Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, John knew exactly who he was.
A selfish, good-for-nothing, washed-up parody of Captain America that no one ever needed.
He had told himself otherwise for a long time, clung to the idea that he could still make something of himself, be someone special, someone worthy. Someone good enough. But all he ever managed to do was disappoint people. Again and again. And recently... he had come to accept that.
Since he was a kid, it had been drilled into him, burned into his skin with every cold stare and firm correction from his father, what kind of man he was supposed to be. Discipline wasn’t optional; it was survival. Expectations were heavy and unyielding. The kind of boy his father could be proud of didn’t cry, didn’t flinch, didn’t fall out of line.
The army was the natural path. It was a family thing. The golden legacy passed down like a torch. His father had served. His uncles. His grandfather. To wear the uniform was to belong. To matter.
And that’s all John had ever wanted – to matter.
So he did it. He enlisted. He pushed through every ounce of pain and exhaustion, broke his body down and built it back up again until he reached the peak of human conditioning. He did everything the army asked of him and more. Every mission, every order, every calculated kill. He followed orders. He performed. He became the kind of soldier they could point to and say, that’s our guy.
And somewhere deep down, even when he wouldn’t admit it aloud, John still held on to the idea that he could help people. That from the position he'd earned – been put in , more accurately – he could do some good. Make a difference.
Steve Rogers had been the image that lived in the background of John’s life like a shadow he could never catch up to. That was the man his father idolized. His uncles. His grandfather. That was the Captain America.
So when John got the call – the order – to take up the shield and become the new Captain America, there had been no hesitation. No fear. Just a flicker of something that almost felt like joy. The small kid inside him, the one who used to stare at photos of Steve with wide eyes and big dreams, had felt like he was finally getting his shot. His chance to continue the mantle. The legacy.
Little did he know... the shield came with a curse.
His perfect, textbook life crumbled faster than he could catch the pieces. His family, gone. Olivia left him with divorce papers and a cold silence he couldn’t crack. He wasn’t allowed to see his son anymore. His father had disowned him. Cut ties completely. The rest of the family followed suit like dominoes.
And Lemar... his best friend. Dead.
His hands trembled just thinking about it, even now.
Why did he ever think he could be someone good? Someone like Steve Rogers?
He was just trying to be a good soldier. To follow orders. To trust the chain of command. That was the only thing he knew how to do – obey .
But that was the problem. He was selfish.
He hadn’t seen it then, not clearly, but it was true. He had convinced himself that following orders made him righteous. That wearing the stars and stripes gave him purpose. But after Lemar died, all that illusion shattered.
John remembered the moment so vividly that it still made his chest tighten. The rage. The helplessness. The heat behind his eyes and the roar in his ears. Lemar had died because of all of it, because of the mission, the politics, the lies. Because John had been too blind to question anything until it was too late.
And then he lost control.
He saw red. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He’d hunted down the one who had been involved, the one who was part of it all, and he had murdered him. Right there. In front of the world.
His fingers curled into fists at the memory. That wasn’t justice. That wasn’t heroism. That was rage. Pure, blinding rage.
And for all the things he’d been taught, to suppress emotion, to be a man, to carry the burden without complaint, that moment proved one thing:
He had failed.
Failed as a soldier. Failed as a man. Failed as a friend.
And no matter what face he wore now, no matter what new assignment they gave him or how many times the word “redemption” was tossed his way... none of it mattered.
Because he knew exactly who he was.
And the worst part? Deep down, he knew he deserved every consequence that came next.
The media shitstorm that followed was hell.
He became public enemy number one overnight – the disgraced soldier, the man who tarnished the shield. They plastered his face across every screen, twisted every frame of video into something grotesque. Headlines screamed about him. Talk shows tore him apart. Pundits and politicians scrambled to outdo each other in their condemnation.
Not one of them asked him how he was. Not a single person paused to consider what the loss had done to him, what it felt like to watch his best friend die in front of him. To fail the one person who had believed in him since they were kids.
Suddenly, he wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a grieving man. He was a fraud. A murderer. A Captain America impersonator who had killed an “innocent” man.
No one cared about his side of the story.
No one wanted to know about Lemar. No one talked about who Lemar was – his laugh, his loyalty, the fact that he died trying to do the right thing. The media didn’t mention Lemar’s name unless it made for a tragic footnote.
And no one questioned the way they painted the so-called “victim.” No one cared that the man John killed had been part of a group responsible for violence and chaos, that he’d been there , that he had helped .
John knew it still didn’t excuse what he did. He knew that. He wasn’t trying to rewrite what happened. But the way the world twisted it into something so black and white, it made him feel like a ghost in his own story.
He was left alone after that. Left to grieve, to mourn, to carry the unbearable weight of the world’s judgment and disappointment. There were no comforting words, no hands on his shoulder, no one to remind him he was still human.
Not family. Not friends. Not even the government or the army – the very institutions he’d bled for.
After everything, they gave him a dishonorable discharge. Stripped him of everything he had worked for. Tossed him aside like he had never mattered. He’d given them his whole life. His body. His soul. And when he was no longer useful, they erased him.
And still... he agreed to work with Val.
He told himself it was a chance to help. To do some good again. But the truth was harder to admit. He just desperately wanted to prove something. To someone. Anyone.
That he could still be good.
That he wasn’t beyond redemption.
He wanted – needed – someone to look at him without disgust in their eyes. Without contempt. Just once. A glance that didn’t recoil, didn’t judge.
He knew that want made him selfish. That it wasn’t about heroism anymore, it was about needing to be seen as worth something.
But even that fell apart, like everything else in his life.
The mess with the Void changed things. Missions blurred into chaos, and the cracks within their little group grew deeper. The Thunderbolts had been stitched together with fraying thread, but somehow, they hadn’t completely fallen apart.
Now, he lived in Watchtower, the tower that once belonged to the Avengers. A monument that used to stand for hope and greatness. Now it was filled with misfits, broken weapons, and people trying to outrun their own demons.
They were starting to act like a family. A dysfunctional, fractured, often unbearable family... but a family all the same.
Except for him.
John didn’t fit. Not really. He didn’t think he ever could.
They joked. They shared meals sometimes. Some of them had started opening up to each other in ways that surprised him. But when they looked at him, there was always a barrier. Unspoken. Unshakable.
Maybe the only person who had ever truly stood by him unconditionally was Lemar.
They’d known each other since they were kids. Joined the army together. Signed up, side by side, proud and dumb and full of belief. John had never had to explain himself to Lemar. Never had to justify the weight he carried. Lemar just got it. Always had.
Now he was gone.
And with him... John truly had no one.
Life in the tower itself wasn’t all bad.
At the very least, he still got to go on missions. He still got to help people. Maybe that was the one thing left that made him feel like he had a purpose.
It came with a price, of course. Constant remarks. Bucky’s cold dismissals. Yelena’s biting sarcasm, always just shy of cruel. Their feedback was rarely constructive, mostly jabs wrapped in indifference. John tried to take it in stride, making his own sarcastic comments and jokes. He told himself he wouldn’t give up. That he’d keep showing up, keep proving himself, even if no one cared to notice.
But it was getting harder. Each day a little more than the last.
Every time he tried to speak, tried to crack a joke, offer a comment, or contribute something, he ended up being that guy . The asshole. The killjoy. The one who always said the wrong thing at the wrong time.
And deep down, he knew it was his fault. He just didn’t know how else to act. Didn't know how to soften his edges when they were all he had left. The version of himself that survived the fallout wasn’t charming or easy to talk to. He was awkward, tense, defensive, always waiting for the next punch, verbal or otherwise.
Because of that, he rarely got invited to anything outside the mission briefings or training schedules. If the others planned something casual like brunch, movies, or a walk through the city, he’d only hear about it afterward. Or worse, accidentally overhear it.
He remembered one time, standing just outside the common room, when he caught Bucky saying something like, “John probably wouldn’t want to come to brunch anyway.”
Yelena had agreed. “Yeah, can you imagine him in a park, eating overpriced ice cream?” She’d laughed.
They hadn’t said it with malice. In fact, it sounded like they were trying to be considerate in a weird, backhanded kind of way. But the words stung all the same.
Of course, he wouldn’t mind being invited.
He wouldn’t have said no.
But he wasn’t going to beg for inclusion either. He knew his place.
Still... he just wished he had a friend. Someone to sit with at brunch. Someone who would nudge him when the eggs were too runny or throw popcorn at him during a dumb action movie. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when he spoke or pretend not to hear him.
Someone like Lemar.
It was one of those days, quiet, the tower practically empty, everyone out doing something together, when John decided to bury himself in work.
He headed to the control room, logged into the digital archives, and started pulling up old reports from previous Avengers missions. He told himself it was strategy research. That understanding how they worked might help him adapt, help him improve team dynamics in the field.
Even if no one wanted to hear his ideas, he should at least come prepared.
He spent hours scrolling through the files. Battle logs. Mission breakdowns. Tactical footage. The tower’s system was extensive. Everything from field recordings to psychological assessments from the early SHIELD days.
He didn’t expect to find much more than mission notes and generic stats. But somewhere along the way, in the middle of a video from one particular operation, something hit him like a punch to the chest.
It was during the third hour, when the tower was still quiet, the sun starting to dip beyond the windows, that he opened a folder labeled "The Sokovia Accords – Internal Conflict Briefings."
He paused at first, unsure why it caught his attention. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something deeper.
He knew about the Sokovia Accords. Everyone did. The media had made sure of that. Flashy headlines, sensationalized stories, and public debates about responsibility and power. But beyond that? He never had the full picture. No real details.
So he kept reading.
What started as detached interest quickly shifted into something else. Something heavier.
He found internal logs. Video feeds. Stark Industries footage. Security debriefs from the Raft. And most importantly, mission transcripts detailing what Steve Rogers had done during that time.
And with each document he read, with every clipped line of Steve’s voice captured in encrypted audio, John’s heart sank lower.
Steve had gone to war with half the world for Bucky Barnes.
He had defied direct orders. Ignored global treaties. Fought his own teammates – Tony Stark, Rhodey, and even Natasha. He’d broken laws, abandoned posts, nearly destroyed diplomatic ties between nations... all for one person . For his friend.
There was a video embedded in one of the files. John clicked it before he could stop himself.
It was grainy body cam footage from the airport in Germany. Steve was standing in front of Bucky like a shield of flesh and bone. His voice low, steady, as he told Stark he wouldn’t let them take Bucky in.
Even when it meant turning his back on everyone else.
John stared at the screen long after the video ended.
Because Lemar had been his Bucky.
Lemar, who had fought beside him since they were kids. Signed up for the army with him. Trained with him, laughed with him, bled with him. Stood by him through every deployment, every loss, every doubt. Lemar had been the one person who truly understood John. Who never looked at him with suspicion or skepticism. Who believed in him, really believed.
And when John lost him, when Lemar’s body hit the ground like the universe itself stopped spinning, he had broken.
He snapped .
And for that, the world made him a villain.
For Steve, protecting a best friend was heroism. Noble. Legendary.
For John, it was murder.
He clenched his jaw, trying to breathe evenly, but it was like there was a vice around his lungs.
All these reports, all these glowing words about Steve’s loyalty, about the depth of his conviction and friendship, they didn’t make John angry. Not exactly.
They made him feel hollow.
Like there was something in the universe he just wasn’t born with. Some piece that made Steve Rogers special. Something that John could imitate but never become.
Even now, years later, Steve’s reputation was intact. People still talked about him with reverence. Schools taught about him. Kids wore his shield on their backpacks.
And John?
John got spit on in the streets.
He wasn’t even allowed to see his own son.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, motionless. The screen kept cycling through mission summaries, but he didn’t register them anymore.
All it did – all of it – was solidify the thing he already feared most.
That he was the problem.
John Walker. The broken one. The one who followed orders too well, who tried too hard, who lost too much, and still wasn’t enough.
No matter how much he bled or begged or built himself back up, he would never be Steve. Would never be seen the way Rogers was. Would never be forgiven, understood, or loved the same way.
His reasoning didn’t matter.
His past didn’t matter.
The nuance of his pain didn’t matter.
All that remained was the truth carved into every report and echoed through every mission log he just read – he would never be enough .
And maybe he thought he had come to terms with that.
Maybe he’d told himself it didn’t matter anymore. That he could live with it.
But now, staring at the cold digital evidence laid out in clinical text, he realized he hadn’t made peace with any of it.
Because it still hurt .
It was still devastating.
It was like seeing his failure documented in ink, signed off by history itself.
John leaned back in the chair, eyes burning, heart heavier than it had been in a long time.
And not even the silence could comfort him now.
He was still pretty shocked and lost in his head when he made his way into the communal area. The open-plan living room and kitchen space that served as the heart of the Watchtower. He moved on autopilot, heading to the fridge to grab a bottle of water, barely registering the presence of the rest of the team scattered around the room.
“Hey, what’s up with you, Walker?” Ava called out from her place on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, half-smirking as she spoke.
More teasing followed in the same vein. Yelena tossed out a jab about how he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Bucky added something sarcastic, and Alexei chimed in with his usual over-the-top commentary about American stoicism. It was their way, half-joking, sometimes borderline cruel. But John had taken it before, and usually, he could just brush it off.
Not tonight.
Tonight, their words scraped against everything that was already bleeding inside him.
He tried to ignore them. Tried to force a grin, a muttered "I'm fine," as he opened the water bottle. But his hands were shaking slightly. His head was buzzing.
Then Bob spoke, his voice noticeably more serious. “Walker, are you sure you’re okay?”
John didn’t know why he said what he said next. Maybe it was everything crashing at once, the reports, the loneliness, the years of trying and failing. Maybe he was just too tired to pretend anymore.
“Why do you guys keep me on the team?”
The room fell into a confused silence for a moment, then another round of half-laughs and raised eyebrows.
“What kind of question is that?” Bucky asked with a frown.
“Oh come on, don’t be dramatic,” Yelena added, half-laughing.
But John wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. And when they noticed that, when it became clear he was actually waiting for an answer, the teasing faltered.
Bucky was the first to try again, more cautious now. “Well… you’re the U.S. Agent, right? Like Val always says. You’re… an asset to the team?” His voice tilted at the end like a question.
“Am I, though?” John asked quietly. Too quietly.
Yelena leaned forward a little, brow furrowed. “What are you even on about, Walker?”
He exhaled sharply, trying and failing to steady his voice. “I-I mean, none of you actually like me. And you don’t really need me in the field, not with the way you talk about me. I get it.”
He was rambling now, frantic, unraveling in real time. “I tried to brush it off at first, you know? Pretend it didn’t matter. But it’s true. And I know it’s not Val… she can’t make you keep me here. So why? Why am I still here?”
The room had gone still.
No one answered right away.
John realized he wasn’t acting like himself. That this outburst probably blindsided everyone. But he couldn’t stop.
“Of course we need you, Walker,” Alexei said after a beat, voice booming like always, but not unkind.
John shook his head. “No, you don’t. No one does.”
His last words were barely above a whisper, but most of them heard it.
Bob stepped forward gently, like approaching a wounded animal. “Walker – John – what is all this about?”
He stared at the floor. His throat burned. “Nothing. I just… it’s nothing. Forget it, okay? Just me acting like an asshole.” He forced out a laugh, awkward and brittle, bordering on hysteria. “I was just testing you.”
But no one was buying it. Not this time.
He turned to walk away, desperate to escape before he broke apart entirely.
“No, no, no,” Yelena said, cutting him off, stepping in front of him. “You’re staying. You’re telling us what’s going on.”
And something inside him cracked.
The silence stretched thin, and then he spoke.
He told them.
He told them everything. About the mission reports. About the files on Steve and Bucky. About how the public reacted to Lemar’s death, and how none of it had ever been fair. He talked about what it felt like to try and be good and fail over and over. About how no matter what he did, it was never enough.
He slipped a few times, too many times, revealing how little he thought of himself. How broken and undeserving he felt. How, maybe, just maybe, he deserved all of it.
And most of all, he said Lemar had deserved someone better. A real Captain America. A hero. Because maybe then… maybe Lemar wouldn’t have died. Maybe he would have been saved.
“Steve saved Bucky,” John said, voice cracking. “But I couldn’t save Lemar.”
By the end of it, he was hyperventilating. Panic rising in his chest like a tidal wave. His hands trembled. His vision blurred.
He had broken again. Failed again.
And now they all knew just how weak, pathetic, selfish he really was.
He couldn’t bear to see their faces. Couldn’t take the weight of their pity or judgment or, worse, indifference.
So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
And this time, no one stopped him.