#john walker thots

you didn’t have the luxury of living a normal life. you didn’t get to vacation to Mexico or retire to the south of France. you were cursed to this hell from day one; you all were. 

that’s the life of a fighter, a soldier. cursed to live in battle and to die a warrior’s death.

the little girl in you didn’t want to believe that. the little girl in you, the little girl you once were...

she had hope. she had dreams of happiness, of having and being something more than the future you now lived. 

maybe she thought both you and him had already been through so much that maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through the worst of it. that the universe would show just a little bit of mercy on you. 

that’s stupid. it’s all so fucking stupid.

that’s what you told yourself when you couldn’t stop your endless crying at the funeral, that you were stupid and idiotic for not being able to hold back your tears in front of everyone.

that’s what you told yourself when you sobbed yourself to sleep for weeks afterward, still picturing the life you could’ve had together in another lifetime. 

another lifetime?

you’d both already lived too many lives, and yet the final outcome would never change. no matter how many alternate universes your mind could conceive, universes where you could’ve been happy, it would never work. 

you were cursed to a life of war and eternal despair in every universe.

you cried a little harder at the thought.

~~~

you tried everything to move on from your grief.

you tried taking time off, you tried throwing yourself into your work. you tried going to the gym, you tried going to therapy (although you’d never admit that to a single soul). you tried isolating yourself, you tried being in the company of as many people as possible at all times. 

you tried drinking, but it didn’t take long before your job was being threatened because of it, so you swore off alcohol real quick. intoxication never worked, anyways, no matter how much you wished it would. 

maybe if it did, it would be worth losing your job over. just to not have to feel the loss of him.

nothing worked. 

you would never forget how safe you felt in his arms, even though he worried he’d hurt you with them. you would never forget how beautiful his eyes were, his hair, his scars...

you had never loved anyone before him.

anyone.

you let yourself be stupid, naive, and vulnerable with him. you let yourself fall in love with him no matter how bad of an idea it was, and now you’d learned your lesson in the worst way possible.

maybe...

maybe if he had never fallen in love with you, he’d still be here.

~~~

John Walker couldn’t pretend to understand exactly what it was that you were going through, but he could empathize. losing the love of your life was a universal experience no matter how different the circumstances were. 

at least you had the opportunity to leave things on a positive note.

he hated himself for thinking that, for trying to compare your situations. what he was dealing with wasn’t the same, didn’t hold a candle to the pain you were feeling. you were distraught, and rightfully so. 

no one on the team, other than him, had ever seen you like this. you were always so put together, the perfect soldier who never let anything get to her. you were untouchable, indestructible. 

until one of you didn’t come back from battle.

then? then you were a wreck, losing every ounce of the self-composure that you’d trained into yourself, regardless of how you felt inside. 

he hated himself for trying to delude himself into thinking that you were the lucky one. he hated himself for trying to reason that at least you had still been in love in the end, that you had been truly happy in your relationship. 

he hated that your loss wasn’t your fault. 

but, in a way, his faults were also a comfort you didn’t have.

when his relationship was coming to an end, he saw it from a mile away. of course, it didn’t make the truth hurt any less, but at least he knew it was coming. his divorce was inevitable.

your heartbreak had come out of nowhere. 

the stab in the gut he felt was far more painful than any injury he’d ever sustained when he realized that unlike you, he at least had the chance to say good-bye. 

~~~

he watched as you went through the motions, trying to pretend everything was fine. he watched as you tried to make changes in your life, giving yourself the grace to fall apart to try and let the grief pass. he watched you try to drown yourself in alcohol, and work, and everything else possible to try and move past the all-consuming pain.

everyone else tried to turn a blind eye, because that’s the same thing they would have wanted if they were in your situation. they tried to pretend that everything was normal, that you were fine.

that’s what they thought would help you.

besides, they were dealing with their own grief, too, no matter how different it was from yours.

but Walker knew better. he knew that space was the very last thing you needed, because he’d been where you’d been. he was still mourning the marriage he lost, and as such, he had a semblance of insight into your situation that the rest of the team didn’t have. 

the one thing he had, that you yet hadn’t had, was time. he thought that with the passage of time, you’d get better. he just needed to give you the space and privacy to work through it. 

so yes, he pretended to turn a blind eye. without your knowledge, he observed you carefully, watching you as though he had inherited you as his to protect. 

he did a shitty job of it, he’s sure, but at least he kept you alive. 

on top of that, he made damn well sure you weren’t going to lose your position because of your drinking. that was the one time in the three months following the accident that he stepped in.

he had truly believed that letting time go by would help. that by now, you would at least come back to some semblance of yourself. 

but he saw what everyone else didn’t: you were losing yourself more and more every day.

~~~

he can’t keep doing this.

he can’t continue to stay out of it and leave you alone like everyone else, the way you want everyone to.

comforting people, getting involved in their personal business...

he tried his best when the situation presented itself. but actually approaching you, trying to have a serious discussion with you about your feelings?

yeah, he knows how that’ll go. you’ll do the same damn thing he would do to someone else, which is to yell at them for being nosey and slam the door in their face. 

he lets out a sigh as he stands outside your door. he has to at least try. if not for you, then for your lost love. 

it’s late, later than most colleagues would bother each other. but, he argues to himself, he isn’t here as a colleague.

he is going to try to be a friend. if he even knows what that means anymore.

so he summons the courage to knock on your door.

~~~

the majority of the time, when you were needed for any reason, you were notified in a more efficient manner: a phone call, a text, even a blaring siren throughout the building. any of those would have been the expected notification that there was something that required your attention.

nobody had knocked on your door in months. not since him.

you pause for a moment, knowing you can’t avoid whoever is standing on the other side of the door. something serious could be going on, something work-related. so you bite your lip and force yourself to stand from your comfy spot in the bed, pulling a hoodie over your head before answering the door. 

when you open the door, you honestly expect it to be anyone but Walker. what does he want from you? 

“what’s up?” you ask, trying to remain monotone. you shove your hands into the pocket of your jacket, hiding the way your hands shake in anxiety. your assumption is that something is wrong, something having to do with your position on this team. 

you know you deserve it, but you truly don’t want to get let go. you need this, this job, this team. if you lose this, too, after everything that’s happened…

you might not survive it. 

he stutters for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. he had this whole plan to come up here and actually say something, do his best to try and offer you some support. and yet it never crossed his mind how to actually broach the topic with you.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” is what he eventually settles on.

you fight with yourself in your head, concerned he’s about to give you the can, while also angry at the fact that he dare ask you that. 

is he serious? it’s only been a few months since you lost him, how well can you possibly be doing right now? 

no, he’s just trying to help.

a little late for that.

better late than never.

you shove down your anger and elect to return the polite sentiment. now isn’t the time to make things worse, not when you’re still not sure if your job is in trouble. 

“yeah, I’m alright, thanks,” you respond. 

he notices your attempt to put on a brave face, which normally, you’re so good at. normally, no one would know you had any other emotions than pure confidence and “danger is my middle name!”

he caught you off guard coming up here like this, he knows he did. so he predicts his next words will most likely either send you into a spiral of rage or fear. 

“I know you’re not.”

excuse me? you think to yourself. 

how dare he? how dare he act like he knows what you’re going through, like your entire life isn’t over, like he knows how badly you want to just end it–

“and before you yell at me, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m just trying to help.”

why the fuck would he think he can help you? he doesn’t get it, of course he doesn’t.

he sees the look in your eyes as you contemplate how you’re going to respond, how you’re boiling with anger as he predicted you would be. he doesn’t blame you for it. 

you must stand there seething for a little too long, apparently, because he starts answering every question that you’re quietly asking yourself. 

“I know I haven’t gone through the same shit you’re going through, but,” he pauses, trying to gather the will to talk to you openly in hopes that it will encourage you to do the same. “but I did lose my partner in combat, you know that. and you know about... about my wife.”

the words burn his tongue as they leave his mouth, leaving nothing but a rotten taste in his mouth as he’s forced to confront his own wrongdoings. his own past, his own losses. 

“I know it’s not the same, but I can understand how you’re feeling. so, you can talk to me,” he gently encourages. it’s a long shot, and he’s still somewhat convinced you’re going to blow up on him. you should, he thinks. he’d do the same if he were in your position. 

“he understood me,” you hiss, your voice so low that he may not have heard it if not for his superhuman hearing.

he sighs in acknowledgement. he feels your pain in his chest, in his bones. 

“I know,” he quietly tells you. 

once again, you contemplate for far too long. 

but after silently deliberating for a moment, you step back from the entryway, cracking the door wide enough for him to step inside. 

you don’t end up talking much for the rest of the evening. you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring down at your twiddling thumbs while he sits on the edge of the bed, scared to push further than he already has. 

“it’s just a lot to deal with,” you mumble, “and nothing seems to help.”

he hums his acknowledgement, resonating with what you’ve just told him. he wishes he had something more he could say to you in this moment, something he could do to aid you more than just sitting here in silence. 

regardless, the sentiment went unspoken that evening: you were grateful he was trying.

~~~

the next time he knocks a week later, you’d missed an important meeting in the afternoon. after he had set you straight regarding your drinking not long after the accident, you’d taken every precaution to make sure your work wasn’t affected. you could still be a productive member of this team, and you would prove it. today, though, you let yourself look bad by not showing up. 

“what’s going on?” is the first thing he asks you when you open the door.

“I’m sorry. it won’t happen again,” is all you tell him. 

there were a lot of things that had fallen to him after the accident. in particular, someone had to step up and fill the ‘leader’ role that your partner had once filled. 

irrespective of the leadership position he now assumed in place of him, he now felt a sense of responsibility towards you. even though he’d failed at being there for you in the past few months since the accident, it didn’t stop him from feeling obligated to care for you. 

up until now, he thought he was doing what he was supposed to by giving you space. but now it was time for him to cut the bullshit and fucking do something. 

“no, come on. I’m not... that’s not what I meant,” he tries to explain, “I’m not going to yell at you. just talk to me.”

talking. wow. now he wants to talk to you? after all this time?

you force yourself to take a pause before throwing around any accusations. knew he wouldn’t have wanted you to be angry with the world, no matter how much you are.

you channel your anger into a productive response, as your therapist once told you.

(clearly, there was a reason you didn’t go back after one session, but you had to at least try.)

“you seriously want to know?” you ask him. you feel weak, and stupid, and you know you should shove down your feelings in place of putting your emotionless mask back on. you’d perfected the art of pretending to be fine before the accident. why couldn’t you do that anymore? had the loss of him truly stripped you of your ability to maintain your composure?

“yes. I want to know,” he clarifies firmly, stepping closer and leaning inside the doorway.

you fucking hate this.

this is what he would have wanted for you.

you reluctantly let him into your room for the second time this week, shutting the door behind him. he takes the same seat on the edge of your unmade bed, looking at you, waiting for you to say something.

“it was a rough day,” is all you can muster up.

he blinks at you, unappeased, expecting you to continue. of course that’s not enough to placate him.

“this is stupid!” you laugh nervously, staring into the distance as you consider your next words. “this is so…” you trail off, getting lost in your thoughts. it’s childish. pointless. 

painful. 

a moment passes before you take a deep breath.

“today would have been our anniversary. two years. we... we had talked about…”

the memory haunts you. you can’t deal with this, you don’t want to be confronted like this, forced to admit the reality you face. forced to accept the loss of the future you could’ve had.

he just watches you and waits patiently for you to continue. 

“we had talked about getting married today. like, just going down to the courthouse and signing a piece of paper. nothing big. we just wanted to make it official. I don’t know, it feels so impossible now, so stupid. like, what was I thinking? that I could get married?” you ramble, beginning to laugh at yourself in your stupidity as you finish, “I don’t deserve to have that luxury.”

you think to yourself for a few more moments, considering the fact that you’d finally said it out loud. saying it aloud made it real, giving existential proof to your thoughts, to your sadness.

you take a few more breaths, all the while he doesn’t yet respond.

you finally look up at him, frustrated with the situation, resting your hands on your hips as you wait to see what he has to say. if he’ll even bother. 

except he isn’t looking at you anymore, his head hung as he stares down at your floor.

oh, fuck.

you were talking about marriage, about not deserving it, shit.

“fuck, you know I didn’t mean that,” you try to recover, feeling even more anxious and panicked. he was trying to help you, and what did you do? you went and offended him.

“no, it’s alright,” he says, still not looking up to meet your gaze.

he’s the one lost in thought, now. 

what business had he ever had getting married? did he really think that someone like him, a proud military man turned fuck-up Captain America, could hold onto his marriage? his kid?

he would have been better off never getting involved with a woman in the first place. he could’ve spared her, and himself, all that heartache. 

he could have spared his son from a life of wondering why his father didn’t care enough.

he finally looks back up to you, noticing the anxious expression on your face. he’s still not used to seeing you look as anything other than put-together.

“how do you do it?” you whisper to him, feeling the way your eyes well up with tears. don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you urge yourself. “how do you deal with the pain?”

he wishes he had an answer for you.

he stands from the bed, makes his way towards you slowly, and embraces you like you’re made of glass. 

the only person who had ever hugged you this tenderly was him.

~~~

the next time he knocks on your door, he feels selfish. 

it’s only been a few days. although you haven’t missed a single meeting since, still learning to maintain your facade in front of the team, he can tell you’re still stuck. how that hollow emptiness in your chest, where your heart is supposed to be, only grows more and more inside you every day. 

he feels like he’s being incredibly self-absorbed showing up at your door like this, making it about him, when you clearly don’t have the mental wherewithal to deal with his issues on top of your own. 

he knocks anyway.

this is becoming habit, you think. 

you don’t hesitate to let him in this time. as he walks in, you can tell something is wrong. he’s quiet, not inquiring about your well-being the second he sees you. you watch as he proceeds to sit in his trademark spot on the edge of your bed. 

“you’re going to hate me for what I’m about to say,” he begins. you prepare for the worst, assuming you’re going to be kicked out, kicked off the team–

“I’m jealous of you. in a way,” he admits.

you’re severely depressed, severely lost in life, all because you lost the one person who meant the most to you. and now Walker is jealous of you? 

if you’re honest, you’re more curious than angry.

“why?” you whisper, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed.

“because at least you know what you had was real. at least you don’t spend every day questioning whether he actually loved you. and, fuck, I know this isn’t fair to you,” he rambles, shutting his eyes and shaking his head in frustration. 

you don’t know what you’re supposed to do. what the fuck do you say?

“every day, I wake up and I can’t stop thinking about how it’s all my fault,” he admits to you. 

you didn’t know John Walker had it in him to be vulnerable, to be honest with you in such a way. sharing his deepest fears to you, someone he barely knows beyond work? 

you should question it, but you don’t. 

you do the only thing you know to do, and you wrap your arms around him the way he’d done for you days previous.

you let him bury his face in the crook of your neck for as long as he wants, never once letting himself shed a tear in front of you, before excusing himself. you watch him wipe his nose and eyes as he runs out of your bedroom.

your stomach twists when the door shuts behind him, leaving you all alone once more.

~~~

you can’t breathe.

it feels like your lungs are on fire, your throat is collapsing, and your stomach is plummeting, you can’t breathe–

you instinctively reach to his side of the bed. he always knows what to do when this happens. he understands what it’s like to be woken in a panic, fearing that you never escaped, that your past is not in the past after all. 

but he’s not there.

and your whole world comes crashing down all over again.

you bury your head into his side of the sheets, clinging to his pillow, praying that your breath doesn’t come back to you. 

you pray that your lungs give out, that your lips turn blue from lack of oxygen. you pray that you choke on your own vomit, you pray for anything to let you escape this reality that’s far worse than any nightmare your subconscious could ever dream up.

is this living? is it even worth it to keep going, to keep powering on when your heart died along with him three months ago?

you sob for god knows how long, your chest aching and your nausea increasing as your turmoil never settles. 

eventually, your lungs find their breath again. your stomach does settle.

except your heart doesn’t stop hurting. your mind doesn’t stop berating you.

your feet move of their own accord. you don’t know where you’re going, what you’re going to do. 

you think about going to a bar, getting blackout drunk, starting a fight, and letting someone beat you until the lights go out forever. 

you consider breaking into the med bay, stealing and swallowing as many opiates as you possibly can before your body finally shuts down. 

you debate taking one of your knives, going into the bathroom, and slitting your wrists until all the blood in your body has seeped out, the feeling of freezing taking over.

except your feet have other plans, taking you to stand outside a door you’ve never found yourself in front of before. 

it’s 3am. you’re a mess of tears and emotions, and you’re barely even dressed in anything except one of his red henleys. you’re not thinking about any of that when you begin knocking on the door. 

he wouldn’t have wanted you to end your life. he would have wanted you to do something, find someone to help fill the void inside you. 

so you’re pounding on the door, your forehead resting against the wood, sobs wracking through you as you rest your whole body weight against the door.

when it opens, you almost fall.

he catches you. 

~~~

when he woke up to the sound of banging on his door, he wasn’t particularly happy.

until he heard the sound of crying from the other side, and he knew something was wrong. there was nobody else it could be except for you. 

when he opens the door to see you there, you clearly aren’t prepared for it, and you stumble as you lose the support of the door holding you up.

he quickly wraps himself around you, preventing you from crashing to the floor, and you fall into his arms.

he holds you there for a moment as you cry, unsure of what to say to soothe you. his mouth parts in shock, trying to force himself to wake up and figure out what the hell to say. 

every convulsion of your body is like a dagger through his heart, watching as the pain consumes you whole, unable to do anything to help you. he knows that pain, has felt the pain of losing the most important person in the world. 

“he’s gone, he’s gone,” you sob into his chest, your hands shaking as you dig your fingers into the skin of his back. he feels tears come to his own eyes as you cling to him, unable to support your own weight as the pain envelops you entirely. 

“I woke up, and I needed him, and… and he’s gone,” you whisper, your body starting to relax as the exhaustion consumes you, forcing you to settle. he recognizes the sudden change and finally moves. 

“come on,” he whispers back to you, carefully wrapping his hands around the back of your legs, picking you up and laying you down in his mussed sheets. “you’re going to pass out from dehydration.”

you lay there, in a bed that’s not your own, still desperately reaching for a man that’s never coming back. 

Walker returns to you only a moment later with a small bottle of water, forcing it into your hands.

“no,” you mumble, burying your head in the pillow beneath you, refusing to accept it. 

“yes,” he says firmly, still trying to get you to take it.

you don’t. your face is pressed into the softness of the pillow, muffling your next words:

“I want you to kill me.”

he takes a pause, jaw stuttering as he tries to come up with an appropriate response. he shouldn’t be surprised by your statement, and yet, he is. 

“you don’t mean that,” he tries, looking at you with caution. 

“I do,” you reply, turning back to face him.

he stutters again at hearing your words. 

“listen to me. you have to stop saying that. I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t want to have to report you for this,” he tells you. 

the thought stings. the idea of losing you? after they’d already lost him?

“you’re not going to report me, Walker,” you whisper back, voice soft and devoid of emotion.

he knows you’re right. 

“you’re right. I won’t. but I won’t have you hurting yourself, either.”

the exhaustion begins to force your body to fall back asleep, your eyes shutting against your will.

he forces the water into your hand again.

“sip. and go to sleep.”

~~~

you wake up a few hours later, in a bed you don’t recognize, all alone.

all alone.

alone.

your eyes are so swollen it feels difficult to open them. you blink a few times, all while beginning to remember the night previous. 

in your pain and suffering, you ended up embarrassing the hell out of yourself. 

you quickly stand from the bed to bolt, memories of the night before collecting in your mind, a whirlwind of your desperation to just end it all. 

you dart down the hall towards the staircase, trying to head back to your own room, when you bump into him coming around the corner. 

“fuck, I’m so sorry,” you say, beginning to apologize profusely. “for everything. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all that, I shouldn’t have… wait, where did you sleep last night?” you inquire as your thoughts become a conflicted, indecipherable mess in your mind, still half asleep. 

“couch,” he says, looking at you, the pinch in his brow and small frown on his face telling you he’s fairly concerned.

it’s then that you realize you’re pants-less and he’s shirtless.

just as he opens his mouth to speak again, you bolt. you can’t stand to hear the lecture. 

~~~

he wants to tell you there was no need to apologize, to tell you that you don't need to hide from him. 

instead, he lets you go.

except he knows he can’t forget about this. after what you said last night...

you were right: he isn’t going to report you. but he doesn’t trust that you’re not a danger to yourself, that you’re capable of working in the field right now. 

Walker was never supposed to be in this position. he was. he was your boyfriend, he was the leader, and now...

he didn’t know what to do.

he always knew.

but he had to do something. 

that evening, he knocks on your door earlier than usual. you know it’s him, probably here to give you the lecture you narrowly escaped hearing this morning. 

let’s get this over with, you think. 

when you open the door, he sees the darkness of your room, just now taking in the sight of the windows completely covered by tarps and blankets, the lights turned off. he notes how you don’t appear to have changed your clothes from the night before.

he takes a breath and hopes his plan works. 

“get dressed. we’re going out,” he asserts, not giving you any room to protest. 

“what? what’s wrong? is there–” you begin to panic, assuming that there’s a worldwide crisis that suddenly needs your attention. 

“nothing is wrong,” he clarifies. “just... get yourself together and come downstairs, yeah?”

now you’re confused. where are you going? who else is going? you’ve barely bothered to go out, unless it was absolutely necessary, since before the accident. 

by time you think to argue with him about it, he’s already walked away. 

~~~

so he takes you to... an ice cream parlor. 

“seriously? this is your definition of going out?” you question him. the expression on your face reflects your confusion, yet your tone is teasing. 

“oh, shut up. just go with it,” he responds, nodding his head towards the door to urge you inside. 

you end up sitting in the corner of the place, sharing a cup between the two of you. you watch as people come in and out, placing their own orders.

families. young couples.

happy people. 

it pisses you off.

“why the hell did you bring me here?” you ask him, your anger boiling over. you turn to face him, no longer amused by his choice of outing. 

there’s a reason you don’t go out anymore. how, exactly, will it help you to see the rest of the world going on as usual, when your world stopped spinning months before?

you shouldn’t have come.

“you needed out of your depressing room,” is all he says. his response is curt, and to the point. maybe he’s right, but this? fucking exposure therapy? this is no better.

“oh, come on. that doesn’t tell me why we’re here, of all places,” you complain to him. you’re really not happy. 

he takes a pause.

“Olivia and I came here the first night we moved to New York,” he confides in you, all while refusing to meet your eyeline.

oh. you almost feel bad for your sarcastic and unappreciative tone. 

except you continue to ponder his response, and realize that technically, his explanation isn’t an explanation at all.

“so you purposefully wanted to relive painful old memories, then?” you pry. “because–”

“I just wanted to get you out, okay?” he snaps back at you, his gaze meeting yours once more. you shut your mouth after his outburst, and he sighs, frustrated with himself. he continues, softer now, “just eat your ice cream.”

you sit in silence for a little while longer before he decides to bring up the night before. 

“I need to know that you’re not going to put yourself in danger,” he says. he sounds like your boss right now, not your… whatever you are to each other. friends?

you could roll your eyes. you could scoff. you could curse him out.

you do none of the above.

“I won’t,” you say blankly, shrugging your shoulders. 

“except I’m really not inclined to believe you. it’s not just you I’m concerned about. if you get out into the field and do something stupid, any of the rest of us could get hurt. I know you understand that.”

the memory flashes across your mind like a horror film playing out right in front of your eyes. the one you haven’t gotten out of your head in three months. it’s a much needed eye-opener for you, finally hearing what Walker is saying. 

“I’m not going to hurt myself, and I’m not going to do anything stupid,” you tell him in earnest. 

you think on it for another minute. he’s right: you know better than to jeopardize the safety of your fellow team members. maybe it’s your overconfidence, or maybe it’s your clarity in this moment that encourages you to give him a nod.

“I mean it, Walker. I promise you,” you affirm. 

you sincerely mean it. 

~~~

a few nights later, you wake up in the middle of the night from another nightmare.

it’s the same damn thing every time: you’re confronted with a terrible memory from your past, you wake up unable to catch your breath, and you reach for him.

except he’s not there.

he’s never going to be there ever again.

what’s different this time is that your first thought isn’t to act rash, or to consider all the ways you can end your life. 

you let yourself accept that what you need right now is to not be alone.

you find yourself outside his door again, except your tears are much softer, your body not as shaken as the time before. you manage to stand on your own two feet as he opens the door for you. 

“I need you,” you tell him softly, looking into his tired eyes, your own red and watery as the tears continue to fall down your cheeks. 

you’re shocked by your own admission. you never let yourself need anyone except him. you thought that the worst thing you could do was open yourself up again, to be vulnerable with anyone ever again. 

but he would want you to. 

Walker is shocked, too, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach for you, pulling you inside the dark room you almost feel safer in than your own. 

you stand there for a long time, clinging to him in the middle of the room as you softly cry into his chest. he doesn’t once let you go, whispering softly into your ear as he massages the back of your head. 

your breathing begins to even out. the waterworks soften as your mind calms itself.

before him, you hadn’t known what it was like to feel comfortable with someone enough to be open and honest, to let yourself go in front of them. 

if you went back in time and told yourself that of all people, it would be John Walker that you cried in front of, you wouldn’t believe yourself, and yet, it was true. you felt safe, comfortable with him in a way you’d never felt with anyone other than him. 

when he lifts you off the floor, you don’t hesitate to wrap your legs around his waist and let him lay you down on his bed. 

and when he begins to pull away so you can get some sleep, you only cling to him tighter. 

~~~

something about this feels wrong.

no. that’s a lie.

he wants it to feel wrong. to hold his girl, to let her sleep in his bed. to be the only person she trusts with her pain, the only person who can provide her solace?

he wishes it felt wrong. 

to hold someone new. someone who wasn’t Olivia, for the first time in…

it doesn’t feel wrong, no matter how much he knows it should.

as you sleep, he watches you. he watches when your face finally relaxes and your tears finally quit as sleep grabs hold of you. he can’t help that he feels something as he watches you like this. he had intended to leave, to sleep on the couch, to not cross this boundary.

but you had held onto him. you didn’t want to let him go. 

you didn’t want to be alone.

so no, he isn’t going to leave you here all by yourself. you’d come to feel comfortable admitting to him that you weren’t okay, that you couldn’t be alone. 

he knows what it feels like to wake up alone, desperate for your person beside you, only to find them gone and be reminded of the harsh truth: they’re gone.

he isn’t him, and you aren’t her. but he isn’t going to let you wake up the tomorrow morning all alone. 

so he holds you as you sleep, one hand rubbing your back, another cradling your head to his chest to keep you close until his own mind drifts off. 

~~~

as you wake up the following morning, you feel the heat of a warm body wrapped around yours, a hand in your hair and one around your waist. 

for the first time since the accident, you didn’t wake up alone. you always woke up alone. 

even when you startled from your sleep, terrified out of your mind and bawling your eyes out, you were alone. you always reached for him, but he was no longer there. 

this is the first time in months now that you’ve woken up in a bed that isn’t your own, curled up in someone’s arms, with someone that isn’t him. 

it stings, thinking about him. how much you miss feeling him beside you, the feeling of him kissing you awake.

but more than that, it feels nice to be held. it feels nice to be cared for, to not be alone for once.

you bury your head deeper into his bare chest as he holds you, strength uninhibited even in his slumber. you shove down the feeling that you shouldn’t be here, that it’s wrong to let yourself relax into the arms of another man. 

you need this. 

when he wakes not long after, he glances down to where your face is pressed against him. you look like you’re trying to hide, he thinks to himself. 

“you okay?” he whispers, voice rough from sleep. you immediately perk up at hearing him speak, tilting your head upwards to face him. you can almost feel his gentle breathing on your skin as you meet his eyeline. 

“I’m alright,” you confirm, voice quiet. your mind is conflicted, distraught.

you miss him. you miss waking up in his arms.

but why aren’t you revolted by the thought of waking up next to Walker?

you’re so close, so entangled with one another, and you’re suddenly made aware of every little touch. one of his hands traces circles over the back of your neck, the other pressed against your back where your shirt rides up, his pinkie finger just barely brushing over the skin of your lower back. you have to take a deep breath. 

he’s looking down at you so carefully, as though he thinks you’re about to start crying again. 

the feeling of him wrapped around you is too good to be true. you will yourself to gently pull away from him, losing the heat of his body against yours. you suddenly feel as though you’re hypothermic. 

“thank you for letting me sleep here,” is all you can muster. you want to thank him for taking care of you the night before, for not letting you wake up on your own this time.

you don’t.

you sit on the edge of the bed for another minute in silence, neither of you quite sure what to say.

the worst part? it should be awkward. it should be tense, uncomfortable, weird...

but it doesn’t feel that way.

you stand and make to leave when you hear him say, “you don’t need to knock next time.”

you don’t let him know you heard him.

~~~

you get a phone call later that day. 

there’s a part of you that’s kind of upset that you haven’t heard from him since the funeral, but honestly? you’re just glad he reached out at all.

“Sam!” you say excitedly when you pick up the phone. “it’s so good to hear from you!”

he proceeds to explain he’s been busy, dealing with bureaucratic bullshit, but he’s been meaning to reach out. 

“I’m in town. you wanna grab dinner tonight? it’ll be good to catch up,” he offers.

~~~

you have to admit, it does feel good to get out. you end up wearing a dress you haven’t worn in a while. 

it’s one he bought for you.

you stare at yourself in the mirror and remember the look in his eyes when he first saw you in it, the way he about cancelled your dinner plans just so he could have you all to himself.

you look away from the mirror and refuse to start crying at the memory. now isn’t the time. 

you grab your purse and make your way to the elevator, looking down at your phone as you wait for the doors to open. when they do, John is standing on the other side, covered in sweat from head to toe. 

“gym?” you inquire as you trade places with him, stepping into the elevator.

“yeah. but, where, ah... where are you going all dressed up?” he asks. you look more like yourself than you have since before the accident. it’s refreshing to see. 

you look beautiful, he thinks. 

“I’m getting dinner with Sam,” you tell him.

he wasn’t expecting that.

“have a good time,” he says, but by that point, the elevator doors have shut in his face.

obviously, Sam and John had a rocky start. you’d only ever heard things from his point of view until the whole "New Avengers" thing had happened. and yet, he’d never spoken disrespectfully about John. he may not have liked the guy, but nobody knew better than he did that everyone has their own shit going on. 

by time the team formed, he and John had seemed to move on from their issues. 

but Sam... John didn’t know where he stood with him. 

he just had to pray you didn’t come back from dinner deciding that you hated him.

~~~

“so, how have you been? really, I mean,” Sam asks as you snack on some appetizers.

“that’s a loaded question,” you laugh, trying to brush it off. you knew he was going to ask you that, and you knew he would push you for the truth if you lied and claimed you were fine. “what matters is that I still have a job.”

“you know that’s not all that matters,” he says with his trademark smile, and you know he’s about to say something that makes him sound like a shrink. “you deserve to be happy outside of your job.”

happy. that’s an interesting word to use in this line of work.

“I haven’t gotten myself killed or fired, and I think that’s enough,” you tell him with an obviously fake smile. you take an obnoxiously large drink of your wine. 

“look, I know he and I weren’t exactly on good terms before the accident. but I know he would’ve wanted you to move on.”

you have to bite your tongue at hearing that. Sam continues when you don’t respond. 

“Walker told me–”

“what?” you suddenly perk up. what the hell? has John been talking to Sam behind your back, telling him things you thought were just between the two of you?

“Walker told me that you were doing just fine, and that I shouldn’t worry about you,” he assures you. “but I think he’s wrong. I don’t think he’s paying enough attention to make sure you’re okay to work, and I need to be sure that you are.”

instantly, you feel the relief sink in. he covered for you. John lied to Sam and didn’t reveal to him a single thing you had said in confidence.

“when did you talk to Walker?” you ask, trying to deflect from the point Sam is trying to make. you knew he would bring this up, but you’re still distracted by the discovery that John put himself on the line to protect you. 

you have to force yourself to pay attention to Sam as he continues. 

“it was purely a professional discussion. if any of the members of your team aren’t fit to work, including you, you know I have to step in,” he tells you. 

“and yet you asked Walker about me before you asked me about me,” you speak up, trying your best not to sound overly accusatory.  

you don’t really understand any of the bureaucratic stuff, nor do you care to. you either have a job or you don’t, and that’s fine by you. but the fact that he spoke to John before you?

does he think that little of you?

“it’s just because I’m worried about you,” he excuses, “and I needed to cover all my bases.”

you nod your head, pretending to agree without saying much else on the topic. you don’t want to fight him on this, not here, not now. it’s upsetting, yes; but you’re more concerned with the fact that John protected you. 

“so, tell me: is he right? are you safe to work?”

your mind is already elsewhere when you answer.

“yes. I’m safe to work.”

~~~

you walk right to his door when you get back to the compound after dinner.

your mind is all over the place right now. why would he cover for you? you could both get in trouble for this. he could get in trouble for failing to report you for all those destructive things you said. did he just lie to Sam out of spite, because they had a difficult history? or did he actually do it for you?

you needed to know.

you know this isn’t what he meant when he said ‘you don’t need to knock next time.’ he meant you don’t need to knock when you’re in crisis, not when you’re deliberately trying to bust his door down to demand answers. 

but you don’t care. you’re uber-focused and desperate at this point.

when his door suddenly slams open, so quickly that it smacks against the wall from force, he’s not expecting it so suddenly, so soon. 

when he sees you, he expects the worst. you just had dinner with your close friend, someone who hates him, and he can’t know for sure what went down. what Sam might have said to you to make you come to your senses about him. 

is this over? whatever this is, between the two of you? are you done with him?

are you about to cuss him out, yell at him to stay out of your life?

he mentally prepares himself for whatever you’re about to say to him, no matter how bad it’s going to hurt.

“you spoke to Sam,” you assert. the look on your face is one of confusion, and yet, you seem determined. your tone of voice is upset as he had expected.

“yes, I did, but–”

“you didn’t tell him,” you interrupt. it’s just then that you realize his TV is still blaringly loud on the wall, that he’s not wearing a shirt, preparing for bed.

it sends you back into reality, your whirlwind of emotions calming. it makes you want to apologize, run out, and quit being a fucking bother to him.

you can’t do that.

“you didn’t tell him any of it,” you repeat, still stunned.

his jaw stutters as though he’s working on finding the words.

in his head, he’s just surprised you don’t seem angry. you don’t seem like you’re about to freak out on him. 

as you walk over to sit next to him on the bed, he clicks off the TV and you give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“it wasn’t any of his business,” is all he says to you. you notice the way he avoids meeting your gaze, the way he stares down at the remote in his hand and fidgets with it. 

“it is his business,” you claim, “having suicidal thoughts–”

“it’s not his business!” he reasserts, raising his voice and cutting you off. he takes a breath to calm himself before speaking again, in a much softer tone, “what you’ve told me stays between us.” 

“you should’ve reported me. you should’ve... I don’t know, but you shouldn’t be protecting me,” you whisper. “I’m not worth the trouble.”

he sighs in frustration at hearing your words.

“listen to me. we’ve talked about this. I know you’re not going to do anything stupid, okay?” he tells you, resisting the urge to reach out and take your hands in his. sure, you’ve already slept in the same bed together, held one another, but...

he doesn’t know the right thing to do here.

“how do you know that?” you ask, your tone reeking of desperation. normally, those words in this context would sound like a threat, a challenge to what he just said. but your tone of voice conveys the truth: you’re genuinely asking. you want to know why on earth he believes that.

“because I trust you. and I think you trust me enough at this point to just talk to me instead of hurting yourself.” 

you go silent. 

he’s right. you do know better by now. you know he’s here for you, and something about the way he holds you eases the hurt more than the idea of never waking up again.

you sit together in the silence for a few minutes. you feel his gaze on you, looking at your profile with what you think is a look of concern on his face. you stare down at your lap, fiddling with the hem of your dress. the dress that he bought for you, goddamnit–

the tears start again thinking about the memory of when he bought it for you, the first time you wore it for him. 

“John,” you whisper, still staring down at the fabric over your knees, anxiously trying to smooth it over your thighs. your voice is shaky and barely comprehensible, only loud enough to be picked up due to the fact that you’re sitting so close to him. you feel the warmth of your tears beginning to flow down your face, and you try to wipe them away when he finally reaches for you. 

he brings a hand to the back of your neck and another to your cheek, turning your face to look at him.

“I miss him,” you whisper. 

you let yourself feel the way he pulls you in close, his hand on the back of your neck trailing up to thread itself in your hair and pressing your face gently into the crook of his neck.

you let him move you into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tears falling down your face quicker now. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, rubbing his other hand up and down your back in his best attempts to soothe you. “I know you do. I know.”

~~~

when you wake up in the middle of the night a few hours later, you’re taken off guard. the first thing you register is the fact that, once again, you’re in John’s bed. once again, you’re entirely wrapped around one another.

your brain quickly catches up with the fact that you’re still wearing the dress, and your face feels gross and sticky from crying the night before. you slowly begin to untangle the mess of limbs you’re trapped in so you can get up. the movement must wake him up because his grip suddenly tightens on you.

you freeze in place, your lungs holding in your breath as you anticipate whatever comes next. 

“don’t,” is all he says. 

he’s awake enough to know better, you’re sure of it. he’s awake enough to know this is dangerous, to be aware of what it is he’s asking of you.

the fact that this had already happened once was pushing it. to become a repeat offender?

“I need to shower,” you whisper back to him. not once does he open his eyes, but even so, you see the way his facial expression shifts as he processes your words.

he doesn’t immediately let go of you, no. he keeps you in place as though he’s thinking about if he’s going to let you go.

“come back.”

fuck.

this is dangerous. you both know it. you both know that you’re hurting, that you’re missing him. you know he’s missing her, too. 

you don’t have it in you to say no to him. 

it’s the middle of the night, but you’re wide awake. you have no more excuses left in you to explain away why it is you’re doing this, why you’re deliberately returning to his bed, in nothing but your pajamas and dripping wet hair. 

you know exactly what you’re doing. 

the bubble of guilt in your stomach grows bigger with every step you take back towards his bedroom, slipping inside the door and under his sheets, into his arms. 

you still wish that you were being held by him.

and yet you’re glad to be in the arms of the man currently holding you tight, protecting you from your thoughts, protecting you from letting the pain consume you entirely.

~~~

in hindsight, you should have known that it was only a matter of time. your sad, broken heart had never let you think that far ahead, never let you think that there could be a time, a person after him. 

how could you possibly move on from losing the love of your life? the man you would have died for, killed for? even now, you still would. you’d fight until your dying breath just to defend his honor, to uphold his good name. 

and yet…

the next morning, you wake up in the same intimate position you’d found yourself in the morning before. your arms around his shoulders, your face up against his bare chest, legs intertwined with his. he must be awake, you think, because you feel a hand gently massaging the back of your head. you’re boiling alive, beginning to stir while encompassed by his warm figure. 

“good morning,” he whispers to you, watching as you pull your head back in order to face him. 

“hi,” you respond, your eyes still blinking themselves open. you’re suddenly aware of how puffy they are, how swollen your face feels from crying once again. you pull one hand away from his skin to dab at your own, diverting your gaze away from his as you realize how red and inflamed your face must look. 

he’s still looking at you, though. 

“I’m a mess right now, sorry,” you tell him, tucking your chin further into your chest as you lean back, rubbing your eyes. 

“you look beautiful.”

your heart stops beating. your whole body freezes in place, his words not processing in your mind. he’s complimenting you, comforting you, it’s…

it’s all wrong. this has to be some inexplicable dream you’re having. 

“last night, you looked… and now, still.”

he pulls his hand away from where he’s holding the back of your head, bringing his fingers to gently tilt your face back up to his. 

he’s looking at you… like… how he…

your breathing restarts all too quickly, rapidly picking up its pace as you realize the position you’re in. 

he’s been taking care of you, putting your pain above his own, giving you privileges he would never grant to just anyone. he’s held your hand in your darkest moments, protected you from ruining your career and from taking your own life. 

he was never ‘just a friend.’

it was only a matter of time, you think, when you lean forward and press your lips to his.

~~~

you’re soft. 

he doesn’t deserve soft. 

and you’re hurting. 

he pulls away from you, choosing his next words carefully. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers to you, “and I never will be.”

“I don’t want you to be,” you whisper back to him. 

that’s enough for him. 

his lips find yours once more. harsher, faster this time. 

you’re being rolled back, splayed over his sheets, laid out underneath him. the way he kisses you is deep and slow, somehow so distinctly John. 

not once had you ever imagined this happening, and yet, the way he touches you is exactly what you would have expected from him. a hand in your hair, tugging at your scalp and tangling the strands in his fingers. yet he seems needier, more desperate than you’ve ever seen him. 

his other hand at your hip repeatedly adjusts its grip, unable to determine if you’re truly real and underneath him right now. the repeated motion continues to draw your attention, a repetitive movement that his anxious mind won’t let him quit. 

you press a hand firmly over it, trying to still the motion and ground him in the moment. 

it seems to work. 

he never quits kissing you, tasting you through it all. you feel the change as one of his legs slots itself between yours, his knee pressing up against the fabric of your underwear. a choked noise falls from high in your throat, alerting him to what his actions are doing to you. 

his fingers keep toying with your hair as he tentatively moves his leg against you, paying close attention to how the action makes you react. 

your whole body shivers in response. your lips finally break apart from his as your head dips to face down to where your hips are now mindlessly rutting against him. he gives you another one, once more increasing the pressure against you, and in the same instant, he ducks down to catch your lips with his again. it’s perfectly timed for him to feel the way you gasp as he moves against you, for you. 

he does it over and over, his lips gently brushing with yours as you gasp repeatedly with each one of his movements. his eyes are parted just enough to see the way your eyes are shut tight, your whole body reacting with everything he gives you. 

“look at me,” he encourages you, “open your eyes.”

you blink your eyes back open, your whole body distracted in experiencing a pleasure you haven’t felt in a very long time. you’re a trembling mess, whining and gasping against him as your hips try their best to keep up with him. 

once your eyes have opened, you take in the view of his face just above your own, staring down at you observantly. 

“that feel good?” he mumbles to you, pace never once faltering. 

you stumble over your words, stuttering like crazy as you respond, “you know it does,” before letting your eyes fall shut again. your head tilts into the pillow as your back gently arches up into him. 

he moves his mouth to your neck, pressing wet kisses against your skin, not daring to leave a mark. it’s not his place, not right now. 

right now, his priority is making sure you feel so good you can’t think about a single thing else.

a part of him wants to inundate you with praise, shower you in all the compliments he can while he has the opportunity. 

but in this moment, it’s peaceful. it’s quiet, save for the beautiful litany of noises coming from your mouth. the part of him that wants to savor this, the part that just wants to let you worry about feeling, keeps him from rambling. 

he’s got all the time in the world to say the things he wants to tell you.

“can I take these off, sweetheart?” he whispers to you, his fingers tugging at the fabric of your panties where they’re bunched at your hips. his movements slowly pause, easing away from where he’s pressed up against you. 

you let out another throaty whine as he stills. you find your voice once more, reminding him, “it’s been a while.” 

his fingers trace over the fabric where it meets your skin. “that’s okay,” he tells you, his voice like honey in your ears, “and it’s okay to tell me no, too.” 

he’s trying his best to be careful, you realize. he wants, needs you to be sure of this.

“go ahead,” you whisper. 

the pressure between your legs ceases entirely, followed by the feeling of both his hands hooking fingers beneath your underwear. he slowly drags them down your hips, your thighs, past your knees until they’re completely off.

you gulp, trying not to let the nerves set in. 

you haven’t done this with anyone since him, since before the accident.

your jaw goes entirely slack the moment you feel his fingers brushing between your sensitive folds, already slick with your desire for him, having gone untouched for so long. 

and in that moment, 

it finally stops. 

the constant whirring inside your head, your thoughts reminding you of your loss, every second of every day. it all stops as your mind goes blank with John’s touch. 

he sees it. he sees the moment your mind finally quits berating you, lets you give in to something more powerful than the pain. your body releases its tension, your hands blindly reaching for any part of him to hold onto. he leans in to kiss you, dragging you out of the fog and into the light, back into this moment with him where it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

his fingers press deeper, pushing inside you as he positions his hips strategically to keep your thighs spread for him. you wind up with both your hands in his hair, tugging, playing with it as he licks into your mouth. you whimper against him as his hand pulls back, only to push inside you once more, deeper, twisting inside you with each withdrawal. 

he works you like this for a few long minutes, lazily kissing you and enjoying the way you toy with his hair, relishing every noise you make for him. you’re so warm, so inviting, so good for him. 

he pulls back from the kiss, just for a moment. “you okay?” he mumbles quietly. he can distinctly hear the wet noises coming from between your legs, noises that would probably embarrass you if he brought them up to you. 

it’s music to his ears, same as every sound that falls from your lips. 

he could spend forever listening to you. 

“yeah, fuck,” you respond, the sound high-pitched and desperate. “more? please?”

you’re irresistible, impossible to say no to. 

“you want more, hmm? what do you want?” he mutters, pace holding steady as he continues the motions of his fingers. 

“I want to feel you, please. I need you to fuck me,” you whisper back. 

he can’t deny the attractiveness of your words. 

he has to take a pause. 

“say my name,” he instructs, looking at your face more urgently now. his bows cinch together as he waits. 

“John,” you whisper back. your eyes are glazed over when you look into his. 

“one more time, can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“I know you’re not him,” you whisper, holding his eyeline as you say it. “and I’m not her.” 

he lets out a breath of relief before repeating, “I know. I know you’re not her. I want you,” he responds back. 

“I want you, John, please… I’m okay. I’m ready.”

his hand slowly retreats from its spot between your legs, his fingers coated in you reaching for the hem of the shirt you’re wearing. he watches as more and more of your skin is revealed to him, each and every mark that you would consider an imperfection only drawing him in. he wants more, wants to touch, wants to feel you. 

most importantly, you trust him. you trust that he understands, trust him to be the one after him.

you never expected that there would be, never wanted there to be someone after him. 

and yet here you are, willingly sharing a part of yourself with someone who isn’t him.

“please,” you whine as he sheds his shorts, “please, please, please…”

he calmly hushes your begging, assuring you, “I’ve got you. I’m gonna give you what you want, I got you.”

you’re distracted, your hands grasping at his shoulders as you grow impatient. you grit your teeth, trying to hold on, trying your best to wait. 

and then you finally feel him against you, finally pressing inside. 

your eyes roll back in your head, your entire body going lax underneath him. you haven’t felt this full, this good in a long time. 

he sees how your mind shorts, his own sense of self-control melting away just as yours is. there’s not a thought in your head as he stretches you open so beautifully, all for him.

“say my name,” he whispers into your ear one last time, when your mind is empty, when there’s only one thing you can think of–

“John,” you whine out in your stupor. 

that’s the confirmation he needed to hear. 

“good job, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

next thing you know, he’s moving against you, putting all his efforts into taking you apart one piece at a time. after a few tentative thrusts, your warmth absolutely decimating his reserve, he brings his fingers back between your legs to rub your clit.

except he’s already got you worked up, nearing the edge. you haven’t orgasmed in months, and your body is rapidly falling apart under his touch. 

“I’m– you gotta slow down, or I’ll…” you plead with him, a part of your mind telling you to be embarrassed, telling you you’re going to scare him off. 

“I’ll give you as many as you need,” he tells you, “go ahead.”

with his affirmation, your mind and body let go. your breathing stops as your brain focuses on nothing but how it races through you, the feeling intense and overwhelming. 

he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t fail to continue providing you with the stimulation between your legs, the only thing you’re consciously aware of in this moment. 

he can’t hold himself back anymore from running his mouth, sharing with you every thought that populates in his head. 

“doin’ so good for me. I bet you don’t even know how goddamn pretty you look when you come for me, sweetheart… wanna watch you do that forever,” he rambles, all while holding his pace constant. 

he means every word of it. 

~~~

you lay in bed with him afterwards, the afternoon sun shining in through the blinds. you stare at the rays of light as they come through the window. 

you’d practically boarded up your own windows after the accident, refusing to let the positivity into your depression room. 

it’s nice, though, you think. the heat on your face, the brightness waking you up for the day. 

he’s laying on his side while you’re on your stomach, holding yourself up by your elbows, your head tilted the opposite direction from him as you look towards the window. his fingers trace over your skin, drawing random patterns into your hip as you lay there in the quiet. 

you haven’t run away yet, and you have no intention of doing so. 

the physical pain that’s lingered in your chest since the accident has finally dissipated, the headache you couldn’t shake finally easing. 

you finally feel a kind of peace inside, a peace you didn’t know you could find with someone other than him. 

~~~

over the course of the next week, you begin to feel better, closer to normal than you’ve felt in a while. 

you spend most nights in John’s room, sleeping in John’s bed, wrapped up in John’s arms. he never fails to whisper soft praises in your ear as you drift off to sleep, telling you how grateful he is for you, calling you his sweetheart. neither of you push any further than lazily kissing in the comfort of his sheets. 

you feel loved in a way you’ve only felt once before in your lifetime. 

you still miss him. you can’t go more than a few minutes without being reminded of something you used to love doing with him, something personal about him that he only ever shared with you. you’re surrounded by the memories of him in everything you do, everywhere you go. 

as you peel away the coverings you’ve hung over the windows in your own bedroom, desiring to feel the light filtering in, you’re reminded of something that hasn’t crossed your mind in a while: 

his room remains untouched. 

you freeze in place, still holding the blankets in your hands as you look through the glass and onto the lively city, beautiful weather blessing the people below. 

you haven’t been in his room since about a month after the accident. 

you stand there, your fingers fidgeting with the soft fabric in your hands as you contemplate whether or not you should go. 

except the decision was made for you before you even considered it. 

a few minutes later, you find yourself standing outside of his room. the door is slightly ajar just as you had left it the last time you were here. 

the last time you were here. 

the last time you set foot inside his room, you’d been clinging to his sheets, bawling into his pillows with the pain still so fresh in your heart. you had spent every night and day in his room after the accident until you considered the idea that being there was only hurting you. 

you had retreated back to your own bed, assuming that it would help you somehow. 

of course, it didn’t. but by then, you had made up your mind that it would only hurt more if you ended up back in his space, surrounded by him. 

thus, you haven’t been back since. 

you will your hand to move, to reach for the knob, to push the door open. you barely work up the courage, almost convinced you should just walk away–

you shove the door open before you can change your mind. 

you shouldn’t be surprised that everything is exactly the way you left it. the sheets mussed, the blinds drawn, his pillow on the floor. the room is cold and empty. 

stepping forward into the space, you take a shaky breath in and wipe your nose when you hear yourself sniffling. you manage to maintain your composure as you walk further inside. 

you walk by his dresser, littered with various objects: a picture of him and Sam. a handful of photo strips the two of you took while out for date night. a few polaroids of yourself posing in a dark blue lingerie set he had bought for you, smiling at him on the other side of the camera. 

there’s a bottle of cologne next to the messy pile of pictures. a small mirror hangs on the wall above the dresser. you see a book you used to pass back and forth between each other about overcoming PTSD. 

on top of the book lay his dog tags. 

with shaky hands, you reach out to pick them up. the metal is cold to the touch. you trace your fingers over the indentations in the metal, over the numbers imprinted: 32557038. 

as you stare down at the tags in your hands, your eyes get warm, threatening tears. 

you direct your gaze up towards the mirror before the waterworks start, holding eye contact with your reflection as you pull the chain over your head. you fidget with the tags for a minute as they lay on your chest before turning towards the bed. 

the sheets are all over the place and his pillow is still laying on the floor where you’d unceremoniously dumped it the last time you walked out. you had told yourself that coming back wasn’t an option for you if you had wanted to heal. 

look how well that turned out for you. 

you stand near the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up the pillow and clutching it tightly in your arms. it’s fluffy, and it’s soft, a luxury he never thought he deserved to have. 

it had been important to you that he got to have those luxuries, to remind him that he could enjoy them. no way in hell would you ever let him go without only the best. 

you set the pillow down on the bed with the rest and adjust them to look presentable. you reach to pull the sheets and comforter back into place, but before you can, the urge to lay down overwhelms you. 

the sheets are soft on your skin, the pillow comfortable under your head. 

and then you sense it: 

the overpowering scent of him on the sheets fills your nose, tripping every alarm in your head. 

it’s only a matter of seconds before you’re sobbing your eyes out, burying your face into the pillow, dragged right back into the crippling pain that you’d felt the instant it happened. 

the instant you watched his life get taken away. 

except the moment you inhale against the pillow, the scent is intensified, the pain made inexplicably worse than it already is. 

you force yourself out of the bed, away from the terrifying reminder of the worst day of your entire life. your feet trip over themselves with how quickly you move, how suddenly you run out of the room, barely able to keep yourself upright.

the only semi-comprehensible thought in your head is to get the smell off me. get away from the reminder as it clings to your clothes, your skin, lingering in your nostrils no matter how much you pinch and pull at your nose. you’re stuck, trapped in the worst moment of your life even as you try to run. 

tears continue falling from your eyes as you finally end up back in your bedroom, tugging at the fabric of your clothes. the sound of ugly sobs fill your ears as you rip your shirt over your head, trying not to fall flat on your face as you run to your bathroom. you’re trembling from head to toe. your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves as you struggle to breathe through your crying. 

the nightmare is real. in this moment, you’re there: on the field, falling to your knees, wailing out at the realization that he’s gone. 

you slam the door shut behind you, once more falling over yourself as you make for the shower. if you can just turn on the faucet, feel the hot water on your skin, then maybe it’ll go away, maybe–

there’s a knocking at the door, followed by the sound of your name being called out from the other side. “sweetheart? are you okay?” he asks you. 

“fine,” you call back, except it’s a sorry excuse for a lie. your voice comes out as nothing but shaky and squeaky, and it’s obvious that you’re still sobbing even as you say it. you finally get in the shower, pressing one of your hands up against the ice cold tile and using the other to reach for the shower faucet. you press your forehead up against your hand on the wall, trying to calm yourself.  

the water just needs to get hot. just let the water get hot, and it’ll all go away.

you shiver under the cold spray, pleading with it to get warm. 

“can I come in?” he calls out, his concern all too obvious. 

you don’t respond. the water finally heats up, finally gets hot enough to burn your skin and hurt so bad that it should distract you from the scene that continues to play inside your head. 

it doesn’t work. it doesn’t fucking work. 

you let out a wail, trapped in your own mind with the vision of the love of your life dead, in your arms, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. you can’t save him, you can’t tell him one last time how much you love him. 

your cries are so loud that you don’t hear it when the bathroom door opens and shuts. you don’t even process John’s presence in the bathroom, stepping into the shower behind you until you see him turning the water temperature down out of the corner of your eye. 

in your rush to strip yourself of your clothes, the dog tags around your neck somehow managed to stay in their place. 

“he’s gone,” you cry out, tilting your head to the side as you feel his arms wrap around you. “he’s gone. he’s gone, he’s dead, and he isn’t coming back to me,” you cry out, your sobs almost loud enough to drown out your pained words. your free hand finds its way to the chain wrapped around your neck, frantically tugging and pulling at the tags in your desperation. 

“I know,” he whispers, curling himself around you from behind. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

you don’t know how long you stand there, leaning against the shower wall, bawling your eyes out and feeling sick to your stomach. John never once lets go of you. 

~~~

by time the exhaustion takes over, your crying has stopped and your body is slumped, no longer capable of supporting yourself. 

“come on,” he whispers to you, turning you to face him. “I got you.”

the next thing you know, you’re waking up in your bed with a bath towel wrapped around your figure, his arm draped over you. 

“what happened?” you begin, disoriented and struggling to speak with how dry your mouth is. 

“I found you in the shower, crying. and then you fell asleep,” he tells you lowly.  

your fingers come back to your chest, feeling for the chain around your neck. you fidget with it for a moment while still facing away from him. 

“do you wanna talk about it?” he offers. 

a month ago, when he first approached you, you were reluctant. you were angry at the world, as you still are now, and a part of you was angry at him for trying to involve himself in your business. 

you’ve come a long way in your relationship in the last month. 

you nod, sitting up and accepting the glass of water he hands you. 

“I went into his room,” you begin, nursing the drink in your hands, “I thought I was ready. I… I spent the first few weeks sleeping in there after it happened, but I haven’t been back since. I laid down on the bed, and it just sent me into a panic. all I could see was that day, John, the day he died. I couldn’t escape it, and… and I lost it.” 

he doesn’t say a word, just rubs your arm softly as he listens.  

you take another sip of water, the tags around your neck jingling as you move. it catches your attention. 

“John,” you say quietly. he looks up to meet your eyes and waits for you to continue. 

“is it okay if I wear these?” you ask him, indicating to the dog tags around your neck. “it won’t… it won’t upset you, will it?” 

he’s surprised that you could ever think that. 

“of course, you should wear them,” he reassures you, sitting up next to you and cupping your face in one hand. “why would it upset me?” 

“because they belonged to him,” you explain, “another man. and now, we’re…” you trail off, unable to come up with the words you mean to say. 

what are you to each other? 

you’re certainly more than friends, and you’re certainly not just fuck buddies. you’ve only slept together once, and it’s more than obvious that something real is happening here.

that word stops you dead in your tracks: real. there’s something real between you and John, a connection, a trust that you’ve only ever had with him before. 

you’d still be with him if he was still here. nothing other than this, than death, would have broken you up.  

you were never supposed to end up with anyone else. 

which gets you to thinking: 

he’s only been gone for four months now, which in the grand scheme of things, is barely any time at all. 

is it too soon? 

is it wrong for you to let yourself have whatever this is with John?

“I’ll never be upset with you for that, sweetheart,” he assures you, reaching to brush his thumb over your hand as it fiddles with the metal chain.  

he’s genuine, sincere. you know he understands what it means to lose your soulmate and be forced to keep going. he knows what it’s like to be left with a million questions regarding what the hell you do after losing your person, the one you never should have lost.

he’s lost his person, the same as you have, and now? 

you’re both the person after. the person who was never supposed to exist. 

you nod your understanding and lean in to give him a kiss, all while your hand still clutches the chain on your neck. 

a pit begins to develop in your stomach, then. 

what if this is wrong? you’re not supposed to be happy, not with the things you’ve done, not after losing the most important person in your life. 

how could you replace him like this? 

~~~

regardless of your hesitance, you continue to find yourself spending all your time with him, in his room. 

you’re lying on your back on top of him in his bed, food wrappers from the take-out you ordered covering the surface of the nightstand. the sun outside begins to set, the room overtaken by darkness as the light fades. it’s quiet. 

“I was so excited when I found out Olivia was pregnant,” he says, breaking through the silence of the room. 

you can tell he’s deep in dark thought, saddened by what he’s just shared with you, based on the sullen tone of his voice. you turn your back to look at him as he continues. 

“I was so ready to be a dad, you know? it just… it felt so right. I wanted to be able to be the dad I never had. I was going to break the cycle, and be there for him, and then…” he trails off, shaking his head at the reminder. “clearly, I’m not cut out for that.”

“hey, no,” you begin, “don’t say that, you–”

“how am I supposed to keep a kid safe in this world? with all the crazy things that happen, alien invasions… I couldn’t even keep my own partner safe.”

“John, no,” you say more firmly now, taking his hand in yours and adjusting your body to face him better. “Lemar’s death was not your fault. it never should have happened, but it’s not on you that it did, okay?” 

he sits there in silence, contemplating your words. he stares down at where your hands are connected. 

“well, he’s better off without me. and even if I wanted… it’s my fault I can’t see my own son,” he says, voice cracking. 

you hate seeing him like this, forlorn and hopeless. 

“don’t say that, please. it’s not too late. your marriage may… it may be over, but he’s still your son. you can still be there, you can be his dad,” you tell him. you’re trying your best to be supportive and opportunistic, but you have no clue if it’s even helping. 

“I can’t. there’s court orders, I’m actually not allowed to see him,” he confirms, and you can see his eyes grow watery. “being… an Avenger, or whatever we are, doesn’t look good on papers. and my history…”

you squeeze his hand a bit tighter.

“they think I’m reckless, dangerous. so I don’t get to see him.”

his words break your heart. everything he’s done, everything that’s happened is what he was conditioned for, trained to do, and now? 

you’re out of words to reassure him. 

you lean forward and wrap yourself around him, stroking his hair while he begins to softly cry against your shoulder. 

you’ve lost the love of your life. 

but he’s lost three of them.

~~~

after the next team meeting, Yelena approaches you when you begin to head back to your room. 

“how are you doing?” she asks you tentatively. “you seem better.”

you can tell she’s trying her best, knowing she’s no good at this. none of you are, truly, the lot of you emotionally constipated from years of shoving everything down and pretending like your trauma doesn’t bother you, like you’re completely fine. 

“I am starting to feel a bit better, yeah,” you respond with a soft smile. 

“you’ve been spending time with Walker,” she says. nothing about the way she says it sounds like an accusation, or like she’s teasing you. she’s simply mentioning an observation she’s made.

“yeah, he’s… been helping me, I guess,” you say, the nerves rising up again.

does she know? does she know that he’s grown to be someone you care about, someone you can depend on? 

does she think it’s too soon? has the rest of the team made the same observation that she has?

do they think you’re being unfaithful to him?

“well, Ava and I would like to take you out for drinks sometime, if you feel up to it,” she offers.

a part of you is hesitant, as is the nature of trying to cope with your grief. but in truth, it sounds fun. you should get out and socialize. it will be good for you.

“yeah, I’d like that,” you tell her. 

~~~

a few drinks in, and you realize why this was a bad idea. 

“so, what the hell do you see in Walker?” Ava yells to you over the noise of the bustling crowd, the overwhelmingly loud music. 

up until this point, the evening has been nothing but pleasant. you’ve finally been able to spend time with the other members of your team, friends, if you’re allowed to call them that. the conversation never once veered into personal territory, never asking you about him. 

the sudden change in topic, especially while tipsy, isn’t doing you any favors. 

“well, he’s just been helping me,” you say, trying to keep up your positive demeanor even as your mood falters. “I can talk to him about… you know.” 

“his death,” she says. it’s obvious she’s had more to drink than you have, that the only reason she’s speaking so bluntly is due to intoxication. 

you try your best to swallow down your feelings as you respond. 

“yeah. that,” you acknowledge, your voice coming out more softly than you intended. 

“do you, though? see something in him?” Yelena asks you, taking another sip of her drink and looking at you intently. 

you know it’s just conversation. they don’t mean any harm. 

but it’s getting to you. the words are tearing at the walls you’ve built around your guilt, forcing your fears to come to light inside your head. 

“but he hated Walker, didn’t he?” Ava pipes up.

“no, no,” you say urgently, your heart racing faster. “he didn’t hate John, he–” 

you cut yourself off mid-sentence. you’re nervous. you feel like you’re on trial, being forced to explain yourself. explain how the hell you could end up in the arms of someone he hated–no, that’s not what’s happening here–

“did you sleep with him?” Yelena asks you suddenly. 

it’s harmless. they’re just asking, just trying to…

you can’t handle it anymore. 

your heart is beating way too fast, your anxieties surrounding the situation spiking.

what the hell is wrong with you? how could you do this to him? he died, knowing that you were it for him. you were his soulmate, and of course he was yours–

so why the hell are you doing this? 

why are you getting yourself involved with John?

you’re a terrible person. how dare you ever think you could be worth his love, worth more than the sum of the terrible things you’ve done, the lives you’ve taken. 

“can we get the bill and head back? I think the alcohol is getting to my head,” you say, narrowly avoiding tipping over your glass, your hands shaking while you try to reach for your purse.

you don’t deserve to be happy, to fall in love again. 

you never even deserved him in the first place. 

~~~

you don’t go to John’s room. you can’t. 

seeking out his presence, the comfort you find with him will only worsen your mental state. letting yourself feel better when he is dead is nothing more than cruelly turning your back on him. 

how could you ever do that to him?

you don’t shed a single tear when you slip under your sheets. your mind is moving too fast, berating you for letting yourself move on. 

for letting yourself fall in love again. 

is that what this is? are you in love with John Walker?

you tell yourself you’re not. you try to convince yourself that you’re just hurting, you’re latching onto him in his absence. it’s not real, it absolutely cannot be real, because then it means you’re a traitor. 

a traitor to the love of your life, your fucking soulmate, the only man you’ve ever held so close to your heart. 

it hurts. it hurts every fiber of your being to know that you do love John Walker, that you have another shot at being happy. that you’re finally learning how to move forward. 

except to you, it just feels like moving on. like you’re leaving him in the past. 

you’re in love.

and you despise yourself for the excitement that builds up in your stomach at the realization. 

~~~

the next morning, you wake up early. way too early, early enough to see the sun begin to light up the sky as it rises. 

you don’t bother getting out of bed. sleeping on all of your conflicting thoughts didn’t help, it only intensified your fears. you woke up in a daze of despair. 

you still miss him, that’s a given. you’ll always love him, until the day you die. 

but now you’re in love with someone else. 

and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with yourself. 

at that moment, your bedroom door quietly opens and shuts. you look up to see him sneaking in. 

“sorry,” he whispers, laying down next to you, “I tried to be quiet, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

he cuddles up behind you, wrapping an arm around you and settling in. you don’t move, don’t bother to get any closer to him. 

“you didn’t come to my room last night. missed you,” he whispers, sleepy. 

“now isn’t the time, John,” you say bluntly, beginning to retract yourself from his hold and getting out of the bed. you find yourself standing in front of the window, staring through the cracks in the blinds. 

“sweetheart, what’s–” he starts, but you interrupt him. you’re angry, and confused, and you can’t stand to hear the term of endearment from him right now. 

“don’t,” you hiss, “don’t fucking call me that. don’t.” 

now he’s confused. what’s going on? did he upset you somehow?

he sits up, his mind waking up with the abrupt shift in the air. 

“would you… would you look at me?” he asks you. 

you shake your head. you won’t. you can’t. 

when you don’t turn to face him, you hear the shuffling of the sheets behind you indicating that he’s standing up. you see him come into your field of view as he walks up next to you. 

“talk to me,” he says, sounding more like an order than a request. “tell me what’s going on.”

“we can’t do this,” you say flatly, refusing to meet his gaze. “we’re not doing this. whatever this is, it’s over. we’re done.”

“no,” he protests as he begins to get upset. “you don’t get to just tell me out of nowhere that we’re done without giving me an explanation. so tell me, what is going on with you?”

you exhale, frustrated, anger boiling up inside you. you finally turn to face him. 

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snap, no matter how much it hurts to say to him. you don’t want to push him away, you don’t, but what else can you do at this point? 

this is your only option. 

he takes a deep breath to calm his own anger before he continues. “you’re upset, and something is wrong. tell me what’s wrong.”

“we can’t do this!” you cry out, “we can’t! it’s not right, it’s not fair to him!” 

“sweetheart–” he tries, but you don’t let him get the words out. 

“no, you can’t call me that. you can’t–” you say, your voice breaking with every word. your heart and mind are both tearing at the seams, trying to compensate for the gaps in the other’s feelings. 

John pipes up, his own anger coming to surface. “goddamnit, would you listen to me? he would’ve wanted you to be happy! B–”

“don’t. don’t you dare say his name!” you scream back at him, seething. 

“Bucky would have wanted you to be happy!” 

everything stops.

your mind stops.

not a soul has said his name since the funeral. you haven’t said his name since the funeral.

you feel like you’re going to lose control of your breathing, your lungs practically frozen. your anger morphs, turning back into sadness. this is too much, it’s too much–

“can you honestly tell me that he wouldn’t have wanted us to be happy together?” he asks you, his tone pleading, begging you to try and understand where he’s coming from.  

you can’t help the way your lip begins to quiver, and your eyes heat up. fuck.

“he would’ve wanted me to protect you. he would’ve wanted you to be looked after.”

you can’t help but protest against him. “John, you don’t get it. I feel like I’m betraying him–” 

“–I know, sweetheart, I know, but listen–”

“–but the worst part is that I know I’m not. I know we’re not betraying him. I know that you’re right, I just…”

you pause. you don’t know what you want to say next.

“I know,” he whispers. “every day, I wake up, and I hope that she’s going to call me, but she’s not. I know that she’s not going to. I know that she’s gone.” 

he inhales as he takes in your sulken appearance, the sight of tears falling down your face once more. 

“they’re gone. we lost them, and that’s it. but that doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy without them!” he tries to reason with you, raising his voice once again. 

he doesn’t get it. why doesn’t he get that your relationship is doomed, the same as yours was with him? this was all a mistake, the whole time. the two of you were doing nothing but setting yourselves up for more heartbreak. why can’t he see that? 

you can’t hold it in any longer. your resolve breaks as you yell back at him, “I don’t want to lose you like I lost him!”

your words hit hard. the thought of that happening to you, of you dying on the job, is the worst thing imaginable.

but it’s an excuse. 

it’s an excuse coming from the part of you that’s still heartbroken, still traumatized from the accident. anything could happen to any of you, at any time, regardless. 

“so you think you’d be better off by yourself? not letting yourself have what you want, sacrificing your own happiness because you think it might save my life? news flash: it doesn’t work like that!” he responds. 

you go silent, his words reaching into your heart and yanking at each and every one of your heartstrings. 

“you deserve to be happy, sweetheart,” he pleads with you, taking another step forward, bringing his hands to rest on your arms. “let me make you happy.”

you’re quietly bawling by this point, unable to control how your body silently shakes over and over again. John moves closer, wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and embracing you while you cry. 

“I love you,” you say between sobs. “I love you, John, I love you so much. I can’t lose you,” you tell him, baring your entire heart and soul to him once more. 

“shhh… you’re not going to lose me,” he whispers to you, rubbing your back. “that’s not going to happen.”

of course, neither of you can know that for sure. the life you both lead is one of fighting, defined entirely by nothing other than tragedy. 

but you both believe it when he says it. 

“look at me,” he whispers, pulling back and leaning down to look at you face to face. he takes in your red face, wipes your tears as you sniffle. 

“I love you, sweetheart. I love you, too.” 

you nod vehemently. 

“I love you. and I know you think it’s not right, like you’re forgetting him. but you’re not. he’ll always be a part of you.”

as you take in his words, letting them soak into your mind and your heart, you begin to settle. you nod once more. 

you watch as a small smile crosses his face when you nod. 

“let me make you happy,” he repeats to you. 

you want that. you want to let yourself be happy. 

you can be happy with John without forgetting about him. 

you can let him fill the void in your heart. 

~~~

✦ masterlist - join a tag list ✦

john walker tag list: (send an ask or dm to be removed)