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For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat. As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.
You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.
And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.
At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.
You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.
But John always needed more.
All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.
He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.
But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.
“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”
His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.
“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.
John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.
You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.
“I really have no qualms about slaughtering Nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”
He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.
It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.
“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.
Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.
Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.
“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.
A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.
“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."
The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.
Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.
But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.
John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.
He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.
And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.
His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.
You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”
"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."
The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.
The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.
And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.
You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.
You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team— even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.
It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.
Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.
You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.
You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.
John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.
It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.
The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.
It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.
“Copy that, backup on the way.”
John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.
You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—
“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.
“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”
At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.
Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.
The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.
The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.
The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.
Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.
The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.
Beep.
The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.
John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.
Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.
“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”
Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.
He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.
Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?
John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—
And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.
He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.
But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”
He’s on his feet in an instant.
You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.
John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.
“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.
“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.
You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.
John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”
John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.
The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.
He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.
You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.
He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.
Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.
John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.
Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong enough to pull away.
“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.
“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.
"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”
You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.
"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.
The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.
"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”
You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.
"I scare you?"
"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”
Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.
John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.
He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.