#protective john walker

[monza1-2]

Get you a man that would un-stab himself to get to you, ladies and gays

[furiouscauldron]

Ever since The Taco Incident (the food, not Walker’s shield) Ava and Yelena have made a practice of harassing and wheedling John into cooking for them. It didn’t matter if they were on the jet post-mission, if John was working out or running, or god help him sleeping in bed. Privacy is pretty much non-existent when Ava can phase through any door or wall put in her way.

“Walker, wake up. We want pancakes.” Ava plants herself on his back and pokes at his face.

He cracks an eye open and glares at his clock. “Fuck’s sake Ava it’s barely four in the morning.” A grunt. “And get off me.”

A hum as she taps her finger against the back of his head. “If you don’t make pancakes Alexi will try to make them again and it took two days to get the batter off the ceiling the last time.”

With a groan John scrubs at his face. She’s right. He doesn’t want to admit it, but she is. “Fine, fine. Go make me coffee and I’ll make your damn pancakes.” John absolutely does not feel a curl of fondness as she pats his head and leaves his room like a semi-normal human, crowing out her victory to Yelena.

It doesn’t matter who wants food, if they ask, John is going to make it. He’ll make it even if he has to learn the damn recipe, treating it like another mission and applying all of his focus to it. Pierogi for Alexi, apple cake for Bucky, macaroni and cheese from honest to god scratch after Yelena sprained an ankle. For once he feels needed not for the super solder serum in his veins or his military record. They want him because he can make them something special.

Bob has the hardest time asking for anything because he’s never been able to do that before. Thankfully, Yelena can ask for him. Whenever she finds John, her eyes wide and worried, John immediately drops whatever he’s doing. If Bob is having a depressive episode he needs to eat, if he’s having a manic day, he can corral him into the kitchen to help.

“What does he need?”

“Chocolate waffles and bacon.”

Chocolate waffles were Bob’s favorite, so it only makes sense that she’d want those in order to coax Bob into eating on a really bad day. John squeezes Yelena’s arm on his way to the kitchen, voice certain. “I’ll take care of it.”

He could be bleeding and exhausted after a mission, but if the team comes to him to ask for something as basic and as comforting as food? John would take care of it.

He would take care of them.

[ssvbse]

Saving Private Walker

John Walker x F!Reader | 2.4k

Summary: John gets drunk one night and believes he needs to take you to safety.

Warnings/Tags: John is a pathetic mess, protective John, implied drinking

Cool air nipped at your figure, the sheets sliding over your skin.

You roused, your lashes fluttering as the movement of air around you sent goosebumps erupting over your exposed skin. An uncomfortable pressure pressed into the blades of your back as well as the plush muscle in your hamstrings.

A hum of confusion broke from your throat, only for a hissed whisper to cut the sound off.

"Be quiet."

Your eyes twitched in their idle state, the familiarity of the voice matching the face beginning to take form from the abstract strokes your exhausted vision created as replacement.

"Walker?" you whispered, clutching his uniform clad torso as you realized you were being supported by nothing but his arms. "What the hell are you–"

"Be quiet," he repeated, his shadowed baby blues finally breaking position to stare down at you. You felt yourself physically shrink further into his arms at the intensity of his gaze lost within the shadows of his black helmet.

"You need to tell me what's going on," you finally managed to muster, looking around the unfamiliar hallway of the tower. "What are you doing?"

He rolled his jaw in annoyance, but his eyes bounced around for a moment as if considering something. Taking a sharp corner, you clung to him tighter to prevent from falling from his grip. A muggy air enveloped you as he tucked the two of you into a much smaller supply closet, reeking of alcohol. He swiftly shut the door behind him before setting you down.

"Now tell me–"

To your shock, your mouth was enveloped by a leather palm, fingerless gloves allowing the skin of Walker's fingertips to dig into your jaw.

"Shut up," he finally snapped. "You're going to get us killed."

Your face contorted into an expression of confusion, and you hit Walker's hand away, pressing a warning finger to the middle of his Kevlar-covered chest.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" you cried.

Even within the darkness, you watched as he rolled his eyes in that demeaning way. The expression of irritation made you feel even smaller as he took a dominating step forward, your finger doing little to intimidate him.

"The tower is compromised," he practically spat in your face. "Swarmed with very bad men with very big weapons looking to hurt you."

"Me?" you cried, your voice becoming more hushed. "What do they want with me?"

"Can't you figure it out?" he snapped, audacious enough to flick your forehead. "You live with five criminals with a lot of enemies. One of us must have gone too far."

There was an uncharacteristic falter in his voice, and you watched his chin trembled in the dim lighting. Tears welled in your eyes, and you shoved him back.

"You're lying," you said. "You're just trying to scare me."

"They want you dead," he snapped. "I am trying to get you out before they find you."

Desperation flooded your features, your brows knitting together over deep lines of distress.

"Did you warn the others?" you asked, ragged breathing echoing through the closet as he drew his chin tight. "What about the others, Walker?"

"My priority is you," he snapped, but his voice was beginning to fall apart. "My priority has always been you; you are the target," he said. A novel amount of emotion began to overwhelm him, his heavy breathing echoing through the closet as his voice broke. "Why can't you ever understand that?" he snarled, trembling hands rising and falling out of frustration. His groan struggled to reverberate from his locked jaw, and he buried his face in his hands, turning away. "God damnit!"

Seeing him so taken apart by the situation had your body shaking.

"You're scaring me, John!" you finally cried, clutching your arms to your chest. "Damnit, you're scaring me, please stop scaring me--"

His fallen shoulders suddenly stiffened in the darkness, tipped chin snapping up. His hand once again threatened to cover your mouth, but you took it upon yourself to cup your lips with your own palm, squeezing your eyes shut.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, his still form shifted.

"We need to move."

"We can't just leave them here–" you cried desperately.

"Goddamnit, I can't compromise you!" he shouted. "Just shut up and do what I say."

Sniffling as he moved, it wasn't until a handgun was shoved up against your chest that you realized he was forcing one into your hands.

"The main door is straight out of this hall," he told you. "I am going to clear a path for you."

"Please John, please–"

The rough calluses of his palm brushed your lips, silencing you yet again as he slowly exhaled, warm breath feathered the junction of your neck.

"You need to run as fast as you can. The doors are already busted wide open," he told you, tone unable to stay level. "There is glass all over the floor; your feet are going to hurt like hell, but you are going to have to shoot the men I miss."

You were crying against his fingers, tears fueled by terror falling down your cheeks.

"I don't know how to use this, John!" you sobbed as he briefly removed his hand, another slow exhale ghosting your face. "Please don't--"

"You know how to ride Bucky's motorcycle, don't you?"

"I can't do this, John. You don't understand–I can't–"

"Don't you?" he yelled again.

Swallowing, you gave a shaky bob of your head.

"You need to get away from here. Do you understand?" he asked, your choking silence unnerving him. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," you managed to whisper. "Yes, but–"

The light of the hallway ripped through the darkness, and John was gone. Oxygen failed to reach your lungs, and your legs refused to move. You stared at the wide open door, mouth agape as you failed to mentally prepare yourself before finally sprinting out the door.

You pressed your back to the hallway wall, lips pursed as your clammy hands shook around the outstretched gun. Your bare feet stung against the cool tile floor, each step echoing through the open but silent space as you emerged from the hallway.

The entryway was clear of any enemy flank, leaving a clear shot to the front doors. Losing any semblance to a professional stance, you sprinted for the doors, reaching to brace yourself against the freedom bar only for the lock to not give way.

Your arms locked on impact, paint erupting across your entire body as your motion was brought to an abrupt halt.

Shock ran rampant across your body, muscles struck still as you fell back to the floor. You blinked, having to force the accent of your gaze to the promised broken-open exit, and then to the rest of the untouched hallway. Scenes of violence, broken glass, and tragic endings did not paint the entrance of the tower.

A silence weighed on the room.

Nothing out of place.

Not a sign of struggle. Not a sign of infiltration.

Everything was completely, utterly normal.

A burning sensation flared in the pit of your chest, cheeks adopting a similar sensation as you shifted yourself to your feet. Fiddling with the borrowed gun, the empty magazine fell from the grip and clattered against the tile floor.

You rolled your tongue, biting your lip as you slowly nodded, eye twitching.

"I can't believe–" you grunted to yourself, pinching your nose. "I can't believe I really fell for that shit."

But even as frustration threatened to wipe any last feeling of empathy from your psyche, an ache in your gut insisted you retrace your steps and locate Walker. Something about his loose expressions of desperation and the vulnerability he had exhibited left you feeling uneasy.

Managing to find the closet in question, you glanced around the innards only to find it staril and empty. Quietly padding around the dimly lit corridors near the room, you caught the faint sound of a quiet mourner.

You approached a room only a few doors down from where you had initially split from Walker.

A heavy stench of booze wafted out the door as you gently insisted the crack open with the butt of your foot. Brushing aside countless shards of glass, the muffled sounds of lament grew more defined.

"Walker?" you asked, peering inside.

Tucked against the corner of a messed bed, Walker clutched his legs to his chest, his hands making desperate imprints into the top of his metal helmet as he appeared to struggle to remove the headgear.

"Walker..." you repeated.

"I'm fine," he snapped, his voice shaking. You took a brief glance around the rest of the room as he composed himself before stepping inside and quietly shutting the door behind you. "I can–" he began, but his voice cracked. "I can do it myself."

You looked on as he scratched at his throat, the leather strap digging deep into the skin of his jaw, and he desperately tugged the leather in the opposite direction. His breathing came in quick, ragged successions as you slowly approached.

"Walker," you murmured, crouching down and cocking your head to find his eyes. They were squeezed shut, his combat boots scraping the wood floor in panic as his neck twitched beneath the uncomfortably tight head gear. "John."

Finally, his eyes opened, glittering despite the dim light.

Despite him reeking of alcohol, you leaned closer and reached for his clawing hands, gently prying them away from the helmet. He swallowed and wheezed, his rubbed-raw throat struggling to convulse beneath the strap. Taking the strap with your fingers, you eased the leather to a looser point. John overlapped your hands as he finally managed to pull the helmet off his head, neck slackening in relief. His face fell between his knees as he drew them back to his chest, his shoulders physically rising and falling with every long breath.

You set the helmet off to the side, finding a spot beside him to cross your legs and spectate him as he came down from his high. Within the silence, your eyes inevitably wandered to the rest of the room; filled with broken bottles, broken remnants of violent breakdowns, and evidence of someone becoming reclusive, you felt the guilt of naivety build in your throat.

"Don't look."

You looked away from the interior of the room, turning to him as he placed his chin on his crossed arms resting on the caps of his knees.

You offered him a shrug.

"We all have our bad days."

He rolled his jaw, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his uniform as he shook his head.

"Everyday is a bad day."

You watched a tear roll down the curve of his cheek. He was quick to wipe it away again, sniffling and looking away.

"They used to be good," he admitted. "With you and... everyone else, I thought I was finally better," he said. "But nothing... helps... anymore," he murmured, chin on his hand as his boot nudged a bottle, sending it rolling across the room. "Sleeping, drinking; none of it."

He pursed his lips, finally daring to meet your eyes as another tear fell down his cheek.

"I think I'm getting worse," he confessed, his attempt at a smile wobbling across his lips before his expression fell.

"John..." you whispered, swiftly shifting to position yourself beside him.

"Every time I close my eyes, I'm right back in the middle of it," he whispered. "Usually I'm not here anymore; I'm with Lamar in that damn place–" he cried, voice breaking. He squeezed his fists, hitting the ground hard enough to splinter the floor. "It just replays over and over again, and it stays separate from here, but this time it just–"

He clenched his jaw, eyes squeezing shut as he buried his face in his arms, shaking his head.

"It always seems so real, but this time I really..." he whispered. "I just... I got so lost in it all."

The silence weighed on the room as he grew reluctant to go on.

Without thinking, you reached out, sliding your fingers over the scratched armor covering his shoulders. You followed the tough fabric up to the function of his neck and gently smoothed back his disheveled sideburns.

"I was just–" he tried, but cut himself off. He pursed his lips, tapping his fists against his side as he stared at the floor. "I just can't stand the thought of you being back there," he whispered, tucking his face out of sight again, "with me."

You brushed the back of your fingers over the exposed portion of his neck, watching goosebumps erupt over his skin, the hairs rising along the nape.

"Were you scared?"

His body stiffened at the mention of the particular emotional response.

He shifted, revealing his bloodshot eyes to you as he rested his cheek on the back of his hands. A small, stiff nod had a cascade of hair curtaining his face.

"It's okay, John."

His sniffle was cut off as you brushed away the hair hiding his expression from you only to reveal the reflection of fresh tear trails streaking his face. You gently caressed the irritated skin, the palm of your hand enveloping the scruff along his jaw. His irritated eyes reluctantly looked through the depths of his lashes to meet your gaze, a shaky sigh warming your inner arm.

"I didn't–" he whispered, but his bottom lip quivered. He closed his eyes, inhaling as he finally sunk into your welcoming palm, a tear falling over the curve of his cheek. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Tilting your head, you watched as his face tightened with tension; his brows drew together, and his jaw clenched beneath your hand as he awaited your response. Offering up your other hand, you fully enveloped the entirety of his jaw as you leaned forward and pressed an affectionate kiss to the very center of his forehead.

"I know," you whispered, lips brushing the skin just above his brow. You wound your arms around his stiff shoulders, pressing another chaste kiss to his temple. "I know, John."

His entire figure trembled as he finally released a pent up breath, his arms embracing your entire body as he buried his face into your shoulder. A sob racked through his torso, ugly and vulnerable.

"You're safe now," you whispered, ghosting a hand across the surface of his hair before finally stroking your fingers through the ratty locks, "and so am I."

[monza1-2]

Since i am big Softy, i love LOVE protective/soft John Walker

And not only with Bob.

You can see It in the movie by the way he gives the girls that Cactus fruit (i don't know what that was) in case they were hungry, or by the way he jumps in front of Bucky with His Shield to protect him from the bulletts.

Like he Will be, without His consent, the girls Big Brother.

"eat your damm vagetables, Lena, you cant only survive with mac crafts"

Or grumply remebering to buy Ava'a favorite snacks and Just tossing them at her without a notice, while She Is on the couch, or to buy vaggies for Lena Guinea Pig.

Or with the Boys as well. Like covering all three of tham in Battle, even if they don't Need him (like, two supersoldiers and a Damigod, c'mon John)

Only because HE CARES. WAY TO MUCH FOR HIS LIKING.

THATS HIS FAMILY.

Also, don't even try to look at Bobby in the wrong way. He Will go full John Wick on you.

[furiouscauldron]

Okay so hear me out.

John spends his time making sure that the Watchtower is a safe space for the team. Everyone is cared for, fed and he checks their living spaces once a week for listening devices. He talks Bob down from panic attacks and sits with him when he's in a depressive episode. He makes sure Ava's pain meds are refilled and she's always got quick access to her suit when things get flaky. Yelena never runs out of coffee and when she's craving a drink he goads her into sparring as a distraction.

Bucky, on the other hand, protects the Watchtower from the outside world. Trips to DC, the godforsaken packets, meetings both routine and clandestine, all in the name of keeping the team free from legal and government interference. There will be no extradition, only protection. Hell he's even at the Pentagon once a week working to get John's military record expunged and his pension restored.

And late at night, or early in the morning they drift towards one another. A shared whiskey at the kitchen counter, or in the half-light in the lounge. There's a shared trust there, each knowing the other is protecting the team, their found family.

"You know, they miss you when you're gone," John offers quietly.

A quirk of a smile. "I miss them too." But they're both doing good work, taking care of their people. In these quiet moments, something solid is being built, a better foundation between them this time. A second chance.

John is working to give them a home, a safe place and Bucky is working to shield the Watchtower from the world.

[furiouscauldron]

Another night, another bout of insomnia.

At this point John was used to it, so after staring at the ceiling for almost an hour he levered himself up and out of bed. His therapist advised that if he didn't fall back asleep soon, he should just get up and move. Get some water, a snack, anything to help his mind reset.

Enhanced hearing had him stopping about halfway down the hall before speeding up his steps. Someone was crying.

*Bob* was crying.

John found him curled up in his usual reading nook, looking at his phone with tears streaming down his cheeks and for one clear, sharp moment he wanted to end whatever, or whoever made Bob sad enough to cry.

"Oh. Walker, hey." Bob sniffled and rubbed at his face with a smile. "Sorry, I was watching soldiers return home to their dogs and it's just so pure, you know?" He tilted his phone so John could see a young soldier catch a dog in mid-leap before they both fell into the grass, the picture of happiness.

"Hey," is all John can croak out as he watches Bob get emotional over something so innocent. "Yeah, yeah that's pretty cool Bobby." Of course Bob would watch things like that, sweet and emotional moments when nothing hurt, when everything was perfect.

Bob shifted in his chair, letting John watch with him. He sighed, resting his cheek against John's arm as the reel started up again. "I've never had anyone that happy to see me before. It's nice, you know?"

Gently, John rested his hand in Bob's hair. "Bobby if you're asking for a full body tackle when we get home next time, I'm pretty sure we can arrange that."

The startled laugh that bursts free cracks a hole in John's chest and he wants to hang on to that sound for the rest of his life. Bob looks up at him. "Promise?"

He offered a pinky with a small smile, "Always."

And in the end it was worth it, even when Bucky bitched about the new dent on the landing pad they left behind after Bob got his promised greeting.

[furiouscauldron]

The weather forecasters are calling it the storm of the decade, but Bucky feels like they're just doing it for the sake of drama. Still, New York is bracing for a hell of a blizzard and well below freezing temperatures.

.. which means he is absolutely staying in. He's had enough cold and ice to last him ten lifetimes.

"Walker? Where are you going?"

John is suited up, wearing multiple layers and a knitted hat that probably came from either Bob or Yelena, the stitching lopsided and yarn colors bright. "There's a storm coming," he answers simply

He huffs and rolls his eyes. "No shit. We got a double delivery of groceries, you don't need to go get anything."

A roll of his shoulder as he checks his gloves and zips up a heavy jacket over his suit. "Who do you think put it away, dumbass?" No, that was too much and he straightens, looking at Bucky. "People are going to get stuck in their cars, in snowdrifts, maybe worse."

And wasn't that John in a statement? If people were in need of rescue, Walker was there. First in line to help without asking for anything more.

Bucky doesn't want to go there. He doesn't want to feel the cold biting into his skin. It's too much, but he can't let Walker go out alone. He can do this. He can bear it.

As if sensing Bucky's dilemma, John's expression softens. "Alexi and I are going out to help people. Stay here, maybe get some spiked hot cocoa ready for when we get back?"

His expression softens into something quietly fond as he takes John's scarf and wraps it securely around him. "Be safe out there."

A wink and John busks a quick kiss to his cheek. "Stay inside. We got this."

[furiouscauldron]

All in all, it had been a pretty good day.

John was up with the dawn, cooking turkeys, roasting a prime rib and angels and ministers of grace defend them, frying two whole chickens. Bob kept pace with him as they made side dish after side dish. Even Bucky got roped into helping with the knife work.

There were mountains of side dishes. Freshly baked rolls, dumplings, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes and an indecent amount of gravy, sprouts and cranberries, enough to feed a trio of super soldiers and all of their loved ones.

Olivia brought two pies and a little boy who was delighted to meet his Dad's co-workers who happened to be super heroes.

The day was chaotic, loud and utterly perfect.

After seeing Olivia to a guest room with a tired little boy, John found himself in the kitchen watching the rest of the team clean up.

Alexi and Yelena made a game out of fitting leftovers into the refrigerator while Bob and Ava washed and dried dishes. There was a warm air of contentment settling over the room like a soft exhale scented with pie pastry and rich turkey.

A firm hand encouraged John to sit before pushing a tumbler of whiskey into his hand. "You've been at this all day John," Bucky reminds him. "We've got this."

He huffs out a laugh and doesn't argue.

"You did good today. Everyone's fed, everyone's happy." He took care of their family.

John cracks his neck with a smile. "That's what we do right? We take care of our own?"

"Copy that."