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John Walker is fine. He really is. Sure, things haven’t exactly gone well for him, especially since his brief stint with the shield, but he’s managed. He’s survived.
He ignores the way he feels sick when he looks in the mirror.
He’s grown familiar with loss. He treats it as an old friend now. The loss of Lemar, the loss of his title, his career, his family. But he coped. He had to. What, was he just supposed to give in? He can already imagine the headlines, and he is not giving the press that satisfaction.
Even if the darkness is tempting at times. Or all the time. Recently, he’s started to wonder if there was ever a time he didn’t feel it.
Sure, maybe he doesn’t always cope in the best way. He knows the stories of Captain America — of Steve Rogers, he reminds himself, because the title is not what makes the man — and knows that among many other things, Steve Rogers couldn’t get drunk. Blessedly, whatever version of the serum John had injected himself with in a fit of desperation those years ago did not come with the same curse.
He knows drinking is a bad habit to pick up. He also knows there are worse habits, ones that tempt him more than he likes. He’d tried a couple of them, back when he didn’t know how else to cope, when his grief for Lemar blurred with his self-loathing over everything and it all felt as if it would rip him in two. He’d skipped meals for a while, finding comfort in the controlled emptiness it brought, but Olivia had put a stop to that in much the same way she had when she caught him with a blade to his skin. He resents her for it sometimes. He resents a lot of things.
Olivia had been right, really. He knows that. Neither of those were smart habits to fall into, and it’s a good thing he’d stopped before either became a problem. Even if he misses them sometimes, even if he craves the way they soothed the ever-growing pit in his chest— It’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs to do something.
So he drinks, because it helps, and because it’s acceptable. Because nobody bats an eye unless you go too far, and he isn’t going to let himself do that. He’s fine.
Valentina had never bothered to question where the money she paid him was actually going. As long as John did his job — and did it cleanly , without making more of a mess for her, as she had so kindly reminded him that messing things up was practically his MO — then she couldn’t care less what he did on his own time.
He’d liked that. The lack of accountability.
As long as he was sober when he got a new assignment, it didn’t matter if he spent most of his nights at varying levels of inebriation. It didn’t matter if he stopped leaving the house except for work. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go.
And then came an assignment, and a vault, and three idiots, which turned into four idiots and whatever you’d call Bucky, and then John was thrown into… whatever this was. The New Avengers. He hated the name. He wasn’t an Avenger, he knew that. The whole world knew that.
And that’s how John finds himself slumped on a sofa in a tower he has no right to call home, halfway down a bottle of vodka, reading article after article about his new position, about what the public thinks of a murderer being given such a prestigious title, about how he doesn’t deserve a second chance. And he knows that, he knows he doesn’t. He didn’t ask for one. He wonders if the team, Val, anyone would care if he just left. He’s not sure they’d notice. Not that he has anywhere to go, really.
Footsteps echo through the otherwise silent living room, and John is pulled out of his thoughts. He looks up to see Bucky standing in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Drinking again?”
It’s not the first time they’ve met like this.
“Fuck off.” John spits back.
Bucky sighs, and moves towards him, sitting lightly on the opposite end of the sofa.
“You have to talk about it eventually.”
Bucky’s looking at him with far too much concern for a man who’d previously had no issue voicing his unfiltered hatred for John. He wonders when that changed. Why that changed. John knows he doesn’t deserve it.
“I don’t have to do anything.” He slurs.
Bucky looks at him for a long moment, and John can’t stand it. He stands, ignoring the way his vision blurs, and grabs the mostly-empty bottle before stumbling back to his room. He doesn’t bother to look back.
Time passes. The team fall into a steady rhythm. Missions, mealtimes, movie nights, something almost resembling a family. A very fucked up family, but family nonetheless.
John tries to get involved at first. He really does. But every word out of his mouth seems to break something, and he’s sick of the way they all look at him. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. He wonders if Bob feels the same way.
It’s just as well, really. He barely has the energy for it all. He’d rather lock himself away, sleeping or drinking or just existing. Distantly, he knows what he’s doing isn’t good for him. He just can’t bring himself to care.
Avoiding mealtimes means he forgets to eat more often than not. He can’t seem to care about that either. The emptiness is familiar, comforting, and this time nobody’s going to stop him. He wonders if the others notice. If they do, they don’t say anything. Thank god for that.
It hits him one night that this is all there is.
John’s lived his life on the promise of a better future. The promise of serving, then of a life with Olivia, then of the chance to be a hero. Then of a clean slate, or whatever else Val would offer him when he slipped far enough that even she noticed.
Now, though, there’s just this. No duty, nobody waiting for him, no chance of redemption. His orders are just Val’s self-serving attempts to keep herself out of prison, the only people who even care he exists are his team and he’s fairly certain that’s only because he’s a good asset, and the general public have made it clear exactly what they think of him even now.
There’s nothing. Just this endless cycle of missions, violence for a cause he doesn’t believe in, then back to the grey of his room and the muffled sounds of the others laughing together. Over, and over, and over, until one of the missions finally kills him. Or he finds the guts to do it himself. It feels more enticing with every passing day.
He drinks until he can’t think anymore.
John wakes up with his phone in his hand and his legs still swung over the side of the bed. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have because otherwise he passed out, and he doesn’t pass out. He doesn’t drink enough for that. He has it under control.
Judging by the lack of sunlight burning through his skull, he’s fairly certain it’s still night. He can’t have been out for long, then. Long enough to have sobered up though.
He drags himself to his feet, hazily heading for the kitchen. He can’t remember the last time he ate anything. He doesn’t much want to, but the emptiness has turned to nausea — probably the result of drinking on an empty stomach, he realises — and he’d rather just deal with the guilt than have an extra thing making him feel shitty.
Guilt. When did eating start feeling like guilt?
He’s waiting for the toaster to pop up when Bucky walks in. Of course. It’s always Bucky at this time of night. Does the man ever sleep?
“Getting a midnight snack, huh?” Bucky says lightly, and John stares at the countertop, hands gripping the edges.
Bucky hesitates for a moment, and then speaks in a softer, more genuine tone. “It’s good to see you eating.”
“Fuck off.” John snaps before he can think better of it. His knuckles turn white against the smooth gray.
Bucky sighs, leaning against the counter next to him. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“You’ve seen me on missions.” John says tersely.
“Not what I meant.”
John lets himself look at Bucky. “Why do you care?”
Bucky looks back with that same stupid concern he can’t stand. It’s too gentle. Far too gentle for what he deserves.
“Because I get it. The isolating yourself, trying not to get attached because you don’t want to hurt anyone. I’ve been there, and it doesn’t help anything.”
John stands frozen for a moment, and then turns and runs— walks away. Or, he tries to, before Bucky grabs his shoulder and turns John to face him.
“You don’t have to talk to me.” He says gently. “But at least eat your damn toast, okay?”
John doesn’t always cope in the best way. He’s known that a long time. But his usual approach isn’t working anymore, and the pit in his chest feels more like a black hole, and he wants more than anything to just— just die. He wants to die. Putting words to it doesn’t feel scary anymore. It just feels like fact.
So it’s not much of a surprise when he finds himself taking his pocket knife to his own skin again. Olivia isn’t here to stop him this time. He decides that’s a good thing.
He knows it’s not. He knows this is just making him feel worse in the long run. But in the moment, it feels good. Correct. It softens the ache in his chest, fulfils the desire to tear himself to pieces. It keeps him alive.
Hiding the scars is a problem he hadn’t thought of. He can avoid talking about his drinking, pretend he’s eating enough, but the scars are tangible. Proof of how far he’s slipped. But he rarely spends time around the others outside of missions anyway, and it’s heading into winter. He can get away with sticking to long sleeves for now. He doesn’t see much point planning ahead for the summer.
Of course, things don’t go the way he planned. He doesn’t know why he still expects them to, after everything. And of course — of course — it’s Bucky who sees them.
He’s left his room during the day, for what seems like the first time in weeks. Everyone’s scattered around the tower, doing their own thing — he wasn’t stupid enough to interrupt something where everyone would be together. He just needed to look at something that wasn’t his own ceiling for a while.
He’s sat in an armchair, drinking a coffee he’d so graciously allowed himself, staring distantly out the window at the bright sky over the city. Thinking about the people, all going about their daily lives, at peace with existing. He misses feeling like that.
Bucky clears his throat behind him, and John startles. Stupid. His coffee spills everywhere — thank god he’s been here long enough that it’s cooled.
“Fucking hell! ” John snaps, standing quickly.
Bucky winces. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I thought you’d heard me—“
He’s cut off as John instinctively goes to take off his coffee-soaked shirt, getting it halfway over his head before he freezes. His stupid scars. Fuck.
“Walker.” Bucky says carefully. “You’re okay. Walker. John . Just listen to me, you’re fine.”
His chest feels tight, and he wants to claw the fabric away from his throat. Oh. He’s panicking. When did that happen?
“Breathe, John.” Bucky says gently, and John thinks about how much of an idiot he must look. Stood here, having a panic attack, with a shirt halfway over his head.
He wants to pull it back down, push Bucky away, leave as if nothing happened. But the feeling of the wet fabric makes his skin crawl and his head is pounding and he’s so damn tired of all of this—
He makes a split second decision. He pulls the shirt the rest of the way off. Time freezes.
Bucky’s eyes land on his arms, and they both stand there. The silence is heavy, painful, and doesn’t help John calm his still-racing thoughts.
“John.” Bucky says far too softly, taking John’s arms in his hands to inspect the scars that are now on full display.
“Don’t.” John says quietly, weakly.
“You need to talk to us. To me.” Bucky says after a moment, and it’s all far too much for John to handle.
He wrenches his arms out of Bucky’s grasp, backing himself up against the wall, trying to put as much space between them as he can.
“I’m fine, alright? I’m not some— some pity project, something you can fix up to feel good about yourself. I’m fine .” He snaps.
“You’re fucking not . You’re not okay, John. You don’t eat, you don’t talk to anyone, you just lock yourself in your room and drink it all away. And now this.” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I thought giving you space was the right call. Figured you needed time to adjust, but… clearly I made a mistake. You’re hurting yourself. That’s not okay, John.”
“Don’t pretend you care.” John hisses, feeling something like a wounded prey animal.
“I’m not pretending anything.” He moves closer again, gently gripping John’s shoulders. “You need help, John.”
And something in John just shatters . He doesn’t have the energy to fight, to push him away, he just lets himself sink to the ground, the weight of it all bearing down on him. Bucky lowers himself to the ground too, sitting in front of John. He puts a gentle hand on his too-thin arm.
“You’re going to be okay.” He says softly.
“I want to die.” John spits back, raw and honest.
“You’re going to be okay.” Bucky repeats, and the determination in his voice sparks the tiniest hint of hope in John’s chest. Hope he hasn’t let himself have in a long, long time.