind the Watchtower. He had warred with himself about whether to fish your stuff back out of the trash or leave it there, which was how he knew he was really in it; he was prepared to sift through garbage.
In the end, he left it there, terrified of the metaphor.
Yelena had gotten a tip about some of your stuff showing up at a mutual aid org in Midtown. The charming lady running the place recognized John’s uniform and coughed up a few details about your visit. Nothing significant, nothing except the bracelet.
The room was squat and long, a yellow cast to the lights, the faint dusty smell of a thrift store emanating from the racks of clothes and tables of microwaves, plates, desk fans…
“Was there a bracelet?” he asked, bracing for the answer. The woman was busy sifting through a box of donations that had just come in. He could tell her patience with him was wearing thin. “Small. Silver.”
“No, I don’t think so, honey,” she said, shaking her head absently. “I don’t think she brought in any jewelry.”
John wandered the aisles searching for pieces of you, a tiny flame of hope alive in his chest. If you didn’t give up the bracelet, then maybe…
Maybe what? Maybe you had donated it somewhere else. Maybe you had thrown it in the Hudson, maybe you had bent it into a little stick figure of him and then set that stick figure on fire and then when it didn’t burn up you mangled it under your boot. Maybe Bob would start picking up after himself in the common room and maybe Ava would stop jump-scaring people to entertain herself and maybe Bucky would stop giving him that glare, but the odds were the odds, and they were stacked against him.
These were the circular thoughts of a desperate man.
He had noticed you admiring the bracelet at a flea market months ago, one Bob had dragged everyone to because there was a vendor with a tent with wall-to-wall lava lamps, which he thought was the coolest thing imaginable in a city full of cool things.
“You have to admit,” you said, leaning over a small jewelry stand in the next tent over. “The lava lamps were good.”
John rested one hand on your waist, hovering. He did that a lot, especially when the relationship was still new, like he was constantly trying to convince himself that you were his and wanted him to touch you. “He does know it’s not real lava, right?” he asked.
Then, he noticed you looking at the bracelet. It was simple, silver, delicate, with a geometric design hammered into it. John plucked it off the display, bought it before you could tell him not to, and slid it onto your wrist as he pulled you into a lingering kiss outside the tent. It had started to mist, then rain, and he remembered the way the asphalt smelled, mingling with your shampoo as it reactivated in your damp hair. He remembered the way you leaned into him like there was no one else at the flea market, like Yelena wasn’t making soft gagging noises five feet away.
It was the best seventeen dollars he ever spent.
You only took that stupid bracelet off to shower. You liked to sleep on your side, John wrapped around your back, his nose in your neck, one arm clamped over your body, the metal of that bracelet growing warm against his wrist. Even at 200$ a plate gala events, it stayed with you. John loved it there. Unpretentious. Sturdy. Not a wedding ring, not yet, and not a cuff that closed, one that was always a little open.
He loved that day, when lava lamps were neat again and you kissed him with the whole city blanketed in vapor; it felt like a dream now, that day, veiled, strange, so perfect it didn’t seem like it could exist on this timeline, the one where he was standing at a donation table holding your favorite denim jacket, no trace of your scent on the fabric.
Yelena picked up your trail in Kinshasa, but John arrived there too late. Kenema. Blantyre. Nobody would talk to him. Maybe they had been warned, maybe they had been bribed. He didn’t think it was a coincidence Yelena’s tips kept coming from volunteer aid camps. He had learned not to show up to these operations in uniform, or else everyone looked at him like he was diseased. You left Africa, going north, to Beirut, then Kyiv. There, John found exactly one nurse who provided a description. It was helpful, sort of, but John was too late again.
You were gone. You were a ghost. It was like you could sense him coming, and your instinct never failed.
He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
The dream started happening three months after you left.
It unfolded the same each time—John would find himself dazed, wandering the tower, remembering something he needed to tell you. He would stumble to your door, knock. When the door finally opened, Steve Rogers was there, filling the empty space, naked from the waist up.
“It’s not a good idea for you to be here,” Rogers would tell him, with the resigned air of a disappointed father.
“Let me see her—”
Then he would hear you, your voice echoing from deep inside the room.
“John? John?”
And he would wake up soaked in a cold sweat, headache brewing, convinced you were right there next to him, that the dreams were lying and you would be there, wrapped in the sheet, warm and inviting.
It was fitting, maybe, that the dream had visited him last night.
Thirteen months and twelve days, but who was counting? Florida. The Panhandle. A Category 5 hurricane had made landfall at Mexico Beach, then swung north and inland toward Panama City. The predicted downgrade never came, the devastation flattening pockets of the coast until the terrain looked like it had never been touched or settled by humans.
Yelena spotted you first.
The New Avengers had come in on a larger convoy--Humvees, amphibious vehicles, airboats. Humanitarian orgs, off duty EMS, and volunteers streamed in to help look for trapped survivors and to recover the deceased. The floodwater had only just started receding. The air was heavy, stale, like a sponge that needed to be wrung out. John was busy searching the surface of the water; it was eerie how calm everything had become, how still it was in the aftermath, houses reduced to matchsticks, cars wedged in trees, and now just the quiet and the stench and the crackle of walkie talkies.
“Walker.”
Yelena said his name so softly it was almost lost to the bump and slosh of the convoy tires and the chugging engines. She was facing inland, John out to sea, both of them clinging to the roof of an armored Humvee. Her hand clapped over his forearm, squeezing and squeezing until he swiveled around to see what the hell was so urgent.
“I’ve got one here!”
John’s heart burned up to his throat. Holy fucking shit. It was you. Different hair, no fancy Avengers uniform, overworked and bedraggled and dirty but unmistakably you.
You were wading out of a house with a collapsed roof, water to your waist as you sloshed down the steps, someone’s terrified, whimpering Rottweiler draped across your shoulders like a furry rucksack. Your head was pushed down from the weight of the dog on your neck, your hands clamped around its haunches and shoulders.
Yelena said something else, but he didn’t hear her; John didn’t think, he jumped in after you.
John waded up to you, fighting the detritus hidden beneath the floodwater, holding out his arms as your paths intersected. You didn’t look happy to see him. Not angry or stunned, just blank, like your brain had no way to reconcile what your eyes were insisting. The convoy kept going, rumbling on, leaving you there in the terrible, humid silence.
Maybe it was just right that he found you here, in the middle of another disaster. At least he hadn’t caused this one.
He didn’t know what to say; everything he practiced, everything he imagined, felt insane and trite.
Tell me what I have to do.
Tell me where you went.
Tell me everything that happened, don’t leave out a single minute.
Are you okay? Are you lonely? Is this killing you the way it’s killing me?
Do you still wake up and forget the bed will be empty?
Tell me there’s a chance. Tell me there’s a fucking chance, even if it’s in hell, I’ll go there, I’ll go there to get it.
He didn’t know what to say, so he made himself useful.
“Are there more inside?” he asked, still holding out his arms.
“I don’t know,” you said, shifting forward, ducking down, letting John wrestle the dog out of your grasp. “The x-code says two, I just found him. I should, maybe I shouldn’t--”
“Go.” John said, nodding his head toward the house, patting the dog’s butt as it started whimpering in his grasp. “I’ve got you, big fella.”
You offered him a whisper of a grateful smile. John called that good enough, and turned to follow the trail of the convoy, hugging the giant dog because he couldn’t hug you. “How did she get prettier? Lucky boy, getting rescued by her. Strong. Soft heart, though, that’s why she’s going back in for your buddy…” The dog whined again and licked his face. “Thanks. Let’s see if we can find your people. I’m a little lost, too, but we’ll stick together.”
John tracked you down again two hours later, back at the camp. You were at the makeshift gate, the perimeter, planting yourself in front of another Humvee that you weren’t interested in letting through. It was just you, your stained t-shirt, a tac vest and a leg holster against six and a half tons of armored vehicle. The sun was setting, orange and blazing over the water, a lone reminder that this could be a paradise.
One of the security personnel from Doctors Without Borders sidled up next to him, scratching his forearm nervously. John had worked side by side with the guy earlier; he was talkative but serious, with a friendly face. The man peering out of the Humvee was not so friendly. “Senator Wells. Surprised he showed his damn face. Just hope he doesn’t run her over.”
John tipped his head to the side with a wry smile, eyes never leaving the back of your head. “My money’s on her.”
The senator in question, dressed in the most ridiculous galoshes John had ever seen and a floppy fishing hat, exited the vehicle, storming up to you with the energy of a flustered customer demanding to see the manager.
“No thanks,” you were saying firmly, arms crossed. “We don’t need vultures like you circling. It’s dangerous here--tetanus, contaminated water, infections, industrial chemicals, downed power lines. You want your precious photo op? Roll up your sleeves, follow instructions, and do some actual work or pack up and get lost.”
Wells wasn’t budging, neither was his vehicle.
John sighed, clapped the other volunteer on the shoulder before leaving him behind to join you at the gate. He saw the expression on the senator’s face change as John approached. Recognition, then disgust.
Fine with me.
John positioned himself just behind you. “We got a problem here?”
“What’s worse than one disgraced Avenger? Two,” the senator sneered.
“What’s your deadlift like these days?” John asked, swinging toward you, ignoring him, leaning into you as much as you would allow. He sniffed, looking beyond Wells, sizing up the Humvee. “Five? Six?”
Tons. He meant tons.
He felt you smiling, then heard it in your reply. You never could resist a chance to troll sanctimonious pricks like Wells. “Please,” you scoffed, glancing at the truck. “I’m insulted."
John gave a belabored sigh. “I tend to do that.”
He shrugged, dusted off his gloves, strode by a mumbling, red-faced Wells, and crouched down in front of the Humvee’s bumper. Hooking his hands under the winch, he strained against the weight of it, flattening his back, driving through his heels, the wheels lurching as the mud lost suction and the truck started to lift.
“He’ll push that thing all the way to Tallahassee if you don’t stop him,” John heard you say. “Shit, I’ll help.”
Wells stormed back to the passenger side, scampering up the now much higher, diagonal step before throwing himself gracelessly inside, legs kicking. John let go with a grunt and the Humvee slammed down, spattering him in mud.
“You boys have a nice ride home,” John muttered, tapping his fist on the hood, then wiping off his gloves again as he joined you, the front lights of the truck silhouetting him against the darkening sky. And you, standing there in his shadow, gazed up at him with the strangest look.
“Show off,” you murmured, eyes darting down to your feet.
John tore off his sweat-damp beret, fussing with it, punching his fist into it, messing with his hair. Glancing. Waiting. Wanting. “The more things change…” he said softly.
You met his eye again, jaw set. You turned to leave. “Sure, John. But they do change.”
It was clumsy, it was reckless, but John couldn’t help himself, not after thirteen months of steady pain. He reached for you, hand closing around your right wrist, just insistent enough to slow you down, just hard enough to feel the rigid shape of something metal under your sleeve.
You both felt it.
John’s hand flexed around the bracelet.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please. Ten minutes, okay? I won’t ask again. I’ll forget I saw you. It’ll be like I was never here.”
He heard your slight intake of breath, like that outcome was the worst imaginable one.
“Ten minutes,” you said, taking back your arm, leading him through the camp and back to your current base of operations, which turned out to be a refurbished RV, simple, unmarked.
You let him inside. John had never felt more like he was the wrong size. Your shit was everywhere, remnants of a year without him, most of it impersonal, functional. Somehow all of it smelled like wet dogs. He wedged himself against the back of the driver’s cab, watching you go to a mini fridge to collect two cold beers. You opened them with your thumb, then passed him one.
No cheers, no clink, just you retreating across the RV, eyes narrowed, posture already rigid with defense.
“Who else is here?” you asked.
“Yelena, Bucky,” he said. “The others get in tomorrow.”
“How’s Bob?”
“Bob’s good. Not…not on the team yet, but we’re hopeful.”
“How…” Your voice was thin, scraped across a sharp feeling John knew way too well. It was lodged in your throat, the same place it resided in him. It roughed up every word whenever your name got mentioned, whenever he was forced to relive that night. “How are you?”
For half a second, he considered lying. It felt good to lift that truck in front of you, but now it was time for the grownups to talk. What was it all for--the sleepless nights, the regret, the anger management therapist and the new regular shrink and the late-night cigarettes with Yelena—if he was going to turn into a liar the second it really mattered?
He respected you too much to play the easy part. The tough guy. The broken soldier.
“Shitty.”
That caught you off-guard. Your eyes flew to him, a laugh suppressed against your wrist, against the bracelet, as you wiped a little spit of beer off your lip.
“You?” he asked, sparing you the task of pitying him.
“Busy.” You did that thing, that nervous thing, running your finger around the mouth of your beer bottle. It got hard for you to look at him again; he missed the pressure of your eyes. “But it’s hard to think too much if you keep moving.”
“Amen,” he said softly, taking a swig. “Olivia begged me to get a life I was swinging by the house so much…”
He didn’t mean it the way you took it, but you were standing up straighter all of the sudden, drawing your own conclusions, ones that dented a frustrated crease across your forehead. You caught yourself, though, fixing your expression before it became a larger tell.
“Not to—” John trailed off, snorting down at his boots, fidgeting. “For custody stuff,” he explained, scratching a dead mosquito out of his beard. “She’s actually…Well, she’s good. She’s getting married in a few months. New Years.”
You digested that with a softer bend to your lips, your shoulders lowering by degrees. “And you’re…you’re okay with that? You’re okay?”
“With that?” John laughed, hoarse, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.” His cold humor petered out, all the old protective wells running dry at once. You had caught up. You had bullshitted. “But I’m…” He cleared his throat, drove his toe into the floor, tried again. “I’m not fucking okay.”
“John—”
“My new anger management guy says I self-destruct as a form of control,” he said. “Maybe everything falls apart, but at least that’s familiar.”
“Anger management?” You pursed your lips, studying him. “Did Valentina set that up?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I did.”
“And I suppose you think that fixes everything.” Cold. Cold but fair.
It hung between you for a while, gathering power, gathering strength, the same dreadful darkness that had hung over you both the night your secrets came out, and he tore it all down.
“It felt like an ambush,” John blurted out, then flinched at how defensive he sounded. Too late. And anyway, that ten minutes was going by quick. “Wilson. Barnes. You. I know what their fists feel like knocking my head around. But you… that landed. That put me out cold. And I’m used to being the punching bag, but not with you. You never went for a cheap shot, so it felt like something changed.” He glanced at the clock display in the RV cab. “Six minutes left,” he said, wincing at the crack in his voice. “I’m sorry, but you know that, don’t you? I’m sorry I didn’t trust that it was love. I never do.” John looked at the clock again. “Five minutes. Can I just spend it looking at you?”
You closed your eyes, tears squeezing out at the seams. John opened his mouth to say more, but you cut him off.
“God, John. It wasn’t an ambush. I would never do that to you, you of all people. That was the worst year of my life,” you whispered, words breaking apart, the beginnings of a sob. “It was punishment enough, you know? The lab only chose me for that program because I knew Steve. He was right about the dangers, I was wrong, and I almost died for it. He’s not a happy memory, John.”
John started toward you from across the van, but you lifted your hands, warning him, holding him at bay. Fuck, he wanted to hold you, and now you were crying, crying because of him…
“You don’t have to—”
You cut him off again, slicing your hand through the air, insisting on his silence. “I should’ve told you, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. By the time it seemed important I didn’t want to lose you, I knew you would…would think I was trying to replace Steve or that I was some weird Captain America-chaser…” You heaved a dark laugh, holding your beer bottle with both hands between your thighs, gazing up at the ceiling. “But I’m not a liar. I’m not,” you added, gruff, swallowing around a visible thorn. “I didn’t fuck him. I never wanted him the way I wanted you.”
John didn’t try to butt in this time. He nodded, slowly, regarding his beer the way a man with no options regards a gun, and gave a single, humorless laugh. “Past tense.”
“I don’t know what I want,” you said, throwing up one hand in exasperation. “But I don’t want the man I left that night. I can’t…” A hitch in your breath, another round of tears hastily swallowed. “I can’t go through that again. I can’t hear you say those things about the—” You sputtered out, wiped your wrist across your mouth, the bracelet brushing your lips before you managed to get out the rest. “About the man I love.”
John put his beer down on a folding table heaped with gear. Immediately. He didn’t think, he jumped in after you. Two strides and he was across the van, not touching, not crowding, but so close he could finally smell your soap and shampoo above the reek of unwashed tac vests and waterlogged socks. It made his eyes heavy and his heart seize.
You swayed a little, leaning back against the plastic frame of the dining bench. Light from that alcove spilled across your leg, your shoes. In a show of grace he knew he didn’t deserve, your hand reached toward him, trembling, then flattened against his suit, smoothing up to his chest.
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Present tense.”
"God, I still...I still love you, too." John closed his hand over yours, keeping it there. “Three minutes.”
You touched his chin; he touched yours. He leaned down, slowly, afraid it was still just a dream, that it would end the minute his mouth reached yours.
“Better make it count, Walker.”
The kiss burned through him like lightning, shocking him back to life. He stepped closer, between your legs, both hands sliding along your jaw, cupping your face, every empty, wanting day in the tremor of his fingers as he held you. Three minutes wasn’t enough. With another chance do it right, three lifetimes weren’t enough.
Your taste was familiar, but the longing made it new. Even better, maybe, than the first time.
The first time. You had been squeezed together behind John’s shield, pinned down, bullets clanging off the steel as you literally put your heads together and tried to come up with a plan, a way out. Your eyes were startling up close. He remembered the ludicrous thought of how soft your hair was against his cheek. At least I’ll die with a beautiful woman in my arms.
“Fuck it. Fire back,” you finally told him, after six other harebrained ideas were floated and mutually shot down. “I’ll charge them.”
“No, too reckless, I’m down to my last clip--”
“Then you better make it count, Walker.” You had grabbed his face, smooshed your lips against his, and leaned back, laughing, breathless. “For luck.”
You didn’t die. John’s fire held them off just long enough for you to close the distance, cause chaos, and when his final clip was empty, he switched to the shield, flinging it on a curve, knocking out whoever was still on their feet. You caught the ricochet, maybe not with any finesse, but it was still impressive.
“Maybe you need one of your own,” he had said when you handed it back. It looks damn good on you.
You rolled your eyes and shook your head, then hitched your shoulder, cutting a look at the shield he was hooking onto his back. “They couldn’t make that thing any lighter for you?”
That kiss still on his mind, fresh on his lips, he had leaned down, cocky. “I thought women liked it heavy.”
In the RV, John pulled you into his body, your hips snug to his, your mouth slanting against his. He loved the way you kissed, desperate, hungry, like it was always the last time. You made a soft, sweet sound in your throat and it almost undid him, almost sent him clattering to his knees. His hands smoothed down your neck to your shoulders, outlining your sides, curling around your back. He had to make you feel it, how long he had been waiting, how much he never wanted to let go.
You broke the kiss gently, placing a softer, quicker kiss on his lips, leaning back to catch your breath.
“Come with me,” he said, husky, growling into another kiss. He needed more, because if you said no, if you rebuffed him, he wanted something to hold on to, a goodbye that didn’t fill him with needling shame. He nosed into your cheek, only stopping long enough to beg again. “Come back with me.”
“John, I can’t.” But you didn’t push him away. Your hands rested on his chest, absorbing his pulse. “Not yet. I…need time. And they need me here.”
I need you.
John sucked down a stuttering breath, inadequate to steady him.
“I need time,” you said again, and he knew that voice, the one that wasn’t just trying to make him feel better. Earnest. Afraid. He never trusted that it was love, but maybe this time…
“I’ll wait.” John closed his eyes, kissed your forehead; ten minutes had run down. “I’ll never stop waiting.”
John checked his cufflinks for the third time. He grimaced at his reflection, fixing his collar, adjusting his tie. There was something deeply depressing about attending a wedding with a platonic coworker; tenfold depressing when the bride was your ex-wife. He just couldn’t wait to field all the probing questions about his personal life, the one he had blown to smithereens with his usual deft touch.
There was a knock at his door. He called whatever was happening with his hair and his face and his suit good enough and twisted away from the mirror with a sigh. Yelena was in the hall, dressed in sweats, a Big Gulp in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other.
“That’s hardly black tie,” John said, horror clawing up his throat at the thought that he was now attending his ex-wife’s wedding completely fucking alone. Christ.
“What? The Big Gulp doesn’t do it for you?” she teased. “You should get going, you’re going to be late. Car’s downstairs.”
“You’re my date.” He smoothed a hand down his face. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Can’t go,” she said, coughing pitifully into her Doritos. “Sick.”
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” John brushed past her, thundering down the corridor toward the common room, where Bob was sitting on the couch, crisscross apple sauce, a giant bowl of popcorn and his own Big Gulp on the coffee table, supplies to watch the ball drop. “Thought we were teammates.”
“We are,” Yelena whined, chasing after him.
“Hey, man. You look nice,” Bob called from the couch.
“Traitor,” John huffed at Yelena’s back as she skipped over to the couch to join Bob. “This is traitor behavior.”
“Relaaax, always so dramatic, Walker,” she sighed, shooing him off with her Doritos hand. “I called in backup.” She looked at her watch with a flick of her eyebrows and a supremely smug smile. “They should be here…” The elevator across the common room dinged, letting someone out. “Now.”
You had always been a heartstopper, gorgeous in your Avengers getup, gorgeous in jeans and a sweatshirt, gorgeous in nothing. But John felt like his feet might lift off the ground when you clicked out of the elevator in your silk dress and heels. You looked a little shy, like maybe he wouldn’t be pleased to see you, like maybe you had made him wait too long.
And the bracelet. You were wearing his bracelet, the one and only piece of jewelry adorning your body.
“Heard you needed a date.”
Bob started applauding before you were even in John’s arms. But that’s where you wound up, where you belonged.
“Don’t stay out too late, you crazy kids!” Yelena shouted from the couch.
John didn’t care about fucking up your makeup; he planted one on you, long and lingering, tongue rolling against yours until you shivered against his chest and whimpered into his mouth.
“I hope I’m not too late,” you said, wiping a smudge of lipstick off his chin.
John took your hand, squeezing, settling you against his side, the edge of the bracelet warming against his wrist. “No, sweetheart, you’re right on time.”
John's had a habit of casual so you think you're just that
Mention of sex, unprotected sex, mixed signals
After John and Olivia split he honestly figured a certain aspect of his life was over. He had been with her since high school after all, he never once ever thought of cheating on her and besides who would want him after everything he’d done? Then one day it was like a switch got flipped. Women started flirting with him, a lot.
The serum made his libido through the roof and as long as he was honest with them that it wasn’t going to be anything, what was the harm in sleeping with them? He used protection, he made sure they were well satisfied. They were never around his son or flaunted in Liv’s face. No harm, no foul.
You were curled up in the common room with your head leaned over on Yelena. Bob was on her other side and Ava was fast asleep in the oversized recliner across the room. A new series Bob got interested in had dropped so all of you had stayed up with him to watch. That was a few hours ago and he seemed hell bent on finishing it so all of you were sticking it out with him even if it was early morning.
You heard a noise and leaned up, watching John shuffle out of his room, half asleep with the brunette he’d brought home walking behind him. He caught your eye and you saw the blush creep up his neck when he walked her to the elevator and hit his code so she could get down to the parking garage. The fucked out look she still had, along with the grin she gave him made your stomach clench. Especially when she purred, “Thanks for the fun night” before stepping onto the elevator.
“He’s a whore I swear” Yelena muttered when you settled back down. You heard John walk by and laughed lightly, trying to soothe your heart, “He’s just doing what men do. He lost the love of his life Lena. At least he’s careful with it. That’s what counts right?” you looked back up about the time John got to the end of the hallway and he was looking back at you. He winked then disappeared into his room. You shook your head, hoping your face didn’t betray you.
You never thought you’d develop feelings for John Walker of all people. He was brash at best some times, overly straight to the point at others. He rambled about football at random, had a bad temper, still needed more therapy than he’d agreed to and had a habit of keeping people at arm’s length.
He was also protective. When some reporters tried to ask you, Yelena and Ava sexist remarks about what you wore under your suits he’d made the man blush about fifteen shades of crimson when he went into heavy detail describing the boxer briefs he was currently wearing then demanded the man to tell the room what undergarments he was wearing since it was expected of the three of you to share such an intimate detail.
He didn’t let many people in but you’d managed to make it past those walls. The first time you’d found him after he’d had a flashback/nightmare you weren’t sure which, you hadn’t been sure if you should approach him or leave it be. You didn’t want to make it worse so you’d just hovered in the doorway of the media room. He’d been sitting on the small chaise lounge, a book next to him like he'd attempted to start reading to distract his brain and that hadn’t worked. When he’d realized you were there, he hadn’t tried to hide the hollow look in his eyes or the dried tears on his cheeks. He just whispered, “Lemar saved me that day. I would’ve kept going back even though I knew they were already dead. I didn’t want to leave them behind” you’d walked closer, not sure what to expect but he’d slipped his arms around your waist and laid his forehead over onto your stomach. “I can’t let anything happen to any of you. I’ve already lost too much. I’ve got to keep all of you alive”
Neither of you mentioned that night but it brought you closer you’d like to think.
John was a handsome man too. You would be a liar to say anything else. Tall, broad, that crooked grin that made your heart flip and those ocean blue eyes with that little spot in them that was darker. You hated how much you wanted him, how much you cared about him because while you knew for a fact he cared about you, knew he’d kill for you, you’d always just be his friend, his teammate. You would just have to learn to deal with it, you’d been burying it for this long, you could continue to do so.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with Yelena in the debriefing room. You could feel your jaw clench harder with every word Bucky said. A mission, undercover, you and John.
The plan was for the two of you to play the part of a couple, a seller for nuclear codes that never should’ve made it onto the market was open to offers. Yelena had been going back and forth with him through encoded messages, haggling prices and meetings. It was all set up. Now you and John just had to play the part.
Yelena held out the folder to you of your persona “At least you’re not married?” you scoffed out a laugh, opening the folder with a photo of you and the entire fake life that had so much background laid out this fake person was easier to trace than you were.
The backstory was you were an heiress to an old family. Was raised in the life, let John through him being an enforcer for your father. The two of you broke off into black market arms trading and had so far made millions. Your eyes trailed over the papers, one life catching your attention as you glared at Yelena “The hell is this?” she looked over your shoulder, shrugging at it “I thought it added to the story”
The line read Lukas is very jealous of Aria. Doesn’t like men even looking at her for too long. Hospitalized multiple enforcers of her fathers enemies because they just spoke foul of her. Aria isn’t much better when it comes to Lukas. Both are territorial of the other and will kill to keep the other alive. Can’t keep their hands off each other.
John glanced up from where he was undoubtedly reading the same line. He smirked but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I promise to be a perfect gentleman” you shook your head, “Oh I doubt you’d have the energy to do anything else” he grinned a little broader then, his teeth showing “Oh I’m just fine on the energy front. Stamina’s hell”
You shook your head and looked over at Bucky, “When’s the meeting and how long is this op?” he scrubbed a hand down his face, “Two days from now. The op will last three. From our intel he’s going to have people watching the two of you from the moment your boots hit the ground so you have to play into this as much as possible. We’ll be working with other agencies to line up so that all his safehouses can be hit simultaneously. If anything goes south you both know how to get an emergency pull”
You looked over at John, three days playing his girlfriend. Three days sharing a hotel room, having to play into a part that made it seem like you were both deathly in love with each other. Yeah, you’d be just fine.
You walked down the street with John, his arm around your waist. You were headed to lunch with the buyer. It was a premeet before he would actually drop the coordinates on where you two could meet him for the buy.
“You need to relax a bit more baby” John’s voice in your ear made you suppress a shiver. You cut your eyes up to glare at him and he smirked, “It’s just an op. Nothing different than any other time we’ve had to play pretend. Hell you’re better at this shit than I am”
You let out a breath, “I’m just sick of being watched constantly. It’s getting annoying. We’ve had to stay glued to each other just in case” he shrugged, eyes flickering across your face “I’ve been in a lot worse places” you rolled your eyes, “I’m sure you have”
“Yeah yeah yeah” he mumbled, squeezing your side just enough to pull a light gasp from you. “Easy Lukas!” he winked at you, “Don’t be so damn pretty when you’re annoyed with me Aria”
The lunch went amazingly well. Julian seemed to be well impressed with you both and invited you to an event at his estate. Luckily Mel had thought ahead and made sure you and John had black tie attire also.
You were standing in the bathroom of the suite, staring at your reflection. The dark blue dress fit you perfectly, skimming over your curves. You couldn’t help but think how it would make John’s eyes look even more blue. You shook your head to clear that thought before knocking on the door to make sure he was dressed. You really didn’t want to walk in on him half naked and try to function the rest of the night with that image in your head.
“I’m dressed” he spoke low so you stepped out. He was fixing his tie and cut his eyes up when you walked out and suddenly you were unsure about the dress because he seemed to have forgotten how to tie a tie.
John was trying like hell to talk himself out of getting hard from just seeing you in that dress. He was certain Mel was trying to kill him by sending it. It was the perfect shade of blue and dear christ you looked like the perfect mixture of sin and heaven itself in it. He hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until you chuckled, “That tie giving you issue?”
He glanced down at the loose tie and nodded dumbly “Yeah, guess so” you stepped forward, taking the tie in your hands. A few seconds later it was tied neatly. You patted his chest and smiled “Last performance Lukas then you can get back to your life I’m sure your phone has been going haywire” his eyebrows furrowed, what did you mean? “Huh?” you flushed slightly “Women trying to fit into your schedule”
Before he could answer you stepped away, grabbing your shoes to slip them on. He wanted to say something, defend himself against the hookups but what could he say? It was true. He knew his phone wasn’t blowing up however. They all knew it was one night. He didn’t want any of them over that.
He hadn’t wanted anyone over one night since Olivia but over the last few weeks his thoughts were moving into dangerous territory where you were concerned. You knew him as a person. You liked him as a person, you spent time with him, laughed at his dumb jokes, watched movies with him, cooked with him. You knew him for more than just his dick and his looks. That meant something to him.
You held out your hand and he slipped his into you, “Let’s get this over with” you mumbled with a laugh.
You were standing near the tables lined with more food than half the people in New York could eat in a month’s time. All you could think was how the people in this room could probably solve homelessness if they weren’t such wastes of air.
John had his arm around you, you were leaned back against his chest. You were on his left side, leaving both of your right sides free. The safehouses would be raided soon. You were almost out of this. John’s encoded phone buzzed so he pulled it out the inner pocket of his jacket. You turned to face him and saw the message from Yelena “Need to clone his computer hard drive. Office is top of the stairs to the left.”
You huffed out a laugh, “That explains why this necklace has a usb hidden” John nodded, glancing around the room, “How do we do this?” you glanced down at the champagne flute in your hand and swayed slightly, passing it off to the nearest server “Luka, I think I need to use the bathroom. Come with me love? I feel a little light headed” his eyes widened a bit but he schooled his features quickly enough “Of course darling” the server pointed up the stairs “To your right ma’am”
John followed close behind you, keeping an out for any guards. When you got to the landing at the top of the stairs he nodded “it’s clear” you veered left instead of right, taking the door Yelena had told you. Both of you slipped into Julian’s office. You headed for the computer while John stood by the door, listening for any footsteps. You popped the necklace apart and plugged it into the usb. John pulled the phone out and typed “Connected” to let Yelena know she had remote access. It wouldn’t take her but about thirty seconds. However thirty seconds in a house full of armed guards when you only had two handguns between you, no shield, no kevlar? It wasn’t a fight you were looking forward to because you knew John’s stubborn ass. He’d end up catching a bullet just to keep one out of you.
You watched the end of the drive turn colors, the screen on the computer changing too fast for your eyes to keep up. The phone in John’s hand buzzed and he glanced down to see it read “Finished. Get out”
He nodded to you so you plucked the usb out and he met you halfway the room gripping your wrist, “C’mon” right before his hand landed on the doorknob it twisted. Your heart leapt into your throat “What do we do?” you whispered as he turned to face you, tilting his head to the side, “Please forgive me for this?”
Before you could ask he had you backed against the bookshelf, one of his hands warm on your thigh as he hooked your leg up around his waist. His lips were warm, soft and surprisingly gentle as he kissed you, soft at first then his tongue pushed forward, bullying its way past your lips. The world fell away for a moment, the op, the fact that John slept around so much was why he knew what would feel good, the fact that this wasn’t real. You whined low, fingers gripping his broad shoulders to pull him closer, tilting your head to let him deepen the kiss even more, rocking your hips up into his. He grunted low, moving closer, one hand going up into your hair, tugging just enough to make you moan.
A throat clearing at the door made the two of you break apart. It was a guard looking highly amused. “Aria, Lukas. Mr Blackmoore warned me that the two of you may end up trying to find some privacy but I’m afraid his office isn’t a place he would appreciate you doing this in”
You knew you were flushed, hair tousled from John’s fingers. John didn’t look much better, his chest was heaving and he had to readjust the front of his pants in a way that made your thighs clench. “Sorry sugar” you whispered and the guard chuckled, “No harm, no foul sweetness”
“Easy with that” John damn near growled which just amused the guard more. He waved a hand “Gotta escort you two back downstairs" you hooked your fingers with John’s, feeling his pulse race when your pinky brushed his wrist. Yours was nearly as fast. You winked at the guard “Please don’t let this slip to Mr Blackmoore?” “Course not beautiful” he agreed with a nod. John’s grip tightened on your hand so you squeezed back, walking past the guard and heading for the stairs.
John turned over in his bed, trying and failing to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes all he could think about was how your lips felt, that little sound you made when he hooked your leg around his waist, your tongue tangling with his. Fuck, how you rocked your hips up against him. He’d been rock hard in front of that damn guard and hadn’t even cared. He would’ve fucked you right there had you asked him to. He would do so much more than fuck you. Maybe that was the issue. He wanted you in a way that scared him. He wanted to fall asleep with you in his arms, wake up with you still there. Make your coffee the way you like and get that little grin you’d saved for rare occasions pointed at him.
He finally gave up and threw the blanket off his legs, deciding to go grab a water or something from the kitchen. Maybe he could clear his head.
____________
You woke up panting, a fresh sheen of sweat coating your body. Fuck, how many times had you had that dream since that op? John, not having to stop because the guard came in. His fingers dipping below your dress, pushing into you, curling deep to hit that spot that made your knees weak, hitting his knees in front of you and feasting like a man starved, bending you over the desk in that office and fucking you until you were hoarse from screaming his name and absolutely weak.
You scrubbed both hands down your face. As if your raging crush on John needed wet dreams added into the emotional ones. “Fuck” you muttered, tossing your blanket off. You needed some water and forgot to fill up your cup before bed.
You stepped out of your room, the hallway a little chilly as you padded down it to the kitchen. You could see the light was on but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. None of you had healthy sleep patterns. Maybe it was Bob raiding his cookie stash or Ava bringing out that fancy tea she kept hidden.
You pushed the door open and froze. Sitting on a bar stool with his back turned to you was John. Your eyes trailed across the scars, moles and freckles that littered his back. The urge to trace them with your fingers was nearly overwhelming. You had no animosity towards Liv but damn if you didn’t hate every single one of his hookups for getting a chance to do just that if they had a brain in their heads.
He lifted a shoulder “Couldn’t sleep?” of course he knew you were there without you having to say anything. “Not really” you walked around the counter to see he was twirling a glass of water between his palms. It wasn’t nightmares that had woke him, you knew that look. This wasn’t it.
You tilted your head, staring at him “What’s wrong John?” he cut his eyes up, let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff “Nothing. Why are you up?” you nodded to his cup “Needed water” he held it out “Want some?” you knew you probably should resist the urge to tease him but the words were falling out of your mouth before you thought about it, “Have you kissed anyone lately?”
The corners of his mouth ticked up, holding your eyes he said “Not since I had my tongue down your throat” you swallowed hard, feeling a jolt go straight through your core. “Fair enough” you took the glass from his hand, your fingers brushing. He watched you for a moment, eyes drifting over you. “Sorry about that by the way”
You sat the glass down, trying to resist the urge to laugh. He was apologizing for probably the best kiss you’d ever gotten and the most action you’d seen in a year. “No worries Walker. I wasn’t exactly complaining about the whole not getting shot thing…” you trailed off, your eyes landing on the wall behind his head before you added “Plus you’re a damn good kisser”
“Even better when my tongue is in other places” he muttered and your eyes flew up to his. He looked just as shocked as you did. “John?” he ducked his head, scrubbing a hand down his face before he took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself before saying “I can’t stop thinking about you, about that. If you want to fuck I’d love to see what would’ve happened had that guard not interrupted” you knew it was a bad idea, knew you were just going to be another notch in his shield but fuck you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anyone.
You nodded slowly, walking towards the door and his face fell until you let your fingers trail over his back “You coming or what?” you spoke close to his ear and he looked up at you, blue eyes wide. “Really?” you nodded, “Show me what you’ve got”
______________
You stumbled back into John’s room, his mouth moving from yours down to your neck. He backed you against the door as soon as it was closed, his hands slipped under your shirt, warm and calloused on your skin. “You really want this?” he asked, lips against your skin. “Please” he pulled your shirt up the next moment, baring your upper half to him.
He groaned, palming one of your breasts and dipping his head down to roll the nipple of the other between his lips. “So damn pretty, so sweet” he murmured the words into your skin, his free hand slipping lower, hesitating on the waistband of your sleepshorts. You nodded, grabbing his wrist and easing his hand down lower. He moaned when his finger brushed over your core, feeling how wet you already were. “This for me?” he asked, pulling away from your breast, leaving it shining with his spit, a fresh mark on your skin from his mouth. You nodded, barely able to form words when he nudged your panties to the side and buried two thick fingers into you. Your head fell back against the door, a silent scream getting caught in your throat when he found that place deep inside of you, curling his fingers expertly over it as he circled your clit with his thumb.
You could feel that tension building in your stomach, he moved back up to your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours, swallowing your moans as he fucked you on his fingers. You were right on the edge and when he sped up just a bit, twisted his wrist just slightly, your orgasm slammed into you. You whimpered his name into his mouth, your knees shaking. He worked you through the orgasm, only stopping when you pushed at his hand. He slipped his fingers free of you, chuckling when your knees wobbled. He brought the digits up to his fingers, licking them clean. Your thighs clenched at the sight. He grinned, “Think you’re ready for more?” you nodded, “Please” he leaned down to pick you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct and that put your core right over his hard cock. You moaned, rolling your hips down and he groaned, grip tightening on you “Let me get to the bed”
He walked over to the bed, bracing one knee onto it to climb up with you. He laid you down, his broader frame pressing you into the mattress. You tugged him down with you, lips finding his again even as you lifted your hips to wiggle out of your shorts and panties. He pushed his sweats off, kicking them off the bed and wedging himself between your thighs. He broke away from the kiss, moving down your neck, licking over your pulse point “You’re sure?” you nodded, slipping your hand down to wrap around his hard cock, whimpering slightly at the mere weight of it in your hand. He let you line him up with your opening before he slowly pushed into you. Your head fell back against the pillows, a moan leaving you and the prettiest groan falling from John. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire in the best way, you’d never been filled so completely. Once he bottomed out he stilled, eyes wide “Fuck. I forgot a condom” you laughed then moaned when that action caused you to clench around him and he rocked his hips forward without meaning to. “Have you used one every time?” he nodded, eyes dropping from your face to where he was bared inside of you, bare, nothing between your bodies. “Always, never wanted to risk it. I guess I got caught up with us living in the same place”
You shrugged, tugging him into another kiss “I’m on birth control John. I haven’t had sex in a year” he dropped his face to your chest, the tremor in his muscles telling you he was fighting himself “Sweetheart I can pull out and put a condom on. I didn’t mean to go bare” “It’s ok John, just fuck me please” you were starting to feel pathetic. “Unless you changed your mind?” you added and his eyes shot up, a near panicked look in them “What? No”
You rocked your hips up, moaning when that caused you to take him deeper. “Then show me why most of New York wants to sleep with John Walker” he growled low, teeth grazing your chest, “Red if its too much” you nodded, buried your fingers in his hair and tugged hard enough his eyes rolled back a bit when you were able to pull him into a kiss “It won’t be too much. Now fuck me like you mean it Captain”
You woke up, a delicious soreness between your legs, body probably covered in marks from John’s teeth, a feeling of slight beard burn between your thighs and a heavy weight around your waist where his arm was tucked. You closed your eyes, the memories from the night before crashing back into you.
“Feels so damn good” John moaned, one hand bracing himself, the other under your body, splayed wide across your lower back to hold you close. Every thrust took your breath he was going so deep. You could hear the bed knocking into the wall with every snap of his hip but the pleasure shooting up your spine made any worry quickly disappear. Your nails digging into his shoulders, him telling you to mark him up. The way it felt when you came for the fourth time, body trying to give into exhaustion at that point. Him being hell bent on making it five before he allowed himself to cum. The way the bed had cracked just as both of you had reached that peak together, neither of you caring as you clung to each other, the aftershocks rolling through your system as he kept fucking you, your pussy milking his cock for every drop of cum.
You scrubbed your hand down your face. You could feel his cum drying on your thighs, still feel the faint ghost of his lips on your skin. Fuck you could not let him wake up after a night that meant so fucking much to you only for you to be faced with the reality that you were indeed just a notch in his shield.
You looked around, spotting your shorts and panties. Your shirt was by the door. You had an escape route planned. You were trying to figure a way out when his arm shifted just enough, loosened just enough you were able to shift the pillow you’d been laying on under it in your place. You slid off the bed onto the floor, waiting for a few seconds and when the only sound was his breathing you stood up and quickly snatched your clothes on and slipped out of the door.
________________
John shifted in his sleep, the scent of your shampoo hitting his nose. He slowly woke up, memories from the night before hitting him.
“John” just hearing you say his name, every other woman since Olivia had used Walker even in bed. Even if they said his name, it didn’t sound like it did coming from you. Seeing the look in your eyes when you came, the way you clung to him even tighter, buried your face so damn cutely in his chest, whining out his name, begging him to not stop even when you were quivering under him. You snuggling up to him as you dozed off.
He reached out to pull you into his arms, the words “Do you want to go out with me?” resting on the tip of his tongue but they died when he realized the other side of the bed was empty, cold. You were gone. He sat up, glancing around. The bathroom door was open so you weren’t in there. No, you’d just fucked him and left him. So much for the possibility of you having feelings for him too.
You walked into the kitchen, shooting Yelena a smile when she spotted you. She was talking to John but the moment she greeted you his shoulders tensed. You smiled brightly at him, “Morning John” he nodded “Morning”
You headed for the coffee maker but the moment your back was turned you heard John mumble something about training and he left the room. You turned back to see Yelena looking between you and John’s retreating form “Something happen?” you shook your head “Not that I know of?”
You couldn’t deny it any longer. John was acting weird towards you, only you. At first you’d thought maybe it was close to an anniversary of some sort. Those could be hard but then the closer you paid attention the more apparent it became he was freezing only you out. You didn’t know what to do. Your heart ached. You never should’ve let those lines get crossed, never should’ve given him your body for a night when he’d already had your heart for months.
____________
John was certain it would hurt less if you’d shoot him than treat him like nothing had changed. Everything had changed. He couldn’t think of anything but you. He didn’t go out anymore, deleted every number from his phone that wasn’t team or Liv. He just never expected things with you to be what they’d become.
He was trying to find the book he’d been reading. He wasn’t sure where he misplaced it but Bob told him to ask Yelena because she’d redone the library in the tower. He was about to knock on her door when he heard your voice drift through “I.. I know it was just sex to him, just another hookup. I’ll never be in his life like Olivia was, I’ll never be better or even close to her but I don’t know why he suddenly hates me now” his heart hit his feet. Was that what you thought? How you felt?
You were never just a hookup to him. He didn’t know how to prove that, fuck he’d been treating you so badly since he woke up alone.
A few nights had passed since John overheard your conversation with Yelena. He headed into the kitchen and froze when he realized you were sitting at the counter. He almost walked out but dammit he wasn’t losing another woman he loved without a fight. “Can we talk?” he asked softly, already bracing himself for you guilting him, being angry at him because he deserved it for the way he treated you. He hadn’t been prepared for you to look up, eyes wide with unshed tears, looking like your head and head couldn’t decide between heartbreak and anger. “What did I do?” you asked in the smallest voice he’d ever heard come out of you.
He dropped his head, unable to meet your eyes when he admitted, “You weren’t there when I woke up” He heard the moment you froze, only your breathing letting him know you were still there but he continued “Heard you and Lena talking about it. It wasn’t just a hookup to me and I realize how it probably looked to you” he finally raised his eyes to you and god he hadn’t been prepared for a look of guilt to be on your face because none of this was your fault. He should’ve made it clear what that night was after bringing so many women through.
“John..” just hearing his name on your lips made him close his eyes for a moment before looking back at you. You gave him a small smile then looked away and took a deep breath “I wasn’t there when you woke up because I couldn’t face being just another woman to you with how I feel about you”
The breath caught in his throat as you continued “Wouldn’t have been able to face both you or myself again had I interpreted amazing sex as more than just that” you trailed off and he took a hesitant step closer “We should’ve talked earlier” he mumbled and you nodded, a shaking breath leaving you.
You finally looked fully at John, the raw honesty on his face making your heart ache. “Sweetheart, that night meant more to me than any other night has ever. To have you trust me like that, to finally be with you like that, to be with someone who mattered to me, who I mattered to, that I cared about as deeply as I care about you.. I that I would die for, live for” he trailed off and you couldn’t take it any more. You moved off the stool and covered the last step to being in his arms, burying yourself in his chest because you didn’t ever think he’d feel like that. “Just live for me John” you got out, muffled by his shirt because he’d wrapped both arms around you.
“Are you saying this can be something more? I don’t want another hookup, I couldn't do it after you. You mean too much to me, that night meant too much to me” you closed your eyes at his words, kissing his chest over his shirt. “I want this to be something John, I just couldn’t think of you being with anyone else after that”
John sighed in relief, body relaxing as yours did, both of you holding onto each other just a little tighter. You looked up at him, a small smile “Come lay down with me? Just hold me” god he could die happy on the spot. The reality of you wanting him in innocent ways too, wanting him to hold you, just wanting to be with him. You actually wanted this as much as he did.
“Anything you want baby” he whispered into your hair.
_____________
You tucked yourself against John’s chest once you were both in your bed. His arms were locked tightly around you and you couldn’t stop the little satisfied sigh that fell from your lips. He looked down and you smiled up at him “This is real isn’t it?” he asked softly with his lips against your temple. You nodded, scooting closer “Very real”
He kissed your temple, hand smoothing down your back, “I just want to be yours sweetheart” you kissed his chest, right over his heart since he’d slipped his shirt off, “You are mine John and I’m yours” he sighed in relief closing his eyes tightly for a moment, “Fuck I thought I’d lost you”
You leaned up to press a kiss to his lips, “Never love” his eyes flew open, pupils blown and you laughed “What is that reaction?” he shrugged, “You called me love” you got a bit worried “Is that.. Is that ok?” the grin that slipped onto his face told him everything you needed to know “I love it more than anything” you laughed, laying back against him “Good, then get some sleep. Yelena is gonna be giving us hell” he chuckled, tucking you closer “She can give me all the hell she wants I’ve got you in my arms”
“Quit sweet talking, you’ve got me” you teased and he shook his head, “Nope, never”
C's corner: I guess I wanted to give Em and John one more soft, heated little moment before all hell officially broke loose. But I promise, this is not the end for them. Not even close. We’re heading straight into the storm now, and I’m already thinking ahead into the TFATWS timeline, which means things are only going to get messier, heavier, and so much more complicated.
So buckle up, loves. The universe has teeth, and it is about to start biting. 🫠
This is written in second POV, but reader will have a name, Mara Hart, it won't be used often, but will pop up every now and then, especially her nickname, Em, and from here on out Hart.
WARNINGS: 18+ only, MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex within an established relationship, birth control mention, grief, pregnancy loss references, trauma after the Snap, emotional breakdown, panic/anxiety, complicated love triangle feelings, guilt over moving on, Bucky-related grief, John Walker angst, fear of abandonment, military orders/separation, canon Endgame events beginning, mentions of bringing back the blipped, Steve/Nat grief, heavy emotional conflict, hurt/comfort.
✍🏽 WC: 11K+
SUMMARY:
Just when you begin to believe you can hold onto something warm, the universe reminds you how quickly hope can turn dangerous. Caught between love, grief, and the possibility of an impossible future, you find yourself clinging to the one person still standing in front of you, even as the past begins knocking at the door.
TAGS: @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies, @quantumlethe, @qvicksilversass, @daylightandthedreamer, @mencantaleer, @amnatreal, @sebastians-love, @spectralexiletrace, @weasleyswizarding-wheezes, @lilulicious (to be added to the tag list CLICK HERE)
You start taking birth control again without telling John. Not because you're trying to trap a future in your hands. Not because you have suddenly become brave enough to believe the world will let you keep anything.
You do it quietly, same time every day.
A pill at the sink with a glass of water. One tucked between brushing your teeth and stealing one of John's shirts from the clean laundry basket.
Before bed, when the apartment is dark and John's arm is heavy over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck, his body a solid, living thing behind yours.
You count the days.
You tell yourself it is practical. Sensible. Just another small thing you can control in a world that has never stopped putting its hands around your throat.
But that's not the whole truth. The whole truth is softer. More dangerous. The whole truth is that next time, you want to feel him.
All of him.
The thought terrifies you so badly that the first time it fully forms, you stand in John's bathroom with the little pack of pills in your hand and stare at your own reflection until you almost don't recognize the woman looking back.
You should feel guilty.
You do feel guilty.
Bucky's charm sits in John's bedroom, tucked away where you left it the night before. Not hidden, not abandoned, just not on your body.
That almost makes it worse.
Because there was a time when you would have sworn you could not breathe without the cold silver wolf pressed to your skin. There was a time when taking it off felt like treason, like grief had hands and you were prying its fingers loose one by one.
Now, sometimes, you forget it's not there until your fingers reach for your throat and find only warmth. Only skin, only you.
It makes your chest ache. It makes your stomach twist. It makes you take the pill anyway.
Because John is not a replacement. You know that now. He's not a bandage pressed over another man's wound. He's not a punishment. He's not proof that you loved Bucky less.
He's John.
Stubborn, infuriating, golden-headed, too careful with you sometimes and not careful enough with himself. John, who kisses your knuckles when he thinks you're asleep. John, who keeps tea in his cabinet even though he only drinks coffee because you once said the smell helps when your hands shake. John, who tells you he loves you like he's handing you something breakable and trusting you not to drop it.
John, who has never once asked you to remove Bucky from the room.
That's why you do it.
Because next time, you don't want grief between you.
You want his skin. His breath. His weight.
His name in your mouth without another ghost listening from the doorway.
You are in his kitchen a few weeks later, barefoot in one of his shirts, stirring something on the stove that barely deserves the dignity of being called dinner, when the front door opens.
John's keys hit the small bowl by the door.
You hear the tired drag of his boots first. Then the soft curse under his breath when one of them refuses to come off properly.
The sound pulls a smile out of you before you can stop it.
"War hero defeated by footwear," you call.
"Boot had it coming," John answers.
His voice is rough. Tired in the way base makes him tired lately, scraped thin around the edges. You turn the burner down and glance over your shoulder as he steps into the kitchen.
He stops when he sees you.
His eyes move from your bare legs to the hem of his shirt, then up to your face. Slowly. Like he's trying to be a better man than he is.
You lift your brows. "What?"
John's jaw works once. "Nothing."
"That was not a nothing look."
His mouth twitches. "You're wearing my shirt."
"I do that a lot."
"Yeah." He takes one step closer, then another. "Doesn't mean I've gotten used to it."
Heat crawls up your neck, sweet and traitorous.
You turn back to the stove because looking at him feels like standing too close to a fire with paper ribs. "Dinner is almost ready."
"Is it?"
"Mhm."
"What is it?"
You look down at the pan. "Uh... Food."
John laughs. It's tired, quiet, but it's real. It loosens something in your chest.
"Food," he repeats, coming up behind you. His hands find your hips.
You lean back into him.
That is all it takes.
His breath changes against your hair. Your own fingers tighten around the spoon.
For one second, neither of you moves.
Then John lowers his mouth to the side of your neck. It's not even a kiss at first. Just the brush of his lips, warm and almost absent. A small point of contact that lights through you anyway.
"Hi," he murmurs.
You close your eyes. "Hi."
His hands flex at your hips. "Missed you."
"You saw me this morning."
"Still missed you."
Your smile shakes a little.
You turn in his arms, abandoning whatever tragedy is happening in the pan. John looks down at you, and the kitchen light catches the tired shadows beneath his eyes, the faint tension in his mouth, the exhaustion he keeps trying to fold small enough to fit behind a smile.
You reach up and touch his cheek.
John's eyes soften immediately.
"Love," he says, low.
You kiss him before he can ask what's wrong.
He catches you on instinct, one hand sliding to your back, the other cupping the side of your face. The kiss starts soft, then you open for him, hungry, and the change goes through him like a live wire.
His hand drops from your face to your waist, then lower. Yours curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until his body presses you back against the counter. The spoon clatters somewhere behind you.
John lifts his head just enough to breathe. "The stove."
"Off," you say, already reaching blindly to twist the knob. The flame dies with a soft click.
His control frays, but he doesn't let it snap. Instead he kisses you deeper, slower, like he's savoring every second. His hands slide under the hem of his shirt on you, warm palms mapping your thighs with quiet reverence. When his fingers brush higher and find you bare and already wet, he lets out a shaky breath against your mouth.
"Em..." The way he says your name makes your chest ache.
Without another word, John grips your waist and lifts you effortlessly onto the counter. The cool tile meets the backs of your thighs as he settles you on the edge, your legs parting naturally around him. He steps in close, still kissing you, soft, lingering kisses that trail down your jaw to the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His hands slide slowly up your thighs, thumbs stroking gentle circles, until he gently pushes them wider. You watch his head dip as he lowers himself, sinking to his knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The sight of him there, between your spread legs, eyes dark with quiet awe, makes your breath catch.
This is new. Intimate in a way that feels almost sacred.
Heat floods your face as you realize how exposed you are, sitting on his kitchen counter with nothing underneath his shirt, thighs spread wide for him. Your hands instinctively move to cover yourself.
John catches your wrists gently before you can.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice low and steady. "None of that."
You swallow, mortified heat creeping up your neck. "John... you don't have to... I mean... I'm..." Your words tangle.
His expression softens even more. He brings one of your hands to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, never breaking eye contact.
"Look at me, love."
You do, reluctantly.
"I want this," he says quietly, firmly. "I've wanted to taste you for a long time. You're beautiful. Every part of you. Especially like this, wet and trembling for me."
Your throat tightens. The sincerity in his voice melts something tight in your chest. You nod, small and shaky, and let your thighs relax open again.
John's eyes darken with quiet hunger and something deeper. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh first, then another higher up, like he's giving you time to feel every second of it. When his mouth finally reaches your center, it's gentle. He kisses you there too, slow, tender presses of his lips against your slick folds before his tongue traces a warm, careful line up through your wetness.
You gasp, fingers threading gently into his hair.
He hums softly, the vibration sweet against you, and takes his time exploring. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, lapping at your entrance, circling your clit with patient reverence, learning exactly what makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble around his shoulders. One of his hands stays on your hip, thumb stroking soothing circles over your skin, while the other gently parts you so he can taste deeper.
It feels like worship.
"John," you whisper, voice breaking on his name. The tenderness of it undoes you more than urgency ever could.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing against you. "That's it, love. Let me hear you. You taste so fucking good."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, part embarrassment, part overwhelming want. Your hips twitch involuntarily.
He smiles against you, then seals his mouth over your clit and sucks softly, tongue flicking in slow, deliberate circles. When he slides one thick finger inside you, curling it lovingly against that perfect spot while his mouth works you, you come with a shuddering cry, slow and deep and overwhelming. He stays with you through every pulse, licking you softly, tenderly, until the last tremors fade and you're boneless against the counter.
Only then does he rise, lips glistening, eyes dark with awe and hunger. He kisses you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue, and you melt into it, arms wrapping around his neck.
He lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you down the hall, mouth still moving against yours with quiet intensity. The bedroom door bounces lightly when he shoulders it open
He lowers you onto the bed with care, but the hunger that was held back in the kitchen is still there, simmering beneath the surface. Clothes come off in a heated but unhurried tangle.
John braces over you, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours with raw need and something softer. He reaches toward the nightstand for the familiar foil packet.
You catch his wrist.
John freezes.
You swallow. "You don't have to."
His eyes snap to yours.
The room goes very quiet.
For a second, the only sound is both of you breathing.
John's throat works. "Mara."
"I started taking it again."
He does not move. Does not blink.
"When?"
"A while ago." Your thumb brushes over the inside of his wrist because you need something to do with your hands. "I waited. I counted. I'm not being reckless."
His face changes slowly. Want, yes. But beneath it, fear. Concern. Something almost wounded.
"You didn't tell me."
"I know."
His expression softens in a way that hurts.
"Why?"
You look away. The room blurs at the edges. Not with tears. Not yet. Just with the weight of too much truth pressing down at once.
"Because I wanted it to be my choice first," you say quietly. "Before it was ours."
John's fingers curl around yours.
You force yourself to look at him again.
"I wanted to be sure I wasn't doing it because I was scared," you continue. "Or because I was trying to prove something. Or because I wanted to erase anything."
His eyes flicker, and you know he understands what you are not saying.
Bucky, Wakanda, the charm, the baby-shaped grief you never got to hold.
John lowers himself back over you, but there is no rush now. No impatience. He touches your cheek with the back of his fingers.
"And are you sure?" he asks, voice low. "About this. About me. Like this."
Your chest aches. "Yes."
His jaw tightens. "You don't have to do this for me."
"I'm not."
"Love."
"I want you," you whisper. "I want this with you. All of you. No barriers. No ghosts."
John closes his eyes.
The words land somewhere deep in him. You see it, the way his body trembles once, the way his breath comes out uneven, the way he looks almost afraid of how badly he wants to believe you.
When he opens his eyes again, they are bright.
"If anything feels wrong," he says, voice rough, "you tell me. Even halfway through. Even at the last second. I need you here with me."
You nod. "I will."
He searches your face one more second, then kisses you slow, deep, and devastating.
His hand slides down between your bodies.
You are still wet, slick and aching for him. His fingers stroke through the heat of you, gathering it, circling your clit until your hips jerk and a soft, broken moan slips from your throat into his mouth. He swallows the sound like it belongs to him.
Then he notches the thick, bare head of his cock against your entrance.
The first touch of skin on skin makes you both shudder.
John's breath punches out of him. "Jesus, Em..."
You wrap your legs higher around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and pull.
He pushes forward.
The stretch is slow, deliberate, and overwhelming in a way it has never been before. You feel every inch of him, hotter, thicker, smoother without anything between you. Your body opens around him inch by inch, fluttering and clenching as he sinks deeper.
The sensation of bare skin sliding against bare skin is devastatingly intimate; you can feel the subtle ridge of the head, the thick vein along the underside, the way he pulses and twitches as your walls grip him. A low, throaty moan escapes you, your fingers tightening hard in his hair. The fullness is almost too much and not enough at the same time.
John groans, deep and guttural, forehead dropping to yours as he buries himself to the hilt. "Christ... you feel unreal. So warm. So tight around me." His voice cracks on the last word. "I can feel everything. Every flutter, every pulse... fuck, love, you're so wet for me."
He stills there, buried deep, throbbing inside you with nothing between you. Both of you shaking. You can feel every tiny shift of his hips, every beat of his heart through the connection. The intimacy of it is terrifying and perfect.
A tear slips down your temple.
John lifts his head instantly, eyes sharp with concern.
You shake your head before he can speak and pull him down into a kiss, messy, desperate, full of everything you cannot say. "Don't stop," you whisper against his lips. "Please. I need this. I need you."
Something in him breaks.
He begins to move.
Slow, deep thrusts at first, each one dragging a soft, helpless sound from your throat. The wet, intimate slide of him inside you fills the room. Skin on skin, the slick sound of your bodies meeting, his low grunts every time he sinks back in. You meet him, rolling your hips up, taking him deeper, and he hisses your name like it hurts.
"John..." Your voice breaks on a moan as he angles his hips and hits that spot inside you that makes your vision spark. Your nails rake down his back. "Oh God... right there..."
He groans, low and wrecked, and does it again. Harder, but still measured, still tender. The pace builds, steady and relentless, his head bowed over you, sweat beading on his skin. Every thrust pushes a breathy whimper or moan from your lips. You cannot stop making sounds, soft, needy, broken things that only seem to make him move deeper, more deliberately.
His hand finds yours above your head, fingers lacing tight. The other grips your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you as he fucks into you with more urgency now, but never losing that careful attentiveness. The headboard taps the wall in time with his thrusts. Your moans grow louder, less controlled, your body tightening around him in helpless pulses.
"That's it, love," he rasps against your ear, voice rough and shaking. "Let me hear you. Let me feel you come on me."
The words shove you over the edge.
Your climax crashes through you hard, your body clenching rhythmically around him, pulsing, drawing him deeper as a cry tears from your throat, high and broken. Your legs shake around his waist. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Pleasure whites out everything else. You can feel every throb of him inside you as your walls squeeze him, the wet heat of your release coating him.
John curses, low and vicious, his rhythm faltering as your walls milk him. "Mara... fuck... fuck..."
He buries his face in your neck and thrusts once, twice more before he stills deep, hips jerking as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses. You feel every spurt of it, the warmth flooding you, marking you, the intimacy of it almost too much. He groans your name like it is being ripped out of him, body trembling hard against yours, breath ragged against your skin.
For long moments, neither of you moves.
Just the sound of both of you breathing like you have run miles. His heart hammering against yours. The slow, sticky warmth between your thighs where he's still buried inside you.
John lifts his head slowly. His eyes are glassy, wrecked, soft in a way that makes your chest ache. He brushes damp hair from your face with shaking fingers and kisses you, slow, reverent, like you are something holy.
"You okay?" he murmurs, voice hoarse.
You nod, pulling him closer so he stays right where he is a little longer. "More than okay."
He smiles against your skin, small and real and a little dazed, and settles his weight carefully over you, not crushing, just grounding. The connection lingers, warm and intimate and perfect.
Something in your chest settles.
No ghost. No barrier. Just this.
Just him.
He doesn't pull out right away. Neither of you wants him to. John shifts only enough to roll onto his side, taking you with him so you stay tucked against his chest, one of your legs hooked over his hip. The movement makes him slip a little deeper for a second, and you both exhale at the same time, soft, shared sounds in the quiet room. He keeps one arm banded around your back, the other hand stroking slow lines up and down your spine.
You stay like that until the trembling eases, until the sweat cools on your skin, until the only thing left is the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear and the faint, intimate ache between your legs.
Eventually his breathing evens out. Your own eyelids grow heavy. You don't remember falling asleep, only the feeling of his fingers still moving lazily along your spine and the low murmur of his voice saying something soft you don't quite catch.
When you wake, the bedroom is dim. The sheets are tangled around your legs. John's heartbeat moves beneath your ear, steady and stubborn, knocking against your skull like proof.
You should get up. You should shower. You should check your phone.
Instead, you let yourself stay.
John's fingers move lazily along your spine.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
His voice is rough with sleep.
You turn your face into his chest. "Yes."
"You sure?"
You smile faintly. "You ask that a lot."
"Going to keep asking."
"I know."
His hand pauses. "Do you hate it?"
You lift your head enough to look at him.
His hair is a mess. There is a crease from the pillow on one side of his face. The tiny freckle on his left earlobe is visible in the low light, and something inside you clenches with impossible tenderness.
"No," you say. "I don't hate it."
His mouth curves, small and sleepy. "Good."
You touch the freckle with the tip of your finger.
His eyes close on a quiet exhale.
"Mine," you whisper.
He opens one eye. "You're possessive after sex."
Your face heats instantly.
John smiles wider. "Interesting development."
"Shut up."
"Never."
You pinch his side.
He catches your hand, laughing softly, and kisses your knuckles.
The sound of his laugh in the dark almost makes you believe you can keep this.
Almost.
The next day, support group ends early because the woman who usually brings coffee starts crying before Steve even finishes asking how everyone is doing.
No one blames her.
There are days like that. Days when grief walks in before anyone else and takes every chair in the room.
Steve handles it gently. He stands in front of the half-circle of folding chairs with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and that careful, steady expression he wears when the whole room wants to come apart.
He doesn't force anyone to talk. He doesn't make it noble. He just lets everyone leave with whatever pieces they managed to carry in.
You help stack the chairs afterward.
Steve folds the last chair and slides it against the wall.
"You heading back to the compound?" he asks.
You glance at your phone. No messages from John.
He's probably still at base. He had kissed you goodbye that morning with his uniform half-buttoned, his hair damp from the shower, his mouth lingering at your temple like he hated leaving.
You had watched him go with the bedsheet wrapped around you and an ache in your body that had made your face burn every time you moved.
"I think so," you say. "John's probably tied up for a while. I wanted to see Nat anyway."
Steve nods. "I can drive you."
You hesitate for half a second, then nod. "Thanks."
Outside, the air is bright and cold enough to sting your cheeks. Steve's car is parked near the curb. He opens the passenger door without making a thing of it, and you roll your eyes before climbing in.
"Careful," you say. "Someone might mistake you for polite."
Steve gives you a tired little smile. "Can't have that."
As he pulls away from the building, you take out your phone. You stare at John's name for a moment.
Then you type.
You: Heading to the compound for a while. Support group ended early. I'll come over later.
You pause. Your thumb hovers. Then, before you can overthink it into dust, you add:
You: I love you.
You send it quickly and shove the phone into your lap like it might bite you.
Steve doesn't comment. You're grateful for that.
The drive is quiet at first. Not uncomfortable. Steve has a way of making silence feel like something with walls and windows, not a locked box. You watch the city pass by in muted pieces. Half-empty streets. Buildings with too many dark windows. A traffic light changing for cars that aren't there.
The world is quieter now. It has been for years. You should be used to it.
When the car starts over the Hudson, you turn your head toward the water, more out of habit than interest. Then you see them.
At first, you think they are shadows. Long, dark shapes moving beneath the surface.
You sit forward. "Steve."
He glances over. "What?"
"There."
He follows your gaze.
The water breaks.
A whale rises slow and enormous, its back gleaming gray beneath the pale light. Then another. And another farther out, moving through the river like the world has forgotten humans ever told it where it was allowed to breathe.
Your mouth parts.
For a moment, you are not in Steve's car. You are not on your way to the compound. You are not a woman with blood on her hands and two men carved into her heart.
You are just someone watching whales move through the Hudson.
"They're beautiful," you whisper.
Steve slows a little, just enough that the car behind him honks weakly and then gives up.
"Nat said there were reports," he says. "More marine life moving back in. Less traffic. Less noise."
"Less people," you say.
Steve doesn't answer right away.
The whale slips beneath the water again. The river closes over it like nothing happened.
Your chest tightens.
It's a strange kind of wonder, seeing the world heal around the wound that killed half of it. Like the planet is taking a breath while everyone left behind is still choking.
"I hate that it's beautiful," you say.
Steve's hands tighten on the wheel.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."
By the time you reach the compound, your phone still has not buzzed.
You try not to look at it. You fail three times.
Steve parks, and the two of you head inside. The compound feels too large when it's quiet. It always has. Too much glass, too many corridors, too many empty rooms pretending they were designed that way.
You hear Natasha before you see her.
Not words at first. Just the low murmur of her voice coming from the main room, clipped and controlled in a way that tells you she's either managing an operation or trying very hard not to fall apart. Sometimes those are the same thing.
You follow Steve in.
Natasha is standing near the screens, one hand braced against the table. Her hair is pulled back, red fading into blonde at the ends, and her face has that pale, exhausted look she gets when she has been awake too long and feeling too much.
Several holographic feeds flicker above the table. Rhodey's image disappears just as you enter, leaving the room strangely empty.
Natasha doesn't turn right away.
Steve watches her.
You do too.
Her shoulders rise and fall once.
Then she says, without looking at either of you, "One of you better have brought dinner, because I'm about two minutes away from making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and threatening people with it."
Steve's mouth twitches.
You stare at her. "That is either the saddest threat I've ever heard or the most Natasha threat I've ever heard."
She finally looks over. Her eyes are wet. She hates that you notice.
So you pretend not to. "I can make it," you say.
Natasha points at you. "See? Useful."
Steve steps closer. "Nat."
"I'm fine."
"No one asked."
"That was your mistake."
He gives her a look. The kind only Steve Rogers can give, all quiet stubbornness and impossible patience.
Natasha looks away first.
You move toward the small kitchen area before either of them can turn grief into an argument. The bread is where it always is. Your hands move through the simple task, and for some reason, that's what nearly gets you.
Bread, peanut butter, jelly.
The absurd little survival of ordinary things.
Behind you, Steve and Natasha talk quietly. You catch pieces of it, enough to know they are circling the same wound they always circle.
Moving on. Not moving on. What they owe the dead. What they owe the living.
You press the sandwich together harder than necessary.
Natasha appears beside you, silent as smoke.
"You okay?" she asks.
You give her a look. "You're asking me that?"
"Deflection. Cute."
"Learned from you."
Her mouth softens.
She reaches for the plate, but you hold it out of reach.
"No. Sit."
Her brows lift. "Are you ordering me around in my own compound?"
"Yes."
Steve, from across the room, says, "I support this."
Natasha points toward him without turning. "Traitor."
You shove the plate into her hands. "Eat."
For a second, she looks like she might argue. Then her face shifts. Not much. Just enough.
She takes the sandwich. "Fine," she mutters. "But only because I respect your tyranny." She takes a bite and chews like it personally offended her.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.
A screen projects in front of Nat, she simply swipes it away.
Steve glances toward one of the monitors.
Then he stills.
You frown.
"Who is that?"
On the security feed, a man stands outside the front gate.
He is disheveled. Wild-eyed. Thin in a way that makes his clothes hang wrong. "Oh... hi... hi... is anyone home? This is Scott Lang..." He waves both arms at the camera like he is trying to convince the entire building not to blink him out of existence. "...we met a few years ago, at the airport in Germany..."
Steve steps closer to the screen.
The man leans toward the camera, talking fast. You can barely understand what he's saying, but you can see the panic in his face.
Natasha's sandwich lowers slowly.
Steve says, "Is this an old message?"
Natasha reaches for the controls.
The timestamp flickers.
Her face drains of color. "No," she says. "It's the front gate."
For one suspended second, none of you move.
Then you are already running.
You do not remember deciding to.
Your body moves before your thoughts catch up, feet pounding through the corridor, past glass walls and empty rooms and polished floors that throw your reflection back at you in fractured pieces.
Behind you, Steve calls your name.
You keep going.
The front gate camera buzzes when you hit the access panel. Your fingers are clumsy on the controls.
Outside, the man looks up as the gate begins to open.
He stumbles forward almost before there is enough room.
You catch him by instinct.
One hand hooks into the front of his jacket, the other braces against his shoulder before he can fold straight onto the pavement. He makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, eyes blown wide, face pale beneath the grime and confusion clinging to him.
For half a second, he looks at you like he expected a ghost and got a knife instead.
"Hi," he wheezes.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Then his mouth twitches with a nervous, terrified kind of recognition. "You were there too, right? Germany? Airport? There was a lot going on. Big guy. Spider kid. Giant me. Very weird day."
Your grip tightens before you can stop it. "Scott Lang?"
Relief flashes across his face so fast it almost breaks him. "Yes. Yes, that's me. Scott Lang. Ant-Man. Formerly missing, apparently, which is news to me and not the fun kind."
His breathing hitches. His eyes flick past you, toward the compound, searching the empty grounds like they might explain themselves if he looks hard enough.
"Is this still the Avengers compound?"
You release his jacket slowly, but you keep one hand near his arm when he sways.
"Yes."
His knees almost give out at the answer. "Okay," he whispers. "Good. That's good."
It doesn't sound good. It sounds like the only piece of the world that has stayed where he left it.
You glance back toward the security camera, knowing Nat and Steve are probably already moving.
Then you look at Scott again. At the hollow look in his face. At the way he keeps blinking too fast, like the sky is brighter than he remembers.
"What happened to you?"
Scott lets out one thin, broken laugh.
"I was really hoping someone here could tell me what happened to everyone else first."
The words settle cold in your stomach. You step aside, giving him room to pass through the gate.
"Come inside."
"Thank you," he says, and the gratitude in it is so raw that you have to look away.
He takes one step, then another, but his balance is wrong. He catches himself too late.
You move without thinking, sliding beneath his arm before he can hit the ground.
You adjust his arm around your shoulders and start walking him toward the compound.
Scott does not fight you after that.
The doors slide open before you reach them.
Steve is there.
Natasha stands beside him, her face already losing color.
Scott falters against you.
For one suspended second, nobody speaks.
Then Steve says his name like he is afraid the wrong tone might scare him back out of existence.
"Scott?"
Scott lets out a shaky breath.
"Captain America."
It's not reverent. It's desperate.
Steve moves forward immediately, but you do not let Scott go until Steve's hand settles against his shoulder, steady and careful.
Natasha's eyes scan Scott from head to toe. The trembling hands. The sunken cheeks. The look of a man who has crawled out of somewhere the world does not have a name for.
"How did you get here?" she asks.
Scott's face twists.
"Have any of you ever studied quantum physics?"
He looks from you to Nat then Steve, then back toward the open hall behind.
"Five years ago... before Thanos," he says, voice cracking around the words. "I was in a place called the quantum realm."
The words mean nothing to you.
Not at first.
They land with no shape, no teeth, no gravity. Another piece of science sitting in the air between people who have survived too many gods, too many monsters, too many impossible things to laugh at it.
But Natasha stills.
Steve's grip on Scott's shoulder tightens slightly.
Scott sees it and starts talking faster.
"It's like its own microscopic universe, to get in there you have to be incredibly small. Hope she's my... she was my... she was supposed to pull me out, and then Thanos happened and I got stuck in there"
"I'm sorry, that must've been a very long five years" Nat says apologetically
"That's just it, it wasn't" Scott looks down at himself like he's still trying to prove he's real. "for me it was five hours"
Natasha looks at Steve.
Steve looks at Natasha.
You feel the air change.
Not hope this time.
Something worse.
Possibility.
Scott hands move as he talks, restless, nervous, trying to catch invisible pieces out of the air.
"So. The quantum realm. It doesn't work like regular space. Or regular time. It's not linear in there. At least, not the way it is out here. Time can stretch or shrink or fold in ways that make absolutely no sense."
Scott's gaze drifts to the table to the sandwich sitting there. He blinks at it like it might disappear.
"Is that anybody's sandwich?" he asks, already reaching for it.
No one answers.
He grabs it anyway. "Sorry, I'm starving" he mutters, taking a bite like he hasn't eaten in days.
Steve's voice is low. "Are you saying time travel?"
Scott hesitates. Then he gives a helpless little shrug.
"I'm saying I don't know. I'm saying maybe. I'm saying there has to be a way to use it. To navigate it. To go in at one point and come out at another."
Natasha's face drains of everything but focus.
That frightens you more than grief.
Grief makes her human.
Focus makes her Natasha Romanoff.
Steve leans back slowly.
Scott looks between them, almost pleading now. "Look, I know how it sounds. I do. But this is real. I was there. I came back."
The words move through you like a blade under skin.
I came back.
Not survived. Not endured. Not learned to live with the empty spaces.
Your hand rises before you can stop it, fingers closing around the wolf charm beneath your shirt.
The metal is warm from your skin.
For five years, it has been the closest thing you have to a grave marker. For five years, Bucky has been dust, memory, a hand reaching for you and vanishing before your fingers could close around his.
You hear his voice in your head. You feel Wakandan rain. You feel the negative test box. You feel the moment your body emptied itself of a future before you ever had time to name it.
Natasha sees your hand move. Her gaze catches on your chest, on the place where the charm hides. Something wounded passes across her face.
You drop your hand.
Too late.
Steve leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on Scott like the world has narrowed to a single point. "If this is possible..."
He doesn't finish, he doesn't have to.
Natasha does. "We could get them back."
The room tilts.
You hate her for saying it. You love her for saying it. You want to slap the words out of the air before they can grow teeth.
Scott's eyes fill.
"All of them?"
Natasha doesn't answer right away.
No one can.
Because all of them means too much.
All of them means names, faces, the dead turning back into people with voices and hands and demands and questions.
All of them means Bucky.
Your throat closes.
Steve turns toward you.
That is how you know your face has betrayed you.
"Mara."
You push off the wall. "No."
Natasha sits straighter. "Em."
"No." Your voice is calm in a way that makes Scott flinch. "You do not get to do that."
Steve stands slowly. "We don't know if we can."
"That's my point."
Natasha's expression tightens. "We have to try."
You laugh. It's ugly, small and empty. "You always say that right before someone gets buried."
Natasha rises from her chair.
Scott looks like he would very much like to become small again.
Steve says your name once more, softer this time.
That softness almost breaks you.
You look at him. "Do you know what happens if this doesn't work?" you ask. "Do you know what it does to people to lose them twice?"
Steve doesn't answer. He lost Bucky before you ever knew Bucky existed.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Everyone in this room knew how to lose someone.
None of you knew how to survive almost getting them back.
Natasha steps closer, careful now. Not cautious like she is afraid of you. Careful like she loves you and knows exactly where the wounds are.
"Em, listen to me."
You shake your head.
"No, you listen." Your voice cracks on the edge of it, and you hate yourself for it. "For five years, I have learned how to live in a world where he is gone. Badly, maybe. Wrong, maybe. But I learned. I had to. You made me. Steve made me. The whole damn world made me."
Natasha's eyes shine.
You keep going because stopping would kill you.
"And now a man shows up at the gate talking about time folding itself into a miracle, and you want me to stand here and act like that doesn't rip me open?"
Scott whispers, "I'm sorry."
You look at him.
He shrinks back.
The anger drains out of you so fast it leaves you cold.
You're not angry at Scott Lang.
Scott Lang looks like a man who woke up inside the wrong century and found grief waiting with paperwork.
You close your eyes.
When you open them, Natasha is closer.
"Bucky," she says quietly.
The name hits the room like a body.
You turn away.
Too slow.
Natasha catches your wrist before you can leave. Not hard, just enough. "Don't run from this."
You look down at her hand. There are a thousand things you could say.
Don't touch me.
Don't say his name.
Don't make me want this.
Instead, you whisper, "What if it doesn't work?"
Natasha's face crumples for half a second before she builds it back into something steady.
"Then we survive that too."
The words should comfort you, they don't.
They land between you and Natasha like something too heavy for the floor to hold. Something cracked down the middle. Something still breathing.
You stare at her hand around your wrist.
She loosens her grip, but she does not let go completely.
That makes it worse somehow. The softness. The restraint. The fact that she's not trying to force you into hope. She knows better than anyone what hope can do when it grows teeth.
Your phone buzzes.
The sound slices clean through the room.
Everyone looks at you.
You almost don't want to check it. For one second, you imagine letting it sit there until the battery dies, until the world ends again, until every impossible thing outside your skin decides to stop asking you to feel it.
But your hand moves anyway.
John: Still at base. I'm sorry, love. Gonna be home late.
Your throat tightens.
A second message appears before you can even breathe.
John: I love you.
The room disappears. It shrinks down to those three words glowing in your palm.
John, warm and alive and still here.
John, who kissed you that morning like leaving the apartment was an act of violence.
John, who didn't know that somewhere between support group and the compound, the universe had found a new way to put its hand around your throat.
Your fingers curl around the phone until the edges bite into your palm.
Natasha sees your face change. "Em."
You shake your head once.
No. Not here.
Not in this room with Scott Lang looking haunted and Steve looking like someone put a match in his chest and Natasha already building the shape of a plan behind her eyes.
You cannot stand here while hope starts gathering weapons. You cannot watch them reach for the dead with both hands. Because if they pull hard enough, if they bend time until it screams, if they bring everyone back...
Bucky comes back.
Bucky comes back and the whole world you have barely survived building collapses under your feet.
Bucky comes back and you are not the woman he left behind.
Bucky comes back and John is here.
John is here.
John loves you.
Your chest folds in on itself.
"I have to go."
Natasha takes one step toward you. "Em, wait."
"I can't be here."
Steve moves carefully, like you are something injured and sharp. "Mara, no one is asking you to decide anything right now."
You laugh, but it barely makes it past your teeth. "That's funny, Steve."
His face shifts.
You hate that. You hate that you can hurt him this easily and still want to do it again because everything inside you is screaming.
"You already decided," you say. "The second Scott walked in, you decided."
Scott looks down at the floor. A small, guilty sound leaves him. "I really didn't mean to ruin anyone's day."
You close your eyes.
God.
Poor man.
You open them again, softer this time, even though softness feels impossible. "You didn't."
He doesn't look convinced.
Natasha's voice drops. "Where are you going?"
You do not answer fast enough.
Her expression tightens with the kind of fear she knows how to hide from everyone except you. "Em."
"To John's."
The name changes the room.
Steve looks away first.
Natasha doesn't.
"Are you going to be safe?"
The question should insult you.
It doesn't.
You are too tired for insult. Too tired for pride. Too tired for the version of yourself that would bare her teeth and make sure nobody saw the blood.
You swallow hard. "I'll be at John's."
Natasha studies you for a long second.
You can see the war in her face. The operative. The friend. The woman who wants to keep you in her sight because too many people have vanished from rooms she thought were secure.
Finally, she nods. "Keep your phone on."
You look at the screen again. John's message is still there. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You don't answer him, not yet. If you do, you might start crying in front of everyone, and you have already lost too much ground today.
You tuck the phone against your chest.
Then, because you hate yourself a little and love Natasha more than is safe, you force the words out.
"Please keep me posted."
Natasha's face cracks. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe, but you notice.
She nods once. "I will."
Steve steps closer. "Do you want a ride?"
You shake your head. "I'll take a cab."
"Mara."
"I need air."
Steve's mouth closes.
He knows when to push. He knows when not to.
This time, he lets you go.
You barely make it out of the room before the first tear falls.
The compound corridors blur around you. Glass and steel and too much empty space. You walk fast, then faster, until your boots hit the outside path and cold air slams into your face.
It helps, not enough, but it helps.
You call a cab with fingers that don't feel like yours. The app confirms the ride. Eight minutes.
Eight minutes is enough time for Bucky to say your name in your memory.
Sweetheart.
You bend forward, hands braced on your knees, trying to breathe around the wound splitting open inside your ribs.
Bucky in Wakanda, smiling at you like sunrise had learned how to be shy. Bucky touching the wolf charm before he gave it to you.
For luck.
Bucky turning to dust with your scream stuck somewhere behind your teeth.
John in the kitchen, sleepy and barefoot, kissing your shoulder while coffee burned in the pot.
John calling you love like the word had not been made carefully enough for him.
John leaving in the morning.
John coming home late.
John still here.
The cab pulls up. You get inside before you can change your mind.
The driver says something polite. You do not remember what, you just stare out the window while the compound disappears behind you.
The city passes in broken pieces.
Every traffic light looks too bright. Every person on the sidewalk looks temporary.
You keep your phone in your lap. It buzzes once.
Natasha: We're talking through what Scott knows. Nothing is decided yet.
You almost laugh.
That was a lie kind people told when the decision had already begun walking.
You type back with shaking fingers.
You: Okay.
Then, after a second,
You: Tell me everything you can.
Natasha answers almost immediately.
Natasha: I promise.
That does it.
Not the quantum realm. Not Scott. Not Steve's face. Not the impossible, terrible word back.
That promise.
You turn your face toward the window and cry as silently as you can while New York moves around you like it has no idea the universe is sharpening another knife.
By the time you reach John's building, your face is dry.
Not because you are done crying.
Because your body has decided to conserve water for the next disaster.
You thank the driver. You climb the stairs instead of taking the elevator because standing still feels dangerous. The key John gave you sits heavy in your pocket.
You pause outside his door.
For one second, you think about leaving.
Not leaving him.
Just leaving the doorway. The apartment. The place where his life has started making room for yours in small, ordinary ways.
Your mug in the cabinet. Your hair tie on the bathroom counter. Your spare socks in the drawer he pretends he did not organize by color.
Your body remembers his bed before you even unlock the door.
Inside, the apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
John's jacket is gone from the chair. His boots are not by the door. The air still smells faintly like him, soap and laundry detergent and the coffee he drinks too strong because he claims anything weaker is "a beverage with commitment issues."
You close the door behind you and lock it.
Then you stand there. The silence presses in.
You move because stopping is worse.
You shower because you need to step out of the skin you were wearing when Scott Lang came back from nowhere. You need hot water. You need steam. You need something loud enough to drown out the word Bucky in Natasha's voice.
You scrub until your skin turns pink.
Then you get out, dry off, and pull on your own pajamas from the drawer John cleared for you. Soft cotton. Worn thin at the collar. Yours.
Not one of his shirts tonight.
You cannot handle borrowed comfort right now. You need proof that you still belong to yourself.
The wolf charm catches your eye on the sink. You stare at it.
For a moment, you see your hand closing around it in Wakanda. Bucky's fingers brushing your palm. His smile, careful and sweet. That tiny little thing becoming sacred because he was gone and it had stayed.
You pick it up. The chain slips cold through your fingers. You fasten it around your neck. The wolf settles against your skin, right over your heart.
A grave marker.
A promise.
A wound.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
Your eyes are swollen. Your mouth is pressed into a line. You look like a woman standing in the doorway between two lives, knowing both of them will hurt.
Your phone buzzes again.
Natasha: We need Tony. I'll let you know the plan.
You close your eyes.
Tony, of course.
The impossible had a route now. A name, a next step, probability.
That's what frightens you most.
Not hope, probability.
Hope is cruel, but fragile. Hope can be dismissed if you are brutal enough with yourself.
Probability has math behind it. Momentum. Teeth. A skeleton it can grow around.
The chance of Bucky coming back is no longer a prayer whispered into a pillow.
It's becoming a plan.
Your hand closes around the charm.
You walk into the bedroom and sit on John's side of the bed without meaning to. His pillow still holds the faint shape of him. You pick it up and press it to your chest.
That's where John finds you.
The front door opens nearly an hour later.
You hear the key turn first. Then the soft thud of his boots just inside. The pause that follows is pure John.
He has noticed something.
The light in the hallway, maybe. Your shoes by the door. The fact that the apartment no longer feels empty.
"Love?"
His voice is careful.
You sit up, pillow still in your lap. "In here."
There is another pause, then his footsteps come down the hall.
John appears in the bedroom doorway, still in uniform. He looks broad and tired beneath the harsh overhead light, shoulders held too stiff, jaw shadowed, hair a little mussed like he has been running his hand through it all day.
He should look familiar, he does, but something is off.
Not obvious. Not to someone who does not know him, but you know him now.
You know the way he fills a room when he's trying to be fine. You know the difference between tired and quiet. You know the way his eyes find yours first, always, like checking that you are still there is a reflex he cannot train out of himself.
Tonight, his eyes find you and hold.
Then they drop.
Your pajamas, your bare feet tucked beneath you, the wolf charm at your throat.
Something flickers across his face. Softness first, then worry.
"You're in your own clothes," he says.
It's not an accusation. Somehow, that makes it worse.
You look down at yourself. "Yeah."
His gaze lifts back to your face.
He sees the swelling around your eyes.
You see the exhaustion in his.
Both of you speak at the same time.
"What's wrong?"
Silence follows.
For half a second, it almost feels funny.
On another night, you might have laughed. John might have smiled, rubbed a hand over his face, told you ladies first with that dry, soldier-boy charm that makes you want to kiss him and shove him in equal measure.
But neither of you smiles.
John steps into the room slowly.
You stand. The pillow falls back onto the bed.
"What happened?" you ask.
His mouth tightens.
That's when you know. Whatever it is, he came home carrying it for you.
"John."
He looks away.
Your stomach drops.
"No," you whisper, even though you don't know what you are refusing yet.
His eyes snap back to you.
"Hey." He crosses the room in two strides. "No, no. I'm okay. I'm here."
"Are you?" The words leave you before you can stop them.
John freezes.
A terrible silence opens between you.
Your pulse turns loud.
"John," you say again, smaller this time.
He exhales through his nose. His hands settle on his hips, then fall away, like he doesn't know what to do with them if he's not reaching for you. "There's no easy way to tell you this."
Your heart starts beating wrong. "Tell me what?"
His jaw works. For a moment, he looks angry, not at you. At the ceiling. At the floor. At the uniform still on his body. At every system that has ever put orders in his hands and expected him to call it honor.
"Base is pulling me."
The words don't make sense at first. They're too simple.
Pulling me, like a thread, like a tooth. Like the universe has found another loose piece of your life and decided to tug.
You stare at him. "What?"
John's voice is rougher when he repeats it. "They're pulling me out. Special training. Maybe an assignment after that, I don't know. They haven't given me the full details yet."
Your body goes cold. "When?"
His face shifts.
That tiny flicker is enough to hollow you out.
"John."
"I don't know."
The room stretches.
He drags a hand over his mouth, frustration cutting hard through his expression. "They're being vague as hell about it. No firm date. No clear timeline. Just enough to tell me I'm going, not enough to let me plan around it."
You blink at him.
The words stack themselves inside your ribs until there is no room left to breathe.
"It could be days," he says quietly. "It could be weeks. I pushed for more, but they're not giving me anything solid."
Your hands lift to your chest. The wolf charm is there. So is your heartbeat, frantic beneath the metal.
John notices.
His face changes. "Love?"
You break.
It's not graceful. It doesn't start with a single tear rolling down your cheek like grief has manners. It comes out of you broken and sharp, a sound you don't recognize until John is already reaching for you.
You fold before he gets there.
One second you are standing, the next your knees give, and John catches you with a curse under his breath.
"Hey, hey, I've got you." His arms close around you. "Mara, breathe. Look at me. Come on, love, look at me."
You can't. If you look at him, you will see that he's real. If you see that he's real, you will have to understand that he can be taken.
John lowers you both to the floor, one arm locked around your back, the other cradling the side of your head as you bury your face against his chest.
His uniform scratches your cheek.
You hate it.
You grab fistfuls of it anyway.
"No," you sob.
"I know." His voice cracks. "I know, I'm sorry."
"No, you don't know."
John goes still beneath you.
You shake your head against him, trembling so hard your teeth nearly knock together.
"You don't know. You don't know, John."
"Then tell me."
You try. God, you try.
But the words are too big. Too impossible. They crawl up your throat and choke you on the way out.
John rocks you once, barely, like his body has remembered comfort even though his mind is panicking.
"Baby, you're scaring me."
That makes you cry harder, because he sounds scared.
John Walker, who faces armed men like stubbornness is a combat style, sounds scared with you falling apart in his arms.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
His face blurs through your tears. His hands hover at your shoulders, your neck, your cheek, touching and not touching like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter you further.
"They might come back," you choke out.
John's brow furrows. "What?"
You drag air into your lungs, but it doesn't stay. "The people who disappeared. The ones Thanos took." Your voice breaks apart. "They might be able to bring them back."
John stares at you.
For one second, nothing moves.
Not his hands. Not his chest. Not the air between you.
"What?" he says again, but this time the word is nearly soundless.
You nod, frantic now, because if you stop, the truth will swallow you whole.
"Scott Lang showed up at the compound. He was gone, John. He was gone for five years, but for him it was only five hours. He was in the quantum realm, and now Steve and Nat think there might be a way to use it. A way to go back, or through, or whatever the hell the science means."
John's face drains slowly.
You see him understanding in pieces.
His eyes drop to the charm at your throat.
There it is, the moment the room remembers Bucky with you.
Your hand flies to the wolf before you can stop it.
John sees that too. He sees everything you wish he would miss.
"Bucky," he says.
You flinch like he touched a bruise.
John's throat works.
"They think they can bring him back." You sob once. "They think they can bring all of them back."
He looks away only for a second.
But you feel it like a door opening over a cliff.
You grab his sleeve. "John."
His eyes return to yours immediately. "I'm here."
"But you're leaving."
His face twists. "I don't want to."
"But you are."
"I have orders coming."
The words snap something brittle inside you.
You shove at his chest, not hard enough to move him, just hard enough to give the pain somewhere to go. "Of course you do."
John takes it. He doesn't defend himself.
That makes you angrier, it makes you love him more.
"Of course," you say again, voice rising. "Because why wouldn't this happen now? Why wouldn't the dead start knocking the same night the military decides it gets to take you too?"
His eyes shine. "Mara."
"No." You push away from him and get to your feet, unsteady. "No, I can't. I can't do this. I can't stand there and watch Steve look hopeful. I can't watch Nat turn grief into a mission. I can't sit here and pretend the possibility of Bucky coming back doesn't rip every stitch out of me."
John rises slowly. He keeps his hands visible, open, patient.
That almost destroys you.
"And I can't lose you too," you whisper.
His face breaks.
You press a hand to your mouth, but the words keep coming. "I can't. I know that's selfish. I know it's ugly. I know he was gone first. I know I loved him first. I know what that charm means, John, I know what I buried with it. I know."
Your voice cracks so badly it hurts. "But you're here."
John's eyes close.
"You're here," you say again, crying now. "You're here and you love me and I love you and I don't know what that makes me if Bucky comes back."
He opens his eyes. There's pain there, jealousy too, maybe. Fear. But beneath all of it, there is John. Steady in the only way he knows how to be. Not gentle because it's easy. Gentle because he's choosing it with both hands around a wound.
"It makes you human," he says.
You shake your head. "No."
"Yes."
"No, it makes me awful."
"It makes you someone who survived."
You laugh through a sob. "Don't. Don't make it sound noble."
"I'm not." He steps closer. "I'm making it sound true."
Your lips tremble.
John reaches for you slowly, giving you every chance to refuse, you don't. His hands settle on your face.
They are warm, calloused... alive.
"You can love him," he says, and the words cost him. You hear the blood in them. "You can be scared he's coming back. You can be scared he won't. You can be scared of what that means for us. None of that makes you awful."
You squeeze your eyes shut. More tears slip free beneath his thumbs.
"And what about you?" you whisper. "Where does that leave you?"
John is quiet for too long.
When he answers, his voice is rough. "Right here."
You open your eyes.
He swallows hard. "For as long as I'm allowed to be."
The sound that leaves you is small and wounded.
John pulls you into him before you can fall apart alone.
You cling to him. You clutch at his uniform, at his shoulders, at the back of his neck, trying to anchor yourself to the only thing in the room that has not vanished yet.
His arms wrap around you so tightly you can barely breathe.
Good. You don't want space. Space is where things disappear.
"I don't want you to go," you sob into his chest.
"I know."
"I don't want them to bring him back and take you away."
John's breath stutters against your hair.
"I know."
"I don't want to choose."
His hold tightens.
You feel his lips press to the top of your head.
"Then don't tonight."
The simplicity of it cuts through you.
You pull back just enough to look up at him.
He brushes wet hair back from your cheek, even though it is already drying. Even though his hand is shaking.
"Tonight," he says, "you don't choose anything. You don't solve time travel. You don't grieve Bucky twice. You don't lose me before I'm gone." His thumb strokes beneath your eye. "Tonight, you breathe. That's it."
You search his face. "How can you say that?"
His mouth pulls into something that is almost a smile and nowhere near one. "Because one of us has to pretend to be sane."
A broken laugh escapes you.
John's face softens at the sound like you have handed him something precious and unstable.
"There she is," he whispers.
You shake your head, fresh tears spilling.
He kisses your forehead. The kiss lands above your brow, firm and reverent, like a promise he doesn't know how to keep but is making anyway.
"I'm scared," you admit.
John rests his forehead against yours.
"Me too."
That scares you more than anything else he has said.
John doesn't look away from it.
You breathe in.
Once.
Twice.
It catches the third time, but he breathes with you, slow and steady, until your lungs remember the shape.
His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, then down your arms.
"Did Natasha say anything else?"
You nod faintly. "They need Tony."
John's expression shifts. He knows enough to understand what that means.
The impossible has a doorstep now.
"And you asked her to keep you updated?"
Your lips part.
He reads the answer before you give it.
A small, pained pride flickers in his eyes. "Good."
You stare at him. "Good?"
"Yeah." His voice is quiet. "You came here because you needed to. But you didn't run all the way. You left a door open."
Your chin trembles. "I don't know if I want it open."
"I know."
Your phone buzzes from the bed, both of you look at it.
For a second, neither of you move.
Then John reaches over slowly and picks it up.
He doesn't look at the screen, he offers it to you face down.
Your hand shakes when you take it.
Natasha: Steve wants to go to Tony tomorrow. You don't have to come. I'll tell you everything.
You read the message twice.
Then a third time.
John watches you carefully.
You type back with one hand.
You: Okay.
Then, because tonight has already ripped you open and there is no dignity left to save,
You: Please don't leave me out of it.
The reply comes fast.
Natasha: Never.
You lower the phone.
John's eyes are on you.
You press the screen against your chest, right beside the wolf charm.
"I hate this," you whisper.
John pulls you close again. "I know."
"I hate that I want it."
His hand stills against your back.
The confession hangs between you.
There it is, the ugliest, truest thing.
You want Bucky back.
God help you, of course you do.
John exhales slowly, like he's letting a blade slide between his ribs and refusing to bleed where you can see.
"I know," he says again.
You pull back, frantic. "John."
"I'm not mad at you."
"You should be."
"Maybe later."
A startled laugh breaks through your tears.
His mouth twitches. "Tonight I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"Holding you together."
You crumble all over again, but quieter this time.
John gathers you in.
The apartment settles around you, dim and warm and painfully ordinary. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades. Somewhere across the city, Steve and Natasha are probably planning how to knock on Tony Stark's door with the end of the world in their hands.
Here, John Walker stands in his bedroom with your tears soaking into his uniform, two weeks ticking above both of you like a clock with a loaded gun inside it.
The wolf charm rests between your bodies.
Bucky's ghost.
John's heartbeat.
Your hand closes over both.
For tonight, you do not choose, you let John hold you.
For tonight, the dead stay dead, the living stay warm, and the universe waits outside the door with all its impossible teeth.
You’re finally over being touch adverse, at least where the team and John is concerned. That is until a reporter says some things that get under your skin
Mention of being touch starved, an asshole reporter, slight mention of sex
Between Sam and Curtis pretty much everyone that needed a bit of help had managed to find therapists that fit their needs. You’d brought up the fact that most of your life you’d been highly adverse to touch. When you weren’t actively fighting or getting wounds patched up, you never wanted anyone touching you but now you craved it.
Yelena would catch you laying across the couch to watch a movie and immediately wiggle her way under the blanket to fit with you. Bob would find you on the roof just enjoying a warm evening and sit shoulder to shoulder with you, offering you cookies out of his stash he’d hidden away from Alexei. Ava was comfortable resting her weight on you when she was half asleep in the morning and didn’t trust her own abilities to not space out on her. Even when Bucky would randomly pass you his arm fresh out the dishwasher and ask you to hold it for him. You found your people and you were no longer adverse to touch or to their touch anyways. You loved it and as far as John’s touch went?
You couldn’t get enough of John’s touch. The way he’d walk past and run his fingers along your back or side in the gym, slipping your arms around his waist in the kitchen and pressing your face into the empty space between his shoulders while he cooked. Cuddling into his side during movies, having a hand on his thigh during meetings, after sex the way he’d stay with his arms wrapped around you, just holding you. After solo missions when you’d meet him in the hangar, run to him and practically jump into his arms. That would be when you’d finally felt like you’d made it home.
You were so in love with him it hurt. You hadn’t told him yet. You couldn’t. Hell he’d been married to his high school sweetheart and Olivia was such an amazing woman. You wanted him to come around first, wanted him to say it first, if there was anything to say that was. You knew John cared about you, he would protect you with his life, held you like you were something worth losing, fucked you like it was his very reason for being on earth.
That was more than enough. Especially considering you’d never once had anything like you did with John before.
You were standing in front of John, leaning back against his chest. You’d pulled his arms around you halfway through the senator's speech and he’d pulled you back against his chest, stepping closer. “Cold or just wanna be closer?” he whispered into your ear. “Both” you laughed and you could feel his grin against the side of your face before he pressed a kiss to your temple.
Yelena fake gagged where she stood next to you. You rolled your eyes and opened your arms, she grinned and tucked herself into your arms like you were in John’s. Bob laughed at the image and Ava just shook her head.
There was a plus side to Yelena being a bit shorter than you. This angle worked even when you were both in heels. Bucky walked up to your group and shook his head “Should’ve known” you grinned at him. “Hey, is the senator almost done?”
He nodded, “We can almost wrap it up here” you grinned and Yelena looked over her shoulder at you, “Wanna come with me to grab some of those fancy desserts for the road?” Bucky sighed, “Please so she doesn’t take the entire tray again”
You laughed, leaning your head back to press a quick kiss to John’s lips. “Be right back baby” he nodded, “Ok sweetheart” and kissed you once more before letting you go.
____________
You were waiting for Yelena and Bob to get through bartering with catering, laughing at their need for lemon tarts when you heard your team being mentioned. You froze, hoping like hell it wasn’t some asshole.
The next thing you knew you heard John’s name. You stepped closer and heard “Gotta say, he’s doing pretty good considering but damn does she ever let the man breathe” who? Who never let John breathe? `you kept listening and your heart fell when you heard your name. “She’s a damn good hero. She does her job and saves lives but the man has got to be so damn tired of her always clinging onto him. You know he went from a normal marriage to a relationship with someone who is so desperately touch starved its pathetic”
You didn’t mean to let the words land as hard as they did. When you and John first got together you’d both had your issues. His marriage had been one for you both. He had felt like it was a betrayal to Liv to be dating, to having feelings for you. You felt like you’d never be able to compare to her. Now to have people talking like that, in public. For the woman the reporter was talking to’s credit she shut it down. “That’s not fair. You only see what happens in the public eye. Just because they touch a lot doesn’t mean he doesn’t like it” the reporter just scoffed. “Yeah” and walked away.
You stood there, staring down at your shoes, feeling like you may throw up. The entire room had shifted. It felt too hot. You didn’t ever register Yelena calling your name at first, not until Bob bumped your shoulder and held out one of the tarts. “Saved you one” you tried to smile, took it from him. “Thanks Bob” your act must have been convincing enough because he grinned.
Yelena eyed you, "Something is wrong” you shook your head, taking a bite of the tart in an effort to be convincing. “Just tired” she stared you down for a long time before nodding, “Come on then, lets go talk to Barnes and hopefully we can head home”
____________
When John saw you, Yelena and Bob headed his way a smile slipped onto his face. He expected you to slip back into his arms, wrap yourself around him like you always did. Instead when he reached an arm out for you, you barely let him pull you against his chest before you were pressing a kiss to his jaw and murmuring you were gonna ask Bucky if you all could leave yet and just like that as fast as he had gotten you into his arms you were gone again.
He told himself you were just tired. That was it. Your social battery wasn’t much better than his. The only difference was no one looked at you like they did him because you’d never publicly decapitated someone and you were absolutely beautiful.
When you got back to him, you smiled softly “Good news, Bucky said we can all head out”
The lot of you headed for the cars waiting to cart you back to the tower. On the way here you’d been sitting tucked into John’s side with Yelena in your lap, laughing brightly at something off the wall Bob had said. Now? You sat with a space between you and John wide enough your handbag fit with room, Yelena was talking to Bob and Ava low and you were quiet. “Are you ok baby?” John asked after a moment and you looked up like you’d been somewhere else entirely, a small smile on your face “Yeah love, of course”
You didn’t mean to let that reporter’s words fester the way they had but it was like a virus that had gotten under your skin and the longer you let it gestate the worse the symptoms got. You would catch yourself reaching for John in the kitchen, wanting to slip your arms around his waist. Then the words would make their way through your head again “the man has got to be so damn tired of her always clinging onto him”
You’d side step him and just reach for coffee instead to have something to do to distract your hands, opting to just stand near him while he cooked, hoping that wasn’t too much.
You didn’t stay in his hugs any more. You used to tug him back into you, snuggle deeper into his hold. Now you’d wiggle out after a few moments, making sure you weren’t clinging to him.
You found yourself digging up old interviews of him online. The ones with Olivia at his side. You spent too long watching how she was with him. The way she’d touch his arm or side but never more. She was the love of his life, his first love, the mother of his child and a civilian yet she could conduct herself better than you. John held no blame whatsoever if he was to get tired of you.
You pulled up interviews of all of you, filmed footage fans had posted and flinched like you’d been slapped seeing them side by side. You leaning back against John’s chest, laying your head over on his arm, whispering something in his ear. You really were pathetic. You needed to pull back, from him, from everyone. God they were probably so damn tired of you.
John didn’t know what to think. He was almost certain he hadn’t done anything, he wracked his brain trying to remember but no instant came to mind. Something was different, something happened that he didn’t catch.
He knew it before he found you asleep with your laptop, dried tears on your cheeks. He knew it when he felt you behind him when he was cooking, waited to feel your arms around him and the feeling never came, instead the sinking disappointment when he realized you’d just gotten coffee and were standing a few feet away.
He knew it when you wiggled out of his hugs after just a few seconds, knew it when you no longer wanted him staying inside of you, holding you close after sex. He knew it when you stopped getting close to him during debriefings, choosing to stand against the wall. He knew it when you opted out of movie nights, claiming headaches or tiredness.
He loved you so damn much it hurt. He never expected to feel that way about anyone again. You were never afraid of him, even before you got together, you challenged him positively at every corner. You weren’t afraid to be his. You would sink into his embrace if ambassadors from all over the world were watching, if you went on separate missions he’d have to brace his feet when he’d hear you coming in the hangar because you’d throw yourself into his arms. He loved it, loved feeling like he was yours, like you wanted him as much as he wanted you, like he was finally doing something right because if you’d gone from being so damn adverse to touch to wanting his he must have done something right.
He was willing to ask Yelena if he’d done anything, knowing she’d never miss a chance to roast him but he didn’t want to put words to what was happening. It felt like you were already halfway out of this relationship, like if you weren’t getting the physical contact you’d come to crave from him, maybe you were getting it from somewhere else and that was why you no longer wanted his.
That broke him. The idea of you with anyone else. He’d already lost Olivia. He didn’t know if he could survive losing you.
You were exhausted. Solo missions tended to kick everyone’s ass but at least you didn’t need a trip to medical. That was a plus. John and Yelena were both due back from their own missions too. Bucky and Ava had stayed back just in case either of you needed help or an emergency evac.
You trudged off the jet, seeing John across the way and Yelena already putting her gear away. John froze when he saw you, a small smile on his face. Every fiber in your being screamed to be in his arms, to run across the hangar and sling yourself into his embrace but the words “normal marriage” and “desperately touch starved” stopped you.
You walked to the lockers to put your gear away, John coming up next to you. His hand brushed your lower back and you struggled to not melt into it. “You ok?” he asked softly and you nodded, “You?” he sighed, “Am now” you swallowed hard, managed to get your emotions under control and turned to face him after securing your locker with your fingerprint. “I’m gonna go shower, ok?” you pressed a kiss to his jaw and turned to walk away before your heart absolutely burst out of your chest begging him to just hold you.
____________
John watched you walk away, feeling like his entire body was frozen. He couldn’t do this anymore. He looked up and Yelena was already staring at him. She nodded towards the hallway where you disappeared and he lifted a shoulder, letting it drop before following you.
He let himself into your room after he’d gotten a quick shower and sat down on the edge of your bed. He could still hear your shower running. He was trying to get his words straight in his head before you came out, didn’t want to flat out accuse you but needed to know.
___________
You’d heard the moment John walked into your room. He wasn’t trying to be quiet, didn’t want to spook you. Maybe that was why you were taking longer than necessary in the shower? You didn’t want to face him. Didn’t want to try to keep this distance so you didn’t lose him when all you wanted was to wrap yourself around him.
You slipped the shirt of his you’d grabbed from the dresser on your body. Towel dried your hair and stepped out. He looked up the moment you did and your heart flipped. God he was so handsome, so sweet to you, held you so gently. You missed him so much.
“Do you have someone else?” he asked and you froze, heart hitting your feet because you never thought he’d accuse you of that. He knew how you felt about cheating. “What?” he stood up, holding his arms out helplessly and looked so broken in that moment, “You don’t want me like you used to. You don’t kiss me first, don't want me holding you as much, barely acknowledge me after solo missions, I miss you and it feels like you’re halfway out of this”
Your face fell to match your heart. You took a careful step towards him, “Fuck John, I..: you struggled for words, “I don’t have anyone else, how could I? You’re the perfect man for me.. its just.. God it’s stupid, I know but I heard a reporter say how I’m probably too much for you because I’m too clingy and you are gonna get tired of me and I guess it got to me” you trailed off, eyes dropping because you felt so guilty for not realizing how you’d been making John feel.
“Too clingy?” John felt his eyebrows scrunch together because he honestly didn’t understand. He loved every time you wiggled into his arms, held onto him just a little longer, kissed him a little deeper. “I’m always on you or near you. It’s got to be too much at times. I didn’t want you getting tired of me so I backed off so I wouldn’t lose you”
John had to take a deep breath to not storm out and find the damn reporter that put that poison into your head that moment. He sighed, leaning his head down to catch your eyes, “And you almost lost me because you pulled away” he scrubbed a hand down his face looking around your room before saying, “I love you being clingy. I love feeling loved and god dammit I love you!”
Your mouth fell open, a bit shocked at John’s words. “You love me?” he nodded, sitting back down then held out a hand “At the risk of sounding clingy can you come here?” you walked across the room and he gently tugged you down into his lap, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Please come talk to me. Don’t go off some asshole’s comments or even your own worries. Please”
You nodded, laying your head over on the curve of his neck and he sighed in relief at having you that close again. He barely caught your whisper of “I love you too, by the way”
He shifted back onto the bed, laying down with you still draped over him. He pulled the blanket up around you both. Right before you dozed off he whispered “I love you, clingy and all” you huffed out a sleepy laugh, “I love you too” he was going to find that damned reporter, Yelena would help him but for tonight you were back in his arms where you belonged.
John woke up slowly, the feeling of you trying to nuzzle closer into his neck waking him. “I’m right here sweetheart” he mumbled and you shook your head, still half asleep, “Not close enough” his heart ached then because he realized what that distance you’d put between both of you had cost you too. You had tried so hard not to lose him, you’d been hurting yourself.
“How close do you want me?” he asked looking down to see you were already looking up at him with a shy smile, “As close as possible” your fingers were slipping under his shirt as you spoke. He grinned, “You sure?” “Please” you breathed, kissing down his neck.
He turned the two of you so your back was to the bed, his weight settling on top of you, “Whatever you want baby” he slipped the shirt over his head and tossed it, yours was next. You kissed him, tongue slipping past his lips to tangle with his, hand slipping below the waistband of his sweats and he groaned, “You want me inside you huh?” you nodded, pulling back to look up at him, “I love you and I’ve missed you so much” that killed him in the best of ways. He shoved the sweats down, nudging your legs apart. He couldn’t deny such a pretty request. “Gonna stay wrapped up in you as long as you’ll have me. I need you close” he murmured against your lips and you whined, hooking your legs around his waist, “The rest of our lives sound good?” “Sounds perfect to me”
When he lined himself up with your opening, pushing inside slow enough you could feel every vein and ridge he felt a shiver run through your body. “Fuck I missed you so much” you whimpered, lips against his. He nodded, kissing your lips then your cheek then your neck, “Missed you too sweetheart but that is never happening again” he gave a tentative roll of his hips and your back arched, hands gripping onto him like a lifeline. He chuckled low, “Fuck why would I ever not want you clinging to me? I’d have to be an idiot to not want the woman I love in my arms”
You buried your face in his chest but he knew you well enough to pinpoint when you were getting shy over something. He turned his head to nuzzle at your neck, “I love you so damn much, always want you near me” you moaned at his words, turning to face him and god the love in your eyes made his chest ache. “I love you so damn much too John, couldn’t stand the idea of losing you”
“You could never” he promised, wrapping both arms around you to keep you as close as possible, his hips rolling into your deep and slow, letting the pressure build at a lazy pace. You had all morning to make love to each other, he’d find that damn reporter later, for now it was all about making you see just how much he loved you and wanted you right here in his arms where you belonged.
Can I request some John Walker angst? An argument where his old insecurities flared up, he let some hurtful words fly before he thinks of it and can’t take it back
Love to make this big man sad !
cw: pure angst, no smut here just pain, but I left it open-ended just in case :>
John thought he was handling himself pretty well, then the topic shifted to your past.
It still made his throat itch to fraternize with Barnes, and now Sam Wilson had started showing up to these little outings. It needed to happen, John knew that; if the two teams were ever going to work together efficiently, then the old wounds needed to close, and sometimes a few cold beers were the perfect sutures. John hadn’t said much the first time you all gathered, the second time he allowed himself a few grumbled words, but now—thinking maybe the third time was the charm—he laughed here and there at the stories Sam and Bucky shared.
The hanging light over the round table was warm, red, giving the impression the four of you were sitting under a heat lamp. Everyone was on at least their third beer, though John had stopped keeping track. The only person who seemed ready to slow down was Sam; nursing his most recent one, getting thoughtful, reminiscing.
The booze was loosening tongues, playful jabs chasing around the circle now that it was established nobody was going to throw a punch. Bucky sat to John’s right, Sam to his left, and you across the table. All night, your foot rested against John’s, flirting, rubbing up his ankle, then resting in the crook of his boot. John liked it there, liked knowing that even among all these high-profile superheroes, your mind was on him first and foremost.
You were the one who had picked the ancient pool hall in Brooklyn. It looked like it hadn’t been renovated or changed much since the day it was built. The tiles were vintage, German phrases hanging from the ceiling on painted wooden boards. It kind of smelled like a dirty gymnasium, but the clientele leaned retirement community, and nobody gave the four Avengers in the back a second glance. Maybe the tattooed female bartender did, but she got over it quick, just acknowledging them with a nod, knocking a few beers off the tab.
“This place is a gem,” Sam was saying, sweeping his eyes around the perimeter, leaning back in his chair. Relaxed. Soft oom-pah-pah music played from a crackling speaker by the bar. Your foot crawled up John’s leg again, reminding him of all the ways you would comfort each other later, debriefing in your shared bed. You never judged him for getting a bit uptight around Barnes and Wilson. “How’d you find it?”
You heard Sam’s question a half-second late, distracted with John’s foot under the table. Sitting up, you ran your fingertip idly around the rim of your glass. John frowned; that was a nervous tell of yours. The question seemed so innocuous…
“Came here a few times,” you said, noncommittal, flashing John a weird smile. “A hundred years ago, in a previous life, when I worked for the man.”
That was code for when you worked with SHIELD, when you were managing field operatives, running comms, long before a drop of serum ever hit your blood stream. John knew about that era of your life; you had never tried to hide it from him. You were such an open book…
A sick feeling was building in his gut. He sat up straighter, recognizing the twitch in your jaw. Another tick. Your attention had switched to Sam, focusing there, a tight, imploring quality to your gaze.
Sam ignored it or didn’t see it, huffing out a dubious laugh. “I don’t think so. Not their style.”
Their. Your SHIELD colleagues. So, whose style was it?
You shrugged again, fidgeting with your glass, now very aware that all three men were staring at you. Bucky suddenly coughed out a dark laugh, drawing some quiet, inner connection.
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense,” he said. His eyes got softer and sadder.
Meanwhile, John’s eyes ping-ponged between everyone at the table. “Sorry. I’m lost. What makes sense?”
“That Steve would come here.”
Sam said it so matter-of-factly that at first it didn’t register. The name sank in letter by letter, each one colder and sharper than the last. John knew everything about you. Everything. He gulped down a bitter mouthful of nothing, pinning Sam with a look that could melt vibranium.
“Steve,” he repeated, almost choking on it.
Sam cleared his throat. Bucky pressed his lips together.
And you. You looked anywhere but at John. His foot retreated from yours under the table as his entire body encased itself in ice. Steve. Steve Rogers. Captain Fucking America. The first one. The real one. The beloved one. There was no quaint explanation for why this information had never been shared between you. John was turning a strangled shade of purple as he looked back to Sam.
“Yeah, man,” Sam said quietly, as if he was embarrassed on John’s behalf. There was an implicit warning buried in that tone. “He referred her for the program. And they—”
“Dated. Briefly.” You were the one to twist the knife. That made sense. That felt right. John couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.
Softly, apologetically, Bucky mumbled: “I thought you knew.”
John shook his head. “No. Guess I’m the last to find out.”
“It was like two months,” you hurried on. Under your jacket, buoyed by your unimaginable strength, strength that rivaled and perhaps surpassed John’s, your chest pumped. Faster, faster. “We had brother-sister energy. It was never going to work.”
Two months. Brother-sister energy. It didn’t matter. John had already pictured you in his arms, kissing him, falling apart at his touch, moaning his name. The bigger, better, nobler John. The perfect soldier and hero he could never be, according to the world and his own screaming mind, a mind that had spun up and was now going at warp speed, tangling itself against another problem.
Another question, another wound.
“What program?” he asked, taut.
By now, the other men at the table were sharing constant, fiddly glances, like they were trying to silently communicate which secrets to share or how to vanish while the two of you hashed this out. And in that pact, they had decided on nothing, leaving you to explain. You had never gone into the specific details of your serum, what generation, what lab, what team… Bucky had vouched for you when you joined up, mentioned a program John didn’t recognize, and it hadn’t come up again. The subject had always made you go quiet, and John got the sense there were bad memories buried there.
Now he had a shovel, now he was ready to dig up graves.
“Project Residuum,” you said, so quietly John had to strain to hear it. Your cheeks hollowed, your eyes withdrawing to a dark place, haunted. Your finger worked through the condensation left behind by your beer, drawing shapes.
“Horrible shit,” Bucky mumbled, giving you an assist that John wasn’t interested in acknowledging. “Ugly shit. She doesn’t need to go into it, man, she—”
“I think she needs to go into it,” John stated flatly, crossing his arms, sitting back in his chair. Staring. Spiraling.
“John—”
“It’s fine,” you said, interrupting Bucky before he could try to help you out again. “It was in Geneva. They had a recreation of the Erskine formula, but it was a volatile sample. And yes, it helped that I knew Steve, but he told me not to do it. He warned me not to do it. But the lab team thought I was a good candidate, that I could handle it.” Your eyes blinked shut rapidly, tongue darting out to wet your dry lips. “They were wrong. The radiation they used to activate the injections almost killed me. My skin was peeling off in sheets. They drilled a hole in my head because of the swelling. They gave me an emergency transfusion of Steve’s blood, it stabilized me.” Your eyes met John’s across the table, and his stomach lurched, trying to be in six places at once, none of them at that table learning that information. “The project was a failure, buried, written off as a cancer drug test gone wrong.”
He wasn’t proud of it, but it was the fact that Steve’s blood had been hiding in your veins that almost made him puke on the floor right there in the pool hall. In the German pool hall where Captain America himself had taken you, John’s girl, on a date.
John stood abruptly, nearly knocking the table over.
“I need some air.”
You caught up to him three blocks away from the pool hall.
John didn’t slow his stride, he was going to fly out of his skin if you tried to touch him, he just knew it, could feel the hurt converting to rage at a rate he couldn’t control. You walked beside him for a while, taking the measure of his pain.
“When were you planning on telling me?” John demanded, biting it out, hoping every word was sharp enough to draw blood. “Maybe never? Did you like that everyone was laughing behind my back, feeling sorry for you, sorry that you had to settle for the downgrade?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you flinch. Good. He veered off the sidewalk toward a shallow park carved out in front of a public school. A drunk couple stumbled by, laughing; he wanted to strangle them. Hands on the back of his head, he paced, every step working him up into a hotter froth.
“You know that’s not what I think of you,” you said, calm, calmer than you had any right to be.
John whirled on you, snarling, hand in a fist and that hand prodding toward you, just shy of your face. “I don’t know anything. Not anymore.”
“John…”
“No. This is fucking crazy. You know that, right? You know that this is fucking crazy?” He slapped both hands against his face, letting them drag until they were tangled in the collar of his shirt. It was too cold to be doing this outside. He didn’t care. He needed the crisp bite of the wind, or he was going to boil alive. And anyway, you both ran hot, hot because of the serum in your veins. That thought ratcheted up his anger to a new level, one that he felt in every cell of his over tuned body.
It was petty. Given everything he had learned, fixating on this felt childish, but it was the nexus, the thing he would never forget, the thing that made him want to vanish into the night.
“Did you fuck him.”
It was a question, but it came out like a death sentence.
“No.” You answered in that same collected voice, the one John was really beginning to hate. But then, you were the better person, of course you were, they wouldn’t put Captain America’s precious blood into you if you weren’t pristine. Perfect.
“Liar.”
John finally stood still, glaring at you across the space of three huge park tiles. He looked you up and down, weighing something, how much he needed to fuck up, maybe, how badly he wanted to transgress; acting out was what he did, what everyone expected. Right now, he wanted the worst lies about him to be true. He wanted you to hate him so he would have an excuse to make the break clean.
“It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that Steve Rogers was a gentleman.”
John’s eyes flared, the roar in his blood boiling over. “As opposed to what?” When you didn’t answer, John ate up the space between you, looming. “As opposed to what?” he asked, in a searing whisper. “What I am? Second rate. A disgrace. A mistake.”
You winced with each suggestion. That was when you tried to reach for him, cup his face.
John tore away, backing up, head cocked as a warning. And then the worst thing of all happened, worse than finding out Steve Rogers had touched you, worse than knowing you probably were stronger, faster, smarter, worse than the caustic burn of a secret…
You looked afraid. Afraid of him. Afraid of what he would do to you.
His shoulders fell, his knees almost buckling as his voice broke on the next question: “Why?” he wiped one hand across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this? In front of them?”
Your brows lifted and your mouth lingered open for a while before you gestured at him. “Because of this reaction, John. Because I love you too much to hurt you the way you want to be hurt. He didn’t mean anything, you mean everything.”
“Bullshit.” It was too close to the target, grazing his heart. John couldn’t have that. He could have humiliation, he could have pain, he could have loss, but he could not have mercy.
“I knew you would never let it go. Steve. The serum,” you replied softly, resigned. “It’s just this thing with you. That’s why. I didn’t want six mediocre dates and a bad experiment to tear you up inside forever. It didn’t seem worth it. And I guess I’m selfish, okay? I just didn’t want you to push me away, so I made a calculation, and I’m sorry it was the wrong one.”
“Sorry you got caught, you mean,” John sneered, shaking his head. He had already decided to self-immolate, already doused himself in the proverbial fuel, now he just needed to be courageous, light the match, give this train wreck the flaming end it deserved. John was already disappearing into the shadows, turning away, because if he saw your face after he said it, it would burrow deeper than anything he had learned that night. “And I’m sorry, too. Sorry you had to settle for such a piece of shit after bagging the real deal. I bet that burns you up inside, how close you came to being with Captain America. But don’t worry, sweetheart, you don’t have to put up with a loser anymore.”
He didn’t see you, but he heard you. Just one sound. One deep, pained gasp. Like he had slapped your face, like he had rammed you with a shield.
When John finally made it back to the Watchtower, your things had been moved out of his room. He had walked all night, manic, until dawn broke across the city and the sunlight reminded him that time existed. Where he had gone, there was no time, just suffering.
In the cold light of day, when he finally turned back and aimed his feet toward the tower, his anger burned out, leaving behind ash he could taste in his throat. John stared around at all the missing things, all the holes you had left behind—the side of your closet where you kept the outfits you wore out on dates with him, the empty outlet where you charged your electric toothbrush, the ergonomic pillow you needed after a neck injury. Your nasty, beat up house slippers that he was always giving you shit about. Your laundry basket. Your phone charger. Your favorite fleece blanket. The picture frame with your childhood dog and your family.
You.
He had worked up a pretty good “please for the love of God forgive me” speech as he walked home. There was no one to say it to, no hand to clutch, no eyes to search, not even a note explaining where you had gone.
And the fucked-up part was that he was starting not to care about the Steve Rogers of it all. Your system would have cleared that DNA from your cells years ago. Even more fucked up, John had made love to you the morning before; if anyone’s DNA was meaningfully present in your body, it was his. In the space you let him occupy. In the home you let him make. You were the closest actual thing to the life he had envisioned for himself—a symbol of courage and freedom, maybe a person who could’ve wielded the shield honorably, and unwittingly, he had been drawn to that person, to you, and willingly, he had thrown the dream away.
The room was spinning.
You always heard him out. Not this time.
This time, he had gone too far.
Everyone always left.
I didn’t want you to push me away.
He had to find you, had to make it right. When he turned, Bucky was waiting for him in the open doorway, the glaze over his eyes suggesting he did not want to stare at the pathetic half-empty bedroom, the aftermath of a disaster.
“I know,” John said, before Bucky could warn him not to make things worse, weirder, more awkward for everyone. “I’ll clean this up. I’ll apologize; I lost my head last night but I—”
“Good luck with that, man. She’s gone.”
Bucky’s voice was flat. Cold.
“What do you mean gone?”
He shrugged. “Vanished. Didn’t tell a soul what she was up to. Phone number is disconnected. Yelena’s on it, but if she doesn’t want to be found, or she doesn’t want to come in, we can’t force it.”
John could find you. John could force it. He swept past Bucky, charging out into the hallway. A metal hand closed around his wrist, drawing him up short. Bucky’s eyes burned into him, his grip tightening until John felt his bones creak.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
“I did this,” John said quietly, a tremor in his stomach warning him that he was going to be sick. “I…broke this. I’ll fix it.”
“Maybe the best thing you can do for her is to let her go,” Bucky said, loosening his hold.
John stumbled down the hallway, his mind made up. Letting go probably was the best thing he could do, but John was John, which was why he would do the opposite.
summary: in which you comfort john through the fireworks on the fourth of july
tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, john has heavily implied PTSD, gn!reader, festivities !, john centric, thunderbolts members mentioned, lightly proofread
words: 1.4k
a/n: ok i know I KNOW. that the fourth of july was two days ago. also i hate the fourth of july. BUT i had this idea and didn’t write it in time for the actual fourth, so im posting this for the first prompt of wyatt week 2026, ‘soldier boy’!! plz enjoy <3 @wyattweek
It used to be his favorite holiday. The Fourth was a time for family, and for celebrating all the good that John knew could and had come from the country he was proud to serve. But it wasn’t like that anymore. Now it was just a flashy reminder of everything he’d lost; the shield, his title, his wife and son, his best friend.
He always loved the food and the friends that came with the holiday. He never passed up a chance to break out the grill and watch everyone come together over delicious southern recipes. But ever since his time in the army, he wasn’t a big fan of fireworks.
Maybe things would be different this year, he thought. It was the New Avengers’ first Fourth of July as a team, he was seeing someone new—you—and the nightmares had been becoming less frequent. And John could cook, just like old times. They didn’t have a grill, but they had a stove. They also had Alexei’s box of ridiculous and likely highly illegal fireworks that they planned on setting off.
The first one goes off just as the sun is beginning to set. John is throwing another hot dog on the stove when a loud BOOM sounds from the balcony. He nearly flings his tongs across the kitchen from how hard he flinches.
You sit at the end of the kitchen island opposite the stove, and are startled by the sudden jolt of movement coming from your boyfriend’s direction.
“Yep, they work!” you hear Alexei call from outside, along with a couple curses from Bucky at the unexpected test run.
“You good?” you call to John, who is still facing the stove.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds quickly. “Just… didn’t expect them to start so early. I mean, it’s still daylight out,” he excuses with a twinge of irritation as he turns the hot dog with more force than necessary.
The next fireworks don’t happen until about half an hour later. The sun has set further into dusk and John is cleaning up the kitchen when another few smaller explosions ring out from the city. They’re farther away and don’t make him jump as hard as the first one, but his neck still twitches and his grip tightens on the pan he’s washing.
You’re helping Yelena and Ava set up chairs on the tower’s balcony to watch their makeshift display when Bob strolls into the kitchen to grab another ginger ale from the fridge. “Hey Walker, you need any help?” he asks as he sees John scrubbing the daylights out of the frying pan.
“Huh? Oh, no I got it,” John answers flatly.
“You sure?” Bob asks again.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” John insists.
“I mean, I think that’s the same pan you were cleaning the last time I came in. I just figure it might go a little faster if—”
“Jesus Christ, I said it’s fine, Bob,” John snaps. “I can wash my own damn pans.”
Bob shrinks a little and lets out a quiet apology as he exits the kitchen.
Finally, the time comes to start setting off the rest of Alexei’s rockets. You bring a blanket out for you and John to sit on, where he joins you after finishing the dishes. You put a hand on his bicep as he sits down with a sigh, noticing how tense the muscle is. “You alright? I thought you loved the Fourth,” you question.
“I do,” John says. “I just think fireworks are dumb.”
“What?” you chuckle incredulously. “How do you think that fireworks are dumb?”
He hesitates a moment. “I don’t know, they’re just… loud. And flashy. Kind of tacky, if you ask me,” he lies.
“Yeah, okay, Mister Star Spangled Taco Shield…”
“Okay—knock it off, alright? I just don’t like ‘em,” he says shortly. You’re caught off guard by his sudden attitude.
“Sorry, jeez… If the noise is the problem, I think Bob has some spare earplugs,” you offer to try and lighten the mood.
“I don’t need earplugs, I’m fine,” he insists. You just shrug it off again, slightly irked by how he was acting.
When the fireworks finally start, you expect him to lighten up a little, but he doesn’t. Every time one goes off his face twitches a little, eyes blinking a little too hard. He keeps rolling his neck and fiddling with the fabric of his jeans in between each one. Whenever one shoots up, he grips your hand just a little tighter as he anticipates the blast.
He was trying to be in the moment and enjoy himself like he used to, he really was. But he is plagued by everything that each loud boom digs up. Memories of Afghanistan, of everyone he lost and all the bloodshed he witnessed. Boom. His brain is invaded by Lemar and Olivia, smiling as the red white and blue lights illuminate their faces. BOOM.
John abruptly stands up, and without another word, retreats to his room. Everyone turns around to see him disappearing to the inside of the tower with widespread confusion. They all look to you for some sort of explanation, but you have as good an idea as any of them as to why he left so unceremoniously. You take a moment before following after him with concern.
You make it to John’s room where you find him laying on his side with a pillow covering his head to block the noise, shoulders shaking and hearing faint sniffles. He’s facing away from you, not completely inconsolable, but far from regulated.
“John?” you say softly. He jumps and sits up, whipping his head around at you and breathing quickly.
“I’m fine,” he insists before you even ask him anything.
You look at him earnestly and reply, “You really expect me to believe that?”
He shrinks a bit and turns away from you. “Just leave me alone.”
You do precisely the opposite and make your way over to his bed, the edge of which he’s now sitting on. You stand between his legs and cup his face, tilting his head up to look at you, though he can’t bring his eyes to meet yours. “You know I won’t,” you say gently.
You move to kneel on the mattress next to him, legs folded under you, and let him rest his head on your shoulder as you rub a hand up and down his back. He sighs and says, “I know.”
“The fireworks used to be my favorite part,” he continues after a beat of silence. “Then I got deployed and I…” He trails off and grips your knee tighter by just a fraction. “I thought I woulda’ gotten over it by now.” He thought it might be easier, that it had been long enough since the war. But after everything that had happened in recent years, it was like everything he’d endured was scrubbed raw and exposed again.
“It’s okay,” you soothe as John leans into you further.
“I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” he apologizes. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I—”
BOOM
John full-body flinches at the loud firework that bursts outside.
“God, fuckin’ ridiculous…” he mutters to himself.
He tries to sit up and pull away, expecting a laugh or a scoff at how reactive he was, but you don’t let him. You turn his face back to yours and say adamantly, “Hey, no, it’s okay. I get it. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. And you don’t have to be strong around me.”
His lip quivers just slightly before he fully returns your embrace, wrapping his big arms around you in a nearly constricting hug. He buries his face in your shoulder, not quite ready to let you see him cry yet. You still feel a faint drop of moisture reach your skin, but you decide not to mention it. You just hug him back and silently comfort him, soothing him through a flinch or two as more fireworks continue to go off.
An easy silence settles between you, only interrupted by the loud light shows across the city, washing the room in colorful glows.
“Maybe you were right,” you say with a lilt. “They are a little tacky.”
John looks at you and the way the red white and blue illuminate your smiling face. “Nah,” he sighs. “I think they’re beautiful.”
