Chapter Text
Chapter 5: All I Need
I’m the next act waiting in the wings
I’m an animal trapped in your hot car
John’s shoulders thrummed with an ache. His right knee throbbed, having been dislocated then relocated during the heat of battle; a heat held the back of his neck, numb and burning enough to feel cold, he could smell the smoke from where the electricity had melted some of his hair— the product of a beefed up taser meant to disable Bucky’s arm.
But the pain in his shoulders came from Bucky himself.
I am all the days that you choose to ignore
Despite the fact the Bucky had been avoiding him for close to two weeks at this point— since that humiliating moment in the kitchen— he still felt entitled to berating John after every single mission. Just never like this.
“What is your fucking issue, Walker?”
John’s shoulder blades smacked against the wall panels of the quinjet audibly. A hiss escapes him as the almost third degree burn on his neck is jarred by the movement. Steel blue bores into him, face scrunched in anger and dusted with soot, while a vibranium forearm keeps him firmly in place.
“You got some kind of death wish? Is that it, huh?”
Eyebrows pull together as the confusion hits John before the rage at Bucky’s condescension, before the anger at himself for thinking that Bucky still looks beautiful, even like this.
John scoffs, shoulders shifting beneath the pressure of Bucky’s arm, “Oh, fuck off, Barnes,” he tilts his chin up slightly, the epitome of over confidence— if that’s what he wants to believe John to be, then why not give it to him? Why should he try to be better, try to open himself up, if all anyone will see him as is his worst moments?
“You picked me to partner with. You picked me to cover your six— and now you’re angry I did my job? Mad I took a blow meant to disable you?” With each sentence he leaned closer into Bucky’s space, adrenaline continued to flood his veins, pushing his constant indignation to the surface.
Bucky’s teeth grind, his grip on John’s uniform tightens, “Your job isn’t doing dumb shit! I’m forced to partner with you, John, because someone has to keep an eye on your suicidal ass and everyone else is too tired to do it!” He shoves Walker into the wall again, emphasizing his point, “Do you ever think? Do you? Cause all you do is throw yourself into the line of fire thinking you’re saving people, but you give no thought to who has to pull you out! Who has to save you!”
Walker’s shoulders shake, hysterical exasperated laughter escaping him— he knew it, he knew Bucky still despised him and still he’s spent every second of everyday pining over the man, worshipping every expression, every rare moment of peace he found Bucky in; he hates himself for it. Olivia had said on the phone that he should just tell him, just come out with it so he can know for sure, but now he does. There’s no point, nothing would change except Bucky’s hatred for him growing.
“You’re such an entitled prick, Barnes, I hope you know that,” he laughs dryly, devoid of any real humor, head tilting to hit against the wall, his hands shake as they press against Bucky’s chest. John feels claustrophobic, a wave of exhaustion hits as oxygen completely disregards him, his heart pounds in his chest and body shudders. His head throbs, tired of this moment— tired of it all.
John shoves Bucky off him, shoulders slumped as he stomps over to his seat, “Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you.” He says it like a statement, but it comes out as a whisper. He doesn’t need to question it, he knows he’s right.
You are all I need
The flight back to base was eight hours long and they still had three more to go. Three more hours for John to try not to stare at Bucky. Three more hours of awkward silence that Ava and Yelena have long since stopped trying to maneuver.
You’re all I need
John’s had his headphones on since he sat down, actively ignoring everyone— actively failing to ignore the other man who decided his place was sat directly across from him. The other man who couldn’t keep his own eyes off him.
I’m in the middle of your picture
Lying in the reeds
John skipped through all three 10-hour-long decompression playlists before reluctantly settling back into ‘yearning’ once more, unable to help himself from the torment. Worn out from the mission, the argument, his whole life; he sits and listens. Once through, twice—now going onto his third listen without shuffling or skipping. Every song crushing, every lyric blistering under his skin.
I am a moth who just wants to share your light
He couldn’t help but stare, mind searing behind a numb face, sky blue eyes the only window to the gnawing ache in his soul. Bucky hadn’t been wrong, he saw it all, and that’s what ate at him the most, caused the cramping nausea in his gut.
It burns to look at him and John won’t quit his emulation. The tension in his shoulders, frame taut, sturdy hands clasped together in his lap. Once in a while Bucky rolled his shoulder, an attempt at dispersing whatever pain was there, or maybe just to break the stillness. His hair is dirty, soot and grease somehow causing it to curl slightly, framing the slant of his jaw, layers caressing the apple of his cheek. A smudge of dirt has found home on Bucky’s cheek before John’s lips ever could. He wanted to take it off; wet the pad of his thumb with his tongue and gently wipe Bucky’s skin clean, before replacing it with something sweeter, something less easily forgotten.
John turns slightly, eyes still brushing over the edge of him, unable to abstain fully; embarrassed by how much he craves a man who would never want to think of him the same way. A man who feels obligated to babysitting him on missions just so he doesn’t get himself killed or just go ahead and do it himself.
I’m just an insect trying to get out of the night
It’s not that John wants to die. He just doesn’t care if he does.
His worth has always been valued by his abilities and usefulness, why would that change now? What proof does he have? And if he did have it, who’s to say the other shoe won’t drop? Who’s to say they won’t get rid of him, abandon him if he fails again?
Walker slumps against the bench seat, fight having left him hours ago. His knee is swollen, tingling pins and needles at every jolt, healing slower than usual. He sighs, gritting his teeth at the pain, and reaches into his bag, grabbing his original woobie from his first tour in Afghanistan. He balls it up before placing it on the bench next to him, scooching to the left more, then grabs the cloth of his pants, lifting his bum knee and resting it atop the makeshift pillow.
I only stick with you because there are no others
Huffing out a breath, he leans into the corner. Hidden away from Ava’s prying eyes, but within perfect range to watch the humming lights dance across Bucky’s face. The slope of his nose, the cut across the bridge already patching the skin back together, new pale pinkness scarring then healing. The cut of his jaw shadowed by a yellowing bruise. The way his slate blues never left John, originally a glare that had softened over time. The width of his shoulders, the strength in his frame; if John thought about it for too long he could still feel Bucky pressed against him, somehow encompassing him. For a moment John had wanted to be absorbed by him, had wanted Bucky to want to merge them in the same way.
You are all I need
But at the same time, he knew how unrealistic that thought was— that wish was. Bucky was watching him, observing him for another potential murderous breakdown probably. The want, the utter craving that has been coursing through John for months has only been met by bitter resentment, if not hatred. He understands, he feels the same anytime he catches himself in a mirror. Doesn’t make him feel any better, no matter how validating it is.
You’re all I need
Olivia had pitied him five states away, had warned him that he gets attached and never knows when to quit, even for his own good. Had told him to be honest, to be open, that he never knows what someone else feels until its stated outright and how he should just say something. He had agreed to it, told her that he would do something soon, say something, but they both knew it was a lie.
John just couldn't fuck up another thing that was already broken.
Bucky doesn't treat him the way he does the others. He's quieter, eyes always watching him, assessing him— judging him. Anything, everything John does just seems to anger the man, and Walker always has to rise to the bait. Always has to have the last word.
Before the kitchen incident, it felt like Bucky was always there, as if summoned by John’s very presence. Any room entered, the other man was already in or would be in not two minutes later.
You're all I need
Sometimes to John, Bucky seemed omnipresent, ethereal. The piercing blue of his eyes almost angelic, but the shaded bags underneath them so utterly human. John hadn't thought about praying in years, but if it was Bucky on the other end, answering, he would be on his knees every night.
But since he panicked, Bucky has been gone. Sometimes John thought he wasn't even in the tower at all. He knows what he did, or said, but he didn't think it meant anything. Especially not to Bucky.
The only time he's seen him was on missions, the other man still choosing to be his partner to John’s confusion. Well, not confused anymore, not since Bucky spelled it out for him about six hours ago. They don't actually want to be around you— he doesn't want to be around you. They're all just waiting for the day they’re forced to put you down like the fucking mutt you are—
John jolts at the sound of a pop, attention brought back to Bucky's thick hands before catching whatever was in them before it smacks him the face. Ice cold hits John’s palm and he looks down to see one of the shitty instant ice packs they stock in the first aid kit.
I’m in the middle of your picture
Walker looks up and tilts his head, staring into Bucky questioningly. The man stays silent except for his eyes, glancing down at John’s propped up knee before returning to sky blue. One brunette eye brow raises as he tilts his head, imitating the blonde.
John’s face heats, ears turning red under his own mix of soot and grime. He shoves the icepack beneath his knee guard, straps holding it in place, and sighs at the relief it brings. Crossing his arms, Walker shoots Bucky what he hopes is a grateful smile, before relaxing as much as he possibly can with Bucky's constant gaze matching his own.
Lying in the reeds