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John Walker was dying. This wasn't a new development; he had been dying for a long time now. 3 years, to be exact. Lemar Hoskins died 3 years ago, and he was taking John Walker with him. He tried, for a while, to be a living man again; but at best, he was a walking corpse. Stuck in his own brain, and piloting a body that felt foreign to him. He never blamed Olivia for leaving him. Being married to a corpse would be hard for anyone; helpless but to watch as they sit in the same chair day after day, rotting away.
Beloved husband, father, and friend—for a time, at least. That's what his epitaph would read, he thinks as his legs weigh him down, and pressure seeps into his side. Survived by Olivia Walker, and Michael Walker. John never knew how he managed to convince Olivia to name their son after his brother, but he was grateful, for both of them. At least with them he would leave something behind.
John never really thought he would.
For a long time he thought he'd kill himself. At least before he got anything good in this life; or that he'd be blown up trying. When Lemar died, John was sure he would. Any day now, he thought. But as sweat clung to his forehead in this endless forest, he wondered why he never did. Snug uncomfortably in his side, the bullet reassured him that the universe had it all figured out for him.
Being in the military made you come to terms with your own mortality—one way or another—frighteningly quick. That was the reality you signed up to live in. It's drilled into your head in boot camp amidst the spit of your commanding officer hitting you between the eyes. You're going to die. You're nothing; You're nobody; You're a body; You're a gun; You're a bullet. 'Each one you buy is a bullet in your best guy's gun!'
John laughs at the memory of the museum.
He laughs, because when he was a kid he wanted to be just like Steve Rogers—didn't every guy? But he couldn't even manage that… his one dream. He and Lemar would joke about jumping on grenades like Steve did. Two ignorant bastards who didn't know yet how the world was going to chew them up and spit them out. Still bright-eyed, and just naive enough to think that they would be the exception.
It was the kind of thing you learned to joke about while you sat in trenches covered in blood, and sweat, and grime, and piss, and everything else unholy in the world.
The world around him right now felt pretty unholy, too. It looked like a shitty backdrop to an even shittier play; just endless, moonlit-blue woods, fading in and out of sight with every heavy-lidded blink.
John should've been faster– better. It was the only thing he had left of himself before dying: being better. "Decorated Veteran," "Captain America," "Father," "Son," "Brother." All meaningless titles in the end.
At the very least, he should've been smarter. He was stupid before and it got his best friend killed. Now look what he'd done; the mission had gone sideways, and John was just watching it happen all over again. John was okay with being dead, but he really didn't want Bob to die.
"Walker?"
It should've been nothing but alarm bells with how simple it looked on paper. Rumors about a group of Hydra fanboys dispersed throughout Hungary getting their hands on weapons from the Chitauri invasion—two terribly volatile things that should never mix. So, naturally, they were sent out, and split into groups of two.
Bucky didn't want to go to begin with, and nobody blamed him with the well-known history he shared with Hydra. Yelena didn't want Bob to be out in the field, saying something about not enough training. But John—having not listened to a second more of the briefing than he needed to—tuned-out the complaints and qualms echoing through the hangar, and readily offered to pair up with Bob in the field.
The guy was invulnerable, so worse comes to worse, he could always use him as a shield. It was the least Bob could do, having never fixed John's actual shield.
It's never that easy, though, even when the mission plans seem that way; or when your ill-prepared partner laughs after you joke about turning him into a makeshift shield. The landing was stressful, the trek was annoying, but they had the coordinates for a settlement in the woods, so it wasn't all bad. For John, that is. Bob, however, had been chewed out out multiple times within the hour by John about keeping his mouth shut; causing Bob's once eager demeanor to change into an irritated one, because the last thing John wanted was for these hyped-up—and armed—Neo-Nazi fanboys to hear them coming first.
In the end, it wasn't Bob's fault, it was his. It was always his fault, the irrefutable truth John came to accept. Obsessed with order, with purpose, perfection, and power; it was no surprise that John could never see the bigger picture, that he could never see in front of himself. He was too caught up in his own failings and being 'better this time around.' Because John had always thought—stupidly—that maybe he'd always get another chance; that after every mistake he made he could still fix it. Whatever it was.
There wasn't any evidence to support this, just the blind faith the U.S. Government had instilled in him long enough to make him pliable. So when Bob stepped on a twig John's heart beat twice as fast, and he whipped around to scold the man about stepping quieter dammit.
Everything went to shit after that.
A pebble knocked into a tree, a collection of shrubbery rustled, and it was just too damn dark for either of them to see a thing clearly. So when the first shot rang out, it was anybody's guess where it came from. Muzzle flash lit up the small clearing the pair had ambled into, and John forced Bob's head down hard, practically slamming his face into the dirt as their bodies fell against the ground.
Amidst the noise, John had wasted no time ripping his shield up from the ground to cover their upper bodies. Useless fucking shield, he thought as he urged Bob behind a boulder, seemingly backed against safety, but more importantly blocking the gunfire. With the memory of his long-barrel melted long ago, he grabs the pistol at his hip and blindly aims into the darkness, firing several shots before pressing back against Bob's side.
Bob looked at him, crazed and out of place in his all-black stealth suit. "I can help." He said.
"Don't." John replied, rolling out of cover in the protection of his shield. Order.
This wasn't anything he hadn't dealt with before. He'd do everything himself and be happy to. Purpose. It was a better option than Bob getting kebabbed with a .300 Blackout and bleeding all the way to Yelena's bedroom door. Bullet spray and an empty clip later John had pressed himself into a tree, taking a short breath. It's not short enough. A blur of a fist flew from his right and cracked hard into his face, sending him face first into the dirt and his helmet flying into the dark. If you didn't get used to surprises, you'd wouldn't last long in this line of work.
John pulls himself across the ground; rocks crunched behind him, and seemingly never-ending fire rained down on the boulder protecting Bob. His fingers dug into the soil, filling his gloves up nicely before he flipped onto his back and flung a fistful at his attacker. It's enough; it sends the man reeling backwards. Perfection.
John pushed himself up, slamming his shield against the man's body until he's thrown them both onto the ground. The man recovers quick, and moves far too fast to be normal. Strange hands find the belt at John's waist and rip a knife from it and into his leg. It's a struggle, that can't be understated. A hot hand scrambles to his throat, loose and with no leverage John punches the man in the nose easily. It's only an ankle looped around his own that allows the man below him to flip them.
Point-blank bullets aimed at your skull are easy enough to block with bent metal strapped to your arm, but it's that very same metal that ends up pinned by someone new. The uncomfortable ribbing of a boot cuts into his trapped wrist while he lashes out with his free hand, an open-handed lunge towards the man above him, clawing for the eyes.
It's useless, in the end; his hand gets caught far too easily in a way that makes his throat burn. Pinned to the ground by two attackers, there wasn't anything for him to do. Still, he thrashes his legs, trying to find some point of leverage—anything—but he can't. Blood is dripping into his mouth from a cut on his lip and he can't catch his breath.
The man above him is pushed off, hard, if the sound he makes when he hits the ground is anything to go by—a mix between a crack, a groan, and a sob. John only knew that he wouldn't want to be in that situation. Whoever had tackled him went the whole way with him by the looks of it. It didn't matter. John veers his hand backward, and yanks the foot off his arm, sending the second man backwards with a definitive and pleasing thud. A rock to the back of your head is one of the best ways to go out like a light, if John had anything to say about it.
When he rushes to his feet, ready for anything, he turns his head just in time to catch the end of Bob doing something with an open-palm against the other attacker's face. It's bright, and Bob's whole head is turned away from it, but sure enough the man on the ground stops moving after a moment. Power.
John huffed. "Okay."
But the fight had only started, and John wasn't stupid enough to underestimate them by giving them the time to close in. It was unclear just how big this ambush was, but John knew the whole group was big enough to overwhelm just the two of them, or they'd at least give it a good try. Bob had a decent handle on his powers, it seemed, so John threw himself back into the fight, confident that Bob could just light-blast whoever got in his way.
The idea makes Yelena's voice pop into his head out of nowhere on a rant about Void, and Bob's powers; John thinks that maybe they should just give Bob a damn gun if that much of an inconvenience. The memory is short-lived as a burning pain shoots through his side; it makes his whole body lurch and his feet stumble until he's colliding into a tree.
He spins, catches one of the ambushee's mid-reload, and rushes him. A well placed grab to the back of the man's neck and John has cracked nose against knee, letting the body crumple to the ground after.
The pain surges in his side again and he leans against the tree, groaning. He'd be shot before, too many times, but that fact never made it any easier. With his sweat-slick forehead pressed into bark, he tilts his body and begins the search. In the distance he hears a man's scream be cut short.
"Doing good, Bobby." His eyes locate the bullet, or the hole it made, at least. "This is gonna fucking suck."
It's always bad, but it needs to be done, and so John does it. Fingers press against the ripped skin. Sometimes, he thinks this is his real purpose, the dirty work. Maybe he was made for doing the stuff nobody else wanted to do, after all, he did it so well. John thinks he could do it, if it finally gave him someone to be.
Flesh curves around his fingers as a shot rings out.
"Please– fff-fuck." He breathes hard through his nose. "Fuck. Don't be dead, Bob." It's warm and wet and it's a small mercy that he couldn't hear the way his skin stretched around his fingers. Something hard presses against his pads and he grasps for it. With his free hand, he hovers knuckles near his mouth. There's a ring of SMG gunfire.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Don't be dead. Don't be dead." He bites down and yanks his finger out of the wound with a choked, punched-out scream. Then, as if on cue, everything went quiet.
That's where Bob found him, with blood covering his fingers as it spread lower and lower. He was just too dizzy to move his hand—to react. When he finally turned to look at the other man, the realization that if it were anyone else he'd be dead by now. John hated being shot, but his healing factor should kick in soon, he'd just have to outlast the pain spreading through his body. Beside him Bob gawked at him, speckled in blood and cuts over the arms of his suit. John hadn't liked that at all.
"You alright?" John asked. Bob looked at him like he was crazy to even ask that. "Right, invulnerable." He pushed away from the tree, readying to move, but he stumbled and it was embarrassing how Bob had to catch him.
"Are you?" Bob said with a tired laugh. John pushed off him, of course, but Bob only held him tighter, holding him firm by the waist. John just glared at him and produced the bullet.
"I'm fine, see?"
"I saw you get stabbed, too." Bob said. "You can't exactly walk on one leg, even with a super serum."
And… Bob wasn't wrong. John tried to, of course, having to use all his strength to just remove Bob's hands from his hips. This only ends with him leaning against another tree and Bob gasping at him.
"Don't gasp, Bob."
"Yeah, you're not alright." Bob had said. John was about to groan about Yelena's mother-henning rubbing off on Bob, but a new pressure higher near his rib stopped him. It wasn't long until Bob told him that he'd been not only stabbed, and shot, but shot multiple times and he just hadn't felt it. John wanted to stay right there and rip all the bullets out, but Bob insisted they at least move away from where they'd just made so much noise. John couldn't disagree with that.
They did, eventually, sit and pry the remaining bullets out of his body, before Bob slung John's arm back over his shoulder and began their long trek again. But it didn't get better, and John's healing factor didn't kick in. He felt like death but, hey, what's new?
"Walker?"
John blinks up at him, doing his best to not trip over any branches as they walked. He was fat too warm cuddled up beside Bob. "What?"
"Um… why aren't you healing?" Bob asks. It's a fair question. They'd been walking for almost 10 minutes now, and his healing factor definitely should've kicked in by now.
John doesn't know how to answer Bob in a way that doesn't make him feel like the failure he knows he is and send Bob into a panic; so, he grumbles instead, and avoids the question entirely. "Where are we going, Bob?"
"The safe house," Bob says.
"The…" Everything around John felt like it was closing in, and there were spots in his vision. "The what? There's a safe house around here?"
Bob laughs, and if John felt a little better he might've scolded him for it. "Some of us actually listen in the mission briefings."
John rolls his eyes—damn did that hurt. "You say that like you've been on any missions before this one."
"That's… fair," Bob says, gently. John didn't like that; he didn't want gentle. It felt grating against his ears, and it made him all the more aware of his body, and just how much he couldn't do without Bob's help—like walk. The tone echoes in his mind. Gentle, soft-speaking was the kind of tone you used when a dog was dying of heatstroke. It felt like pity; it felt like admitting that John was helpless right now, and he hated it because it was true.
With every step his legs felt worse; the pain from his abdomen spread lower, and his attitude naturally soured alongside it. Every now and then, Bob's hold on him would shift, or slip, or loosen, and he'd have to pause and readjust his hold. It wasn't that John wasn't trying—he was—it was just that no matter how hard he tried it didn't seem to help at all. Fitting.
Whenever Bob paused, it cost them time—it cost John blood—and the sad reality was, he was killing them both like this. It didn't take a genius to track two idiots trekking through the woods when one was leaving a train of blood with every step. Sooner or later, between the pauses and check for signs of life, they'd be caught. He killed Lemar, and now he was killing Bob.
John groaned. "Leave me"
Bob stops. Great. "What?"
He's given enough space to stand apart from the other, Bob's hand moving to stabilize him on his waist. "You can't keep dragging me like this, you know it. They're probably following us, and sooner or later they're gonna catch up if you keep stopping."
"Sure, yeah. I'll just strap you to my back and fly then," Bob says sarcastically.
"That's not what I'm saying."
Bob laughs. "No, you're just saying that I should leave you here in the middle of the woods for those…" his free-hand moves in the direction they came from. "Freakishly powerful Hydra groupies to come find you. That's so much better, Walker. Thanks, really puts the mind at ease."
"Bob–"
"I'm not leaving you." Bob pulls John's arm back around his neck. "Quit fucking pushing it."
John's first thought upon seeing the safe house is that no one would ever glance in its direction; it was a place as decrepit and scorned as their little group was— Valentina really knew how to pick them. It was a type of get-away home, built onto the side of a cliff, far, far past its prime as the smell of wet floorboards stuck to the roof of his mouth.Upon a time, John could imagined what it could've looked like without half of the building crumbling down the side of the cliff.
As his boots dragged over the wooden steps he felt the whole house creak and worried vaguely about the integrity of the building.
Inside, is only moderately better. However, it was all one story, there wasn't any blood, or mold that John could smell, and the non-collapsed part of the building housed a—dusty, but intact—bed. It hardly matched the rest of the room, and John decided that the last people here must've dragged it out from beneath the rubble. The second his hand brushes against the side of the bed, Bob releases him. It's not unkind—if Bob wanted to be unkind he would've left John in the woods upon request—the man was, however, preoccupied, mumbling under his breath about a bathroom.
John groans and begins to undress himself. For whatever reason, his body wasn't healing—even if the serum seemed to stop him from bleeding out—but, he hadn't been a super soldier long enough to forget how to sew up a wound. Bob must've had the same idea, finally rounding back into the room, his gloves removed and carrying a suture and sewing kit.
"Well, whoever was here before us clearly didn't have a good time," Bob says, holding the kits out to John as he's moving to remove his top off. When the man steps close enough, John gets a good look at the materials. There was barely any suture thread left, and when Bob speaks John feels like he already knows the question. "So, bubblegum pink or vomit green thread?"
He doesn't answer; Bob turns to place the kits on a table. Each movement is more painful than the last, and John always thought that getting in his suit was harder than getting out of it—how wrong he was. Continuing to unclasp and peel his off the top of his suit in silence, John doesn't realize Bob has already threaded a needle until he's kneeling beside the bed.
Bob holds the needle still in one hand and rubs under his nose with his other; blood smears above his lip. "'Kay, move your arm."
John stares at him. "I can do it, you know."
"So, can I." Bob says; when John raises an eyebrow at him, he continues. "I've been stabbed before?"
"Oh."
Bob shakes his head and that's that, it seems. John shifts—as much as it hurts—until the space below his ribs is exposed; just enough room for Bob to sew him back together. Its a nice, fleeting thought: that someone might actually be able to. Cold brushes over the exit wound, a sanitation wipe, no doubt, and John flinches.
"Sorry," Bob says; then, he gets to work.
The burn was nostalgic, and his mind wanders. It was easy for John to forget between the baggy sweaters, doe eyes, and lopsided smile that Bob had actually lived before he'd met the rest of them. A terrible life that he never really mentioned outside of group therapy and the occasional late-night ramble, but a life nonetheless. That wasn't to say that John forgot the shame rooms. He could never. In a way, he actually cherished them. They were, after all, the closest he had ever gotten in those 3 years to seeing Lemar alive again, and of course, the last time he'd ever see his family under the same roof.
The edges of his skin pull against each other when Bob tugs on the thread, and John grinds his teeth down.
"Those guys back there, did you…?" John trails off. He'd never seen Bob do whatever it was that he did back there. The bright light in his palm was as strange to their enemies as it was to him… or Bob.
The needle tugs stills; the thread tugs and twists and John feels it get tied off.
"Yeah. I think so," Bob says behind him.
"You did the right thing," John says. Because, sometimes, whenever they returned from a mission covered in dirt, and sweat, and a million irritating cuts, Bob would ask if it was their blood or someone else's. Turning to look at Bob still kneeling beside the bed, John watches him. He's staring at his hands—at the needle he used to stitch John up. If there were a singular person on the earth who had the face of regret memorized, it was John Walker.
"Those weren't good people." John adds. When Bob doesn't answer, John understands that he never will. "What was it?" He asks.
Bob looks up at him and blinks—confused; Confused, and sad. Yeah, go for it, ask the guy who was experimented on about the powers that he got from said experiment. It was a stupid, impulsive question, and it's too late to take the words back; they're out there in the world, now—in this dingy, forgotten house; no doubt, reminding Bob just how much he'd rather be with anyone else. The only apology John can offer is the quiet grimace on his face as the words hit his ears. It couldn't have been a shock to Bob, though—John's inability to communicate, that is. If he was good at communication, then he'd be holding his son in his hands instead of pressing them between his thighs.
Bob stands up and moves to the dresser. From where John sits, all he can see is the other man's back, and the suit of his that was about two or three hits away from needing the sewing needle far more than John's skin. It would be better used there, anyways, John thinks. Even so, Bob returns with pink thread and carefully holds his elbow, inspecting the hole that ripped through his bicep. The touch was too much, but not because of the tender skin of his arm, and not because John hadn't been touched so softly since his wedding; but because it was soft.
John knew that Bob would never admit it, but they're going to spend the rest of their lives fighting what they'd been made into. For better or worse, they were weapons. Gentle wasn't in their nature, not anymore.
"I'm… not sure," Bob says, directing his arm as he spoke and carefully threading the needle into his skin. John only hissed a little bit. "I try to avoid using anything from… you know. Yeah. I didn't know I could hurt people with it."
John closes his eyes, focusing on the pinch of his arm. Again, again, again. "You've done it before, though?"
"I– … yeah." Bob sighs, like it hurt to admit, like he was ashamed to have given in even if that meant saving John's life. As if being who he was… was some kind of moral failing. "Yeah."
What a fucked up little group they had here.
John couldn't blame him for it, though. The doing. Since learning what Bob was capable of, there hadn't been a second where John wondered what he'd do if their lives were switched. Nights were spent in vomit green envy cycling the thoughts of 'what if i was more?' and 'what if i was better?' If there was a chance in hell of doing what Bob could do, John would—in a heartbeat. And maybe that made Bob a better man than him, or maybe it just made him a weak one. It was stupid, of course, so incredibly stupid, but it was true.
Bob had faced terrible things, done terrible things, and yet here he was, softly touching another human being like it was easy for him to do; like his touch hadn't hurt people. Whatever. John didn't need to imagine what it was like to be forgiven, he had replayed Bob's laughter enough to live vicariously through it. In the end, John would never get that, so how could he hold it against Bob?
When the last of the wounds had been sewn up, Bob pulled away—and took his soft touch with him. It was kinder than he was owed, but John allowed himself melt back into the bed, aware of the dip beside him where Bob brought his arms and head up to rest on, still kneeling beside him.
The bed was dusty, and probably crawling a million diseases, but neither of them cared. Soon, the sun would rise, the others would meet at the rendezvous point. Bob would tell them how they were attacked, and how John was shot three times. Yelena might laugh—maybe she'd consider telling Alexei. Ava would laugh, naturally, and Bucky would just roll his eyes; and John… where would he be?
Still in his mind; still in the safe house? Maybe. Or maybe he had never left that shame room all those months ago, content to live in Olivia's shadow. It was more than he deserved, less than he craved. John craved his wife, he wanted his son, and he missed his friend. He missed Lemar like death would miss him every time his body sewed itself back together.
Was this his homecoming? His body ached more than it had in years, and it had clearly given up on him. So, if this was to be John Walker's homecoming, then it was good enough for him.
"Walker," Bob whispered. His voice was small—and afraid—like John mattered to him. "Why aren't you healing?"
He closes his eyes at the question. John knew the answer, of course. He had known since back in the woods, fighting like a cornered, doomed animal; like a rabbit caught in a snare. He might have even known before that—subconsciously, at least. Why else would he run himself dry in the gym on Lemar's anniversaries, on his and Olivia's. A relentless onslaught against the punching bags. Nobody knew how much it took until a super-soldier got tired; John knew. He'd discovered it on those nights staring at his bloody, unwrapped knuckles, willing himself not to heal. Aching to leave any mark that he was, or that he had been. Nobody knew what it took to kill a super-soldier, but that night, John Walker did: themselves.
Bob's fingers brush against his skin. A thumb ghosting over his bicep where the pink thread lay. He talks like he doesn't mean to, and the words come out almost as silent as a grave. "Please don't die."
It punches air from John's lungs. "You'll be alright."
"Walker?" Bob's hand squeezes his inner elbow, tugging him. He should look at Bob. It would be the right thing to do; but for some godforsaken reason—if god had ever looked kindly on either of them—he couldn't. "What do you mean?" His voice was getting closer; he must've been standing up.
"Why are you saying that?" Bob asks. John wishes his voice didn't sound so surprised. Didn't Bob know he'd been dying since they met? Then: "It's you, isn't it?"
John can't help but open his eyes at that. The world almost seems to freeze in the realization. The bed shifts under John's weight as he moves, sitting back up. Bob had stepped away from him, looking at him like he'd done something horrible; as if John wasn't doing exactly what was in his nature.
He grits around the pain—the grounding, human pain. "Bob, what are you–"
"You're not healing because you don't want to heal."
John drags a hand over his face.
"That it, isn't it?" Bob urges.
"What do you want me to say?"
Bob scoffs, and he takes another step back, shaking his head in disbelief. John wants to reach out and touch him, to bring the other man back. It was just like him, to rope Bob into this, to want this misery shared instead of forgotten. That's why he didn't break things off with Olivia when everything was going wrong; its why he fooled himself into thinking that this team would be his salvation.
"To say–? What do I want–?" Bob sputters. His hands extend in front of him and his eyebrows pinch and rise, rapidly. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to tell me I'm wrong. I mean– its stupid, right?" He opens his hands, expecting. "I mean– tell–" Bob laughs—humorlessly—and his shoulders rise in that same unstable, dangerous way they did in the vault. "Tell me I'm crazy if you have to! John."
That was new.
"I can't." He admits.
"So– so, what? Olivia and Michael… they're– they're nothing?"
It hurts. "Bob–" John pushes himself off the bed, taking a step towards the man and his wild hands.
"No. I want to hear you say that, at least. Since you can't say anything else. Because there's no way you're killing yourself when you have a wife and son out there; when you have people who love you," Bob says.
John tilts his head to the side, a strain in his heart, sparking out into his body like electricity. Bob had to see reason "Loved." He corrects.
Bob laughs, rubbing his hand over his mouth. The sound echos around the empty room. It wasn't the same laugh he had come to know after all those movie nights. It wasn't the laugh full of air, and hope, and kindness. His whole body turns away when John reaches out to him, like a hand retreating from flames on instinct.
He grabs Bob's shoulders, the muscle tensing beneath his hands. Still, he forces the other man to look at him. There weren't any words to explain this perfectly, or to fix it. Sometimes—like now, or when he'd been so hollowed out that he couldn't tell Olivia about the void eating him alive—he wished he could pull his heart out, and show it to everyone; or flay himself open to show everyone what was going on inside him. He knew his insides would be ugly, rotten, blackening from the swelling grief he could never seem to stomp out. The same grief that had replaced everything that he was until it was all that remained.
How could he explain to Bob that all roads led here anyway?
Bob's index jabs into his chest. "You're a dick, Walker. A selfish, fucking dick." He points away from them, away from this house, away from this sickening situation; he points to a better place, a place John could only see in nightmares. "She loves you. You know how I know?" He urges. John wonders, did Bob know about the ring of gold around his pupil, and how it seemed to glow brighter when he raised his voice? "Because you're an asshole, and I love you!" Bob continues, palm slamming his chest in the admission, like the words are being physically ripped from his lungs. "How– how do you not get that? I hated you—" He shoves John. "—and she married you!"
Bob shoves him again, hard. Warmth spreads from Bob's hands, but John can't look away from his face. "You're not dying." Bob orders. Fingers dig into his arms. "You're not dying. How can you even–" He goes soft under John's hold. "give me this, and then– none of this means anything to you?" Bob asks.
John's eyebrows pinch. "Bob…"
They move to sit on the bed, but Bob's hands never move from his arms, as if letting him go would be, truly, letting him go. Accepting that John was on the edge of somewhere Bob couldn't follow.
"I'm not…" John breathes and lets his hands fall beside Bob on the bed. "…good. I don't fit this, I never did."
Bob hiccups, a laugh interrupted by a sob. "Yeah, and the guy who turned half of New York into shadows does? Don't be stupid, John. Don't die."
"I'm– I'm not dying, Bob. Your stitches are good."
Bob looks at him. Slowly, his hands weave up, warmth spreading across John's throat; then, to the sides of his face, cupping his jaw. It steels him. For the first time in what felt like years he was grounded in something other than pain.
"But you're not living," Bob says. "I've been where you are, believe me. It– it can get bad. There's days where you'll wake up and feel like you're not even you, but you won't ever stop feeling like this if you just give up."
"How do you stop feeling it?" John begs.
"You don't." Bob admits. "Not– not fully, at least. But this helps—" Bob says with a hand over John's heart. "You know, this little, lousy team we have going on." John stifles a laugh. It hadn't occurred to him to be crying until Bob thumbs at the sides of his eyes, wiping them away. "And, well… sharing it definitely doesn't hurt."
"I–" John chokes a sob back. His hands burned from aching; from a lack of contact. Its too much, and he caves, collapsing into Bob's shoulder. Frenzied hands scrawl across his shoulder-blades, trying desperately any way they can to find purchase there. Fingers spread, and dig, and hunt, until they settle across Bob's neck and John buries himself in the other man's neck, shaking.
"I miss him so–fucking bad." John cries. "I killed my best friend. I killed himIkilledhim." A gentle hand holds his head as he shakes. Snot drips ugly down his nose and over his lips, but he can't stop now that he's started. His hands dig into Bob, trying to crack him open and find somewhere safe to live. "I'm never going to see him again, and– and I– I can't–" He chokes. "I can't do–"
"I sorry." Bob whispers. "I'm sorry. I know."
"I've fucked up so–" John coughs, the sobs wrecking his body until he's pressing so close to Bob for shelter that he's shaking, too. "So many times. I keep– I think somethings wrong with me. But, I try. You know I try, right?"
Every touch from Bob feels perfect. John wonders, is that the serum, or was he always so good? John couldn't imagine Bob as anything but.
"I know." Bob whispers. It tickles when Bob presses a kiss to his temple. Its so small, but its perfect. "Everyone on the team knows, too. And you know what? That woman you saved in the street, she knows. And one day when Michael is older he's going to see his dad on the back of some old cereal box and know his dad is a hero." He pulls John back. He doesn't comment on the red blemishing his face, because to Bob, it wasn't a blemish, and John Walker could never be wrong in his eyes. Carefully, Bob brushes the hair out of John's face.
"And I mean a real hero, too. Not one of those sparkly, fake heroes with a company of people who plan their every little move." When Bob holds his face again, John melts into the touch, the pain his body caused by the bullets forgotten as the other's words sink into his bones. Lingering now, was just the pain caused by himself.
"Listen to me, John." Bob continues. "You are good, and you do fit this—this team. I know you do, because you keep getting up no matter how many times you're knocked down, by yourself, or others, and maybe it doesn't look like anything to you right now, but you're here because want to help people and you want to try again. You have to start healing, John." Bob pleads. His hand presses open-palmed against John's bare chest, fingers splayed and warm, while his eyes remained altogether focused on the other's. "Please, you have to try."
John wouldn't know where to start. In the past he had always had some motivation. Another mission, another job; A title to uphold, or a wife to make proud. Someone's heart to share a part of, hopeful; Someone's eyes to live in and to see himself in the reflection as good enough. Bob's eyes were different. They were a deep blue with an inner circle of gold that held him into place and made him think. They were different, but not bad. As he looked at Bob, searching for what he had seen in everyone else, it felt like light ebbed between them.
Looking, now, John didn't see himself as someone who could change and one day be good, but he saw himself as someone who already was. He wasn't U.S. Agent to Bob; He was John Walker. A Thunderbolt, a hero, a friend. The light wasn't metaphorical; Not when John looked down at Bob's hand and saw the glow emanating from it. Gentle, yes; but not just in their imaginations.
Bob looks down at his hand, and when John looks up at the other, his eyes are wide.
"Are you doing that?" John asks. He reaches for Bob's hand.
"I'm…" Bob's eyebrows twitch. He doesn't move John's hand, nor shares any complaints about the thumb running along the underside of his wrist. "I'm not sure." He swallows and looks up; its just wild enough of a look to be considered euphoric—maybe. "Are you?"
John hums. "Maybe." He looks at his bicep where the pink thread was loosening as his body stitched himself back together. Across his entire body there was a… heat. Not uncomfortable, but the kind you get when the sun is at the perfect height in the sky, and rain was threatening to mist through the afternoon sky. It was the kind of heat that you could close your eyes and sink into as it spread into your bones and eased you into the best sleep of your life. This heat was an enveloping hug from an old friend; a clasped pinky-finger kiss. This heat was comfort, and a promise.
"I think its both of us." John smiles.
Bob laughs. There it was. His hand lowers and ghosts over the wound on John's bicep. It lingers just long enough for the wound to pull itself together like nothing had ever happened. Bob's hand falls from his face and falls to his hip, easing backwards on the bed, his free hand-roams over the wound on John's thigh. There's no pain when it heals the torn flesh there, just comfort; just the knowledge that Bob meant every word he had said.
Bob's mouth moves; John doesn't catch it. Then his hand is back against John's cheek, as if he hadn't thought about the action but needed to feel the other man enough to know he was still here. "Thank you for trying." Bob whispers. John's eyes burn and his throat tightens. He tries to look away, to blink before its too late, but a thumb wipes away the tears spilling from his eyes before they can stain his face. Bob continues; an onslaught of kindness. "The world is better with you in it, John Walker."
John laughs and its a sound laden with a held-back sob.
Soon, the sun would rise, and they'd meet the others at the rendezvous point. Bob would tell them how they were ambushed, how he saved Johns ass, and narrowly had to pull bullets from it. Maybe Yelena would laugh and try to cover it up with her hand; determined to tell Alexei of this when they returned. Ava would definitely laugh; loud and unburdened. Of course, Bucky would roll his eyes and ignore the smile on his mouth; and John…
John would be right there, beside Bob. In the middle of the woods with a group of people that society would never spare a passing glance, and he would be grateful for it all; for the chance to wake up and try.