To All The Men I've Let Touch Me

by StarSpangledBlonde

Summary:

After the events of Thunderbolts, John Walker is back on a team, in the public eye—but he’s not the same man who chased glory behind a shield. John struggles to hold together a life that never truly belonged to him.

Haunted by the parts of his past no one saw— secret violence, abuse under command, the silent price of being "the good soldier"— he begins journaling on Ava’s suggestion. What starts as a survival mechanism slowly unravels the truths he’s buried for years.

Among a team that masks its own trauma with bravado, sarcasm, and poorly cooked meals, John is forced into reluctant vulnerability in multiple scenarios. From his relationship with Bob to his obsessive need to cut, he needs to learn to break out of the abuse.

----
playlist for this story: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LDwqgqtOu0ybyQwAuVbDV?si=hL6g40KWQIqBbFA3s6JPaA

Chapter 1: I hate you.

John Walker stared at a blank piece of paper laid on his desk.

He had been staring at it for hours now, though the sun was already gone and the lamp above him buzzed softly like it was trying to break the silence. A pen had been in his hand once—maybe it still was. His fingers were clenched so tight he couldn’t tell. His body was stiff, his breath uneven. He was too loopy to know what was real anymore, too wrapped up in the slow rot of memories gnawing at the inside of his skull.

Finally, a shaky hand began to move.

The pen scratched softly as it bled across the page, steady cursive forming onto the paper faster than he could think.

“To all the men I've let touch me,

I hate you.

I hate the way you peeled off my uniform like you had a right to it. Like I was a prize you earned, a thing to possess. I hate how you said nothing—how you smiled when you finished and zipped up without looking back. I hate how I didn’t stop you. I hate that part the most.

I was naked. Not in the right way. Not the vulnerable, soul-spilling kind of naked that comes with trust. I was stripped down in basements and bunks, over desks, under orders, under you.

And what did I get for it? Promotions? Praise? Bullshit "I love you's" whispered. I remember your wedding ring glinting under the fluorescent lights. I remember your hand over my mouth like I was a mistake you didn’t want the world to hear.

You said you loved me once. Right before leaving to fuck your wife.

For a while, I thought maybe this was the price of the shield. That being Captain America meant being the perfect soldier, the perfect man, the perfect goddamn hole to crawl into when the world got too real.

It wasn’t just you. It never is.

But hate doesn’t even feel strong enough. It feels small. Insufficient. I don’t know what to call what I feel anymore. It’s acid. It's rot. It's a scream that never makes it out.

I couldn’t touch my wife for months after. I flinched every time she kissed me like she meant it. And when we finally divorced, I felt relief. Isn’t that awful? That I felt relieved to not have to fake it anymore?

I look in the mirror and see all the places you left fingerprints. Bruises that didn’t fade. Scars I carved into myself just to feel like the body still belonged to me."

John had to pause, noticing how his hand shook and the words had started to fall off of the pre-lined paper. He leaned back in his chair, desperately wiping the tears from his eyes that only irritated him more.

Ava mentioned during training that he should start to journal.

"Like... a diary?" He asked, benching around 300lbs while Ava did little to spot him while she scrolled on her phone.

"Something like that. Call it whatever lets you sleep. I’m just shocked you haven’t swallowed a bullet yet." While the joke was meant to be harmless, it only pissed off the man more as he soon finished his workout earlier than he had wanted to.

Her eyes followed him, brows drawn in something like concern, but she didn’t call after him. He said something about needing to shower, and left before the weight behind it could settle.

Yeah, that hadn't been the best way to respond.

In the end, he decided to listen to her. He got a notebook for himself. But the first words were pain ridden and pathetic. He was a fucking war hero and yet he first wrote about a couple lousy hands that have been down his trousers. He's had worse, it's not like it was that bad.

Yet, he teared up at the memories, and scars over his thighs burned through his skin down to his bone.

His hand trailed down to his pants, lightly tracing over the spots he knew self-inflicted scars laid until his clothes. He wondered if anyone could stand to see him naked now. He barely did, why would any one want to see red scars that never healed properly?

Not that he wanted them to heal. Cuts didn't heal right unless you wanted them to. 

He picked the pen back up. His handwriting was less composed than it previously was, but did it matter? No, he didn't think so.

"I don’t want to hate you.
But if I stop, then I have to start blaming myself.
And I’m not ready for that."

He stared at the page for a second. And then, as quietly as the paper had accepted his ink, he flipped the notebook shut.

He decided to just sit there instead of writing anything else, it was too much. Too heavy for him to accept at 11pm and unable to get drunk to forget what he was writing in the first place.

It was the next day, John had fallen asleep in his chair and woke up to a dead phone. His routine was mundane— He showered, ate breakfast, hit the gym, showered, scrolled on his phone and wondered about what news articles talked about him today, showered.

After his third quick shower of the day, he realized it was his day to cook dinner. Usually, the team took turns cooking dinner. But, It mostly consisted of Yelenas boxed Mac n cheese, Buckys sandwiches, and whatever John actually cooked. Sometimes Bob would cook. Ava and Alexei weren't allowed into the kitchen ever since they decided to give the team food poisoning twice in a week, which made them miss the met gala.

Now, he was in the kitchen. Moving like someone else had taken control of his body — hands chopping vegetables, flipping chicken in a pan, stirring without tasting. The smells were warm, almost comforting. Comforting in a way he couldn’t feel himself, but maybe the others could. That was the point, wasn’t it?

The notebook sat closed on the desk, right where John left it. He hadn’t touched it since the night before. The edges of the pages were still slightly warped from where his tears had soaked through, but he ignored that — pretended he didn’t notice. Pretended he wasn’t hung up over whatever bullshit he wrote the day before.

The others were in the common room. A laugh here and there. Low music playing from someone’s speaker that mocked something more domestic. By the sound of the vintage music, he could only assume it was from Bucky.

John could hear them behind him — snippets of voices through the room. Yelena was retelling some brutal story from a mission in Uruguay, Alexei nodded along and listened intently. Ava was ignoring everyone, headphones in, half-asleep on the couch. Bucky made the occasional grunt of acknowledgement, and Bob Reynolds — the golden boy — was trying too hard to get someone, anyone, to engage with his weird little sunshine streak.

“Okay okay okay, wait,” Bob said, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Tell me this isn’t hilarious — I once actually confused powdered sugar with drywall dust. I swear to god. Ate a whole handful thinking it was sugar.”

A pause. Mild horror. Then a single snort from Yelena.

“Oh my god,” she said. “How are you not dead?”

Bob laughed proudly, pleased with himself. “I threw it all up after.”

John’s grip tightened on the knife mid-slice. He felt something twist — not in the wrist, but deeper in his chest. That voice again. Bob’s voice. Laughing. Loud. Unbothered. It sounded too much like him. The officer who used to whisper jokes in John’s ear after. The same tone. The same bright idiocy that made it all feel normal.

John kissed all over the man's thighs, not caring how desperate he was. A hand snaked into his hair as he laughed, "You're teasing. Come on, boy, get my cock—"

Normal... that's what he did.

His vision went a little hazy, the knife chopping the vegetables almost sliced his finger, but he stopped before going further. 

John didn’t turn around. He gripped the edge of the counter with one hand. The other hovered over the cutting board, tightly holding the knife like it forgot what it was doing. His throat was tight — the way it got before he broke things.

He could hear Bob still talking, voice bouncing like a tennis ball.

“And now I’m not allowed in the kitchen unsupervised, which is honestly fair. But I’m just saying — it looked like powdered sugar, okay?”

That was it. The moment hit John like a quiet snap inside his chest, subtle but undeniable. Something in Bob’s voice — cheerful and easy in that way only people without certain scars could be — flipped the wrong switch. The kind of switch that didn’t even make noise when it flipped, just altered the atmosphere inside you without warning. John hadn’t realized he was gripping the knife too hard until his knuckles began to ache from it. He didn’t know what face he was making, but the shift in the room said enough. The air tightened around his shoulders.

He turned slowly, keeping the knife down at his side, fingers loose, not threatening. It wasn’t like that. He didn’t need to raise it. Didn’t need to do anything except speak. That always seemed to be enough lately.

“Do you ever stop talking?” he said, his voice cutting through the air in a tone too flat to be casual and too deliberate to be shrugged off.

Everyone paused. Even the ambient hum of conversation came to a halt. Forks hovered halfway to mouths. Ava looked up. Yelena froze mid-sip. Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was already bracing for whatever came next.

Bob blinked, confused by the shift. He let out a surprised breath that almost resembled a laugh but caught himself when no one joined in. “Huh?” he said, eyebrows drawn together, trying to read the mood.

John didn’t shout. His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t clench his jaw or make a show of anger. But his tone was tight — not with fury, but with exhaustion. Exhaustion that came from places no one in the room had seen and most didn’t ask about. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like you’re trying to make the air lighter just by being in it,” he said, locking eyes with Bob. “You don’t even know what it’s like to choke on silence, do you?”

Bob’s usual soft smile faltered. There was a slight shift in his stance, like he suddenly wasn’t sure where to put his hands or what to do with his face. “I was just— It was a funny story,” he replied, voice smaller now, unsure if the space was still safe to fill.

“Yeah, hilarious,” John said, his tone gaining a little more edge now. “You almost poisoned yourself and laughed about it.” He wasn’t yelling, but his voice hit harder than if he had. “You ever stop to think maybe not everyone wants to hear about your issues?"

That landed hard. You could see it in Bob’s face, in how his brows knitted and his lips parted like he wanted to object — not out of arrogance, but out of confusion, out of guilt. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, carefully. “I was just trying to—”

John cut him off before he could finish. “You remind me of someone I hated,” he said, voice dropping into something low and quiet, no longer sharp — just cold. “Someone who smiled too goddamn much while everything around him fell apart.”

There was a shift on the couch as Bucky pushed up to his feet slightly, just enough to get ready if things escalated, but he didn’t step in. He didn’t need to. Not yet.

From her corner, Ava didn’t even bother looking up from whatever was occupying her and her short attention span. “No, let him,” she muttered. “This is character development.”

Yelena shot her a look, mouth twitching like she couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or impressed.

Bob stared at the floor for a second, his expression caught between apology and shame. His hands, which had been animated during the story, now twisted at the hem of his hoodie like he was anchoring himself with it. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly — and he meant it. Not performative. Not defensive. Just… honest.

John looked at him for a long, drawn-out moment. And for once, there was no anger behind his stare — just the quiet ache of someone who could no longer fake normal. Bob looked exactly like the kind of person John used to be. Smiling, clean-cut, standing in the ruins without even realizing there were ashes on his boots. Still trying to shine too brightly for the people around him, unaware of how blinding that could be.

“You don’t have to be,” John said, not unkindly. “Just… tone it down.”

Then he turned back to the stove, grabbed the skillet, and stirred what had now completely overcooked. The smell of burnt garlic clung to the air like a warning no one wanted to name.

The team was quiet after that. No one followed up. No one tried to comfort. No one defended.

Bob stayed still for a while, like he didn’t quite know what to do next. He walked slowly over to the fridge, opened it like it might explode in his hands, and pulled out a bottle of orange soda. He cracked the lid, took a sip, and didn’t say another word.

He didn’t tell another story.

Didn’t make another joke.

Dinner finished in silence. Or close enough.

That night, John looked over at his lousy notebook. With a sigh, he got up from where he laid in bed and opened a new page.

“To Bob,” he wrote, then paused. The pen hovered anxiously over the paper that it longed to write on. He didn’t know if it was going to be an apology, a confession, or a warning. 

Maybe all three.

Notes:

HIIIII!

Uhm... yeah this story is going to suck for a while, I can't help it. I PROMISE IT'LL GET BETTER!!

please leave kudos and comments to let me know y'all want me to continue!

Chapter 2: To Bob

"To Bob,

I think I hate you too. Maybe that's a reflection on me more than anything you did.

I know that’s not fair. You haven’t done anything wrong. You were just breathing too loud in a room where I was trying not to. That’s not your fault. That’s mine. But still, your smile felt like a ache in my skull, dragging shit up I didn’t ask to remember.

You walk around like nothing’s ever broken you. Maybe that’s what pisses me off. Maybe I hate that you still laugh like that. That you still talk with your hands, and drink orange soda like it's sacred. That you keep bringing light into places where I’ve only learned to sit in the dark.

Maybe I don’t hate you at all.

Maybe I just hate that I can’t be like you.

I can't move on with my life after everything. How sometimes I still crave those dirty hands under my shirt just so I can feign ignorance."

John paused, letting another memory take over his mind  while the pen laid down. He was younger, and the officer with him had to be in his near 30s, but John could care less.

They were in his office, a slow song playing on the government-issued radio while John got up from his seat across from the man. Usually, this would be the point he would straddle the man. Instead, the older man held out his hand.

"Come on, Johnny, dance with me... You do know how to dance, right?" John only nodded eagerly, though he hadn't danced a day in his life.

He remembered being held against his chest, enjoying how the man was slightly heavier than himself. He guided him in their dance, showing him everything he ever needed to know.

And he did.

Showed him how to be a good soldier, how to suck like a good soldier, how to fuck, how to ride.

How to beg for attention that he should've gotten from his excellent work and not his mouth.

He stared back down at the journal and picked up the lousy, bleeding pen again. 

"I write this as an apology. I didn't mean to snap at you. I never mean it, not really. I just can't stand how much you ignore my muscles or how I eat my food. I hate you're a man who I want to feel familiar with, yet, you see me as a friend while I want to see if your cock matches his.

When you laugh, it reminds me of how I used to be. Before he started sending me over to the other rooms with other officers with other needs.

And I hated that, so I push you away from me and yet you never leave me.

So, I'm sorry. I'll never sat it to you directly, so don't expect me to ever tell you this in person. Just have this paper I'll never give you. Don't read into it.

—John"

He didn't know why he signed it off, it's not like anyone will see this piece of shit he found he enjoyed writing in. He won't tell anyone though.

He sat there for a few minutes longer, just staring at the last sentence. Wondering if it was too honest. Too revealing. But what did it matter? No one was going to read it. He could confess anything in here, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. His fingers cramped from the writing, but his body didn’t want to move. Like if he got up, he’d have to carry all this with him.

And maybe that was the real problem — he always carried it.

He ran his thumb across the edge of the page until the skin broke slightly on a paper cut he hadn’t noticed. It stung in the smallest way. Clean pain. Honest pain. Not like the rest.

He closed the journal slowly this time. Not like the night before, when he slammed it shut like it had betrayed him. This time it felt like… respect. Or fear. Or something in between.

Whatever it is he felt, he could feel his stomach churning again and his dinner rising to the surface.

John left his room after midnight, restless in his own skin. Sleep wasn’t coming to him tonight, but it never really did. The tower was dead quiet, except for the low whir of the HVAC and the occasional creak in the walls. He didn’t know where he was heading until he found himself by the kitchen — again. His body had been moving on autopilot all day. It still was.

He opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and leaned against the counter in the dark. The light from the fridge was the only thing casting shadows across the modern styled room.

Behind him, quiet footsteps padded in from the other side of the hallway.

Of course, it had to be Bob walking in.

The man looked like he had just come from brushing his teeth — barefoot, sweatshirt slightly oversized, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair stuck up a little in the back like he’d been rolling around in bed but hadn’t fully committed to sleep either.

“Oh. Hey,” Bob said, voice low but not uncomfortable. “Didn’t expect anyone else up.” He flashed John a small smile.

John didn’t answer or smile back. He just twisted the bottle open and drank.

Bob lingered near the entryway, then slowly stepped further into the kitchen, giving John space — a full six feet — like he could feel the tension before it even sparked.

“I, uh… didn’t mean to be a dick earlier. With the story,” Bob said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I can be loud. It’s a... trauma thing, I guess. I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

John raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. He kept drinking, letting the water fill the silence like it could drown out the words he didn’t want to say. His posture stayed rigid, shoulders squared as if he was expecting an attack instead of small talk. The kind of tension that didn’t come from what was said, but from everything he was refusing to feel in response.

Bob caught the look and smiled — not a bright one, not the kind of grin he wore at dinner when talking about powdered sugar and drywall. This one was thinner, warped at the edges. A little crooked, a little tired. Self-aware in the way people only got after learning to laugh at themselves before someone else could.

“You probably don’t think I have anything to be nervous about,” he said with a dry chuckle. “Well... not anymore.” John paused just slightly, the water bottle halfway to his mouth again. That “not anymore” hung in the air like smoke. But still, he said nothing for a beat longer than necessary.

“I don’t think anything,” John muttered finally, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. “Don’t know you.”

The honesty of it surprised even him. His tone wasn't sharp on his lips or planned to hurt Bob, it was just honest.

Bob nodded slowly, like he expected that. Maybe even respected it. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing in front of him loosely. “Maybe,” he mumbled. Then softer, quieter, like the words weren’t entirely meant for John, “That’s kinda the point, though. Nobody really does.”

It wasn’t a plea. Wasn’t some veiled attempt to be understood. It just... was. Maybe an offering? An admission dropped into the space between them without a demand for return? John didn't understand. How a guy like Bob could be so caring when all John wanted was to let Bob do selfish acts to his body.

The fridge finally clicked off behind them, the faint mechanical hum dying out and taking the ambient light with it. The room dipped into a deeper kind of quiet — not total darkness, but the kind that made shadows feel heavier (Since Yelena insisted on having night lights everywhere.)

Bob shifted. Took a step closer. Careful, not cautious — like someone approaching a wounded animal, not because he was scared, but because he didn’t want to startle it.

“I’m not trying to be your friend if you don’t want one,” he said, his voice low, steady, free of judgment. “I just think... maybe you don’t hate me as much as you want to.”

That one hit harder than it should’ve.

Because it wasn’t wrong.

And that was what pissed John off the most.

That was the kind of thing that might’ve gotten someone punched a few months ago. But now, John just scoffed quietly, and that was the worst part — because he didn’t deny it.

He capped the water bottle and set it down on the counter.

“Go back to bed, Bob. You need the sleep." But he didn't really need it, not like he could die if he didn't get adequate sleep.

Bob gave a small nod and turned toward the hall. He paused, though, halfway out of the kitchen, and turned back just once.

“You ever want someone to talk to and not listen? I can do that too,” He left, like this whole interaction didn't make the other man irritated to no extent.

John stood there for a long time after, staring at the dark hallway like it had just challenged him to a fight he wasn’t ready to win. Him? Ask for someone to listen? Yeah right. Not ever again.

John was pleading with the officer, telling him every time someone put a hand on him he didn't want.

"Well," The highest ranking official looked over at him, "Is all of that true? Are you really a good cocksucker?"

He didn't need anyone to ever listen to him again.

Notes:

Hehehehe I'm a troll
Ik the chapter is short, but I can't help it:3

Chapter 3: At Ease

A closed room. That's how it always started in these dreams. Dim light filtered through slatted blinds, stripes across the linoleum like prison bars. The air hung thick with sweat and antiseptic. John stood at attention, barely breathing.

"At ease, soldier."

The voice was kind, and John instantly relaxed as he looked at the officer. The man smiled at him, "Good job on your promotion, O-2." He teased, running a hand along Johns back.

It was sweet, and John melted into the touch that went from the small of his back to his hip. It seemed the man made his dark dream better as he was pulled into an office. 

"Uh, Sir, I don't— why are we here?" But he never got a response. Instead, the man was pushing his face down onto the desk, at a low 90 degree angle. 

"Quiet, this is just a congrats gift..."

He woke up gasping, almost as if he had refused to breathe in his dream. Sheets tangled around his legs, skin cold and damp. He sat up fast, blinking into the dark until the shadows stopped swimming. His room was quiet except for the low hum of the mini-fridge.

He stared at the ceiling.

That voice is gone. That man is gone. He can't hurt me.

But his body didn’t believe it. Neither did his hard cock that shamefully stood between his legs at the memory. That was the worst part of this. The fact his body would tingle at the thought of something so horrible. 

John cried softly, still bent over. "Please... it hurts..." But it never stopped.

Even that made his dick twitch.

Instead of masturbating and making him feel worse, he decided on picking up a pen and his journal. He hadn't even realized when he sat at his desk and flipped to a new page, 

"You look like him. Not because of your hair or your skin or voice, but by how you smile at me, how you make a room feel comfortable to be in. He's not Bob. Bob isn't him. Yet, I can't help but wish to see a part of him in Bob. A part of me wishes I could be pushed down and fucked again."

John suddenly stood, dropping the pen. "What... the fuck.." He mumbled out loud. He couldn't believe himself. Why would be say that about his friend? About himself? He was sick and fucked up.

Bob didn't deserve for John to be projectifying himself onto the man. He needed to avoid Bob— for his sake. Sure, the feeling was comforting and normal to him, that must've been why he wanted it again. But with Bob? His teammate and sort-of friend?

No, he just needs to avoid everyone. He can't look at anyone now besides thinking about them in his position, how they would handle being raped like he was.

He closed his journal and decided that maybe masturbating would be better.

By the time the rest of the team stirred in the morning, John was long gone. The sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon, and the base still clung to its pre-dawn hush, the kind of silence that felt like pressure in the chest. He moved through the halls like a shadow, boots silent on the floor, heartbeat loud in his ears. There was something comforting about slipping away before anyone else was awake to watch him. No questions. No awkward nods. No one looking at him like he was some kind of story they weren’t sure how to read. Being alone felt safer. Being invisible felt earned. He only deserved to be alone.

He skipped the dining area without hesitation. The thought of sitting at that table—where Ava would inevitably crack some offhand joke, where Bucky would pour too much coffee into chipped mugs, where Bob would talk with his mouth full and think it was charming—made his skin crawl. He didn’t want noise. He didn’t want warmth. He didn’t want people pretending this was a family. They weren’t. They were just a collection of trauma survivors duct-taped together, some more broken than others, all pretending their cracks were character.

He pushed himself in the gym until his body threatened to give out. Every movement was punishment. He welcomed it. Pull-ups until his fingers screamed. Pushups until the floor swam. The punching bag took the worst of it—each blow harder than the last, until his shoulders trembled and his wrapped knuckles bled through the gauze. But it still wasn’t enough. His muscles burned, but his head wouldn’t quiet down. That dream—that memory—kept flashing behind his eyes in fractured, vicious slivers. The tone of voice. The weight of that hand. The smell of stale aftershave and sweat. He hated how his body still remembered, even when he refused to.

"Oh, Sir! Sir! Harder!" He remembered begging into a barrack bed, making the man above him laugh. His dark skin contrasted with Johns, especially over his pink lips and delved deep into his used hole.

When he finally dragged himself into the gym shower, he didn’t bother adjusting the temperature. He stood under the scalding stream until his skin flushed raw. It was too hot but he didn't care. Maybe if he stood there long enough, he could burn out the memory, the revulsion, the part of him that flinched whenever someone like Bob walked into a room. He leaned his head against the tile and closed his eyes. Steam curled around him like a shroud. The water hit the back of his neck and all he could feel was that man's hand again, patient and rehearsed and wrong. John wanted to scream but didn’t. He hadn’t screamed in years.

"Shut your mouth!" A harsh voice whispered behind him, "Want the whole damn Army knowing what we're doing?"

He was walking out of the gym, but decided to sit due to the memory that made him scratch for a blade sliced into his leg. John hunched over a bench in the gym when Ava came in, not bothering to knock. And that familiarity—her casual presence, like she had the right to be there—made something in him clench. She wasn’t here as his handler. She wasn’t here as part of the mission. She was just… here. And that was the worst part. 

“You missed team check-in,” she said with an even tone, like she was trying not to spook a wounded animal.

John didn’t look up. “Didn’t feel like hearing Bob talk about his digestive tract again.” In all honesty, he had totally forgotten about the check-ins. They made sure everyone was in good health, physically and mentally. Or at least that they weren't going to kill each other.

He expected that to land with a smirk or a scoff, but Ava didn’t bite. Her silence felt heavy.

“You also missed debrief. And breakfast. And lunch.” She waited. “And the rest of us.”

That last line hung in the air like an accusation. Or maybe a plea.

He kept his head down, still dripping water onto the rubber flooring from his hair. His voice came out low and flat. “I’m not in the mood for a therapy session, Ava.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “Because I wasn’t offering one.”

He exhaled through his nose, hard, like it might clear something in his chest. It didn’t. His shoulders ached. His spine hurt from holding himself so goddamn straight.

“Then what do you want?”

She didn’t move from her place by the wall. Her arms were crossed, but not in a defensive way. She looked at him like she was waiting for permission to care.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re not… breaking things.”

That made him laugh. Not a real laugh—just a harsh sound that burst out of him without humor. He looked up at her then, and his eyes were hollow. “Don’t worry. I’m real good at staying intact.”

Ava didn’t smile at him, didn't even shift in her stance. She met his gaze. “You’re allowed to be not okay, John.”

He flinched at that. Maybe it was just a twitch in his jaw, or maybe it was his back straightening out. But either way, the small flinch was there and she had noticed.

“I’m not not okay,” he snapped, and suddenly he was on his feet. Tension carved into every line of his body like it was holding him together. “I’m just tired of people looking at me like they see something I didn’t give them permission to see.”

Ava took that in. He could see the clogs in her mind working out what he said. Her eyes softened—not with pity, but with understanding, as if she would understand what he had gone through.

John sobbed quietly into the bed, not long after being filled with something warm, sticky, and gross. He winced as a large hand smacked his ass. This guy had to be the worst he had slept with by far.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll go.”

She pushed off the wall and walked toward the door. Her steps were deliberately quiet But just before she left, she turned and spoke, her voice low and steady.

“If you change your mind… I’m here. Not as a... co-worker. As your friend.”

And then she was gone.

The door closed softly behind her, and John was alone again—surrounded by silence, the bitter tang of sweat, and rows of machines that promised transformation but couldn’t do a damn thing for the parts of him that were actually broken.

He sat back down. His knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

That night, he looked over at his journal, but he didn't pick it up. He couldn't bear to write anymore horrible memories or sick thoughts. But he did stare at it for around an hour.

And for a moment—just a flicker—he hated himself for wanting to.

Notes:

Hehehehe I love making John hurt...

Also, I will say, these 'weird thoughts/dreams' might come off perverted to anyone who hasn't experienced an assault. Everyone's experience is different, but I know in my case and others I've talked to, most tend to project onto others or feel differently to friends and family. But John is hyper aware of it, hence why he is pushing everyone away.

Remember to take care of yourselves! Sending love to everyone out there!

Chapter 4: The Lock-in

Notes:

This is straight from drafts. Sorry about any errors!!

John hadn't really left his room for a week.

Sure, he ate dinner, and trained, and showered, but he didn't wave at anyone or go to their weekly movie nights. He just stayed in his room and kept journaling for hours on end. 

If you had told him a month ago what he was doing, he wouldn't believe you. He still couldn't believe what he wrote in the journal that had slightly warped pages from his constant, private tears.

"I wonder if he still thinks of me. Does he remember how he would let me relax around him, giving me easy inspections so I could promote. Or does he remember how he would fill me and make me cum over his desk. A part of me wishes he would forget me forever, act as if he never bruised my skin. Another part of me wants him to think of me daily, to remember every freckle on my virgin skin.

Does he know how much I want to kill him and his friends?"

John sighed, placing down the pen. He looked over the paper that was filled with dancing words that teased his eyes, forming sentences that made his head ache from the inconsistent ink. 

He could remember the first time there were three of them with him. He had been pulled aside into a conference room. 

"What are you doing?" He asked the officer, who only held his hand tightly. He didn't say anything to John, probably worried he'd spook him off, instead, he unbuckled his pants and began to stroke his cock for John to see.

John looked at the other men and it was clear to him that he wasn't there for a conference— he was there so the men could get off. He looked back at the man he trusted. He moved closer and leaned over his office chair, replacing the man's hand with his own. 

He kinda liked the other guys staring at how he slightly bent over.

"Fuck, no, no!" He mumbled under his quick breath, scribbling with his pen. In his thoughts, he saw how the ink in the pen had begun to spill out—being unusable now.

Of course it had decided to do this right when he was ready to write down the memory he buried away for so long. Worse, he was all out of stationery, which meant he had to go to the storage unit in the lower floor.

So, with only sweats and a white tank on, he left his room for the first time in a while to get some pens. Most of their extra supplies of any kind were in the 'storage room'.

The ride from the elevator to the room on the lower floor was uneventful and he didn't run into anyone else. No Bucky, Yelena, Ava, no one. He briefly saw Alexei but he was leaving before John had left for storage.

He quietly entered the storage room, looking at the boxes and other miscellaneous items to store their stuff.

"Oh, hey John." 

John practically flinched as he looked over, seeing that the voice came from the corner of the room. Anyone, anyone besides—

"...Bob." He greeted in a neutral tone, slightly surprised to see the man down here with him. Why was he in here? And why did it have to be right when he was in here? He tilted his head while heading for a box full of stationery items. "Why are you here?"

The brunette shrugged and looked around at the amount of boxes in the room, "I wanted to find the cleaning wipes, I used the rest in the kitchen." He gave a small chuckle and John shrugged the man off.

It was painfully quiet between them in the room, and John was so happy his back was towards Bob. His cock was already semi-erect just by seeing the man like this. He wasn't dressed in any certain way—A blue sweatshirt with baggy corduroy pants— yet, him being there alone was enough to make John think horrible things.

He groaned loudly as the second man entered him, his mouth and ass being filled was the most thrilling feeling he's had in a while. A new cock was probing his ass to find his prostate while the man he always was with filled his mouth, another man sat and watched the scene unfold. 

John looked up. Hoping for praise from him.

How stupid he was.

He shook his head at the memory that violated his head and began to go through boxes, trying to just find the pen he wanted to use. 

Suddenly, a loud blaring began to sound throughout the tower. John looked over at Bob who was quickly freaking out. 

Bob grabbed his dying phone and called Yelena. As he was on call, both Bob and John tried to leave the room when a metal pad came down to lock them in the room.

The noise was still loud when Yelena answered Bob, the lights a red color.

"Put her on speaker!" John commanded, angrily stomping around as he tried knocking down the door.

Bob quickly did as he was told and Yelena groaned, "What is it? I'm out with... a friend.." Her words made John roll his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, a girl, we know. Now, why is the tower doing this?!" he yelled through the phone. thankfully, the blaring noise had stopped after a while but the light was still red and the door wouldn't open.

He heard a soft rumble over the phone, "I texted Val... She said it looks like a malfunction... Uh, technicians are saying six hours."

Bob and John shared one thought as they looked up at each other.

I can NOT be stuck in the same room with him for six hours.

Yelena chuckled from the phone as Bob quickly stumbled over his words, begging the girl to help them. But she only told them 'good luck' and hung up.

They stood silently, and a tad bit too close than they should've been for two guys. 

John backed away, "...I guess we're stuck in here." He looked over at the storage room. "Don't talk to me."

Bob only gave a small nod as the two went back to looking for their items— at least John did. Bob on the other hand was freaking the fuck out. Him and John stuck in a room together?? If John doesn't try killing him, he's gonna want to when Bob starts  hyperventilating about the confided space.

Around 30 minutes had passed and while going through the boxes, John pulled out a bottle of orange vodka. Now, he wasn't the type to drink or really get drunk. But, what did get him drunk was a stronger alcohol percentage that— from what Bucky told him— no other super soldier had tried (with the exception of Alexei, who really couldn't even get drunk before).

John started at the bottle, then over at Bob, who was sitting with his phone plugged into the wall. 

"Take it, fucking take it!" He could hear the man behind him, pounding him as he tried not to gag around the other dick. He could smell the sweaty pubic hair that hadn't been washed in a while and the faint smell of rotten oranges.

He held the bottle a little closer now. He was pretty sure this was just for occasions in which Bucky and him could get a little drunk, and right now felt like the right occasion.

Bottle in hand, he stepped to be in view of Bob. "I'm so bored." He lamely excused, sliding down the wall next to Bob. "Wanna drink?"

Bob frowned, "I don't really like to drink."

"Suit yourself, though, it's not like we're doing anything else for six hours." He twisted off the tap and began to down the vodka like it was nothing. The undertone of artificial oranges let him relish in horrible memories he desperately clung to.

The other man looked over and placed her phone down. "I.. I could... I guess I don't have anything going on." He reached for the alcohol from Johns hand.

The bottle was huge, around a liter of an imported brand since regular stores don't carry something this strong.

Bob swung back the liquor and grimaced once the bottle was down. "That.. sucks." His furrowed eyebrows and his tongue sticking out made John laugh. This was going to be fun.

It was the 3rd hour now, and the two super people had downed half a liter. John held onto Bob as they sang something that John thought was too trendy but he enjoyed it. His arm was tight around Bobs shoulders while Bobs hand trailed to his waist.

He didn't know if it was because he was drunk or if it was Bob, but he didn't mind being touched now one bit. In fact, he wanted to get touched more by the man and being drunk sure didn't help his case.

The song lulled into the background and Johns gaze set on Bob. 

there really was no room between them against the wall, and neither paid attention. "Wow... your eyes are gorgeous. I mean, they're pretty blues, John."

"You've got some pretty blues, Johnny." The man kissed along his cheek, then down to his chest. 

"Sir— you're... too sweet..." He mumbled, biting his lip as the man in his hands trailed down to his stomach, then hips.

"Uh, John?" Bob asked, noticing how the other man seemingly blanked at the name. He pulled away, confused on what was going on with the man.

John blinked awake and smiled, "T—thanks, Bobby... sorry, were you flirting with me?" John teased the man who was now embarrassed at how drunk he was. His face was flushed from both the embarrassment and the alcohol flowing through his blood stream.

He stumbled over his words, trying to defend himself to John.

"Shhhh... I don't mind." John kept his smile and a part of him felt that similar, disgusting feeling he found comfort in. He made sure to press up on Bob more, a hand creeping onto his thigh.

"You're a whore," The voice was harsh, meaning to hurt John. But he didn't deny it like he would've with anyone else. He had cum over his face and in his ass. And he loved it. Maybe it was the short lived praise, maybe it was a deep need to be filled by something besides nicotine and whatever pill they gave him.

Bob looked over at John, noticing how close he was. "Hey... take it easy—!" His voice hitched as Johns hand grazed over his cock that had started to harden while sitting next to each other. 

"Don't worry, Bobby. What, scared of a little fuck?" John couldn't even believe how bold he was being with the other man, but he didn't care. He hadn't had dick since before he was Captain America— hell, he would take it from anyone at his point— at  least, drunk him would.

The other man held onto his hand and pulled him away. John was clearly hurt and confused, so Bob explained. "You're drunk, I'm drunk. I—Is this really the right time?" He leaned in, "I want to remember my time with you."

John went back to his blank stare, unable to answer the man. 

He wanted to remember him? No, he wanted to remember sex with him? 

"Y—Yeah, that makes sense, I guess..." He trailed off, "...Wanna make out then?"

It was quiet between them for a moment before Bob nodded.

John pushed up against him, knocking them both to the floor as his drunk lips eagerly met Bobs. Their first kiss was a press between lips, but their next one was hot and wet, open lips finding each other. John had climbed over Bob and straddled the other man— solely for practicality— and held onto his face while kissing him.

Bob reached for John's hair, letting a bit of his more controlling side come out while his lips trailed along his jawline and neck. He was surprised at how vocal John was, probably from the drinking, but no matter what he sounded like a porn star. More so the gay pornos Bob remembers watching with his older cousin.

"Dude, he's fucking... a dude!" Bob protested as they sat at his aunts house, watching some cheap porno his cousin had rented for the night.

"So? It's good! Plus... guys have sex together all the time."

He groaned at the memory, feeling like he was living his homoerotic dream with Johns weight on top of him and crushing his body against the cold floor.

Bob stopped kissing along his skin, laying down to catch his breath. "Wow, you're good.." He flashed an awkward smile which only made John laugh. 

"Well, practice makes perfect."

He didn't think much of it, why would he? Of course an attractive man like John would know how to kiss another person right, but did John moan like this for just anyone? Was he experienced with other guys? Or was Bob just a special person?

No, that was silly.

He had to stop letting these feelings overtake him. So, he focused back onto John who was currently nuzzled into Bobs chest.

Bob crept his hands from John's hair down his back, making his way to his ass. He gave the plump backside a soft smack, making sure to squeeze it harshly when it came back down.

John groaned, "You can't do that and not fuck me."

For that moment alone, Bob really debated with himself if he should fuck the drunk John against the floor. The better side of him decided against it. "No, I can't. Those pretty eyes can't convince me." It was meant to be a joke, but however he delivered it made John freeze.

"Pretty blues,"

"Baby blues,"

"Prettiest eyes in the Army,"

"Wow, you can get anything with those blues,"

John wanted to dig his fingernails into Bob—and he did, just slightly—because of how much he was like him. It wasn't just the strength or the way he moved like he’d always had to hold something monstrous back. It was the things he said. The way he looked at John, as if he understood. The compliments hit the wrong nerves, especially the flirty ones. They reminded John of how much he'd given away of himself, how often he’d let himself be used up and then discarded. He felt dirty—not just used, but complicit in it.

Bob didn’t notice at first. He kept talking, his voice soft and tired, trying to bridge whatever gap had formed. But John had gone quiet, eyes glazed, jaw clenched. Bob's fingers still rested lightly against John’s hips, but the warmth between them was quickly cooling.

John had gone clammy, shutting down like a light flipped off. Bob could feel it, but didn’t press. He was tipsy, his own thoughts muddled and heavy. Something told him not to ask. He just let the silence settle.

So they lay there on the cold floor, wrapped in spare military-issue blankets like two soldiers stuck in a foxhole. Rations—some crushed snack cakes, half a sleeve of crackers, a few pieces of candy—were spread between them. John never moved away. He kept close, body lightly pressed to Bob’s side, anchored there like it was the only thing keeping him from floating off.

They didn’t talk. Didn’t check the time. Just breathed together, staring at the ceiling, letting the hum of the air vents and the muffled silence of the room wrap around them.

At some point, John finished the bottle. Bob rubbed at his eyes, fingers dragging tiredly down his face. He couldn’t remember how long it had been—longer than it felt. There were still thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes until whatever this was went back to being a memory they’d shove somewhere dark.

Bob looked over at John, feeling a bit foggy about what really happened between them. John had shifted slightly, back against the wall now, but still facing him. The space between them was just wide enough to feel like a question.

“Can…” John started, his voice hoarse, barely audible. “When we’re out… can we not mention this?”

His eyes didn’t meet Bob’s, but the words hung there, fragile and raw. Like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

Bob hesitated, watching him. Then he gave a slow, small nod. No judgment. No argument. Just acceptance.

“Okay,” he said.

And then neither of them spoke for the rest of the time.

As soon as the metal plates were lifted, John made a dash out of there. Bob soon followed and frowned when John hadn't waited for him. 

Once John hurried into his room, he locked eyes with his journal and sat. He needed to write about what he just did! How bold it was before he forgets in the morning when he's sober—

He forgot the pen.

Chapter 5: Trash Chute

Notes:

I've been gone for a sec oops. I wrote another SentryAgent super fic and I'm recovering from that alone. Not to mention so many issues going on. The AO3 writers curse I fear.

In other news, I made a playlist for this fanfic because the hyperfixation eats at me. It's what I listen to when I write.
It's just the title of the fic lol.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LDwqgqtOu0ybyQwAuVbDV?si=hL6g40KWQIqBbFA3s6JPaA

"I don’t remember how it started, just that I drank too much. There was vodka, there’s always vodka. That’s how I know I didn’t dream this up. There’s vomit on the rug, blood on my sheets, and my stomach’s been empty since last night. I remember the way his eyes looked at me. Bob’s. And it fucking pisses me off how warm they were. It was like, for half a second, I wasn’t just some hole for someone else’s power trip. I wasn’t a shield, a name, a body. I was... I don’t know. Something. Something human. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want any of that. I just wanted to be used and done with. No complications, no softness, no aftermath. But Bob wasn’t looking for that. He wanted more. And I can’t want more.

Because if I want more, I’ll fuck it up. If I want more, I’ll get attached. If I get attached, I’ll hurt him the same way I always end up hurting anyone who tries to care."

The pen pressed harder into the page as he wrote, like maybe if he kept carving the words deep enough, they’d stop living under his skin. He wasn’t sitting on the bed this time—he couldn’t. The sheets were stripped and shoved into a trash bag in the corner, reeking of old blood and bile and something worse. He didn’t dare look at the blade by the floorboards. He already knew it was there, already knew it had been used. He hadn’t checked his thighs. He didn’t need to.

"Nothing happened. I didn't kiss him, I didn't want to be raped. Nothing happened."

He didn't quite understand himself, and he might be able to if he tried, but he didn't want to. What he did know was he had woken up with vomit around him and a used razor blade next to his bedside table. He hadn't dared look at his thighs, already incredibly scarred.

John decided to go back to writing,

"I know it’s pathetic to be spiraling like this over something so small. So what? I kissed a man. Doesn’t mean anything. I’m not a faggot. I’m not weak. I’m not in need of help. I’m not one of those guys who needs therapy and group hugs. I’m normal. Normal people think about sex like I do."

John paused, a hot flash of memories hitting his skull harder than his hangover.

"Dude, what's up with your neck? I know it wasn't Olivia—don't lie to me again." Lemar held onto Johns shoulder. He had walked in on him in civil attire, trying his best to remove a hand print that marked his skin like a promise.

"Can you stop it?! Not everything involves you, Lemar." His voice had risen while his hands placed some makeup over the dark red and purple spots.

He wishes more than anything he told him what was going on, what caused those marks all over his body that never left.

His friend scoffed, never annoyed with John, but how he blocked himself off. "When you're ready, I'll be here. But you need some serious help."

John never was ready, and now Lemar is gone. He wonders if he would have accepted him still, if he told him what happened, would he still love him? But John quickly shook his head. Of course he would, they were best friends and Lemar only wanted the best for him.

He closed the journal before he could add anything else, not wanting to relive horrible memories that never left his mind. Including how he remembered the most recent pair of lips on his. His touch felt like his skin was burning, he remembered that. He also knew he needed more of him in the most shameful way possible. But how could he get Bob of all people?

A: To get him so in love where he wants to go all the way, stringing him along until they build up to sex. Or, B: Get him so angry he holds him down and takes him against his will, turn it into something violent and something John is familiar with.

But a part of him, a very real part of him, wants none of that. That part of him craves to be seen naked by him and to be held. To look at him and feel respected in his own skin, not to be a soldier.

He wanted to be seen. Wanted Bob to see him, all of him—every scar, every cut, every broken piece—and still want to hold him. Still want to stay. He wanted to be naked and not disgusting. He wanted to be kissed and not broken. He wanted to be looked at and not turned into a tool.

"Hey! I got us some lunch!" A bright and hopeful John entered into the office, where the older man looked up from the phone he just closed. 

"Ah, Johnny! Come here. What is it? Let me guess— tuna? No, no. BLT!" John only laughed as he sat next to him, not before giving him a soft kiss to his cheek. 

"Got it!" He blushed, enjoying how the man seemed to care for every little detail of the blonde.

He remembered how much he’d craved the man’s approval. How good it felt when he noticed the smallest thing about John—his sandwich order, his haircut, the way he wore his uniform. How he called him “Johnny” like it was some kind of reward. He also remembered the way that man’s hands never asked. The way he’d close the door and pull John in and call it love when it wasn’t. He remembered how he stopped trying to say no after a while. Because it didn’t matter.

John decided that he should clean up his room, along with the dried blood and wounds that were marked over deep purple scars.

He took a shower as he always did, hissing at the feeling of the open cuts that he had to wash and clean. He wrapped them afterwards, looking everywhere but his naked body that he only saw was dirty. The heat didn’t help. It never did. The cuts stung, sharp and fresh, just like they were supposed to. He cleaned them because he knew he had to. Wrapped them in gauze like always. Kept his gaze down, away from the ruined parts of himself. He’d long since stopped expecting his body to feel like it belonged to him. It didn’t. It never had.

He went back to the journal one more time before the water fully drained.

"I think I want him to touch me again. But I want it to be different this time. I want to be ready. I want to choose it. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to want that."

By the time the sun started to bleed through the tower windows, John was already dried off, bandaged, and dressed in a hoodie and loose sweatpants that didn’t cling too much to his thighs. He hadn’t touched his hair, hadn’t shaved, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t done anything besides scrub the floor with bleach and throw the stained sheets into a trash chute he hoped no one checked. He didn’t want anyone to ask questions. He didn’t want anyone to know, because if someone asked, he wasn’t sure he could lie without falling apart. His hands still smelled like disinfectant, and his body still ached with the aftermath of everything he didn’t let himself say out loud.

The lounge was mostly empty, and for once, the quiet felt more like relief than threat. He collapsed onto the long couch, slow and sore, reaching for the remote with fingers that felt slightly numb. The television clicked on without much thought, and he turned the volume up just high enough to blur the edges of his mind. A documentary about ocean currents was playing—narrated by some soft-spoken man with a British accent, going on about migration and survival. John didn’t care what it was. He only cared that it moved, that it made noise, that it filled the room with something that wasn’t silence or memory.

His muscles throbbed in the kind of way that made rest feel like a chore, not a relief. He hadn’t slept, but he didn’t expect to. His chest was tight, not in pain exactly, but in a dull, echoing way that made breathing feel like effort. He kept his eyes trained on the screen, watching waves crash and kelp forests sway as if they could somehow anchor him here in the present, away from everything clawing at his ribs from inside.

The elevator doors opened and then soft footsteps, like someone trying not to startle a wounded animal. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. That quiet, measured walk had become familiar lately. Predictable in a way that both soothed and unsettled him.

Bob entered the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Not close, but not far either. Just enough distance that it didn’t feel like pressure, but still felt intentional. John could feel the shift in the air, the awareness of another body nearby, and it made something tighten in his spine even as he tried to pretend it didn’t.

“Hey,” Bob said, voice low and careful, like someone who knew exactly how fragile their relationship was at the moment. “Didn’t think you’d be out and about.”

John didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the TV, pretending the narration was more interesting than it was.

“I saw you left the kitchen kind of fast this morning,” Bob continued, the tone lighter now but still edged with concern. “Thought maybe I scared you off.”

John almost looked over, he remembered quickly going to throw the sheets out, but John still said nothing. He changed the channel, then again, faster this time, not even watching what appeared. His thumb moved over the remote like muscle memory, just to keep from sitting still. 

“You okay?” Bob leaned in, voice softer this time. “I’ve got leftovers. You want something?”

The words landed heavier than they should have, not because they were unwelcome, but because they echoed a voice from a place John wished he’d forgotten entirely.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” the older officer had said once, voice low but laced with something dangerous, a warning wrapped in a question. “I’m trying to help you, but you make it so hard.”

John had stayed silent, the weight of years pressing down, his body stiffening as he tried to disappear into himself, aching to be invisible, to be anywhere but there.

“Stop shaking. Stop pretending you’re scared. You’re mine to control.”

His stomach turned violently, and a flash of heat shot up the back of his neck. He hadn’t thought about that memory in a long time, hadn’t let it come this close. But the words hit the same nerve. The affection in the voice. The same kind of tone his CO used to have when he was pretending to be harmless.

He felt the sweat start at the base of his spine, his whole body going tense like someone had lit a fuse. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, and the scent of Bob’s cologne—mild and earthy—was too close. He dropped the remote, not by accident but because his hands had started to tremble.

He stood up quickly, the movement stiff but immediate, his breath catching halfway through his chest. He didn’t want Bob to see his face. He didn’t want to hear anything else that might make another memory surface.

“I need to go,” John said, already turning, already halfway to the hallway.

Bob stood too, concern written all over him. “Wait—hey, just talk to me.”

But John didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. Looking back felt dangerous, and it meant facing something he still wasn’t strong enough to hold. For the first time since the void, he felt true fear.

He spent the rest of the afternoon locked in his room. No music. No light. Just pacing and sitting and standing again. He didn’t write in the journal. He didn’t trust what would come out. His thoughts felt too tangled to make sense of, too loud to even try.

And none of it—none of the panic or anger or nausea—was Bob’s fault. That made it worse.

Because Bob wasn’t cruel. Bob hadn’t done anything except try. But John’s body didn’t know the difference yet. Everything that looked like kindness felt like a trap. Every gentle word carried the shadow of a command. And no matter how many times John told himself that this was different, his instincts refused to believe it.

He didn’t come out again until dinnertime.

His stomach was a low burn, empty and unsettled, and he figured if he didn’t show his face soon, someone—probably Ava—would force her way in. He didn’t have the strength to argue with her, and he didn’t want to get yelled at for another skipped meal.

He walked to the kitchen as quietly as he could, hoping no one would notice him.

But of course, standing at the stove, stirring something in a big pot with the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up and his stupid forearms out, was Bob.

Bob looked up the second John stepped inside. Their eyes met, and John froze with his hand half-reaching for the fridge door.

Bob didn’t say anything. He just gave him a nod, calm and small, and turned back to the food like it wasn’t a big deal.

John moved slower this time. He sat at the far end of the table. He didn’t speak. He barely made eye contact. But when Bob handed him a bowl and said nothing else. John went to sit down where he usually sat, Yelena and Ava were already deep in conversation while Alexei chuckled as he ate. Bucky had just walked in and went to the kitchen.

This was going to be the worst team dinner by far. He was hoping he could just go back to his room without having to look at anyone anymore. Or worse, have anyone notice what was going on with him. From his out of character clothes, to his attitude that would crumble if anyone asked about it.

And it might have been worse when Bob sat next to him.

Notes:

yayyy I hope yall enjoyed! please leave kudos and comments!

Chapter 6: Something in Muscle Memory

The pastas overcooked, Alexei was ranting about mushrooms being “coward food,” and somehow Yelena had managed to swipe Bucky’s beer mid-sentence without him noticing. Ava was talking with her mouth full again, and nobody had the energy to correct her. This was what passed for peace in the Thunderbolts Tower. And John… was still here.

Dinners were always like this, besides the fact that today John was covered in cuts, and sitting next to the man he had just made out with the night before.

He sat stiffly at the table, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, sweatpants soft against the bandages he didn’t want anyone to see. His hair was freshly washed, his eyes were shadowed, but he was here. Not locked in his room and not scrubbing the floor with bleach. Not bleeding on all of his furniture and sheets.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” Yelena asked, pointing her fork toward him. “You look like you walked out of a very sad movie.”

Ava grinned around a mouthful of garlic bread, that she always insisted on getting, then ate the whole loaf. “He looks like he’s about to put on Bon Iver and stare out a window while it rains.”

“He always dresses like that when he’s sad,” Bucky added flatly. “It’s the Sad Boy Uniform.” Of course Bucky knew that, he always knew what was going on but never said shit.

“At least he didn’t wear the balaclava again,” Bob muttered, mostly under his breath. "Oh, that was a nightmare.."

That actually pulled a tiny laugh from John, the first real one in days. “I wear clothes,” he noted picking around his bowl, voice scratchy but alive. “Sorry they’re not tactical enough for your delicate aesthetics.”

Alexei leaned forward, his spoon still in his hand like it was a pointer. “In Soviet Russia, men wore shame on inside, not on hoodies.” He made a grand gesture to John's attire.

“And in modern Russia, you still sound embarrassing.." Yelena fired back from across the table from him.

It was warm, and it was stupid. But it was real. And John—God help him—was starting to believe he could sit at this table and not feel like a mistake carved into human shape. He even took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Let the sound of them talking fill up the space inside his head like insulation.

Then he felt something, it was a soft, warm hand placed down onto his thigh under the table. It was light and barely noticeable. It clearly wasn't meant to be possessive, but it was a touch at the end of the day. But the pressure was in the exact wrong place, a very familiar place at that.

Something inside him twisted—his stomach, his throat, his whole damn spine, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the tower anymore.

He was twenty-two again, sitting in a Humvee on base with the doors shut and the sun just starting to go down. He remembered the way the seatbelt had cut across his chest, how his uniform collar had felt too tight, and how the air inside the vehicle smelled like sweat and tobacco.

“You’re a good soldier, Walker,” He heard a voice say, the kind of voice that tried to sound fatherly but landed too low in the gut. “One of the few I don’t have to clean up after.”

John had smiled, because that’s what you did when a superior officer complimented you. Even if it sounded wrong. Even if your instincts were screaming.  Then the man’s hand had landed on his thigh, in a way to test how John would react.

“I see the way you handle orders. You know how to listen. That’s rare, these days.”  The compliment hadn’t felt like praise. And he knew it wasn't really, but a part of him wanted more of it.

“Sir,” John spoke in a way no one had heard before.  “I’m just trying to do my job.”  The hand had stayed. Right on his thigh, like a brand being pressed through fabric.

“You are,” The man looked at him, smiling like this was kindness. “And you know what happens to good soldiers? They get taken care of.”

John had looked straight ahead, jaw locked so tight it hurt. Every cell in his body screamed to move, to get out. But he didn’t move an inch, even after his hand wandered. He tried to rationalize himself and say it was because he was a good soldier. But he knew it wasn't, he loved how the man spread his legs in the back of the truck, for once giving to John rather than taking.  John had gone completely numb. He’d turned off his brain like a light switch and watched the dust on the dashboard, the smudge on the window, the way the sunlight hit the glass just wrong. He made his mind go somewhere else. Yet, the mouth around him felt like heaven and he understood why he took it from John so desperately. Hands rough against his thighs, leaving marks he later carved into him.

And now—

Now he was back at the dinner table, frozen like the memory had rewired his muscles. Bob’s hand was still there, meant to be comforting and gentle. But John's skin was crawling at how comfortable Bob instantly got with him.

In a delayed reaction, he jerked away too hard, the chair scraping against the floor with a loud screech. Everyone turned around then had turned. Even Bob looked up, just as confused. No, he was concerned. And John instantly knew he’d made a scene. One he couldn't clean up properly.

“Shit,” he muttered, realizing how he must've looked. He knew he looked shocked and he couldn't wipe the look of fear off of his face.

“John?” Bob quietly asked, as if not wanting the others to hear them. He had already stood, regretting whatever he did to offend John enough to make him leave.

John didn’t answer, not because he didn't want to, but because the little bit of pasta he ate was coming up his throat. He just walked out. Not fast by any means, not even storming out of the room. He walked in a controlled manner and it might have been due to the fear of how the team would look at him if he collapsed.

Back in the kitchen, Bob just stood there, hand still hovering slightly off the edge of John’s chair, like the heat of the moment was still lingering on his palm. The scrape of the chair echoed louder in his memory than it did when John was still here. The look in John’s eyes reminded Bob of himself, a certain look he got whenever a voice was raised at him. 

The table had gone dead quiet, as the others were shocked as well. Yelena’s fork was halfway to her mouth, paused mid-air. Ava blinked rapidly and placed her own food down. Even Alexei, who rarely picked up on tension unless it was screamed at him, looked around with a furrowed brow.

“What... was that?” Ava asked first, voice cautious but not unkind in any way. “He seemed okay like—two seconds ago.”

Bob’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He didn't need to be an expert to know that he had done something to upset John. All he wanted was to be comforting to John, a silent plea to let them get closer.

Why wouldn't he? It might not have been the right time, but Bob had already been looking at him more than once, which meant he wanted John to look back at him. They made out and even though Bob said he wouldn't say anything, he kept thinking about John.

John's actions made Bob tense, as he noticed everything. The flinch, or even the silence. Hell, the way John exited without saying anything. He wonders if it was because He wondered if it was the hand—or where it landed. He hadn't even thought about how John would've felt, it was nothing besides a friendly gesture.

Yelena sat her fork down carefully and exhaled through her nose. “That wasn’t about now,” she said quietly. “That was memory.” She placed her spoon next to her plate, then sighed, her shoulders slumping a little.

“We really are fucked up, aren’t we?” Her voice was dry, a weak attempt at humor that didn’t land. Nobody laughed.

 Bucky didn’t move, but he was watching her more closely than the others. He already had a guess where this was going. He had been guessing for a while when he noticed how John never wore anything besides pants. Even when it was too hot for a shirt in New York, he insisted on his jeans and tank top combo.

 Bob just kept staring at the table, jaw locked, as if any sudden movement might crack something wide open.

Ava frowned, her gaze shifting from the doorway where John had disappeared to Bob, who was still frozen in place. Alexei had stopped eating altogether, his expression unreadable for once. Bucky didn’t move, but there was something locked up in his jaw now. He was already ahead of what Yelena was about to say.

She didn’t blink. She didn’t shift in her seat. Her voice didn’t waver. “That was PTSD. And not just any kind.”

Bucky visibly tensed as he knew exactly what she meant. But he didn’t interrupt her. He just kept still, eyes on the table, letting her say the thing out loud so the others could hear it too.

She shrugged off any looks, unable to figure out what else she wanted to say. "I don't know why it triggered now..." But Bob knew, and it felt like a truck hitting him, he remembered what John told him while they were making out. Something about practice.

As the room became silent, Bob stood and followed after John. The team called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Notes:

Rushed as always!! Maybe a bit more, just so I can get to the next scene. Again, a lot of stuff going on but next chapter will be done soon hehhehehe (I can't stop myself)

Anyways, leave kudos and comments! Love y'all.

Chapter 7: I am disgusting.

John’s breath was already catching in his throat by the time he made it down the hall.

He shoved his door open, slammed it shut behind him, and staggered back into the room like it was the only place he could come apart without judgment. The moment the lock clicked into place, everything felt like it was curling around him.

His legs gave out near the edge of the bed, knees hitting the floor with a thud that rattled through his bones. His breath came in shallow gasps, mouth open but barely pulling in air. He tore the hoodie off like it was suffocating him, dragging it over his head and tossing it somewhere across the room.

"It's just a bit of sex"

"No need to be a bitch about things"

"Fuck, your cunt is so good..."

"You'd be a good girl, you know?"

"Keep looking at me, baby blues"

"I love you."

His hands were shaking, no, his whole body was shaking. His sweats clung to his skin like it knew what he’d remembered. The pressure of Bob’s hand still sat on his thigh like a phantom. It wasn’t even hard, wasn’t even cruel. But his body didn’t care. His body reacted the way it always had when he was touched, filled with panic and fear and revulsion and shame.

He was trying to keep focus of his motions as his vision blurred. He tried to calm himself and breathe through the sickness that twisted in his stomach.

His stomach twisted. He crawled toward the bed on all fours, trying to breathe through the sick pounding in his head. The room felt too small. The walls too close.

He caught sight of his journal on the nightstand.

Fingers fumbling, he pulled it open, grabbed the pen tucked inside the spine, and started writing without thinking. He didn’t even sit up. Just braced himself with one arm and scrawled across the page like his life depended on it.

"It wasn’t him it wasn’t him it wasn’t him but my fucking body thinks it was. It always thinks it is. Every time anyone touches me there. I  can’t breathe. I can't breathe I can't fucking breathe. I t was just a hand. It was JUST a fucking hand! W hy did I freeze like that. why did I let them. I let them. I always let them.  maybe I wanted it, maybe that’s why it keeps happening. He ’s going to think i’m crazy. They’re all going to know now. H e touched me and I wanted to puke.

I am disgusting."

He dragged the pen harder into the paper, the tip tearing the page slightly, ink bleeding through like the words were too heavy to stay contained. His handwriting was a disaster., barely legible. Just long black scratches and sentences that didn't make much sense on the pages. His writing moved from print to cursive, then back to print all over again.

"I don't know..."

"Please, stop it!"

"Yes, sir! Please, harder!"

"A girl? Oh... I guess it's the makeup, huh?"

"Sir, your dick is so big!"

"I love you more."

He slammed the journal shut.

His hands flew to his hair, ruffling the now dry strands between his fingers. His nails were digging into his scalp as if he could scrape the memories out. But they were still there and still alive. Still touching him like he let himself be touched.

His hands, his voice, fuck, the smell of his sweat and authority. It made every part of John feel conflicted inside his stomach. John tried to make himself still, to not tense up too much but all he could remember was his mouth.

The praise that fell out of him was some of the most euphoric feelings in the world. Something fucked up in John made him crave the validation. Just to see that smile, even if it meant fucking himself until he would cum repeatedly into his fist.

The memory made him lunge to his feet, the nausea surging without warning. He didn’t stop to explain or look back. His stomach twisted violently as he rushed through his room, barely managing to slam the door shut before it all caught up with him.

He stumbled into the bathroom, grabbing the frame of the sink for balance before dropping hard to his knees in front of the toilet. His body convulsed, dry heaving over the bowl. His chest clenched so tight it felt like something inside him might snap. But nothing came up—just a sharp, acidic burn in his throat and the hum of panic behind his eyes.

He stayed there on the floor, his hands gripping the toilet rim, breath shuddering as he tried to steady himself. His arms slowly wrapped around his ribs, like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. He curled inward, forehead pressing against the edge of the cold porcelain. His whole body was shaking, not from sickness, but from the memory that had forced its way to the surface like a bruise you couldn’t hide. The memory slammed in without warning, full-bodied and cruel.

John couldn't help as his body shook, letting the larger man fuck him roughly. "Are you gonna vomit? Throw up for me.." He chuckled and snapped his hips, "Show me how gross my fucking dick is."  And John would've if he wasn't so close to cumming.

The tile floor beneath him felt unreal. His skin was burning, his mouth was dry, and the back of his neck was damp with sweat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think straight. The bathroom wasn’t a bathroom anymore. It was just space between panic and whatever came next. And right now, all he could do was survive the moment.

Back in the bedroom, the door creaked open.

“John?” Bob stepped into the room with hesitation, his expression tense with confusion and concern. He hadn’t expected John to run like that, and the silence that followed left a weight pressing down on his chest. His eyes scanned the room carefully, unsure of what he might find, and that’s when he saw the book on the rumpled sheets.

The journal sat on the bed, slightly ajar where it had been hastily slammed shut. The pages weren’t tucked neatly inside; one had been bent at the corner, and another was stained through with heavy ink. The edges of the paper were torn in places, as if they’d been gripped too tightly or written on with too much force.

Bob stopped in his tracks when he laid eyes on it. He didn’t need to flip it open. He didn’t need to read more than a glance. His name—“Bob”—stood out clearly in jagged handwriting near the top. It looked like many pages had been written, and this one seemed older due to the blue ink compared to the current red pen that sat next to the book. He knew what this was, anyone who had gone to therapy knew what it was. It wasn’t just a notebook or some idle scribbling. This was personal, a piece of John that wasn’t meant for anyone else to see.

Still, he took a step towards the bed, wanting to look closer. He didn’t touch the book, but he leaned in enough to catch the first few lines. His eyes traced the chaotic scrawl, absorbing words that pulsed with panic, confusion, and something far deeper than he assumed John could feel. It was filled with self-hatred, pain, trauma. It was all there, exposed in ink so messy it nearly bled off the page.

Bob's stomach unexpectedly twisted. He hadn’t just misread the situation at dinner, he had stepped directly into something much bigger than he realized. He hadn't even considered a man like John had anything going on besides bitching and whining about his ex-wife.

Then he heard sharp, uneven breaths coming from behind the bathroom door. Not normal breathing that let him know someone was in there. It was the kind of sound people made when they were trying not to cry, when holding it in was the only option, even if it burned in their throat. It wasn’t loud, but it was raw and unmistakably human. Someone trying to keep themselves from falling apart loud enough for no one to hear. But Bob could feel it under his skin, feel how John was probably sobbing on the floor.

Bob turned toward the bathroom, his breath catching in his chest. The light beneath the door was on, casting a soft glow along the floorboards. It was the only sign of where John had gone. He could see the shadow of the man through the little sliver of opening below the door.

“John?” Bob’s voice cracked when he said the name. He hated the way it sounded out loud, how Bob sounded like he was scared. He needed to be strong for John.

There was no answer, just that sound again. Guttural, shaky. The quiet thud of movement inside the bathroom, followed by silence. Then another shallow breath. It sounded like John was curled in on himself, trying to keep his body from fully collapsing, like he was folding into whatever space was left that felt safe.

Then Bob heard it again... those strained, guttural breaths. They weren’t cries, not really, but close. It sounded like someone choking back panic. A person trying not to fall apart. It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong in any home. Especially not behind a locked door.

“John?” Bob said again, more carefully this time. His voice was thin and cracking at the edges.

No answer came, only the quiet, awful noise of someone breaking down. He heard the soft thud of movement. Then silence again, then another short, harsh breath. It made Bob’s stomach turn.

Bob didn’t walk forward. He stayed right where he was, standing in the open bedroom doorway, one hand pressed against the wall. He felt like if he moved too fast, he might make things worse. And that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He tried to breathe evenly. He tried to stay calm. He had no idea what he would find. But he wanted to be strong. He needed to be strong—for John, not himself. He kept telling himself that over and over. Stay calm. Don’t rush. Don’t panic. This isn’t about you.

Bob felt the tightness growing behind his ribs. Not fear for himself, but for John. He didn’t know how deep this wound ran. But he had seen the way John flinched. The way he’d left the table without looking back. And it scared him more than anything.

Bob didn't touch the door, nor did he speak again. The last thing he wanted was John working himself up again. If John needed space, he would give it to him as much as he could. If John needed him to wait, he would wait until John was ready.

He would be lying if he said his own heart wasn't pounding behind his ribs, echoing in his ears while the blood circulated his system. He thought he was doing a pretty okay job at not letting it show. Because he needed to be steady on his feet.

He didn’t know what John would need. But he wasn’t leaving. Not now. Not when he finally saw the truth in how badly this man had been hurt. Which, yes, is a bit silly for two grown men who are super people, but Bob could care less. He was going to stay for John, he was going to be the shoulder he needed.

Notes:

Okay, y'all, I'm kinda burnt out. Like, I really enjoy writing this and my mind is always thinking about the next scene and the next idea, but a lot has been going on.

I would say I'm gonna take a break, but I won't. I love this story and these characters too much. Though, I admit, I'm going a little too crazy. The next chapter might be shorter, but It'll be easier for me and still progress the story. Not to mention I might try and what next chapter is....

Chapter 8: Grease on Skin

Notes:

Reminder: This is a safe, respectful creative space. If you're here to stalk, harass, or manipulate, you are not welcomed here.

Everyone else, enjoy the fanfic. And btw, I won't be having a stalker ruin my story and my space. I won't let them take my abuse and make it theirs AGAIN.

also, I didn't proofread.

John sat at the small kitchen table, the bowl of pasta before him untouched. The other man sat across, watching him with a predatory grin.

John couldn't believe what he was wearing, or more so lack there of. He wore a pink two piece lingerie set with lacy boxers that were tailored to his size. On top, he had a sparkly pink bralette that made his pecs look like round, womanly breasts.

"Eat," A voice commanded, his voice low and insistent.

John hesitated, the fork in his hand trembling slightly. He had learned long ago that hesitation was dangerous. With a deep breath, he stabbed a piece of pasta and brought it to his mouth, forcing himself to chew.

The man watched intently, his eyes never leaving John's face, even given the view he had. "Good," he murmured, as if John had performed some trick.

John swallowed, the food sitting heavy in his stomach. He wanted to push the bowl away, to stand up and leave, but he knew better. He had learned to endure, to comply, and to survive. He learned that his voice didn't mean much if he was going to get used by someone at the end of the day.

The man reached across the table, his hand brushing John's. "You're mine now," he said softly, a statement, not a question.

All John could do was smile, his skin flushing against the teasing lace. This was just how relationships in the Army were like.

John blinked. The memory didn’t fade it stayed like grease on his skin. It clung to the back of his throat, sour and unspoken. It's possible it was the vomit instead, but John was already standing up to clean himself over the sink.

He stared at himself in the mirror. The overhead light buzzed above, washing him in a cold, sterile glow that made his skin look almost colorless. His bloodshot eyes didn’t look like his. They never really did anymore these days. He hadn't looked at himself since Lemar died.

He leaned forward until his palms were flat against the counter, elbows locked. His breath fogged the glass, and when it cleared, he was still there. Still a body built on ruined memories and stitched-together control.

He tried to breathe, to take control back in this situation. He tries his best to remind himself that his mind is playing tricks, so does his body. It's confused. That doesn't get rid of the feeling of dread in his stomach and how his cock got hard about the idea of getting fucked again.

John wiped a hand over his mouth, smearing away nothing besides his nerves. He didn’t want to be seen like this, but it was too late. Everyone had seen how he reacted. Maybe not everything, but enough to start pulling at the edge of what John worked hard to keep sealed.

His hands trembled as he pushed off the sink. The ache in his knees reminded him of the position he'd been in. The position they always liked him in.

He looked at himself one last time. Messy blonde hair that stuck to his forehead, a lack of a shirt but it showed the scars from battle instead of the self-inflicted ones on his thighs. He looked like a man who should be left alone.

He looked like a man who was still waiting for it to happen again. Waiting for the pain, the sex, and the imitation of love. Waiting for the cycle to restart—hands on skin, mouths telling lies, and the flood of shame that always followed. He looked like someone who’d been trained to take it. To make himself disappear in his own body while it happened.

And worse—he looked like someone who missed the attention. Or missed the idea of it. The longing burned under his ribs, an ache that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with hunger. Not for sex, but for connection. For a warm body to press against in the dark. For someone to hold him without taking anything.

That ache was the worst part.

The one that made him feel disgusting.

Jaw clenched, he looked away from his own reflection. It was easier than facing the shame on his own face. He turned from the mirror and walked out. The bathroom light hummed behind him, indifferent to the severity of his feelings. The door clicked shut behind him, but it didn’t feel like anything had really closed.

And outside, Bob was still there. He just stood there, waiting for John. Not quite how John was waiting, but waiting nonetheless.

John froze in front of the doorway. His body still felt too raw, like he hadn’t finished panicking. Like his skin wasn’t all the way on. The moment stretched in silence, neither of them saying a word. Just breathing the same air, just existing too close.

John didn’t know how to start. He didn’t exactly know how to face Bob, knowing he’d seen the journal. Knowing he’d probably read it, even just a glimpse. His guts twisted with the humiliation of it, the vulnerability, the helplessness. That book was his worst self, scratched out in ink. The part of him he never wanted anyone to see.

Not Bob, not someone who’d kissed him like he mattered. Someone who didn't need to know his insides to see him as an option in anything.

He wanted to speak, to take control back with some kind of joke or apology, but nothing came. The words wouldn’t work. His mouth felt dry, his chest too tight.

And Bob was still standing there.

John stepped out away from the doorway. He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room, slow and silent, like the floor might collapse if he moved too fast. His eyes were still red, his hair stuck up in damp, uneven directions from his hands clawing through it. He knew how he looked, and he wondered if Bob could stomach the sight.

The journal was still there. Right on the bed where he left it.

Bob hadn’t touched it, but he didn’t back away either. John knew the page—albeit, older— had held so much anger for everything from the dick he missed and his feelings for Bob. He stood near the edge of the mattress, his expression unreadable, too many things behind his eyes. Concern, guilt, something close to panic trying hard to look like calm.

John grabbed the journal and held it against his chest with both hands. The red pen rolled onto the sheets and hit the floor in the silent room.

"You shouldn’t have read it,” John's voice was raw, his throat needed water. “That wasn’t for you.”

Bob stepped back a little, like he didn’t want to get in the way of whatever this was going to be. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I heard you in there. You sounded like something was wrong.” Concern rolled off his tongue in such a pleasant way to John, he wondered for a moment if he would still hold that concern if he told him how he enjoyed a cock.

John’s grip on the notebook tightened, shame filling his red ears. “You still shouldn’t have read it.”

“I didn’t read all of it,” Bob quickly defended himself, hands slightly raised as if not to frighten. “Just the first few lines. I was worried—” He stopped himself, swallowed the rest of the sentence.

“I’m fine,” John snapped at the brunette.

Bob's timid demeanor was still there, but instead, he squinted his eyes. “You’re not.”

That made John look up, he didn’t mean to, but it happened. And Bob was still looking at him with that face. That face like he gave a shit, like he wanted to help. Like he wasn’t the problem.

“You don’t get to decide that,” John only got quieter, unable to lie very well while he held the evidence. “You don’t know what that was. It’s just… old stuff.”

“Old stuff that made you run out of a room and throw up?” Bob shot back in a way John had never seen before.

Bob took a half step closer, slow and careful, hands in his pockets now. “You don’t have to lie about it. Whatever that was, you don’t have to be alone in it. I can—”

“You can’t,” John cut in. The journal was still clutched to his chest like a lifeline. “You can’t fix it. It’s not something you put your hand on and make better.” John huffed wanting to put a shirt back on, but his feet wouldn't move.

Bob was stuck in that place between wanting to reach out and knowing it’d only push harder. His voice dropped. “Why did it hit you like that?” he asked. “Was it because of me?” His hand was placed on his chest, as if wanting to open himself up to John.

John's mouth opened, then closed. The silence that followed was way too long. Bob looked at him. Really looked. And John hated how that made him feel—like glass being held up to the light. "John..."

His face didn’t twist in anger, but something close to it flickered behind his eyes, disbelief, maybe. Mistrust? Pain buried deep enough that it turned defensive before it ever turned vulnerable. He couldn't have Bob of all people trying to help him. He let out a short, bitter breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tired.

“I’ve been alone in it for years, I’m not suddenly gonna forget how to do that because someone touched my fucking knee and then felt bad about it.” John retorted back, focusing on something else Bob had said.

Bob’s face fell, as if he had been trying to keep it all together for John. As if anyone could be trying for him. “That’s not what this is, I’m not here out of guilt.” He sounded so defeated, his want for John lingering deep in a way that made him uncomfortable.

“No? Then what is it?” John shot back, voice rising just a notch. “You read one page—one fucking page—and now what? You’re gonna hold my hand through it? Sit on the floor and play therapist? You don't even know me, Bob. You don't know anything!"

He saw Bob’s shoulders stiffened as he raised his voice. But Bob kept himself as leveled as he could in the moment. He watched as Bob took a small step to him.

“I’m not trying to fix you, John,” he spoke more firmly now. “I just—God, I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d rather be in here ripping your skin off alone than have someone say, ‘Hey, you don’t deserve that.’”

John's fingers curled tightly around the edges of the journal, the paper crinkling under the pressure. His breath was shallow and uneven as he stood there, rooted to the spot. The weight of Bob's gaze bore into him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet it. Not when everything he'd tried to bury was laid bare between them.

Bob shifted, his presence a silent question. "John, I—"

"Don't," John interrupted, his voice low but firm. He took a step back, distancing himself both physically and emotionally. The journal felt like a lifeline, something solid to hold onto in the midst of the storm raging inside him.

Bob hesitated, then took a cautious step forward. "I'm not here to judge you," he was soft, and warm through his words. "I just want to help."

John's laugh was bitter, devoid of humor. "Help?" he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "You think you can help me? You think you can do anything?"

He turned away, pacing the room in tight, controlled steps. His mind raced, thoughts colliding in a chaotic storm. He had to regain control. He had to protect himself.

Bob watched him, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. "John, I—"

"Just leave it alone, okay?" John snapped, spinning around to face him. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions. "I don't need your pity. I don't need your help. I just need you to go."

For a moment, there was silence. Bob stood frozen, his heart aching at the rawness of John's pain. He wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that might ease the tension. But the words eluded him.

Finally, he nodded, the movement slow and reluctant. "Okay," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'll go."

As Bob turned to leave, John sank onto the bed, the journal falling from his grasp and landing with a soft thud on the floor next to the red pen. He stared at it, the words on the pages blurring as tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them away angrily, cursing himself for showing weakness.

And John was alone again.

And Bob actually left him.

Notes:

Well, that's fun. I'm sorry for any errors I really didn't proof read and I wrote most of this very late last night. Things might be all mixed up, but eh. Enjoy as much as you can.

ALSO IK I said I'll be taking a break... I lied. I gotta write all that I can until I won't have any access for a week.

Kisses y'all!

Chapter 9: Coffee, Silence, and a Hersey Bar

Notes:

I'm back from mini boot camp y'all!!! It was crazy and really put my life into perspective. Anyways, no matter what, I won't stop writing. Though it made me feel a little silly, going from so chronically online to not having any social media or electronics. It... was good.

Now the story.

John stayed in the room, the door clicking shut behind Bob, though the sound felt distant. Bob was gone, but his absence screamed louder than any argument could. The silence in the room had turned suffocating. John could hear his own pulse, thumping in his ears, like it was the only thing still working properly.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fists pressing into the mattress like he could anchor himself through it. He had never been good at this— letting people in, letting them see the things he buried deep. Letting them see the parts of him that weren't strong, weren't put together. The journal had been his last refuge, but even that felt like a betrayal now. Bob had read it. Bob had seen him. And that terrified him.

He wonders if he saw it. Saw how he wrote in detail about his countless assaults, or if it was just him writing down his day arguing with Bucky.

The memory of Bob's face—his eyes, full of concern, confusion, but something else too— lingered in the back of John's mind. It wasn't the same kind of pity he was used to. Bob hadn't looked at him like a broken thing, but like... something else. Something that made John feel raw, vulnerable, exposed.

And then he had pushed him away.

John grabbed the journal off the floor and threw it across the room with a frustrated grunt. It landed on the floor with a soft thud, the pages splayed out, exposing all the words he never wanted anyone to read. The anger built up in him like a storm cloud—everything he'd been holding back for days, weeks, months, now bursting in one violent eruption.

Why did Bob stay? Why hadn't he just left? Everyone else had. He couldn't help but wonder if he was the problem. What was wrong with him? What made him so unlovable? So broken?

The bedroom light flickered again, casting shadows on the walls. John stared at himself in the full body mirror he had across from his bed, the same man he saw every day. But today, he didn't recognize the look in his eyes. A man who'd been pretending to be something he wasn't. A soldier who had never learned how to stop being a soldier.

You're not a hero anymore, Walker.

The words were like a cut, a jagged, open wound he didn't know how to heal. He had been chasing glory for so long, believing that wearing a shield would somehow make him feel whole again. But all it had done was hide the cracks.

John didn't know how long he stood there, staring at himself, his thoughts spinning in chaotic loops. He wanted to scream, to break something, to feel anything other than this suffocating silence. But the only thing that moved was his reflection.

A soft knock at the door. John froze, his heart leaping in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he thought he imagined it. That the sound was just another trick his mind was playing on him.

But then it came again, the knock softer this time, almost tentative.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn't want to answer. He didn't want anyone to see him like this—not Bob, not anyone. The last thing he needed was for someone else to see him weak, to see him falling apart at the seams.

But the knock came again, insistent.

John gripped the edge of the counter, his fingers trembling as he forced himself to breathe, to pull himself together, to stop feeling like he was about to shatter. He didn't want to open the door. Didn't want to face anyone right now. He'd just pushed Bob away. What the hell was he supposed to say?

But the knock lingered, and for some reason, he felt this strange pull, like something deep inside him wanted to know who was on the other side of that door. He didn't have to open it, but...

He walked toward it, slowly, cautiously, as if the world beyond the door might shatter the moment he stepped outside.

When he finally turned the handle and opened it, there was no one there.

Only a small, folded piece of paper on the ground.

John bent down and picked it up, his fingers hesitant. His eyes darted over the simple, messy handwriting on the paper:

"You don't have to go through this alone. I'm still here. Whenever you're ready."

—Bob

The words hit him harder than anything else Bob hadn't left him, not really. But he had given John space to breathe, space to fight this fight on his own terms.

John's fingers tightened around the paper, crumpling it slightly in his fist. He stared at it for a long time, the emptiness in his chest growing. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? he wondered, the tension between anger and something else—something softer, something scarier—building in his chest.

Bob hadn't walked away. He'd waited. He'd given John the chance to figure this out. But John didn't know how to figure this out. He didn't know how to take that small offering, that tiny piece of hope, and make it into something more. He didn't know how to let someone in. How to be vulnerable without feeling like he was losing everything he'd built.

He walked back to the bed, the crumpled paper still in his hand. He tossed it onto the nightstand, where it landed with a soft rustle. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed again, his head in his hands.

For a moment, the silence was all-encompassing. The world outside felt miles away. But then, it wasn't so much the silence that gripped him, but the weight of his own thoughts—the memories he couldn't outrun, the feelings he couldn't escape.

And Bob's words lingered, a quiet echo in the back of his mind: I'm still here.

But was he?

John didn't know. He wasn't sure he could accept that yet.

He stood up, the sudden motion sharp, like his body was protesting the stillness he'd allowed himself to fall into. He needed to do something. Anything to stop the spiraling.

But even as he walked toward the window and stared out into the dark city lights, the thought hung there, heavy and uncertain: Bob was still there.

The problem was, John wasn't sure he was ready to let him stay.

---

But the next morning, there was a cup of black coffee waiting on the kitchen counter. No note laid around it. There was no explanation, but the coffee was hot, bitter, exactly how John took it. The mug didn’t match any of the others, either. It was one of those ugly souvenir ones from the touristy traps in New York, New York with a chipped rim and a stupid cartoon dog printed on the side. But it was his now, apparently.

John stared at it for a long minute before picking it up. He didn’t say thank you, didn't know when he would even say it.He didn’t drink it in front of anyone, but he did finish it. He drank the coffee so quickly it dribbled down his chin and stained his athletic white shirt.

The next morning, it happened again.

And the morning after that.

He didn’t ask Bob to stop, and Bob didn’t make a thing of it. It just became a fact of the day. Coffee, silence, and something John couldn’t name sitting thick in the air between them. It was suffocating, and he would rather have the man choke him for hours on end than let him play this game with him.

He started wearing long sleeves again, even when it was warm inside. Even when his skin itched and his scars tugged under the fabric. It was easier not having to explain. To keep his body hidden where it felt safer. He didn't make a big deal about cutting his wrists again, but his thighs were too scarred over for him to continue. The wrists bled too easily now, always have. They were too visible for day to day life. The thighs were safer, but they were out of room.

Bob didn’t mention it, not once, but John caught his eyes flicking to the fabric over his wrists, to the way John adjusted them when no one was looking. That kind of noticing that stung and soothed at the same time.

Sometimes John wondered if anyone else did this, if anyone else would leave gashes on their arms. He hadn't really looked, but he noticed Ava. Her skin seemed so smooth at all times, her arms barely had scars— even combat ones were less visible. He tried not to let his emotions eat at him, but of course a girl who had a twenty part skincare routine would have flawless, scarless skin.

By Friday, Alexei had declared it was movie night again. No one fought it. No one really argued with him. It was one of those rare, fragile hours when the Tower didn’t feel like a containment zone or a war camp. It mocked a home between the group of non-achievers.

The lights in the room that night were dim, so John felt comfort in his thin long sleeve. The TV buzzed softly as a B-grade action flick played, full of bad lines and worse editing, but no one really cared as they shared snacks and booze. Yelena heckled every explosion while Ava had commandeered the popcorn bowl and wouldn't give it up. Bucky, on the other hand, was pretending not to fall asleep sitting upright. Alexei had already finished a pack of beer and offered some to John, who quickly refused (He was not going to be drinking anytime soon).

John was already on the couch when Bob came in. He tried not to stiffen, but his body betrayed him, locking up for a split second before he could breathe through it. Bob didn’t say anything to him or the group, just looked at him with that unreadable expression and sat down beside him.

It was an awkward length away from him, since he didn't have enough room not to be so close, but still tried to give the other room.

John’s chest ached in a slow, stupid way he couldn’t control. He stared at the screen, but the movie blurred. The sounds fuzzed around the edges in a way he remembers when he used to sit in his cot that creaked more than before. His limbs felt heavy, but not in a bad way. His body couldn't understand if he was safest he could be, or if he was in danger and needed to go back to his room that smelt of metal and whatever filth he allowed from his body to pour out onto the floor.

He wonders if his crisis was clear, since Bob adjusted his shoulders and lightly tapped Johns with his in a silent manner. "I’m not going anywhere," Bob was quiet, maybe not just because there was a movie on, but like the words weren’t meant for anyone but him. Like a secret between them that no one else needed to hear.

John didn't respond, he didn't know where or if he should even start. Without thinking, John broke off a piece of a nearby Hershey bar and held it out. Bob took it like it meant something. Maybe it did. The other man gave John a lopsided smile that made the blonde turn away to focus on the screen. Though, he didn't even know where the movie left on.

He tried to drown out the noise around him, even tossed a blanket over himself to try and not watch how everyone looked at Bob. They would never look at him with such warmth and admiration.

Somewhere around the second act of the movie, his head tipped sideways. Just enough to rest against the edge of Bob’s shoulder. He hadn't meant to, but the so called "action" movie sucked so bad he started to feel sleepy. Or maybe he’d just bled too much this week. Hard to tell anymore. If his head didn't hurt, he wouldn't have done such a thing with the other man.

But Bob didn't move. Didn't move away or get closer, and a part of John enjoyed the feeling of not having hands on him, yet being close. John tried not to think about how Bob looked, if maybe he was making a face. Instead, he allowed himself to get closer.

John fell asleep like that, breathing soft, warm against the sleeve of Bob’s shirt. His hands were still fisted in his lap, but his jaw had unclenched. His shoulders had loosened just slightly from where they always lived, tight and pulled back as if he truly never stopped marching.

And Bob just sat there, watching the terrible movie play out while John slept beside him like something fragile that might break if the world got too loud again.

Just before his breathing evened out, John murmured a small, ‘Thank you.’ Bob looked down, but John was already out. He adjusted their position, letting John get closer to him on his chest.

Bob hesitated, but let his hand be placed on the messy hair that was John's gorgeous blonde. A silent way to let him know he always was going to be there.

Notes:

See? It's getting better... would be a shame if something was going to happen... Jk.... or am I?

Chapter 10: Military Fantasies

Notes:

GUYS WHY IS THERE NOT ENOUGH BOTTOM JOHN WORKS... I had to fight and figure out if a story will be bottom John or not. Like guys Bob might be a switch but JOHN TAKES IT UP THE ASS.

anyways, I have achieved the ultimate Rot Girl Summer by reading everything under sentryAgent (I translated Chinese works as well... I even read really OOC bottom Bob which was painful)

Also didn't proof read!

John woke up warm, almost too warm than he normally would. It wasn't uncommon for him to get warm and wake up sweating, but today it was different.

His brain didn't register the softness of the couch or the stale popcorn smell before it registered that his head had leaned too far sideways. His breath ghosted over fabric that wasn't his pillowcase nor his sheets.

He kept his eyes shut and tried not to panic as the familiar smell he had been trying to avoid lingered on the fabric. The longer he sat there, the more real it became. That he was leaning on someone. That he'd let his guard down. That someone saw him like this, that he saw him like this.

John lifted his head slow, like it might set off some alarm. The blanket still draped over him, the movie menu looping quietly in the background. When he opened his eyes and surveyed the room, he saw that everyone else was either asleep or too focused on pretending they weren't.

He glanced up at Bob, taking note of how the man had laid back to handle John's weight on his chest, even some of his blanket over his thighs. He seemed fine with the fact that John had slept on his shoulder. His eyes were open, watching the credits roll for what seemed like forever.

John stood up, letting the blanket fall off of him. He didn't dare look at Bob, even as he felt his eyes rack his body. Maybe he had just imagined that, but he swore Bob's eyes weren't focused on his back nor his legs, meeting somewhere in the middle. John just wanted to act like this didn't happen, that he didn't owe Bob anything. He must've still been tired, since he stifled a yawn and made his way to his own room. As he left, he turned his head to see Bob and a very obvious tent in his pants. 

He shouldn't have looked, shouldn't have let his cheeks flush at the thought Bob had been checking him out. 

Was this wrong? To blush about another man he had tried not hate, a man he wanted to have hurt him.

"Sir? Why...?" A very young John asked, slightly tipsy from the shots he took that night. He hadn't meant to get this drunk, but he kept getting his coke with Jack and sharing shots.

A hand felt up his shirt, civilian attire which was appropriate for the dingy bar they sneaked out of base to. 

"I want you to cut your thigh.."

He wouldn't have listened to that any other day, but the man kept whispering while his chest pressed against the blondes back. John didn't recognize where he was— against a wall? Bathroom? Maybe he was still sat, just in the other man's lap. Which seemed most likely since he felt a hard cock under him. "It feels good, trust me." Maybe it was because he was drinking, but he gripped the pocket knife tighter and gave a teasing, slow cut along right above the knee where his shorts ended when he sat. 

He smiled at the praise, but whined at the feeling of the blood dripping out of his open wound. John really tried not to gasp as the mans free hand squeezed at the wound, even teasing a finger around the cut as if it was a virgin slit.

And in some sense, John felt like it when his fingers probed.

The coffee was waiting on the counter the next morning. It was in 'his' mug— that ugly souvenir mug with the same bitter blend he enjoyed. No not laid for him today, and the kitchen laid bare before him. No one saw how John wretched into the sink, or how he then ate ice cream for breakfast.

And of course he had just gotten a text about a meeting in an hour. He finished the ice cream and tossed the dirty dishes into the sink.

John stood in front of the mirror that day too long. He noticed every blemish on his face and how his beard looked more scruffy than he intended for it to be. Maybe it was the lights, how bright and unforgiving they were on his marked skin.

In some way, he could barely recongize himself when he looked in the mirror. He didn't have a sweet look like he did when his mom got him ready for boy scouts, he didn't have the free care when he had a mirror to share with Olivia. 

The blade sat on the edge of the sink. Not the kind he used when things got really bad, just the normal kind he used to shave. But he held it too long, as if he had truly debated making it another bloody razor to add to his collection. He brought the razor to his cheek that was covered in shaving foam.

His old CO had always liked it clean, said it showed pride."You're a soldier, Walker. Look like one." He remembered the way he used to run a hand along John's jaw after an inspection. How rough his palm was, and how his fingers seemed to remember every time they entered John. His hand was always tight around him in some way, just enough to let him know who was in charge.

"Good. You look like you know your place."

The memory made his stomach twist, but his hand kept moving. He watched as his beard was gone, revealing his smooth skin. He was careful not to nick at himself, or else he would only focus on the blood and not the half shave.

As he shaved, he wondered what Bob liked more. Did he like the scruffy beard or a smooth face that would remind him of maybe a younger man. Maybe a smooth face would make him look like he could handle anything Bob would do. Maybe...

Maybe John wanted to shave his face and see how Bob reacted. What if he didn't like it? he did this for him.

Then he washed his face until it stung, trying to push down the horrible, sick feeling that reeked in his stomach. He pulled out a cologne bottle he hadn't used since his last date with Olivia and sprayed it once into the sink before deciding against it. Cologne might've been too desperate just to see Bob in passing.

After, he went back into his room that smelt of a hospital if anything. He cornered his closet that held more clothes than he would like to admit. He grabbed a few options of shirts, pants, and even wore the tightest pair of boxers he had.

He changed around three times— were corduroy pants too trendy? Jeans might've not been as comfortable as he wanted. Then he had to decide what shirt matched. Was blue too patriotic? But a band shirt was too casual.

John settles on a fitted long-sleeve Henley in dark gray. It was plain, soft, clinging just enough anyone would give a second take. The sleeves are tugged down to his wrists in an attempt at hiding what they need to. To be safe, he wrapped his cuts in gauze in case the sleeves showed too much. He pairs it with tapered black utility pants, they sat perfectly on him. It was something he wore before, yes, but he didn't wear them much ever since Ava joked about how they made his ass look. 

His boots are matte black, military-style but toned down— not laced all the way, just enough to look casual, even though he tied and retied them until the loops were perfect. 

His hair was freshly combed, then deliberately mussed, then combed again. To anyone else, it’s just a clean, low-key look. To John, it’s a calculation — every line, every fabric, a quiet plea for Bob to notice. He even decided to go back and spray just a bit of the cologne he denied himself earlier.

When he walked out of the room, he didn't feel clean. Or even put together. He suddenly felt like a fraud when he stood in the hallway. Would anyone question his attire?

The meeting room was quiet except for the shuffle of chairs and the buzz of a ceiling vent. Usually, someone would have been making noise but the room was grime if anything.

The table was long, cold steel, a dozen chairs filled with people who didn't really belong anywhere else. Alexei had been glued to his tablet, a gift from Mel who thought it was funny how much he reminded her of her grandpa. Yelena yawned dramatically all while Ava balanced a pen between her fingers like she was ready to throw it at someone. Bucky looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Of course, Val had been scrolling on her phone while having a sip of whatever alcohol she brought with her.

John tried his best to look as normal as possible, moving his limbs as if they weren't his own. John took his usual seat near the end of the table, an open chair conveniently to the right of him. He decided to keep his hands in his lap, tugging at the sleeves to stay over the edges of his wrists.

And then Bob walked in. John felt himself smiling at the man, the same smile he had been practicing for a while this morning. He knew his teeth were pearly white, and his lips smooth from a cherry chapstick.

Bob took a moment to survey the room and walked over to the empty chair right beside John. Normally, the man would sit next to Yelena, or even between Ava and Bucky. He would never have sat by John. 

But today, he did sit next to John. The blonde tried to control his face, but he was sure Bob noticed the red tips of his ears.

If he had, he didn't mention them. He didn't speak to John, but he didn't need to when John would've sucked him off right in front of everyone.

John shifted just slightly in the uncomfortable seat, hoping no one took mention of it, as it would've been embarrassing to mention how his hole was practically begging to be filled once again.

'He'll see it. He'll smell the cologne. He'll know I'm trying. God, he'll know I'm trying to be what he wants.' John thought to himself.

But what if he didn't want that? What if he didn't want anything? What if this was all just Bob being nice, and John was reading too much into every fucking breath?

He dug his fingernails into his palms beneath the table to stabilize himself. He knew what he was doing, who he was doing this for, and it wasn't Bob.

Stop. Just stop. You're not there anymore. You're not back there.

You're not trying to be fuckable to survive.

You're not performing for someone who'll ruin you the second you're not enough.

John had no idea what this meeting was about. Instead of dreaming about the brunette's hands down his pants, he thought of every other time he had meetings with him.

"Oh, so what else will we do about the attacks?" He could hear them speak above him, but he didn't care. John's mouth was filled with disgusting cock he adored so much. It smelt just like it did before, sweat and artificial oranges. The salty pre-cum lingered in the back of his throat as he hollowed out his cheeks.

"F-fuck, sorry, this is just.. a lot to handle..." John shouldn't have enjoyed the fact he was the one undoing this man, but his own cock wept onto the floor.

John was beat that night, saying he had "Almost costed their cover with his mouth." And that, "Maybe next time, I'll make you whore yourself to them." 

When Val had finally stopped speaking— something about PR?— John bolted out of the room before he even noticed how Bob tried to reach out for him.

He couldn't breathe, the hallway seemed to close in on him the more he raced to his room. Maybe it was how white the lights were. Whatever it was, he could see him.

Not Bob. Him. The other one. The way he used to talk softly, like it was affection. Hands moving like they had the right. That low voice saying, “You clean up nice, Baby Blues. You want me to like you, don’t you?”

He slammed his door behind him and leaned against it, chest heaving. Sweat clung cold to the back of his neck. His shirt felt too tight against his skin and for once he was thankful for the gauze that covered his wrists.

“Stop,” he whispered to the empty room. “Stop, stop, stop—” He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry. But his throat burned like he had.

He crossed the room fast, dropping to his knees by the bed. The man pulled the journal from under the bed. Why? He didn't know, but his hands shook as he flipped it open to a clean page, a page that mocked the scars on his skin and his ass that housed memories of different cum.

The pen in his fist dug into the paper, ink carving out the things he couldn’t let live in his mouth.

"Bob could never love me, and I'm so stupid for thinking there was a change. Especially n ot if he knew everything.  Not if he saw the things I’ve done. The things I let happen.

He doesn’t see it yet, the way I broke myself down so someone else could own me.  I wasn’t just used. I made myself easy to use. I made it simple. I learned how to be what he wanted because it was safer than saying no.  I let it happen, over and over, and I told myself I had control as long as I was the one who wanted it first.

But I didn’t ever have control, I gave it away. I gave all of me away.

I would touch him back. I smiled. I whispered things I didn’t mean. I also had a wife at home who loved me more than anything.  And that’s the worst part... I performed like it was love. Like I wanted it b ecause needing to be wanted felt better than being nothing at all.

Bob could never love someone like that.  Not someone who made himself a fucking prop for military fantasies.  He’d look at me differently if he knew the truth. He’d see the rot under the surface.

I don’t know how to be held without wondering what I have to give in return.
I don’t know how to be touched without bracing for pain.
I don’t know how to be good unless I’m earning it.

He deserves someone clean, someone soft. Someone not made of barbed wire and shame.

He doesn't know me, and I don't know if I even know me anymore."

 

Notes:

Yay! I'm so happy this man is in pain. I'm thinking next chapter he whores himself, or worse... hehehe... stay tuned for that one!

Chapter 11: White Suits You, Johnny.

Notes:

Man, get ready y'all.... I hope you enjoy this very rushed chapter.

The kitchen was quiet in the way mornings always were before the rest of the team started dragging in, no one fully awake yet. But John was, and he enjoyed how alone he was in the kitchen. More so how in control he was.

The pan sizzled as he flipped eggs with mechanical precision. Bacon was already crisping in the oven. Toast lined up like soldiers on a plate. He didn't need to do this, no one had asked him to. But it gave him something to do with his hands besides clench them. This made him useful, even if it was just feeding the others.

He'd just started plating when he heard voices filter in from the hallway, letting him know the group was coming. Probably following the source of smell.

Yelena's first, and John tried to block out her talking to the others. "A gala? Ugh, pass. I look terrible in anything that doesn't have a knife."

Then Bucky's grumble filled his ears, even though he seemed reluctant to be there. "It's mandatory." He sighed, leaning against the counter top.

Ava chimed in from behind them, and John could hear her feet dragging in her slippers. "Yeah, Val wants everyone scrubbed clean for some rich assholes and a few photo ops. Military Barbie PR."

The second a loud laugh boomed in the room, everyone groaned. "I demand tuxedo with bear on front. Shows strong man!" Which got a head shake from Yelena.

John didn't turn around. Just set down the spatula a little too hard as the situation finally set in. A Gala. 

Of course, a perfect little stage to polish them up and parade them out. Smile, wave, let Val launder blood money through crystal champagne flutes while the "New Avengers" played dress-up. It was everything they needed on paper, but He didn't need to ask if he had to go. He regretfully knew the answer to that one.

Bob's voice was last to enter, and John wondered if he had always been with the group or came in late. "I don't think I even own a suit anymore." He could hear the frown Bob let linger on his lips.

John hated how fast his heart reacted to the sound. He hated it more than the idea of the Gala. Bob's voice was rough with sleep, and he could only imagine how he looked.

He kept his back turned as the team filtered in around the table, all talk of dress codes and dancing and who was going to get the most drunk. If John could, it would be him, no doubt.

No one noticed his silence, they never did. He might've been part of the group, but if he vanished, he doubted anyone would notice.

He had been hanging for a few minutes now. It seemed the serum healed his neck before he could properly hang himself, which left him there in this shitty motel for a while longer.

He undid the noose, letting himself fall onto the dirty carpet. He turned his head, wondering why he didn't shoot his brains out.

He handed Bucky a plate, simply since he was the closes to him. "Here." the plate was filled with everything he could find in the kitchen, even making sure it was more bland for Bucky's taste buds.

"Damn, Walker. You trying to win us over with breakfast?" Bucky teased, something he didn't usually do but it seemed the group made him more playful. He sat at the stools, already digging into the food.

"No," John softly muttered. "Just figured I'd do something useful." His shoulders had begun to slouch as he handed plates to everyone else.

He caught Bob's eyes for half a second as he handed him the plate. Maybe it was a thank you, or a question. But John couldn't hold a look, worried that Bob saw behind his shaved face, maybe smelt the regret or the vomit that lingers.

John looked away first.

---

John stood in front of the mirror with the uniform laid out behind him like a second skin waiting to be worn. Every piece of it was exact, press and polished to his liking. His dress blues hadn't seen the light in years, but he still knew how to handle them like ritual.

He'd already re-shaved, just to make sure his skin was as smooth as it could possibly be. A pink line curved along his jaw from where the blade slipped. He didn't put a bandage on it, let it sting and let it remind him he was still there.

He took off his t-shirt and peeled it off slowly, careful around his shoulder, the one that never healed quite right after Bucky fucked it up. The cool air hit his bare skin, and so did the mirror.

There they were. The scars he hid under gauze. He had to reapply the gauze, which is the only reason he was staring at the marks he littered his skin with.

They bulged at him, some were from battle, yes— like the scar across his ribs from a bullet being removed, or on his back from when he scratched it up under a piece of wire— but others were imprints of him. Intimately him and his shame formed from unfinished suicide attempts and sick thoughts.

He stared for too long, unable to tear his gaze from how some of them were soft purple shades, others were pinks. He had to force his eyes back onto the uniform on his bed.

"Don't," he muttered, barely above a breath. "Not tonight." He told no one besides himself. He silently put the gauze back around his thighs and his wrists. Then, he moved onto his uniform.

The jacket slid on like a memory. He tugged at the cuffs, adjusted the collar, smoothed every line with mechanical precision. The medals were already pinned, each one gleaming. Each one earned. Each one a lie.

"I—I don't think I deserve this." He stared down at his first medal, it had been after the ceremony and he was in a conference room with him. 

"Of course you do! Johnny... You have helped everyone here. Including me." His hand was softer today than others, gently cradling John's cheek. For some reason, John chuckled and looked away.

By the time he was fully dressed, he almost looked like someone else. Someone clean and someone together. That's why he loved his uniform, it made him feel as if he was anyone besides himself.

But the mirror still knew better, it mocked his appearance, letting him know his ass was a little too big for the pants and made him look like he was begging. His shoulders were too broad to look normal in the uniform, and his stomach must've grown in size.

His hands hovered over the drawer where he kept his journal, then pulled back. Not tonight, he had no time to bleed on paper. He could fall apart later and that would be in public where cameras would corner him. So, for now, he needed to focus on his smile, salute, and just survive the night.

John walked out to their shared living area, glancing at everyone already dressed and ready, besides Bob and Ava. She seemed to be applying false lashes (and they weren't going well), and Bob was getting fumbling with his tie. 

The men wore similar black suits, while Yelena wore an emerald green dress that was only one sleeve, her hair styled in a way he could compare to a woman in the 1940's. Ava, on the other hand, was wearing a tight red dress that was slightly scandalous if it wasn't for how confident the girl was in wearing the sleeved dress.

John frowned as Yelena struggled with Ava's lashes, both of them bathed in the golden light from the windows as the sun set. No one seemed to be helping Bob. Maybe he should help.

Before he could ignore that line of thought, he was standing in front of the brunette man who had his hair slicked back to look as put together as possible. John silently took the tie from him, but couldn't stand the silence when they were so close.

"How are you this old and you don't know how to tie a tie? I swear, we should've gotten you a clip on one." He cursed himself, of course the first time he's talked to Bob in a while had been him tearing the other man down.

Bob only gave John a chuckle, "I was busy. I didn't need to wear a tie unless I was going to a funeral. Which was... once?" John only hummed as he finished. He placed his hand on his chest, pretending he was smoothing out the tie.

He took a second to look over Bob's boring black suit, so was his tie. But he could see the golden shimmer that hid in the fine print.

His trance was broken by Mel, who came in wearing a dark green suit, "The car is ready... Val wants everyone to show up together." And it seemed that Ava had finished putting on her strip lashes as well. John pulled away from Bob, and walked to the elevator, while everyone else followed.

---

The black SUV slowed to a stop in front of the grand entrance. Floodlights cut through the early evening like search beams, and photographers clustered behind velvet ropes, waiting to capture every moment.

Yelena gasped and looked at Bob, "It's at the Met!" Bob smiled, but he had no idea what it was besides the Met Gala— which sadly, wasn't this gala.

John's breath caught as the doors opened. The weight of the uniform felt heavier now— every medal, every ribbon, gleaming under the relentless glare of cameras. He didn't want this, but here he was. He was the second one to the door, besides Val.

Val was already out, smiling wide and waving like this was a party, not a war zone for the public's love. Her suit was a sparkly silver that made John's head hurt. She beckoned him forward, pulling the team along like a parade.

Bucky and Yelena exchanged quiet jokes as they stepped out before John, as if sensing that John didn't want to leave first. Alexei looked amused, like this was a strange costume party he'd been invited to— John took a note of the embroidered bear to his side. Ava followed close behind, her eyes scanning the crowd.

John glanced at Bob, who gave him a small nod — a silent, trusting push forward. That made it worse. John stepped out of the SUV and instantly was bombarded with flashing cameras all around him. He smiled, just as he had practiced for years.

"Colonel Walker!" a suited man greeted, extending a hand with practiced enthusiasm. John shook it, offering a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes.

'Colonel' This guy clearly knew nothing about him or the military and it showed.  But John made sure he was polite on the red velvet carpet leading inside.

More flashes. More names and faces John barely registered anything going on around him, he felt like a mannequin caught in a storm of adoration he didn't want.

He edged away from the crowd toward the bar, grateful for the dimmer corner, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation. His fingers curled around the glass of whiskey Val had ordered him, the amber liquid steadying his shaking hands.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bob. He seemed more calm than John would've assumed in such a loud setting. Maybe he was dissociating, but watching him laugh at something Bucky said diminished that idea.

John looked down at his glass. Even Bob was more calm than he was, and that had to be an issue.

Thankfully, the bar gave him enough room to breathe, not having to deal with the horrible jokes or signing autographs.

John swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber ripple. He hadn't even taken a sip. Just the weight of it in his hand grounded him better than the words anyone might try to say.

Behind him, the gala was still going on with laughter and talking. He could almost focus on Val's overly sweet words, or maybe Yelena doing her best to pick up the blonde who John overheard was royalty from Norway.

John focused on the burn in his thighs instead, the stiffness of the dress shoes, the way the uniform collar scratched the back of his neck. He welcomed the discomfort since it was better than any thoughts he was having. 

A man stepped up beside him. Now, John didn't look to see who it was. Just someone coming to the bar. If they were going up to him, it was probably a donor or someone who wanted to talk about his time in the military.

But then he heard the voice. It was familiar, and smooth. "Well, If it isn't Captain Walker."

John didn’t dare tense— the glass would shatter. But his heart was already trying to escape, pounding like it wanted out through bone.

He slowly turned, as though his body was moving through water, and made eye contact with the man he dreaded to see.

Everything about him was the same as John remembered, his smile, his eyes. He was older, yes, and maybe a bit softer in the face, but he was still the same man. He was predatory under it all, gleaming with the same look that let John know he clearly still remembered him.

He wore a charcoal-gray suit with a subtle flag pin on the lapel, his tie neat and understated. Like he belonged here. Like he was supposed to be standing in front of John.

The man extended a hand towards John. "Been a long time," he chuckled, like it was nothing. Like it was just a simple reunion of old friends. 

But John couldn't get over it. The same man who once held him down, the same man who demeaned his masculinity to appear stronger than the soldier.

John's grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles whitened. He didn’t take the outstretched hand— he simply couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move. His mind was already screaming, but his muscles held the line, too disciplined, too well-trained to let him flinch or run.

The man still smelled the same. That musky cologne he used to wear was rich and clean, like cedar and leather, and it curled around John like smoke. He must’ve loved it, must’ve known it stuck. John had once been obsessed with it. Now it made his stomach lurch.

The voice came again, quieter this time. “I was proud of you, you know,” the man smiled, his tone was warm like it meant something. “Always said you had potential.”

John felt something twist deep in his gut. He still couldn't speak or move. His face held steady, expression blank. His heart beat behind his ribs like a warning, but on the outside he was still the soldier.

He wanted to throw the drink at the man, maybe wanted to leave. But all he could do was stand there and let his skin burn underneath his uniform.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement— Bob, walking toward them, easy and unaware. He didn’t know what he was walking into. Didn’t know who this man was. Didn’t know that John couldn’t breathe around this man.

John took his hand because Bob was watching. That was the only reason. If he pulled away, if he let anything crack through the surface, Bob would see too much, and John couldn’t afford that. So he stepped into the moment like it meant nothing. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Cain,” the blonde spoke, his voice controlled. The name landed like a dull hit to the chest. Cain smiled, that same clean, polished smile that always masked something else. 

“Captain Walker,” Cain said again, the way someone says a pet’s name. “Didn’t expect to see you here." He was looking so polished. His grip was firm, a little too confident, and it lingered longer than it needed to. John didn’t flinch like wanted to. He just nodded once, carefully. He didn’t let himself look at Bob—not yet. All he could do was hold the act together.

"Cain! How's the white on me?" John stepped out, giving him a full view of him in a white suit of all things. He couldn't remember where they were or why he wore the suit.

"White suits you, Johnny. I always said you looked better when you weren't trying to be the tough guy, Pretty Eyes."

Notes:

Yay! I love torturing this fine ass man! I have been plotting this since like chapter 5? Well, I'm currently working on the next chapter haha.

Chapter 12: Lieutenant Colonel Cain

Notes:

My dad called me... So... I'm doing great. And because I'm tooottaallly doing great, John must feel my wrath.

The bar was a quiet corner in a building made for noise, tucked beneath the hum of orchestras and the bright flash of cameras. It was a space where John thought he could breathe again—until Cain stepped up beside him.

And now he couldn’t feel his chest. Couldn’t feel the floor under his shoes. He tried to stabilize himself and think about things to calm him. He just had to try not to fall back into the older man's arms.

Then came Bob. He wore a goofy smile, having no idea what was going on between the two ex-lovers.

“There you are,” Bob said with a grin, coming to stand beside John without hesitation. “Took me forever to get to the bar. You wouldn’t believe how many people want to shake my hand for doing nothing!" And for a second—just one second—John wanted to close his eyes and let himself lean into the sound of him. Bob had been stressing him out, but his voice soothed his tense muscles, slightly.

Bob cradled a drink— probably some off-brand cola— his smile easy, his shoulders relaxed. “You missed Yelena almost punching a lady." John just stared at Bob, not wanting Cain to hear how shaky his voice would definitely be.

“Hey,” Bob continued, finally looking toward Cain. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He rubbed his sweaty hand on his side, the other held his drink carefully.

Cain's grin stretched, slow and deliberate, like a man enjoying the sound of someone breaking. “Not at all, we were just catching up.” He offered Bob his hand again, which Bob took with polite instinct. Val had to have Mel give Bob classes on etiquette, though, it fell a bit flat.

“Lieutenant Colonel Cain,” the man introduced himself, like his name was something people should remember. “Johnny and I served together overseas.”

“Bob Reynolds,” Bob returned, still light. “Nice to meet you.” He had no idea John was teetering on the edge of full collapse.

Cain’s eyes flicked between them as Bob's hand dropped from his. He was always perceptive, and John hated it more than anything. “Are you with the team?” Cain asked in a tone that made him seem interested. His question was met with a nervous nod.

Cain’s gaze lingered on Bob’s broad frame, then John’s sharp posture. “Huh, looks like they’ve upgraded the talent.” Cain gave a once over at the brunette, who seemed to be mentally elsewhere.

Bob just stared, unsure if he’d heard correctly. he didn't quite understand what he meant. But John did, and he stared straight ahead at Cain.

Cain leaned a little closer to Bob, like they were old friends. For some reason, that made John have a pang of jealousy.  “You know, back in the day, Johnny here was one of a kind. Always said yes, no matter the request. Made things easy on us. Especially in the field.” He said it like a fond memory, but the weight behind it made the words bend. John knew what he truly meant, the innuendos made his stomach twist, bile crawling the back of his throat. His knuckles turned white and he held onto the whiskey glass for support.

Cain didn’t stop. “He had this way about him. Always made sure we were taken care of. Never complained. Knew exactly what he was good for.” Okay, he must've been getting off on doing this. This act of showing off John as if he wasn't a glorified whore.

John swallowed, hard, but still didn’t speak. He wasn't sure he was even breathing now, but he knew his chest was moving up and down erratically. 

Bob laughed lightly, still not getting it. “Well, yeah. I mean, he’s pretty dependable.”

Cain didn’t blink. “Oh, he was more than dependable. Real... cooperative. He knew how to make things easy, really... flexible." Most people would've assumed he meant how John was a real team player, maybe how he cared so much about his Job he went above and beyond.

But Bob was no longer smiling. The shift was subtle at first. The faint twitch of his fingers around the glass of soda he had, his eyes squinting slightly. John didn’t know exactly what had set him off— maybe it was the way he looked just as scared as he felt. Maybe it was the tone Cain used, smug and possessive, like he was recounting something sweet instead of something stolen. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way Cain spoke about him as if he were a belonging. A pet. A fucking wife. Cain, oblivious or just too arrogant to care, only smiled wider.

“I still remember the last time we were alone—” he started, voice syrup-thick with fondness that wasn’t earned, that made John want to rip his own skin off just to feel clean again. He was doing it on purpose. Every word is a little louder, just enough to be heard over the dull thrum of jazz and laughter around them. He was getting off on it— on the humiliation, on dragging the past into the light like it was some private joke.

John let the words leave his mouth, tiny, but there. “That’s enough, Cain...” John muttered, and a part of him wanted to desperately pull Cain away from Bob and make sure he never gets his grubby hands on him.

But Cain kept going, turning to Bob with a conspiratorial tone, eyes flicking to Bob like they were in on some twisted secret. “You wouldn’t believe how good he was with his mouth when he wanted to be—”

John didn’t hear the glass break so much as he felt it. The sides snapped in his grip, splintering under the force of his hand. Whiskey spilled down his fingers, mixing with blood, the scent sharp and sudden in the air. He looked down numbly at the broken glass in his palm like it belonged to someone else.

Bob moved instantly— not toward John, but between him and Cain. The movement was smooth, and lacked the politeness from before. His body blocked Cain’s line of sight like a shield made of flesh. It was protective in a way that was quiet and chilling, like someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to be threatening. His posture didn’t scream violence, but it whispered it. A slow hum under the skin, dangerous in its restraint.

And when he spoke, his voice was stripped of its usual warmth. He was less Bob and sounded to be more Sentry if anything. “What did you just say?”

Cain blinked, feigning surprise, his mouth curling into something that resembled innocence. “What? It’s not a secret.” He chuckled, “Ask anyone who served with us. Johnny was a damn morale booster.”

John stared at his hand, blood mixing with the liquor dripping from his skin. The liquor burnt his new cuts that had glass sticking from it. John didn't even raise his eyes to see if anyone had been looking, because he knew they were.

Bob stepped forward again, just enough for his shoulder to block Cain’s full view of John. His stance never shifted into violence, but the gold in his eyes deepened. It was no longer a glimmer. The gold in his eyes pulsed, the glow of a god half-restrained. His voice stayed low, but it cracked now with a darker current beneath it.

“You’re going to walk away,” Bob's voice lacked humanity, but it didn't lack a threatening tone. “Now.”

Cain raised both hands in mock surrender, still wearing that polished grin like a mask. “Didn’t mean to step on anyone’s toes,” he said in all fake civility. “I thought we were all friends here.”

And then, without waiting for permission, he winked at John— like this was their joke, like he’d won something— and vanished back into the crowd. John's eyes never stopped watching the older man. By now, John could hear how some people murmured around them and he finally noticed a cloth from the bartender being handed to him.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. John couldn’t tell if it was the broken glass in his hand or the way Bob was still standing there, body drawn so tight he looked like he might snap. His fists flexed at his sides. Shoulders pulled in like they were trying to keep the rest of him from detonating.

John’s own hand throbbed now, the pain finally finding its way through the fog. The shards bit down so deep they scraped the ache in his bones. Still, he hadn’t let go of the broken glass. It was like his body had latched onto it as the one thing grounding him in reality.

Bob finally looked down, eyes locked on the injury that the blonde didn't even try to hide. “Let me see,” he frowned, and it wasn’t a suggestion.

John hesitated, his lips parting, but no sound came out at first. He wasn’t afraid like he thought he would be, he was something worse. He was frozen, split between the weight of what just happened and the burning humiliation of being seen. “It’s fine,” he forced out, his voice barely audible.

Bob’s gaze cut back to his, firm and unmoved. “No. It isn’t.” His eyes were still metallic, that golden shimmer that John remembers from the Sentry.

There was no judgment in the way he said it, and John hadn't expected it. His hand reached out slowly, openly, palm up, just offering. The gesture was calm, quiet, and terrifyingly gentle.

John hated that he didn’t flinch. Hated even more that some part of him wanted to feel that hand. Wanted the warmth, and the steadiness in his hand. Something to pull him out of his own head where Cain’s voice still echoed like a goddamn ghost.

Bob didn’t look away. “You’re going to tell me what that was,” he whispered softly, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased. “Eventually.” He moved closer to John, a hand placed on his bicep in a comforting motion.

John didn’t dare look at Bob. He simply opened his left hand, letting the broken glass fall. Blood and whiskey pooled at his feet, staining his polished shoes—his uniform still clean, but everything else ruined.

He gave a small nod towards Bob. It was all he could manage, his body locked up, and his voice gone. He still didn’t look at Bob, nor didn’t say anything else. But he knew something was going to develop from this scene they made. And he prayed no tabloids would pick up on this.

John stayed quiet while Bob picked up the clean cloth laid from before and tightly wrapped it so it would stop bleeding.

Notes:

:3 we're getting somewhere. It'll get better.

ALSO IM RUSHING THESE SO BAD OOPS

Chapter 13: Bloody Cuffs

Notes:

... This is the start y'all

John didn't remember the walk to the bathroom. One second he was standing in blood and glass, the next he was being ushered through the back halls of the Met, the dull murmur of the crowd fading behind the thick walls. His fingers were sticky with drying blood, and he could still smell the whiskey clinging to his sleeves. Cain's voice hadn't left his head, each syllable replaying louder, fouler, until he couldn't tell if he was breathing or drowning in it.

Bob shouldered open the door to the nearest bathroom, empty and humming with fluorescent lights. He didn't speak at first, just guided John in with a firm hand on his lower back, the other already digging in his jacket pocket for something clean. There was a gentleness to the way he moved, but it was a cover. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like his teeth might shatter. John caught sight of their reflections in the mirror— him, pale and shaking, Bob, golden-eyed and furious. The image made him feel like he had done something wrong and dirty. He needed a shower.

Bob motioned for him to sit on the edge of the sink counter. "Let me see it," he spoke softly, a hand extended to hold onto John.

John didn't argue, nor did he want to argue with Sentry. He held out his hand like it didn't belong to him, fingers splayed, glass still embedded in his palm. He folded up his cuff so Bob could clean it better. Bob didn't mention the gauze around his wrist.

 Bob sucked in a breath through his teeth and knelt, gently starting to clean the wound. The contact stung, but John didn't flinch. The white cloth was red with blood and Bob held it in his hand.

"I'm sorry," John murmured after a moment, not sure what he was apologizing for. For the glass? The blood? The scene? Or maybe just for existing in this broken, tainted shape. "I didn't mean—"

"Stop," Bob interrupted, voice sharp but not cruel. "You didn't do anything wrong."

John laughed, "You say that now." His voice was rough, and he desperately wanted that drink back in his hand.

Bob looked up at him, still crouched low, his hands steady as he worked. "What's that supposed to mean?" He questioned while removing each piece of glass slowly, placing them to the side on a paper towel.

"You don't get it," John sighed, and the words spilled out faster now, like a leak sprung loose in a dam too old to hold. "You think you're mad now, but you don't know what he did. You don't know what I let him do."

Bob stilled, letting John tell him anything he wanted to get off of his chest, all while he cleaned his wound. John didn't stop, even though he should've. It was like he couldn't stop his racing heart unless he spills out his guts.

"He started when I was eighteen," he mumbled flatly, the confession falling between them like dead weight. "Said he was looking out for me when I first entered bootcamp. That I was special. That he'd take care of me. Then it was favors, and then it was orders. Then it was—" He swallowed hard. He wanted to tell Bob everything simply because he was the person closest to him. Tears blinked away to his lashes, and he closed his eyes.

John didn't look at him when his eyes opened. "He said I was his. That he trusted me. That if I really cared, I wouldn't make it difficult, and I believed it. I believed him every damn time he said it was love! I believed what he was doing was normal. And when he wanted me to convince someone, or go out alone, or— fuck, when he just wanted to— " He broke off, jaw trembling. "I let him." 

John took a deep, shaky breath. "He'd whisper about how good I was. How proud he was of me." John's voice broke off into a sob, still refusing to look at Bob.

Bob stood slowly, the cloth in his hands red and soaked. He let it drop to the floor, ignoring the wet 'plop' noise it let out.

"I let him do it," John whispered again, much quieter this time. "For years. Because I thought that's what love was. That if I gave enough, if I stayed obedient, he'd stop looking at me like something he owned." 

Bob didn't move a muscle in his body, didn't inch closer or farther. As if he didn't want to frighten an injured animal.

His eyes returned to the mirror, to the reflection that barely resembled him anymore. The man staring back looked smaller, older, worn raw from the inside out. His usual pristine uniform was slightly rumpled now— creased at the sleeves, collar askew, the blood from his hand dark and crusted along the cuff. He looked like someone trying to pass for whole when every inch of him was splintering. His jaw flexed once, then went still. "You should probably hate me.."

A long silence passed. Bob didn't answer right away, and that alone was enough to make John's stomach twist. He forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose, trying not to flinch before the blow landed.

But then Bob finally spoke, and when he did, his voice wasn't angry or disappointed. It was a solid, clean cut claim. Like every syllable was being carved into something permanent.

"I don't," Bob emphasized. "I don't hate you. Not even close."

John hadn't expected that, he hadn't expected the calm certainty. He turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto Bob's again. The gold in them hadn't dimmed, but it seemed to be controlled and held back.

Bob didn't waver under the weight of John's stare. He stood his ground, hands still resting loosely at his sides like he hadn't just watched John unravel in front of him. He meant it. Every word.

And that stunned John more than anything Cain had said.

Because somewhere deep down, a part of him had convinced itself that if anyone knew the truth, they'd turn away. That they'd look at him like Cain did: like he was something used up. He was worried people would treat him just as dirty and disposable as the many men who would fuck him in barracks and on tables.

But Bob didn't look away. He stepped in to break John's spiral. "You were a soldier. He was your superior. That wasn't love, John. That was grooming and manipulation. Hell, it was textbook abuse! And none of it was your fault."

John lips parted like the words were there, but his throat refused to let them through. The breath he tried to pull in caught somewhere high in his chest, wedged between disbelief and the weight of everything he'd just confessed. His shoulders trembled, barely, under the stiff fabric of his uniform. 

Bob's eyes hadn't moved from him. And his voice, when it came again, had dropped lower. "I get it," Bob comforted the man. "I've had things forced on me. Had my body used for what people wanted from me... what they expected me to be." He paused, swallowing thickly. "People call it whatever they want. But it felt like my skin wasn't mine anymore."

John's breath hitched and something stung behind his eyes. He hadn't even considered that anyone around him could've experienced something similar. It makes sense that Bob might've been assaulted too. Now, he felt embarrassed for being so absorbed in his own issues he didn't think about anyone else.

Bob stepped in a little closer, closing the last bit of distance between them. His hand reached for John's that was clean on any blood or glass. The touch was feather light as he traced the edge of the newly cleaned wounds that were being healing in front of his eyes, but he was still careful not to press too hard.

"You're not broken," Bob started, as if he knew what John was thinking. "You're not disgusting... and I swear..." Bob added, his voice tightening as something darker bled back into it. The gold in his eyes brightened, "If I ever see that man near you again—"

The sentence cut short, jagged and abrupt. Not because he couldn't finish it, but because he didn't need to. The fury was clear to John. It radiated off of him in waves, contained but not extinguished.

John trembled. Something inside him cracked open like a wound finally airing out. He pressed the heel of his clean palm into his eye, trying to hold it back, but the tears came anyway. Slow at first, then all at once. Ugly, gasping sobs that wracked through him like sickness. He didn't even know what he was crying for— shame, relief, grief— but it poured out of him like it had been waiting years.

Bob leaned in closer and wrapped his arms around John, trying to ignore his own tears of frustration and anger. John kept crying into Bob's shoulder, wrapping his arms around himself while Bob cradled him in the bathroom. He was whispering sweet, comforting words to him, but John didn't register any of them.

The brunette was petting John's hair, and softly mumbled, "So... you wouldn't be upset if Cain was considered an Avengers level threat?" His attempt at a joke made him sniffle through a chuckle, still wiping his eyes.

"I wouldn't mind if Sentry dealt with him. Or better yet— lawyers." The idea provided John with comfort, and he had spent many restless nights imagining Cain and other men in cuffs and behind bars.

It was a small pleasure, but he tried not to imagine a fake world too much. Because they still walked free, they still had their wives and children. John squeezed his eyes tightly, the mention of children made his mind thrust another memory at him.

A twenty year old John looked down at a folded up photo, of a boy no older than John. He found it resting on the table by the cot, wanting to know more about the man he was so infatuated with. The boy looked similar to John, almost uncanny if it wasn't for the obviously different jawlines. But John could see striking blue eyes that were copies of his own.

"Ah, that's my son, Josh." Cain dismissed, grabbing the photo away from John and placing it to the side. "He's only Fourteen. I think I would've slept with him if he wasn't my son." Josh?

John hung his head, adjusting himself on the older man's cot. For some reason, his undone ACU exposed more of him than he wanted. Cain placed a hand to his cheek to pull his gaze back to him, "Hey... don't get like that. I don't need him when I have a perfect blonde in front of me."  He grinned, "Now, why don't I show you a good time?"

John tilted his head, "Yes, Sir." But the words felt dirty between his lips. Was this man seeing John, or Josh?

"I'd prefer if you called me Daddy tonight."

That confirmed John's suspicions.

 

Notes:

SOOOOO HOW WE FEELING? I hope everyone is very VERY uncomfortable with Cain now. Also, I kinda don't want to describe Cain.

Now, y'all can ignore this, but I think Cain is a very handsome and charismatic man— which is why he gets away with everything. He's an older man, salt and pepper hair and mustache with a strong muscular frame. He isn't as strong as John by any means, but he is a very solid officer in the Army. When John was younger, Cain was clean cut and had a buzz, which John loved for some reason. (HC to the story: He enjoyed running his fingers through Bob's hair when they made out because it let him know Bob wasn't Cain). Anyways, I don't want to describe him in case anyone takes it the wrong way. Cain is a very unlikable character. Period.

Also, John is somewhere around 38, and him and Cain have a 22 year age difference. So currently, Cain is 60. So btw he was 40 when they first started sleeping together.

Idk if this story makes sense lwky...

Chapter 14: Flowers on a Cot

Notes:

Enjoy this, as much as you can. this is straight from drafts.

Also stop stalking me it's weird:( I'm just trying to write my Whump John... wait... that's a tag I need to add rn

Cain had always known how to wear a smile like a weapon. He stood tall with his drink in hand, charm dripping off him like cologne—thick, heavy, and artificial. Ava laughed at something he said, her hand brushing her curls behind her ear as she leaned in. Yelena stood more reserved, arms crossed, but even she had the edge of a grin tugging at her lips. Cain played to the room. He knew how to flirt without stepping too far, how to appear commanding without being rude. He knew how to win people over before they ever asked what he was really after.

Alexei was off spinning in a dance with a young blonde admirer who insisted she "liked older guys", entirely unaware that the girls had unknowingly opened themselves up to a predator.

Cain tilted his head toward Ava, his grin casual, yet approachable. “You know, you remind me of someone I served with. Firecracker, just like you. Could talk circles around the brass and shoot straighter than most of the men under her.”

Ava raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I like her already.” She laughed while taking a sip of her martini— always extra dry.

Cain chuckled, “I liked her too.” He sipped his own drink which had to have been a type of bourbon, going off glass and color alone.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed just a bit. She didn’t say anything, but her instincts never fully shut off. Maybe it had been her Red Room training, but she was already wary of Cain. She hadn't even remembered how they started talking in the first place.

And that’s when John and Bob entered the room again, trying to find Yelena. Bob insisted that she would know what to do.

John looked like a shadow of himself, shoulders a touch too tight, his posture straight but forced. He hadn’t gotten any bandages either, another reason to find the blonde girl. Bob walked beside him, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed. His jaw was tight, his hands in fists at his sides, clearly holding himself back from doing anything rash.

Cain noticed them first, because of course he did. His smile widened just slightly, a glint of victory in his eyes. Like he’d been waiting for his cue.

“Johnny!” Cain called, voice rich and familiar, drawing the attention of both women. “There you are, Baby Blues.”

John froze at not just Cain's voice, but the endearing nickname. It wasn't enough for others around them to notice. But Bob saw how the breath stuttered in his chest, how his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. His eyes flicked to Cain like they were magnetized. He was back in those boots. Back in that skin. The rush of heat hit him so suddenly he didn’t even realize he was blushing until Bob’s hand touched his lower back, which had him blushing a bit more for other reasons.

Cain didn’t miss the blush either. Not when he first flushed at the nickname, and not when Bob decided to put his hand on something that was Cain's.

He stepped forward, closing the distance with the ease of someone who had always been allowed to. He didn’t even glance at Bob, since he found the fucking kid annoying anyways. His hand reached out, settling far too familiarly on John’s shoulder.

“Can you believe this guy?” Cain said to Ava and Yelena, gesturing at John like a fond story he was proud to tell. “Still stands at attention when I call his name. Discipline like that’s hard to train out of someone.” Was he? John hadn't even realized he looked more at attention than at a formal gala.

John’s stomach turned, and his eyes flicked to his shoulder. The weight of Cain’s hand was molten, a touch too familiar for John. And all he could think about was how much worse it had been when they were alone. How that same hand had pinned him down, or led him by the chin, or cupped his cheek and told him he was special. Those were the same fingers that pumped inside of him while he would cry and beg for them to stop.

Bob moved, stepping in, his hand wrapping around Cain’s wrist just enough to interrupt the moment. Cain’s grin twitched. Bob’s eyes were alight again, that gold burning beneath the surface like fire under skin.

“Hands off,” Bob glared at Cain, gaining the concern of both Ava and Yelena. The blonde was now fully alert. Ava looked between the three men, her instincts catching up.

Cain raised both eyebrows, lifting his hands in a pantomime of innocence, the same move he’d made at the bar. “Just saying hello.” His hand was then placed back onto John and Bob held his wrist tighter.

“You’ve said enough,” Bob replied, his voice still calm, but far from neutral.

Cain clicked his tongue and looked to the women, feigning amusement. “Touchy, isn’t he? You’d think I was the villain here.”

John hadn’t said a word. His cheeks were still flushed, and his pulse was hammering against his throat like he was nineteen again, sitting in Cain’s quarters, saying “yes sir” when he wanted to scream.

Bob stepped half a foot in front of John now, protective without being aggressive, a human shield that made Yelena finally start to frown at the men. The situation was getting aggressive and then two were puffing out their chests while John was stuck between them.

“Girls,” Bob said without breaking eye contact with Cain. “We need a minute. Now.”

Yelena didn’t argue. She reached for Ava’s arm, pulling her with her as she eyed the room warily. No press had started to notice them, but they were going to if they kept this up.

Cain leaned in slightly, voice lower now, meant only for Bob. “He always was a little shy. Needs someone to speak for him.” He egged on the brunette, his hazel eyes glancing at John, as if to claim him.

Bob’s expression didn’t change. But his voice dropped to a razor-thin whisper. “Keep talking, and you’ll find out just how loud I can be.”

Cain’s smirk twitched but didn’t fade. He glanced down at Bob’s hand still wrapped around his wrist, the way Bob’s knuckles had gone pale. “You’re strong,” Cain snapped, like it was a compliment. “Stronger than he ever was. I get why he’d trade up.”

John flinched, and that was the last straw for Bob. Watching the overly confident man he knew turn into a scared, broken reflection of what he once was just because of a man like Cain...

Bob let go of Cain’s wrist— but only so he could move. He stepped into Cain’s space, chest to chest while John was moved to stand next to Yelena and Ava. His voice was low and sharp, words laced with restrained power.

“You’re going to walk away,” Bob threatened again, every syllable clipped and measured. “And you’re not going to come near him again, not here, not ever.”

Cain tilted his head, unbothered. “You said that already. You really think you scare me, Reynolds?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He leaned closer, so only Cain could hear his threat. “If I wanted to scare you, you’d be on the ground.”

Cain chuckled under his breath, like this was all a joke to him. “Ah. There it is. Sentry, or is it Void?” He drew the names out like a challenge, like he was poking a bear just to see what it would do. Bob made a mental note to question how he knew those names later. “You’re not the only one with a dark side.”

His bait caught Bob for a second, but he contained himself as well as the vivid image of Cain bleeding out onto the floor.

Cain caught the restraint cracking, but he misread it as hesitation. “I know what boys like Johnny need. He doesn't want a savior, he wants someone who knows what to do with him when he bends.” His smile sharpened. “And he used to bend so easily.” Bob didn't need to look at John to know the gagging noises weren't from the girls.

Bob saw red, or more accurately, gold. But he was still holding himself back, or else Val would have his head for ruining her gala. Instead, he took a slow step back and spoke loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “You know, there’s this funny thing about war crimes and power imbalance.”

Cain stiffened just slightly. It wasn’t much— barely a twitch in his posture. That half-second of calculating his next move. The predator was checking for exits all around the conversation. The confident mask didn't slip entirely, but there was a visible fracture now, hairline and brittle, betraying the sudden awareness that he’d stepped into territory he no longer controlled.

“And when you’re decorated,” Bob continued, slow and sharp, “people listen when you report them.”

John held himself back from mentioning the time when people didn't, in fact, listen.

Every word was cut clean and aimed true, spoke deliberate cadence of someone who’d tasted power and knew exactly how to wield it. Bob hadn't made one threat, just spoke of the consequences of his actions towards his subordinates.

Cain’s smirk faltered, but didn't leave his face. He practiced this enough times than to let it drop now. His eyes flicked toward the cluster of guests nearby, checking to see who might have heard, if anyone had turned an ear toward the words he thought were private.

In front of Bob, John stirred, as if something in him compelled him to speak. The words Bob had said weren’t even meant for him, not directly, but they struck something deep. They cracked through the wall of helplessness layered brick by brick over time. It wasn’t relief, but it was something dangerously close. Something like the very first breath after being underwater too long. Hope, maybe, or the echo of it.

But fear was still there too. Clinging to his ribs. Wrapping around his spine. Because hope meant risking everything he had. 

Cain turned back to Bob slowly, and when he spoke, his voice dropped. A quieter, meaner edge now sharpened his words, “You think anyone would believe the dollar store Captain America?” he asked, his tone coated in poisoned calmness. “After everything he did for me willingly?”

He gave a breath of dry laughter, almost theatrical in its bitterness, before continuing. “I didn’t leave marks. No bruises. No reports. It was always his choice.” 

His eyes slid toward John, deliberate and cold. The kind of gaze meant to burn. To remind him of the silence that had always protected Cain. The silence Cain had carefully cultivated with power, with praise, with fear.

It was the same argument John had told himself for years. The same poisonous logic he had been spoon fed with a coating of sperm. That because he hadn’t fought harder, it was his fault. That he had let it happen. Cain hadn’t needed to shout or strike to destroy him, he just needed to convince him that no one would ever care.

But now, as Bob stood firm and unwavering in front of him, that truth didn’t feel quite so certain anymore.

That was when John spoke through a trembling voice, but louder than he thought he could manage. His voice was scraped raw, like it had clawed its way up from the pit of his chest.

“You told me if I said anything,” John began, eyes fixed on Cain’s smug expression, “no one would believe me. That I was just something that wanted attention.”

His hands were clenched at his sides now, blood still crusted faintly at the edges of his mostly healed cuts. He shook not from fear alone, but from anger, from years of swallowing silence that was finally pushing back. His voice cracked again, but he kept going.

“You said I liked it. That I asked for it. You made me believe it was love when it was just control. You made me think I was complicit in my own—” He stopped himself, biting down on the word. Even then, everyone knew it was a simple word: Abuse.

Cain turned toward him, slow and smiling like the cons man he was, except there was something strained in it now. The edges of his charm were dulling under the weight of exposure. “I never used that word."

“But you meant it,” John snapped, louder now. “Every time. When you told me to keep quiet. When you told me I was your favorite. When you let those men touch me and said it was for morale. You didn’t need to say the word because you lived it.”

His voice cracked again, but this time from something deeper. “I was eighteen.”

Cain’s mouth opened. A glint of something flickered in his eyes— maybe surprise? Shame? No, something colder, and more selfish. He was a man who’d just been caught in the open, exposed for the first time in a long time. No joke came to follow, nothing that helped remediate the situation, as he knew John hadn't lied. He really was eighteen when he got his ass filled, in the comfort of his own cot.

That was when Ava finally stepped back, her hands now clutched the small beaded clutch purse she’d brought like it was the only thing tethering her to the room. Her wide eyes were on John, but they shifted to Cain with something sour rising in her throat. She looked confused first, then disgusted.

“Is that true?” she asked, quiet but sharp. Her voice carried a threat that was a poorly concealed promise to beat the shit out of the older man. “You were his superior. He was a kid.”

Cain opened his mouth, but Yelena was already moving with her arms crossed, body leaning forward like she was getting ready to break his kneecaps on principle alone.

“You fucking—” she hissed, but stopped herself with a clenched jaw. Her accent grew thick with anger. “You stood here and talked to us like some hero. Like a good man. You charmed us like we were some dumb girls who wouldn’t see through the stink on you.”

“Yelena,” Ava murmured, but didn’t stop her. She didn’t even look away from Cain.

Yelena stepped closer to John instead, her tone lowering just a bit. “You want me to hit him? I will. I have heels. They are very pointy.”

John gave a breathy, broken laugh through his nose—barely a sound, really—but his shoulders hunched like the weight pressing on them had shifted. He shook his head.

“No,” John said, breath still shaky, “I don’t need him hurt, not here, at least.”

He looked at Cain now, really looked at him. Not as a victim, not as a lovesick teenager, but as a man who had clawed his way back into his own body. His next words were quieter, but full of grit. “I just need him seen.”

Cain finally found his footing again, his smile crooked now, no longer charming, just bitter. His hands spread open like he was performing to a jury that didn’t exist.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffed, glancing between Yelena, Ava, and then John. “Let’s not pretend he was some wide-eyed innocent. He wasn’t dragged, kicking and screaming. He was eager. Always came running when I called. You think I made him stay?” He turned to Ava, his voice dipping into something oily. “You really think someone like him didn’t know what he was doing? Johnny always had a way of getting attention. Men noticed.” He chuckled, "Whether it was in commanding drill, or sucking dick."

“Stop talking,” John whispered, his body still tense. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white He couldn't stand to hear this man tell him his abuse. But Cain wasn’t done.

“He played his part well,” Cain continued, louder now, like the rising volume might convince others, and a few people had started to notice the group. “Hell, he’d sneak off to other officers’ tents just to stay in my good graces. You want details? I’ve got them. You want proof?” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve got emails. Photos. Reports he helped me write. You think he said no? Not once, well, at least not when it counted.”

John staggered back a half step like the wind had been knocked out of him. The walls of the gala pressed in closer with every breath. His chest tightened, he could feel his ribs strain beneath the pressure, but the air refused to come. His lungs pulled but nothing filled them. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, prickling along his skin. The murmur of voices became muffled and warped, his ears catching only fragments— Cain’s voice louder than the rest, echoing in jagged loops. He didn’t even try to stop his hands from shaking this time. His fingertips tingled, like he’d been out in the cold too long. He wanted to bolt for the door, and he didn't realize just how much confronting Cain made his fight or flight instincts go off like wild fire.

But he didn't move towards the door, he could've if he wanted to, but the girls next to him and Bob gave him strength. The strength to stay and hold himself in front of the man who had continuously raped him for years on end.

So he stood there, locked in place, coming undone one second at a time. Just because he stayed didn't mean he wasn't scared. And that’s when Bob stepped forward, so slowly it almost seemed like nothing was happening. That was until he spoke.

“I know,” Bob muttered, his voice low and tight, turning slightly toward John but keeping his eyes on Cain. “I know you said he doesn't need to be hurt.”

John looked at the brunette, confused for a moment. What was Bob getting at?

“But I disagree.”

Cain barely had time to register the movement before Bob’s fist connected with his face. The hit was swift, focused, and devastatingly precise, born not from recklessness, but from restraint pushed to its final limit. The impact snapped Cain’s head to the side, and he staggered, his boots skidding slightly against the polished floor. He collided with the edge of a tall table hard enough to send several glasses clattering. One teetered, wobbled on its base, then spun off the edge and smashed against the ground, shards scattering across the marble in every direction.

Ava inhaled sharply, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and disbelief. Her hands rose instinctively to her chest, eyes wide as she took a single step back, unable to look away.

Yelena didn’t move. Her arms remained folded, her gaze fixed on Cain with a cold, silent weight. There was no shock in her expression, like this was the outcome she’d been waiting for.

Cain groaned, one hand pressed hard against his face, blood already seeping from his nose and dripping between his fingers. His voice came through clenched teeth, thick with humiliation. “You son of a—”

Bob didn’t take another step. He stood still, unshaken, and slowly rolled out his fist at his side, knuckles flexing as the last of the tension drained through his fingers. The faint gold shimmer in his eyes had grown brighter, but it didn’t flare. His control was terrifying all on its own.

“You don’t get to use his name anymore, you don’t get to talk about what he did or didn’t do. You made him a prisoner. And the worst part?” He took a breath. “You convinced him he was the one who locked the door.”

Cain stared at him, something unraveling in his face that showed the disbelief that he was actually losing control of the room. His mouth opened like he meant to argue, to retake the narrative with another twisted smile or excuse.

Instead, he spit out bitterly, “You think anyone’s gonna care what he says? He liked it, ask him.”

John’s head jerked up like the words physically struck him. His hands still curled at his sides, his breathing shallow but steadying.

He stepped past Bob and got closer to Cain. “I believed you when you said that before. I believed it for years.” His jaw clenched. “But now? I know what it was. And I’m not scared of you anymore.” John whispered the last part, the words meant only for Cain. "I killed a man once in public. I'll do it again."

Cain’s expression froze for a moment— eyes narrowed, lips parted— but whatever retort he had wilted on his tongue.

Ava stepped in beside Bob now, her voice colder than winter steel. “We should go. Now. Before Val finds out this was us.”

Cain looked between them all— John standing tall despite the blood on his cuff and the panic still twitching at the edge of his eyes, Bob unflinching and still smoldering with divine anger, Ava and Yelena unmoved and unwelcoming.

There was nothing left for him to manipulate here, no one willing to be a leverage.

Blood trailed down from his nose, streaking his upper lip as he tried his best to wipe it away.

As they turned to leave, probably to find Alexei and Buck, John heard Cain speak up. "Seriously, Walker?" He took a step forward, not backing down. "You think you’re safe now? This doesn’t end here."

John let out a heavy sigh, trying to not let Cain under his skin once again. Cain took a step closer to John, "Come on, Baby Blues, no need to get violent." 

The blonde doesn't remember striking, but he does know he was tumbling on the marble floor, sitting in the lap of Cain once again. Except this time, his fists were flying into his face. He heard screaming all around him, but he didn't stop.

He kept crying out, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate how you made me choke on it, how you made me cum for you!" He took a sharp inhale while his fists began to cover in blood, "You were a grown man when I was a child, and you liked that!"

Tears were rolling freely down his face, "I... I love you so much." His fists slowed down, and instead, John cradled his beaten face. "Why did you need to do this?" John sighed, "We would've been so good if you didn't rape me!" His hand trembled against Cain’s bloodied face, and suddenly the noise of the gala faded. He was back into who he used to be. Eighteen, confused, in love.

Every time John would hold Cain during hard nights.

"You got me... hey, look at me. You made the right call today."

Every time Cain had gone out of his way to make sure John was written and read poems. 

"Johnny, I wrote these when I was awake last night. I couldn't keep you out of my mind."

Every time Cain would bring flowers to John, leaving them in random places.

"Woah, you got a secret admirer, huh, John?" 

Every time John would make sure Cain's uniform was pristine for the next morning, ass still sore.

"Mornin' sir, I fixed up your uniform..."

All of that was ruined because of Cain wanting more and more from John.

John was brought back to the current scene as he was picked up and pulled off of Cain. When he looked over, he saw it was Bob who had grabbed him. His eyes were teary eyed as the crowd was filled with stares. That's when he realized just how bloody his hands were, and just how much he had fucked up.

Notes:

... So... Just as we thought it would end well, nah, John just had to lose control. (I literally wrote this)

But at least Cain got beat up! I didn't think it was right for just Bob to get a punch in, though it was very hot.

I hope y'all felt joy, then sad. Because the press saw them!!! and John left a man bloody on the Met floor.

Also I'm the blonde with Alexei. I like em older *insert Sonic rubbing his hands together*

Chapter 15: I was you

Notes:

Enjoy as much as you can. This is with the team, or at least the first part of it. I didn't proofread this shit like always.

Oh, I found someone talking about me on a TikTok so... Hi? if you came from that comment section. And if y'all mention me, make sure to me! (though I don't give my tt out thanks to stalkers.) (I will find you though...)

The flash of bright lights came first.

They violated his eyesight with the bursts of heat from each bulb going off to catch the scene in front of them. 

The disgraced Captain America, New Avenger, John Walker had killed yet another man in public. People had this all on camera, once again. And once again, John didn't feel remorseful for his actions.

Because no one taking the photos knew just how fucked up the man was— how unforgivable he was.

His mind was drawn away from the body that reeked of blood to the reporters who were getting closer. Yelena and Ava had to step in the way so they wouldn't push on John or Cain's unconscious body. He heard the rowdy crowd shouting out.

"Was that Lieutenant Colonel Cain?"

"Go get a shot from the left— move!"

"Jesus, that's so much blood..."

John couldn't breathe properly, his gaze set on Cain. He desperately wanted to go back, apologize and kiss each bruise and cut he left on the face he once loved.

Loved.

He didn't love him anymore, he couldn't stand him is a better way to describe it. 

John tried not to look at the blood that coated his once nice uniform, blood splattered across his face and his knuckles ached from the constant bludgeoning. At one point in time, Cain had done that to him for trying to get out of their 'arrangement'.

"You fucking told Major General Carlos?! What is wrong with you, bitch? You're so lucky he was already interested in you." John had accepted his fate and let himself bleed out onto the wooden floor of Cain's office.

He apologized, repeatedly, for making such a mistake. 

He didn't feel ashamed. No, he didn't. But the fear clung to his ribs like a parasite eating his organs. Every eye in the place was set on him. He knew that meant Bucky, Alexei, and Val. But what really got his vision to blur was the thought of his son seeing photos of him all over the news.

His boy was only four now, yet, that was old enough for him to see his dad bloody. Having killed yet another man and being made to be the aggressor.

John heard something next to him, and a gentle hand placed a bit too low on his waist to be casual. Somewhere in his mind he knew it was Bob. So he let the hand guide him through the crowd while he couldn't stop the tears from pouring down his face— nor could he stop how his shoes left red prints on the once clean marble floor.

They turned down a hallway, past a “Staff Only” sign, and ducked into one of the side galleries that lacked the party atmosphere. It was empty, just tall windows, muted lighting, and rows of towering abstract structures. 

John let his feet drag him to an empty wall, sliding down the cold tile that felt heavenly on his overheating body. He could hear Bob closing the door behind him, soon coming over to John.

Bloody hands rubbed his eyes, wanting to get rid of the wetness he felt pooling under his eyelashes.

"Mental Journal Entry:

This is one time I wish I had my journal. Is this stupid? To say it in my head instead of writing as it was intended to be? I guess Ava didn't have only stupid ideas.

It's been a day. I was so excited to catch a glimpse of Bob, instead, I ran into the man who invaded my brain. 

When I saw Bob and him interact, it made me realize how wrong I had been with comparing them. They were nothing alike— not their personality, style, appearance, nothing. 

Because Bob would always stand for his friends, a selfless man that made me think about cooking him dinner and introducing him to my folks. He was everything I thought a man should be— he was someone Lemar would've loved to have around.

Cain was everything Bob wasn't— he was selfish, took what he wanted and never gave, unless it was in sex. He was a dirty secret, something I didn't know if I loved or wanted to push away. Even throughout the fights and beatings and prostitution, I never doubted how my heart clung to Cain's side, wanting to feel his mustache when we kissed and his freshly buzzed hair.

I loved Cain, but that doesn't excuse how he hurt me."

“I shouldn't have done that,” John choked out. “I shouldn’t— I fucked up.” He hadn't realized he was speaking out loud until Bob's head snapped to him.

He saw how Bob's face turned into one that lacked pity and was filled with care. Bob got closer and crouched next to the man who sat. His voice was pleasantly soft, and John thought about how romantic this would've been if he hadn't just almost murdered a man. “No, you didn’t.”

“I lost it, Bob,” John rasped, voice cracking. “I hit him. In front of everyone. That’s not— I’m not supposed to—” He dug the heels of his bloody palms into his eyes. “They’re gonna say I snapped. They’ll say he didn’t do anything wrong. That I made it up. That I wanted it.”

He was still crying, still making a fool of himself in front of the one person he never wanted to see him like this. If he had been talking to anyone else, they would've left. 

He was glad of all men, Bob sat next to him.

John sucked in a breath to control himself, but it was too fast for his lungs to take in the oxygen. Instead, it made his chest burn more than they ever had. It could've been the uniform too, the uniform John desperately was tearing off. 

He took off his coat and held it tightly, the navy blue stained with the blood of the man who gave it to him. He didn’t care about the blood on his white button-up, or how his bandaged arms betrayed his obsession with self-mutilation.

Bob knelt closer, his hand reaching for John's hand, but stopped himself. “You’re okay. You’re here. Just breathe, alright? Breathe with me.”

John did try again, he really did. But Bob only made it worse. His breaths came out short and ragged, shame still spilling over into heat and took the form of self hatred. He could hear how he sounded like a child gasping for air, hated how Cain could do this to him without being near him.

“He’s going to twist this,” John murmured. “He always twists it. He’s going to say I wanted it— say I came to him. That I—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, the door creaked open to the Gallery. Bob glared to see who entered, but calmed when Yelena and Ava came.

Yelena was the first to step in, glancing over at the two men sitting on the floor. She didn't speak, knowing words would only complicate things. Ava was close behind her and neither of them spoke, no matter how angry they were.

Yelena walked over without a word and dropped into a crouch beside Bob. Her hands rested on her thighs. She didn’t touch him or console him. She just sat there, and somehow it was more comforting than her trying to talk to him.

The other woman stayed standing and her face was mostly unreadable. Would be if John hadn't been sharing a living space with her and seemingly knew more about her than he thought. He could tell how upset she was and how he would've finished Cain off if John gave the word.

Then the door opened again, and John would've groaned if the familiar voice of Alexei didn't come his way.

“Where is he?” came a voice like a growl, just like the bear that was embroidered on his suit. He stormed into the room without a care for noise. Bucky followed— much less loud, but no less dangerous, his metal hand twitching at his side, and he closed the door once more.

Alexei didn't hesitate as he crossed the space in seconds, already sat next to John's open side with a force that almost shook the marble. The Russian man said nothing more, but he pulled John into a tight, comforting hug.

If this had been anyone else, he would've fought them off with everything he had left in him. But with Alexei, he didn't have the heart to push away the man who was trying his best to help.

John let himself be held, even getting closer.

The room was still tense— no doubting that. Bob's hand ghosted over John's back once during his hug, but it was grounding. No one joined the hug, letting John hold onto Alexei for however long he needed. No one made much noise besides John's still persistent tears and sniffles.

Until Bucky finally spoke. He was overlooking some art work, as if he even considered it to be such a thing.

"I... I know what it's like," He told John, and John wince. The girls must've informed him about what caused the violent reaction. "To be made into something and used. For duty." His gaze shifted to be fixed on the marble floor. “And when they’re done, you don’t even know who you are anymore.”

The blonde pulled away from Alexei, only slightly, "Don't.." He muttered as a warning.

“I’m not saying it’s the same,” Bucky made that clear as he adjusted his tie. “It never is. Doing things just because you were told to do so." He cleared his throat, "No matter what it was." It didn't take a genius to know what Bucky meant.

Yelena didn’t look at him when she added, “In the Red Room, there was a word for it. It was called obedience. We were told our bodies were tools.” She cleared her throat, pausing like memories were washing over her. “When I got out, it took me a long time to believe that sex wasn’t supposed to feel like a task."

The blonde looked over at the two of them, then at Ava. She had been silent throughout everything. John wondered why, but he could see how her eyes were filled with small tears.

It made him sick just how fucked everyone was.

John sat up straighter. He felt a hesitant hand on his back from Bob and Alexei loosened his hold on the man. "No, you— stop. Stop trying to make this a fucking club.”

Everyone was surprised at John's response. They expected this to be a heartfelt moment, a moment where they all opened up to help let John he wasn't alone. That he wasn't one in a million.

Bucky met his eyes, “We’re not. We’re trying to make this a little easier.” He squinted his eyes, as if confused why John suddenly got defensive.

John finally pushed up to his feet, ignoring the protest from Alexei and Bob. He paced two steps towards Buck, his fists clenched tightly as if he was marching.

“Oh, so what?” John snapped at Bucky, “You think this makes us the same? That now we all just hold hands and share stories and feel better?”

He didn't understand why he had been so upset about this either, but he was taking it out on Bucky. Their relationship had never really gotten better since he broke John's arm. Even if they both helped each other out of sticky situations, they weren't even acquaintances. They were co-workers, if that.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed steady. “I think it makes you human, and I know how much that scares you.”

John scoffed, the sound bitter in his throat. “Don’t talk like you know me.” He took a step back, putting space between them like it might help, his hand lifting slightly between them as if to shield himself. Blood still clung to his knuckles—mostly dried now, but cracked in the creases of his skin.

His voice was raw in the back of his throat from the constant crying. “You don’t know me.”

Bucky kept his calm, at least in his stance. His expression showed just how pissed he truly was about this argument.

“I do, because I see it in the way you flinch, in the way you look at your own hands like they don’t belong to you anymore. I’ve been there.” His voice rose, echoing in the room. He took a step forward to advance on the blonde man.

John’s breathing hitched, and the room was suffocating as he felt his teammates eyes on him. Worse, he felt Bob's eyes on him. He tried not to let his anxiety clear, instead, getting more agitated with the congressman.

“You don’t know me!” he snapped, the volume rising to match Bucky's. “You don’t know how dirty and used I am—!”

“I was you, Walker!” Bucky barked, the words loud enough to make Ava glance up from her place across the room. “Just because I was strapped down and broken with a machine doesn’t mean you weren't broken by the force of man!”

That hit something too deep in John. He stepped forward now, teeth clenched, hands curled into tight fists, and he was considering adding Buck on his hit list of the day. “Fuck you, Bucky!” John yelled between his gasping, “Just shut the fuck up!”

Bob stepped from his spot, ready to step in, but Bucky raised a hand as if telling Bob to hold back. Bucky's eyes never left John's,  and his next words were quieter.

“Walker!” Bucky spoke loudly just to cut him off. “You aren’t alone, so stop cutting yourself off like you are.”

John froze, his eyes blown wide. Did everyone know? 

He took a survey of the room filled with shocked faces— minus Bob. Bucky must've just been a very observant man and somehow, that pissed John off more than anything. Maybe he saw his shorts peak his cuts during workouts, or possibly, he saw through the long sleeves and smelt the blood that soaked through the gauze wrapped tightly around his arms and thighs. He couldn't figure out if he wanted to hit something, or break down. Or worse— both.

But before anything else could be said, someone else came into the room. John moved his head slowly, and noticed a very pissed Val— who looked like she just had the worst time of her life. The media probably ate her up.

That idea alone made John crack a smile, despite the situation.

Notes:

I'm gonna be honest, I'm getting tired of this story. I will never stop updating or writing! But I am kind of tired. I really want to write John happy and riding Bob, and I could do that, but I don't quite want to do that at all! I just need a really good bottom John fanfic to take the edge off...

also holy shit its 3am for me I haven't been looking at the time SHIIIIT

Leave kudos and comments! thank you everyone for reading this!! I've always wanted a fanfic that resonated with at least one person
<3

Chapter 16: I don't Stand By Rapist.

Notes:

Straight from drafts, sorry for typos or anything!

John was face down on the bed. This was his first time being back home since he was overseas. Sadly, Olivia had gotten caught up at her mothers house but promised to get home as soon as she could. Which left John some time alone to himself. 

If it had been any other day, he would've collapsed onto the bed and passed out. But a part of him wanted nothing more than to experiment with himself. Cain had told him that it was normal to fuck yourself, though John had never tried it. Until today.

John laid bare on his bed, already having fingered himself. He kept trying to replicate the feeling Cain gave him, yet, nothing worked quite as well as the other man's dick. He knew Olivia had a few dildos, but he couldn't bring himself to use those. 

Instead, he reached into his cabinet and noticed it. His hand gun.

It wasn't loaded and the safety was on, and John was cringing internally about using his gun for such things. He sent a photo of the gun next to his face to Cain.

The older man responded over text, "Using that? Hot. Send a pic" And that made John want to do it more. So he did.

He lubed up the gun and held it by its handle, slowly inching the metal deeper into his welcoming ass. It felt cool around his walls, and it was a new sensation with the divots and such along the barrel. And John loved it, he couldn't stop himself from rocking back onto the gun. 

He did send a picture of the gun inside of him. 

The door slammed open with the kind of wrath that could only come from Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, who stood in the threshold.

"Jesus Christ," she snapped, stepping inside the room with a very, very upset expression. "I leave you morons alone for one gala, and I come back to blood, broken bones, and Walker trending on every goddamn platform known to man."

Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she walked in, tossing a silk glove onto the nearest bench. Her perfectly tailored suit was crooked, her curls wild, and she didn't try to hide just how pissed she truly was.

John just stood where he had been, but let go of how tense he was during his and Bucky's argument. Blood still painted his hands in a dried crust, darker now as it had settled.

"You better have a fucking stellar reason," Val continued, voice raised now, "because I just finished cleaning up your last meltdown, Walker, and I swear to God, if you've gone rogue again, I'll let them throw you in a cage this time."

The blonde pulled his eyes away from Val and looked down at the floor. “He... hurt me,” was all he could muster.

Val scoffed. "Excuse me?" She glanced around the room, almost as if she couldn't believe what John just said.

"You heard me." His voice cracked under the shame he felt. "Cain. He—"

"He what, looked at you wrong? Made a comment you didn't like? Walker, if you just beat a man into a coma because he bruised your ego, we're done."

"He raped him,” Yelena interjected, already seeing just how shaken Walker was.

Val quickly closed her mouth after that, and her whole demeanor shifted when she said that.

Ava stepped forward, arms tightly crossed. "Used his rank, manipulated him, isolated him. Passed him around. Years of it."

For a moment, Valentina was silent, as if weighing the options. She wasn't confused or in disbelief. It was tense for a while, before she spoke, "You're telling me that son of a bitch Cain had his hands on one of mine?"

John flushed at that, but he didn't argue to that.

"He had more than hands,” Bob mumbled, still sitting on the floor.

Val turned on her heel to face John again. "And you didn't tell me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" John snapped. "'Hey Val, remember my old CO? Yeah, he made me take it up the ass by multiple men since I was eighteen.” Would that have helped?”

It might’ve been overly rude, but John just wanted today to end.

"I could've protected you," she spat back, which made a few of the team members laugh.

Val's eyes narrowed as she looked over the team. "You think I don't know how to handle predators?" she hissed. "I've buried better men for less."

That got the room to be quiet, as they knew it was the truth. A lot of the 'silencing' was done by the team. Val let them soak in just how angry she was for a while long before she began to pace around.

"He's done, Cain's name is off every ledger by morning. If he's breathing, he won't want to be. And anyone who covered it up— who facilitated it— will wish I let you kill them too."

John's voice was quieter now. "You believe me?" Tears came back to his eyes. He hadn't expected anyone to believe him, especially not someone like Valentina.

Val turned to face John fully. "John, I may be a manipulative bitch, but I don't stand by rapists." She paused, letting that sink in.

"Now, clean the blood off your damn hands. You're going to walk out of here like someone who lived. Not someone who died all those years ago."

---

Flashbulbs exploded the moment John Walker stepped out of the museum’s side entrance. His jacket hung from one hand, the other curled loosely at his side, fingers twitching from the fight still ringing in his muscles. His white button up was still bloody, but it was dark with how it dried. He had wiped his knuckles clean before he’d left the building, but they were still red, and sore enough to pulse with every heartbeat. He didn’t remember walking down the hallway, everything had blurred after the fight.

The second his boots hit the steps outside, reporters surged like a pack. Cameras angled upward, microphones thrust into his face. Shouts came from every direction, layered over each other until they blurred into static.

“Walker! Do you regret what you did tonight?”

“Is it true you assaulted a decorated officer?”

“Did the New Avengers authorize this?”

He didn’t stop or answer any of them. He moved as quickly as his limbs would allow, ignoring the bile still lingering at the back of his throat.

Bob was already at his side by the time he reached the third step. He hadn’t seen Bob leave the building, hadn’t even been sure he was still inside, but now he was walking in stride beside him without a word. It was just the two of them while the team tried cleaning up.

As the crowd shifted to follow, John noticed the way Bob’s posture changed. He had been walking slightly hunched, his eyes darting between cameras, fingers wringing together in nervous tics. But as soon as the first reporter brushed against John’s shoulder, Bob’s body went unnaturally still. His spine straightened, his arms dropped to his sides, and his breathing went completely silent.

John turned his head slightly. One glance told him everything. Bob’s expression had gone blank, in that way that made your skin crawl when you remembered what lived inside him. It wasn’t Bob anymore. It was Sentry.

A man in a polo shirt shoved his way through the barricade and pushed a mic into John’s chest. “Are you having another mental breakdown? Are you still fit for the New Avengers?!"

Before the guy could take another step, he was jerked back by a sudden feeling to his chest. He stumbled on the curb as his camera flickered with static. The crowd reacted all at once to the interaction, and then at the two super people. People stepped away without realizing why.

John didn’t say anything and kept walking. He didn’t look at Bob, because he didn’t need to. Being near him at that moment was comforting. The blonde knew the man and the group moving was all of his doings.

Bob opened the door of the SUV that had been waiting for the two. John climbed in first, sliding across the seat and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Bob got in after him, closing the door in one smooth motion. The second the door clicked shut, the outside world disappeared.

He didn’t look at Bob. His eyes were fixed on the tinted window, watching the distorted blur of movement outside. His right leg bounced uncontrollably. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, and his hands kept twitching like they weren’t done fighting.

Finally, Bob spoke— but the voice wasn’t exactly his.  “I don’t like seeing you like this,” he announced. He kept his eyes forward, resting his hands on his knees.

John turned his head slowly. His face was pale under the interior lights of the car. “Are you... Bob right now?” His voice cracked slightly. 

“No,” Bob spoke without hesitation. “Not completely.”

John let out a bitter sound that might’ve been a laugh. He looked down at his lap and shook his head. “Great. That’s just perfect.”

Bob didn’t react to the sarcasm. He stayed where he was, “I know what it’s like."

John looked down at his hands, the same hands that had landed every punch in the museum. His left hand twitched as he noticed how it had a small cut from Cain's wedding ring. He hadn't even noticed, but he must've hit it when Cain tried to defend himself.

“I’m not like Bob,” Sentry said after a moment. “Bob wants to hold your hand. I want to kill the people who ever touched you like that.”

John shifted his whole body, knees angling towards Bob. He wanted to speak, to say anything, but he still didn't trust himself in speaking.

Sentry finally looked over. His eyes were brighter now, almost glowing under the dome light above them. 

“Sentry doesn’t understand why you cry,” he sighed, "But Bob does. Bob cares for you. And Sentry... protects what Bob cares for.”

The words hit John harder than the fight had. His face barely moved. But his left hand, the one that hadn’t stopped twitching since they got in, inched slowly across the seat. It moved a few inches at a time, pausing like it might retreat at any second.

Finally, his fingers brushed against Bob’s.

Bob didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all. He just let it happen.

"Well, would you mind bringing Bob back?" Which was met with a small smile from Sentry. 

"He's... not ready. I'll be here until then." John didn't mention how his heart ached, but it made sense. Bob might not be able to handle seeing John bloody like this.

So, he leaned is head on Sentry's shoulder, whispering a small 'thank you' then let himself fall into a light sleep.

 

Notes:

Rocking back and forth at the moment I actually need to get my spark back for this story. I'm working on like four different stories right now lol I just need a little bit of everything when I write.

Please comment and leave kudos! #slaying

Chapter 17: Twitter Thread

Notes:

Two in one day?! Short, but still two? You lucky bastards. I was gonna sit on this and then slowly launch once a day, but FUCK THAT! I can't keep anything a secret lol

John woke up to light pouring through the blinds. His head felt foggy, and his body didn’t ache the way he expected it to. There was no blood crusted under his fingernails, no stiffness in his jaw. He blinked at the ceiling a few times before realizing he wasn’t in his uniform. Pajama pants and a soft cotton shirt clung to his skin. It smelled like fabric softener that wasn’t his.

The memory of the night before came back to him in pieces as he sat up slowly. Everything else after that blurred. His hands dropped into his lap, and that’s when he saw the clean skin on his arms, the visible cuts that ran just below the crook of his elbow. Some were older. Some were new. All left grotesque marks that had risen above his skin. The newer ones were scabbed over and it was disgusting just how he had permanently ruined himself.

They hadn’t been bandaged like he left them, which meant someone had seen them. The shirt sleeves were short and they didn’t hide anything. But sadly, by the time he realized, he was already halfway to the kitchen. 

He turned the corner barefoot. The floor felt cold under his feet and the voices stopped the second he stepped into view.

Bucky had been leaning over the counter, both hands braced like he was trying not to punch through it. Yelena was crouched on a stool, peeling a mango with a knife. Ava stood near the coffee maker, eyes unfocused. Sentry was already sitting at the table with both hands around a coffee mug, his shoulders hunched like he hadn’t moved all morning. Alexei was on his phone, as if trying to get anything from the news.

No one said a word once they set their eyes on John, or more accurately, on his arms. He looked down at them too, as if surprised. The pink and purple lines and the fresh red ones weren’t bleeding, but they weren’t subtle either. They stood out against the skin like welts that hadn't faded yet. There was no use covering them now.

“Guess I slept through breakfast,” John muttered. His voice wasn’t steady, but he kept walking. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he entered to find some sort of food.

Ava stood up straighter, she reached for the coffee pot and didn’t say anything. Bucky walked around the table without a sound and pulled a plate of food toward an empty chair. Yelena never moved, but the knife in her hand slowed down. She didn’t look away.

John pulled out the chair next to Bob and sat down. He didn’t touch the food or mention the others around him.

Sentry was the only one who spoke. “I figured you’d be sore.” He looked over at John and lightly fixed some of his bed head.

John nodded once, eyes still on the table. “Did you change me?” He asked.

The brunette didn’t hesitate. “Bob did. I stayed after, though.”

The room didn’t react to that either. They had already guessed as much. It didn’t matter who had done it. What mattered was that someone had.

John exhaled and pressed his hands together between his knees. He could feel the eyes on him, not in judgment, just quiet understanding, the kind that made everything worse because it was real. He almost wishes they would judge him so the need to run away was something he could actually do.

“So…” John finally started, now looking at the plated food. “What’s the plan?”

There was a long pause. Ava poured him coffee without asking how he liked it. Bucky finally sat down. Yelena folded her knife and put it away while Alexei put his phone down with a sigh. 

Bob reached out under the table, resting his fingers on the edge of John’s knee. He didn’t squeeze nor did he say anything else and John didn’t pull away. It was the only contact that didn’t make his skin crawl. Everyone else had gone quiet again, unsure how to answer him.

Everyone looked up when the elevator door opened to show Valentina, still just as pissed and in a dark green suit John swears he just saw recently on someone else.

“Cain’s alive.” That was the first thing out of her mouth. No preamble, no greeting.

John’s head snapped up, in almost relief and a similar pain in his chest.

Val tossed a tablet down on the table in front of everyone, but her eyes were already locked on John. “He’s concussed, has three broken ribs, and a shattered orbital socket, but he’s breathing.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath as he picked up the tablet. Yelena didn’t look surprised once she glanced over.

“Problem is,” Val continued, crossing the room and grabbing a seat without asking, “he’s also tweeting.”

“What?” It took John a second to understand what she meant by that, still groggy from sleep.

Bucky handed the tablet to Val who opened up a Twitter thread. "He’s throwing everything he has online. Old mission records, deployment rosters. Photos. Names. He’s spinning it like you attacked him because he was going to report you for misconduct. Accusing you of being a, uh, government whore." Alexei made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

John didn’t speak, only nodding his head as he felt himself going to throw up soon.

Sentry grabbed the tablet— through telekinesis— and flicked through the screen. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders stiffened as he looked at the once professional tweets turn into a page bashing John.

Val glanced around the table, then back to John. “He posted a few pictures. We got most scrubbed, but there's one we can't get off. He says it's a warning you'll understand.”

No one else at the table reacted to that, but Bob stopped scrolling when he felt John tense under his hand that was more so on his thigh than his knee now.

Val looked at him like she already knew. “It’s the one with the barrel next to your face.”

Yelena’s knife was already back in her hand, though no one saw her move.

John’s breath hitched. He didn’t say anything. His fingers had gone stiff around the mug— the one Ava must have given him, though he couldn't remember when— and his knee began to bounce until he slammed his heel against the floor to stop it.

Bucky stood. “Where’s it posted?”

“Everywhere,” Val sighed while she fixed her hair. “He tagged news outlets. He’s leaning hard on the ‘John Walker is where he's at because he sucks good dick’ angle.”

“I should’ve killed him,” John muttered not any one person.

Sentry set the tablet down gently. His voice was steady while his hand on his thigh rubbed in a comforting motion. “He weaponized something you never meant to show anyone. That’s not your shame.”

John didn’t answer once more. He just stared past the edge of the table, and his eyes looked glassy. "You don't get it. That's a warning that he has photos of me that— well, aren't tasteful."

Val was already opening a folder she'd walked in with. “Damage control’s in motion. He’s got noise, not proof. The missions he’s referencing had no official records. No hard copies, at least. And the photos?” She tilted her head slightly. “You weren’t the only soldier to end up in a tent with no way out.”

John rubbed his hand over his mouth as he regretted sending those photos and whoring himself like he did. He really didn't think about what would've happened when he got older.

“I want him gone,” Ava said from the far end of the table.

Val didn’t flinch. “He will be.”

John pushed himself up from the table, but only made it halfway to standing before Bob caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” Bob said quietly. “You don’t have to run.”

“I’m not running,” John snapped, then stopped himself. His voice cracked halfway through it. “I’m not.”

He looked at the team again, then down at his arms. The cuts were still there. Everyone had seen them.

Everything he was doing was the run away. From leaving his role as Captain America, to leaving his wife and kid, to jumping from office to office with a well fucked ass. 

Then—

Oh God.

What did Olivia think about all of this? Or his father and mother?

He felt himself getting anxious again, the sweat clinging at the back of his neck and the obsessive need to butcher himself again. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears from his heart pounding.

“He’s making it look like I’m the monster." He suddenly blurted, "When he made me do all of that! It was him!"

Val glared as she met the frantic man eye to eye. “He’s already lost, John. That’s why he’s screaming. That’s what men like him do— they try to take you down with them.”

John didn't look convinced. But when he looked around at the group, they all offered supportive grins and Yelena waved her knife while Bucky pointed to his metal arm with an exaggerated angry face. Which actually made John chuckle. 

He looked down at Sentry, still holding his wrist. He didn't say anything as the man interlocked his fingers. John sat down, almost at a loss of words with Sentry acting on everything Bob was too scared to do. No matter how he fronts, he couldn't stop his cheeks from flushing at the action.

"So, lawyers?" John asked Valentina gave him a grin.

"Only the best." she laughed, already pulling out her phone. “Let’s go ruin a man’s week.”

Notes:

Sentry, the man you could've been if the MCU didn't first introduce you as a villain...

(I listened to Father Figure while writing this... take that as you will)

Chapter 18: Lawyer From Hell's Kitchen

Notes:

By request, Matt Murdock! Sorry if I got him a bit wrong, I don't really know him as well as others.

John sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly they turned white. The tower had gone quiet almost an hour ago. The others had cleared out of the main floor on Val’s orders. But Bob hadn’t left his side once since the words “we called a lawyer” were mentioned.

Val’s voice came down the hall. “He’s here.”

John looked up. He expected some government man in a pressed suit and smug smile. What he got instead was different from what he expected.

The man that followed Val inside was composed as any professional. He walked with a cane and didn’t wear a suit, just a dark sweater and jeans. Round red glasses shielded his eyes. The only thing more surprising than his casual look was the fact that he somehow carried the kind of weight most people couldn't fake. John assumed the casual look was because Val called him off hours.

“This is Matthew Murdock,” Val said simply. “Lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt nodded in John’s direction. “I appreciate you letting me be here.”

John didn’t speak to him, he just stood and followed him down the hall.

Val led them into a small room that John doesn't remember ever seeing. It held a table, two chairs, and a place from Matt's briefcase. There was a third chair against the wall and Bob didn't say anything as he sat down.

John followed and sat down, Matt sat across from John. He didn't have anything big, just a digital recorder and a folder with some items in it already.

“For the record,” Matt's voice was smooth, and John tried his best to focus on the job at hand rather than wondering who this man exactly is, “this is a testimonial interview with John Walker. This is not a deposition. You are not under oath, nor are you being charged. This is a voluntary account of events for legal documentation and defense.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You okay with that?”

John gave a few nods, and Matt waited, before he sighed. “I need you to say it out loud.”

“Yes. I’m okay with that.” John felt his cheeks flush slightly but thankfully Matt didn't make a face or say anything about it.

“Good.” Matt leaned back. “Take your time. We go at your own pace.”

John stared at the recorder for a long moment, unsure where to start. There was so much and last time he was in court he was the one on the trail. Matt sighed again, but let John speak.

“His name is Richard Cain, he was my CO when I was in the Army. I was eighteen when it started. He was... around forty years old. It didn’t stop until… honestly? I don’t know if it ever really did.”

Matt didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“He made sure I knew what I was for. Said compliance would get me promoted. Said silence kept everyone alive, and I believed him.”

John’s voice faltered, then steadied. “He raped me. Personally. Publicly. Privately. When he was done, he let others take turns. Soldiers. Contractors. Diplomats. Whoever he wanted to keep happy.”

“Did you ever try to report it?”

“Yeah. Once.” John gave a humorless laugh. “I told a superior. Two days later, I got reassigned. I stopped showing up on mission logs. I was, um, beaten and raped when I saw Cain next."

He looked up at Matt. “That was the moment I knew I was never getting out of it clean.”

Matt’s face remained unreadable. “Do you want to stop here?”

“No,” John said quietly. “I don’t.”

He swallowed hard. “He took pictures, and I sent him some too. You’ve seen one already. The one with the gun.” His jaw clenched. “That night I used a gun on myself sexually on request from Cain. It hadn't been the first time a gun was used but it was the first time I used it by myself."

John’s fingers tensed again, his wrists subtly pulling toward each other as though instinctively seeking to shield his body. Across from him, Matt stayed silent but his attention was razor sharp. Even behind the red glasses, it was clear he didn’t miss a thing.

Matt adjusted the recorder. “You’re doing well,” he coaxed John, “You don’t have to relive more than you’re ready to, but I do need to ask a few things. Is that alright?”

John gave a slow nod before remembering he needed to speak. “Yes. That’s fine.”

“Thank you.” Matt’s voice was low and careful. “Earlier, you mentioned photographs. Were any of those images ever used to threaten you?”

John nodded again, this time a bit faster. “Yeah. All the time. He’d print them, leave them in my locker. Once, he left one in a sealed folder on my bunk after I tried to avoid him for a week.”

Matt kept his expression neutral, but his fingers tightened slightly around the pen he was using to make notes. “Did he ever state explicitly what would happen if you didn’t comply again?”

“Yeah. Said he’d send them to my parents. Said he’d forward one to my wife, Olivia. He said...” John trailed off, then looked away. “He said people would rather think I was the slut than believe a decorated officer raped a soldier." John couldn't help the small sniffle he let out, "How no one would believe a whore."

Matt didn’t respond right away. His voice, when he spoke again, was a little firmer. “John, I need to ask this, and I’m sorry for how blunt it might sound: Did he ever sell those images, or share them beyond the threats?”

John hesitated, “He said he did. I never saw proof, but I knew people looked at me like they knew something. Guys I didn’t recognize would try to talk to me about sex acts I did. I knew I wasn't paranoid but Cain used to tell me I was."

“Not paranoid,” Matt repeated. “You were groomed, and it's important that you understand that distinction.”

Bob shifted slightly in the chair behind John, but didn’t speak. He hadn’t moved since they entered, a silent presence in the background that was there for John when he needed it.

Matt clicked the recorder, going over to a new recording. “Do you want to describe any of the events from the last forty-eight hours? The confrontation at the museum, the photographs now being circulated by Cain?”

John cleared his throat. “He was at that gala hosted by C.I.A director Valentina. I didn’t know until I saw him across the room. I froze and I didn’t think— I couldn't when he came up to me at the bar."

His voice got quieter. “He smiled at me. Said something to my friend and I, and was being perverted towards me. Then he talked to my friend like he used to talk to other officers. ” John looked down at his hands. “When we left because I broke a glass.”

John glanced back at Bob who stood, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "After my friend and I left the bathroom, he was talking to my teammates.  He was still trying to embarrass me, but my female teammates weren't happy with him. He kept egging me on, saying he'll release photos. My friend punched him once, and then he... called me a nickname that was.." He could feel his hands shaking, the anger coming back to him. 

Matt gave him a moment before asking, “Do you remember how many times you struck him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe six or seven. I think I stopped after my friend pulled me off of him." John glanced and Bob nodded.

"Have you seen any photographs from what happened?" Matt asked while he quickly looked through his folder.

John shook his head, "No, I haven't seen any from the night. Just the 'warning' Cain posted on his Twitter."

“The gun?” Matt asked softly, more so it's confirmed on the recorder.

John nodded once more, then sighed. "Yes, the gun."

There was silence afterwards, long enough that the lawyer would go a different route. Matt adjusted his posture in the chair. The recorder was still running.

“John,” Matt fiddled with the edge of the folder. “can I ask how this has affected you? Beyond the photographs. Beyond the headlines. You don’t have to go into detail—just... whatever you want to say.”

John was going to decline anything from happening, but he felt Bob squeeze his shoulder. 

“I lost my wife,” His voice cracked with the weight of something that had been sitting on his chest for a long time. “Olivia. I couldn’t tell her. I wanted to, so many times, but I didn’t know how, and then when the nightmares started... when I couldn’t even look at her without feeling dirty... I shut down.”

Matt didn’t speak, silently trying to get John to continue. This was good to get on digital recording just in case of anything.

“I told her I was fine. That it was combat stress, PTSD from missions, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. I stopped sleeping in our bed. Stopped talking to her like a person. And I started drinking.”

John’s lips twitched into a joyless smile. “Doesn’t do much, not with the serum. You can drown a regular man in a bottle, but not me. It just makes everything in my body just work faster to burn the tipsiness off.”

Bob shifted behind him again, deciding to move his chair so he was sitting next to John. The hand on his shoulder moved to his arm in a gentle touch.

“I tried therapy. For a bit. But I couldn’t say it. Not like this. Not out loud. So I stopped going.” His hands were shaking now, resting on the table, palms flat. “I started hurting myself. I didn’t call it that at first. I said it was testing limits or some bullshit. But I knew it wasn't.”

Matt’s voice was calm. “How long has that been going on? The self-harm.” He clarified.

“Couple years now.” John looked up at him. “I keep it hidden from everyone. Clean it up before anyone sees. But it’s always there. When I can’t sleep. When I remember something I can’t shake. When I feel like I need to punish the body for what it let happen.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Some days, it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I still have control.” He desperately tried not to look down at the clear marks on his arms.

Matt’s expression didn’t shift with Bob's and John's to his arms, as if he couldn't see them.

“John, what you’re describing... those are survival tactics. Desperate ones, but they’re not weakness. They’re not failure. They’re what happens when someone’s been forced to carry the unbearable alone for too long.”

John’s eyes had begun to sting but he didn't say anything to the lawyer across from him. Matt reached over and slowly turned off the recorder that ended with a click.

“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore,” he maintained a professional tone. “We’re going to build a case. But more than that, I want to make sure you survive it.”

John lowered his head into his hands, and for the first time that day, he let himself cry in front of a complete stranger. 

He doesn't remember Matt leaving them, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Bob next to him. He noted the lack of the gold in his eyes and it made John smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“You were brave,” Bob said quietly.

“I felt sick.” John laughed as he placed his head onto Bob's shoulder.

Bob's arm was raised to reach around John's shoulders in a side hug. “You were still brave.”

John let out a shaky breath and leaned back in the chair, exhausted from speaking more truth than he had in years.

Notes:

John not knowing Matt is blind is just because John's actor, Wyatt Russel, is a bit of an airhead. So, now John is too. He's smart, and yet, so dumb.

Dumb blonde John, the way I want to get you pregnant....

Chapter 19: My Dear, Olivia

Notes:

I watched Squid Game 3... just be prepared.

I also found out last minute I am leaving in 5 hours for my family's house! While that's cool, I also can't bring my laptop and I don't enjoy typing on my phone. It will be for a few days, but I promise y'all I will try to update!!! So have a short, sad chapter until I'm back:)

I listened to "Jonny" while writing this

Olivia Walker remembers the first time John flinched during sex. She remembers seeing bruises and cuts and thought it was normal for a hard working man like John.

Her Johnny boy.

Yet, she sat and watched a live program of him ruthlessly beating a man for the second time in her life.

The same boy who was nervous to hold her hand at the homecoming dance.

The same boy who cried when he found out he was going to be a father. Cried even more when he found out it was going to be a little boy.

That happened almost a week ago. She had decided against calling him. Instead, she called both his mother and father. While they were married, Olivia kept great relationships with his family.

No matter when she called, they answered. They talked for hours, even spoke to a four year old Daniel Walker who was getting more and more aware of his surroundings the more time went on.

When Olivia reached for her mail the next day, she peaked curiously at an envelope.

The envelope wasn't marked urgent and it held no return address. Just her name in tight, slanted handwriting that she hadn't seen in over a year.

She kept putting it off for a while, until it was three in the morning and she couldn't sleep.

Olivia stared at it for a long time, her hand resting on top of a cup of tea gone cold, her phone buzzing somewhere across the room with notifications she didn't have the energy to check. It wasn't unusual to get something addressed to "Olivia Walker," though the name hadn't been hers in months. 

She opened it on instinct before she had time to talk herself out of it any longer. The first thing that fell out was a single photo— nothing graphic. Just a snapshot, taken from too far away to be intimate, too close to be accidental. It showed John sitting on the edge of a bed, his hands in his hair, shoulders curved in on himself like someone folding into their own ribs. She could tell from the grain of the image that it had been taken years ago, and the second she saw it, her stomach clenched.

She knew that posture.

She'd seen it at two in the morning when he thought she was asleep. She'd seen it in parking lots outside therapy sessions he said "weren't helpful," in the way he'd look at himself in the mirror when he thought she wasn't paying attention. That quiet stillness, like he didn't know how to fit inside his own skin anymore.

There was a letter, folded neatly behind the photograph. A single sheet of paper that was hand written by John.

"My Dear, Olivia,

There are things I couldn't tell you, and things I shouldn't have hidden. I lied every time I said it was just the job. I lied every time I said I was okay. I didn't know how to explain the kind of wrong that sits under your bones. I didn't want you to have to carry it with me. But I realize now I made you carry something else instead... my silence. 

I'm sorry. I was never good at letting people see me when I was hurting, and by the time I wanted to, I think it was already too late. 

I love you, and I love Daniel more than anything. But I was harming you guys just as much as I was harming myself. I hope one day you can forgive me and my actions. And that one day Daniel can look to someone as a strong man in his life. Because I have failed him.

I hope this message finds you well. You know where to find me.

Yours,

Johnny."

That was it. No true closure in the words. Just those words and the photo. But it was more than she'd ever gotten when he was still sleeping on the couch downstairs, insisting he didn't want to talk, insisting he was fine, insisting she go back to bed. And she had. Because what else could she do?

Olivia folded the letter back up and sat there for a long time, the paper held lightly between her fingers, her eyes stinging.

 She wasn't angry, at least, not anymore. The anger had burned out a long time ago, slow and tired. 

What was left was closer to regret. She felt a strange kind of clarity in the letter. She had loved him. She truly had, and she tried to reach him, over and over again. But some wounds don't bleed where anyone can see.

She looked at the photo again. He looked so young. Back when he was still her Johnny boy. Back when they held each other while looking over the night sky at her house.

She pressed the image against her chest, just once, and whispered to the empty room, "I wish you had told me."

Then she got up, and finally, finally put the kettle back on. 

Not before placing a photo onto the fridge.

 

Notes:

Olivia... poor, poor Olivia.

I can't lie I'm very WLW for her and John fumbled.

Their child's name is Daniel because it's the first one I saw when I searched up boy names.

OH ALSO I SAW SOMEONES BOOKMARK SAYING THIS STORY REMINDS THEM OF "Drug Asphyxiation" by late night drive home.... I WANT TO MARRY YOU THAT'S SO GENIUS!!! THANK YOU!

Chapter 20: Lemar Hoskins.

Notes:

Hey guys, it's me again...
I'M BAAAAACCKKK

This hadn't been the first time John was stuck in the kitchen this late at night. But, it was the first night John was in the kitchen with his Journal. He hadn't opened it in a while, but with everything going on, he felt he needed to write it all down in the most word vomit way possible. Just to try and feel back in control of something, especially when everything around him was a horrid mockery of his trauma.

He was fresh out of the shower, scrubbing at his blistered scars so harshly they’d reopened. He liked the sting. Liked the look of red blood mixing with water, creating a pink color in the water. That soft color reminded him of bruises and broken capillaries— like the ones that used to paint his face after a fight he didn’t remember starting.

He perched on one of the shitty counter stools, adjusting his sweats and pulling down the sleeves of his too-long shirt. The fabric clung to his arms, hiding the newest wounds.

"It's been a while. I miss writing down my thoughts into these pages," John took a moment to look over the filled pages before going back to the writing, "Did you miss me? That's stupid, a book can't miss someone. But I wonder if I was the only thing giving you purpose. Maybe using one page would've been enough for other books, letting them know they've done their duty. 

But not you. You require each page to be filled to the brink, every bit of you used before you feel even slightly of use. I guess you and I are a lot alike. I liked every bit of me to be used. I've had every hole filled, scarred myself everywhere.

It wasn't enough, even after all my pages were filled, I still wanted more. Are you like that? Do you want me to write on the cover and adorn you with stickers and bookmarks?" 

He felt his hand shake for a moment as his next words came shaky.

"I'm so alone. I want to go back to how I used to be."

John let the ink bleed onto the sheet, acting as a period to end the sentence. He knew if he kept writing he would either end up hard or holding a rope.

He didn't even hear anyone enter, but he flinched when the overhead light was flicked on, washing away the lamp in the corner of the room. John's first instinct was to sneer at whoever turned on the light, but paused when he noticed it was a very timid looking Bob.

He hadn't seen much of Bob recently since Sentry insisted on presenting whenever John was around. It made John blush and giddy inside, but John couldn't get anywhere with him. He treated John like the blonde was a prince in distress, waving his handkerchief at the sight of the first man he saw.

And it pissed John off. He wanted Bobby, he wanted a man who was so gentle and loving, but wasn't in need of control. 

Yet, a part of him still saw the reflection of Cain in his smile. Maybe that made him want Bob more.

So, needless to say, he practically fell over when he stood at the sight of the blue eyed man.

Bob gave an awkward wave as he grabbed a bag of chocolates from the fridge.

"Couldn't sleep?" His hoarse voice asked before he could think about his actions. He did decide to sit back down and close his journal. 

Bob opened the bag of chocolates and came closer to John, sitting next to him. "Never can." He placed a piece into his mouth and chewed for a moment. "Did you send it?"

John shifted so he was staring at Bob instead of his closed journal. "What?"

He made a small motion with his pointer finger to John then the notebook. "To Olivia. You mentioned it the other night."

Ah, that.

He didn't know what he wrote it, and he doesn't really remember what he even wrote. He knows he didn't get as detailed as he should've been with his ex-wife who was still taking care of their child.

"Yeah— yeah, I did." He coughed into a fist and grabbed the water he had been sipping on every so often. He water cooled his nerves that were on edge from Bob sitting next to him.

A soft hum filled the air between them, as if the mention of Olivia was too much for them. Why wouldn't it be? John couldn't even tell Bob just how much he meant to him, nor how much he had been fantasizing about being held while riding Bob. And maybe John getting to fuck Bob once in a while.

Maybe it was a good thing he didn't know how to talk to the other man.

He was gorgeous to John. His smile felt infectious and grew like a parasite under his skin. Soft eyes he always relied on to stabilize himself in hard situations. 

Why couldn't Bob let John hate him? Why did he have to be sweet and the only person on the team who didn't avoid him at all costs?

That was a whole separate thing. Everyone on the team had been tip toeing around John since he first came out in the short sleeved shirt. Were his scars really that ugly? They weren't meant to push away his team, just Cain and his friends. And himself. His team should've respected him and seen him as an equal, but they don't.

No one had ever seen him as an equal. The one man that did was dead.

Another John wonders about; would Lemar stand by his side, even now? Cain and Lemar had been friends, not nearly as close as John and Lemar, but close. He can see it so clearly, the image of Lemar holding onto John's knee while he told him everything that had happened.

"How long do you think I have to stay here?" John blurted out, catching Bob by surprise.

He took a minute to think back to what was said by Val, "Well, Val said it's best to stay here until either press calms down— which it won't— or until we have the evidence we need for court."

John huffed, crossing his arms onto the marble. "I wish I could get out of here for a minute." Bob tilted his head.

"W—well, I can ask Sentry to fly you somewhere.." Bob cleared his throat, "Where do you wanna go?"

It really shouldn't have caught John off guard, but it did. Was Bob really going to let John use him like a personal Uber? He doesn't even know where he wants to go, for all Bob knows, John wanted to go to a bar.

"Lemar's grave." He glanced at the blank stare Bob gave him, "Custer's Grove, right next to his Pa." John gave a chuckle, as if remembering something. 

"He never did leave his families side, even if he could've been buried anywhere, he chose where his family had been being buried since way before him."

Bob let John have another moment of silence before he stood. "Okay, then we're going to Georgia. Get dressed." Before John could even express how ridiculous Bob was, the man was walking away.

"Oh," Bob turned to John with a small smile, "see you in twenty."

---

That's how John got here: looking over the city from a very cold rooftop. He dressed the best he could with heavy duty, but worn, wrangler jeans with a long sleeve and black hoodie. He wanted to try to be anonymous, even in a slight way. There was no way they were actually going to fly to Georgia at— John checked his watch— 2am.

Especially not with how long the flights were, lasting around two hours and sum from New York to Atlanta.

The air around him was frigid, stinging his cheeks on the cold night in New York. It was easier to exist up here instead of down there, at least the cold on his cheeks was nicer than the swarm of never sleeping paparazzi around the tower. 

He heard the soft patter of feet on the rooftop and when he glanced, his eyes softened. It was Bob, wearing black joggers and that similar blue sweater he never took off. But the more John stares, the more he realizes that he's looking at Sentry.

"You came." John wanted to smack his face for that one. Of course he would come, he's the one that suggested they go out in the first place.

Sentry gave a low chuckle and approached John. "Told you I would." He glanced over John, "Cold?" Which was met with a nod from the blonde.

John got closer and soon, the two were pressed together. "How can I not be?" He wrapped his arms around Bob's neck. It was just to hold onto him for when they fly, but John's hands gripped the back of Bob's hair.

Or well, Sentry.

"Got everything? And please, not so rough, Walker." Sentry chuckled as his hands gripped onto John's waist. John instantly let go of the tight grip on his hair with a nervous smile. 

"Right. Sorry, sorry." He mumbled as they began to float off the floor. Suddenly, John felt just how pink his cheeks were. Their bodies were slotted right next to each other, and if this was Bob, John would've considered giving him a blow job before they left.

Instead, he held onto Bob closer as he flew them.

It seemed that time went faster, since they were in Georgia in an hour or so. 

John directed them to the dark graveyard and sighed once his feet touched the grass. Sentry gripped onto his hand, "Lead the way." He motioned for John to continue and they walked around for a while. 

John took the longer way, almost as if seeing the gravestone would be too much for him.

And it was. The sight of the gravestone in the distance pulled at John's heart in a way he couldn't say. He walked up to the gravestone that said, "Lemar Hoskins. SGM. U.S. Army. Beloved Son and Friend." As well as his date of birth and death.

John's grip on Sentry's hand never faltered as he pulled him to the grave. As they approached, John wiped the tears in his eyes. 

"Lemar." He greeted, "This is Bob, or well, Sentry." John glanced at the other man who waved at the grave.

"Hi." Sentry glanced at John, "I'll be back, I think some extra flowers would be nice." And John nodded. He watched as Sentry left, flying away from view. 

John looked back at the grave and crouched down to place his head against the cold granite. "I missed you, Battlestar." He decided to sit down after another minute of him leaning against the grave. John didn't know what to say, or more so how to say everything he wanted to say.

"You know, I'm not Captain America anymore, but... I'm on a new team." He looked at Lemar's name, as if that was a response. "Yeah, can you believe that? Me, on a team? With Bucky, too." He chuckled softly.

"Sure, he broke my arm, but he's good. They all are.." John moved so his back was halfway against the grave.

"Especially after some stuff that happened." He sighed, "I don't know how to say this..."

A part of him wanted to run away and never tell Lemar, but he was here anyways. "Remember how I used to have bruises? How you always knew I was sleeping with other guys?" He looked at the grass, running his fingers through it.

"Yeah, uhm— it was all abuse. By Cain. Mhm, that Cain." Once he started, he couldn't stop. "He raped me, since we both entered in the Army. I wanted to tell you— really, I did. But I couldn't bring myself to say anything." John began to sob.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I always thought I had time to tell you. And now, I don't have you. Well, you would believe me if I told you." 

John's breathing hitched as he whispered, "I don't have my best friend. No one feels like you do." And for a minute, the memory of Bob came up. "Well, there's a guy.." He looked at the grave and chuckled through tears. 

"Don't— I know what you're saying. It's the guy that brought me here. He's... the sweetest thing. And a really good kisser." He leaned against the gravestone again. "I wish you could meet him, you would like him. We aren't together, but he did punch Cain for me."

John kept talking and talking, explaining to Lemar his relationship with every New Avenger, and the abuse by Cain. 

"Now we're going to court. I'm scared Lemar, what if I let you down again?" A voice came behind him, making John quickly jump to a fighting stance.

"You won't." He instantly relaxed when he saw Sentry walking up to him. He held a few bouquets of flowers. John grabbed some of them from his grip and placed them along Lemar's grave. 

"How long were you listening?" Which made the brunette hum, "Since you said Bob was a good kisser." John sighed into his hand that covered his face, in hopes Sentry wouldn't see how embarrassed he was.

"All I'm saying—" Sentry started, "—You need to be more honest with him. Bob, I mean."

John shook his head, "I can't do that to him. I'm broken, I mean, I've sucked more guys off than I can count on my hands." Which made Sentry laugh.

"Bob is a ex drug addict who was homeless in Florida. I'm sorry, you think he hasn't sucked off more guys than he can count?" John only winced at that and looked away.

"Point taken." Then it became silent between them as they arranged the flowers by Lemar's grave. They stayed at the grave for a bit— John talking and talking to Lemar while Sentry paced around to make sure they could avoid any guards.

Sentry noticed the sun beginning to rise and he made his way back to John. He could clearly hear what John was saying. 

"And then he poured coffee all over himself!" He laughed, "Ah.. it would've been funnier if you were here. But you know, this is just how it is. Thanks for leaving me." He playfully rolled his eyes at the stone. He let the silence wash over him for a while before speaking again.

"I promise, I'll be strong for you. I'll make you proud." Then he stood, glancing at where Sentry had been.

"You're not very sneaky." And the other man laughed when he made himself clear. John looked back at Lemar. Without his eyes leaving the spot, he spoke to Sentry.

"I'm ready to go home." Home. That's been the first time he's referred to the Watch tower as his home. Maybe it was.

With a silent nod, strong arms were wrapped around John and he returned the favor. He smiled at Lemar's name and pointed at the two of them, as if showing Sentry off. Sentry only shook his head playfully as they began to go back.

The flight back was just as quiet as before, except this time, John was more so cradled by the flying man.

When they landed on the now sunny rooftop, John kept his hold around Sentry's neck. He hesitated for a second, but then he leaned forward.

His lips lingered onto the corner of Sentrys, as more of a thank you than anything else. Sentry matched him for another kiss. His kiss was different from Bob's, as this was more of receiving a reward. 

After a few more gentle kisses, John pulled away. "Thank you." He whispered, and Sentry gave a kiss to his cheek.

"Don't thank me, thank Bob."

John chuckled, and as he walked away, turned only his head to Sentry. "Well, tell him he can cash in a full thank you when he wants."

Sentry tried to follow John, "Wait, you can thank me too!" He stumbled over his words while John gave him a small wave.

Notes:

I actually don't know what I'm doing. Like tbh I don't wanna write the law stuff because my heart is aching because of squid games s3. I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH, but I must write, I must! also this has been the most popular thing I've written so thank you?? Genuinely, like y'all don't know me yet read my stories. That means a lot to me, I put a shit ton of effort into all of my stories, no matter how silly and cracked.

Chapter 21: Just Breathe

Notes:

I'm not that proud of this chapter, I just wanted to get it over with. Enjoy

John wishes he was anywhere else than back in a closed off room, sitting across from his lawyer. They had been meeting for a few weeks, and now, Matt had filled the once empty folder to be stacked. Matt handed over the thick and heavy folder towards John, making him wince.

John’s eyes flickered over the pages. He could already feel the weight of what these documents were leading to— the truth, or at least part of it. It felt like his mind was running a mile a minute, trying to piece together a puzzle with some of the most crucial pieces missing.

“You’re sure about this?” John asked, as he cut off whatever Matt had been talking about.

Matt paused mid-sentence. He didn’t need to ask what John meant. “Yeah, it’s legit.”

John leaned back in his chair, the creak of the wood beneath him making him tense. “How the hell do you find this shit? This wasn’t just laying around.”

Matt let out a short, dry laugh. “It wasn’t easy, but I’m good at digging. What I found? It’s enough.”

He slid a printout across the table. John didn’t need to read the subject line or glance at the date. He could feel the familiar acid burn in his stomach as soon as he laid eyes on the first few lines. He tossed a bit of his hair to the side of his face.

We need to make sure he stays in line. He gets out of control too easily. It’s all about keeping him afraid. If we can isolate him, maybe break him down before we lose control of the situation—

John’s throat went dry as he stared at the words on the page. His hands gripped the edge of the table, fingers digging into the wood as his pulse quickened.

“Cain,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s Cain.”

“Yeah,” Matt replied, flipping through a few more papers. “There are more where that came from. The whole tone of these emails? It’s about power, and using whatever means necessary to keep you in check.”

John’s jaw clenched. It was everything he’d suspected, but seeing it laid out in black and white was different. It made the gut punch of realization hit harder. The methods Cain had used. The mind games. The manipulation. The fear.

He took a breath and exhaled sharply. “How many more?”

Matt tapped the side of his stack, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Enough to make a case we can win. But there’s more, John. Cain was using his connections to make sure certain things stayed under wraps. I found several mentions of... other people involved.”

John stared at him. “Other people?” He felt the sting of the words like they were meant for him. The walls were closing in. The feeling of betrayal, of people lying, of being watched from the shadows—it was suffocating. But this wasn’t just about Cain anymore. He could feel the ugliness of it all starting to unravel, pulling him deeper into something he wasn’t sure he could handle. But he would.

Matt nodded slowly, folding his arms. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to dig into his communications with a few of his higher-ups, but that’s not as easy. We need court approval to access those records. The whole thing is a damn mess.”

John leaned forward, his fingers pressing against the cool surface of the table, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “How long would that take?”

“Hard to say. We’ve got to go through the right channels to get that info. It’s not just something you can demand on a whim,” Matt explained, flicking through more emails, his eyes narrowing on another page. “But I think we can get it. The court will have to grant it sooner or later. You just need to be patient. We’ll get the information we need.”

John’s mind raced as he looked at the emails in front of him, then back up at Matt. The weight of what was in those emails, the connections, the knowledge of how deep the mess went, was making him feel like he was standing at the edge of something much bigger than he was prepared for.

Matt slid another printout across to him, and John snatched it up without a second thought. As his eyes scanned the words, he could feel his blood start to boil again.

Cain was too reckless. If he’s starting to crack, we’ll have to step in. We need to make sure he stays on track. His little outbursts are getting worse. We can’t let him self-destruct. Especially not with him wanting to give John that super serum.

John’s heart rate spiked. He swallowed hard, trying to push the rising tide of anger down. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold onto his composure. The years of being lied to, of being manipulated, were coming back, crashing through his thoughts like a freight train.

“This is too much,” he growled, rubbing a hand over his face. “He didn’t just fuck with me. He was trying to control everything, everyone.”

“I know, John,” Matt said softly. “But we’ve got what we need. This is the foundation for everything. Now we just need to make sure we hit the right targets.”

John’s gaze never left the papers. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at Cain or at the system that let him get away with it for so long. He wasn’t sure if he was mad at the whole damn world or just at himself. But one thing was for sure—this wasn’t going away. This was just the beginning.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” John said through clenched teeth. “I’m done being patient.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You’re still not seeing it, are you? Patience is the only thing that’ll give us leverage. You go in now, guns blazing, and it’ll all fall apart.”

John’s jaw tensed. “I don’t care. I need this to end. I need to make sure people understand what happened. The whole goddamn world needs to know what Cain did.”

Matt sighed once more as he rubbed his neck. “I get it, but we have to think this through. We have to play it smart.”

John stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he turned to face Matt. “How smart are we talking? I’m done waiting. I don’t care if I have to burn the whole system down.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure we’ve got every last piece of evidence before we do anything. You can’t go in half-cocked,” Matt replied firmly.

John didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked toward the window and looked out, his mind racing through everything he’d just learned. The more he thought about it, the more his anger turned into something colder—something sharper. They had to be methodical. They had to play this by the book, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough. It never was. They needed to break the chains that had kept him down for so long.

“I want it all, Matt,” John said finally. “Every last shred of it. And when we go, we go all the way.”

Matt didn’t respond right away. He was silent for a moment before he spoke in an even tone. “We’re getting there. Just don’t make any moves until we’ve got everything in place.”

John turned back to him, eyes narrowing. “I’ll hold off for now. But the second I have what I need... it’s over.”

John didn't bother to stay any longer, too pent up from the Emails that they had access to. Val must've gotten them, but they needed more. But as he left for the door, he paused.

"Are... Are there photos in there?" He whispered, and Matt hung his head.

"John, we need them." His breath hitched, gripping the door frame tightly to stabilize himself. Others had seen them, must've seen the emails that held each photo of John bare and used. He remembers every single one, remembers how he smiled at Cain. Sometimes it was other men, and he didn't smile for those.

---

John sat in his room, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls.  His mind buzzed with the aftermath of everything he'd learned, everything he'd been through. His chest felt tight as he curled up on himself.

It wasn’t just the discovery of the emails, the endless lines of lies and manipulation. It wasn’t just the anger, or the numbness, or the fear of what was to come. It was everything. All of it, suffocating him in ways he never thought possible. The blood from his new cuts he placed higher up on his arms didn't help either.

It was right after he came back from meeting with Matt. Alexei tried to meet him, but John pushed him away as he rushed to his room. He frantically looked for one of his cutting tools. He grabbed his blue-handled box cutter that was still stained from the last time he used it.

The blade made love to his lightly scarred skin, leaving new memories for him to think about. Blood dripped from his bicep toward his wrist in a never ending flow of red sweetness. Every nerve relaxed once he noticed the bloody cuts in the mirror. These ones were deeper than around his wrists, and he knew he would have to stitch them up.

After cleaning the blood around the cuts, he began to stitch the torn up muscle. He might've gone too deep this time. 

'There's no such thing as too deep' he reminded himself, remembering the time he stabbed his calf repeatedly. He more so remembers just how quickly it healed in the upcoming days.

But for today, it was best not to lift his left arm too much. Maybe he could hide the three deep, poorly stitched cuts?

He ran his hands through his hair, the frustration bubbling up inside him as his thoughts shifted, spiraling downward until they landed on a place he'd buried deep. The cutting only helped so much, leaving him to think about many things. His ex-wife. His son. His friends.

His mother.

She hadn’t been a part of his life for years— not since everything happened. Since he couldn’t bear to keep pretending everything was fine, when everything in his world had gone up in flames. The broken family, the fractured relationships. His mom, too caught up in her own world to understand his, or maybe too scared to face the reality of his, had pulled away. His father had already left a long time ago when he found out John enlisted.

He couldn’t blame her. But the hole it left in him was too severe and too deep for a knife to fix.

John wiped his face, then slowly reached for his phone from the nightstand. His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. It had been four years. Four years since the last conversation—an argument, really.

"You’re not the son I raised. I don’t know who you’ve become." She cried into the shoulder of his father, who glared at John with resentment. 

"Look at what you did! I knew you becoming the Government's bitch was the wrong move..."

Their words stung more than he was ready to admit, and they still echoed in his mind, haunting him like something he couldn’t shake. But the pull to reach out, to hear her voice, was undeniable. It felt like a last-ditch effort to remind himself there was still something human in him, some thread of connection that wasn’t broken beyond repair.

With a shaky breath, he opened his contacts and found her name. His thumb lingered over the call button.

He exhaled sharply. 'What the hell am I doing?' He thought to himself.

But before he could back out, his thumb pressed down. The dial tone rang in his ear. Each ring felt like it lingered on and on.

He hadn’t expected her to pick up, not really, not after all this time. But when the call was answered, and her voice broke through to him, the pit in his stomach was instantly gone.

"Hello?" Her voice was softer than he remembered, probably from her growing age and the time of the day. 

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady the tremor in his voice. “Mom, it’s me.”

There was a long pause, and John could almost hear her processing the sound of his voice, unsure of whether she was dreaming or if this was real.

“...John? Is it really you?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Her breath hitched slightly on the other end, a sound he knew all too well. He could practically feel the weight of the years between them, the tension stretching out and filling the call with uncomfortable confrontation.

He could feel the tears welling up behind his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall yet. Not when he wasn’t sure if he could say what he needed to say.

“I—I’m sorry, Mom. For everything,” he muttered, his voice cracking on the words.

His chest felt like it was closing in again. The tears he’d been holding back since earlier that day suddenly spilled over. It wasn’t just the pain of the past, it was everything that had built up over the years. Everything that he’d tried so hard to bury, to shove down and ignore.

She was quiet for a moment, and then the sound of her breathing reached him. “I’m sorry too, John,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much you were hurting, or how much you needed me. I thought— I thought if I just let you go, you’d come back when you were ready. But I was wrong. I hear things on the news, is it true? I wonder. All I want is for you to come back."

John’s chest ached. He hated the way his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I don’t know what I was waiting for. I guess I thought I could fix everything on my own.” He sighed, "I don't know what you heard, but I'm trying to fix it."

Her voice softened even more, like she was right there beside him. “You don’t have to fix everything, baby. You never did. You just had to let me in.”

"I’ve... I’ve been through a lot," John mumbled, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “And I didn’t want to burden you with it. I didn’t want you to see what I’ve become.”

“I see you, John,” she spoke with a deep and steady love that felt so foreign to him now. “I’m not angry. I just want to be here for you.”

John exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. “I don’t know if I can fix this. I don’t know if I can fix me.”

“Don’t try to fix anything right now. Just breathe. Let me help you breathe.”

Her words wrapped around him like a lifeline, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t entirely alone. It wasn’t a fix— there were no easy fixes for what he’d been through— but there was a softness in her voice was an invitation to let him be her little boy again. 

“I'm scared, Mom. I don't know what I'm doing.”

“That's normal,” she replied, her voice steady now. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just don’t shut me out again. I won’t let you go through this alone.”

John didn’t know what else to say. Instead, he just nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. He wasn’t ready to talk more, but it felt like the first step in something he never thought he’d take.

And as he sat there, holding the phone in his hand, the tears finally came in full force. The weight of everything he’d been carrying for years— everything he hadn’t been able to let go of—fell away. He wasn’t okay. He wouldn’t be okay for a long time. But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to push away the woman that loved him.

They talked for a while longer that night. John told his mom about what had been happening with Cain's abuse, as well as the court process. She told him about his father and the growing farm animals they were gaining in mass. 

"You know," She chuckled over the phone, "you are always welcomed back. Your father and I are always ready." 

John thanked her as their conversations slowly stopped once his mom needed to go put her chickens inside of their house. Maybe he'd take her up on her offer one day.

He sighed and leaned back onto the bed, but paused when a ping came to his phone. As he lifted it with his right hand, he could feel the fear washing back into his chest.

Ava sent him a photo of a News thread from Joshua Cain.

"Why John Walker is a lying piece of shit trying to ruin my dad." Under the photo, Ava texted him.

Ava: We're all up in the living room when ur ready.
Ava:P.S. Sentry is threatening to bring out Void. Please be ready before he grabs him.

Notes:

Joshua, Joshua, if only you knew what you're doing. Silly little boy.

Chapter 22: @JoshuaCainOfficial

Notes:

So I tried something new, don't be mad at me y'all. I am kinda burnt out but not at the same time? I want to keep writing and writing but ughhh

anyways, enjoy

Once John put on the closest shirt to him, he left his room in a panic. He hadn't even noticed how he wore a tank top of all things. He could care less.

John busted into the living room, looking over at the team who sat around a long couch. Each glanced up at him. He held his phone up, "What is this bullshit?!" He yelled.

He looked towards Mel— who had been looking out the window with her phone pressed to her ear— and she frowned. "I'm on the phone with Matt. He's trying to get it down." But that didn't do anything for the angry blonde.

Ava stood after a second, "Do you... know Joshua?" Hesitation was clear in her voice, her eyes trying their best to avoid his fresh stitches. John laughed at the woman.

"Know him? His father fucked me while moaning his name. I might've never met him, but—" He felt his face getting hot as his hand touched his cheek. It was that same jealousy he felt when he saw Cain flirt with Bob, and it's been following him since he first found out about Cain's son.

"Fuck, Josh—" Cain halted his hips, still pressed fully into John. The blonde glanced over his shoulder as he held onto the bedding tightly. He stopped grinding down onto the bed for friction on his dick, instead, frowned.

Cain was quick to give a smile, "A—Ah, sorry. It just slipped, Johnny. You guys have similar names." He kept his grin and John only huffed.

"I don't care. That you want to fuck him, I mean. But please, you're with me right now."

John cringed as the memory came back to him.

He sighed, "He didn't know, he doesn't know." He mumbled to himself as he began to pace the living room. Why had this jealousy followed him? He didn't want Cain anymore, he didn't even want to be associated with the horrible man.

John looked over at the group, seeing their sorry eyes on him. "Don't do that." He mumbled, eyes meeting Bucky's for a minute then at Yelena. "Stop looking at me like that!" He raised his voice.

No one moved besides Sentry, who got to his feet from his spot on the couch between Alexei and Yelena. "John, your arm." He paused and glanced at his new wounds.

 With an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat, he saw the stitching on one had come undone. his muscles spasmed under the eyes of everyone around him. He must've not stitched it properly, the blood that stained the side of his tank top made that clear.

Without a word, John turned and stalked down the hall to the small bathroom nearby. He closed the door behind him, sat on the closed toilet lid, and gripped the edge with both hands. His breath shook. The blood had started to get everywhere on him. It was a deeper red this time, pooling in the crook of his elbow.

When a knock came to the door, he already knew who it was. All he did was unlock the door. It opened quickly, and there was Sentry. John rubbed his eyes as he looked away from the man.

 The brunette didn’t speak right away. Instead, he knelt in front of John and pulled a small med kit from the shelf under the sink— like he knew exactly where everything was.

“You didn’t stitch deep enough,” His voice lacked most emotions, clear to John that this was Sentry taking care of him.

He wanted to roll his eyes and tell Sentry "Yeah, no shit." But instead, he stayed quiet.

After a minute or so, he mumbled, "I didn't ask for you."

Sentry sighed, "I know that, but he can't handle this." He began to open the med kit to grab a wipe and stitches.

John scoffed, "Seriously? He's not made of glass." He didn't react as the wound was disinfected, focusing on his open cut than the leaking blood along his arm.

"No, but he already blames himself for this happening to you. He wishes he was stronger, for you." Sentry glanced up, and began to stitch up the cut. He was clearly experienced in doing this, not that John would push him away over this.

"That's your excuse for keeping him buried? Or is it easier to deal with me when you have control?" John would've pulled away if the needle wasn't stuck into his skin, trying to get a piece of thread through the holes set by the needle.

“I’m not here to make you feel better,” Sentry muttered. “I’m here to stop you from bleeding out.”

“You ever think maybe I don’t want you?” John snapped.

“You don’t,” Sentry said evenly. “But you need me right now. There’s a difference.”

Silence came over them as John sat rigid, body tense. He hated how right the bastard was, hated how he could stay so calm while cleaning his deep, new cut.

John watched as Sentry finished up the stitching, tying up the nicer looking stitches. As he put items back into the med kit, John washed off his arm. John was slightly bent over the sink counter to wash off the drying blood. As it washed away, the blonde looked up to see Sentry looking him over from the mirror.

"Hey, eyes to yourself." He barked, but it did little to deter Sentry.

The other man got behind him, flushing his hips towards John's rear. He ducked his head to hide the flushed cheeks, hoping his stomach would stop twisting. 

Sentry tilted his head to the side. He reached and turned off the sink handle while his other hand gently trailed up John's side.

"It's not fair," He mumbled, "You let Cain see you like this, why can't I?" 

There was the Sentry that John first met— the one that wanted control over whatever he wanted. 

John gave a light scoff, "He took it. There's a difference." He mocked Sentry's words from earlier, making him laughed.

"I guess... I guess there is." He leaned over, his chest pressed onto John's back which pushed him to a 90 degree angle. He leaned down to whisper into John's ear, "You would like it if I took it, wouldn't you?" 

That was an idea John had considered before; letting someone fuck him through the trauma. He imagined it with just about everyone who had ever been nice to him. He didn't intentionally think about it, but the amount of times he wishes he could just fuck the issues away would've concerned anyone that wasn't him.

The more he thought about it, the more blood pooled towards his cock, leaving him half hard. Could Sentry actually help him? If he had, John doesn't think he could ever look at Bob again.

"I—" He paused, trying not to whimper at the strong body pressed onto his, "—I want Bob..."

Sentry hummed, he was quiet for a minute as he thought about his response. "Right. You and him." He got off of John, a little to the other mans annoyance.

"Sentry can bring Bob, yeah, I can." He glanced down, "Sorry, that was a little too far." 

John stood up from the sink and he only gave a shrug. He tried not to look at the very obvious hard-on between both of their legs. Sentry seemed to notice.

Without another word, Sentry left the bathroom to let John deal with himself however he wanted. 

---

The hallway outside the bathroom was too bright, and John saw Bob pacing in tight circles, running his hand through his tousled brown hair. He looked like he was trying to hold the Void inside with sheer will alone.

The second he saw John, Bob froze. “Are you okay?” He got up to John and glanced over him. "Sentry was... he filled me in a little."

John didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward, the dried blood on his tank top now a sickly rust-red. His stitches throbbed, but it wasn’t just pain keeping his shoulders tense.

Bob looked him over, eyes flicking to the stitched bicep, then to the look on his face. He didn’t ask about it, since he already knew.

Wordlessly, Bob pulled his oversized T-shirt off and handed it to him. “Here,” he mumbled. “Yours is a mess.”

John just stared for a second. He forgot how ripped Bob was, and it was clear without the oversized shirt. Not only that, he noticed the faint scars lining over Bob's skin. They were pale compared to Johns, but anyone who harmed their skin knew what those clean cuts were from. Others, small jab makes from needles, John only knew those thanks to his knowledge on drugs and how to deal with overdoses.

John took the shirt extended to him. While doing so, their fingers brushed against each other. He could feel how warm Bob was, even through that brief touch. The scent of him clung to the shirt— laundry soap and something else uniquely him. Comforting. Real.

John hesitated, then started pulling the bloody shirt over his head, wincing as he did. Bob watched, not saying a word, but his hands twitched like he wanted to help.

Once John had the clean shirt on, he stepped in closer towards Bob.

Bob’s brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I know,” John whispered, as if saying anything too loud could frighten Bob.

And then he kissed him. This hadn't been like their first kiss— sloppy, wet, heat filled. This was sweeter and more domestic than either of them have had in a while.

Bob groaned against his soft lips, pulling John closer by wrapping his arms around his neck. Their bodies found comfort in each other, and John let his hands run along Bob's hard abs. 

John hummed against his lips and let them break for a second. "They can wait—" But Bob quickly cut him off before he could go back to kissing.

"No, they can't. How about we table this until we can get a minute alone?" 

John wasn't exactly eager about that fact, but he agreed. They kissed a final time, and Bob left to throw the shirt away, and to get himself another one.

As he pushed open the living room door, all eyes settled on him. They took note of Bob's F1 shirt on John, but didn't mention it. Nor did they mention the lack of Bob around them. Ava had her legs tucked up on the couch, Yelena was next to her and perched stiffly on the armrest, arms crossed. Alexei stood near the window, staring outside like he couldn’t listen to one more heavy conversation. Mel was still on the phone, talking in clipped, sharp tones— probably to Matt again. Bucky was on his feet, tense as always. And John was missing Bob more than he would mention to the team.

He sighed, "So, what's going on with Josh?"

Mel clicked her phone off and stepped forward. “Matt’s filing an injunction to get it taken down. He’s also preparing a statement, but he needs you to review it.”

John groaned but rubbed the back of his neck. "I will."

Alexei glanced at John with pitiful eyes. "Did you.. read it?" Which was met with a grumble from John. He simply shook his head, and everyone tense.

"Is it really that bad?"

He was silently handed a tablet. Once he clicked the link from Joshua's Twitter, it led him to a news article. 

Headline: “Richard Cain’s Legacy Under Fire: John Walker Makes Explosive Allegations”
By Dana Lowell – The Daily Bulletin

Article published 7:32 a.m. EST

Former U.S. Agent John Walker has come forward with disturbing allegations about the retired Lieutenant Colonel Richard Cain, a highly decorated military leader and former intelligence operative. Walker, 38, has accused Cain of long-term psychological manipulation, coercion, and undisclosed abuse spanning years of service under Cain’s command.

The claims have sent shockwaves through political and military circles, igniting debate about accountability in classified operations.

In response, Joshua Cain, Richard Cain’s son and a former military trainee himself, has issued a public statement.

“My father was not a monster. He gave his life to protecting this country and everyone in it. These claims are disgusting, baseless, and slanderous. John Walker is exploiting trauma buzzwords to distract from his own history of instability.”

Joshua Cain also criticized Walker’s timing:

“If there was truth to any of this, why wait until he had beaten my father to speak up? Because he knows there’s no one left to refute it. It’s cowardly.”

Legal experts suggest the case may hinge on Walker’s ability to provide evidence, though sources close to the case claim several internal documents and communications may be submitted as early as next week.

Meanwhile, public opinion is split. Some see Walker’s allegations as a long-overdue reckoning. Others— including some former colleagues— call it an orchestrated smear campaign.

He couldn't read this anymore. He couldn't look at the article that made him the bad guy. No one offered words of comfort, but Bucky walked closer to pull John into a side hug, with his right arm, letting John feel a human weight on him.

John sighed, pushing his arm off of him. He walked forward, a part of him wondered what else Joshua had said about him. He clicked off of the article and went back to Joshua's Twitter.

Joshua Cain’s feed was curated. It had a kind of polished cruelty to it, but maybe that followed through the Cain family.

@JoshuaCainOfficial
“John Walker wants to rewrite history with pity and half-truths. My father isn’t here to defend himself, so I will. Ask yourself why someone would wait until now. Why not speak up when it mattered?"

John clenched his hands tightly around the tablet.

Another tweet followed:

"John walker has a history of erratic behavior. My father tried to help him, and this is what he gets? A poor excuse for John to play the victim?"

He could already feel the heat rising to his ears. But then came something more unsettling.

"My father wasn't a perfect man, but he was no rapist and abuser. I truly believe John Walker is upset my father had bigger things to take care of, like my mother and me, his Baby blues."

John paused as he read the line, then reread it another time. That name wasn't Joshua's, it was John's. He was Baby Blue. He had the prettiest eyes in the Army, not some kid. Richard loved his eyes, not his sons. 

But he knew he was lying to himself, like he did all those years ago when the first started to sleep with each other.

A fourth tweet, dated earlier that morning:

“Some of us were lucky enough to be trusted. To be let in. That kind of closeness doesn’t come from fear — it comes from love."

John’s stomach turned again. The tweets felt like a reflect of himself, felt like how he used to defend Joshua for hours and hours on end whenever anyone in their squadran tried to mention how weird he could be. He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the device until it shook in his hand.

“You need to stop,” Ava's voice cut in. She leaned on the back of the couch, watching him with wary eyes. “Those tweets are bait, he wants to get a reaction from you.”

John looked up at her, eyes bloodshot from the constant crying he had been doing for the past week. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t look at.”

She raised a brow. “I’m telling you to protect yourself.”

“I don’t need protection from fucking words,” he snapped her way, tossing the tablet to the coffee table.

“Yes, you do,” she replied coolly, arms still folded. “Because you’re cutting every time you read one.”

He hated that she was right. He hated that she knew it.

“He’s hiding something. That kid— he’s not just defending Cain. He’s covering something up.”

No one argued, instead, they all nodded. Yelena lifted her chin towards him. “Then we'll find it. John, let the law handle this."

John wanted to turn away, to hide how ugly his face must've been, from his awkward stubble to his bare feet against the cold floor. His voice was quiet.

"You don't get it. He... that was me." Yelena tilted her head in confusion. He painfully swallowed nothing, saliva gone from his throat.

"I was his baby blues, not Joshua." He didn't dare look at anyone, "It's so dumb, but I... I was his."

John pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, scrubbing away a tear before it could fall. “You don’t understand what that means to someone like Cain. When he called me that, it wasn’t just a nickname. It was a way of... endearment. Or a mockery.”

Alexei’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing as he watched John. John looked down at his arms, the half-healed cuts, the blood staining Bob’s old shirt. He wanted to claw his way out of his own skin.

“And now he’s using Josh, or maybe he always was. Maybe I was just the... placeholder.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “What if Cain couldn’t have the version he really wanted, so he found the closest thing?”

Ava looked like she might say something, but Yelena beat her to it. “John,” she said, “whatever twisted reason he had— that doesn’t mean you were nothing."

John gave a bitter smile. “Ah, I know. He just never wanted who I was. Only who I reminded him of. That’s the part that’s killing me.”

He took a minute to breathe deeply before he looked over towards the window.

“I keep thinking—if Joshua knew... if he knows what his dad is, and he’s still defending him... then either he’s brainwashed or—worse—he thinks it’s normal.”

Notes:

Cain has a thing for blondes with J names huh.

So uhm next chapter might be a time skip. who knows.

Chapter 23: I'll Walk With You Anyway.

Notes:

I wanted to address something. I believe Bob has Bipolar disorder and that's what both the Sentry and Void symbolize. I use them as different personalities because it's an interesting dynamic I think works well with the story. I recently saw someone with BPD explain their frustration about this in fanfics and other fanart. I totally understand this! It bothers me that I'm not representing a character correctly, so I apologize. In my other stories I won't be using this method of different personalities to describe Bob and his relationships with Sentry and Void in other stories moving forward. Though, it will stay the same for this one.

That goes to say, Bob is Bob in this chapter. And this is a time skip.

The security officers didn't say a word when the Thunderbolts stepped through the courthouse doors. Most of the team had been briefed in advance by Mel. There were to be no sudden movements, no pointed stares, and absolutely no comments. They’d all seen the headlines, read the articles, heard the names. It wasn’t just another day at work for them. They were all here for John.

Today was the official start of the case, excluding pre-trial motions. Cain's lawyers tried to mediate the situation to get John to drop any charges but Matt politely told them to fuck off. The team knew this was the right thing to do. 

If only Cain could be Court-Martialed, sadly, the Army declined to pick up the case but prosecutors picked up the case instead. Though, if Cain's found guilty he'd be Court-Martialed again. Cain's lawyers hadn't helped, saying C.I.A. Director Valentina could play an unfair game if it came to the Military. 

As if she didn't already pay off some of the jury, just in case.

Yelena entered first, her dark green suit was tailored to fit her size, and her expression didn't let any paparazzi speak to her. Her hair was pulled back in slick finger waves, exposing a faint scar near her jawline.

Beside her, Ava moved with a purpose. She carried a manila folder clutched against her chest. While she technically didn't need it, it helped her feel more prepared if anything were to happen. All of the episodes of 'Suits' might've not helped either. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, unreadable, but her eyes scanned every hallway like they were on mission, because when it came to her friends, it was.

Bucky followed them in, dressed in black and blue, his shoulders set back. His gaze never rested on one thing for too long. Every doorway became a potential exit. He hadn't slept well. But next to him was Sam. While they were still not on good terms with the title of 'New Avengers', Sam understood Bucky needed him more than he would like to mention.

Alexei trailed behind the rest. He was dressed in whatever Mel bought for him— a simple dress shirt and slacks. He even trimmed up his beard to be more presentable.

"We need to look our best," He remembered Ava saying, "How we look might affect how the trial is viewed."

He didn't know if it was her speaking or the show, but if there was a chance anything might sway opinions, he wasn't going to take those chances.

Mel had been behind them, on call with someone that Val directly sent to her. “Yes, he’s here now. No, not yet. He’s in the room with Bob— yes, I know you don't know who that is. We’ll notify you when they step out.”

She didn’t pause when Valentina strode through a side entrance, dry as if the weather dared not touch her. Her heels echoed across the lobby, to meet the group entering the courthouse.

“I have to say,” Val said smoothly, removing her sunglasses, “I was hoping we could skip this part.”

Mel spared her a glance, but nothing more. “Unfortunately, trauma doesn’t make convenient schedules." She rolled her eyes softly, but they lacked any heat.

Val’s smile was quick and pointed. “And neither do headlines. The PR on this is a disaster.”

Bucky turned, “Then maybe stop making us walk in here like this. This is a serious case, and you basically gave us a red carpet."

Val only smirked, adjusting her cuffs on her tight— borderline inappropriate— pant suit. “You’re not wrong, Barnes. But you’re also still here.”

The group paused at the edge of the courtroom hallway, the hum of voices muffled by the thick double doors ahead. Reporters swarmed behind barriers, shouting questions, holding recorders like weapons. The bailiffs stood like statues around them.

No one moved to speak until Val broke the silence again, her voice cool but exact. “Eyes on the jury, but don't intimidate, and watch Cain’s posture. If he even tries to look like some senile hero, I want it crushed. Got it?" Her eyes flickered to the court doors. 

Ava arched one brow. “Crushed how, exactly?”

Val smiled in a wide and dangerous manner. “Figuratively. Though I’m open to suggestions.”

---

In a small room usually used for lawyers to prepare for cases, John sat in a creaky wooden chair under a bright light. It was only him, as the team came separately. Bob was waiting outside, as John promised he only needed a minute to himself. 

He was really here. And today, he might be the one to send Cain away. Over the month, John had tried not to look at anything or comment. Not only that, but Bob had hidden all sharp objects. It pissed John off that he went through his room, hiding every razor blade and blade from John's grasp. But his healing thighs and arms were appreciative of Bob. 

Most wounds were beginning to close, but they were far from healing. But this was a step towards closure.

He winced and tried to remove the shirt, but knew it would've end up wrinkled and awkward if he tried. The collar felt too tight on him, and maybe it was just him, but the shirt was a size too small. He could see how much he ate the night before. He should've gone back to fasting and cutting out the sugar from his diet, because his face looked chubbier than he remembered.

He kept glancing at the wall clock. The second hand ticked too slowly and too loud. He hated how everything felt like a countdown, even though the waiting had already dragged on forever. His leg bounced uncontrollably, heel thumping against the tile floor in uneven stutters.

John had tried grounding techniques and breathing exercises. Repeating his safe phrase in his head. None of them worked exactly how he wanted. The walls still pressed in around him like they knew what he was hiding. Like they remembered everything Cain ever whispered to him when no one else was looking.

His chest was tight, and his throat burned in a way no water could help him. His eyes felt hot but he didn’t want to cry again. It felt pathetic to cry again, especially when he had makeup on. 

Ava didn't question how John knew how to apply powder onto his face, or how he used concealer around blemishes. Only helped him set it so it wouldn't wipe away.

And yes, the makeup was on the light side, only powder, concealer and brown eyeliner under the upper eyelids. Yelena said it was something she did to make her look a bit more soft. 

Yet, he didn't want that. He didn't need pity, he needed Cain to be held accountable and for the justice system to actually help him and others who have been abused.

Abused.

He hated how that word made him feel. Made him feel small and weak when he knew he wasn't either of those things.

He covered his face with both hands and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He couldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t strong enough. Not with people watching, and definitely not with cameras. Not when the whole world still thought Cain was a hero and John was wrongly accusing him.

He heard the door open and knew it was Bob, but he didn't look up to see the man in a crisp suit. Bob held John's coat that matched his slacks. It was silent before John whispered.

"They're all out there, Bob. They're waiting." He didn't need to say who 'they' were, because Bob knew he was talking about the media, the team, Cain.

Bob shrugged, "I guess. But you aren't the one on trial." Which earned a humorless laugh from John.

"Really? Because it feels like it."

Bob reached forward as he crouched in front of John, taking John’s wrists in both of his hands. His hands were soft and never harsh on John's. "They're here for the truth."

John let out another laugh. “They don’t care about the truth, Bob. Just the show.” He looked away, towards the corner of the room like he could hide inside it. “What if I freeze? What if I choke?”

Bob didn’t let go of his hands.“Then you stop, you breathe, you try again."

"Just breathe." His mother said into the phone.

“I don’t think I can do this.” John shook his head, eyes welling up fast.

“I know,” Bob barely whispered, “But you will. Because it’s not just for you anymore.” And John knew that was true. Throughout all of this, many survivors of sexual abuse had been posting their own stories. It was one of the only good things to come from this all going public.

John inhaled sharply, chest trembling as he fought the tears. “What if I say the wrong thing?”

“Then you fix it. You’re allowed to be human.”

John let out a shaky exhale, finally meeting his gaze. “You ever think maybe I’m the mistake?”

Bob’s expression didn’t flinch at John's self deprecating question. He didn't humor the idea, as he knew what John was feeling. “No, never. You’re not what he made you into.”

He moved a little closer now, his forearms resting against John's inner thighs as he cradled his wrists. “You’re not a product of him. You’re surviving in spite of him.”

John laughed again, but this time it hurt less.“You sound like some motivational speaker or some shit.”

Bob smiled faintly, thumb brushing across John’s torn up wrist. “Yeah, well, you need one right now.”

They sat in silence for a long stretch, but it wasn't uncomfortable or tense between them. John’s shoulders began to ease, just slightly. The tremble in his muscles didn’t go away, but he wasn’t hiding behind his hands anymore.

John looked up again, eyes still glassy. “I don’t want to be his anymore.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t be.” He spoke softly, above a whisper and his words held a punch to get it through to John.

His hand slid up, feeling up Johns arms as he sat on his knees, cupping the side of John’s face with incredible gentleness. Not like someone holding something fragile— but like someone holding something sacred.

“You’re not his. Not now. Not ever again.”

John leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against Bob’s. The contact wasn’t desperate, it was trust.

“Can I be yours then?" John's heart pounded behind his ribs, and he prayed he hadn't just ruined whatever he had with Bob.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, as if the words knocked the breath from him. “You already are.”

John exhaled slowly through his nose, voice small. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” His voice was wet as the tears finally rolled down his face. Bob quietly rubbed them away as their foreheads stayed connected.

“That’s fine. I’ll walk with you anyway.”

---

Matt had barely stepped out of the SUV when the reporters spotted him. He didn’t need to be wearing the suit to know they were coming. They were already shouting his name, walking fast to surround him.

He stopped at the foot of the steps, jaw tight. He could already feel the heat rising under his collar. There was no point trying to escape it, so he stood his ground and faced them.

“Mr. Murdock, can you comment on the hearing today?”

“Is it true Cain’s team asked for a deal?”

“Was this supposed to stay out of the media?”

Matt raised one hand, not to quiet them, but to speak. The press didn’t lower their voices right away, but he started anyway.

“No one here is going to pretend this isn’t difficult,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “This is painful. This is personal. And yes, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” Some of the cameras were already rolling. A few reporters held their phones up instead of notepads. Matt didn’t care, he's dealt with worse.

“John Walker did not ask for any of this. He didn’t want to be the center of a public investigation. He wanted healing, but he told the truth because someone needed to.”

A few more questions were thrown out, overlapping.

“Why wasn’t this handled by the military?”

“Is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine involved?”

“Is Cain expected to plead guilty?”

Matt answered the first question without hesitation. “The Army had their chance to step in. They didn’t. Civilian prosecutors picked it up because the system failed the first time.”

He paused before continuing onto the next answer. “John isn’t doing this for revenge. He’s doing it because staying silent would’ve meant letting someone else get hurt. This is not a story about vengeance, it’s about accountability.”

More clicks from cameras followed. A few microphones were pushed closer and he didn't need to see to know they were too close for comfort.

“Cain is not untouchable. Nobody should be. And if this trial proves anything, I hope it proves that survivors deserve better than silence and shame.” He spoke a bit quieter so the microphones couldn't hear his breathing.

Matt turned slightly, one foot angled back toward the courthouse steps. “John has done more than most people would ever be brave enough to do. He came forward knowing it could cost him everything.”

Another voice shouted, “Does he still plan to testify in person?”

“Yes,” Matt said clearly. “He’s going to walk into that courtroom and speak for himself.”

“Any comment on Cain’s team accusing the C.I.A. Director of bias?”

Matt didn’t flinch. “If they cared about fairness, they wouldn’t have tried to bury the case before it even started.”

He didn’t wait for the next question. He stepped away, weaving through the reporters without looking back. The noise behind him swelled again, but he tuned it out

Back inside, the courtroom doors hadn’t opened yet. The team was already assembled at the edge of the hallway. Ava stood with her arms crossed. Sam gave a small nod as Matt approached, unaware that the man was blind. Especially since he nodded back. Valentina was leaning against the wall, typing something on her phone with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She hadn't even realized Matt was late.

Farther down the hall, footsteps echoed toward them.

Notes:

I have no idea what I wrote. I was busy dancing when I wrote this. Speaking of, 14 of y'all have saved my playlist?!
I'm honored... love y'all sm, thank you for continuing to read!

Chapter 24: Opening Statements

Notes:

Okay so, I did some research. I'm writing a People vs. Cain route because if any extra charges are found, they can be added on. As well, person v person can lean more civil court. Just to clear some things up.

Edit* I mention John being Dishonorably Discharged from service. It is not canon to the MCU. It was changed for this story. It might not be anything, but I still added it in case it does go into something :3
*Edit to that edit* changed it. He is not dishonorably discharged. Didn't sit right with me. sorry for confusion.

“All rise! Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Miriam Cadwell presiding.”

The heavy double doors opened just as the bailiff’s voice rang out. Leather shoes echoed sharply across the floors as Judge Cadwell entered, her black robes shifting slightly with each step. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a no loose bun, her face carved from years of precedent and pressure. She didn’t look at the gallery, set on finding her seat. She was gorgeous by all means, even at her mature age.

Everyone stood. The Thunderbolts rose in tandem with one another. They all held onto each other in some way or another. Between them all was Bob, who stood directly behind John. Everyone knew this would be most difficult for him to hear this..

John rose slowly, legs shaking just slightly. His slacks itched at the knees and the courtroom lights felt more like an interrogation than a trial. But he didn’t let that stop him from keeping a straight face, no matter how many eyes were on him.

“You may be seated.” Judge Cadwell settled into her seat, not looking at John or Cain specifically. Everyone sat afterwards, the wooden seats creaked in unison as everyone sat.

“Clerk,” Cadwell prompted.

The court clerk, a woman with square glasses, stood and read clearly:
“Criminal case number 412-CV-A71: The People of the State of New York v. Richard Cain. The victim is John Walker. Charges against Richard Cain include Rape in the First Degree, Sex Trafficking, Criminal Sexual Act in the First Degree, Assault in the First and Second Degree, Coercion in the First Degree, Unlawful Imprisonment, and Conspiracy in the Second Degree.”

She paused, then continued, “Any appearances for the record?”

Matt Murdock stood smoothly. His red-tinted glasses hid nothing, even from those who didn’t know his blindness. His voice was grounding as any lawyer would be in a courtroom. “Matthew Murdock and co-counsel Rina Delgado, appearing on behalf of the victim, John Walker.”

A few heads turned as Rina, a sharp-suited Latina attorney in her late thirties, nodded with a polite, “Good morning, Your Honor.”

The defense rose next. "Liam Dorn, appearing for the defendant, Richard Cain.” Dorn’s voice was smooth, and John almost scowled at how similar it was to Cain's. “Mr. Cain is present and seated at the defense table.”

John didn't need to look to know the man had cleaned up well. Not only that, but John could hear his excess of medals clinking together. He wishes he hadn't gotten his uniform so bloody, or else he could've worn his as well. Still, John hated how good the man probably looked in that damn uniform. 

The judge shuffled a few papers, then she spoke firmly. “Charges before the court include multiple Class B felonies, including Rape in the First Degree and Sex Trafficking. If found guilty on all counts, the defendant faces a cumulative sentence of over 100 years. This is a high-profile matter. I expect decorum from all present. That includes attorneys, witnesses, observers, and media representatives. There will be no interruptions, no outbursts, and no theatrics. Anyone acting out will be held in contempt of court. Understood?” Murmurs of assent followed shortly after.

She turned her eyes to both counsels. “Are both sides ready to proceed?”

Matt answered first, “Yes, Your Honor.”

Dorn echoed, “Ready, Your Honor.”

“Then we’ll begin with opening statements. Prosecution may proceed.”

Matt stood again, adjusting his tie. He took three slow steps forward to the center of the courtroom, stopping just before the jury box. Twelve people, and every single one of them held John’s justice in their hands.

“Good morning,” Matt began, his voice rang through to each jury, and scribbles could be heard in the court house. “Today, you will hear a story that spans twenty years. A story about control, coercion, and silence.”

He let that sit for just a beat, and John wanted to laugh at the dramatic effect, but he knew that wouldn't look so good on them.

“This case is not about regret. It’s not about misunderstanding. It is about a man, Richard Cain, using his power, position, and authority to manipulate and repeatedly abuse a young soldier under his command— John Walker. Abuse that began when John was just eighteen years old, and continued for years, until his discharge.”

Matt glanced briefly at the gallery— not at the press, not at Cain, but instead towards the Thunderbolts. John’s head remained forward as he heard the court artist from across the room. Apparently, a case on this scale didn't let cameras into the court.

“This is not about who John became later. Not about mistakes he made later in his life. Not about the headlines you’ve read. This is about what was done to him. What was taken from him.”

He walked slowly in front of the jury. “You’ll hear testimony that may disturb you. You’ll see documents, photographs, psychological evaluations, and hear the voices of experts, as well as survivors who have walked this same path. But most importantly, you will hear from John Walker himself.” Matt stopped and faced the jury fully as the gallery whispered among themselves. Screw John's enhanced hearing.

“And when you do, I hope you listen. Not just with your ears, but with the weight of knowing what it costs someone to speak the truth. Because in this courtroom, truth matters.”

“We ask for accountability. Not because it can undo the harm—but because it can stop the stigma around men speaking about their abuse." He took a step back, letting out a soft, 'Thank you.' and sat back next to John and Rina.

Rina gave him a discreet nod, a small fist bump under the table. Bob’s hand tightened behind them, and Yelena grabbed his hand tightly.

Cain’s lawyer rose, his expression unreadable, not that John did more than glance. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I understand how difficult this case is to hear...”

But John didn’t want to listen the man. Maybe it was the ringing in his ears, or the way his heart was beating like a drum inside of his chest. He could feel himself getting anxious again, but he knew he had his team and that was enough to calm him.

Liam rose, buttoning his sleek gray suit in an absentminded manner. He approached the jury with practiced ease, clasping his hands lightly in front of him. He didn’t smile, but his expression was calm. His voice was warm as well, and if John was back to eighteen, he would've maybe thought it was attractive. He sounded near sultry, but oddly approachable.

“Let me begin by saying this: I do not envy the position you’re in. This is a difficult case. It’s emotional and heavy. And it involves people who have suffered, and who continue to suffer.”

He turned slightly, hands still gently clasped. “But emotion— no matter how strong— is not evidence.”

As his eyes met John briefly, Liam smiled. “You’ve just heard a moving statement from the prosecution. And I don’t intend to disrespect that. But what I do intend to do is remind you that we are not here today to decide whether something feels true. We are here to decide what is true.”

He stepped a little closer to the jury box now, lowering his voice just slightly, like confiding in them. His approach was more friendly, and he wanted to curse Cain for picking someone so charismatic.

“You’re going to hear from a man named John Walker. You know his name. You know his history. And if you’ve read the papers over the last year, you know some of the stories he's in... may I mention what happened with the Flag-Smasher.”

He looked over briefly at John but didn’t linger like before. His tone never changed, but John could see through the man's eyes he must've been glaring. Matt seemed to sense it too, hitting John's thigh. The blonde shot Matt a glare.

“But you’ll also see records. Military records. Psychological evaluations. You’ll hear from colleagues, from those who served alongside both Mr. Walker and my client, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Cain. And I ask that you keep one thing in mind as you listen: not everything that is remembered is reliable. Not everything that is painful is criminal.” Another small pause, Dorn paced slowly, giving the illusion of gentleness.

“You’ll hear testimony about an on-again, off-again relationship that began two decades ago. You’ll hear claims of coercion and abuse—but no contemporaneous reports. No physical evidence from the time. No complaints filed until after Mr. Walker’s highly publicized breakdown a few months ago where he brutally beat Cain.” 

“Now, I want to be absolutely clear: we are not saying Mr. Walker is fabricating his experience out of thin air. Trauma is complicated. Memory is complicated. And people often process pain in different ways.” Liam was getting on John's nerves now. He couldn't even control how confused he was from this. Him? Lie about this? He wishes he was fabricating this whole thing.

If he could, he'd yell at the defense for even insinuating such a thing to the Jury and court. Why would he lie about this? 

“But what we will show you is that Mr. Walker is not a reliable narrator of his own story.”

He glanced toward the gallery now, where the Thunderbolts sat silently. It mimicked what Matt had done earlier, and it was a poor attempt at intimidation that no one caught around them.

“You will hear that he has a documented history of violent outbursts. That he has struggled with substance use, impulsivity, and self-harm. That he has, in his own words, difficulty distinguishing between what happened, and what he believes happened. This trial is not about painting Mr. Walker as a villain. It is about establishing reasonable doubt. And if you have doubt—if you question whether what happened was criminal, or whether it happened the way Mr. Walker claims it did—you must vote accordingly.”

He turned and gestured gently toward Cain, who sat with an unreadable expression. He looked every bit the aging soldier he was. John only knew because he followed the defense with his eyes. For a moment, he forgot about the court house when he looked at Cain. He  wore a bandage around his forehead from the blunt trauma. He probably wore a few other things under the uniform.

The defense returned to the center of the courtroom, facing the jury directly again. “This case is not about power. It is not about the CIA, or the Thunderbolts, or the news cycle. It is about one man accusing another of unspeakable acts— years later, after a public breakdown, after a public scandal, and after new friendships were formed that may have changed his memory of the past.”

Dorn’s eyes never wavered from the jury.

“We ask only that you keep your minds clear, your hearts open, and your judgment grounded in fact. Not feelings." He stepped back toward his table. “Thank you.”

John knew this was a performance, everyone who mattered knew that's what that was. John prayed it didn't leave any space for doubt to settle into the Jury.

John didn’t move. His nails dug into the edge of his pants, but his face didn’t shift. Bob looked like he wanted to say something, but knew better than to speak in the moment.

Judge Cadwell’s voice cut through the silence.

“Prosecution may call its first witness.”

John exhaled slowly, preparing to stand. Matt stood up before him.

"The people call up John Walker to the stand."

 

Notes:

Woaahhh Cain's defense is going all in huh. More focus will be on John taking the witness stand...

Also sorry if I get anything wrong. There's a reason as to why I'm not going to college.

Chapter 25: John On The Stand; Part one

Notes:

A lot of dialogue, sorry about that. I'm not proud of this so... go easy on me.

And sorry for errors, this was a hard chapter to write.

"Mental Journal Entry:

I'm not ready. God, I'm not ready. I didn't think this would feel like dying but it does. Every step toward that chair is like walking into my own funeral. I don't want to say it out loud. I don't want them to hear what happened to me. I don't want to see them flinch when they finally understand.

What if they look at me different? What if they stop calling me a man? What if Bob starts to feel sorry for me instead of wanting me? What if they all think I wanted it? That I let it happen? That I was too weak to stop it?  I should've stopped it. I should've fucking stopped it, a nd now I have to tell a courtroom how I let a man climb inside me for twenty goddamn years.

I should be stronger than this. I was built to survive shit like this. I had the shield. I led soldiers. I've killed people with my bare hands. I smiled in front of cameras while bleeding inside my skull. And still, this? This is what I'm going to let break me?
I don't want to cry. I don't want to stutter. I don't want to give Cain the satisfaction of watching me fall apart.  But I already am.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this."

The courtroom was silent as John rose from his seat next to Matt. He wasn't aware if anyone had been talking to him or not, but he knew he had to keep his face in check. He could feel the weight of twelve jurors' eyes and none of them knew anything, but he's determined to let them.

He saw Matt give him a small nod, but he didn't honor it by looking at him. He doesn't trust himself not to crash and burn before he even makes it to the stand. He stepped forward, back straight, hands clenched so tight they ached. He over-analyzed each step he took. Did he walk funny? Could everyone tell his thighs had been torn to shred or that he missed a head between them?

Before he knew it, he was standing in the witness stand with the bailiff turned towards him, holding a standard Holy Bible. 

Now, it's not mandatory to do such a thing in courts, he knew that. But Valentina thought it would look good if he did. Something about "appealing to the right." John could care less. This wasn't political, this was his truth. If swearing on the Bible lets people believe him, he'd swear on every page individually.

"Please raise your right hand." The bailiff commanded Walker, and he did so. his other hand on the Bible.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out for a moment. His gaze flicked upward, trying to find something steady— because he was doing this. Something he never thought he had the courage to do. 

He looked towards the wooden benches, eyes briefly meeting Bob. The brunette held Yelena's hand tightly as he gave a soft smile to John. He would have to remind himself to tear his eyes away, or else he'd start going red. Not only was Bob there, but the rest of the Thunderbolts*, they all came for him, to support him. Even Sam came— and they didn't have the best history.

And behind them— further back, where he hadn't dared look earlier— he saw her.

Olivia.

His ex-wife sat beside his mother and father. She hadn't aged a day since their divorce, and she hadn't grown less beautiful to him since they first married. He knew it was over, and he was content with that. But he knew he would always love her. She sat, dignified, wearing one of the vintage dresses she always swore she'd fit back into one day.

He broke his lingering gaze as he looked towards his parents. He hadn't even told them about the case, not wanting his father to be disappointed in him. What hurt more was his mothers tearful eyes as she clutched a tissue to pat her tears away.

They were all here for him. Not to shame him, but to hear his story and his journey that he cut off from everyone.

His mouth opened again.

"I..." his voice cracked instantly, his breath caught in his throat. He tried again, "I do."

The bailiff nodded, moving the Bible away and let John sit. 

He sat, carefully, knees pressed together, hands folded tight. One of his fingers twitched, already pulling his cuff up to run his hand along the indents carved into his skin.

The court reporter clicked her fingers into place. Matt stood, walking toward him. This was going to be like they practiced, just like they practiced. John already had his answers prepared.

"State your name for the record."

John swallowed as he leaned forward to the microphone held down onto the stand, "John Walker."

"Mr. Walker," Matt began, his voice soft, "can you tell the court where Richard Cain is and point him out?"

John hesitated, but turned his head at a 45 degree angle to see him. "Cain is sitting next to his Defense Attorneys right side, wearing his Army uniform." John held out his hand to point him out.

"Another dance, Johnny?" Cain asked as he picked the man up, spinning him around. John held onto his shoulders as he laughed.

"Put me down! Hey—!" He couldn't finish his sentence, too focused on laughing as Cain danced with him in the comfort of his office once more. 

"No, no! I can't! You asked for another dance!"  And John did, he even held out his hand to him.

The courtroom dissolved around him for a moment as the past slammed into his mind. He quickly put down his hand and refocused his eyes onto Matt.

Matt took a small step forward, adjusting his glasses. John already knew this was to give him a minute to breathe. He must've obviously made a face at the memory when he looked at Cain.

"Mr. Walker," Matt said calmly, "do you remember the first time you met Lieutenant Colonel Cain?"

John stared ahead for a moment, trying to find the words. He didn't want to say it out loud. But he nodded. "Yeah."

"I was eighteen. I was still in boot camp, Fort Leonard Wood. He was— he wasn't in charge of our unit by any means, but he came in to give a guest lecture on strategic combat leadership. Everyone looked up to him." John smiled at the memory, "I remember looking up to him"

He scratched his thumb against the smooth braille-like feeling of his wrist.

"He came up to me after the drill exam. Said I was impressive for someone straight out of high school. Asked where I was from. What my plans were. I thought he was just— y'know, mentoring."

Matt nodded slowly. "When did your relationship with him become... more than professional?"

John exhaled through his nose, his thumb becoming more insistent. "A few months later, at most. I was back stateside after a six-month deployment. He got reassigned to my base. By then, I'd moved up in rank. He was my direct CO."

Matt kept his voice calm. "Were you married at that point?"

"Yeah. Olivia and I got married young, before I left for boot camp." John cringed internally, knowing Olivia was right there, watching him. Worse, his parents were watching him.

"Was Cain married?"

"Yeah. Kids too. He had an older boy, Joshua, and a little girl, Alice." He glanced at the wooden stands behind Cain, seeing Joshua watching him. Next to him, was a woman in her early twenties. She was blonde as well, but looked more like Cain than the old woman next to them that John instantly knew was Mrs. Cain. 

They all looked clean and professional, staring at John. He decided it would be better to look back at Matt now.

Matt paused, then asked gently, "How did things between you and Cain go from professional to something else?"

John stared down at the table in front of him for a moment. His mouth opened, but it took him a second to find words that didn't sound wrong in front of strangers.

"He started inviting me out for drinks, and told me I had potential. Talked to me about career paths. I thought he was helping me. Thought he was just being supportive." His shoulders tensed before he could think.

"Then it got more personal. Said I looked stressed. That I needed to unwind. Said Olivia probably wasn't giving me enough attention with all the time apart."

Matt watched him carefully. "What did you think of that?"

John hesitated. "It made me feel like he... saw me. Like he understood something nobody else did. I didn't have a lot of people I could talk to. Not about how I was feeling. Not back then, anyways." More so he didn't open up to anyone. He had Lemar, but John couldn't let his see just how weak he was.

Matt nodded, understanding. "So when did it become physical?"

John now cringed outwardly, embarrassed he was even saying this. "I told him about Olivia and me. That we'd... sort of agreed we could see other people, sometimes, while I was away. We weren't traditional, especially since swinging was kinda trendy?—Is that the right word?— Either way, we were both young and thought it was best for our relationship."

Matt gave him a second.

"Cain said that was a good thing. That I shouldn't feel guilty. That it was normal for guys like us to need something else." The words tasted bitter even now. He knew what he needed to say next.

"He kissed me in his office one night. Said it didn't have to mean anything. That it was just a release. I didn't push him away, I mean, any guy would've enjoyed Cain. He was always flirty and touchy, and if you got picked, you rolled with him."

"Sir?" It was another night of going out drinking, and Cain was adamant about going back to his office at base rather than his home. Cain leaned heavily against him.

Then, their lips met. John hadn't reacted for a moment, before kissing him back. Cain's lips felt soft and romantic against Johns. When the kiss broke, he flushed. Cain didn't give him a moment of confusion, pulling John into the office and closing the door gently, as if he hadn't just been "drunk".

Matt cleared his throat, breaking John from the pounding memory that played of that night, "Why didn't you say anything?" He questioned.

"Because I didn't know I could." The blonde frowned as his hand held his wrist tightly, "Like I said— if you got picked by Cain, you didn't fight it." John bit his bottom lip as he continued.

"It felt wrong, but I didn't stop it," John said finally, letting go of his pink, bitten lip. "I thought maybe... maybe I wanted it. Maybe this was just something men did and never talked about. He was older, more experienced. I figured he knew better than I did. I mean, the military is a confusing time and by then I shouldn't have even been drinking. I was— what, nineteen?"

Matt's voice softened as he wondered to know what the Jury thought before continuing. "Did you feel like you had a choice?"

John silently shook his head, every word he wanted to say just spilling out of him. "Not really. Not when he was in charge of my next assignment. Not when he was writing my evals. Not when he could make or break my entire future in the service."

Matt nodded again. "Can you tell us about the first time he... crossed a line? Sexually." He knew this was when he would be asked about the sexual assault that he endured.

"He brought weed to my barracks one night. I'd never really used it, maybe tried it once at a house party in Custer's Grove. He said it was to help me sleep— since I had been struggling with insomnia."

His voice cracked slightly. "I was high, and I felt weightless. It's a feeling that I'll never have again. It felt like the aching in my body stopped and I could maybe sleep well."

He paused, then: "That's when it happened."

Matt didn't ask him to elaborate yet. He didn't have to.

John swallowed hard.

"I remember it as best as I could. Uh—" John looked at Matt. "How graphic can I be?" 

Matt shifted his head to the Judge. She hummed, "Keep it relevant, Mr.Walker. But please, tell the court as much as you want." John nodded and set his gaze down.

"He hadn't been smoking, but I had. We were kissing and that wasn't irregular by any means. But... he got on top of me and I just wasn't moving right. My limps were slow and he held me down by my hips. I wanted to say no, but my mouth was so dry, yet I was drooling." He paused, hearing a small murmur from where the team sat, but sighed. 

"I think I laughed when he did it. I think I was trying not to panic?" His eyes were glassy now, but no tears had fallen.

"I remember waking up in the middle of the night, alone. and I thought that 'Maybe this is what I wanted. Maybe I'm overreacting.' But I was bleeding all over my sheets."

"He brought me coffee the next morning. Smiling like nothing happened. Said I was amazing that night. Said I was good." His words sickened him, he wondered how Cain ever said or did such things to him.

Matt tapped his chin as he questioned, "Did that happen more than once?"

John's voice went hollow. "Yes. For sixteen years."

Matt stood a few feet away as he faced John, but he wasn't exactly looking at him. “John,” he began, “was the relationship with Richard Cain ever violent?”

John anxiously started picking at his skin. Every part of his mind was screaming to yell, to fight, to get bloody. “Yes.” He answered before he could think.

“Can you explain what that was like?”

"Well," John started, "It had always been aggressive. He'd grab me too harshly or block the door. Sometimes he would touch my face when I didn't want him to, and I excused it. It hadn't really mattered." His eyes surveyed the room again, only briefly. That was the part that haunted him the most about all of this. Just how long he spent convincing himself it wasn’t what it was.

Matt waited there for dramatic effect. His stance hadn’t changed, and John was wondering why he didn't seem fully there. “Did it escalate from there?” Matt asked, snapping John out of his trance.

“Yeah,” John shifted again in the chair. “He started hitting me.” John nodded softly, as if remembering himself. He could feel Cain from the table he sat behind. Could smell his cologne from ten feet away. Could still remember what it felt like to stand too close to him in the dark.

Matt didn’t react. “Can you describe the first time that happened?”

“I was twenty,” John recounted. “We were deployed. I had just gotten back from a fire watch. I was tired, I was late, and I forgot to check in. Cain was furious, he accused me of avoiding him. Said I was being disrespectful, ungrateful for everything he gave me." He licked his dry lips as he crossed his arms tightly. 

He wanted to laugh, to push everyone away and have the case dismissed. “I told him to calm down. That’s all I said, and if I said anything else, it doesn't really matter. He decked me across the face and I fell." But John continued to talk. 

His hands gripped at the suit coat, trying to avoid wiping his face, even though he could feel how uncomfortable his wetting eyes were. “He told me to get up, and— I couldn’t. So he kicked me in the side and said I needed to remember my place.”

“Did that continue over the years?”

John nodded. “Yes, it became normal. He didn’t need a reason. It didn’t matter what I did. If I hesitated, if I said the wrong thing, if I flinched— it didn’t matter. If he felt angry, I paid for it.” He stated it as plainly as he could for everyone in the room to understand him.

Matt placed both hands onto his hips, pacing a few steps closer to the judge rather than the Jury. “Now, my next question might be hard. Did he ever ask you to harm yourself?”

Dorn was quick to stand, "Objection. Relevance, your honor?" He scoffed, which earned a pointed glare from the black woman.

She glanced at Matt. "Mr.Murdock, is this going somewhere?" Which he gave a confident nod. She sighed, "Overrule. You may continue, but watch how you're questioning Mr.Walker."

Matt cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Let me ask that again, Mr.Walker. Did he ever ask you to harm yourself?"

It took everything in John not to vomit at the question. He still held himself, only mumbling. “Yes.”

“Can you explain what that meant?”

"He didn't want to go home tired, so he sometimes... he told me to take care of it myself while he watched."

Matt took a small step forward. “Did you do what he asked?”

John was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he answered.

“I didn’t know how not to.”

He took a breath, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "He would make me cut my thighs. Sometimes he sat and watched, other times..." He trailed off for a moment.

"Cain would—" John welcomed the tears that came down his face now, almost cooling his hot face. "—would touch them. He would—" John let his arms uncross to grab a tissue from the box next to him. 

Matt gave a few pitiful nods, and Rina glanced to see how the Jury was doing. "It's tough, I bet. Please, what would he do?"

"He would play with my cuts!" John said a bit too loud, then adjusted himself while he crumbled up the damp tissue. "Like rub his dick on them, other times he would put his fingers in—" He didn't add onto it anymore as scribbling from the press could be heard.

John's eyes moved towards the team for a second and tried not to look at how disgusted Bob must've looked. Was that at him? Was Bob disgusted at what he allowed for years?

“Do you still hurt yourself?” The lawyer followed up.

John hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

He drew in a breath.

"Because I deserved it. I let so much happen to me, let so many people down. Isn't the thing I deserve most... pain?" He shook his head.

"I haven't done it in a while though. I'm working with a therapist now." John made sure to mention that, because he didn't care for the lady. But she would be coming in as another witness for a 'mental evaluation' of John Walker.

Matt kept his tone steady. “When did the abuse end?”

"Technically after I was discharged. He stopped hitting me after I became Captain America— I mean, after ripping my suit and staining it."

John looked over at Cain, leaning into the microphone. "He had a thing for the cowl." Small chuckles were heard around the room, a few gasps as well, which earned Dorn standing again.

"Objection! Mr. Walker is volunteering inadmissible information." John only gave a small smile, but it quickly dropped when the Judge agreed.

"Sustained. Mr.Walker, anymore comments like that and I won't hesitate to hold you in contempt." She raised an eyebrow at him, and he nodded. She looked at the Jury, "Please disregard that comment." 

Matt gave a nod before almost whispering. "Were there other men?" When John nodded, letting out a soft acknowledgement into the microphone, Matt placed his hands to his side.

"No further questions, your honor." And John's breath hitched, knowing this meant that he'd have to answer to Dorn next. Answer to Cain.

Notes:

Thank you guys for the kudos and love. It really means a lot to me. Like people on other platforms are noticing me haha it's kinda silly but it makes me happy.

I thought I would be dead now so it's pretty cool other people like the things I write. Love y'all.

Chapter 26: John On The Stand; Part Two

Notes:

There's a lot I can say. Again, a lot of dialogue.

Buckle in

Judge Cadwell shifted her glasses and cleared her throat. "Mr. Dorn," she started, "you may proceed with cross-examination."

He knew this moment was coming. Matt had warned him— Dorn would twist his words, stir confusion, sow doubt in the jury’s mind. But they hadn’t practiced for this. For how it would feel to be trapped under the lights, one man tearing him apart piece by piece. 

Matt leaned back in his seat beside the woman— Rina, John remembered. Her eyes were drawn in a sharp cat eye, always watching. John could see the slight furrow between his brows. It was the same one from the night before when he asked, "You sure you want to go through with this? You can pull out."

He'd said yes. But now, as Dorn slowly rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his tailored suit like he had all the time in the world, John suddenly wasn't sure. Dorn's posture left no energy to waste, every step to the podium was intentional.

He didn't even look at John at first, just flipped open a file. A file on John? He didn't know. He watched Dorn adjust his cufflinks and clear his throat, like a man who had just solved everything.

John's throat was dry as he reminded himself not to bounce his knee under the stand. He could already feel the sweat clinging to the back of his suit and the faint feeling of panic crawled up his spine.

We didn't go over this. We didn't prepare for this.

His gaze flickered at Matt, but he knew there was no help there. Instead, he sat still and watched as closely as he could, only wondering what Dorn would do.

It was John alone in the fire now.

"Mr. Walker," Dorn began, his voice smooth and unhurried. "You've given the court a lot to consider. Sixteen years of pain. Violence, self-harm, betrayal." He listed off each thing with a smile, and John would've rather put a gun to the back of his throat again than hear him speak much longer with that grin.

"But you also said you were honored, yes? You were Captain America, weren't you?"

John blinked, the sting behind his eyes already threatening once more. He thankfully still had his tissue from earlier in his left hand. "Yes."

"And yet, after receiving that title, you were also— what was the term— dishonorably discharged, correct?" Matt stiffened in his seat, but let Dorn speak.

"That's not the correct term," But he sighed, already bracing for the next swing.

Dorn tilted his head, as if puzzled. "For a man carrying the shield of truth and justice, that must have been... humiliating."

John didn't dignify this line of questioning with an answer of any kind.

Dorn gave a mock-apologetic nod and turned to the jury. "Forgive me. I forget we're dealing with sensitive matters." He looked back to John, and John met his gaze.

"Let's talk about your behavior. You mentioned feelings of loss of control. You killed a man in broad daylight with a blood-covered shield, isn't that right?"

Matt finally stood now. "Objection. Your Honor, outside the scope." The Judge hummed, giving a nod, but was cut off by Dorn.

"Establishing pattern of behavior, Your Honor." He excused his behavior quickly, as if knowing Matt would be quick with an objection.

Judge Cadwell gave a tired sigh. "Overruled. Tread carefully."

Dorn didn't even bother to hide his satisfaction. "Answer the question, Mr. Walker."

John's fingers dug into the tissue. "I did. B—But that had nothing to do with Cain."

"Didn't it?" Dorn asked. "You testified to carrying trauma for years. That pain manifests, Mr. Walker. Wouldn't you say your public breakdown— broadcast live to millions— was a symptom of that damage?"

John said nothing, once more unsure how to answer. The pressure was beginning to build. He didn't know how he would start to answer any of it.

Dorn stepped closer, just outside the rail. "You said yourself you sometimes still hurt yourself."

Matt objected again. "Repetitive, asked and answered." His voice raised slightly at the end. If the Judge noticed, she once ignored it.

"Sustained." Dorn nodded, as if it didn't matter. Because it didn't since he was playing a longer game.

"Let's return to something else, then. Something more visual." He reached into his folder and pulled a small paper that had something written on it. "I'd like to submit Defense Exhibit 37C."

Matt rose immediately once more. "Your Honor, we weren't notified about this footage. It was not in the initial discovery."

The dark haired man was quick, laughing softly. "I understand it's late, Your Honor, but the footage came into our possession only hours ago." Dorn said, "It's footage from a personal device, given to us by Cain's family. I believe it's directly relevant to Mr. Walker's testimony and mental state."

Matt clenched his jaw. "Relevance doesn't negate due process—"

"It will be admitted," Judge Cadwell said coolly. "Play the tape, Mr. Dorn."

The courtroom dimmed slightly as the screen lit up. The tape began, and all eyes turned to the monitor—including John’s.

On screen, a younger John appeared— nearly late twenties, given his hair and already formed scars from his service. He laid shirtless, laughing at something said beforehand. Cain’s voice came from behind the camera, making it clear he was the one filming. "Come on, pretty blues," He said, "One more time."

"You're obsessed," John heard himself tease, leaning back on his elbows as he laid under a blanket. They appeared to be at Cain's house— one of the few times he had been there. "You know that, right?"

The camera jostled slightly as a clear view came of Cain kissing his neck, making John laugh once more. He didn't flinch like he usually had.

Then, John heard a very quiet, younger John whisper to Cain. "You're lucky I like older men." At that moment, John paled.

The courtroom fell into an unbearable silence, and John couldn't look away from the video. He couldn't look away from the screen where Cain and him kept talking. The footage showed every playful touch, flirtation, and moment that seemed tender.

If John thought he was sweating before, this was worse— his whole body damp, but cold, like panic had iced over his skin. His hands abandoned any item or fabric— instead, they began to pick at the sliver of skin exposed behind his cufflinks. Everything felt too much on him. The way the jury glanced over at John, the shifty gaze from the gallery. His parents. Olivia. The team. 

Bobby.

He didn't even register that the video had ended, cutting off with John smiling at the camera, a bit shy. Those final seconds looped in his head, again and again.

He had watched the screen, but it felt like someone else’s memory— like his body had left the stand and drifted to the corner of the room, watching a stranger smile with Cain’s hands on his skin.

"Stop recording, I'm getting impatient!"

"I can't record us?" John shook his head and grabbed the camera to turn it off.

If John was honest, he barely recognized who the man was on the screen— either men, really. He watched the monitor turn off, settling his fearful eyes back on Dorn. 

Dorn gave a slow nod, turning back as well to give John a pitiful look. "That footage was taken... about ten years ago, correct?"

John nodded, too scared to speak. He noticed Rina tapping Matt's arm, whispering something to him.

"And you'd say it reflects how things were at the time?"

"No," John rasped, his voice hoarse. "That was a good day. Doesn't mean the rest were."

"But it does mean," Dorn led on, "that you willingly returned to him. That even after deployments, marriages, promotions... you still went back."

"I was trained to obey," John raised his voice sharply. "Even when it hurt— no, especially when it hurt."

"That's convenient," Dorn replied, and it came out cold. "You claim trauma, yet laugh in his bed. You call it abuse, but you stayed. You say it was shame, but you recorded yourself smiling. Do you see the contradiction, Mr. Walker?"

John's voice trembled in a way he never heard it before. "It's not a contradiction," he whispered, shaking his head. "It's survival."

Dorn circled back to John's testimony again, "You testified that you cut yourself. That you still do. That you feel like you deserve pain."

He paused, leaning a bit against the podium. "Tell me, Mr. Walker... if someone is willing to hurt themselves... how can we trust their memory isn't hurt, too?"

John blinked, breath catching for a moment. "I didn't ask to be fucked up." He didn't answer the question, but between her furrowed brows and frown, it was clear he didn't appreciate the line of questioning.

"No," Dorn agreed, "but you admit you are."

Matt rose instantly. "Objection—badgering the witness."

Judge Cadwell raised a hand. "Mr. Dorn, move on."

And Dorn nodded, "No further questions."

Just when John had relaxed for a moment, Dorn tilted his head.

"Actually," he smiled, turning slightly to the judge. "If the court allows, I have just a few clarifying questions. They won't take long."

Judge Cadwell gave a reluctant nod. "Briefly, Mr. Dorn."

Rina glared at the Judge, whispering something John couldn't hear once again. Even with his enhanced hearing, their words came in murmurs.

Dorn stepped forward again, unhurried, even though he needed to keep this brief. "Mr. Walker, earlier you described your marriage to Olivia as... unconventional. Swinging, I believe was the word?" He grinned.

John didn't like where this was going. He could feel the trap being built. 

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"And during this open marriage, you were allowed to sleep with other partners while deployed?"

"Yes."

"So it wasn't... coercion, in every case?"

Matt objected immediately. "Objection, mischaracterizing the testimony—"

"Sustained," Judge Cadwell cut in.

Dorn smiled— too sweet for a man like him. "Let me rephrase. You willingly engaged in sexual relationships with multiple people during your marriage?"

John shifted, discomfort pooling at the bottom of his stomach. "Yes," he answered flatly.

"And your wife at the time, Olivia— she knew about these encounters?"

John grimaced, keeping his gaze down for this part. "She knew that I was sleeping with other people, not who."

Dorn turned to the jury, as if simply walking them through the scene unfolding. "So the court understands... during your marriage, it was not uncommon for you to have sex outside of that marriage— sometimes casually, sometimes not."

"Correct," John answered through clenched teeth.

"So when you say Cain forced you to sleep with other men—"

"He did," John snapped without thinking.

Dorn raised an eyebrow at John's anger. "But how can we be sure those weren't simply more partners you chose? That they weren't just part of the "swinging" lifestyle?" If John could glare harder, he would've been doing so. Dorn had used his fingers to signal quotations around 'swinging'.

"Because they weren't," John held his hands into tight fists. "They were chosen for me. I didn't want them. I didn't ask for them."

Dorn nodded slowly. John hated how two-faced this man was. "Of course, but you admit you sometimes went along with things to keep Cain happy, yes?"

John exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. "Yes. If I didn't, I would get beat."

"So you complied. Okay..." Dorn trailed off, flipping through his folder for a moment.

"I survived abuse, but sure... focus on that." John corrected with more attitude than he should've let out. He saw how Dorn smirked with his head down.

"And these other men," Dorn asked, still flipping through the folder in front of him. "Do you recall all of them? Names, ranks, faces?"

John stayed quiet now. He hadn't even been introduced to most of these men, how could he have known their ranks, let alone names?

"That's fine," Dorn said quickly, not giving a minute to John to speak. "Memory's a tricky thing. You said that yourself."

Matt looked like he was about to stand again, but Rina held him back. They both knew there wasn't much they could object to since Dorn was acting very carefully. 

Dorn tapped one file. "Would you say, Mr. Walker... that your best friend, Lemar Hoskins, knew about your situation?"

John's stomach dropped at the mention of his Lemar. "No. I... I never told him." He glanced away.

"Did you ever engage in anything physical with Mr. Hoskins?" Dorn suddenly asked, leaning forward onto the podium.

Whatever John was thinking before left his mind instantly, replaced with a need to see blood on his shield once more. "What?"

Dorn shrugged. “It’s a simple question,” he said, voice dipped in mock innocence.

"No." Was all John could muster.

Dorn took a slow breath, almost like it pained him to ask. "Mr. Hoskins— he was deployed with you. Spent long nights in the same quarters. You've testified that sometimes you didn't know how to say no."

"Don't," John said under his breath.

"Are you absolutely certain that nothing ever happened between you and Lemar Hoskins?" Dorn pressed on.

"Yes," John barked. "I loved him. I didn't touch him. I wouldn't infect him like that."

The older man squinted, as if interrogating John. "And yet, Cain was often present when the two of you were alone, yes?" 

Memories came in a flash— Cain joining them for beers after training, leaning against the doorway when John and Lemar played cards, offering to drive them both to base. And of course Cain had been with them often. They were all friends and mostly because Cain couldn't think about John with someone else alone.

"Stop it," he said more to himself than Dorn. To stop the memories of Lemar that came flooding in. 

Holding onto Lemar as he walked for the battlefield with his ankle twisted.

Dorn's eyes only narrowed more. "Could it be possible— just possible— that Lemar participated?"

His body was starting to hold onto himself tighter. "No." He shook.

"That you don't remember it?"

Holding his best friends head to the side to shave a piece of facial hair he missed.

"No!" This time it was louder, but not disruptive.

"That Cain brought him in— just like the others?"

Holding Lemar as he bled from his bullet wound. Leaving a broken John to cradle the only man who ever loved him for more than his body.

"No!" John screamed, slamming his hand against the armrest. His voice echoed against the wooden walls, loud enough to make a few jurors flinch. He wasn't shocked they had, his voice had always been loud.

Matt stood abruptly, speaking over the sudden noise the came from the press and the families on both side. "Objection! Badgering the witness. Inflammatory, disrespectful behavior. Speculation. Relevance!" He practically yelled at the Judge.

"Sustained!" the judge snapped, finally slamming her gavel to quiet the room.

"Mr. Dorn," she said coldly, "take your seat. It seems I made a mistake in letting you speak." 

Dorn raised both hands, backing off with a smug expression like he'd done exactly what he came to do.

John was breathing hard, sweat pooling at the back of his neck in buckets. His fists were clenched white on the stand. His eyes burned with rage and guilt.

Guilt for yelling, and worse, for even hesitating. Dorn had planted the idea, and for a second, it had been believed. He must’ve looked like a fool. Just as unstable as they claimed

He had done everything they told him to do— told the truth, stood tall, and survived.

And yet... they were still making him bleed for it.

Notes:

Hope you all enjoyed that :3

I think the story will have 50 chapters or some shit when I'm done lol. I love writing about these guys. Don't worry next chapter will have much less Dorn.

Chapter 27: The shadow of a shadow of a legend

Notes:

I cried while writing this. I missed y'all so much. I missed writing, but I'm so lost on what to write. So, I put on the playlist, added some Radiohead, and wrote it in one go. I haven't read it over, I just let myself write. I'll go over it soon. Maybe.

The sound of the gavel slammed, quieting the room. If John were any smarter, he bet he could see just how upset the Judge was. John had returned to the prosecutor's table but hadn't sat yet. He hovered beside the chair, hands clenched and jaw locked. His breathing was shallow, every inhale audible. Matt stood beside him, hands on his hips, visibly seething. Rina whispered something to the clerk, then handed a slip of paper to the Judge's assistant.

Judge Cadwell didn't look at anyone at first. She adjusted her glasses and finally lifted her gaze to the courtroom, stone-faced. 

"This is a court of law," she said, her voice calm, but razor-sharp. "Not a spectacle. Not a stage for cruelty or theatrics. What occurred here just now was unacceptable."

She turned her gaze sharply toward Dorn, who was already seated again and pretending to review documents in front of him. John was shocked at the blatant disrespect he showed.

"Mr. Dorn," she continued, "you were given leniency, and you weaponized it. Consider that leniency revoked."

Dorn went to speak for himself, but he was silenced by her hand being raised. "No. I have had enough from you." She now addressed the jury.

"For the well-being of this court and the clarity of your duties as jurors, I am excusing you to the deliberation room for a brief recess. You will not discuss what just occurred until further instruction."

The jury filed out silently, the officers in the courtroom helping them out. Once the doors shut behind them, Judge Cadwell leaned back in her chair with a weary sigh. "This court will recess for fifteen minutes so I can properly assess the behavior and standing of counsel on both sides."

Her gavel came down with finality. "Fifteen-minute recess." She then promptly left the room, as did everyone else.

The courtroom was quiet as the press, family, friends, and both Cain and John left. 

Matt turned immediately to John once they were pulled into a separate hallway from Cain. "You okay? Do you need to step out, get air—?" But he was met with a scoff from said man.

"I'm fine," John huffed as he walked away, but he didn't seem fully there. Because he wasn't. He can't remember another time that he felt dehumanized like this. The questions, the video, it was all the show just how much of a whore John was. Just how much he enjoyed himself with Cain.

Bob approached from the courtroom, rushing to find John. John could hear Yelena and the team fussing over Bob, since he was yelling for the man. Once he saw him, he ran to his side. "Hey, John?" But he didn't turn to look at Bob. "John?" He asked again.

But John didn't stop where he was going, just walking past Bob. It stunned the other man, who followed where he walked. Bob went to follow, but Yelena stepped in front of him.

"Shit," Bob muttered. He looked down at Yelena, a hand on his chest.

"Let him go," she sighed. "He just survived whatever that was. He'll talk when he's ready." And Bob knew that was true, but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. So, instead of chasing after him and holding onto him, he let him disappear.

John moved quickly, cutting down a side hallway away from the gallery and press. He couldn't risk seeing anyone when he was like this— sweaty, exposed, red in the face. Was it because of Cain? Was it because of Dorn? No, it was that fucking video. Having to tell everyone about his and Olivia's failed open relationship. His parents probably left after hearing that. His extremely Christian mother and father.

He found a narrow corridor with a bench under a tall frosted window and sank onto it, finally letting his pain win over. His hands shook, so he pressed them between his knees. Focus. Breathe. Don't cry again. He can't give that power to Cain again.

John heard footsteps approaching but didn't think much about it, thinking it was Bob. Maybe Matt. Just hoping it wasn't cameras or press.

“You always run off after making scenes?” He hadn't recognized the voice at first. When he looked up, he saw Joshua Cain. John should've known it was him with how shitty he acted. His arms were tightly folded over his chest as his weight shifted to one hip.

John took a moment to gaze at the man. He let out a slow breath through his nose. “You always show up after your father loses control?” He moved his eyes to his nails, acting unbothered. “Or is this just your way of staying relevant while he rots at the defense table?”

Joshua scoffed. “You think you’re clever now? Jesus, no wonder he liked you.” His tone held venom, but his eyes darted once. That line had sounded better in his head.

John turned his head slightly, finally looking at him with more than his eyes, his full body facing Josh. “Liked me?” he repeated, “No. He liked control and sex, and I just had your face.”

John didn’t need to be an expert to see how Josh stumbled back slightly. His once smug smirk faded as something in his expression shuttered.

“You’re pathetic,” he muttered after an awkward pause. “Dragging your trauma out like it’s some stunt show. Posting up in court like you’re saving the world. You don’t know when to shut up.” His voice was louder now, but it cracked around the edges.

John’s lip curled faintly. “You mean like how you defended him all over Twitter? Then took money for a News outline to get an exclusive interview?” He stood up, letting the bench creak beneath him. “Yeah. You’re good at knowing when to shut the fuck up.”

Joshua’s hands balled into fists, arms still crossed to protect himself. “You think you’re better than me now?”

“No,” John answered, stepping forward once. “I think I’m honest about what happened. And I think you’re still too scared to say it out loud.”

Joshua paused for a moment, and his gaze on John confirmed what he had been thinking. Weirdly, John saw himself in Josh. Not only with his blonde hair gelled back or in the way he popped one hip out like John was, but in how he carried the guilt. Joshua stared at John, breathing faster now, but he didn’t move.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He almost whispered it, but forced strength into the words like volume would make it true. As if he could fool John.

“Yeah? He ever call you pretty blues?” John asked quietly, as if not to frighten a scared cat. With how Joshua was standing, he almost reminded him of one. He watched as Joshua stilled, his hands gripping harshly at his suit.

“He called me that when I was eighteen,” John continued, voice quieter, though it didn’t feel like that in the courthouse walls. “Told me I reminded him of someone. Guess I figured out who.”

He always knew. From the moment he saw the young, fourteen year old Joshua, he knew now who Cain imagined when he forced himself on him.

Joshua turned away for half a second, like the wall might offer safety. He didn’t speak. His lips parted, but the only sound that left was nearly useless. He took another moment to collect his pride.

“I defended him because I didn’t know,” he finally spoke. “And then I did. And I didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

It was John’s turn to cross his arms, chest rising steadily as he stared him down. With them being so close, he could really see how much shorter Josh was. “So you attacked me. Publicly. Over and over. Like that was going to make it go away.”

“I hated you.” Joshua’s voice dropped. “I hated how much you reminded him of me. I hated knowing he looked at both of us like we were interchangeable.” His voice broke on the last word, but he pushed through it. “You were proof I wasn’t special. I was just next.”

Neither of them moved from their spots. They knew they were both products of Cain’s abuse. It was awful how similar they were. How they both knew they would always be by the man’s side if he so asked.

Joshua, his young and loving son, who only ever wanted his father to recognize him. Even if that meant doing so in a way he didn’t want to think about.

John, his mentee and greatest accomplishment. The one thing Joshua could never be. No matter how he did his hair or how he worked out. He would always be the shadow of a shadow of a legend. No amount of service in the army would change that. No amount of praise would change how his father only ever saw John.

But he sees it now. He sees how his father didn’t help Walker; no, he tortured him and continues to do so.

A part of him will always wish it were him being tortured, as long as he got a kiss at the end of the night.

“I didn’t know,” Joshua wiped his cheek, unaware of the tears. “I didn’t know until I watched that video. The way he touched you. That wasn’t love. I always thought he loved you.”

John didn’t offer any comforting words or touches. He silently watched Josh unravel, one thread at a time. Every hit of realization went straight to his gut.

“I don’t know how to undo it,” Joshua whispered. “I don’t know how to fix anything I’ve done. T—to you, to your friends, to myself…”

He took a step forward, then another, slow and unsure. His knees hit the ground with a soft thud, not dramatic— just defeated. His hands rested on the back of his thighs, and his voice didn’t shake anymore.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said. “But I needed to ask anyway.”

He let Josh kneel before him, begging for his forgiveness. It was pitiful, or would be if John didn’t see Cain in that moment. They had the same eyes, the same rage inside of them that infected John like he was an animal used for experimentation. He hesitantly reached a hand into Joshua’s hair, letting the blonde hair run through his fingers.

“You’re so pretty,” Could he say that? He didn’t wonder about it much: “How did we let that creature control us?” A wet laugh came from the kneeling man.

“Fuck, beats me. Dude’s gross.” John hummed, nodding along.

He glanced at his watch; nine minutes had passed. John held Joshua’s head close to his stomach, letting him take all the time he needed.

After a minute or so, Joshua got up. John held his face, taking a good look at the man. He was strong, with broad shoulders and a softer jawline than John. They stared at each other for a moment, the scene bittersweet. They both saw what they wanted to be, what they thought they should’ve been, and what they compared themselves to.

“Why don’t we go back? Together.” John smiled, finding it in his jealous heart to try and bring the man. Josh met with something more apologetic. 

“I shouldn’t. My mom, my sister…” He looked up, “I’m not strong like you.” That made John laugh. Josh furrowed his eyebrows, and John chuckled.

“You aren’t strong? You’ve been living with his abuse longer than I have. You are strong. You won’t find that in another person— only you.” John whispered, reaching for Joshua’s hand to pull him back to the hall they came from.

The walk was mostly silent, except for a worried noise from Joshua or a reassuring sigh from John. Just letting him know that he was here, that they were both there.

John first saw his team, all standing around, defeated. Matt was quietly talking to Val while Rina and Mel were reviewing something in a folder. John looked around and let go of Joshua’s hand to make his way to Bob.

His Bob.

Bob stood with his back to the hall, Yelena still trying her best to reassure him while Bucky was on his other side. Alexei and Ava weren’t in sight, but he knew they were still there.

John came up from behind Bob, hugging the man. Now, they didn’t show affection often in front of the team, let alone in public. Bob tensed, but the sight of the callused hands around his stomach made him smile.

He turned to see John, giving him a soft kiss on the head. He pulled back when he saw Joshua. 

The man was quiet, clearly shocked at the open affection with another man. He felt that jealousy again. Of course, John could have a relationship after all that abuse. Yet, Josh can’t keep a girlfriend for more than a few months.

And John could see that. He saw just how much it bothered him.

“He’s my friend.” John lied, “We’re close.” Josh lightened up. John reached out to Joshua, letting him into his circle. And Josh awkwardly smiled at the team, who looked at John. He nodded, and suddenly, the glares faded into welcoming smiles. And Joshua thought:

Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

Maybe he could be like this too one day.

Notes:

Josh and John sharing the narrative is on purpose. I'm actually insane about how they parallel each other but I can't express it properly. How John only sees himself in Josh, a fault Cain had as well.

Everything he does will always be Cain.

He will never get true peace.

Sorry y'all that got sad. I am back in my John Walker Whump era.

Chapter 28: You said it wouldn't hurt

Notes:

This is an apology for not posting for a while. The next chapter won't be in a courtroom, don't worry.

Again, I didn't proof read. and Idk take it bro.

The courtroom had calmed down since the recess. Everyone seemed to be on the edge of their seats, eyes going from Cain back to John. It probably didn’t help that Josh had walked back in with John instead of his family.

John sat at the defense table, shoulders squared but stiff, like he was bracing for impact. Matt leaned toward him, murmured something about holding steady, then stood. He buttoned his suit jacket with one hand as he spoke to the courtroom. 

"Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Asha Lenox to the stand."

The doors opened a moment later to reveal a woman in a navy pantsuit, tight on her hips but loose as they ran down her legs. Her locs were pinned back. Her heels clicked steadily on the courtroom floor.

John didn't look up at her. But he could already feel the cold sweat forming. He didn’t like the woman, maybe because she knew him better than he seemed to know himself.

Dr. Lenox took the oath, then settled in the witness chair with grace, not performative, that was just who she was. Her hands folded neatly in her lap. Matt stood behind the podium.

"Dr. Lenox, please state your qualifications for the record."

"I'm a licensed clinical psychologist," she began, her voice calm. "I hold a doctorate in psychology from Emory University. I've spent twelve years specializing in complex trauma, PTSD, and dissociative disorders— primarily in veterans and law enforcement populations. I've also worked with high-risk metahuman cases for the past five." She glanced over, watching the team.

"And how long have you been working with Mr. Walker?"

"Fourteen months." She nodded, “I was placed as one of the leads for helping the New Avengers if anything happens.”

"Under what circumstances did he come under your care?"

"He was referred for recurring night terrors, emotional deregulation, and behavioral flashbacks following a classified mission. Initial evaluations revealed signs of long-term abuse, dissociation, and untreated PTSD." John tried not to scowl. She might as well be reading him open like a book.

A murmur ran through the gallery, eagerly writing down what she was saying. The phrase long-term abuse always made him uncomfortable, felt if he was giving too much credit to Cain.

Matt didn’t move as he fidgeted with a metal pen. "Dr. Lenox, can you describe what you mean by dissociation in Mr. Walker’s case?"

She nodded, folding her hands tighter. "Mr. Walker dissociates during periods of high emotional or psychological stress. His mind detaches from the present moment. It’s not a choice— it’s a trauma mechanism. In his words, he goes to what he calls a ‘dark place.’"

John felt his face flush; the closest thing he had to that feeling was the void, and showing his shame. Which, to be fair, was a very dark place.

He heard a small whine behind him. When he looked, he saw Bob’s head bowed, and he must’ve shared a similar thought to John.

Matt's voice softened slightly. "What does that look like in practice?"

"In our sessions, he would sometimes stop responding mid-sentence. His posture would change. His voice would go flat. He wasn’t with me anymore, or more so, he was somewhere else. Often back in a memory he couldn’t fully access, or reliving a situation his body remembered even if his mind didn’t want to." She leaned back in her seat. “He tends to repress trauma. It’s a common behavior in veterans.”

John finally looked up at the woman. He didn’t know if she was lying—she wasn’t—but it was strange hearing it out loud. That thing he’d been ashamed of, dissected into manageable terms. Dark place . What a bullshit term. It wasn’t a dark place. It was the darkest place he could never escape. His mind.

Matt played with the pen in his grasp before putting it in his pocket. "Would it be fair to say this affects his ability to regulate behavior?"

"Yes. Especially when he is triggered by someone tied to his trauma. In Mr. Walker’s case, Richard Cain is the primary trigger. His presence alone initiates a full autonomic response—heart rate spikes, hand tremors, hypervigilance, and, in some cases, dissociative detachment."

Matt turned, pacing slowly. "Can you explain what happens during dissociative detachment?"

"He loses time. He may not remember the full sequence of his actions. He’s operating in a mode we often see called survival brain, where there is no long-term thinking, just instinct. Fight, flight, freeze." She paused, glancing toward John. "He defaults to fight unless he is with another person. Then sometimes it’s freeze. I have only seen this when he’s with— Uhm, his teammates.” 

John looked down at the table. His fingers pressed hard into his thighs. It was hard not to hate how accurate that was. But he was glad she didn’t tell the court how weak he could be if Bob was around. 

It was a newer thing, allowing himself to be not so strong-headed when he was around. But really, now it was all of the team. Bucky, Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and Bob. They made everything a bit easier than he would like to say.

"Would you classify what happened at the gala a while back with Cain as premeditated?"

"No. I would classify it as a trauma-driven dissociative response to direct provocation."

Matt nodded slowly, letting the words land. Then: "Was it dangerous?"

Dr. Lenox considered it for a moment. Before nodding. "Yes, but not malicious. He wasn’t trying to destroy Cain’s life. He was trying to survive his own."

Matt thanked her and stepped back. “No further questions.”

The Judge turned to the defensive table. “Mr. Dorn?”

Dorn stood. Adjusted his tie like he was about to smile, but didn’t. And John hadn’t even noticed that the man was still on the case, especially after what the Judge said.

“Dr. Lenox,” he began, “do you believe trauma excuses violence?”

“No,” she explained calmly, “but it explains it.”

He frowned slightly. “So Mr. Walker is unstable?” Matt went to stand, but Rina patted his arm, knowing that Asha had it covered.

“He’s recovering. He is responsible for managing his symptoms, yes. But his diagnosis does not make him violent. His trauma makes him vulnerable .” The Jury looked at each other for a moment before looking back at Dorn.

Dorn paced a little, trying to agitate her. He tried to do that with John, but this woman could see right through it. “He’s a super-soldier. A man with enhanced strength, military training, and a government-issued shield. Doesn’t that concern you? Given your diagnosis.”

Dr. Lenox had to take a second to figure out what exactly he was getting at. “Trauma doesn’t make someone dangerous. But not handling the abuse does. And, you know, we really haven’t given men in the military opportunities to express—”

“No further questions,” Dorn cut off, sitting back down with a tight frown. 

Judge Cadwell leaned forward. “Dr. Lenox, you may step down.”

She nodded, gathered her notes, and left the stand without a pause.

John didn’t look at her again. He just sat there, breathing slowly through his nose, palms flat on his knees. His fingers no longer trembled. But inside, he was still in the dark place.

Another witness came, but if John was honest, he didn’t know who the man was. He didn’t know why Matt was putting him on the witness stand.

Really, John didn’t pay much attention, like he knew he should’ve been. He could hear the man— wearing his U.S. Marine uniform, perfectly shaved head, and clear green eyes that looked amazing against his freckled skin— and he did look familiar.

It took another second when it hit him; this was one of the men he had sex with under Cain’s command. He could remember it so clearly now. He wasn’t as rough as many others were, but he didn’t shy away from beating on John.

He was around seven inches, if he remembered it right.

As soon as he was there, he was gone. It could have been John disassociating; he thinks that's the correct term. But it seems like the court was moving faster with the proceedings. Evidence was shown on screens, folders, and papers shared with the Jury. 

John saw every documented bruise or poorly covered cuts from the abuse. He saw photos of him next to Cain, ones he thought were buried from long ago.

One photo stood out to him the most. It was a photo from a military ball that both he and Olivia attended. The memory from the night was a sweet one. Olivia wore a beautiful orange dress that was, albeit, outdated. Not that John cared at the time, nor did he care when they were stuck in an orgy that night. 

He used to be wild. They were early twenties when the photos were shown. It was focused on him. John stuck his tongue out while a very drunk Cain groped his chest from behind, while Olivia was on her knees. They were on the dance floor and thankfully fully clothed.

But it didn’t matter when the next photo was screenshots of messages from Cain to another man. 

 

Richard Cain: View attached photo

Charles O’Neil: Damn! Hot shit.

Richard Cain: You want the guy? Great sex, super tight.

Charles O’Neil: Yeah. How much? Woman too?

Richard Cain: No. Only man. 200?

Charles O’Neil: 200 plus 50 if I can get him in the uniform.

Richard Cain: You can have him however you want. He’ll take it. He’s already been with over 8 in one night.

 

Almost as if he had no control, his mind propelled the memory into his mind.

John lay naked, legs shaking. He was stuck on the bed, handcuffed to the post. Every part of him was covered in spent from multiple men. He lost count after the first few. His body ached in a way he never knew it could, yet, found comfort in it.

He had begun to pass out when he heard a familiar voice by his side, “Johnny… baby blue’s…” He opened his eyes to meet Cain's. 

“You said it wouldn’t hurt.” The blonde whispered, feeling smaller than he ever had before. Cain just smiled, leaning down to kiss his cum covered face. In fact, he kissed every part of him. Every bruise, every bitten mark. 

How was he going to explain this amount of sex on him to Olivia?

“You did well. The guys even left you extra money and some food. Look, why don’t I get that for you after we shower?” Cain whispered. He sounded so sweet to him. Sounded like a savior when he was the one to betray him.

John was broken from his thoughts as Matt was seated back next to him, “Is it over?” John whispered to Matt. He shook his head, giving John a confused look.

“No, not close. I finished our part, so that means that it’s the defense's turn tomorrow.”

Huh. John hadn’t thought about that. It was multiple days. He had been so focused on making it past him on the stand, he didn’t even consider that it was going to be longer than one day.

Judge Cadwell sat straighter, her fingers steepled in front of her as she gave a small, measured sigh.

“This court has heard sufficient testimony for the day,” she said, her voice steady, though there was a weariness edging the words now. “We will recess until tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp.”

He barely registered the papers being stacked, chairs creaking, someone’s pen falling to the floor with a soft clatter. He just stared at the grain in the wood of the table, his breathing the only thing anchoring him to the moment. He was still reeling back from the memory and the words on the screen.

Judge Cadwell looked to the jury next. “You are reminded, once again, not to discuss the details of this case with anyone. Do not speak among yourselves. Do not engage with any media coverage or commentary surrounding these proceedings. We will resume with the defense's witness in the morning.”

The gavel struck once, final but not cruel.

“All rise,” the bailiff called.

Everyone stood slowly, and John lifted his head. He rose late due to his delay. Moving meant acknowledging he was still in his body, and that felt like too much right now. He needed to shower. When had he last showered?

As Judge Cadwell stepped down from the bench and disappeared through the side door, soft chatter filled as people filed out. Only then did John glance over at Matt, whose brow was furrowed in something between concern and calculation.

John didn’t say a word. He just pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and followed the rest of the defense team out of the courtroom, one step behind the noise.

The team didn’t speak as they made their way to the hallway, and it turned into a hush around John. He walked behind Alexei, who literally shielded him from the crowd. When Alexei stopped, John fell against his back.

“Hey, what gives?” He asked, but once Alexei moved away, he saw it.

His parents stood next to Olivia as they hesitantly approached the team, in hopes of seeing John. 

Tears betrayed him as he stepped forward, still in shock; they even stayed after everything. A very broken man stood in front of them, and John whispered.

“Daddy..?” He looked to his father. He was fully grey now, his beard in something closer to a goatee. He was nervous for a second. Had that even come out? It was so quiet, he didn’t expect his dad to hear him.

Let alone would he want to be near John after knowing what he’s done.

He was wrong in a second when strong arms hugged him. His dad. His dad was holding him to his chest like he was a little boy again. Safe with his parents as a storm swept by the house, rattling their glassware.

John didn’t respond for a moment before hugging him back. He heard soft whispers, “My son, how could I have not seen it? My boy, my beautiful baby. I'm so sorry.”

When John pulled away, his mother came next. Her hugs were something he cherished more than anything. She was a much shorter woman, so she couldn’t pull him to her chest like her husband had, but he still enjoyed it. Her veil covered hair, a feeling he ingrained into his mind from his teenage years after church. Sometimes, he would hug her so long his cheek would have the lines against his face.

He looked at his parents, both tearful, which didn’t help John’s eyes, which began to water. He glanced over at Olivia, and she offered a small wave, which he returned.

“I didn’t expect you guys.” He told them, and they gave tired laughs. He turned to the group, and everyone pointed at Sam. 

“What can I say? I thought… thought they’d like to be here.” Sam shrugged, acting as humble as he could. Didn’t stop Bucky from giving his side a nudge.

John nodded at him and faced his parents again, “Where are you staying?” He asked.

“Ah, some very nice hotel. You know, Mr. Wilson paid for it.” John chuckled at his mother's polite tone, as if she hadn’t been the same woman who could yell at honking cars.

“Well, you can always stay at the tower, if you need.” The team behind him nodded, but his father huffed.

“No need. The hotel is nice. There’s a spa too.” He made a face towards Ms. Walker, making John gag while the others laughed.

After the sweet moment, John looked at his dad. “Uh,” His father straightened out, “Listen, Johnny. We’ll see you tomorrow. You need to rest. But just know your mother and I love you, and when you’re ready, we’re ready to be back in your life.” 

That had been the best news he’s heard in months. He nodded.

“Thank you, Dad. I’m ready now.” He smiled brightly, brighter than anyone had seen in a while. He didn’t want to ask everything in his mind. Didn’t want to ask what they thought of him now, if they only saw a whore.

But they didn’t. 

He glanced at Olivia for a moment; her eyes told him everything he’d need to know. She was there just as much.

They kept talking for a while longer until Olivia mentioned needing to pick up Daniel. John stayed silent as his parents waved and left with Sam, just so the paparazzi wouldn’t harass them. 

As he looked at Olivia again, she approached him for a minute. “Johnny.” She greeted.

“Olie.” He greeted back. She took his hand in hers. There was so much left unsaid, so much she could’ve yelled at him for. Instead of that, she sighed.

“You know where to find me.” She nodded at the group and let herself slip from John.

John watched her leave next, still nervous to leave the courthouse. Yet, when he looked back at the team, Bob was already in front of him with Yelena. Next to him, Ava held onto John’s arm while Alexei clapped John on the back. 

“Ah, moments like this make me cry. Like Hallmark!” He gave a hearty laugh, and Yelena rolled her eyes.

“Hallmark?” She asked while Ava let go of John to mess with Alexei and Yelena.

John looked at Bob with a small smile. Bob mouthed, “Movie?” John responded with a nod. He made a small motion with his hands to symbolize food. Bob laughed and nodded.

Notes:

If you can correctly point out where I cried you'll get a gold star.

Thank you for your kudos and comments! <3

Chapter 29: I care because you care

Notes:

A small break from the courtroom. I wanted to make sure my boys got love

The ride back to the tower was quiet; no one spoke much, except for John, who leaned against Bob. He scrolled through Bob’s phone so they could find something to eat for their night together. No one around them mentioned how John cozied up to Bob when he once claimed he never liked him.

Getting into the tower was more of a hassle than arriving. Paparazzi and reporters lined the front door. Technically, they could go through a back door, but it was blocked thanks to Alexei parking his limo right there.

“How was I supposed to know red meant no parking?!” He complained when they first saw the crowd. Ava sighed, mumbling under her breath.

They pulled up to the front of the watchtower, and Alexei left first, making sure security had everyone back far enough. Then the rest of the team exited one at a time. The last one out was Bob, with Walker in front of him.

John glanced among the reporters and paparazzi, trying to get inside the tower. Questions were thrown his way. 

"John, how does it feel to have your past made public?"

"Do you consider yourself a danger to the public?"

"Is it true Cain trafficked you while you were active duty?"

Bob moved closer behind him, a quiet reassurance that if he fainted now, someone would catch him. His hand brushed John's lower back, and that tiny touch helped him take the next step forward.

It took everything in John not to respond to the questions. He was stiff, and he wanted nothing more than to hide under the covers with Bob. He kept his eyes low and moved quickly, the rest of the team surrounding him like a loose wall.

Once inside the tower, the mood shifted slightly. The chaos of the cameras was replaced with the soft hush of security doors and the familiar hum of the elevator. They rode up in silence, the weight of the trial still dampening their moods.

“Tomorrow’s going to be worse,” Yelena muttered, already having unbuttoned her slacks.

Alexei grunted in agreement. “Bah. Let them talk. Wolves bark before they’re shot.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that goes,” Ava made a sound close to a laugh, but it was too drained to be one.

When the elevator reached their floor, people scattered quickly. Some to decompress, some to drink, and some to avoid falling apart.

John didn’t say anything as he and Bob peeled off toward Bob’s room. He didn’t ask; he just walked there like it had already been decided. Bob didn’t seem to mind at all.

Inside, John immediately kicked off his shoes and slacks, shrugging off his suit jacket. He didn’t turn to Bob as his back faced him. In that moment, he flushed. This was more intimate than how it should’ve been, how casual it had become to undress for Bob without expecting sex.

That was something he had thought about a lot. They hadn’t had sex yet. Sure, they weren’t even dating yet either, but John was only in boxers in his room. Any other guy would have gotten on John like a dog. It confused him. Made him think, did Bob like him? Is love more than sex? Or was he undesirable? 

He didn’t turn when Bob silently tossed him a hoodie— his favorite green one. He smiled softly at the fabric, dressing in his hoodie. While he dressed, Bob ordered pizza without asking what John wanted— he just knew from the number of times they’d done this before.

John curled up on the head of the bed, legs crossed beneath him, hoodie sleeves half-eclipsing his hands. Bob liked his hoodies to be oversized, but fuck, they were even oversized on John. He fiddled with a fraying thread on the cuff while Bob flopped down beside him and turned the TV on.

“I can’t believe you still watch Ghost Adventures, ” John muttered after a few. 

Bob grinned, nudging him with his shoulder. “It’s comforting. Screaming grown men running from old furniture? Peak television.”

A small laugh escaped John before he could stop it. It caught him off guard, enough that he quieted quickly after. The silence that after made John fidget with the cuffs more.

John’s fingers paused over the frayed thread. “You saw everything… didn’t you?” He let the question slip out, wanting to know the answer from at least one person.

Bob didn’t look away from the screen immediately, but his voice was soft when he answered, “Yeah.” It didn’t sound judgmental, which was a good thing.

John took a slow breath, eyes fixed on the TV but not watching anything going on. “You’re not… I dunno. Disgusted? Mad? Weirded out?”

Bob turned to face him, drawing one leg up and resting his chin on his knee. “Nah, should I be?”

“I slept with… a lot of them,” John mumbled quietly. His voice lingered with a bitter taste with the confession, “Some of them I didn’t even remember until today.”

Bob just reached forward, brushing a bit of lint off the front of the hoodie. “You didn’t owe anyone anything. We all have done stuff, we all aren’t perfect.”

John shook his head slightly. “That’s what they keep saying.” He sighed, unable to listen fully.

“Then maybe it’s true,” Bob replied, “Listen… I was living in a busted van behind a bowling alley in Florida for a good amount of my life. I once traded an entire week’s worth of ramen for a pair of shoes that didn’t fit, just because I liked the guy who wore them. You think I’m gonna throw shade at you for what you did to survive hell?”

That got a real smile from John. A crooked one, but genuine. “You’re kind of messed up.” Once again, the words slipped out before he could think. He paled momentarily, hoping he hadn’t upset Bob. Instead, the man laughed.

“Takes one to know one,” Bob teased, and they leaned into each other, their shoulders pressed together.

John looked down at his hands, awkwardly playing with the cuffs once more. “So, you don’t care about the prostitution? The sex, anything?”

Bob didn't answer right away. Not because he didn’t have one, just because he wanted to say it right. “I care about you, ” he said finally, “The rest? That’s not who you are. That’s just… stuff that happened to you.” 

John kept his head down, the heat in his chest once filled with guilt was that familiar feeling he had when they were stuck in the storage room together.

He let the silence hang a little longer before murmuring, “It’s hard to believe that. That I’m still… me. Or worth anything.”

Bob shifted beside him, one arm lying around John’s shoulders. “You think that stuff makes you less valuable? That crawling through all that shit somehow makes you dirty?”

John gave a noncommittal shrug, not trusting his voice not to betray how fucked up he was.

Bob didn’t let it slide. “You didn’t ruin anything about yourself, John. You just learned how to live in a world that didn’t protect you. That’s… kind of badass.”

John scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “You sound like my therapist.” That mention made John remember he needed to make sure to never let Dr. Lenox analyze him again.

“Bet I’m more fun,” Bob replied, grinning like a fool. “And I have better hoodies.”

John leaned his head back against Bob's arm, eyes fluttering closed for a second. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until now, everything in him slumping a little. “You know, I always thought if anyone saw what I’d done, they’d never want to touch me again.”

“Funny,” Bob hummed, casually stretching out across the bed as John cuddled up to him, but only slightly, “because I’ve wanted to kiss you since about… two weeks after we moved into the tower.”

John’s eyes snapped open, turning his head towards him. Bob was still watching the ceiling, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

“I mean,” he continued, “I didn’t say anything because I figured you’d either punch me or disappear. O—or both. But yeah. Still true.”

John was quiet, but then whispered. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

Bob turned to look at him. “I don’t say things to make people feel better. I say things because I mean them.” He boasted, purposefully puffing out his chest in a silly manner.

Another moment passed until John gave a breathy laugh and covered his face with his hands. “God, I’m such a mess.” Because he was. Who else would have him blushing like this in their bed? And not expect him to have sex with them?

And really, that made John want Bob more than anything. He didn’t expect anything of John, just expected him to be himself.

Bob sat up slightly, nudging his foot against John’s leg. “So am I. Welcome to the club.”

John peeked through his fingers. “Is there a membership card?” He gave a grin visible behind his hands.

“Comes with a hoodie,” Bob grinned. “And pizza,” he leaned down and gave John a few kisses. “And maybe a kiss?” The soft question made John laugh as he wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck.

“Maybe?” And now it was Bob’s turn to blush. John knew exactly what he was doing; he knew he must’ve seemed not as sexy as he tried to be at one point, but Bob didn’t mind. 

“Definitely.” He leaned back down and wrapped his arms around John loosely, letting him know he could leave at any point. His hands rubbed John’s back to let him know.

For a few seconds, John let his eyes stay open, just to confirm this was Bob he was kissing. Not Cain, not O’Neil. Not anyone else. This was Bob with him. And it was just them kissing, no cameras or viewers.

John let his mouth open, letting Bob into the wet heat. Their tongues explored each other in a controlled manner, but it was slowly slipping from them both. John pulled at Bob’s hair, letting his fingers run through the brown curls. Bob's hands wandered towards his thighs, edging to pick them up to toss them over his shoulders.

Before they could continue, Bob’s phone went off. They both paused, pulling away as Bob picked up the phone. Dominos.

“Do we… have to get up?” John asked, staring at Bob’s lips for a moment.

“Only if you want the pizza hot,” Bob replied, already rolling out of bed with a groan. He tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”

John watched him leave the room, hoodie sleeves pulled up to his elbows, socks mismatched. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—John felt like he could sit with himself without the need to cut on his mind.

He looked down at the green hoodie he wore, fingers smoothing out the frayed cuff again. It felt right, wearing Bob’s hoodie. Sure, maybe John should’ve been the one giving Bob— the younger and smaller man— a hoodie, but he didn’t care.

Bob came back balancing the pizza box and two bottles of soda against his chest. “Told the delivery guy I was recovering from ghost possession. I think he believed me because I got a discount.”

John shook his head, “You’re a menace.” He smiled, “We aren’t even paying for it, it’s Val’s money.”

Bob kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, the pizza box balancing precariously in one hand, sodas tucked under his arm. “Still warm,” he announced, “and I didn’t get possessed. So overall win.”

John grinned from where he sat cross-legged on the bed, hoodie sleeves covering his hands like paws. “That’s disappointing. Possession might’ve spiced things up.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bob said as he flopped back onto the bed beside him. “I think you and I have enough going on without ghosts getting involved.”

John tilted his head, watching Bob pull the pizza box open between them. “Is that a dig at me, or a compliment?”

Bob shrugged, his movements playful as he looked at the pizza. “Depends on how much you can eat.”

John reached for a slice with mock offense. “Rude, but I’m starving.”

After a while of them eating, John leaned back against the headboard, chewing the crust of his fourth piece of pizza thoughtfully. “You really don’t care?”

Bob glanced over. “About?” He mumbled as he licked his fingers.

He gestured vaguely at himself. “All of it. The court stuff. The past. What you saw today.”

Bob leaned his shoulder against John’s, brushing a few crumbs off the front of the hoodie. “I care because you care. But it doesn’t change how I see you. Or want to be around you.”

John looked down at his lap, tugging the hoodie sleeves over his hands again. “It’s just… weird, you know? I’ve never had something like this. Not without expectations. I keep thinking it’s going to go wrong, or I’ll say something, or do something, and then you’ll look at me like… like they did.”

Bob was quiet for a second, like he was choosing his next words carefully once more. “John. You’ve had people use you. That’s not what this is. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You don’t want anything?” John asked, quirking a brow with a playful smirk. “Not even, like… a kiss?”

Bob gave a small laugh, “Well, I didn’t say nothing .” He placed his hand into John’s hair, rubbing his hair.

John laughed too, the kind that came easier now, like something was starting to thaw. He bumped Bob’s knee with his own, biting his lip. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since you left the room.”

Bob’s expression shifted— still smiling, but gentler now. “Then come here, John.” 

Huh. John liked that. He wasn’t baby blues, he wasn’t Walker, he wasn’t slut. He was John. His name sounded so good on Bob’s lips.

John leaned in without hesitation, pressing a kiss to the corner of Bob’s mouth first, just a soft touch that lingered before he moved in properly. It wasn’t heated like before, and it let John know how much Bob wanted him, yet it wasn’t rough.

When they pulled apart, John rested his forehead against Bob’s. “You really like me, huh?”

Bob hummed. “You take my hoodies. Eat my half of the pizza. Judge my TV taste. Still haven’t officially asked me out. And somehow, yeah… I really do.”

John shyly smiled, but his face must’ve been a rosy color. “Then maybe I’ll ask you properly. Someday.”

“I’ll be here,” Bob said simply, reaching for another slice. He bit into the pizza, chewing it for a moment before he spoke. “Maybe I’ll ask you out.”

John flushed and took the pizza slice from Bob, eating it while the other man complained, “Hey! You ate half the box!” but John couldn’t help but laugh.

Notes:

Aw so cute! Next chapter will be so much worse now. The more love they get, the more pain he'll be in hehehehe

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

Notes:

Sorry for the late update. This chapter was a bit hard to write, so I apologize for how it came out.

Please enjoy chapter 30.

The hoodie didn’t make it out of the room.

John didn’t bother taking it to his room the morning after staying with Bob. He did not need it, at least, not for what was going to come of the day.

He spent a few minutes staring at himself in the mirror, eyeing every cut and his slightly thicker stomach. If the court time weren’t so early, he would’ve gone on a run. But it might’ve been stuck on the treadmill, as this morning was filled with rain.

The rain distracted his idea of scratching open wounds. Instead, he stayed under a burning hot shower, the water beating at his back and leaving every piece of exposed skin sore. He loved these showers, where the water was hurting so bad it was good. Let him know he was real and still had feeling in his skin.

When he exited, he glanced towards his notebook, lying on top of his bedside drawer from a few nights before. He had time to write, maybe just a few lines. So, he wore boxers and quickly towel-dried his hair, flopping onto the bed.

The pen felt familiar under his grip as he flipped to a new page.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to feel good. Not after everything, and not after last night. Not with what’s coming today, what I know will be approaching.

Bob kissed me last night. That’s what I keep circling back to. He kissed me, and it wasn’t out of pity or lust or leverage. He just wanted me. Not the version of me I’ve had to package for others. Me! Isn’t that crazy? I mean, sure, Bob is fucked up, but we all are. And he’s a hot fuck up.

And I should feel safe in that, but I don’t. I don’t know what to do with kindness when it doesn’t come with strings. When it doesn’t come with conditions or unspoken debts. I want to believe it’s real. That he means it when he tells me he cares. But the fear of losing it or ruining it freaks me out more than I want to admit.

He saw everything yesterday. The names. The photos. The footage. The things I never wanted to remember, let alone have aired out in front of a courtroom. And yet, he still looked at me like I was something.

So why does it feel like I’m still bracing for the blow? Still expecting this to go sideways and for him to punch me?

I know he isn’t like Cain, and I’ve accepted that. Yet, I still have that constant fear in my chest.

That’s not even mentioning how I’ll be seeing Cain today. I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. Not like before, anyway. I’m afraid of how he’ll look at me, like I’m still his. Like he still knows every weakness, every way to fold me in half with a smile. I don’t know how to sit there and pretend like I’m untouched by what he did. Like I’m someone else now. Like I’m better than what I know I am. Sure, he raped me, but I will always miss that part of my life. I’ll miss the crazy sex we had and the sweet moments we (sometimes) shared.

But I have to do it. I have to walk in, hold my chin up, and sit through the whole performance he’ll give, and I know it’s going to wreck me. I know I’m going to see things I don’t want to see. Hear every lie from his disgusting mouth, and I’ll have to ignore every instinct that tells me to run.

Still, I’m going. I owe that much to the version of me who couldn’t get away before. I owe it to Lemar to be someone who stands up for themselves. I owe it to my son to show that someone can be strong beyond physical strength.

I owe it to Olivia. My mom. My dad. Yelena. Alexei. Ava. Bucky. Bob. 

I owe it to my family.”

John glanced up when his phone went off. It was Ava, wondering where he was. He huffed, closing his journal and getting dressed for what awaited him.

---

The courthouse loomed over them in a familiar manner— tall marble pillars casting grey shadows over the rain-slicked steps that never lacked an audience. John didn’t register the flash of cameras or the way reporters called his name. He made sure his eyes were forward and his shoulders drawn back. He thought, for a moment, that if he didn’t look around, it didn’t matter.

Bob walked in beside him, a hand on his back to keep him moving. Everyone was dressed better than yesterday. Except for Bob, who owned only one suit, so the one he wore today was less formal, but he didn’t look bad to John. 

John took note of how everyone wore black, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Maybe they were mourners at a wake. That’s what today really was: the death of truth and the burial of whatever was left.

“You okay?” Bob asked softly, voice low so only John could hear as he whispered into his ear.

John gave a tense nod. He wasn’t okay, and Bob knew that. He only rubbed John’s back as they entered the court, where he would spend more of his life.

They passed through security. The metal detector beeped at Alexei, and the guards gave him a look that dared him to cause a scene. He smiled politely and walked through again without complaint. Yelena muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded like a prayer or a curse. Maybe both, as Alexei tried to explain why he was carrying so many knives in his suit jacket.

Inside the courtroom itself was already packed with press and observers. A few familiars face he was glad to see. He talked with his parents for a bit, even Olivia, though she came in later.

John sat next to Matt once more, staring directly at the witness stand. Rina greeted him and gave him water. He tugged at his suit jacket— no hoodie today, no safety net. Just a stiff collar and a stomach full of dread.

He tried not to scan the room but failed. His curiosity never left him as he tried to see if there was anyone new. He saw all familiar faces before he noticed Cain.

Sitting at the defense table, in a navy suit and silver tie, like he didn’t have a past full of rot. Like he wasn’t the reason John hadn’t slept well in days. He looked calm, still thinking he couldn’t be touched. 

John’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick. He swallowed against it, fighting the urge to curl in on himself. Cain hadn’t looked his way yet, but John knew it would happen at some point.

The door at the back of the courtroom opened again, and the bailiff stepped forward once the room began to go quiet. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Cadwell.”

Everyone stood, the shuffle of feet and scraping of chairs loud in the otherwise hushed space. John rose automatically, his body stiff but not uncomfortable.

Judge Cadwell entered quickly, her hair in a tight bun, unlike the day before. She took her seat next. Her expression was unreadable as she glanced briefly at the documents in front of her before looking out at the courtroom. “You may be seated,” she nodded to the court.

The crowd sat again, the tension thickening like a fog clinging to everything. John barely heard the whisper of the bench behind him as he lowered himself back into his seat. He gripped the edge of the table in front of him until his knuckles ached, trying to will his heart to stop hammering against his ribs. Something was going to happen, he felt it.

Judge Cadwell shuffled through a few papers on her desk, then lifted her head, voice directed at the defense. “Mr. Dorn, is the defense ready to proceed?”

Dorn stood, adjusting the sleeves of his gray suit as he stepped forward. “We are, Your Honor.”

“Very well,” Cadwell nodded. “You may call your first witness.”

John expected a victim statement. Maybe an officer? Just someone who would make Cain look better or John look like a liar. Instead—

“The defense calls Richard Cain to the stand.” Then a rustle of surprise from the gallery. Even the defense table twitched with confusion. But John—

John’s whole body locked up.

For a moment, he thought he had misheard. That maybe Dorn had meant to say someone else’s name. That this was a mistake. Maybe it was Joshua? Maybe Mrs. Cain. John must have misheard him.

But then Cain stood.

And now John couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel anything inside of him besides a dull ache along his spine. He stared at the man as Cain adjusted his silver tie and smoothed down the front of his tailored navy suit. He was calm, no, not just calm, but beautiful.

He had always been handsome, John couldn’t deny it. Even at his mature age, he was a handsome man. He gave Dorn a polite nod before stepping out from behind the defense table and walking toward the witness stand like he belonged there.

John felt the blood drain from his face. His throat tightened, and he was losing all feeling in his hands. A hand brushed his arm— Rina, probably— but it felt distant, like a memory more than a touch.

Cain stepped up to the stand. The bailiff swore him in, and the bastard even smiled while raising his hand.

He wasn’t ready. He thought he would be, and he should’ve expected this. But Cain was going to lie in front of everyone. Everyone’s going to believe that John is the bad guy again. He only ever wanted to do what was good; that's it. He wanted to be appreciated; is that so bad?

The worst part wasn’t the shock. It wasn’t even the sickness in his gut or the bile creeping up his throat. No, the worst part is the fact that Cain hadn’t looked at John once. He sat directly across from Cain, and yet, the man hadn’t glanced at him.

Was it his hair? Or his suit? Maybe it was his beard had grown back in at the length he liked it.

Cain adjusted his cuffs before settling into the witness chair as if it were built for him. His posture was effortless, his back straight, chin lifted just enough to be proud—never arrogant like John’s so often was. He thanked the bailiff with a smile that would make any man or woman swoon.

Dorn stepped closer to the podium, adjusting his papers. “Please state your name for the record.”

“Richard Alan Cain,” he answered, voice warm, almost apologetic in its tone. 

“And your occupation?”

“Formerly Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army. Currently on leave from consultancy work.”

A few heads in the gallery nodded in recognition, maybe admiration. John felt the press of it in his lungs. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cain, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Can you tell the court how you came to know the plaintiff, Mr. John Walker?”

Cain took in a slow breath, like he was preparing to recite a prayer.

John frowned over at Cain. They lay bare in his bed, after some of the wildest sex John had ever had. Albeit, he had only slept with Olivia before this. 

Yet, Cain mumbled under his breath, and when John looked over, he was praying. To whom? Maybe God, maybe something worse.

“Sir,” John started, noticing just how drained he sounded, “What are you doing?”

Cain glanced over at the teenager, sitting up now. “Praying. I… I shouldn’t be sleeping with a boy.” 

He wasn’t praying because John wasn’t his wife, or because John was a bit too young for a man of Cain’s age. No, he was praying because John has a penis.

“John was assigned to my command when he was eighteen. We met during his first year of active duty. He was young, but determined. Carried a lot on his shoulders even then. He stood out.”

John broke from the memory as he heard Cain talk about him. Cain’s voice still had that ability to sound affectionate without being sentimental. It was the same voice he used to use in the dark, whispering reassurances after the damage had been done.

“And when did your relationship become… personal?” Dorn asked, casually leaning against the podium.

Cain hesitated, just long enough to look natural at the rehearsed lines. “It wasn’t planned. I think that’s important to say. We were both adults. I was in a difficult place in my marriage at the time, and John, well, he was persistent. I should’ve said no. I see that now. I accept responsibility for the power imbalance that existed. But I didn’t force anything, and there was never coercion.”

Cain spoke as if he were issuing an apology at a press conference. It sounded perfect from a PR standpoint, but wrong in every other sense.

“You’re aware Mr. Walker has accused you of trafficking him to other individuals?” Dorn switched to another approach.

Cain nodded, slower this time. His expression changed into a more somber one. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s… difficult to hear that, especially because it’s simply not true. There were times John accompanied me to events or private gatherings. He was never forced. If anything, he thrived in those spaces. People liked him, and he knew that.”

John stared ahead while his nails dug into the soft pad of his thumb. Thrived. He said John thrived . Thrived on what? Getting stuck with a group of men around him, all jacking off on his face? He wouldn’t say that was thriving.

Cain continued, not looking at him once.

“If I had known he felt taken advantage of, I would’ve stopped everything. I believed, at the time, that it was mutual. Complicated, yes. But mutual. We were both in pain, both seeking something we didn’t get elsewhere. And I genuinely cared for him.”

He paused, just long enough to let that train of thought seem purposeful. It was all an act.

“I understand how it looks now. But I never trafficked him. I never sold him. I never hurt him in the way he’s suggesting. What happened between us was complicated, but it wasn’t criminal.”

Dorn took a breath like he might push further, but John didn’t hear the next question. His ears were ringing too loudly. Cain’s voice had soaked into his skin; every word reminded John how he once cared for him, called Cain every sweet thing he could.

John carefully looked around the courtroom before his eyes landed on Cain. Cain sat there, perfectly composed, the same way he used to sit on the edge of John’s bed. Acting like all of it had been a mistake of emotion, not intention.

Acting as if John were the one rewriting history. But he wasn’t. Or was he? He couldn’t tell anymore.

Dorn adjusted his tie and paced a step forward, “Mr. Cain, you mentioned John accompanied you to gatherings. These are the same events referenced in the prosecution’s exhibit list. Can you clarify what these gatherings were, and what role John played?”

Cain gave a polite smile, one that almost read as regret. He leaned slightly toward the microphone. “They were private events, often political, sometimes military circles. Occasions where influential individuals gathered— nothing illicit. John was my guest. He knew the company, understood the environment. He was charming, good at reading a room. I wouldn’t have brought him if I didn’t trust his judgment.”

John wanted to scream. Cain made it sound like a damn networking mixer. When it wasn’t, and John couldn’t say anything.

“Were any of these individuals aware of the personal relationship between you and Mr. Walker?” Dorn asked.

Cain paused, then shook his head in a slow, mournful manner. “No. Not to my knowledge. It wasn’t something I advertised. I had a family, a—a career. I made mistakes, yes— but I didn’t flaunt them. I cared about John, but I didn’t parade him around as a conquest. He was more than that to me.”

He sounded so confident up there, up in front of a crowd. And the worst part of all of this was that Cain believed this version of events. He believed it so thoroughly that John could see the story forming in real time: the forbidden affair, the tragic miscommunication, the betrayal. He was making this a performance.

Dorn narrowed his eyes slightly, “And what about the accusations of physical abuse? The plaintiff has stated that you engaged in violent acts, including non-consensual sexual activity. What’s your response to that?”

Cain looked wounded— just enough. Just enough for the loud scribbles of pen against paper.

“I never laid a hand on John in anger. Ever. As for our intimate life… it was intense. I won’t deny that. But we never did anything without agreement. John liked roughness, I mean, he sought it out. I’m not here to shame him for that, but I think it’s important to be honest. Our dynamic was unconventional, yes, but it wasn’t abuse.”

John could feel the bile rising in his throat once more, yet his throat had dried up completely. He gripped the seat beneath him, the only thing that kept him from scratching at his wounds. Cain was describing it all like it was a kink they shared— like John hadn’t bled. Like he hadn’t begged. Like the bruises hadn’t needed to be hidden under three layers of clothing.

Like he didn’t stare at his naked body in shame.

Dorn gave a sympathetic nod, then went in for the part Matt warned John would come up. “And the incident at the gala. Would you tell the court what happened there?” Cain straightened slightly, a slow exhale from his nose.

“I saw John for the first time in years that night. I knew he would be there, and so I approached him. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I missed him. I wanted to speak, and really, just talk. He looked startled, but not angry. His, what— partner, Robert—” Which wow, John hadn’t heard anyone talk about Bob in such a way, “— was angry at me. Cool, I can handle and understand that. I talked to the other New Avengers and really, really amazing girls. That’s when they attacked me. First Robert, then John.”

Of course, even here, he still thought he could butter up his support. Cain glanced once, quickly, across the room. Not at John, but a bit behind him. Was he looking at his family? His friends? He wished he wouldn’t.

“I understand now that seeing me must’ve brought things back for him. I don’t blame him for reacting emotionally. I just wish he had come to me first, rather than turning it into this… public thing. I would’ve listened. I still would.”

Dorn gave a soft “thank you,” and turned toward the judge. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

Cain remained perfectly still, hands folded, eyes lowered. For all the courtroom could see, he was a man owning his sins. He looked like the kind of man who taught his son how to tie a tie in front of the bathroom mirror, who looked after each soldier like his own.

John had to leave; he couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t handle everyone believing in him and John getting pushed aside once more.

Were his cuts not enough proof? Cain must’ve paid someone, must’ve slept with someone, because their evidence was pretty damning against him.

“Get the fuck off of me!” John yelled, trying to get the heavier man off of him through a fit of tears. The man didn’t listen, holding him down onto a wooden floor by his face.

“You said he was easy!” The man complained, but grunted in the back of his throat as his cock slipped in and out of the now older soldier.

Cain, standing over them, only laughed. “Ah, I did. He isn’t complying tonight. A good punch should fix that.”

John wouldn’t have called that care.

When he came back to the world, it took him a second as he looked over at Cain.

He was staring at John.

Notes:

Cross examination coming next. Wonder if Cain can hold off Matt. Best lawyer there is, hmmmm

Thank you for your kudos and comments<3 it really helps me continue writing.

Chapter 31: He Always Had Been

Notes:

I hope y'all missed me. So, life has been hard, but I've been harder.

enjoy this chapter, it's not my favorite, but it's here. I knew I just needed to post it!

There was a time when John would do anything for Cain. Did it really ever go away? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore, especially after seeing Cain staring at him like that.

John felt his eyes flutter, wanting to close— yet, wanting to stare for longer. Cain and his eyes captivated John in a way no one else had. Well, maybe Bob’s. But even then, John thought so long about those eyes. Some nights, he stayed up thinking about them. This happened for years and years, even when Cain wasn’t around him.

It was sick. He was sick. Because even now, he found his cheeks going pink, and he felt his mind fill with anxious memories.

John rolled onto his side, dressed in a piece of silk fabric that Cain insisted he was to wear. He didn’t mind it in the slightest, enjoying the cold fabric against his hot skin. 

Cain ran a hand down John’s side, pulling the robe back. “John…” He never said his name like this, not often, “I want to leave my wife for you. You’re my dream…” And if that didn’t make John happy, what would? He was promised to be his first choice; he was finally going to be the world to someone.

“Richard… I love Olivia.” He whispered back. It felt nice to be wanted like this, but Olivia was his girl. His world. His woman, whom he had the privilege to love. He wasn’t going to throw that away for his CO. 

“Right, Olivia,” Cain repeated, still slipping the fabric off of John and rolling him to his back. “Can she fuck you as good as I do?” John glared up at the man who got on top of him.

“I don’t want to talk about my wife.” Wife. She was his wife. And firstly, she could fuck him good, even better than Cain. 

Cain laughed and leaned down, licking John’s bottom earlobe. “Whatever, baby. You’re mine tonight.” And as Cain started moving down his body, focusing on his nipples rather than his cock, he wondered to himself, really wondered,

‘What am I doing here?’

Cain remained in the witness chair; his posture hadn’t changed, though a single line had formed between his brows. A crease of discomfort. That was all.

Matt stood slowly, as if not to frighten anyone around him. His cane tapped once against the wood floor as he made his way forward, but the sound wasn’t loud. Matt stopped at the center of the courtroom, facing the witness stand.

“Colonel Cain,” Matt said, nodding slightly only to be polite, “thank you for your time today. I’d like to revisit some of your testimony.”

Cain gave a polite smile, the same one he wore when walking into the gala. “Of course.”

Matt’s head tilted slightly. “You testified that your relationship with Mr. Walker was mutual. That it was complicated, perhaps, but consensual. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cain answered quickly. “That’s correct.”

Matt didn’t move. “And you stand by that, even knowing the difference in age, rank, and authority between you and Mr. Walker?”

Cain’s expression remained fixed, but there was a delay. “I acknowledge the imbalance. I admitted that earlier.”

“You did,” Matt agreed. “And yet, you also described John as persistent. As someone who initiated things.”

Cain nodded slowly. “He was confident. Even at a young age, he—”

“You were his commanding officer,” Matt raised an eyebrow his way, “You decided where he slept. When he trained. Whether he was promoted or disciplined. Do you deny that?”

Cain’s mouth opened, then closed again. “No, I don’t deny that.”

“In your view, Colonel, is it ever truly consensual when one party holds complete power over the other?”

Cain shifted slightly in his seat, just enough for the mic to catch the movement. “I believe it can be. People connect, despite circumstance.” Behind him, someone in the gallery scoffed quietly, but Matt didn’t acknowledge it.

“You also described John as thriving in certain environments. That he was social, well-liked, and that he ‘understood the room.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cain said again. “He’s charismatic. Always has been.”

Matt took a step closer. “And these events, these private gatherings— were they sanctioned by the military?”

Cain hesitated. “Not… officially.”

“But you brought a subordinate to these events. You say he was not coerced. That he enjoyed the attention.”

Cain swallowed once. “He did.” He glanced over at the jury for a minute, but straightened out his spine.

Matt turned slightly, angling himself toward the judge now, though his words remained for the witness. “Would you say the same about anyone else? Maybe about a young recruit brought to a closed-room party, surrounded by men twice his age, where refusal wasn’t explicitly forbidden— but expected?”

Cain said nothing. He knew saying anything would make him look worse. Everything was still silent, and John had started to pick at his scars on his wrist once more.

“You said earlier that John Walker was never forced. That you never laid a hand on him in anger. That your relationship was intense, but mutual.”

Cain nodded again, slower this time. “Yes.”

Matt’s lips parted slightly. “Would you describe yourself as an honest man, Colonel?”

“I would.”

Behind him, Bob had to hold himself back from letting his emotions get to him. He wanted to yell at the man and shake him violently. Tell him how awful he is for the things he has done to John— irreplaceable damage that won’t leave. Then, he got an idea.

For just a moment, the silk of Cain’s perfectly knotted tie loosened. Not much, just enough to make Cain glance down at his collar in mild confusion. He reached up, adjusted it again with two fingers, and seemed to forget the moment as quickly as it passed.

But John noticed. So did Yelena, who leaned over and whispered something under her breath to Bucky, who cracked the faintest grin. They both looked over at Bob, whose eyes glimmered with gold around the edge.

Matt continued, undistracted. “I’d like to ask about a specific date. July 4th, 2012. There’s a record of a private function held off-base. You were in attendance. So was John Walker. Do you recall that event?”

Cain’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, I do.”

“And at that event,” Matt continued, “witnesses recall John leaving with injuries. Bruises, a limp. Do you recall that?”

Cain looked almost puzzled, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. I don’t.” He leaned back in the chair, claiming the chair John sat in as his.

“You don’t recall him being injured?” Matt asked for clarification.

“I recall him drinking. He may have stumbled—”

“According to medical records, Mr. Walker was treated for internal tearing and bruising consistent with penetration that we now can assume was non-consensual.”

Cain’s hands twitched on his lap. He had thought there were no records of the assault inflicted on John. There wasn’t, technically, but medical reports never lied.

Bob didn’t move, but a lock of Cain’s hair gently lifted then dropped across his forehead. Cain reached up, annoyed now, brushing it back. A second later, it fell again.

John noticed it after he was staring at the man. It surprised him, a piece of gelled hair falling out of place? It wasn’t normal, that’s for sure. That was until he felt a warmth on his back, and he could only imagine what it could’ve been, but he knew it was Bob. The sensation was so sharp it broke through the nausea in his stomach. He didn’t look at Bob; he didn’t have to. He felt the presence of the man already, and that was enough for him.

“No one forced him, you say,” Matt continued quietly. “But he bled, stumbled, limped. And never once, during these ‘gatherings,’ did you think to check on him after?”

Cain’s face had lost color. “I cared for him. I did. He never said—”

“Because he thought he couldn’t,” Matt said, now turning fully toward the witness. “Because when someone’s whole life is tied to one person’s approval, they don’t say no. He was young, he was innocent.”

John glanced down, the warmth no longer helping hold off the feeling. Matt was right. He was young and innocent. Now he was used, and every part of him had been brutally taken.

Matt took a final step forward, metaphorically, of course.

“You say you didn’t traffic him. But you brought him to rooms where he was engaging in sexual acts with men he barely knew. Should I go over the list?”

Cain opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Another strand of hair floated down, settling right between his eyes. He reached up with growing frustration to fix it, but it refused to stay. He needed something to distract himself with.

Without looking at a single thing, Matt began to recite, “Second Lieutenant Travis G. Morrow, Captain Jordan L. Mallory, Major Kyle J. Brandt. What about Major General Everett M. Stone? Rear Admiral Owen Stratton, General Dorian Huxley. Should I continue?!” And John’s eyes moved from Matt to Cain, before refusing to look at Bob, though, something tried to make him turn his head towards him.

“Objection! Badgering the witness! Your Honor—” Dorn stood, slamming his hands on the table, and everyone was getting louder. And all John could think,

That’s not even a fraction of the men he was forced to hold. It was so little that it dawned on John just how messed up he was, just how used and thrown away his body was. All those men, and none of them loved him. None of them could hold his hand and walk with him through a crowd.

They were cowards, every one of them. Raping him in private while their wife and children waited for them. That was acceptable. A wife, children, a house with a little white picket fence. When was it going to be his turn? When will John be able to have a moment of normality after everything he has done?

Even before he was raped, even before Cain infected his blood, he was messed up. It was a hard time before the Army. Kids at school, teachers at school, his coach freshman year. His family was fine, but he grew up fearing they would beat his ass if they ever caught him rewatching Top Gun. Or send him back to the wooden church that sat on top of a hill.

He remembers it so clearly now, the rotting wood, dripping in suffocating religion. The weak pads he put under his knees to pray. The priest was a sickly looking old man, always draped in white. As if he were holier than John. John was the purest form there was. He was. He always had been.

A loud bang snapped John from his thoughts, and he could see how upset the Judge was. Her graceful features turned upside down as she stood. “Murdock, you are done!”

Matt adjusted his jacket, as if her yelling did not affect him. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Judge Cadwell gave a nod. The gallery erupted with whispers as the tension finally broke. Cain stayed seated, expression cracking ever so slightly.

“Silence in the courtroom,” Judge Cadwell stated, looking over at how John was handling it. He was hunched over without realizing it. “This will be a long recess. Earlier than needed, but I would like to talk to both of the lawyers.” She nodded for the bailiff to walk out the jury.

“We will meet back here at 1 pm.”

John didn’t fully remember standing and walking over to the team. He didn’t remember how Cain looked at him. He didn’t say how the eyes made him feel. He didn’t say how much he hated how the clothes felt on his skin and how he wanted to be loved, passionately, roughly, intimately on every surface.

He needed a moment to toss his head and arch his back. Nails digging into skin and ripping away flesh until he was covered in a mess of sex, violence, and love. He needed it so bad, but a second to be held up by his thighs and slammed onto a cock that cared for him. One that cared for his skin, even with the marks he’s left to scare men off.

He was sick. He was disturbing. He was filthy in the best way possible.

“Walker?” Bob asked, tilting his head to the side to look at the man. “Yelena said she got us lunch reservations. Val kinda booked us a whole restaurant.” When John stared at him, he stumbled over his words. “I mean— we don’t have to go, but you didn’t eat— and well, you need food— but we can go somewhere else…” Bob kept rambling while John stared at him.

He took Bob's hand, “Can it just be us?” And Bob was taken aback for a second. 

“I… I don’t see why not.” He looked towards an expecting Yelena and Bucky. “I think they want to know if your parents—”

“Bob.” John cut in, “Us. You and I.”

Notes:

Explanation for my absence: School, depression.

I should remove that quick to update tag huh.

please leave kudos and comments! love y'all. I saw the comments before, do you even like me responding to y'all? Just wondering lol always worried I'm bothering! hope you enjoyed.

Chapter 32: You're Wine, I'm Stained

Notes:

Few notes: Updates will be slower, but you'll probably get chapters on weekends.
Go listen to "White Mustang" as you read, Maggie told me to do so. Oh and to read it as "You're wine I'm stained" Let's all say thank you Maggie!
And thanks y'all for checking out the playlist! All songs have been put there on purpose (Don't give me a chance to explain each song because I will)

John can’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

Okay, that was a lie. He could. He could remember how it felt to have his legs weak from sitting too long and his back aching, and his skin paling from remembrance of his whorish behaviors. It’s a pity he felt so wasted away without the possibility of wasting.

A drink would help him now, something strong and something unattainable. Like Bob.

Speaking of Bob, John held onto his waist as they exited a sleek black SUV, different than they had been driven in. It was just the two of them going out for a quick lunch, and John hoped it would turn into something more.

The team's reaction to his wanting to be isolated with Bob was questionable at best. Most reacted with indifferent care, wanting to let John know they loved him, but without pushing. He had been through a lot in just today. On the other hand, his parents were hurt that he didn’t want to eat with them. But everyone was forced to be understanding. John needed time. John needed a moment.

And a moment he took. He wanted a moment of quiet with Bob, or at least that’s what he told himself. In the back of his mind, it told him that he only wanted to be with Bob, all alone, for one reason. And maybe he did. And maybe he wanted it.

It was wrong, he was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything he did was wrong.

No one knew they were here, so no press came their way, and the staff was nice and welcoming. When had he walked into the building? 

He didn’t try to think hard on a memory he won't recover and instead followed Bob’s lead into a nice and luxurious booth. This wasn’t a typical place for John to attend, and the lack of people made the space awkward and lackluster.

Some light jazz played over the overhead speakers built into the ceiling, and John sat across from Bob. He smiled at John, and John smiled back. He hadn’t really realized he had done it until Bob laughed at something and reached over, holding onto John’s hand that rested on the table.

“What are you going to order?” He asked the blond, who tilted his head towards the menu.

“I was hoping for a red wine?” John laughed tiredly, but he stopped when Bob leaned in.

“Red wine for lunch?” It was meant to be teasing, a joke, but John looked down.

He felt shame and embarrassment flood his senses once more and pulled his hand out from under Bob's to grab the menu. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe something else.” And Bob tried to shake his head, reassuring John he wasn’t trying to hurt his feelings, but it happened anyway.

John glanced over the menu, so expensive that it didn’t have the price to the side. “A white wine should be fine. I think a cocktail might be too much.” And Bob nodded.

They looked over the menu for a while, and when the server came— a dark-haired Indian man, no, boy— grabbed their orders, then the menus.

Once he left, John slumped down, his shoulders more relaxed. When he glanced up, he saw Bob nervously looking at him. Bob looked so handsome today, really tried to make his suit fit right and his hair slicked back, but it was slowly coming undone by the number of times he ran his hands through his hair.

“So,” Bob started, “What, uhm… How are you feeling?” This was met with a long stare from John.

“Great,” John sarcastically started. “Never felt better.” He thought back to the courtroom. “Hey, was that you? With Cain's hair?” Bob laughed and gave a bashful nod.

“With the help of Sentry.” He confirmed. 

John hummed, still leaning back on the booth seats. “Sentry hasn’t really appeared much lately.” Bob nodded.

“I know. I want our time to be… our time.” He glanced up at John from where his hands fidgeted with his cuffs. “Do you… want him back?” 

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that. I was just wondering, is all.” Something in John forced him to reach for Bob’s hand as he spoke in a nearly sensual tone. “I like being here with you. Kinda like a date.” He added the last part offhandedly, but enjoyed the pink flush that rested on Bob’s cheeks.

Bob only gave a small nod at that, almost uncomfortable if John could guess. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to flirt. Or maybe it was the perfect time.

A space alone, no matter the context of the previous events taken place. In fact, that could make their time together more sacred and a prime opportunity.

John had been looking at all of this the wrong way. He didn’t need to harm himself— mentally or physically— he just needed someone else. Another warm body, another mouth, another…

John squeezed Bob's hand, “I haven’t eaten here before. Do you know if it’s any good?” He asked light questions, and Bob stumbled.

“I did a quick Google search on the way here. I was trying to talk to you about it, but you seemed a bit tired.” He gently rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand. They kept talking about topics John didn’t really care about, but being with Bob made it interesting. A brief mention of his childhood made John frown, but he held anything else back.

Not only was John listening, but he had scooted closer around the half-circle booth. They cozied up together as white wine was poured from them. 

John took his glass, smelling it for a moment before tilting it towards Bob’s glass. The noise of the crystal glasses made John smile. “To a wonderful lunch.” Bob nodded, sipping his own.

The wine was dry in the back of his throat, and the sad taste of expensive alcohol made his chest burn. John kept himself close as their food came next.

He was trying to be engaged, and he was. But all he could think about was what they could do together if they skipped dessert. How would Bob grab him? Would he be rough? No… he’d be sweet. He’d love every part of John, he bets.

John sighed as he finished his plate, looking over at his watch. He got a message earlier from Mel saying that the break would take another hour. It seemed the judge was not having a good time with Dorn and Matt.

Not that John cared, it left more time for him and Bob. By now, he was under Bob’s arm as they laughed about something irrelevant. John tilted his head at the man. “Hey, look at me.” He reached up to cup Bob's face.

He looked up at Bob, and how close they were. John didn’t add anything else as he leaned into a soft kiss, placing his glass down. Their lips parted gently as John pushed Bob back. His hands trailed along his chest and lay him down in the booth.

The motion caused the kiss to be broken, and Bob chuckled, “John…” He warned.

“I know, I know… what about you and I go park somewhere?” He smiled, but Bob sat up, a hand crawling along John’s arm.

“Sure, but we aren’t doing anything in there.”

John tilted his head, confusion flashing before he gave a small huff of laughter, like Bob had just told him a joke that wasn’t meant to be funny. His hand pressed flat against Bob’s chest, pushing just enough to feel the steady beat under his palm.

“Why not?” John asked, his voice low, almost casual, if it weren’t for the look in his eyes. “We’ve got time. No one’s around. We could…” His words trailed off, but his body said the rest as he leaned in again, mouth brushing along Bob’s jaw.

Bob’s hand came up quickly, not forceful but enough to stop him. “John. Not like this.” His tone was firm, but not cruel. It wasn’t rejection— not really— but it burned in John’s chest all the same.

John pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t want me.” It wasn’t a question. His voice sounded smaller than he intended. His hand fell away from Bob’s chest and landed on his own lap, restless.

“That’s not true,” Bob answered immediately. He sat forward, catching John’s gaze. “You know it’s not true. But this— what you’re asking— it’s not what you need right now.”

John’s shoulders stiffened, a deep dread in his stomach. “How the hell would you know what I need?” His voice rose just enough to make Bob’s eyes flick toward the door, making sure no one was listening.

“I know because I see you , Walker,” Bob said firmly, the softness in his voice creeping in afterward. “I see what you’ve been carrying. And I’m not going to let you use me like I’m some kind of escape.”

John flinched at the words. They hit harder than Bob probably meant them to. His chest ached, his throat tight. He turned away, looking at the empty plates, the shine of the empty wine glass.

John’s hands trembled as he folded them together on the table, squeezing until his knuckles were white. His mind spun, memories clawing at him, dragging him back to nights he wished were long gone. He stayed very still, his face pale, his body heavy in the seat. Was he really doing this? Was he just using Bob? Is that what Bob truly felt?

Bob finally moved, sliding closer in the booth but not touching. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he spoke quietly. “Not like this. Not ever.”

John blinked hard, but no words came. He wasn’t pushed away. He wasn’t pulled closer either. He was just a weird place between. And Bob was with him. Which was weird, not feeling pressured or demanded to do this.

But it didn’t help John.

John’s fingers picked at his hangnails, like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His voice was rough, cracking with every word he forced out. “Just— please. Please, I don’t care how. I need it. I need something to make it stop.” He broke, not daring to explain himself further.

Bob could feel John’s desperation burning hot against his skin, the words held heavy in the empty dining room. For a second, his heart nearly gave in, nearly caved to the ache in John’s voice. Because this was John, after all, and he had been dreaming of the day John opens himself up to him. But then he caught himself, caught the flicker of resignation in John’s eyes.

“No.” His voice was low, cutting through John’s trembling plea. “I won’t do that. Not like this.” He repeated.

John’s breath hitched, the sound coming sharp, almost pained. “Don’t tell me no. You don’t— you don’t get it. I need it.” His body shook with every word, like the denial itself was breaking him apart piece by piece.

Bob stood his ground, even as John pressed harder, even as the raw edge in his voice dug deep. He wanted him— God, he wanted him— but not like this. Not when John’s voice sounded more like a plea of addiction than a want for intimacy.

“You’re not fixing anything that way,” Bob said, his hand coming up, steady but soft, resting against John’s shoulder. “You’re not broken, and I’m not going to treat you like you are. But we can’t…”

John laughed then, but it wasn’t real. It was hollow and harsh, torn out of him. “Don’t lie to me. Everyone’s fixed me before. That’s all I’m good for.” His voice cracked, shaking as he pulled back, pushing his hands into his hair. “I don’t want to think, Bob. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Bob’s chest ached at the words that carved deep into Bob’s memory, but he didn’t waver. He instead sat where his thigh pressed against John’s, gentle in his approach. “Then don’t. Just sit here with me. You don’t have to do anything else. I won’t make you do anything else.”

The words didn’t make sense to John at first. His body still shook, still burned with the need to prove himself useful, to be wanted in the only way that had ever been allowed by men. He searched Bob’s face for anger, for disappointment, for the inevitable push away. But there was none. There was only patience. Only steady hands that reached to hold his own, stopping his picking. 

John huffed, leaning into Bob’s touch. “You’re too sensible.” Which made Bob laugh next. 

“Some could say,” He leaned in, giving him a soft kiss. “Now, let's get in the car, stop to get some drive-thru milkshakes, and go.”

Notes:

I'm sorry guys. No, I'm not.

Love y'all! Kudos and comments are loved<3

Update:Tumblr! I'm on there now as starspangledblondeao3!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 8 of Thunderbolts* (So far, it's gay!)