Chapter Text
His memories of Lemar were scattered nowadays; it was hard to remember the details of anything that had happened between the two of them. John remembered the day he met him, way back in high school when the scariest thing about life was calculus, and he remembered the day that Lemar was taken from him—but any time between that, it seemed as if most of his recollections of Lemar were lost inside his own guilt.
He had favorite memories, though, ones that he couldn’t ever allow himself to forget. Mostly these just included conversations with him. John used to always say that Lemar had enough emotional intelligence to count for the both of them. It wasn’t really an exaggeration, either. If he was ever lost, one word from Lemar would guide him right back to the correct path. That was his favorite thing about him. John felt safe around him, knowing that as long as they were together, John could never mess up—because Lemar wouldn’t allow it.
There is one memory in specific that John kept revisiting lately. It was the night that John had been given the title of Captain America, and, as usual, he was feeling lost. And, as usual, Lemar was there to lead him back.
“You getting soft or what?” Lemar had teased, sweat already accumulating above his forehead. They’d been going at it for a while, it seemed, because the moon was already shining high up in the sky. They were out in the field because sparring felt better on grass, naturally. John remembered feeling tired that night and Lemar had taken notice. Of course he had.
“Hey, you good?” He questioned, a hint of concern in his tone. “Wanna stop for tonight?”
But John, stubborn as always, shook his head and raised his hands in a defensive position. Sure, he was tired, but sparring genuinely made him feel something—there was no room to overthink when he was too focused on punching and kicking. Speaking of punching and kicking…
“You hit like a girl, dude,” John teased back. And- okay, it’s not like John enjoyed getting hurt, not exactly—but whenever he had one of those days where his thoughts were too loud and no one’s voice could drown them out, the feeling of pain grounded him a little. If he caught himself thinking a bit too loudly, a punch in the gut would put him right back in his place. “C’mon, man, hit me like you mean it.”
Lemar looked at him a little weirdly, trying to get a read on him. That was another thing about Lemar- he was weirdly good at analyzing people. It would’ve creeped him out a little if he didn’t admit that he was grateful for his observant personality. John rarely had to share what he was feeling. One glance from his partner and he’d already have a solution—usually.
“Okay, I think it’s time for a break,” he said, already plopping down on the grass with a bottle of water. John threw his hands up in mild frustration but sat down next to him, anyway. He really did want to spar tonight; he could already feel his thoughts rushing back to his head, trying to make as much noise as possible.
Lemar dropped a water bottle in his lap, and John scoffed at the design-
“‘#1 Captain America’? Who made this?”
“No idea, but they’re definitely quick with it,” he huffed, drinking from a matching bottle. He stretched his legs out and put his hands behind him, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Lemar glanced at him for a split second and John already knew what was coming. “How do you feel?”
John knew what he was asking, yet he still replied, “About?”
“Being the star-spangled man.”
He paused for a little and gulped at the lump that was slowly forming in his throat. His thoughts were extra loud tonight, making a huge ruckus in his head. It was getting a little irritating now, if he was being honest, not being able to tune them out. How did he feel about being Captain America? He hadn’t really given much thought to how he felt. What was the appropriate feeling to feel, anyway?
John knew the government chose him for the job, so that must mean something. Someone thought he was good enough to be Captain America. That’s all that should matter, right? He must’ve been quiet for a beat too long because Lemar nudged his foot to get his attention.
He tried gathering his thoughts to form at least one sentence but he couldn’t find anything to say. Seriously, how hard is it for a grown man to articulate what he is feeling? John admits—it’s quite difficult.
“It’s…” John trails off, mouth suddenly feeling a little dry despite having just drank water. What is it? Lemar is patiently waiting for his answer and John can’t even admit out loud that it’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want this title, doesn’t want the expectations that come with it, and he certainly doesn’t want to be viewed differently because of some name change. He is John Walker but he will never be Captain America. What is wrong with him? Why can’t he just say that?
“You okay?” Lemar asks softly, reminding him of his presence but not urging him to answer. And honestly? John doesn’t feel okay. He doesn’t know how to say it out loud, perhaps afraid of how the truth may change Lemar’s perception of him. He feels a little guilty for thinking that; Lemar’s not the kind of guy who’d switch up on someone for expressing their feelings, John knows that. But he’s still so scared to say what he’s thinking. John thinks the government must’ve really messed up if they chose someone like him to represent justice and integrity. How could he be Captain America when he’s already having these doubts?
He takes a deep breath, holds it for a while, and remembers that it’s only him and Lemar here. It’s his partner; he knows he can speak his mind.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” he finally admits quietly. He’s not looking at Lemar, instead choosing to stare at the bottle in his hands. He doesn’t want to see his partner’s face as he admits that he might be too weak for this.
Lemar doesn’t respond for a few seconds. John lets the silence take over, heart beginning to beat just a bit faster, thoughts getting just a bit louder.
“Maybe not,” he said back. That was another thing about Lemar—he was honest as hell. His reply didn’t really shock John, but his heart still sank just a little at the admission. He gripped the bottle more tightly. That was all he needed, really, his best friend admitting that he was, in fact, not built for this.
John simply scoffed. Not out of anger, not out of disappointment, but out of agreement.
“Or maybe you need to stop letting your thoughts get the best of you,” Lemar continued. He looked at him knowingly. “John, you’re the strongest guy I know. No, seriously, let me finish.” He huffed a little and sat up, deciding to look John in the eyes.
“When I heard they were making you Captain America, I thought to myself ‘who else, if not you?’ To me, you represent everything I respect about this country. You’re brave, you’re strong, and you don’t know when to stop—but that’s what I admire about you. When I fight with you, it feels like- like I know the fight’s already won. I could be getting my ass handed to me and I’ll look over to you and think ‘oh, I have to keep going’. Your strength- it’s contagious.
”I was so proud of you today, man. Seriously. I couldn’t think of a better person to take on this title than my partner.”
John was quiet for a few seconds. That was- well, that was certainly a pep talk if he’d ever heard one. That was one other thing about Lemar; he was damn good at cheering people up. John finally looked at him to find Lemar giving him a small, reassuring smile.
“I’d take John Walker over Steve Rogers any day. You make some darn good brownies, too, don’t forget.” Lemar laughed, bumping their shoulders together. John finally let himself smile. Lemar’s expression morphed into something akin to understanding and sincerity, a telltale sign that he was about to say something wise.
“You’re trying to live up to a big legacy. You won’t feel ready yet. But the people, they look at you and see a new hope. They respect you. God knows I do.”
John blinked. He let it sink in for a moment.
“Thanks, man,” John finally said. He was grateful, so grateful, to have someone like Lemar by his side, but he didn’t always know how to show it. He felt lighter now, less lost; Lemar always knew how to fix that. He noticed that his thoughts were quiet now, barely audible. His exhaustion, however, was more evident.
“Think it’s time we head back.” Lemar stood up and held a hand out for John. “And don’t forget your water bottle.”
They walked back side by side, wondering if any places were open for a late night snack. John felt a hundred times better now and he only had his friend to thank for that. He really was feeling hungry, though. Something popped up in John’s head-
“Hey, Lemar,” he giggled slightly at the new memory, “remember that place- what was it, Lenny’s? They had some crazy good waffles, but d’you remember when-“
“John?”
John turned back to see Lemar wasn’t by his side anymore. He turned around and saw Lemar had stopped walking with him a few steps back. What is this? This wasn’t how the memory went, he knew that much.
“What’s wrong?”
“John,” Lemar said, voice sounding muffled.
Blood began seeping out of Lemar’s mouth, trickling down his chin. He fell to his knees but John was stuck in place. What was happening? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go- they went and had a few drinks that night, he even remembers what they ordered-
He could hear the faint sound of blood gurgling in Lemar’s mouth.
“Lemar?” John’s heart had stopped beating. No, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen yet. He wasn’t supposed to go. They had drinks that night, John swears it.
“Lemar,” John’s voice broke on the last syllable. In what felt like just one second, their surroundings changed. John was still standing but Lemar was slumped against a pillar. Oh, he knows exactly what this is now. John stares helplessly as he watches one of his favorite memories transform into his greatest guilt.
From where he’s standing now, John can see the crack in the back of Lemar’s head; he can see the blood gushing out and bits of his brain spilling and-
“Alright, stop,” John called out, voice trembling slightly. He didn’t know who he was calling out to but he needed to get out. The sound of Lemar’s head hitting the pillar replayed over and over. John pushed his hands against his ears trying to block out the noise, but it was too loud, too constant.
“Stop! Just- just stop, stop showing me this.” He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t stand looking at the corpse of his dead partner any longer. The sound of Lemar hitting the concrete started getting louder and louder and John felt as if he had blood on his hands, too.
Then suddenly, everything stopped.
The sounds quieted until there was nothing but silence, and when John opened his eyes, he was back in the field with Lemar. He breathed heavily, taking a few seconds to try and compose himself. When he turned, Lemar was still alive, looking at him with what seemed like worry in his eyes.
“Lemar…” he whispered. His hands were still shaking and he could not get the image of his dead best friend out of his head.
“John,” he whispered back, voice oddly steady. John held his breath, refusing to look at him in the eyes. Lemar sighed quietly and put a heavy hand on John’s shoulder.
“Don’t feel guilty about me. You know how it happened. You stood there and watched. Don’t feel guilty. Just accept it.”
——
John awoke with a start. He was sweating, the back of his shirt drenched, and his heart was still beating fast. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face- another night, another memory ruined by his own thoughts.
There was no use in trying to go back to sleep. At this point, it was already around four in the morning and they had a mission later in the day. So, alcohol was out of the question, unfortunately (not like it would’ve done anything)—but tea was still an option.
He crept out his room and into the common area. As expected (and as he hoped), no one was awake. He looked for his favorite mug, a simple brown one that read ‘world’s best mother’ on the front. As he waited for the tea to be ready, his thoughts came back and hit him right in the face. He still heard Lemar’s voice say his name over and over and his heart felt heavier each time. God, he was fucked, wasn’t he?
The sound of the kettle pulled him out of his head. He dropped himself on one of the stools and drank his tea quietly. It was bitter, but he didn’t care. It burned as it touched his tongue and it burned as it went down his throat, but John didn’t care. He couldn’t find it in him to care about something as minuscule as tea after everything.
He sighed as he thought about the mission he’d have to go on in three hours—who picks these hours, anyway? Probably Bucky- or Alexei. Everyone knows they’re morning birds for whatever reason.
He’d have to have a word with them later.