Chapter Text
John Walker didn’t sleep. Well he did, but only in short amounts and too far apart to be considered much. The serum didn’t help either though, it allowed his body to run longer than most, allowed him to skip a night or two of rest and not be completely dead on his feet.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t tired. John was so fucking tired, all of the time. He can’t remember a time where there wasn’t a buzzing behind his eyes or when his limbs didn’t feel like lead. The exhaustion had latched onto him, burying itself into his bones and making its home in his hollowed out heart.
It did not help his mood. It left John irritable and snappy, like even the act of someone breathing the same air as him made him want to snap in ways he hadn’t since Lemurs death. He barely talked, just grunts and one word answers so people (Valentina. It was only ever Valentina) knew he was listening, the bare minimum of communication.
So John didn’t sleep, and he didn’t talk, he barely even ate past the few scattered small meals to keep his body running. He was alone but he thinks he prefers it that way. At least when he pulled a risky move during a mission it was only himself he was putting in danger. Or when he woke up from another nightmare and he felt raw and violent and like he was seconds away from killing everything around him. (He was the only thing around him to kill.)
John was alone. Until he wasn’t. Until Valentina had thought it was a great idea to announce her ‘New Avengers’ team to the world, including him in with the bunch of over eager misfits. He didn’t get a say in it. Even as he dug his heels into the ground and absolutely refused to move into the tower along with the others, yelling in Val's face and threatening her, speaking more words then he had in the weeks since Olivia left him.
It didn’t work because a week later he was left in a too large too empty room with his belongings. Not that he had much. John didn’t take anything after leaving Olivia, he didn’t buy anything new unless it contributed to his immediate survival. He had a few pairs of clothes, a few guns and knives he used on missions, and then the books he had never gotten around to returning to the library, the pages worn from constant use and the corners creased from him dog earing them.
The room was a complete contrast to the shitty apartment he had been in. The walls a light tan color and the room so warm that John felt like he might start melting away. The bed was soft, too soft, the blanket felt suffocating like it was trying to swallow him whole. John didn’t sleep though, so the bed went untouched other than the one pillow he threw on the floor for when he managed a few minutes of nightmare plagued sleep.
He kept to himself when he could, preferring to occupy the kitchen in between the late nights and early mornings, the only time everyone had abandoned it, for a small snack and maybe a warm cup of tea. He would wander down to the gym, staying there until his lungs stung with every breath and blood dripped from his knuckles, the punching bag worn down from hours of use. The others would come in sometimes, always at random and never avoidable, but they never tried to make polite conversation or stop him. (His accelerated healing gave him an excuse to not care about the damage he was doing to himself. A mall cut? Gone within the hour.)
There were missions though, two or three a week that had them all together for a few hours. Valentina always gave vague instructions before throwing them into whatever mess she wanted cleaned up next. Everything unpredictable and dangerous, John liked it, everyone else didn’t. He was reckless, abrasive, preferring to run in guns blazing and all that. Maybe he hoped it would finally be his last time. But he had a team now, others who could get hurt because of his decisions. He wasn’t alone anymore. John wanted to be alone.
Team bonding was harder to get out of, everyone thought if they just pulled him out of his room enough that he would start to open up. John didn’t. He would stand at the edge of the group, snapping out insults and waiting to be pushed away again. They didn’t give up though, they kept dragging him around and pushing, pushing until John couldn’t think over the buzzing behind his eyes and he felt the overwhelming urge to hurt and hurt until nothing was left to hurt. So he stopped coming as often. Unless they found him before he could hide again John was able to stay away. He stopped leaving his room. John was better alone.
But he wasn’t alone. He always forgot that. He wasn’t just hurting himself anymore, he was hurting everyone around him. Everyone who had also been taken from whatever life of solitude they were living (other than Bucky. Bucky had managed to have a life outside his past.) and thrown together in an unstable mix of trauma and violence. Everyone had managed to find their way out of their past eventually and make a place for themself in the tower. Find a home within the rest of the team, have a little good in a world full of bad.
The only one who didn’t belong was John. He was leeching off their smiles and shared jokes from a distance, wearing them down and making them as unhappy as he was. He kept himself locked away in his mind and refused to free himself of his ghost, stuck in some twisted nightmare that left him restless and aware. He couldn’t sleep, and he refused to talk and when he did it was never for anything good. He couldn’t eat and the exhaustion only kept growing, piling and piling until his limbs felt too heavy to even pick himself off the floor in the mornings.
He was dangerous, a liability on the field, and he thinks the team was finally starting to understand that. The way that they would send nervous glances to him as he teetered from side to side on the way to the mission, swaying in place like he was waiting to finally tumble over in a pile of tired limbs (maybe he was.) He could hear their hushed whispers and feel their eyes boring holes into the back of his head as he worked himself to the bone during missions or even training. Leaving everything he touched stained red.
John knew it was only time until they started pushing back, until their discomfort and thoughts were voiced towards him instead of behind him. It didn’t lessen the impact of the blows, the way each remark was carefully crafted to dig in deep and hurt him. That every time they pointed out one of his faults he just wanted to scream that he knew, he knew, and he didn’t try to change it.
John wanted to change. He wanted to be better more than anything else, to be good again. John hadn’t been good since before he joined the army. Before he spilled blood for the first time. He had been wading through it ever since, his clothes stained and dripping with blood, no matter what he couldn’t get the stains off his hands. He couldn't erase the images from his mind. He couldn't stop hearing the pleading screams when the world got too quiet.
It wasn't like he wanted to kill anyone. He knew he would have to in the army, but they taught them, drilled it into their minds that it was the right and only thing to do. So he did it and refused to think too much about it. Then there was the flagsmasher, John didn't have to kill the guy, but he was so consumed in his grief and anger that it seemed like the right thing to do.
He regretted it afterwards, when he had calmed down enough to think straight again. That moment had haunted him, it still does. It leaves him waking up gasping for air at night, sweat soaked and hazy. Those nights were the ones where he ended up pressed against the cold tiles of his bathroom, willing his stomach to stop rolling before he threw up again. Every time he closed his eyes he was met with the empty lifeless stare of the man whom he just brutally murdered. John spent many nights on the bathroom floor.
Tonight was a small mercy, a rare break from the constant panic and awareness. His brain had allowed him to slip away, to escape from reality and not have to watch as the clock slowly ticked away into long nights. On some level John knew it wasn't okay, this dissociated state he was so eager to be in. Willing, wanting, maybe even longing for. At least when time slipped away from him and the concept of reality didn't feel real the nightmares and haunting memories didn't either.
John thinks it was around three in the morning by the time he came back to himself. Exhaustion evident, but at least he wasn't sweat soaked and shaking, at least he wasn't ready to jump at the first living thing near him and beat it into the ground. The constant white hot anger wasn't simmering under his skin. (He knew he wasn't okay. He knew it. He didn't try to change it.)
He quietly padded to the kitchen, setting out for a cup of too sweet too strong coffee and maybe a protein bar. What he didn't expect was to see a dim light shining from what should've been an empty room, the soft sound of a cup being placed followed by the sound of cabinets being opened and shut. John had half the mind to turn away right there, but the smell of fresh coffee hit him next and he swayed on his feet, the exhaustion reaching for him, wrapping its cold hands around his shoulders. If he didn't have some caffeine in him then he'd just fall asleep sooner or later, and his almost peaceful night would be ruined.
With a sigh John continued towards the light. Mentally preparing himself for what was probably Alexei or Yelena, the former would leave him be for the most part, but Yelena would probably try to start a conversation. Maybe try to pry into why he was awake at this hour. (Like she also wasn't awake.) He didn’t know the exact time it was, but he had assumed it would be earlier enough for only those two to be up.
But as John came face to face with Bucky when he turned the corner, it wasn't a complete shock, but the man wasn't normally here after midnight. Bucky was leaning against the counter and nursing a steaming cup of coffee in between his hands. John ignored him and the way the other man's gaze felt like it was burning into him the moment he entered the kitchen. He just wanted coffee and a snack. Then he'd leave.
Of course things were never that simple. Not for John. Bucky cleared his throat, eyes looking over every part of John, cataloging whatever he seemed to be looking for. He didn't turn around to fully face the man, just silently making his coffee as quick as he could.
“You look like shit.”
Bucky spoke first. His voice deep and slightly scratchy. It wasn't an insult, Bucky didn't seem like he wanted to get under John's skin and piss him off. It was an observation, a painfully obvious one. Yet John still bites back with energy he didn't really have.
“Really? I haven't noticed.”
He didn't try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It cracking at the end of his sentence, his throat raw and even more scratchy than Bucky's due to him not having talked in a few days, at least John thinks it was days. He can't remember.
Bucky watched John as he opened cabinets looking for what he needed. His brow quirked and a slight frown on his face, John would almost describe it as a show of concern. But that wasn't right. That couldn't be right.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Bucky broke the silence again. Pushing himself up from the counter and moving a little bit more into John's space, like he was trying to corner the younger man there. Maybe he was. Knowing Bucky, he wanted to ask something he knew John would run away from, it didn't stop the panic from building in his chest. He was now trapped there unless he wanted to push past the man.
“You just did.”
John replied, his voice tight and controlled. He played up his annoyance more, trying to cover up what was really there. He didn't need Bucky knowing that he caused him to panic, that he had this much power over the younger man. John was a fucking super soldier for crying out loud, he could probably easily over power Bucky- on a good day. Today wasn't that though.
Bucky could see the way John began to close in on himself already. His muscles going rigid and tense, the present look in his eyes growing dull and glossed over. It was worrying how quickly the man pulled in on himself and shut down at the smallest of interactions. Bucky wasn’t even sure if John knew he was doing it, or if the fight or flight response was something he had no control over.
“Have you been sleeping?”
John scoffed at the question, immediately thinking of ways to deflect, or to gather enough false confidence to give a convincing lie. But under the careful and firm gaze of Bucky all words died on his tongue. It was pointless when John felt like he could see right through him.
It scared him. The idea that Bucky knew what John tried to keep hidden. It sent a chill down his spine and had fear wrapping around his lungs like a vice. He told himself it didn't matter though, that at the end of the day John kept himself locked away enough that Bucky wouldn't be able to see everything he kept hidden. Just what bubbled to the surface before he could shove it down again.
“Im fine.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Just fuck off.”
John almost shouted before remembering what time it was, not wanting to wake the rest of the team. Not because he was being a good person, but because then he'd have to deal with all of them and their loud talking and unwarranted questions. Yeah, no, John wasn't dealing with all of that.
He nudged Bucky with a bit of force, hoping he'd get the hint and give John some space. The older man didn't budge, instead he continued to analyze John in a way that had the younger shifting uncomfortably. His mind goes back to one of their first few meetings, when Sam had off handily mentioned that Bucky had a staring problem.
It felt so long ago now. So much has happened, has changed, since their first meeting. It was like the two had swapped roles. Bucky was the hero that got better and John was only the murderer who continued to sink under the weight of it all. Getting worse and worse and not knowing, not willing to know, how to pull himself up again.
“John?”
Bucky's voice pulled him from his head before he could fully disappear into his thoughts. His brows were furrowed and he was chewing at his bottom lip like he always did when one of the team did something particularly concerning. But John didn't do anything, so he was left confused by the show of concern.
“Where do you keep going?”
“I'm right here.”
He lied. Well was it a lie, because John was physically there in the room. He just wasn't completely there mentally. He tried his hardest to fight against it, to be in the present with Bucky, but he couldn't. A small fear flickered in his chest, telling him that if he didn't act okay then Bucky would pull him off missions. That if the team knew he wasn't okay they'd start treating him like glass. They'd stop thinking of him as the guy who was brave and strong enough to earn the shield. (But he was also weak enough to lose it.)
“Look, Walker, you don't have to talk to anyone. Just- just come out of your room sometimes. Be a part of the team.”
John just watched as the man took a few steps back, looking at him one more time before exiting the kitchen. Even with the older man gone it felt like he still wasn't able to breathe. His coffee was left to sit on the counter and go cold. John no longer felt like eating either.
He tried to forget about the interaction. Bucky's concern and how he had easily seen through him. John couldn't though. It was the first time in, well forever, that someone had shown even a little concern for him. And it was from fucking Bucky Barnes of all people?
Maybe that's how John found himself here. Pacing the hallway outside of his room and trying to mentally prepare himself for when he went into the living room where everyone else was. The build up of panic is what stopped him every time he started to walk away from his door, how his breath caught in his lungs and he couldn't seem to get his legs to move any farther.
When John finally managed to make it to the living room the conversations went quiet. He pretended not to notice, along with the way they had all started staring at him. John felt like some alien they were studying. Wasn't he though. He was strange, unknown, something the team had tried and failed to learn. He didn't belong. He wasn't as human as they were.
John decided to take the seat farthest away from everyone before he could run back to his room again, sitting on the ground to lean against an unoccupied chair. The ground always felt better. Steadier. Bucky sat directly across the room in another chair, sending a small, genuine smile John's way. Probably glad to see him out of his room. John didn't care. Nope. The smile didn't make him feel warm, feel good for once. Like he'd done something right. (All he did was leave his room.)
Everyone else was close together. Yelena, Bob and Ava all sharing the couch, stretched across it so no one else had the opportunity to sit down there. The only one missing from the group was Alexei, but earlier that week he had been called out for a special mission no one knew much about.
“Nice to see you aren't dead Walker.”
Yelena joked after a few minutes of awkward silence. No one laughed. The man in question just pulled his knees to his chest and replied, trying not to read too much into her tone. (Was it just him or did it sound like she'd rather he actually be dead?)
“You wish.”
He spoke before he could fully think about it. Failing to notice the way Bucky was staring at him as John rolled his eyes. Pulling more in on himself until his legs were as close to his chest as he could manage, his arms wrapped tight around them and his chin resting on his knees. It was probably weird, the way he was sitting. How visibly closed off he held himself. Tense, bothered, reserved in a way he had never shown. Not until recently. Not when the team failed to take a hint the first several times. Yet they continued to do so.
“Nonsense. If you were gone, who else would yell at us all?”
“And there would be no one around to entertain us with stupid circus stunts!”
Ava added in, laughing alongside Yelena at their jokes. John didn't find them funny. How they talked as if they really wouldn't mind him leaving, that he was only some source of shitty entertainment.
John felt like some circus monkey. (Maybe it was a Captain America thing.) Like everyone just threw him one thing after the next to see how long it would take until he crumpled under the weight of it all and failed miserably. He failed at being Captain America, failed at being a dad, he could barely even be a soldier anymore, let alone work on a team.
John tried though. He stopped talking as much, biting down whatever comment his brain gave him that would just serve to push everyone away. He followed orders. That was the easy part. Being given a task that he could thoughtlessly follow, given direct, straight to the point, orders that not even he could fuck up. That's why John lasted so long in the army, but failed everywhere else. He wasn't built to be soft or have good morals. John wasn't made for heroic deeds and little acts of kindness.
He was made to be ruthless and efficient. To follow his commands no matter the task. He was born to be hard along the edges and hurt those who got close, John was born a killer. And fuck if he didn't make a damn near perfect one. Years of being sculpted into perfection, everything good chipped away until it left all the ugliness. That's what they wanted though. The army and later Valentina. They wanted someone who would kill for them, someone disposable and without anything else in life to lose. (Not when he's already lost it all.)
Someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Where despite the messiness in his anger, it was what kept him from thinking too long about what he was really doing. In his haste to prove that he was good enough he forgot to look down at all the blood on his hands, failed to notice the bodies behind him, and the ghost he walked past as he continued to move on.
John could feel himself slipping away. The way everything grew fuzzy around the edges, how it was harder to think coherently. He knew he wasn't holding onto reality like he should have been, not trying to stop himself from slipping, instead just letting it happen. Why would John stay in a world that hates him when he could get away for a little bit?
’Where do you keep going?’\
He found Bucky's gaze through all of the confusion, the emptiness, the self hate and the anger that threatened to consume him. The older man was already watching John with a knowing look, his mouth set in a soft frown and a silent question of ‘are you okay’ in his eyes. John wanted to leave, run away, hide within his mind. But he also wanted to prove Bucky wrong, to show him that he was completely fine and Bucky could shove his concern up his ass.
He wanted the unsaid questions, the fleeting glances of concern, the worry that hung heavy in the air to just go away. He didn't want to see knowing looks, or acknowledge the way everyone seemed to question silently whether he was stable or not. The way each of them have recognized the signs and read between the lines, yet ignored it. Feed into it and still seemed to be worried at times. He wanted it all to stop.
John nodded his head slightly a few seconds later, answering Bucky's unsaid question. Hesitating for only a few moments before he was nodding almost aggressively, now towards himself instead of Bucky. It was like he was trying to keep himself awake or convince himself of his answer, and in a sense he was. He wanted to keep himself there, present, awake. Wanted so badly to believe that he was good, okay, when all his mind did was scream at him otherwise. Bucky opened his mouth before closing it, deciding to keep whatever comment he thought of to himself. John was glad. He didn't need the others' attention on him, their comments would only push him farther away, whether intentionally or not.
John was about to say something. To excuse himself and run back to the safety of his room. But just as he uncurled from himself, opening his mouth to speak up, all their phones went off. Exactly three short buzzes. It was Valentina's way of letting them know they had a mission waiting for them.
John saw the way Bucky let his eyes fall shut, letting out a soft breath just close enough to a sigh to be considered one. Stealing himself for whatever bullshit Val was about to put them in. Everyone else had similar reactions. Yelena's entire body sagged into the couch like she was trying to become one with it. Ava had already grown tense, her expression carefully blank in the way that told John that she was ready to do this and then forget about it. Bob was fidgeting with his sleeves, a nervous look on his face like he didn't know whether to run away or join them. His phone went off though, so Valentina obviously thought this important enough to have Bob there.
John wasn't annoyed or tired like the others. He was waiting, ready, eager to get back out onto the field. He was on his feet before everyone else could even pull themselves away from their silent suffering, already heading towards his room for his suit and gear. The suit already laid out, waiting. He didn’t waste any time changing into it, the pieces fitting into place with a practiced ease.
When he returned to the living room it had already been cleared. Everyone else leaving to get ready themselves, while also wasting as much time as they could. Dragging feet and light heartedly fighting with equipment that wouldn't go in place the first time. John wanted to yell at them sometimes, scream that they shouldn't waste time when missions were urgent and important. It was a lie. Everyone knew it. Nothing Val gave them needed immediate attention and quick action.
Bucky was the second one to enter the living room. Not at all surprised to find John standing ready and waiting, his eyes flickering around the room with an awareness that the younger man usually lacked outside of missions. His form straight and muscles rigid. Bucky hated it, but at least it was something that managed to ground John to the world, even if for a little while.
“Are you okay? To do this mission I mean.”
Bucky asked softly, quiet, a whisper. Like if he spoke louder it might break something within John. Like he wasn't able to handle himself if the answer were to be no. But Bucky needed the reassurance that John was fine, needed to voice his concerns even if he was brushed off or lied to. John scoffed. Bucky's concern only grew. The younger man didn't want to speak, didn't trust his voice not to tell a different story than his words. He just wanted a fight. A mission. What was taking everyone so long?
“‘M fine.”
He finally mumbled after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. (Bucky didn't look uncomfortable. Only John.) Thankfully just as the other man was just about to reply the others walked in, laughing together until they spotted Bucky and John, smiles dropping from their faces and laughter quickly dying. John couldn't help but think that was because of him. It was always him