Pairing: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You
Summary: No running away now. Literally. You finally meet and get stuck together.
word count: 3,261
warnings: angst, unrequired love, language, unresolved situation, mentions of blood and wounds
a/n: I do start to feel like you are somewhat passive about the whole situation but if only you, my dear readers, knew the number of times in this chapter I was ready to throw fists with man... 'll save this for later.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Final part will be posted tomorrow
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You don't realize it at the time, but you are handling the aftermath the same way he does.
By focusing on the mission. And it is a routine—at least on paper.
A simple sweep: enter, extract, exfil. Nothing you haven't done before. You don't expect Thunderbolts support, you don't need it. You definitely don't expect him. It has been so long since you last saw him that even the questions have gone quiet. You stopped chasing after the what-ifs and brushed aside the feelings his absence stirred. It was his choice to retreat — you could respect that. But what gnawed at you was how he made the decision for both of you. How he didn’t listen. Didn’t wait. Didn't give you the time to figure out what his words meant to you. But now, all that noise in your head feels pointless. There’s no chance of seeing John again — he made sure of it.
And still, the thoughts linger. They distract you, and you hate him for that. First, he storms into your team with that familiar bravado, taking on too much, and you curse him for it. Now, he haunts your thoughts for the opposite reason.
The west wing is colder than the rest of the compound — the kind of damp, concrete chill that crept under armor and lodged itself between shoulder blades. You move quietly, methodically, boots making barely a sound against the floor. The air smells like dust and ozone, the telltale aftermath of a shorted power grid.
You have already cleared the upper levels. No resistance so far — just empty corridors and a few tripwires rigged with more bravado than precision. This place isn't meant to hold. It is meant to delay.
You press your shoulder to the wall near a junction, flicking your eyes over the corner cam feed. Clear. West wing was supposed to be storage — maybe a fallback point. But something about the layout didn’t sit right. Too many blind spots. Too many sealed doors that hadn’t been on the original intel.
You reach the corridor just before the old server room. Light flickers overhead — weak and intermittent, like the building itself is trying to stay conscious. You step inside. The walls hum softly with dormant power. Your finger rests light on the trigger, scanning corners, checking movement—
And then you freeze. There’s a figure ahead. The shape is familiar in a way that bypasses thought. The way he stands — weight forward, arms loose but ready — it hits like muscle memory. You already know before your mind catches up.
Exactly where you told yourself he wouldn’t be. Exactly where you convinced yourself he couldn’t be. And yet — there he is. In front of you.
And for a moment—too brief to be called a pause, too heavy to be ignored—the world around you stilled. The air thickened. Even your pulse seemed to hesitate, suspended in that stunned fraction of recognition. He looks almost exactly as you remembered—only harder now. Sharper in the jaw, more sunken beneath the eyes, as if something vital has been hollowed out and replaced with grit and endurance. His armor is worn but clean, scuffed in the way that says "I’ve been in the dirt, but I still care enough to polish what’s left."
And his expression? Neutral. Too neutral. Like the kind of mask you wear so long you start to believe it’s your face.
You hold your ground, voice steady, deliberately professional—like that could make the moment ordinary.
“Didn’t think this was your op.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
“Got pulled in last minute,” he says, his tone even. “Didn’t know you’d be on-site either.”
You nod once, just enough to say fine, and turn away before your eyes could linger. You move toward the control panel across the room, scanning, logging, distracting yourself. Behind you, he follows —measured, distant, always keeping that calculated space between you. Not far enough to be impolite. Just far enough to say: don’t touch this.
And then, without ceremony, he speaks. His voice doesn't soften. There is no hesitance, no tremor—only steel.
“You ever stop to wonder why I left?”
A lie. A pointless one. You know it. But the word slips out before you can stop it — sharp-edged and defensive, a reflex more than a decision.
There’s a pause. And it lands between you with the weight of something dropped.
“Figured,” he says, voice lower now. “Easier that way.”
This time, you do glance over your shoulder.
“Wasn’t exactly hard to notice.” You know the tone is petty. You hear it as it leaves your mouth, and still, you don’t stop it. He left. He stirred everything up and then disappeared. And now he has the nerve to speak like it was ordinary. Like it didn’t mean anything.
His jaw tightens—just barely. A tell you remembered. A crack in the mask visible enough to let you know you hit the nerve.
“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says. “Didn’t think I had the right to stick around after—”
“After what?” You stop and turn to face him. It hasn’t even been ten minutes since you came face to face again after all this time, and already, you’re circling an argument. And just like before, he’s the one who brings it to the surface. And part of you almost wants him to say something stupid again — if only to confirm that you were right to let him go. Something tightens in you. He said he fell for you and made it sound like an accident. Like it was something stupid.
John holds your gaze. The air between you sharpens.
“After screwing it up so badly I didn’t think I could fix it.”
“You didn’t screw it up,” you say, the anger rising now. “You ran. That’s not the same thing.”
He exhales — short, clipped. That’s when the comm crackles to life. Bucky's voice comes through, casual and cold — interrupting you.
“Walker, report?” John doesn’t answer immediately. He watches you and you don’t look away Then, slowly, he lifts a hand to his ear and replied, calm as winter glass.
The line clicks off. Silence settles again – heavy, awkward, familiar. You can say something. He can too. But neither of you does. Because the mission isn’t over. Because there is still too much ash between you. Because the truth, when broken, is a fragile thing—easier left untouched than pieced back together.
You sigh and turn your focus back to the task in front of you.
Just as you begin to move deeper into the hallway, the floor beneath your boots gives a low, mechanical shudder — subtle, but wrong.
Your head snaps up a heartbeat before the blast hit.
A low boom rolls through the reinforced walls, followed by a shockwave that tears through the compound like a living thing. Dust rains from the ceiling in a fine, grey curtain. Lights flicker, flare too bright, then dim again. Somewhere below, metal screams — bent past what it can endure.
John is already moving — his hand grabbing your arm, instinctive, protective, pulling you sideways toward the nearest doorway as the charge behind you begins to scream.
The explosion hits like a wave—heat, pressure, sound collapsing in all at once. The blast catches you both mid-step. The burn comes first, sharp and sudden across your shoulder where the fire brushes too close. Then comes the force — violent, absolute.
You barely register hitting the ground, the impact softened only by the weight behind you—John’s body crashing into yours as he shielded you from the hit against the wall. Debris rains down, shards of plaster and steel slicing through the air, some of it thudding against him instead of you. In the pocket of chaos, all you could feel is the burn along your arm… and the steady rise and fall of John’s chest against your back.
John curses under his breath — not panic, not fear. Just anger. He doesn’t seem to register the position you land in.
Bucky’s voice crackled faintly over the comms:
He taps his earpiece, eyes already scanning the room.
“Detonation in sublevel three. Structural breach. Two personnel trapped, no route out. Awaiting extraction.”
Only then does he pull back from you, suddenly aware of the closeness, shifting toward the far wall through scattered debris. You think he might have jolted, if not for the pain in his side — his breath catches even with that small movement. The line clicks dead.
You both take a moment, catching your breath. You slide down the wall, the cold surface pressing into your back as your shoulder throbs — the burn not deep, but stubborn. Across from you, John moves slower now. His ribs clearly protest, dried blood forming a dark line along his temple. He takes the worst of it. You start to wonder how many times he’s shielded you like this — and how often you never even noticed.
While you watch him, he doesn’t look at you. Not a glance, not even once.
Around you, the compound groans — a slow death rattle of concrete and steel. Dust drifts through the air, settling in your lungs and eyelashes, and somewhere far below, another explosion echoes like a final breath.
You both sit amid the wreckage. Opposite sides of the same broken room. Neither of you speaks. Neither dares.
You’re the one who breaks it first.
“Thanks… for covering me.”
“You’re not hurt. That’s what matters.”
The words are flat. Functional. Like they could’ve been meant for anyone. But they weren’t. And you both know it.
You study him through the haze — the cut on his temple, the dirt ground into the seams of his armor, the way he still refuses to meet your eyes. He looks… not angry. Not wounded. Just tired. Worn down to the rawest edge of who he is.
“How long were you going to avoid me?”
He’s quiet a moment longer than necessary.
Finally, his eyes lift. Not hard. Not cold. Just... hollow.
You narrow your eyes, that answer hitting like a cheap deflection. “That’s bullshit.”
He scoffs — soft, bitter. “Is it?”
“You disappeared without a word.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
You take a step forward. Not aggressive. Just enough to force the space between you to mean something.
“You thought?” you repeat, sharper now. “You thought silence meant permission to vanish? That I wouldn’t notice if you just stopped existing around me?”
“I didn’t exactly get the sense I was welcome to stick around.”
“And you didn’t stop me.”
The words come out too fast, like something he’s been holding in too long. He immediately looks away, exhaling hard. Regret? Maybe. Or just exhaustion.
You take a step closer. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. Measured.
“I wanted clarity. Not silence.”
He shakes his head, slow and bitter. “Clarity? You looked at me like I’d said something disgusting.”
“I was caught off guard.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “you weren’t the only one.”
There’s a flash in your chest. Heat. Frustration. Something old and sharp.
“You made a choice for both of us, John. You walked away before I could figure out what the hell I felt.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue — just absorbs it like he’s been waiting to hear those words. Maybe even deserved them.
“And now?” he asks, quiet. Careful.
You don’t answer right away.
The silence between you stretches. Not cold. Just worn out.
Then finally, his voice drops lower, stripped of everything defensive.
“I didn’t plan to say it that night. It wasn’t strategy. It was pressure. Like something I’d kept buried so deep it finally broke the surface. I didn’t even know what I was saying until it was already out.”
You say nothing. He continues — not because he expects forgiveness, but because it’s been inside him too long not to be said.
“And when you didn’t say anything… I didn’t blame you. I didn’t expect you to feel the same. I just thought—maybe—I wouldn’t have to carry it alone.”
His eyes close for a moment, as if just remembering hurts.
“But the silence made it clear. It was mine. All mine. And that was enough to tell me I had to leave.”
“…I wasn’t trying to guilt you. Or make you say anything you didn’t mean.”
His voice cracks, just barely. Not the sound of a man breaking — the sound of one who already has, but refuses to fall down.
His eyes flash now, fierce and hollow at once.
“But do you have any idea what it felt like? To finally say it — after carrying it for months like it was going to kill me — and then watching you just… stare at me like I’d dropped a gun at your feet?”
He shakes his head, a sharp, bitter motion.
“I’ve been shot at, tortured, humiliated in front of the goddamn world, and none of it — none of it — felt as fucking unbearable as that silence.”
He breathes hard, like his lungs can’t quite keep up with what’s crashing out of him now.
“I didn’t need you to say it back. I didn’t even expect it. But something—Christ, anything. A word. A look. A ‘John, not now.’ Even that would’ve been better than—than nothing. Than standing there like I wasn’t even a person to you.”
You shift slightly — not out of fear, but because the weight of it is too much. He follows. Not aggressively. Just needing to release it.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me?” His voice sharpens. “Think I didn’t see the hesitation? The weight in your eyes every time you didn’t know how to look at me anymore? I saw it. I saw all of it. And I told myself, fine. She doesn’t owe you anything. Not answers. Not affection. Nothing. So shut up and move on, Walker.”
He’s close now. Too close.
“And I tried. God, I tried. Missions. Drills. Jokes I didn’t mean. Knives I never stopped sharpening. I tried to wear it down — that feeling. That thing you left hanging in the air like it wasn’t yours to name. Like you could just leave it there forever and not look at it again.”
He steps back now, a half-step, like the words finally cost him something.
“But I couldn’t wear it down. Because it mattered. You mattered. More than I knew what to do with. And I couldn’t live with how small I felt in that moment. How replaceable. Like the only thing I was ever good for was pulling you out of fire — but never good enough to stand beside you when it wasn’t burning.”
He stops. Breathes. Just once.
“I fell for you like a man who didn’t believe he could. And when I did, I did it stupid and loud and all the wrong ways. But I did it. And I told you. And you didn’t say anything. And maybe that’s fair. But do you know what's the worst part?"
He exhales, bitter.
"Some part of me still thought maybe… if I kept my distance, if I buried it deep enough, it’d go away."
His gaze lifts again. This time, there’s no mask.
His shoulders rise and fall, the fight draining from him like blood through open fingers. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Just down — at the dust, the ash, the wreckage between your boots.
The silence between you turns sharp again. But now it's thick with everything left unsaid.
And right as you take a step toward him—
Suddenly, another explosion rips through the compound — somewhere behind the wall that had buried the main exit. Not strong enough to bring down the ceiling, but close enough to shake the floor beneath you, dislodge debris, and send a dull groan through the twisted metal and concrete.
John moves before you can even register the sound. One arm snaps out across your body, the other bracing against the crumbling doorframe as he shields you with his body. His shoulder hits yours hard—protective, unthinking. The blast isn’t close enough to bring fire or shrapnel, but the aftershock sends dust raining down, a chunk of concrete slamming the floor just inches away.
You feel the heat of him—too close, too real—and his grip stays on your arm even after the danger’s passed.
Only when silence settles again, broken only by settling rubble and your uneven breath, does he speak. Voice low. Rough around the edges.
You nod once, unable to say anything yet.
His hand lingers a second longer, fingers tightening—not to restrain, but to anchor. And then he steps back, slow, like it costs him something.
Like he’s scared that if he doesn’t move now, he never will.
But there’s something different in his face now—less fire, more clarity. Like whatever just happened stripped him down to something raw but steady.
Like he’s still bracing for more falling debris—only this time, it’s not from the ceiling.
Then — a muffled crash. Stone grinding against stone. The heavy scrape of something massive shifting.
A narrow breach opens between the cracked wall and a half-collapsed support beam, letting in the harsh flicker of a flashlight cutting through the dust and dark.
Bucky’s voice, loud and frayed at the edges, tears into the room like rescue and reprimand in equal measure. The beam of his light sweeps fast — then stops. Finds you. Finds John.
His silhouette appears through the clearing smoke, and he steps forward, eyes locking onto you both.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He says it flat, but something in his voice wavers — too much relief trying to mask itself as exasperation.
“You two? Really?” He looks between you, lips twitching like he’s debating whether to be annoyed or just grateful.
“I thought you were buried.”
You open your mouth to respond — maybe to deflect, maybe to downplay — but you shift slightly and pain spikes through your shoulder like a second blast. You wince, catching your breath through clenched teeth.
John moves before the medic does — not fast, just instinct. His hand hovers near your side like he wants to help but doesn’t want to push.
But after a moment, you shift, testing your legs. They hold. Barely. You nod once to the medics now crowding the threshold, motioning them off until you’re fully standing.
“I can walk,” you say, quiet but firm.
Bucky lifts a brow. “That a pride thing or a concussion thing?”
You give him a dry look, stepping forward. “Let me guess — you missed me.”
“Only when I wasn’t being blamed for your terrible taste.”
The medic moves to your uninjured side, gently guiding you toward the newly cleared exit. Your boots scrape against the concrete, slow and unsteady, but you don’t stop. You don’t look back.
Not until you reach the breach in the wall — and then, only once.
Behind you, John is still standing in the same spot. Bruised, bandaged, unmoving.
But this time, it’s him watching you leave.
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