#thunderbolts reader insert

"Please," he whimpered, pressing several messy kisses to your inner thigh. "Just a taste, please."

You carded your fingers through his soft hair as you bit your lip. "Just a taste? Hmmmm." You pretended to ponder it for a moment just to toy with him. You absolutely loved when he got this deliciously desperate. "You need it?"

Bob nodded urgently, his hands squeezing the flesh of your thighs, his glassy eyes gleaming up at you. "I need it so bad, you have no idea, I-- I'll do anything."

Your head gently fell back on the wall you were currently leaning against. God, how could you ever deny him? "Keep begging like that and you can do whatever you want to me."

Bob groaned in response to just the idea of doing whatever he wanted to you, pressing his nose and mouth against your clothed core. "I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

You placed your hand on his cheek, gently lifting his head so you could look at him properly. "You always do."

He gave you one of his sweetest smiles, almost innocent like he wasn't about to completely devour you, before his deft fingers slid underneath the waistband of your panties and yanked downward, exposing you. "Jesus," he whispered, eyes now locked in at the space between your thighs with awe. He swallowed harshly in anticipation. "You're so pretty." He leaned in closer and began pressing kisses everywhere except right where you needed him most, until you began to squirm.

"Don't tease," you whined, tugging at his hair. "I--"

Your voice died in your throat when his hot, wet tongue slid right through your folds, your body tensing up at the sudden action. "Bob."

He moaned greedily at the first taste of you. "You're dripping."

You nodded, gasping when he dove back in and licked at you like he'd been waiting his entire life for that very moment. Your chest was heaving with adrenaline; he'd barely began and you were already almost incoherent. "For you."

Bob groaned shamelessly and shuddered against you at your words, the rumble of his voice vibrating deliciously against your soaked cunt. His nose was nudging your clit with every stripe he licked against your entrance, his hands gripping your ass to keep you close. "Taste so good," he mumbled before wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud and sucking hard.

You just about flew off the wall you'd been leaning against, both of your hands gripping his hair for purchase as your knees buckled. Bob never ceased, instead hiking one of your legs up over his shoulder to get an even better angle. The precision of his tongue against your swollen clit sent sharp pleasure shooting across your lower abdomen. "Holy--oh my god, I can't--"

Bob's mouth was relentless as he ate you like a man starved. You normally would've been embarrassed at the way your slickness was dripping down your thighs if it hadn't been for Bob's tongue chasing after it, like he couldn't afford to waste a single drop. It was fucking messy and loud, the sounds of yours and his moans competing with the sounds of his hot mouth lapping at your soaked cunt.

Your climax hit you without warning the second his tongue dipped into your entrance, the pressure exploding in your lower belly before you could process it. You barely registered Bob lowering one of his hands to palm himself through his boxer briefs as he worked you through it, the sight spurring you on. "Jesus Christ, Bob."

Bob didn't answer. His left hand was squeezing your ass to keep your cunt against his mouth while his other hand dipped into his boxer briefs and gripped his pulsing cock. He let out a guttural moan at the relief, his hips bucking forward into his hand.

It was sensory overload. Tears were threatening to escape your eyes as he continued alternating between sucking unrelentingly on your clit and dipping his tongue inside you. "It--it's so much, I can't," you whined, incoherent as your body tried squirming away from him.

He chased after you, his free hand pulling you back to his relentless mouth. "No no no, wait, please I'm not done yet," he begged. "Just please give me one more, I know you can."

And to think you'd been in charge at the start of this.

You'd been squeezing your eyes shut as you had no choice but to take what he was giving you, barely processing your come-down until you opened them at the wet repetitive sound from below you and almost came again from the sight alone.

There he was, face buried between your thighs, eyes shut and brow furrowed in blissful focus as his free hand stroked himself relentlessly, pre-cum glistening at the angry red tip.

"Oh my god," you groaned, thighs shaking around his head. "Fucking look at you."

Bob opened his eyes at your words, mouth never leaving you, and gave you the most doe-eyed, pussy drunk look you'd ever seen. And that was your undoing.

It was devastating, completely desperate, so much more intense than the first time. The image of him getting himself off to eating you out replayed in your mind over and over until the only word you knew how to say anymore was his name. You vaguely registered Bob releasing a sob of your name as he came with you, the sound spurring you on until you were trembling.

You weren't even aware of how much time had passed when Bob finally pulled away from you. You sagged back against the wall, taking your time opening your eyes as you came back to your surroundings. And there he was, sitting back with a dazed grin on his face, his nose, mouth and chin sparkling with your slick. His hand and stomach were covered with his own mess, though he didn't appear to even register it.

"How was that?"

You laughed, lowering yourself onto the ground on shaky legs to get at eye-level with him. You took his face in your hands, gently wiping your mess away as you quirked a brow at him. "I think you don't even have to ask."

He chuckled, looking away bashfully. "I guess not."

You leaned in and kissed him deeply, a small whine escaping you as you tasted yourself on his tongue.

robert ‘bob’ reynolds never cared for phones.

he used his for mission briefings, weather updates, reply to texts with “K” or thumbs-up emojis. he only has a phone because he has to.

but today, he’s curled up on the living room’s couch, face bathed in the faint glow of tiktok.

yelena’s sprawled on the rug in front of him, snacking on expired takis and kicking her feet, while bob is staring at his screen like it’s alive, like it’s mocking him.

you see, it started with yelena.

she was bored during surveillance. handed him her phone and said, “trust the algorithm. it knows things.”

he shouldn’t have trusted the algorithm.

because now?

now, it only shows you.

you walking through smoke, cloak trailing behind you.

you laughing during sparring drills, eyes bright and magic curling at your fingertips.

you after a mission, hoodie on, sipping coffee, with captions like:

“just give me one chance, y/n, PLEASE”

“SO SPECIAL 2 ME!!”

“i fear no god but her.”

bob watches each one like it’s classified intel. his face is red, his hands sweaty, his soul… not intact.

then one video stops him cold.

you’re mid-fight, sweat-slicked, magic laced across your knuckles, flipping over a hydra agent, cloak swirling behind you.

music: ariana grande - dangerous woman

caption:

“she could kill me and i’d say thank you. 💚💀🫠”

bob drops the phone, stares at the ceiling like it betrayed him. he squeaks.

a grown man. nearly god-tier power. literally the sentry. and he squeakes.

yelena snorts soda through her nose. “you’re down so bad, bob. i’m proud of you.”

and a few hours later, you walk past him in the hallway, post-workout, hair pulled back, water bottle in hand.

“hey, bob.” you say casually.

he looks up like you just summoned him from the astral plane.

“hi,” he says, voice way too high. “i mean. yes. hello. n-normal greeting.”

you squint at him. “you good?”

he tries to nod. it comes out more like a bobblehead glitching in real-time.

you raise an eyebrow. “yelena mess with you again?”

he looks like he’s about to deny it, then freezes, eyes going wide.

behind you, yelena rounds the corner, winks, and holds up bob’s phone.

she presses play.

the sound of ariana grande starts playing again.

you glance over your shoulder just in time to see yourself in slow motion on the screen. you didn’t even know someone filmed that.

yelena let out a mischievous smirk and a quick “have fun!” before throwing his phone at your direction and running away.

you caught it perfectly, seeing yourself on the screen. you ask, very casually, “is that… me?”

bob jumps like he’s been tased.

“oh my- uh- i was just… it’s just yelena sent-“

you blink. “bob.”

“i didn’t- i mean, i didn’t search for them,” he blurts. “the app just kept showing you and then i didn’t want to be rude by not watching-“

you glance at the screen, swiping once.

another thirst trap. this one with the caption:

“she speaks and i forget my own name.”

you grin. “wow. they’re kinda poetic.”

“i know,” he mutters, trying to hide himself behind his hands. “it’s horrible.”

“horrible?” you feign offense. “that’s me! i think i look hot.”

he peeks over his fingers. “y-you are hot. that’s the problem.”

you blink.

then your grin shifts, softens, sharpens. “well. at least now i know you’ve seen my good angles.”

“i’ve seen all your angles,” bob mumbles before realizing what he just said.

he immediately closed his eyes. “oh my god…”

you laugh, genuinely, wickedly.

then, after a pause, “… you want me to make a new one?” you say, voice low and teasing.

he peeked.

you shrug. “you know, just for you. thirst trap. real exclusive.”

bob makes a sound that might’ve been a whimper.

“i’m not strong enough for that,” he says.

you lean in.

close enough for your nose to almost touch his.

“that’s funny,” you whisper, placing his phone in one of his pocket. “i thought you were the strongest one here.”

and then you walk away, barefoot, cereal in hand, hoodie falling off one shoulder.

bob stares after you like you just rewrote the laws of physics.

later that night, bob’s room is dark. only the faint glow of the moon cuts through the blinds.

he’s in bed, hoodie on, blanket up, headphones in.

the phone? balanced on his chest like a glowing curse.

he should be sleeping, meditating, literally anything else.

but instead… he’s scrolling.

your edits. again.

the algorithm has him in a chokehold.

first video: you walking away from an explosion, hair blowing back like a damn shampoo commercial, captioned:

“she’s the reason i believe in God.”

bob snorts through his nose. he tries to scroll past it.

he does not scroll past it.

next one: a slowed-down training clip, enchantress powers blooming from your fingertips in green, but you’re laughing.

just a clip of you laughing.

the caption reads:

“she smiled at me (i made that up in my head but still)”

bob clenches his jaw. scrolls.

another one: you leaning over a map in the command room, eyes sharp, lip caught between your teeth.

the audio is some slowed, sultry track. and the top comment?

“i’m so sorry bob but she’s mine now 💚”

bob actually pauses the video.

squints at the comment.

then stares at the username. “@toecutter2.0”.

“…what kind of name is that?” he mumbles.

scrolls again.

this one’s you mid-fight, arms glowing, spinning through smoke with two men down behind you.

someone added dramatic strings underneath.

the top caption:

“don’t let her near your man. she is the man now.”

he grips the phone like it personally insulted him.

next comment:

“do you think she’d step on me? i’d say thank you😍”

his ears turn red.

and even more:

“the hold she has on me is borderline criminal.😩”

“it’s beating her name in morse code”

“God made her, then panicked because nothing else could compare.”

bob shuts the app.

throws the phone across the bed.

stares at the ceiling, mumbling to himself

“i’m not jealous of… a tiktok comment. i’m not. that’s not rational.”

pause.

“…@toecutter2.0 can catch these hands though.”

next morning. the gym.

you pull yelena aside.

“i need your help.”

yelena doesn’t ask questions. she just starts grinning.

“oh, this is gonna be fun.”

OPERATION: WRECK ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS

• use the gym’s natural lighting.

• wear that training outfit bob can never make eye contact with.

• cast just enough magic to make it ✨ cinematic ✨.

• cue slow motion.

• add in earned it by the weeknd

yelena directs like a chaotic spielberg. “now look over your shoulder like you just blew something up. no, slower. yes, that’s it.”

you toss your dagger, spin, and let a ripple of green magic bloom behind you. you slow-walk past the camera like you’re exiting the wreckage of a spaceship you just blew up with your mind.

yelena claps. “i am so proud of this. bob’s going to short-circuit.”

she posts it with the caption:

“made this for the golden retriever upstairs 💛”

“@sentryofficial don’t pass out please”

five minutes later: THUMP from the floor above.

bob is lying on the floor.

not dead.

just… processing.

he’s watched the video eight times. maybe nine.

his phone is face-down now but he can still hear the audio in his soul.

he gets up slowly, like someone recovering from a knockout punch.

he whispers, “okay… okay. she wants war? fine.”

he sets up his phone. angles it on his desk.

stands in front of it.

realizes he has no idea what to do with his hands.

tries to do a slow hoodie pull, gets stuck.

tries to glow just a little, glows too much.

mutters, “too powerful, too much.”

accidentally drops the phone. curses.

trips over his boot.

lands half-off screen, groaning.

somehow… he still posts it.

the final product? 47 seconds of a man trying his hardest and failing gloriously.

caption:

“this was supposed to be cool but i am not built for this. @you i tried.”

you open it and nearly cry from laughing.

your comments:

“10/10 would simp again 💛”

“this wins the internet”

“do it again but make it worse <3”

later, you pass him in the hallway again.

you lean against the wall, casual as ever.

“you know,” you say, “it’s really cute how nervous i make you.”

he looks away, blush blooming on his face. “it’s not just nervous... it’s, like… heart attack-level admiration.”

you grin. “good. you deserve to suffer a little.”

then you tap your phone and show him something new.

it’s a new tiktok.

you in front of the camera, holding up a sign that says,

“@sentryofficial be my for you page irl?”

his jaw drops, pink hues appearing on his cheeks.

“i’m going to explode,” he whispers.

you lean in and say, “good.”

then you wink, and walk away.

behind you, bob clutches the wall.

but he’s smiling.

because it’s you.

and now he knows you’re smiling back.

“w-wait up..!”

tag list:

And then your eyes begin to flutter shut, hand going limp as your phone drops beside you on the bed. Your body allows you all but twenty minutes of sleep before your heart constricts with anxiety. 

You wake up gasping for air, sitting straight up in your king-sized bed. Your oversized pajama shirt is drenched in sweat and stuck to your body as if it’s clinging to the sleep you’ve been so rudely disturbed from.  

Your eyes dart around your dark room before following the beam of light coming from your phone. The same video has been playing on repeat, along with a song as someone dances to it on the screen. 

With a loud sigh and a deep breath, you reach over to check the time on your phone. In the top corner it reads, ‘2:18’ a.m. With your heart still beating heavily against your ribcage, there’s no way you can try to sleep now. You might as well go watch some tv instead of mindlessly scrolling on your tiny phone screen. 

You rub your eyes with your fists, eyes watering desperately as you stifle a yawn. Your feet kick the covers off as your legs swing over the side of your bed. Shuffling your feet into your slippers, you use your phone screen as a flashlight to direct yourself to your door. 

Your head peeks out as you slowly open it, looking down the dark hallway. You listen for any movement, any sign of life from your other comrades. 

Sometimes you wonder if they can tell you haven’t been getting enough sleep, maybe it’s the dark circles or how you space out more often. 

Or maybe it’s that you’ve skipped training five times in the last four days. It wasn’t a rare occurrence to have bouts of sleepless nights, they knew that too— but this has been the longest and most exhausting four days of your life. There’s no way that they haven’t caught on yet. 

As you make your way to the living room, your body viscerally shivers from the crispness of the air in the tower. The sweat on your skin cools, and the dampness of your shirt turns chilly. You need warmth, and you know exactly what will suffice. After snatching a blanket off the couch and wrapping it around your shoulders, you shuffle into the kitchen. 

Yawning as you pop a pod into your coffee maker and quietly pulling a mug from the cabinet. It reads, ‘I ♡ NYC’, which makes you smile and scoff at the irony of it. The coffee maker splutters and spits out coffee as it brews the liquid gold into your cup. 

The aroma almost does the job of energizing you itself. You wrap your hands around the hot mug, hissing from the heat, but you allow it to warm your cold hands as you make your way to the living room. 

Tucking yourself into the far corner of the plush couch, you pull your knees close to your body to drape another blanket over your legs. Your hand clicks buttons on the remote as you sip on the hot coffee, humming from the taste and how it warms you from the inside out. 

Some late-night sitcom is on, so you resort to watching that for now. Quietly giggling along with the laughter in the background of the show. You don’t even notice soft footsteps padding down the hallway towards you as you stare wide-eyed at the tv screen. 

A deep voice calls out your name, making your eyes snap towards the sound. It’s Bucky. 

“What are you doing up?” His voice is scratchy from sleep as his half-lidded eyes squint from the brightness of the tv. His hands are on his hips as he stares at you, almost like a disappointed dad. 

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Your hand grips the remote as you hurriedly turn it down. 

His feet drag as he walks into the living room, still standing up as his eyes watch the screen. The light casts over his features as you stare at him from your position on the couch, “No, no, it’s okay. I heard the tv but I just wanted to make sure everything was okay…” He trails off and turns toward you with his eyebrows wrinkled in the middle, “Well, uh… Are you okay?” 

Your eyes nervously dart from your coffee in your lap to him, and then back to the tv. Your body shudders, urging you to word vomit about how you haven’t slept in four days and how your stupid mind won’t shut up. 

“Y—yeah, Buck. I’m good.” You send a quick, insincere smile his way before looking back down at your steaming mug. You can still feel his eyes on the side of your face, refusing to look up at him. He knows. 

The couch dips beside you, making your breath catch slightly as you side-eye him. 

“Well, I’m gonna sit out here with you and watch whatever the hell you’re watching.” He almost chuckles, his hand motioning toward the tv. 

He looks over at you as his metal arm folds behind his head, the other sprawling out on the back of the couch toward you. Almost like he’s inviting you to move closer to him. 

It’s not weird for you and Bucky to cuddle—especially during your low points, but you can’t give in.

“It’s called friends.” You mumble, still staring into the mug. 

“Hm?” He hums and adjusts himself so he’s a little closer to you, his head leaning forward so he can hear you clearer. 

“The show. It’s called friends.” You speak up, and turn towards him now before taking a sip of your coffee. 

Bucky watches you intently, how you bring the mug to your lips, how your bloodshot, purple-rimmed eyes flick to the screen and back to him. 

“Is that coffee?” He questions with a raised eyebrow, his hand reaching out for it, and you hand the mug over to him. He takes a sip out of your cup before handing it back to you, settling himself into the couch with a satisfying tsk and an, “Aah.” 

“So why haven’t you been sleeping?” He asks with his eyes trained on the tv. You start to fumble over your words, stuttering and wiggling in your spot. “I-uhhh.. wha-?” Your voice trembles. 

Why can’t you just admit it? 

“We’re all worried about you, ya know. Missing training, showing up to meetings late, stumbling into the kitchen for food… or coffee. You've been hiding in your room for days now.” He tilts his head toward your cup to prove a point. 

Tears begin to well up into your eyes, your bottom lip shuddering and your hands trembling. Bucky watches as your walls start to crumble, the exhausted, beaten, and bruised version of you seeping through. “Hey hey. It’s okay, doll.” He sits up now, taking the mug from your hands to set it on the coffee table. 

Once the coffee is safely put to the side, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you from your cocoon of blankets. Your face is smushed into his soft cotton tee shirt, tears soaking the fabric as you silently weep into his chest. 

“I-I jus-just can’t sl-sleep.” You stutter out, arms still by your side, his strong arms caging you in, “My-my mind, my th-thoughts… I just can’t anymore.” 

Bucky shushes you, one of his hands rubbing circles into your back. “I know, I know.” He hums. 

Bucky lets you cry into him until it turns into quickened breathing, and then your body starts to go slack. He’s been through this with you so many times, too many times. 

Your head moves from his chest, wiggling your way up to fit into the crook of his neck. Your soft breath fans across his warm skin, and your arms hesitantly wrap around his solid waist. 

Bucky pulls you closer, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple as you snuggle in close. The sound of footsteps breaks you from your little bubble with Bucky, your watery eyes lifting to see Yelena standing at the edge of the couch. 

“Everything okay?” Her usual strong, accented voice is soft as she stares at you with tender, yet tired, eyes. 

Bucky pulls back slightly to turn, his flesh arm still holding onto your waist as he looks at Yelena. A small smile plays on his lips before turning back to you, tapping your hip as his grip loosens. 

“Yeah, she’s good now. Can’t sleep.” Bucky yawns at the end of his sentence and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. You move back slightly, still pressed against his side but not in an embrace. 

“Good. We were worried about you.” Yelena comments, which makes you snort. Both of them turn towards you, looking confused. 

“Bucky said that earlier.” You poke at him jokingly, and he swats at your hand. Yelena lets out a raspy laugh and plops down on the chaise lounge, kicking her feet up as she looks at the tv. “Friends, really?” She rolls her eyes and motions for the remote with her hand. 

You toss the remote to her, and she catches with ease—not even looking as it flew toward her. She flips through the channels as Bucky pulls you closer, your head gravitating towards his lap. You keep telling yourself this is a normal thing for you and Bucky to do; he helps you. But this time, it just feels different. 

You lay on your side, head on his thigh as you curl up into yourself. His hand instantly goes into your long flowing hair to play with it before he pulls a blanket over your body. You can feel yourself relax, your chest warming up as your nervous system resets itself. 

You can feel yourself growing sleepier by the second as Bucky’s hand cards through your hair. Yelena and Bucky’s quiet conversation is slowly drowned out as your ears start to ring, blinking slowly as you try to fight the weight pulling down your eyelids. 

The tv in front of you blurs out of view as your eyes shut, finally succumbing to the sleep your body has been begging for. 

-

You wake up to a bright room around you, sunshine illuminating the walls shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You can feel wetness around your mouth, almost as if you’ve been drooling. 

Wait, where are you? And what is that delicious smell?

Your eyes fully open and you suck in a deep breath of fresh air. It smells of breakfast, like bacon and maple syrup. You’re surprisingly still in the living room, but the tv’s volume is lowered and Bucky isn’t under you anymore. Your coffee cup has been cleaned up, and you’re still covered in a blanket or two. 

As you sit up, you groan, muscles aching from sleeping in a weird position on the couch. You move your neck side to side, yawning as you stretch your arms above your head. 

“Ah! Sleeping beauty is awake!” Yelena’s voice shouts, making you jump as you spin around to face her. 

Bob is sitting at the kitchen island alongside Bucky, while John is at the stove cooking. Yelena is sitting on the counter, laughing at something Bob said as she bites into a piece of bacon she has in her hand. 

The sound of something sizzling catches your ears, and suddenly your stomach grumbles. Bucky swivels on his chair to turn toward you, his face beaming when he sees you’re awake. 

Your lips twitch upwards into a smile, sliding off the couch to shuffle over to him. His arm wraps around your waist from his seated position, “How ya feel?” He asks, looking up at you. 

“Pretty good, still tired but much better.” You sigh happily, smiling around at your teammates who return the same expression.  

John sneakily eyes Bucky’s hand sitting comfortably on your waist, winking at you which makes you blush. 

Materialist

Stark!reader facts

Back in action

Alexei’s limo clearly was not bulletproof. Ava could not fight them due to their sound weapon and John was busy shielding eveyone else with his fake shield. They were getting shot with no weapons to defend themselves. Finally Yelena shot and one of Valentina’s talk flipped 

But it had not been Yelena’s gun as John saw the two unlikely figures that had come to their rescue  emerge from the dust behind the tanks

Bucky Barnes aka the Winter Soldier was driving a motorbike, big gun in hand, the real shot that had made the tank flip

Behind him on the same motorbike stood Y/N Stark aka Revenge 

‘Are those Bucky and Y/N?’ John muttered in shock as the rest of the team turned around and so the most deadly couple to probbaly ever walked this earth

‘Obviously’ Yelena muttered annoyed. Her sister's best friend, in a way you had been to Nat a sister as much as Yelena had been. 

You had not looked up for Yelena immediately. After Nat's and Tony's deaths and Steve leaving you, you had been miserable, a shell of the person you used to be, you had pushed everyone away. Pepper, your niece Morgan, Rhody, Sam, Clint and then had gotten close to Bucky. After you had managed to get out of your grief you kept your promise to Nat and with Clint had found Yelena. You called her and tried to give her a job in security in Stark industries, but she had pushed you away many times. You tried and tried but eventually understood that she needed space as you once had needed it. So Yelena wasn't your biggest fan, maybe because of jealousy of yours and Nat sisterhood. You were not sure

Ghost and Alexei knew you only for your fame but had never met you 

‘OMG Winter Soldier and Revenge I love those guys’ alexei exclaimed in happiness punching the weel as still the shooting continues

You give a quick kiss on Bucky’s cheek as he smirked. You stood on the bike behind him as you pressed your bracelet. Your nano suit activating. Your suit was not sturdy like your brother's had been. It was much more flexible similar to Natasha’s but with nano technology it allowed you to shoot, fly and go on space. It was gold but could change color to adapt to the area around you.

You jumped landing gracefully on the tank with what Yelena would call the superhero pose. You got in and punched the driver that unconscious crashed the tank. You jumped right off, a few meters from bucky

Meanwhile Bucky stopped the other tank with his metal arm by flipping thee cable it was attached too

You smirked, the action of him flipping the tank with the power of his arm giving you goosebumps

‘Looking good James’ you told him through the microphones as you walked back to him

‘Focus doll’ he told you with a hint of a smile, the moment in your shared kitchen back home interrupted still lingering in his mind

‘Can you blame a girl? First the suit at the gala, now this terminator look, the adrenaline, god forbid a girl swooning for her extremely handsome husband’ You joke back 

‘When we are done with Valentina. I promise you, you will not leave our house for a week’ he replied smirking 

‘I’ll consider that a promise Barnes. Now let’s get them’ you reply as Bucky makes also their limo flip too

‘Was that necessary?’ You ask him. You are not scolding you are just curious

‘I know you trust Yelena, but we don’t know about the others’ he replies, you sigh and nod as you two take them out of the limo, tie them up and bring them to a nearby old gas station 

-.-.-.-

‘Sleeping beauties are awake’ you tell them as you put away the pocket knife you were throwing to pass the time. Bucky is looking around to make sure valentina's agents are not following you

‘Great’ Yelena says as she sees you and bucky 

‘Lena’ you reply ‘I see you have been busy not answering my calls’ 

‘I was working!’ She defends herself

 ‘for Valentina? Real classy’ you scoff 

'you don't understand-' yelena tries but john interrupts her

'hey Y/N. is good to see you' John tries

'wish I could say the same walker. Alexei, Ghost.' you greet the others 

'she knows my name!' alexei excaimes in happiness while ava and walker just roll their eyes

  'Wish we could chat but we are on a tight scehdule right handsome?' you say walkng back to bucky and leaning on the window next to him 

'You guys by working for valentina are the only evidence we need for her impeachemtn, so you’re going to the impeachment hearing with us and tell them everything you know' he explains to them 

‘You don’t understand.  We don't work for valentina anymore. She tried to kills us and then we met Bob and he is another level of powerful’ Yelena tries to explain while bucky looks at them skeptically, you instead are interested in their story.

‘and we are supposed to believe that? . As much as I’m sure you are right we need to bring you in to testify against Valentina. So that she can get locked up and i can go back to how it was before this mess. I got a company to run, a niece to take care, and a husband congress campaing, I don't have time for kids games. Right honey?’ You say calling Bucky

‘Pretty much’ he says looking away from the window to look at you, his gaze softening ‘plane will be here in 6 minutes’ he adds more to you then to them, his metal fingertips brush yours as you nod at the information, interwining your hand with his

'I'm going to be sick' ava says rolling her eyes at you and bucky 

‘yelena is telling the truth Bucky, Y/N, you know me , you must believe me’ john tries 

‘I think I’ll pass walker’  bucky replies

John scoffs, 'what you two believe you are better than us? Congressman Barnes now a stark. Do you act all righteous now because you are a public figure? Learned it from y/n? Think a surname and a position in the governemtn is going to wash away the blood on your hands?'

'Carefull walker' you tell him leaving no sign of a joke  'I think you remember what happens when I get mad' you add. During the fight with the flagmasher john had made a 'joke' about tony, then bucky, you had hit him pretty hard. It had been bucky and sam to stop you before it got too far, John just scoffs at the memory

'John I know is being difficult with your wife leaving and taking your son with her. But we are just trying to stop Valentina and get back to our lives. I suggest you all to do the same' bucky intervenes. The others look at john at the new piece of information, not a so perfect family as they thought, he lowers his eyes in shame

'listen guys. Lets help us out. You testify, valentina goes to prison, you run, we don't catch you and then I work on your pardon and all goes well. Okay?' you explain hands in surrender drammatically 

'Doll' bucky sighs

'Well I cannot put in prison nat’s dad and sister!' you defend yourself 'Listen guys you testify and then I will give you 10 minutes to disappear . If any of you is half as good as me or him it will take you 5' you give them an encouraging smile. They just look like they are about to hit you

'wow thank you' ava scoffs

'listen valentina must go down. And you are the only ones that can do that. So give a hand woudnt you?'

'this is so much bigger than valentina y/n' john finally mutters

‘Please mr soldier and ms iron, valentina is bad but we must stop bob'  alexei tries

'bob?' bucky replies in mocking disbilief eying you as to say 'do you believe this shit'

'Valentina was going to kill us in an inceneritaor but then we met this guy bob and escaped' ava explains

'We need to stop them get to Bob, he is like human tested, it turns out he can fly and is super strong ’ yelena adds

‘From this secret project sentric, he has the power of a thousand suns!’ John chimes in

You look at Bucky a silent conversation with your eyes. You believe them. They are telling the truth but how can you trust them ?

Before you can enquire further bucky's phone rings 

'hey Mel what do you need?' bucky asks Valentina's assistant

'you need to help me. Valentina has gone nuts she had this project sentry this lab made superhuman stronger then all the avengers combied and this guy Bob , it worked on him' she explains, bucky looks at you as he asks the girl

'Valentina was working on something called Project Sentry? Bob?', he wants to roll his eyes so badly as the others exclaim indignately 'how many times do we need to say it? yes bob! '

' We are at the old avengers place someone got to do something, Bring anyone you can' she says before hanging up

You and bucky exchange a silent conversation with your eyes, and you nod, he sighs, as you two go to free the others  

'change of plans. People going to get hurt you need to help us stop Valentina. you all are coming with us'  he tells them working on their ropes

'Wait, us?' Yelena asks incredusly

'yes you.  You have somewhere else to be?' 

'You have the wrong people Bucky' yelena says voice low

'Look I have been where you are sooner or later it caches up to you trust me.'  he tells them freeying them

They just shake ther heads 

'It does. Listen this is your chance. We both have been there. I know how you feel useless, alone, like you are worth nothing-' you chime in. bucky's gaze falls. He was used to those feelings, but hearing you tell them how you had shared them too never failed to hurt him

'Thank you' ava scoffs

'But this is your chance to prove to yourself and others that you matter, to help others.  to redeem yourself. Dbelieve me doing this will change you, for the better.  on't do it for valentina do it for yourself to prove the world you deserve a second chance. Or to kick valentina in the guts, she did try to kill you. Anyhow motives apart are you are coming or not?'  you ask them , looking at each one of them. 

You remember being them once broken and alone, with only blood in your hands, used and abused, bucky does too. This is their chance. Your eyes fall on yelena, she is your responsbaility in a way now. You own It to Nat

'this is your call yelena, it always have been' you tell voice soft, she just shurgs before nodding

'For the glory ' alexei is the first to exclaim

'yah - or for the glory. We don’t care why you do it until you help us' you say raising your hands in defeat 

'fine!' john and ava say in annoyance as they get up

'I like your dad Yelena, he is fun' you tell her walking side by side as she walks faster to put distance between you two

'Thank you miss iron. Let’s go!'' alexei chimes in having heard you before he starts to rant about his glorius days

'it's y/n'  you reply but he just continues telling stories

Bucky walks next to you as the plane lands, he slips his hand in yours

'can we really trust them?' he asks you

'no. but could anyone really trust us back when we were at our low?'  you reply in all sincerity. You both had been assasins working for people that used and abused you, left with nothing, and then had found a new purpose, a family and each others. 'they deserve the same chance as us' you tell him

'you are right doll' he replies giving you a brief pec on the lips 'of course I am, I'm a stark' you reply pecking his lips again

'we are married, that makes me a stark, does it mean I'm always right too?' he asks you smiling faking to think about it as his metal hand runs down your arm

'nope' you reply as you kiss him again

'guys quit it! Weren't we on a rush?' walker shouts from the jet ramp 'someone shoot me in the eye'  he adds

'glaldy' ava replies as you all board the plane

-.-.-.-.-

John, Yelena and Ava are comparing weapons, more like sizes , in the back of the van. The plane left you just outside the city. meanwhile you are squeezed between Bucky and Alexei in the front of the van

‘What serium did you get mr soldier ?’ Alexei asks, he is basically fangilring about bucky

‘I don’t know. Standard. Hydra’ Bucky replies with nonechalance as he focuses on driving

‘Ooh fancy. I got standard too. And your miss?’ Alexei asks you  

‘Stark super serium’ you reply as you load your gun

‘Oh I never heard that one’ alexei exclaims exicted

 ‘Only one person got it. Me. My dad test trialed it on me when I was a child’ you reply clearing your gun. You don’t say it with sadness is a fact, you got over it a long time ago

'oh wow. That is pretty cool' alexei replies 

Bucky looks at him in disbilief and quite horror at alexei finding cool testing super soldier serium on a child, you just laugh

‘You see we are the same mister soldier. Super soldiers, charming with the ladies. I mean we are different but we are also the same. We could be leaders of this team, you and I. You drive and I drive when you get tired-’ alexei starts to rant

‘I don’t get tired’ Bucky states simply

‘True he never does’ you chuckle as Bucky side eyes you  at your implication

‘And I don’t take orders, or do teams. we’ll expect from her ‘ he says pointing with his head at you 

'Both true' 

'Aww you both so cute. You remind me of my Melina and I. We used to be deadliest couple too' he says with light in his eyes

'Wasn’t your marriage fake? Natasha told me all about it'  you enquire kind of offended at the comparison

'yes. But passion was real! I remember when-' but before alexei can dive in gross details about his love life yelena yells

'Are we there ?' 

'Almost!'  the three of you shout back

..-.-.-.-

Previous part: Back in action

Next part: the tower of terror

Materialist

Stark!reader facts

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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. 

~~~

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Everyone makes mistakes. You’ve always known that to be true. After all, you’ve made millions of ‘em. But of all the mistakes you could have made while living in the Watchtower with your new team, why did it have to be forgetting to lock the goddamn door?

Now, because of one deceptively tiny mistake, you’ve found yourself sitting on edge of the bathroom counter with your hand between your legs as John Walker barges into the room. And judging by the disbelief in those striking blue eyes that are now zeroed in on your naked lower body, clearly the last thing he was expecting to see today was his teammate getting off in the restroom.

“Jesus Christ, Walker!” You pull your hand away from your groin and slam your knees together. One hand—the one that hadn’t been knuckles deep inside you just a few seconds prior—fumbles clumsily with the hem of your shirt to try and cover your crotch. “Ever heard of knocking?”

There’s no denying that his cheeks have been dyed a muted shade of red. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times as he tries to find a half-decent response to your exclamation. And really, what the hell could a person say to defuse a moment like this?

“Ever heard of locking the fucking door before you jerk off?”

You scoff. “Of course I—“

The counterpoint in your head disintegrates as you notice his gaze actively wandering southbound. Instinctively, you press your thighs together even harder only to feel the familiar pulse of pleasure as a result of the increased pressure. Your heart skips a beat. 

“Hey! Eyes up here, asshole!”

He hastily pries his eyes from your poorly concealed lower half. There’s a strange mixture of emotions emanating from his expression: guilt, embarrassment, annoyance, and intrigue. It’s a hard pill to swallow for you, but that dash of intrigue seems to be colored with something akin to lust.

Compromising situation aside, there’s something you hadn’t been expecting.

“Oh my god,” you exhale.

He tilts his head. “What?”

“You actually want to look at my pussy!”

John’s head jerks back as if you’d just took a swing at him. The look on his face betrays a level of shock words can hardly describe. Just as quickly as the surprise overtakes him, he does everything in his power to bury it beneath his usual irritation. His brows furrow.

“That’s a wild fucking accusation to throw at someone,” he says sharply. “Not every guy is as simple-minded as that.”

“Really? So, this doesn’t make you feel anything?”

Before he can utter a word, you lift your shirt up with one hand and spread your legs. Your other hand slides down your stomach and between your thighs to spread your lips apart and give him an unimpeded view. The cool air hitting your exposed and already aroused flesh makes your clit twitch eagerly. You’re already wet from the work you’d put in before he’d stumbled upon you but man, something about this whole scenario only gets you going even more.

He’s staring. His jaw is slack and the faux antagonizing expression has given way to more bewilderment. He looks downright mesmerized.

A swell of pride strikes you. This level of confidence isn’t usually one you carry to intimate encounters but it’s paying off immensely. 

“See, John? You can’t bullshit me,” you tease him as you gently circle your clit with the tip of your middle finger. “I know you’ve gone a long time without getting laid. You may be a super soldier, but you’re still just a man.”

You reach further back, pushing your fingers between your lips to playfully tease your vaginal opening. One digit sneaks its way inside to rub along your inner walls. The pressure is a delight that draws a pleasant hum from your throat.

The delicate curve of his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” The question leaving your mouth feels more like the purr of a cat than tangible, enunciated words, especially when you add a second finger inside your pussy. “I bet you’d love watching me fuck myself properly. Not gonna lie, I could get behind the idea of having those baby blues of yours on me while I do it.”

You arch your back a bit more so you can bury your fingers deeper. At this angle—and with one leg propped over the corner of the sink—it’s so much easier to move your hand. You start to pump the digits in and out of your body, your breath growing more labored with each insertion.

“Mmm…Yeah, that’s it,” you hum as you finger yourself; the movement of your hand remains slow and steady despite the temptation to absolutely wreck yourself in front of him.

Still a few steps away, John is frozen in place with his focus locked on the hand between your legs. He hasn’t said a word the entire time you’ve put on your little show. It’s almost as if he’s a wildlife photographer capturing footage of a rare animal in its natural habitat: one wrong move and he’ll ruin a moment he’s waited his whole career to document.

While one hand steadily fucks your pussy, you bring the other down to toy with your clit. A few good rubs and you feel yourself starting to lose control. Your breath is getting heavy, your eyes harder to keep open. It’s almost embarrassing to admit but having him there watching you pleasure yourself makes it all so much hotter.

The noises that start to leave your throat at that point come from a place of genuine satisfaction rather than the taunting source from earlier. They’re raw, unfiltered moans. You do your best to maintain eye contact with him as you gasp, “Oh fuck…I’m getting close…John…”

The sound of you moaning his name triggers something that had been dormant inside him. He snaps out of whatever hypnotic state had pinned him across from you and lunges forward. His hands wrap around your wrists to still your movements; you’re now trapped in cuffs the shape of war-weathered appendages.

“Stop,” he growls as he towers over you. “That’s enough.”

Frustrated with the interruption to your rhythm, you groan and glare up at him. “You’re such an asshole. Couldn’t have just let me cum, huh?”

His eyes triangulate between your eyes and half-gaped mouth. That signature scowl of his is plastered to his face but underneath it, you still register that undeniable lust. He wants you. He wants you bad.

“Oh, you’re gonna cum. But it’s not gonna be while you sit here tryna provoke me.”

You make no attempt to fight him as he removes your hands from your lower body and pins them up to the mirror behind your head. He’s a super solider with years of experience dominating others. What’s the use in struggling against that kind of inhuman strength and militant resolve? Besides, a surge of excitement courses through your flesh at the very notion of being man-handled by him anyway.

His voice is an animalistic rumble as he continues, “You’re going to cum with my fingers buried inside of you. And you’re only going to do so when I let you. Do you understand me?”

You bite your lip to contain the amused smile that’s threatening to curl upward. Oh, what fun it is to see the failed Captain America leaning into his dark side. Whether out on a mission or just arguing about the ins and outs of life over dinner in the Watchtower, you have always loved giving him a hard time. So, it should come as no surprise to either of you that you’re resisting him at a moment like this too.

Those disarming blue eyes narrow as he lets out a deep, exasperated sigh. His frustration is manifesting in the form of a clenched jaw and flared nostrils. If you were an enemy, he’d be pulling his pistol on you or shoving your head into the mirror just for denying him the satisfaction of a meek “yes, sir.”

He shifts his posture, transferring his grip on your wrists into just one of his hands so that his other can seize you by the chin. The way his thumb and index finger press into your jawbone makes it just uncomfortable enough for you to flinch without truly harming you. Holding your head in place like a clamp, he leans in so that his eyes are level with yours and his mouth is but a breath away.

“You and I both know I don’t have a lot of patience. So, if you want any chance at being fucked right and leaving this room without bruises wrapped all the way around your neck, I suggest you start answering me when I speak to you.” The question that follows his threat is drawn out. “Do I make myself clear?”

You swallow the temptation to argue and nod into his iron grip. As curious as you are to find out what would happen if you didn’t cave into his demands, your intuition tells you it’s best not to find out on your first sexual encounter together. That sort of competition would require some actual preparation and consideration for consequences. Undoubtedly, the rest of the team would have a plethora of questions if you both emerged from your rooms in the morning covered in bruises despite not having actually been sent on a mission in days.

Satisfied with the silent acknowledgment, John eases his grasp on you chin. “Good. Now, suck.”

The hand on your jaw repositions itself so that his index and middle finger are pressed against your bottom lip. For the briefest moment, you just stare at him. That tantalizing lure of defiance is scratching at the back of your brain. But when he lowers his head in a menacing yet subtle display of authority, you let your mouth fall open and allow his fingers to find respite on the warm pillow of your tongue.

You do as you were commanded and suck on his fingers until they’re coated from tip to knuckle in your saliva. Once content with your work, he pulls them from your mouth. A string of spit drips from his departing finger onto your chin and, judging by the hooded look in his eyes, the sight is a major turn-on. He licks his lips like a ravenous wolf.

“Keep it up and I’ll make sure you don’t have to wait long,” he murmurs lowly as he lowers the spit-soaked fingers to your cunt.

The first contact of foreign digits against your clit forces your breath to catch. It’s been so long—too long—since you’ve had another person pleasure you. After countless missions and years of attempting to right the wrongs of your dubious past, it’s almost impossible to even recall the last time anyone had touched you like this.

John rubs his fingers over your clit a few times before dragging them down between your lips. Desperation and instinct drives your knees further apart to welcome him. 

Calculated fingertips tease at your entrance as he says, “Jesus, you’re so fucking wet. I can only imagine how good it’d feel to bury my cock inside you.”

He pushes the digits into your body. The combination of penetration with his filthy words stirs your imagination and elicits a low moan from somewhere deep in your chest. He doesn’t start off gently, either. The second he’s got his fingers inside you, he starts assertively pumping them in and out. No doubt, he’s got a fantasy in his head too.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? The way your pussy is dripping for me like this, I just know you’d be a goddamn mess if I actually fucked you.”

To say he knows just how to handle you would be a wild understatement. A few steady pumps in and he’s changed his rhythm and angle to brush the most delicate flesh within you. Your back arches violently in response to a particularly good stroke and a pathetic mewl escapes your throat.

“See what I mean? I could easily bend you over this counter and pound your brains out, but I’m afraid you’d wake half of New York making noises like that.”

A part of you wishes your hands were free from his grasp so you could cling to his shirt or tug at his hair. It would only be fair to dig your nails into his flesh considering the way he’s completely destroying you with his touch. But the inescapable restraint of his grip paired with his ruthless taunting is only making this whole encounter that much sexier.

“If only I could fuck you now,” he carries on in a haughty whisper, “You’d feel so fucking tight wrapped around my cock. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from cumming inside you. But that wouldn’t bother you would it?”

His fingers curl upward and stimulate your g-spot perfectly. You let out another loud moan and gasp desperately for air while your body naturally rocks and bucks in search of a way to better ride his fingers.

“Admit it.” He pointedly shoves his hand forward to force his fingers as deep as they can go. “Tell me you want me to fuck you raw.”

At this point, you’re so far gone, there’s no use in putting up a fight. You crave the sweet surrender of release and know the only way to taste it is to give him what he wants.

“John, please! I want you to fuck me…H-harder! I’m begging you,” you whimper as he drives you closer and closer to the edge with his expert fingers. “Cum in me, put a baby in me, I don’t fucking care just—Ahhh, fuck…Please!”

There’s a cocky smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth as you beg for him. Of course the bastard would find shameless euphoria in having you come apart in the palm of his hand. John Walker never passes on an opportunity to prove he’s right or stronger than those around him. Although, what is he really proving in this situation other than he’s remarkably good at fingering pussy?

“Good. Now you can cum for me.”

The angle of his pumping digits shifts once again to unleash a barrage of relentless strokes against your g-spot while his thumb manages to swipe sporadically over your clit. He’s going in for the kill and there’s no way you can survive the assault. Your back arches, your head tilts back, and every muscle in your body tenses until the wave of your orgasm crashes into you with the violence of a hurricane making landfall.

He skillfully strokes you right on through your orgasm, watching with satisfaction as you whine his name and gasp for breath. Never before have you had such an all-encompassing release. He’s completely ruined you in a way you’re confident no other man ever could.

“Shit,” you huff breathlessly when he finally pulls his hand free of your cunt with the quiet squelch of excess fluid. “You’re fucking crazy, Walker.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, judging by the way you just soaked my fingers, I think it’s safe to say you like it a little crazy. So, you’re welcome.”

He releases your captive wrists and makes a move to step away only for you to cup your hands around the sides of his neck. His brows twitch upward in surprise as you hold him in place. 

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“You may be blond, but you’re not a total idiot, John,” you tease. “You really think I’d let you finger-blast me into oblivion without wanting something a little sweeter for dessert?”

There’s an endearing level of genuine confusion plastered on his scruffy mug. “So…you weren’t just using me to blow a load and call it a night?”

You roll your eyes. “I take it back, maybe you are an idiot.”

A frown tugs at his lips.

“No, I wasn’t just using you! Not that I had any intention of having you walk in on me rubbing one out in the first place…But, all things considered, I’m actually glad you did.”

“Kinky.”

“Shut up,” you grumble despite the blush threatening to color your cheeks. “You know what I’m trying to get at.”

“Maybe I do.”

His brilliantly blue eyes are soft as he gazes between your own eyes and your lips. There’s a hint of a delicate smile curling at the corners of his mouth too. Such tenderness from John Walker is something rarely seen by the world; your heart skips a beat knowing that such a treat is being shared with you.

He’s leaning in closer as if drawn to you like a magnet. But just before your mouths make contact, he stops and lets out a long, almost wistful breath. The air is hot on your lips.

“Ask me again,” he murmurs. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You’re not a hundred percent sure why he asks you to do so but you have a pretty well-founded guess: he doesn’t believe you truly want this. Deep down, beneath all the trauma and the mistakes he’s made in the past, he doesn’t believe that anyone could want anything good from him. The little voices in the back of his head that tell him he’ll never be anything more than a killer and a dead-beat dad have made him think he doesn’t deserve to be wanted. He genuinely thinks that the only passion he’ll ever get to experience is that of unadulterated violence and meaningless sex.

But oh, is he wrong.

You gently stroke your thumb over his bearded jaw as you whisper, “John, please kiss me.”

So he does. 

Your first kiss is slow and passionate, buried in layers of unspoken hunger for the warmth of another person’s compassion. 

You both have made mistakes. You both have killed and bled and hurt people who never should have been caught in the crossfire of your tainted histories. But neither of you are defined by those wrongs and neither of you will ever be able to right them all no matter how hard you try. 

And that’s okay. 

It's funny how Bucky and his new team seem galaxies away from you, like characters from a fantasy. You shift in your seat on the couch, eyes glued to the huge TV screen. Reruns from the news report earlier today play different angles of the new heroes cycling with new commentary here and there. They seem untouchable, like heroes you only see on screen. 

A laugh mixed with a scoff makes its way out of you as you force yourself to get up and throw out the empty ice cream carton from your hands. You place your spoon in the sink, and as you turn around, you nearly jump out of your skin and see Morgan now sitting on the couch.

The young girl's eyes are trained on the screen before she turns to you, her lips curled slightly downwards. "That guy with the metal arm was at Dad's funeral," she says, and your mouth goes dry momentarily.

You exhale as you sit next to her, the couch dipping and her small body leans onto you. Morgan's quick to curl up in your lap, and you let her. Your fingers comb through her brown hair, and your eyes fall back onto the TV.

"Yes, he was," you finally answer, your voice quiet, almost a whisper. You don't remember your voice always being so small. You used to be louder, snarkier, livelier. Keyword: used to.

Now, everything seems to be muted. There isn't a new adventure or mission every day, and part of you likes it like that. After everything that's happened, you deserve to live a quiet, calm life, not wondering what monster is around the corner.

But then there's another part of you—one that yearns for the life of the New Avengers—your old life. Yes, constantly fighting bad guys was annoying and tiresome, but with it came the Avengers, your friends, your family.

And now?

Now, there was little to nothing to show for it. You look down at the girl curled up in your lap and notice her breathing has evened out. She's fallen back to sleep. Maybe Morgan sensed how sad the news of the New Avengers made you and sought you out to comfort you. Kids are like that, as Pepper told you once. That they could sense things that adults couldn't.

You shake away all your thoughts and lift Morgan up. You really should have scolded her for being awake since Pepper is coming early to pick her up. Guess there's still some of this "parenting" or "adulting" thing you need to get better at. With a last look at the TV screen, your heart squeezes again agonizingly as you look at Earth's newest defenders.

Good luck to them, you think.

You've come to the conclusion that you're a glutton for punishment.

Your fingers run over the silky material of your black dress as you lean back in your seat. Happy's eyes dart back to you for a moment, trying to asses if he should turn the car around back to your apartment.

You can feel his eyes, sense his worry, and hell, hear how loud his thoughts are. Not the exact thing he's thinking, but more so a general "I am worried about y/n, but I don't want to say anything out loud" thought. You aren't as gifted as Wanda when it comes to mind-reading. Or, you aren't as talented as Wanda was at mind-reading. 

The reality of your best friend's death makes you shrink in on yourself as you recall everything that happened with you, Strange, Wanda, and America. Why hadn't you been there for her earlier? Why hadn't you thought about your family after Thanos and the war? You were hurting, so surely they were as well.

No.

There's no point in dwelling on the past. You also aren't gifted with time-manipulating abilities, so there's not much you can do now to change reality.

"You ok back there, Kid?" Happy finally asks, and you lift your head to meet his eyes. There's a furrow in his eyebrows, and you feel bad about making him worry.

"I'll be ok," you reply, short and small. Happy frowns.

"You don't have to go to this, you know," he says. And he's right. You aren't required to attend the New Avengers' "Meet the Future" gala. It's not like you were actually invited.

You figured no one could say no to you if you showed up.

You could also finally talk to Bucky. You know that he and Sam had argued about the New Avengers, and when you tried to talk to the former assassin, nothing but silence came your way. It hurt. Downright ripped what little of your heart you're holding onto.

Realizing you haven't replied, you clear your throat. "I just want to say congratulations to them. That's all."

Happy isn't convinced.

You shrink a little under his flat gaze. "Do you think it's a bad idea?" you ask, voice smaller than before, almost like a child asking their parent if they're in trouble.

"Why do you think it's a good idea?" he says, and you furrow your brows. Happy's been on this crusade lately of flipping your questions back, hoping you do some "self-realizing." He read it in some book and you think it's bullshit.

As annoyed as you are with his questions, you give him props. Why do you think going to this gala is a good idea? On paper, it isn't.

You, former Avenger now turned billionaire philanthropist, who seems to be on the verge of breaking down in all senses, meeting the New Avengers, made up of people you know don't have the greatest backgrounds, whom no one bothered to ask you about. Ask if it was okay, if you wanted to be involved, what you thought—nothing.

"I don't know," you finally confess, and the car stops.

Paparazzi shout and flash their cameras, and you watch multiple investors, politicians, and workers walk up the red carpet and into what was your home, now remodeled for the new heroes living there.

The world seems to mute itself as Happy steps out of the car and approaches your door. He knocks three times.

"Are you ready?"

You knock back once.

"Yes."

Dozens of flashes go off, and the crowd intensifies as you step out of the car and onto the red carpet. You can see reporters call your name and wave you over for an interview, but you ignore them, simply turning to thank Happy for driving you and that you'll call when you're ready to go home. You breathe out before straightening your shoulders and holding your head high as you enter the tower.

"Ms. l/n! One moment!"

"Sunwraith, will we be seeing you join the New Avengers!?"

"Are you supporting the New Avengers tonight?!"

"What do the remaining original Avengers say about these new ones!!"

"What does this new team mean for the Avenger legacy?!!"

Finally, you make your way inside the tower, and you stop. Something, a mix of guilt and joy, you think, floods you as you look up. The tower's lobby has always had a high ceiling, but now, it seems taller, different, scarier. 

"Ms. l/n!" a voice calls out, and you turn your attention to the older woman calling you. Cecilia Anderson greets you, telling you that you look stunning tonight. She's an older woman and a politician who has donated to the Stark Relief Foundation and yours, "New Light." She's nice, has a good heart, and is a little blunt, but company you don't mind.

"Hello," you greet softly, your hand shaking hers. "You flatter me, Ms. Anderson. I love the gold tonight." Cecilia laughs at your compliment, telling you your dress is much more modest and flattering than hers. You let her ramble away for a few minutes, silently nodding here and there and laughing when appropriate.

"Shall we make our way upstairs?" she asks, her eyebrows wiggling up and down in anticipation. Your stomach turns.

"Of course."

Your heart beats wildly in your ear as you make your way towards the elevator. People are staring. They're whispering. They're pointing.

All directed to you.

Cecilia pulls out a small card from her clutch, and the guards nod at her. She turns into the elevator, waiting for you to join her.

But you can't. Your feet freeze as you stare at the ground. The world shifts, and everything sounds murky as you hear their voices around you. Time rewinds, and suddenly, seven years haven't passed since Thanos. You're still you, a hero, an Avenger, Sunwraith.

"Ms. l/n," the guard to your right calls out, and everything snaps back into place. You raise your head and meet his gaze. "You're free to enter," is all he says, and you force a polite smile before bowing your head and apologizing for holding up the line.

You step into the elevator, and Cecilia is saying something, but you're not listening as you press your back to the wall. People fill up the shaft, and you feel them looking back at you. You duck your head down a little to avoid their gazes, and shit, you think Happy was right. You shouldn't have come; this was stupid, so utterly stupid.

What did you think you were going to achieve by showing up tonight? Show people that you're stable, like all this "New Future" shit doesn't bother you? Show the world that you've moved on past the Avengers, that it was who you were, and now you've turned a new leaf? This plan was complete and utter shit. You can turn back now. Leave and pretend this—

The doors open, and people flood out.

Shit.

Your brain goes on autopilot as you step out. Before you know it, you have a glass of champagne in your hand and are shaking all sorts of hands.

Faces come and go as you're dragged from one side of the room to another. Pleasantries are shared, and bad jokes about how you've grown up so much and are much more well-mannered than Tony ever was. Foundation names are thrown at you, and you simply smile and nod. Questions are asked about you and New Avengers, and all you do is give them a cheeky wink and a finger to your lips, and they eat it up.

You don't know how many people you've spoken with, but soon your chest is filling up. You need to get out, breathe some air, and take a moment to remind yourself that you're a person and not some marketing pawn for these people.

"If you'll excuse me, I don't want to fall too behind on drinks," you say, and the older men around you laugh. You're quick to move away from them and out of the main room.

You walk and walk and think you're going the right way toward a balcony, but everything's different, and you're lost. Your eyes start to sting as you come to a crossroads. Unsure which way is the right one, you crouch down. A shaky breath leaves your lips, and your dress suddenly starts feeling too big, like it's not meant for you, like you're a little kid playing dress up.

"Are you ok?" a voice asks, and your head snaps up. A man stands there, his eyes big, worried, and cute if you're being honest. He's biting his lower lip as his right hand tugs at his other hand, and he's starting to shrink in on himself in the looming silence. "I'm sorry! Y..You probably want to be alone, so I don't know why I asked. I.. I'll just leave!" he stutters out, and he flinches when you suddenly stand tall.

"You can stay," you finally say, and some of the tension leaves the guy's shoulders. "I was just looking to get some air, but I'm kind of lost now," you add on, and you try to laugh to seem happy, but it comes out sad and depressing.

"Me too," the man adds and his eyes meet yours for a second before shifting down to the ground. "I can show you the way?" he asks, and his shoulders bunch up again, already preparing himself for your rejection.

It certainly doesn't help that you're just staring at him. Helplessly staring at him, he really wants to look up and meet your eyes, but he can't. Bob knew he was a depressing person; hell, he couldn't really use his powers because of how intensely he went from his highs and lows. But you, your eyes were just so sad. 

Sad in a way that made him sad—like it was oozing out from you and clinging to his newly tailored pants that still felt too tight. But with that sadness came a weird calm, like the feeling he gets when he's curled up in his room, staring out over New York on a cloudy, rainy day.

"I'd like that," you finally answer with a small smile, and Bob catches a glimpse. Seeing you smile makes his chest feel lighter, and he feels like he has accomplished something unthinkable. He nods, and a silence falls between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, it just feels right.

Finally, you're able to breathe again once Bob leads you to a balcony. The lights of New York seem to shine a little brighter tonight as you look out over them, and it brings another smile to your lips. You remember nights like this when you and Natasha would sit on the helicopter pad and talk, overlooking the night sky. Sometimes Bruce or Clint would join you, and the two of you would gang up and tease the joining party about something embarrassing they've done recently.

"Do you come to these things often?" Bob asks, and your eyes shift over to him. Honestly, you forgot he was here. He was so quiet and leaning in on himself, as if he feared taking up too much room, as if he were scared of simply existing.

"I used to. Now...not so much," you answer, and he nods, soaking up all your words.

"Do they ever get easier?" he asks, making you laugh. Again, his chest swells, and he feels like he has accomplished something.

"You get the swing of them. At least, I did. You learn when you can escape," you chuckle, and Bob does too. "I used to get trouble for escaping." Pepper used to lecture you on your escape acts while Tony simply made faces behind her, which had you trying to contain your giggle in fear of being lectured more.

"I don't think I ever will," Bob says, pulling at the cuffs of his suit jacket. "All these people and all the talking...I'm not too good at that."

"You seem alright talking to me," you say, facing him so you can see him fully. He's taller than you, only a couple of inches, and his brown curls are slicked back with gel. You wonder what they look like normally. Your eyes fall onto his suit again, and you can tell it's tailored to fit him. Although he's hunched in on himself, you can tell he's fit and that there's muscle underneath. It makes you wonder what he does. He doesn't seem like a politician. Maybe an investor?

Bob flushes under your gaze and words and quickly coughs (or laughs?). "I guess you're just easy to talk to," he says, and you blink.

You? Easy to talk to? When was the last time anyone ever said that to you?

"You think so?" you say, your voice lower than before, and you also start to lean in on yourself. Bob's eyebrows furrow as he watches you curl up from his words, and he starts to worry that he said something wrong.

"Of course," is all he can say, and somehow, like magic, you're peering over at him and uncurling again. "I...I'm Bob," he blurts out, his voice a little too loud and pitchy, and he cringes. A soft laugh comes from you, and he smiles.

"y/n," you say, and Bob can feel himself smile a little more. "So, Bob, why are you here tonight?"

"I'm just here to support my friends. I'm not good at talking, but I already told you that." Bob chuckles breathily, but it's muted in your ears.

"You're friends with the New Avengers?" you ask, and you feel like you're floating outside your body.

Bob nods, unaware of the shift in you. His gaze falls onto the city's lights. "Yeah, they helped, uh, me a while ago, and now...well, we're all a team."

"Oh."

"What about you? Why are you here?" Bob asks, a soft smile on his face, and it confuses you. He doesn't know who you are?

No, he's probably lying. He has to be. He's friends with the New Avengers, Bucky, more specifically.

But, as you look at his face and see the honest curiosity, you know he's not. Like, he's incapable of lying and just wants to know about you. There's a flutter in your chest, relief. Bob has no idea about your past, what you've lost, and who you were.

It scares you just as much as it comforts you.

"I need to go," is all you say before turning and rushing away. Your heels click on the floor as you follow the sound of laughter and chatter back to the main room.

Bob calls your name out from behind you, asking if he said something wrong, and you want to turn, but you force yourself to keep walking. Everything is closing in around you, and your vision is getting fuzzy, with wisps of black coming into your view and growing by the second. The sting comes back to your eyes and fuck, you really shouldn't have come tonight.

"Sunwraith!" a voice cheers, too loud, too staged. You freeze.

The blinding lights of the main room rip the shadows away, and all eyes turn to you. You feel Bob freeze and duck behind the wall, retreating from the sudden shift in attention.

From across the room, the woman who called you out grins. Not kindly—no, the curve of her lips is wolfish, all calculation, like she's watching to see what makes you twitch.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the person who formed the New Avengers, starts walking towards you, the room parting like the Red Sea. It almost seems staged, like she was waiting for this moment all night.

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?"

A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply.

She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps.

Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

Valentina tilts her head, mock surprise playing on her features. She steps closer to you, and you can smell her perfume; it's spicy and burns your nostrils, like breathing in cinder ashes. Valentina leans in close enough that everyone else can't hear her words.

"Oh, but I forgot," she says slowly, eyes narrowing just enough. "You gave that all up, didn't you? Walked away. Some say burned out, others say buried too many friends. Depends on who you ask." The crowd is still watching, waiting.

You breathe in, and your shoulders fall back. Your spine straightens out, and Valentina whistles low as she watches you puff out your chest.

"Is there a point to this?" you ask, voice steady, low.

She grins widely, "Only that the world doesn't get to retire just because you did." Valentina's grin sharpens, pearly and cruel. "See, I thought you might want a look at what progress looks like."

She lifts her hand theatrically, and your gaze shifts to where she's pointing. And then you see it, see the New Avengers, see Bucky. His presence crashes into you like a riptide. Blue eyes met yours, and your breath stills in your chest.

You knew the chance of seeing him tonight, hell, you were hoping to, but seeing him now, standing with her, letting Valentina dangle your past like bait for a crowd…it's like being gutted all over again.

Valentina clocks your reaction instantly.

"Even James knew how to move on. It just took the right kind of...leadership," she says, her voice still low, keeping the words between you both.

You don't move. You don't flinch. Hell, you don't even think you're breathing anymore.

Valentina tilts her head, eyes dancing with mock concern. "Aww. Did that sting? Or are we still pretending you don't feel anything at all?" There's blood dripping from your palms, and you hope it doesn't stain your dress.

You blink once, slowly, measuredly, and force your lips into a neutral curve. Not quite a smile, but enough to keep your image polished. The lights are still hot on your skin, the weight of every stare pressing against your back like a loaded gun. "I feel plenty," you say softly, voice sweetened just enough to mask the venom underneath.

Valentina laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the murmurs in the room. "Someone's PR trained!"

With a swift move, she links her arm with yours and smiles brightly at the audience. "Sunwraith, everyone! A true hero for embracing the future of our world!" Cheers and applause sound throughout the room, and cameras go off as you force that practiced smile of yours to stay.

"You know there's always room for more," Valentina purrs, her teeth still locked in a smile for the photos. "Especially, for America's sweetheart."

"I'd offer congratulations," you say, voice soft and pleasant, "but I think you've got enough people doing that for you." She laughs at your words.

Valentina breaks away and steps closer to the crowd, her smile still pearly white. "Shall we raise a glass, then? To new beginnings? To heroes who show up when it counts?" She glances back at you, and it takes everything in you to keep your composure together.

Champagne is passed around, and people start to move again.

You don't. You stay frozen.

And then, once again, your eyes meet Bucky's through the crowd. You swallow the lump in your throat, and so does he. He starts moving towards you, but you turn and walk away. You can't talk to him, you don't want to anymore.

A shift catches your eye, and your eyes meet Bob's. His back is pressed to the wall, and his eyes are wide with worry and shock. You swallow again and keep moving.

The smell of fresh bacon permeated the air, Layla—one of the new hires—standing behind the griddle stressing over what to flip next. The spatula scraped harshly against the flat-top as she went to flip an egg, the yolk unfortunately busting under the sudden movement. 

“Fuck.” Layla whispered to herself. 

She spared a look over her shoulder to Mindy, who was watching her with a kind smile. The older woman walked a little closer to her trainee, suggesting she try doing the other one with a gentler touch. 

You nudged your foot against the swinging kitchen door, walking through it as you untied your apron and shoved it under the red-top counter next to Carmen’s. There was the whisper of a sigh that fell from your lips, your fingers coming up to rub against your eyelids as exhaustion began to creep in. 

The morning rush had slammed into you like a freight-train full of tourists and locals, making the last two hours of your shift feel like a never ending nightmare. Your feet burned from how many tables you had to take care of, forced into a game of twenty questions by every excitable tourist that waltzed their way into the establishment. 

You much preferred being stuck with the drunk or tired patrons, enjoying how quiet and peaceful it was compared to this. Plus, at night nobody cared what kind of music you played or how you acted and talked. 

“Need a ride home?” 

Your arms drop limply by your sides, the question quickly drowned out by the morning chatter inside the diner. 

Bucky was already looking at you when your eyes finally opened. You watched as he stood from the circular barstool, concealing a yawn behind his enclosed fist, shoulders rolling as he went to crack his back. He let out a quiet groan after a particularly loud pop came from somewhere in his spine. 

“You good, old man?” You tease him while walking around the countertop, fingers barely brushing the red surface as you reach for your phone and bag, “That sounded like it hurt.” 

“Wow.” Bucky replied dryly, “Yeah very funny, maybe next time I’ll remember to actually laugh.” 

“I didn’t think you were capable of such a thing.” You shot back, laughing when he pushed your shoulder as you walked past him. 

The annoying bell above the door chimed when you opened the door and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk.

Bucky’s steps fell in line with yours, following your lead towards his motorcycle, which Bucky had skillfully hidden away in the alleyway beside the diner. 

You tightened your cross-body bag before accepting the helmet Bucky handed you, the sleek black protective gear fitting perfectly as you slid it on your head. Bucky nodded with silent approval as you clipped the chin strap and tightened it. 

“Ready?” He asked while sliding on his sunglasses. 

The bike roared to life when you finally settled comfortably behind Bucky, shoes securely resting on the foot-pegs. The vehicle moved forward as Bucky walked it closer to the road, keeping an eye out for any oncoming cars before turning off in the direction leading to your townhouse. 

Goosebumps decorated your arms as the wind whipped around you, the roads just empty enough for Bucky to easily weave around the cars. The vehicle below you hummed with a consistent guttural purr, drowning out the honking cars and the all-around loudness the city brought. 

Bucky rolled to a stop in front of your home, allowing you to easily slide from your seat and take off the helmet. A long winded sigh came from you, securely pressing the helmet against your front. 

“You should really come visit more often.” You tell Bucky after a beat of silence, “Or else I’m gonna have to break into your apartment or something.” 

He laughed through his nose, “Uh-huh, sure.” He nodded, “I’ll probably drop by here in a few days if I’m free.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “I see. Well it’s so nice of you to make time for me, with your busy schedule and all.” Your attempt at being serious was quickly slipping, making Bucky shake his head. “I mean not everyone could be so lucky to have the Congressman Barnes-” 

“Okay,” Bucky raised a hand up, “I get it. You can stop talking.” 

“I’m just saying.” You shrug innocently, cracking a smile, “Anyway. Thanks for keeping me company and driving me home.” You turned on your heel and began walking over towards your door. 

“I had nothing else better to do!” Bucky called after you, making you roll your eyes. 

The lovely scent of a vanilla candle filled your nose the second you opened the door to your shared space. Coaxing away the smell of bacon grease that clung to your clothes. It was slightly warmer inside too thanks to the floor heater Carmen had switched on in the hallway, her two cats laying in front of it. 

Your shoes slipped off with a loud thump next to the door, finally able to relieve the ache that had settled deep within the soles of your feet.

A sigh slipped past your lips as you finally looked up, your eyes doing a once-over of the picture frames that decorated the wall opposite of the front door. 

There was one particular picture that caught your eye. It was from Bucky’s birthday, when you and Sam threw him a surprise party. The picture itself had Bucky in the middle with his face covered in icing, Sam and you on either side of him. It was a really cute picture, and it was one that made Bucky let out an annoyed sigh every time he saw it. 

After a second of lingering you walked from the hallway and into the living room, seeing Carmen laying on the couch, her phone balanced on her chest as she mindlessly scrolled. She had already been home for an hour, freshly showered and looking just as exhausted as you felt. 

“Hey.” You greeted quietly as you walked past the couch and to your room.

All you received was a mumbled response, making you glance at Carmen from around the corner of the hallway, her eyes already beginning to slip shut. 

Your bedroom door clicked gently behind you. You sigh softly, dragging yourself towards the closet for some fresh clothes, tired of smelling like diner food.

A yawn ripped its way out of your body, making your eyes squint and water-

“Shit!” 

Glass shattered on the wooden floor of your room. A broken picture frame now laying pathetically beside your foot along with the flimsy cardboard box it had been stored in. You stared at the mess for an elongated second, wondering to yourself if it was even worth cleaning up right now, your irritation spiking.

“It’s always something, huh.” You mutter, head tipping back.  

Carefully, you stepped around the glass and into the hall towards the broom closet. 

You had thought about replacing your old storage boxes so many times, even going as far as buying two new totes. But when it came time to transfer the contents inside the old cardboard, you could never bring yourself to do it. It was as if there was a looming monster hiding away in the shadows of your closet, ready to pounce if you lingered for a second too long. 

There was just such a heavy weight of baggage that came with the contents inside the boxes. Fragile memories that you found were much easier to ignore with a healthy dose of weed and denial. 

The door to your room clicked softly shut behind you once again, dustpan and broom now in hand. You walked over to the glass, narrowly missing a medium sized shard with your foot, and dropping the dustpan on the ground with a quiet clatter. 

As you swept your mind drifted to that customer—Bob—and the brief conversation the both of you had during the halfway point of your shift. The internal conflict you felt when he returned the question “Are you a local?”, and the slip-up when he insinuated Bucky was your boyfriend. 

It was a basic instinct at this point, little white lies to avoid questions. The words tumbling from your lips quicker than you could catch them. It was something you had been trained to do ever since you were young, your guardians finding it important to have a rehearsed script seared into your mind when people got a little too nosey. 

“Where are you from?” “Manhattan, New York.”, “Who is this person to you?” “My Brother.”, “Where were you?” “The library.” 

Even though the truth no longer had any significance, and you weren’t in danger for being honest, you would still occasionally slip into old habits. Especially when it comes to strangers questioning your relationship with certain people, the words brother and sister practically branded on your tongue after saying it so many times.

In those moments you’d always hope that you were lucky and they didn’t recognize the person they were asking about.

Surprisingly, though, you did tell Bob a half-truth, the beginning short and sweet, topped off with another—more significant—lie: “I moved here when I was eleven." 

The simplicity of it perfectly shadowed the bitter truth of the matter. 

The last shard of glass slid in place next to the rest with a soft noise. Finally making you comfortable enough to step forward and grab the broken picture frame, the photo inside still securely held in place. 

Behind the sharp edges was a much younger version of yourself and an all too familiar man. You were riding on his back, arms tightly secured around his neck, a bright smile on both of your faces as he spun around in circles. It was such a unique picture, perfectly encapsulating a much more innocent time, a fleeting moment captured at just the right time. 

It was one of your favorite memories. 

Your eyes slipped closed, tears beginning to brim as you tried your best to put yourself back in that moment. There was the echo of laughter in your head, something childlike and filled with pure joy. You could almost remember the smell of a bonfire and the lingering taste of smores on your tongue. 

Gently you took the picture from its destroyed frame, flipping it to look at the back. Familiar cursive made your chest tighten, your thumb brushing over the delicate writing with a sad smile. 

‘Happy birthday! I can’t believe how much you have grown. The last three years have been the best years of my life, and I have you to thank for that. I feel so lucky to have you in my life. - From Steve’ 

You let out a watery laugh, the sound of it being the pathetic start of a sob. Which had wrenched itself from the depths of your chest, tears flowing quicker than you can wipe them away, your body sagging before eventually sinking to the floor. 

Your shaky hand reached for the cardboard box that was still laying on its side, fingers gently picking up another picture. A trembling sigh came from you, tears dripping off your chin as you combed through frame after frame, seeking out something specific. 

The wooden frame was smooth against your fingertips, rectangular in shape, the picture inside like a punch to the gut. 

It was a discreetly taken picture, the first time they were able to get you to smile. There was a melting ice cream cone in your hand, chocolate dripping down your fingers and a stain around your mouth. In the frame was Thor, who was probably telling you one of the many ridiculous stories from his childhood. There was a toothy grin on your face as you stared at the man intently, eyes wide and in awe. 

The team had seen it as their own personal victory, wanting to cherish the moment forever. 

The picture had been taken a few months after Steve had found you in Time Square, a terrified child calling out for parents that would never come. 

He had taken you to Stark Tower, hoping that Tony could help you get home, still not entirely familiar with new world operations when it came to missing children. 

At the time you had been so scared of them, their kind smiles and gentle words doing nothing to subdue the anxiety that stirred inside of you, your mothers words about ‘stranger danger’ echoing continuously in your head. 

The memory you had of those months in the beginning were spotty, little bits and pieces feeling more like a dream. 

Maybe it was the stress you were under, being in such a big place filled with people you didn’t know, possessing strengths you had never witnessed before. 

It was really hard for them to get you to speak, from what Sam told you at least, crawling into a shell of shyness that was impossible for them to nudge you out of.

The only things that you could really remember were the tests Tony would run. Hours of sitting and staring at a wall, an IV in your arm while he typed away at his computer.

He spent weeks trying to figure out where your parents were. The state you lived in and your full name did very little to guide him in the right direction. Not even the names of your parents produced any sort of break-through. 

Everything was a dead end, there was no record of a birth certificate, no DNA match, and the landline number your mom made you memorize wasn’t even in use. 

It was like you didn’t even exist. A reality that was far too much to bear for a young child. 

So instead of revealing the truth, the team spent more time distracting you. Getting your mind off of the poking and prodding that Tony did, his excuses lost on you now after the years, something verging on the lines of “It’s necessary for me to explore all possible factors.” An avoidant answer that was just very Tony. 

During the time of uncertainty Natasha took it upon herself to train you in the arts of self defense. Slowly melding you into a fighter, making sure you could easily get yourself out of dangerous situations. 

Her voice was gentle but authoritative as she guided you, telling you to throw harder punches, to dodge faster, to adjust your posture and your foot placement. 

The training had allowed you to let the stress roll off your shoulders, only focusing now on getting past Natasha’s attacks. Your foot comes up to kick her stomach, only for her to be seconds ahead of you, countering your attack and—gently—throwing you on your back. 

“Again.” 

In between your weekly sessions with Natasha, the biweekly tests with Tony, and private lessons from a professor Tony hired, you would be with Steve. 

Most of the time he would sit with you in the common room of the Avengers headquarters, a popcorn bowl sitting on the couch next to your thigh, and a movie from Tony’s wide array of DVDs playing on the big flatscreen.

Other times—on the days where you would barely come out of the spare room Tony gave you—Steve would insist on taking you on a personalized tour of New York and eventually Brooklyn, showing you the places he grew up while prattling on about his childhood best friend Bucky. 

Steve had quickly become a safe space for you, someone that made the world seem a little less imposing and loud. 

The man was like an older brother, being there whenever you needed him most, comforting you when everything just became too overwhelming. His strong arms wrapped around you like a safety blanket on days when you couldn’t stop crying, squeezing you tightly to his chest just to remind you that he was really there with you.  

After a while, when the months turned into a year, you began to lose hope. 

Whatever tests Tony was running had seemed useless, and you were certain that you would probably never see your parents again, wherever they were. 

It struck you deep in your heart, like a knife violently twisting in your chest.

With the emotional turmoil stirring inside you, the panic attacks followed. Plagued with a nightmare that you could never remember, making it hard for you to sleep most nights. 

That was when Bruce had stepped in, sitting you down each morning and urging you to meditate with him. Voice calm and relaxing as he talked you through the various methods he used to keep himself in check, making sure that the much greener and more violent side of his doesn’t make an appearance. 

“This isn’t working.” You would complain, eyes still closed but still feeling the pinpricks of anxiety wearing down your nerves, “And I’m booored.”  

Bruce cracked one eye open to look at you, a small smile on his lips as he shook his head. 

“It’s not working because you’re thinking about it too much.” He commented softly, readjusting his posture on the couch, and slowly exhaling through his nose. 

“Ugh-” You groaned, throwing yourself back on the couch dramatically, “I just don’t understand how this is supposed to help me.”

“It’s important to take time to regulate your system and relax. You can’t just spend all your time in the training room.” He commented.

Over time it became a little easier, finding yourself slipping easily into a meditative state and just letting yourself be. Bruce’s presence being a stable anchor, finding yourself slipping into an easy and relaxing routine. 

Finally, by the eleventh month of your second year there—just a month before your thirteenth birthday—Tony sat you down and revealed the horrifying truth. Your growing weariness of his lab tests forcing his hand. 

The whole group was scattered throughout the common room, sharing glances back and forth as Tony cleared his throat and began to talk. Gentle, cautious, like he was approaching a wild animal. 

He started with a reminder of how Steve found you, lost and confused in a state that was hundreds of miles away from your hometown. You still had no memory of how you got there, hazy, like you were waking up from a dream. Making you question how you ended up there in the first place, revealing that any leads regarding your parents had come up with nothing, and then delivering the final blow. 

In some unexplainable way, you had slipped through the very fabric of your reality. Tony theorized a possible vacation with your parents. Perhaps that explained how you ended up in Time Square, so far away from your small hometown in Georgia. 

It all seemed like too much, your mind unable to process such fantastical possibilities. The idea of something like that happening to you, it just didn’t sound right at all. 

Steve—who was standing behind the couch—placed a hand on your shoulder, gently massaging the quickly tensing muscles, sharing a look with Natasha. 

“There’s no record of you anywhere. I’ve quite literally exhausted all my resources and have come up with nothing.” 

The words sounded so harsh to your overworking mind, anxiety pooling in your stomach like a raging storm, a loud rushing sound filling your ears. Black and white stars filled your vision as your chest tightened, heart thumping like a jackrabbit, bile threatening to crawl its way up your throat. You could remember the pounding in your head, a sudden stress induced migraine that made your eyes water. 

You were pretty sure you passed out after that, holes poked in your memory and only remembering bits and pieces. 

From that moment on, things had taken a steady turn for the worst. 

Steve had been away more often, missions from S.H.I.E.L.D keeping him busy for weeks on end, Natasha had also been absent most of the time. Leaving you alone with Tony, who you had barely talked to in two months, his lab tests done in a tense silence. 

He had insisted it was important they continue with them, providing the same regurgitated response of ‘exploring every possible factor’. 

You guessed it happened just in time for your years of teenage turbulence, a tsunami of hormonal mood swings and rebellion crashing violently into you. Your hatred for your authority figures only further solidified when Tony decided to put a stop to your homeschooling and put you in a well regarded private school.

Steve and Sam tried to spin it positively, telling you that it was important to make friends your age. But in some way, you felt like it was Tony’s way of getting you out of his home for a few hours, growing quickly tired of your sulking. 

The next few years unraveled into a dramatic flare of violence and betrayal. Attacks on Washington, the tragedy of Sokovia weighing heavily on the team, and then the mission in Lagos, Nigeria.

Or as you liked to call it: the final nail in the coffin. 

The group had been split into two sides, both of them defending what they thought was right. Effectively tearing the group apart, leaving you to live with Tony and left to wonder how the absent members were doing, if they were taking care of themselves, if they still thought about you. 

Maybe it was the fear of abandonment that weighed so heavily on your heart, wishing that things could have played out differently. 

You blinked a few times, sniffling to yourself quietly as you stared down at the photo album that you had pulled from the box some minutes ago. 

The flimsy plastic pages cold against your fingertips as you traced the edges of a picture. It was from when you were living with Steve after the blip, desperately trying to pretend you weren’t high out of your mind most of the time. 

It was pretty obvious though in this picture, the whites of your eyes sporting a light reddish hue as you sat next to Steve. You were both holding milkshakes, a wide smile on your face and a barely-there one on Steve’s. The picture had been taken by Bradley, who was sitting across from you at whatever random restaurant they let you pick out. 

You looked so happy in the picture, but you knew better. There was a war raging inside you at that time, only briefly subdued by the copious amounts of weed you would smoke behind Steve’s back. 

Deep down the loss of your family started to take a toll on you, most of them had disappeared in the blip or decided to disappear on their own accord. 

The world had become quiet, too quiet, it was hard to have a simple conversation without the blip being brought into it. People asking ‘what were you doing when it happened?’ and how do you casually answer that? 

Of course you had been terrified, shut away in your room while watching a live-feed from Tony’s suit, wondering if anyone would make it back alive. If you would be left an orphan once again, alone in a compound that didn’t belong to you, in a world too big and half empty. 

Just the thought of it made your stomach twist into a sickening knot. Nausea makes itself present when you continue to stare at the photo, your body growing cold as you thought back to that time. 

Trying to push down the thought of Tony’s funeral, Steve returning the reality stone and coming back much older, a ring now on his finger and a relaxed smile on his face. 

Your eyes shut, jaw tightening as you tried to will away the tears. 

You just wished you wouldn’t have taken it for granted, sitting in a pool of your own guilt as you thought back to all the petty fights, all the times you shut the team out, when you held a grudge for too long.

It wasn’t fair for you to treat them that way, and now you could never sit down and apologize to them. They had made you into the person you were today, and you threw it back into their faces with the kind of bitterness only a hormonal teenager could have. 

With a shaky breath you peered inside the box, mostly empty aside from one thing.

It was a worn book, one of Steve’s old journals that you would always see him writing in late at night. You would always sit and wonder what was in it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to actually read the contents inside, scared that you’d find your name amongst the pages.

It was one of the things you had taken from his belongings the day before you moved in with Bucky.

Your things were packed away in seven cardboard boxes and two duffel bags. Most of it was miscellaneous things you had bought for yourself, but everything else was a painful memory that you still had a hard time acknowledging. Memories that would cut too deep.

Bucky had been reluctant at first, suffering through the loss of his closest friend and now having to take on the baggage of a semi-stable twenty-three year old. 

At first, you did not like James Buchanan Barnes, in fact you really disliked him. 

In a way you felt like you had been dumped on the stoic man, Steve wanting you out of his hair so he could actually be happy with someone who mattered to him. You knew it was selfish to think like that, but Steve’s absence was tearing you apart. 

You missed his jokes, his kindness, his willingness to help no matter what it took. You missed the times where his age truly showed, making you laugh and feel like things were normal, like you were normal. Steve—at that point—was less like a brother to you, instead he had become like a father. Someone who would sit on the edge of your bed, fingers softly brushing against your forehead when you were sick. Someone who had comforted you after your first breakup. He had been there for almost every important aspect in your life. A constant, comforting presence that was always one call away. 

So when he came back, you were angry, you wanted to scream at him for doing something so selfish. But you held your tongue, listening to his gentle words as he told you to stay close to Bucky, that it would be good for the both of you. 

Unfortunately, though, Bucky and you barely talked to each other for the first few months.

You spent most of your time locked away in the spare bedroom in his small apartment, your walls still blank and devoid of any of the personality. It was hard to find the motivation to do anything other than lay in your bed and listen to the background noise of your television. 

It was only when your insomnia creeped back in that you started to see Bucky more. Your inconsistent sleep schedules seemed to match up some nights, the both of you plagued by your own traumas and grief. 

He would usually find you on the couch, a blanket over your legs as you watched whatever movie had come on. You would try not to disturb him by having it on a low volume, but it didn’t seem to matter when it came to the super soldier. He would sit on the opposite side of the couch. Neither of you saying anything to each other, his arms crossed with tense shoulders, still not used to living with another person.

After two months of living together, you finally began to speak to him a little. Offering to change the channel if he was bored, asking how his day was, little things that would distract you from thinking about them. 

“What the hell are we watching?” He asked, brows furrowed as he watched whatever was happening unfold.

The sound of music filled your ears. The main character—Eric Draven—was sat on the roof of his old apartment building with his guitar in his lap. It was a movie that you had first fallen in love with when you were fifteen, wondering if someone like Eric existed in this world.

“The Crow,” You glanced up from your phone, to him. “It’s a pretty good movie.” 

It was awkward to say the least. Living with a man that you had only heard stories about. But he didn’t try to force conversations, he wasn’t in your business, and he didn’t even make you pay rent. So you guessed it wasn’t that bad. 

Over time, you started to leave the apartment more, going back to the gym to vent out your frustrations. You had also started to meditate again, figuring that it was worth a shot now that you had too much time on your hands. 

The months slowly trickled by, five months slowly melding into six. Each day is just as difficult as the last, any methods you tried not working, it even got to the point where you started to wonder if you should see a therapist like Bucky was doing. Maybe it would do you some good. 

One morning when you were in the kitchen, and Bucky was sitting on the couch in the living room, you could hear the TV playing. It was some sort of broadcast that Bucky had switched over to.

You weren’t really paying much attention until Bucky upped the volume, your spoon stilling in your coffee mug. 

“Unrest, in the wake of recent events has left us vulnerable. Every day Americans feel it. While we love heroes who put their lives on the line to defend Earth, we also need a hero to defend this country. We need a real person who embodies America’s greatest values. We need someone to inspire us again, someone who can be a symbol for all of us.

So, on behalf of the Department of Defense and our Commander-in-chief, it is with great honor that we announce here today that the United States has a new hero. Join me in welcoming your new Captain America.” 

“What the fuck…” You whispered, slowly turning around and looking at the screen. On it was a man brandishing a shield that didn’t belong to him, his smile wide.

Heat crawled up your neck and settled in your cheeks, your body going tense as you stared at the tv in disbelief. Your heart was thumping harshly against your ribcage, intakes of breath increasing in speed, seething hot rage taking over you. 

It felt like a mockery of Steve’s legacy, the government finding it so easy to hand the title over to someone much less deserving. A man who seemed to thrive too well in the spotlight, that much evident before he even spoke. 

That night you called Sam, anger settling deep in your bones as you paced back and forth in your room. Irritation spiking with each passing second that he didn’t answer. You truly did regret the things you said to him when he did finally pick up the phone. Your words were laced with venom, spitting them out and not caring how much it would hurt your friend. 

“How could you be so fucking stupid, Sam?! He- Steve trusted you with it! He wanted you to have it! And-” Angry tears were beginning to bubble in your eyes, fingers tightening on the edges of your phone, “I just- Same, this man can’t be- he’s not…” Your bottom lip wobbled pathetically, “It was supposed to be you, you fucking asshole!” 

Sam stayed silent, stunned and just listening to your violent sniffles as you angrily wiped at your eyes. 

“Fuck you Sam.” You spat, hanging up on him without a second thought. 

It was cold, unnecessary, a cruel outburst that Sam didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of. The guilt settled within your chest immediately, making a home behind your ribcage and latching onto your quickly beating heart. 

It wasn’t the first time you had talked to Sam like that, having spent plenty of your time yelling at each Avenger during your turbulent teenage years. But that was a very different situation.

You remembered how quickly you had apologized to him when he met up with Bucky, his physical presence effectively tearing down your walls. Seeing Sam again made you realize just how much you missed him. Apologizing to him again, this time for not reaching out, not having to provide much of an explanation. 

He understood, because of course he did, he knew the close relationship you had with Steve, Natasha, and Tony. With all of them. 

Things had unfolded pretty quickly when it came to the Flag-Smashers, the new Captain America was unraveling at the seams, and the two people you actually cared about were putting their lives at risk again. 

It felt like an endless rinse and repeat cycle that you had grown very used to at this point, knowing to keep your contact at a minimum and making sure you were armed if something were to happen. It had become a routine at this point. 

Your fingers brushed against the cover of Steve’s journal, your temptation to open it overshadowed by your anxieties. The book was placed back into the box gently, reaching out to clean up the rest of your captured memories. 

It took some of the weight off your shoulders to see those pictures, your sadness melding into a bittersweet feeling, nostalgic moments you can’t get back. But you figured that it would only hurt you more if you continued to shut it out like you have. 

The worn out flaps of the box closed with ease, the top of it slightly sunken in. You stood from your place on the floor, legs stiff from sitting down for too long, one foot radiating the feeling of pins and needles. The cardboard box was gently placed back in your closet, securely this time, promising yourself that you’d switch the boxes sometime this week. 

A sharp ping drew your attention to your phone, a text from Bucky lighting up the screen.