Work Text:
There was no other way, was there?
John shook off the blinding fear that paralyzed him from shoulders down. The battle took up most of his energy, but he could manage to gather he last bits of it for this. His teeth gritted, fists clenched. Contrary, his mind was making peace.
Nobody else can endure pain to this extent. It had to be him.
One rib broken, left eye barely open, swollen from a hit, already recovering. The serum got to working, it was always a battle against time to get himself to medbay before his broken bones reconnected unevenly, something he once bonded with Bucky about. How scary it could get, how the pain of recovery was seven times worse than the initial injury. But now, altough the pain was there, it was somewhere deep down, absolutely drowned out by all the adrenaline. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could get out of this alive. The science behind his plan was simple - the battle had been opened by the door, a physical force of strength not endurable by a single human. It begged for a sacrifice of man to be ended fully, and John remembered about the war stories he'd heard when he was little. It would be a good way to go out, kamikaze style.
There was no other way, it had to be him. And as he made the first step, heart beating faster, as if it wanted to jump out of him, as if it could, the air in his lungs turned to cement. John turned around, to face his teammates. People who trusted him to do good as a bad man, because if they could believe in John F. Walker, there was nothing stopping them from believing in themselves. Seeing them, his friends, putting their lives on the line for the good of those who could not, John understood it could only be him. There didn't need to be fireworks at his wake, nor did his death have to be spectacular. All he asked for is to let them. It had to be him.
There was something awaiting Ava on the other side, same as Bucky, who no longer made secret of keeping a photo of Sam Wilson in a pocket right above his heart, same as Yelena and Alexei, same as Bob. Sweet, precious Bob, now floating in air and, face stoic, making absolute hell of their enemies lives. They all had each other, someone to embrace after the fight, it was really not a fault of theirs that he had never been the one for showing affection. Walker knew he didn't have to prove himself to them, not anymore, that he was no less of a family. By that, he also knew that he could not bear losing any one of them.
John, well, all he could've ever asked for was here. Ever since he was a kid he had been following orders, not knowing what to make out of himself without any guidelines. It led him to an ultimate loss of everything a man like him could ever dream of. Only once he lost everything, he understood he never had anything in the first place. Only after meeting Them, he understood it was really what he needed. First left his own father, later on by his country, John Walker had always been a bastard. And the Thunderbolts helped him off the ground. They all were failed, and by being there they managed to grab at what was left of their humanity, and hold on to it, hold it for dear life. There may have been tears in his eyes as he realized they fought by and for each other, that what was physical held much more meaning than just to win and get out alive. It was an idea, something maybe even the first settlers of the Watchtower didn't understand as much as they, the damned did. There was one constant in Walker's life, and it had been a battle. All he ever asked for is to be understood, something that had been denied him for years, until he stumbled into his own death trap, walking out a changed man. It could be nothing to him, but everything for those he cared about the most. It would only make sense, to go out in a way he lived, blessed to do so side by side with his team. On his own terms this time. And they would understand.
Bucky.
Bucky was the first one to notice a shift in his movement. As if he read his mind, he shook his head, slowly. Of course he would understand just by a single look in his eyes. Walker, no, he probably said, John wouldn't know, the sizzle in his ears too loud to hear anything other than his own heartbeat. After that, Yelena. Sweet, honest Yelena. John will miss her obvious comments, interrupting the most interesting parts of dialogues during movie nights. Bob turns to look at him, face suddenly stuck in fear so great the soldier can barely keep eye contact. John swallows. Tastes of blood, stomach acid and that cavity he never bothered to fill in.
"It's going to be okay, Bob"
John salutes them, a gesture of respect, best one he could learn throughout his troubled years. Shakes off his fear, turns back around. He hears the clash of suits coming together, someone screams his name as another holds them back. Please, don't. This is the only way.
The death's gaze is not welcoming. John is, well, fearing for his life as he enters the last seconds of it. Runs, and his boots must be made of lead. This was it, this was John Walker's life. Mostly miserable, he thinks, landing a punch. There were moments, he recalls, skin ripping open from a blade of origin not yet known to this universe. There surely were moments, he smiles, and in his mind he's dancing with Olivia during prom night, she's singing Georgia by Phoebe Bridgers as they dance years later in a house he built for them. No. John swings again. There was no house in the countryside, only an apartment assigned to him by the government, honorably for selling his body to them, while innocent artists and starving good people died on the street, homeless. Getting closer, he began to feel the cells in his body retract and disintegrate, a pain so great there was no scream he could let out to capture half of it. A tug at his shoulder, a memory of the Watchtower. Bobby, sweet Bobby helping him remove his muddy combat boots, John's own ribs too bruised to do it himself. A sudden feeling of comfort in pain, as his head rings, surrounded by pain he had never endured before. Suddenly his blood tastes of honey, his veins spill out golden. It's warm, it's a warm bath, ran by sweet Bob, at midnight, rain pouring outside. It's dim, orange lights, his son pulling at the strands of Bucky's hair as the man laughs, a privilege not many get to see. I'm here. I'm here. It's a voice he recognizes instantly, as tears rush to his eyes, blinding him, and he swings frantically, shouts incoherent. And then, it's sudden, but not painful, like getting hit by a charging soccer ball right in the chest in the middle of the soccer game, the kind of sensation that doesn't let you breathe for a moment. But it's warm. It's kind, welcoming, he thinks. How interesting it would've been to survive this, he thinks, to survive death spilling through his body, surrounding it, and write it down, God, he should have written more. The feeling drowns out all red flags and alarms sounding in his head, leaving silence. He sees the gold of Bob's eyes, hears a grunt from Ava, somewhere. People he never bothered to really show how much he really loved. And he did love them. Suddenly, John Walker can't move. And it's peaceful.
He thinks, when he still has the strength to, that if his life were a song, it would be something Bucky played from one of those vinyls he'd bring after his stays in Louisiana. He did not care for being remembered, God let his soul rest in peace.
There's hospital lights. There's serious voices, explaining something about a coma. John is stuck in what feels under seen thousand tons of blankets, maybe they were rocks, maybe it was the earth. Suddenly, the same feeling of warmth and comfort. And even though John knows how comas work, he tries his best to squeeze the hand back. I'm here, he tries to scream, but for now only a single thought will do. And if the hand moved away frantically, almost as if they heard it, and John recognized the reaction as Bob's, nobody would have to know.