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Summary
7th of May, Thunderbolts tower, day off, 5:11.
John... John didn't know relaxation. Didn't participate in it at least.
He started his day at 5, as always, and went out for a run, as always.
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Follow John Walker for a day as he navigates his rather new life while still carrying the same pain of the past and the love he doesn't know where to put. (AKA, brand new life, same mistakes, same person)
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Bookmark Notes:
The Art (and curse) of Remembering by LesbianLord
The checkout made him close his eyes as he beeped his credit card, refusing to look at the price of his duties. He shakily put his wallet back into his shorts' pocket and gave a weak 'thanks' and a nod to the cashier, before they both moved on with their lives. Her with her next customer, and him with his walk towards the tower. Three bags in each hand and a massive box containing a rodent cage under his left arm, he kept walking by busy people who he knew only looked at him not because he was John FuckUp Walker, but because of how loaded his arms were so early. No matter.
—
He remembered once during a philosophy class he'd taken in high school, the teacher had told them as an exercice to say their name again and again in front of the mirror, and see for themselves how it would end up not feeling like their name anymore, but something else, foreign. John was pretty sure he didn't have to do that for everything to feel foreign. His face, his body, his eyes, his identity, his mind, everything felt foreign, like he was Frankenstein's creation put together, held together by sheer anger, trauma and spite.
He didn't recognise the face he saw in the mirror, but he didn't know anything else at the same time. The only constant in his life, himself. He decided against shaving, simply trimming his beard, remembering how Olivia had once told him that it made him look more mature, older, sexier. They'd had sex that same evening, which was pretty good, and which still provided him with some relief material when his body inevitably reminded him that he was human, and had desires too.
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Lemar, the shield, Olivia, Sam Wilson, Mike and Mikey, the Hoskins, the military, the war, the bullets, the blood, death, death, death. If stewing in your past was an Olympic sport, John would surely get a gold medal. He didn't even realise he did it, his brain simply always ran back to what it was familiar with -pain-, and once it got going nothing could bring him back for a while. Until the washing machine beeped, and he jolted at the high pitched sound, and blinked the exhaustion awake. Right. Laundry. He repeated the cycle twice, alongside the dryer cycles, and when finally it was over at 11:56, he neatly folded all the clothes in piles, grabbed his own, and left. He knew everyone would just come and collect their empty laundry basket, and their clean laundry. He was generous in his duties, but not so generous as to put their damn laundry back into each of their closet.
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As he walked back to the now empty kitchen after putting his clothes back in his room, he thought he should tell the team to grow up and do their own chores. But again, what would he do if he couldn't do this for them anymore ? It's not exactly like he was useful. Well, he was a good human shield, and he cooked. But that was about it. He didn't bring anything else to the table, except avoidance, a short fused temperament, and an inability to do something as simple as playing uno without getting irritated and leaving. He was pretty sure they didn't like talking with him. Tolerated, sure, but enioyed it?
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He wasn't mad at Bucky for the way he'd acted back then, hadn't been mad for a long time, but seeing him always brought back memories and shame that John would rather forget. He wondered if it was the same for Bucky. If he felt guilty, or mad, or indifferent. He would rather Bucky be mad at him forever than indifferent, because then John would stop existing, and he couldn't bear that.
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For the third time today, he inspected the kitchen, thinking of something to make for dinner this time. It wasn't easy cooking for a team full of super soldiers, but he'd cooked for the whole neighbourood before in Custer's Grove for the annual neighbors meetup. He remembers going every year he could, with the Hoskins and Olivia, meeting up with the friendly neighbors, barbecuing, laughing and chatting, watching the kids running around while holding Olivia's hand and sharing a longing look, wondering if they'd still attend in ten years, only with their kids this time. They hadn't.
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-Mhmh, yes you were. Talking about guinea pigs, Cucumber really likes his new enclosure. The russian woman says casually, stealing a piece of chicken off his plate, eating it like they weren't two emotionally constipated soldiers using metaphors to avoid direct confrontation. He told me to tell you thank you.
-Huh. He said that. Well. John clears his throat, feeling too awkward to even comment on his food being stolen, and tries for a casual, charming smile that just ends up looking dorky. Tell him he's welcome.
-I will. And with that, Yelena goes to take a seat alongside the others, everyone settling comfortably."
For once, it isn't John who starts eating last.
Bonding with the team, check.