Lola

The Thunderbolts have only been a proper team for a month or so, none of them interested in Valentina’s bullshit ‘New Avengers’ name, which is an important distinction to make.

Equally as important is the team refusing to use John’s name. Sure, they called him Walker, or dime store Captain America, or any other humiliating variant thereupon to harp upon his mistakes, but none of them, not once, had called him John. He supposed that there were still gaps to bridge, and that they didn’t know him well enough for that yet. Hell, he’d called Lemar by his last name half of the time, and they were buddies.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t still a sore spot for him, though.

.

He tried with Bob first, noticing his tendency to drift off and forget to actually eat something more substantial than the family sized bags of chips he liked, or similarly prepackaged food. It didn’t work – though Bob readily accepted food after the first round of confusion, and even made himself a regular fixture helping him with small tasks during the cooking process, he still consistently called him Walker.

Last night, they had both been cleaning up the remains of one of the rare full team dinners, and Bob had dropped a knife towards his food. John had reacted fast – shoving the sturdy chopping board out to intercept the knife’s course. It landed with a dull thud into the wood.

Bob gave him a weak smile.

“Thanks, Walker. My foot really would have been a shish kabob without your help.”

Something inside John shrivels up at the use of his surname, despite the gratitude.

“Sure. Uh, glad your foot wasn’t skewered, Robert.”

God damnit, he doesn’t like being called Robert, you idiot.

.

Perhaps Alexei would adjust to his presence better – the large (in all dimensions) Russian was gratingly cheerful most of the time, and had come up with odd nicknames for most of the Thunderbolts, ‘Lena, not stupid weak Avengers. Unfortunately, John’s was ‘Captain America’ – he physically recoiled away from Alexei when he first called him that – or ‘Captain’, or mostly just Walker like he got from everyone else.

Alexei seemed to enjoy his company, especially during his weekly – used to be near nightly – rewatches of old war movies and would loudly and joyfully share his stream-of-consciousness commentary on them. It was enjoyable, in an odd way, especially when Alexei would get diverted from the movie and start talking about making borscht for the whole team – “Borscht I make is a good, strong recipe – traditional to hometown. Put more hairs on your chest, Walker.”

Strike two, clearly he’s still not close enough to Alexei.

.

Yelena’s next, and to nobody’s surprise, she obviously still doesn’t feel any comeraderie with him – she keeps up the joke and “friendly” ribbing about his personality. Though, it does decrease in frequency slightly. He dares to hope that if he makes a concerted effort, she’ll call him by name – despite all of the bickering, she calls Ava by her first name. But no, clearly not, and so he stays just Walker – “Hey Walker, your stupid knife is blunt, give it here.”

Or

“Walker, you idiot, don’t go charging in like that!”

.

Ava’s much the same as Yelena, but John still tries to bond with her through training. More specifically sparring, because her phasing and wickedly good fighting style make her a trying opponent. Their last match was Ava’s win – her phasing getting her up and under his guard and to his unprotected back, where she held a practice knife to the column of his neck.

“My round again, Walker?” she asks, like it isn’t obvious who won that.

Again, the small part of him that looks something like a young boy who was left to die in a housefire curls itself up into an even tighter ball in his chest at the rejection, exhausted.

.

Bucky, well, the less said the better. John doesn’t even try with Bucky, not in the same way as the others, because he knows the other man despises him, hates his guts since the mission in Latvia. Why else would he lurk around in the corners of most rooms John went into in the tower, observing.

.

.

.

His ongoing spiral about none of his teammates calling him by his given name is interrupted by what’s ostensibly a routine information retrieval mission – infiltrate a lab set up by some idiots with delusions of grandeur, get rid of anybody trying to stop them, retrieve all essential data, then torch the place.

Of course it all goes to shit not even ten minutes in, their plan falling to pieces – Valentina’s intel was completely off, the bitch, and there are definitely way more enemies than they were expecting.

It catches the whole team off-guard, and the situation becomes deadly in a matter of seconds, especially since the team had split up into several smaller groups - John and Yelena to one wing of the lab, Ava and Alexei to the other, Bob was on comms, and Bucky was on overwatch - picking off any reinforcements that showed up.

Thankfully, John and Yelena had managed to retrieve the necessary files from a dingy cabinet in the maze of a building before their plan was blown wide open like an overripe fruit.

John taps his comms.

"Data retrieved, white widow is setting charges now, over."

A hesitant voice crackles over the team channel "Uh, that's good, right Bucky?"

Bucky's reply is sharp, no nonsense "Yes, now get the hell out of there, Walker. Charges have a twenty-five minute timer on them."

Walker, again. The name eats away at him. But it is a mission situation, so John ruthlessly tamps the upwelling of negative feelings down, and carries on.

He takes the lead through the first narrow hallway they come to - the only entrance and exit to the file storage room, a funnel that left him uneasy, hair on the back of his neck prickling - shield out and ready to block any fire that comes their way, and Yelena stalks behind him, poised and ready to pick off any of the stragglers that they didn't take out on their lightning fast trip there.

Ava's voice echoes, static, "Data retrieved from our side, making our way out."

John replies, barely holding in his laughter at the loud boasting he can hear bouncing around his ears from Alexei, "Copy that. Let's blow this joint."

He rounds the corner to the next lonely stretch of corridor and the building is still silent, uncomfortably so - no sound other than the thud of his feet reverberating on the floor.

"I don't like this Yelena, it's too quiet," he mutters, readjusting his grip on the shield, pistol held out ready at his side.

"You are right, Walker. I do not like it either. Base is too empty, even for idiots like this."

Not thirty seconds pass since he voiced that thought before the hallway lights up with the rattle of gunfire.

He can hear the echo of a similar disaster down the comms.

Shit

He lunges towards the nearest assailant, and ducks under the rapid fire, bringing the taco shield crashing up against their unprotected chin. It crunches, and the attacker crumples to the floor like a ragdoll.

One of Yelena’s knives go whistling past, nailing another in the forehead, and that gives them more room to breathe. Bullets still clang against the heavy metal of the shield, jarring his arm with every rattling impact, but John can now pick off the rest of the idiots that decided to try and corner an angry super soldier, and whatever the fuck Yelena counts as – a nightmare to most people, he’s sure.

Progress is slow, more and more faceless minions pouring out of the woodwork, and their progress through the compound is a time-consuming slog.

A sharp pain blooms along the skin of his outer thigh, his left leg buckling at the sudden burn. He grunts at the pain, wavering slightly, but limping onwards. A crackle bursts over his comms, and Bucky’s voice is there, urgent, in his ear like some disapproving guardian angel.

“Walker, status report!”

“M’fine Bucky,” he snaps out, “A bit busy right now if you hadn’t noticed.”

Yelena pipes up and says “Bullet grazed his leg, but he is still up and moving. Do not twist up your panties, we will get out of here in no time.”

Several well-placed shots to center mass take down the last two enemies on the floor, the stairwell to ground level looming dark in front of him. He gasps at the surge of pain as he goes to step up, the shift of weight jarring the bullet graze. Yelena is there at his side though, a silent support, so he grits his teeth and moves, ignoring the way that the fabric around the wound sticks to his skin, damp with blood and sweat.

A rattling hail of footsteps sound above them, and John can hear Yelena curse under her breath as her pistol clicks, empty, as several more people come running down the stairs towards them. He wordlessly hands her his gun, ignoring her cry of protest, and adjusts his grip on his shield. John smiles grimly. He can do just as much damage with his shield, and it fills him with some sort of twisted satisfaction to see it ricochet against the walls of the stairwell and take out three of their opponents in one clean, well-calculated arc.

The recoil as it lands back in his arm shakes him, jarring his leg.

Yelena moves swiftly at his side, taking out the other three with consecutive headshots. He shivers at that, but pushes onwards, stepping over the corpses at his feet as he makes his way further up the flight of stairs, not stopping to rain any of the bodies for another weapon in his desire to get out of the cramped, dangerous space, and out to the rendezvous point for extraction.

And out under Bucky’s watchful eye, where he can protect us, something whispers in his head. He ignores it.

The steps swim under his feet as he trudges up the last few steps, brain heavy with exhaustion.

And blood loss, idiot Walker, says the Yelena voice in his mind that has taken up the job of reminding him when he’s being exceptionally dense. The sense of vertigo crashes over him like a tidalwave once he reaches the end of the stairs. His vision fuzzes out for a second, and he wobbles, tipping over, only to be caught by Yelena’s smaller frame.

She sighs, and grunting with effort, loops his right arm over one of her shoulders.

“Come on, Walker, we are nearly out, do not be useless and give up now.”

He nods in assent, and she shoulders open the door to the courtyard.

His only excuse for missing the grenade that lands at their feet is the sudden bright sunlight blinding him. As such, he only has just enough time to tear himself away from Yelena, shoving her back through the doorway, and throwing his shield, and himself, on top of the grenade just before it explodes.

The world goes white as he’s thrown back, crashing violently against the doorframe, head bouncing off the concrete. He slides to the floor, body limp, mind blank but for the all-consuming burning along his legs and the bottom of his torso where the shield hadn’t caught the blast. Something trickles down the side of his face.

He flops over to his side, trying to get up, only to falter and collapse, as something tears in his abdomen. There are a number of bright points of pain amongst the rest of it, and he faintly registers shrapnel lodged in his gut.

Oh, that’s not good.

He can feel blood drip from his nose as he finally registers the shouting in his ear.

“-alker, Walker, John! How copy?”

Bucky’s voice is frantic, echoing loudly through the comms, but all John can focus on is the fact that he said his name. It kindles something warm in his chest despite the growing chill of his limbs.

All he can muster is a slight groan in response.

“Shit, shit, God dammit,” Bucky growls out, “Yelena, how copy?”

“Here,” she replies, coughing weakly, “Walker pushed me back through door, protected me from blast, but I think the impact got my ribs.”

John doesn’t catch Bucky’s rushed reply, ringing filling his ears. Yelena’s face fills his vision as she comes stumbling out of the doorway, collapsing to her knees none too gently at his side, eyes wide and full of worry. His eyes begin to slip closed, but she pats his face sharply to get his attention, and they flicker open.

“No, John, stay awake. Come on, don’t leave me to deal with Bucky’s yelling alone,” she whispers, a weak smile on her face.

There is the sudden roar of an engine as some vehicle comes tearing into the courtyard. Yelena doesn’t react, so it must be the team’s.

He’s really cold.

John’s vision starts greying at the edges again, and he only just catches Bucky practically throwing himself out of the driver’s side of the truck and skidding to a stop where he lies prone on the floor.

Bucky’s eyes are really bright blue. Huh, are those tears? Something cold and metallic loops around his shoulders, Bucky’s other arm reaching under his knees, and suddenly he’s cradled against a broad chest, head lolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.

The pain from the sudden movement sends John over the edge he was hovering on into unconsciousness.

.

.

.

John dreams of warmth, no, of burning and of fire, of the sweltering heat engulfing his and Katie’s room as flames licked at the edges of the door, of crying and crying for his parents to come back and get him before he collapses to his bed again in a fit of coughing because of the smoke inhalation, of damn well near giving up before Mikey is suddenly there, calling his name and rescuing him from sudden death by immolation.

John, hey John, it’s alright, I’ve got you

Walker

Huh, that’s not Mikey

Walker, come on, wake up soon. We need you to wake up soon. Well Barnes does at least, the brooding old man. He’s barely left the room, you know.

Another voice, echoing somewhere beyond the flickering edges of the dream.

Hey, uh, it’s been a couple days since I’ve seen you, y’know, awake. Miss seeing you in the kitchen. Aw, shoot. Not that I want to make you seem like some housewife, just that you look happy there.

John drifts closer to the surface, the heat-haze of dreaming growing thinner, but something in him still shies away from his name – the wrong one, it belonged to the man who had done so much to regret, who had caved in the face of a man surrendering, who had carried out so many unspeakable things on the orders of superiors and officials whose only care was that it was taken care of out of the public eye – it wasn’t the one that belonged to John, or Johnny as Mikey always said, the scared little boy who just wanted someone to care enough about him to rescue him from the flames, the young man who had thrown himself in front of a grenade to protect his best friend, specially reinforced helmet on top of it be damned, who had seen that same friend, his brother, die, skull cracking like Ma’s nice china when he’d knocked it to the floor.

Walker, John, goddamnit you idiot. You can’t keep using your body as a shield, one of these days even the serum won’t be able to heal the damage. Wake up so I can kill you myself, punk.

His name, finally, and a gruff voice heavy with exhaustion.

.

John

B l i n k s

A w a k e.

The lights in the room are dimmed, machines beeping in the background, but all John can notice is Bucky slumped by his bedside, right hand wound up in the thin sheet covering John’s legs. He shivers, and the beeping picks up pace.

It’s like the beep of recording cameras, shutters clicking as they capture his every move, towering monsters with their lone eye trained on him, flames licking at the edge of the door. There is no breath in his lungs.

Cool metal lands on the back of his neck and he’s lurching free of the panic. Bucky has his left hand curled around the nape of his neck, and that gentle pressure grounds him where he feels like he might otherwise float away.

Oh, they must have him on drugs.

He looks up from where his eyes had been fixed on his lap.

Bucky’s ice blue eyes stare back at him.

So pretty, and dangerous, like the icebergs the Titanic crashed into.

A sigh, exasperation and relief.

“Walker.”

Bucky’s voice is half concern, half wry amusement, as his gaze flickers over John in assessment.

John pouts – he doesn’t like that name; he hates it and all the memories it’s tied up with. Before he can come up with any particularly witty response, he yawns wide, jaw cracking, and he starts to sink back into the blissful unawareness of sleep.

In typical stubborn fashion, he struggles valiantly against sleeps warm embrace for a long moment before it finally drags him under, desperate not to drift back into the nightmare of before. Somewhere at the edges of his hearing there is another exasperated sigh, and he drifts off to the phantom sensation of a hand running through his hair.

“Go to sleep, you punk. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

.

Bucky is, in fact, still there when John wakes up for the second time. Surprisingly, so is Yelena, who is perched on the railings at the foot of his bed peeling apart an orange. He can see the edge of some bandages poking out of the collar of her shirt.

Unfortunately, Bucky is asleep, his head resting on the edge of the mattress by John’s shoulder, so Yelena is the only one to notice his infinitely more peaceful return to wakefulness.

She raises one sardonic eyebrow and drawls out “Looks like the sleeping beauty finally joins us.”

Then, apropos of nothing, “Do not ever scare me like that again. I might always take the shit out of you, but I do not wish you dead, Walker. I do not want another person to die on me.”

Still floating along on some unseen current, John blurts out the first thing that pops up in his head.

“Don’t like it,” he whispers, head fuzzy.

“Don’t like what, Walker?” Yelena fires back at him.

“That. S’not my name, don’t like it. Name’s John, not Walker.”

He blinks rapidly, feeling tears, of all things, welling up in the corner of his eyes. All of his emotions are dialed up far past the usual baseline, and this small slight sets the feral creature in his chest whining and curling up even tighter against the pain.

Yelena’s sudden, hand-waving panic at his show of emotion sends an orange segment flying through the air to land with a dull thud on Bucky’s head. He jolts awake, eyes snapping immediately to John’s face, and upon seeing his eyes damp with tears, whirls accusingly to Yelena.

She shrugs in total confusion, shrinking only slightly against the force of Bucky’s glare.

“I do not know why he started crying, Barnes, don’t look at me like that. Something about his name not being Walker? Last I knew that was always his name.”

Bucky’s gaze, meanwhile, has softened in something close to understanding.

“I think I know why he’s upset,” he says, voice rough with sleep, “He went the entirety of his career being called that name, having it caught up in any number of things he’d rather forget. I know what that feels like.”

Sniffling slightly, no he was not just crying like a baby, he nods and manages to string a surprisingly coherent sentence together.

“Yeah, ‘s something like that. No one else gets called by their surname, ‘sides m’not in the army anymore.”

This revelation is met by a soft oh of realization from Yelena, who nods to herself and stands up, orange forgotten in one hand.

“Lovely emotional revelation, W-John. I will go inform the others,” she says, then in typical fashion she mutters, “and leave you two lovebirds to your peace.”

She darts out of the doorway straight after that, avoiding Bucky’s venomous look of disagreement.

John hums slightly at the statement, taking a while to parse the obvious, and flops his head to one side so he can look straight at Bucky. He tries valiantly to say something, but all that comes out is a disgruntled noise as Sleep’s strong arms start to drag him back down into its embrace.

As his eyelids flutter closed, he can see Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the edges in amusement, and a warm hand clasps his own.

“Sleep again, John. The world will still be here when you wake up.”

+ john having the oh moment: