That Haunts Me

by MoltoMulti

Summary:

The shield on the ground

Blood dripping from his trembling hands.

And Bucky's eyes, luminous and piercing, as they pinned him down.

John Walker knows, deep in his bones, that Bucky Barnes is more than he says he is. It's just that no one else seems to notice.

Then how can he survive being on a team with him?

Notes:

Hi guys! Just letting you know that this is the second part in a series, and would highly recommend that you read the previous part first, to give a little clarity on what's going on. Other than that, enjoy!

The second truck was tossed off the road by an explosion. Through the smoke, John could barely make out the figure of a lone rider on a motorbike. There was a prickling feeling in his gut, and he knew who it was before he saw even a sliver of the face. 

“Bucky,” he breathed, and it was awe-filled, the kind that inspired wonder and terror alike. 

They watched as he effortlessly took down the remaining vehicle. Around him, the car was filled with whoops and hollers as Bucky ripped the car off the road with his bare hands, and yet, John couldn’t find it in him to join. There was a pit of dread welling up inside him, growing deeper with each second, freezing as he knew those icy eyes met his.

Bucky took aim and fired. He didn’t need to look to know it had hit its mark exactly. Instead, he closed his eyes and felt his body somersault and head rush with blood as once again the Winter Soldier ripped the world out from beneath his feet.

---

None of them quite had homes anymore. John certainly didn’t, not since it went with Olivia and he’d thrown himself deep into whatever work he could find while he struggled to scrape together the bruised scraps of his ego. He hadn’t had a permanent home for two years. That seemed the case for the others too; if not entirely without homes, then rather ones they’d prefer not to return to. The Watchtower—Valentina’s name, not theirs—was where they all decided to stay.

Bucky didn’t join them, and John would be hard pressed to say it wasn’t a relief. Of course, that didn’t stop him from haunting the halls at all hours of the day. John did his best to stay out of his way, and likewise, Bucky did the same. There were looks shared between the two of them dark as an overcast sky that neither were ready to talk about.

No one else seemed to feel the subtle undercurrent of danger Bucky had at all times. No one else seemed to have the hairs on their necks raised from just the sight of him. Yelena sparred with him, and Alexei drank with him, and Ava had started a goddamn book club with him, which they’d eventually roped a reluctant Bob into. And wasn’t that just the killer? Bob’s only interaction with him had been an attempt on his life, and he accepted Bucky with the wide-eyed innocence of a lamb presenting itself to a wolf.

It made John’s skin crawl. 

With time, Bucky frequented the tower more and more often, and John still skirted the edges of his awareness like a wraith. It worked, for a while. Then came that night.

John couldn’t sleep. It happened more often than he’d admit, and certainly moreso now that he shared a living space with Bob. He never mentioned it, though he knew that the constant nightmares—his son crying in his arms, the shield dropping to the ground, Lemar’s blood on pale stone—were of his making. He knew Bob had only the barest grip over his powers; it wasn’t fair to add to his fears. It didn’t save his sleep, though.

That was how he found himself standing in the kitchen at three am, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Yelena had found a herbal tea that was advertised to help ‘soothe and relax’, and had bought it simply because it was on discount. John wasn’t quite sure how effective it would be, especially on his biology, but the leaves turned the water a pleasant amber and the smell was delightfully sweet, with a hint of a sharper undertone. He picked up his drink and went to settle himself on the couch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” a voice called. John nearly dropped his mug. There, nestled in the armchair in the corner, was Bucky Barnes, cup of tea in one hand and an open book in the other. John stared. Even with all his enhanced senses, he hadn’t even realised the man was there. And, strangely enough, there was no prickle at the back of his neck, no cold chill in the air. Slowly, he put his mug down.

“I didn’t realise you were staying the night,” he replied warily. Bucky shrugged.

“It’s February, today,” he said, like it explained everything. John wanted to argue that it was barely three hours into the month, but Bucky went on. “I’m not supposed to be alone at the moment, and Sam got called overseas, so…” He gestured widely with his hands, in a ‘what can you do?’ type gesture, though the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.

John watched his movements carefully as Bucky lowered his own cup to the table and slipped his bookmark in. His jaw clenched. “You don’t have me fooled,” he said suddenly, the words surprising even him as they slipped out.

Bucky’s eyes dulled. “What?”

He swallowed, but it was like stopping a dam once it cracked; the words wouldn’t be stopped, moving faster than his mind. In his chest, his heart pounded his ribcage in a slow-building crescendo. “You think you have everyone fooled. You think that if you act all friendly and charming we’re just going to forget what you did. But I won’t. I know what you are.”

And Bucky went still. So quiet that Walker couldn’t even hear his breath. “Good,” he muttered. The sound of the book slamming shut echoed like a crack of thunder through the cold, tense air. Slowly, he got up and stalked out of the room with a languid ease that John could see right through.

He didn’t realise it until later, when Yelena asked where Barnes had gone, that it was the anniversary of Bucky’s death. He couldn’t find the courage in him to apologise.

---

They all had bad days. It was just that John seemed to be the least adept at spotting when someone was having one.

It started with Bob storming into the kitchen in the morning, so loud he could hear the door slam even over the sounds of the stove and cutlery clacking together. In hindsight, that should have been the first clue; Bob was always light on his feet, but that day he walked with enough weight it was a surprise the tiles didn’t crack beneath his feet.

“Morning, Bob!” he called, as Bob helped himself to a cup of coffee—John’s cup, though he didn’t say anything. “Want some French toast?”

“It’s really good,” Ava added, through a mouthful of said toast, before piling another forkful in. Yelena didn’t say anything, her eyes focused on Bob’s hunched figure as he drained the mug quickly. Bob himself didn’t utter a word, and instead responded with a disinterested grunt before moving out of the kitchen again. Those should have been the second and third clues—Yelena always knew something was up with him before the rest of them did, and Bob always made his best effort to reply. But, Walker was not known for his great social skills—certainly not by his teammates—so instead bulldozed by flipping the piece of toast he was cooking onto a fresh plate and shoving it into Bob’s hands.

He immediately made to shove it back, the plate clattering onto the counter as he glared at John, unimpressed. “Not hungry,” he said, finally.

John didn’t take the hint. “C’mon, you gotta try a bite.”

“No, thank you,” he gritted out. “I’m not hungry.”

“John, just leave him be,” Yelena called.

He, of course, didn’t leave him be, and two things happened simultaneously: John’s hand reached towards Bob’s shoulder, Bob’s hand came up to brush him off. They met mid-air, skin brushed skin, and John caught a glimpse of Bob’s eyes flashing gold, before—

He was standing in an abandoned warehouse. He knew this place well.

He knew the two men standing shoulder to shoulder, one with a set of wings, the other with a gleaming metal arm, though their expressions were perfectly matched—anger, disappointment, and a stony, unshakeable resolve.

He knew the figure standing with shoulders forcefully pushed back, in a second-hand costume that had never fit right, holding a shield that didn’t belong to him. There was blood on the shield. There was blood on his face.

He knew what came next.

“You don’t want to do this,” John heard himself say. 

“Actually, we do,” Bucky replied.

Sam’s wings flared large and looming behind him as he took a step forward, but neither versions of John were watching him. No, instead his eyes were fixed on Bucky. John watched his younger self begin to shake, hear the breaths that rattled his chest, and saw the slightest raise of Bucky’s hand. He knew what he was doing. It was always him.

Tremors wracked his body until he fell to his knees, hands still unwilling to give up the shield. His heart, he knew, was beating panicked in his chest, so strong he thought it might shatter a rib. Cold crept in, the room darkened around his senses until all he could focus on was Bucky and his blue, blue gaze, luminous and piercing as it pinned him down.

The shield fell from his grasp and hit the ground with the sound of a funeral toll.

Out of the corner of his eye, John—the one who had lived this once already—saw Bob lurking behind a pillar. He turned to open his mouth—

They were back in the kitchen, Ava with her hand pressed on top of his, Yelena with her arms wrapped around his midsection. There was a knife in his hand. He let it clatter to the ground. “I’m…” he tried. “I’m okay.” Slowly, they let him go.

Bob was gone. The memory lingered.

---

“I see their leader, moving to follow.”

John heard someone swear in his ear, before Bucky’s voice crackled to life over the comms. “That’s a negative, John, stay in position.” His jaw clenched as he saw the black-clad figure stumbling across the grass, moving closer and closer to cover. Their steps were uneven, stumbling on the right foot like they were nursing an injury.

“He’s moving slowly, I can catch him easily,” he relayed again.

“Walker, stay where you are,” Bucky ordered. 

John gritted his teeth as he watched the figure grow smaller and smaller. His post was silent. There was no movement, save for the retreating enemy now weaving through the trees. Seconds ticked on, and John made his decision. “I’m going after him.”

He ignored the cry of ‘John!’ over the comms as he pushed himself into motion, sprinting across the grass with superhuman speed. He weaved through the trees with sure-footed ease, closing the gap between them. The man whipped around to fire a shot at him and he blocked with the shield; mangled as it was, it did provide marginal protection. The next shot, too, was deflected, and then John was close enough to knock the gun out of his hands and kick him to the ground.

The man went down fighting, aiming a kick of his own at John’s knees, following it up with a clean punch that hit his nose with a crack, knocking it out of alignment. He grunted at the sharp flare of pain, but the serum dulled it plenty to ignore in favour of smacking the guy upside his head. The man was sent reeling back, and John took the opening to pin him to the ground. He took the small disc from a pocket at his hip and examined it. “So, who were you planning to sell this to?” he asked.

The man didn’t reply, earning him a sharp slap across his cheek. When he turned back to look at John, it was a feral grin with bloody teeth bared. His jaw moved, and John heard a quiet crack before foam began to pour from the man’s mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head. A second later, his heartbeat stilled.

John swore, picked himself up from the body and pocketed the disc. Then, a sharp cry came in his ear. “How the hell are they getting in?”

His blood ran cold. He could hear gunfire in the back as the comms activated. Bucky’s voice came a second later. “North-east entrance. John’s side.”

“Walker, what the hell is happening there?” Ava demanded.

He swallowed. “I’m not there. I… I’m coming back.” He broke into a desperate run back to the site.

By the time he got back to the fight, it was practically over, and no one was looking good. He could smell the blood from a room over—it coated everyone, even Bucky, who used non-lethal measures as much as he could, and far more than the rest of the team bothered with. His vibranium arm was dripping in it, coming from a wound in his side. Yelena had a thin slice of blood across her neck and a rapidly forming bruise on her waist, Ava had two matching gashes along her calves. Alexei had three bullets buried somewhere in his shoulder. And Walker’s nose was practically already healed

The ride home was a quiet affair. No one looked at him, more focused on treating their wounds than chewing him out, but he knew it would come in time. He was proven correct.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Yelena demanded, cornering him the second their teammates were out of earshot.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Walker,” she snapped. “What the fuck is going on between you and Bucky?”

“It’s nothing,” he grunted, stripping off his gloves. He stared at his hands beneath, pale and shaking.

“Yeah, and that nothing nearly got me killed, so cut the bullshit.”

“Why don’t you have a problem with him?” John retorted. “In fact, why do none of you have a problem with Bucky leading this team?”

“Because he’s got more combat experience than anyone else?”

“Yeah, from being the Winter Soldier.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Because he’s dangerous,” he snarled, only to receive the barest raise of an eyebrow in return.

“We all are,” she replied flatly. “Try again.”

A frustrated noise built in his throat, bubbling up hysterically from deep in his chest. “He’s different. You don’t know him like I do—you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Now, it was Yelena’s turn to scoff, her expression turning stormy in an instance. “I don’t know him like you do?” she repeated, incredulous. Any warmth in her voice had ebbed away, leaving something hard and sharp and cold in its wake. “He was brought in to train Widows. I have known him since I was six, when he nearly broke my neck after I tried to strangle him. You think I don’t know him? Grow up, Walker.

“You don’t want to forgive him for whatever he did to you, fine. I don’t completely either. But you are not going to let your little disagreements endanger our lives, okay?” She stared at him a moment longer, then added, “This team is a fresh start. If you can’t give us that, then you shouldn’t be on it.” 

Then, she spun on her heel and marched out, and then John was alone.

---

“Do we really have to do this now?”

Ava groaned. “Come on, you haven’t had a good spar in ages. Don’t you supersoldiers get twitchy, or something?”

John had to admit that yes, he could feel the itching for a good fight beneath his skin. So, despite being easily able to shake off her grip, he allowed himself to be dragged to their gym. 

He very quickly came to regret that decision when he saw who else was there with him. He turned to leave, but Ava had already phased out of the room, and he heard the unmistakable click of a lock behind her. Seconds later, a voice crackled over the intercom. “There,” Ava said, sounding intensely pleased with herself. “Now you two can punch it out or whatever you guys need to do to make up.”

John stared at the door for a second, clenched his fists before suddenly swinging one out to hit the wall. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” he growled as he spun to face Bucky.

“No, it’s not. I got dragged down here, just the same as you,” he answered. But he wasn’t watching John. Instead, he was focused on a rack of weights to his right. There was that tell-tale chill in the air that gently prickled gooseflesh on John's skin, and Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “Ava,” he called lowly. “You want us to talk, give us some privacy.”

John watched as Ava flickered into view from her hiding spot behind the rack, a look of shock crossing her face for a second before she arranged it to a carefully constructed smirk. She held up her hands and backed away, disappearing through the wall to a room beyond. Bucky stared after her a moment longer, before his eyes snapped to John, stripping him bare under his gaze. “Something you want to say?”

“What?”

Bucky sighed. “They wouldn’t lock us in here without reason, John. You have a problem with me. You want to talk about it, then talk.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he growled. Bucky leveled him with an unimpressed glare that clearly said ‘I’m not’. “This isn’t a heart-to-heart, Barnes.”

“Well, we can always wait it out,” he offered. “How long do you think it’ll be? One hour? Two?”

Walker bristled.

“All I’m saying is that maybe we could make this time productive. And,” he added, a little more quietly, “I can help. I want to help.”

“I’m not one of your amends, Barnes.” Bucky flinched, but John had turned his back. “I’m not going to forget what you did.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry about how things went down,” he muttered.

Walker whirled on him, teeth bared. “Oh, you are, are you?” he gritted out. Bucky held his gaze firmly.

“Look, the shield was always meant to be Sam’s, and I’m not going to apologise for giving it to him,” he continued. John’s teeth clenched tighter together, muscles straining his jaw. “But, I am sorry for how we handled it. I… It wasn't fair to you. Sam and I—”

He was cut off as a fist swung towards him. It wasn't controlled, loudly telegraphed, but he didn't bring a hand up to defend himself, letting Walker strike his jaw. The two straightened. John's breath came out tight. “You think I give a shit about Sam?” he hissed. “This is about you.”

Bucky’s eyes stared straight through him, before coming back into focus. Something settled, behind those eyes, knowing and final. “Oh,” he breathed in realisation. “You’re scared of me.”

A cold chill slithered down his spine. “I’m not.”

“I put that there,” Bucky mused, more to himself than anything, his face dropping. “I’m sorry—

John swung again, but this time Bucky was ready; the fist glanced off vibranium, bruising his knuckles. That didn’t stop him for a second. He threw himself at the other man, that nervous, electric energy flowing down his limbs and into each rough punch. And Bucky just—stood there, looking down at his trembling hands—took it, blocking and dodging but never raising a hand against him. For a second, John drew back, only to assess the other man coldly, before he let loose a strangled yell and launched himself back in.

Something cracked hard against vibranium—the shield, dropping to the ground—and he wasn’t sure if it was his knuckles or wrist or elbow because everything was flying so fast now, form dissolving into raw, desperate strikes. Thought receded as terror rose from the pit of his stomach; all that remained was his body and movement and the feeling of hitting flesh and metal alike. “Fight me,” he demanded, as his hands were battered away from breaking Bucky's nose.

“John, stop this,” he replied, dodging what would have been a crushing blow to his solar plexus.

“Fight me!” John snarled again, ignoring the fluttering beat of his heart in his chest. “Fight back!”

“No.” Bucky said firmly. “I won’t.”

Because he doesn't need to, a traitorous voice in his head whispered. Just a twitch, and he could end it. He’s toying with you. A scream broke his lips as he swung wildly over Bucky’s head, and had his arms always felt that weak? Impact jolted down them like a livewire, leaving them shaking. They came faster, then, to make up for the lack of force behind them. A cornered animal snapping with the last of its strength, and the predator watched it all the while. Blue eyes—icy, unyielding—watched as his feet began to stumble, as his fists fell short and all that resolve crumbled to pieces, and— and—

He thinks he’s shaking, but then it’s so hard to think anymore. There might be blood on the ground, or that might be a dream, because all that’s real in that one moment is terror burning white-hot through his veins.

“John?”

Ringing in his ears—footsteps—because Bucky was stalking towards him, and despite every muscle in his body screaming at him to run, hide, flee, he just simply wouldn’t move. Bucky came closer, and he couldn’t get away. 

“John! You’ve got to breathe!”

How could he, when his very breath had turned solid, ice in his lungs that only let the barest stream of air rattle past his lips. Fingers clamped around his wrists, dragging his hands down from where they were tangled in his hair. Mismatched arms encircled him and constricted—he didn’t need to raise a hand against him—and then he was dragged against something solid and warm. Bucky. So, so close, grip firm enough that there was no escape. “Breathe,” he ordered again, voice rough. John's back was pressed against Barnes' chest; he felt every rise and fall, and traitorously found his own body responding to match the rhythm, slipping cool air down his dry throat, letting the breath rush out and take a tiny portion of fright with it. Slowly, surely, the fight drained from him.

He sat there, in Bucky’s grip a moment longer, loose-limbed and hollowed out, before awareness came flooding back in and he scrambled away. There was no struggle—Bucky released him without a word, and they sat on either side of the room, staring at each other.

“Are you okay?” Bucky called.

“What did you do to me?” John snapped, by way of reply. There was anger in his voice, but it felt empty, almost. And when he looked at Barnes, there wasn’t that ever-present ringing of alarm bells in his ears.

Bucky sighed, and broke eye contact, instead fixing his gaze at the ground. “I didn’t mean to,” he admitted softly. “That day with the shield—” John tensed at the mention, “-I made you drop it. I made you afraid. It’s only ever lasted as long as I held it, but I should have known the serum would change things.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bucky didn’t answer, but lifted his head to meet John’s eye again, and suddenly a flash of fear stole his breath away before it was gone once more. Just a moment, but he knew that was all Bucky. “I planted the seed,” he explained. “They say the serum enhances what’s already there, so I guess it grew that too. I didn’t realise it had gotten so bad.”

John bristled. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“John, you just had a panic attack because of me,” he shot back, annoyance colouring his tone. 

“I’m fine.” The look he got was scathing. “I’m not scared of you, I’m fine.”

Bucky's face creased and he opened his mouth as if to say something more, before a soft click rang out, quiet enough most ears would miss it, but to two supersoldiers, it was loud as a bell. The door was unlocked, and they quickly remembered that they weren’t alone. John scrambled to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand from Bucky in favour of his unstable legs, and wobbled to the door. He didn’t look back, didn’t want to see the pity in the other man’s eyes as he left, but he could feel the gaze on the back of his neck.

Strangely enough, the fear didn’t follow.

---

They met at three in the morning again, a couple weeks later when Walker placed his cup down next to Bucky’s. Immediately, Bucky made to move away—they’d been keeping an awkward ten feet at all times and skirted their gazes around each other—but this time John stopped him. “I want…” he began, unwilling though he was to speak, and wet his lips in the hopes it might make the words slip by easier. “Can we talk?”

Slowly, Bucky closed his book. His face was carefully blank. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked evenly. John searched his face, though it betrayed nothing; a different man might think he truly was as clueless as he made himself sound. But John knew better.

“You control fear,” he said. “That’s what you did to me.”

Something flashed in Bucky’s eyes, and he offered the barest tilt of his head as confirmation. 

“I knew it! I knew there was something off about you.”

“What do you want me to say, John?” he sighed, like Walker’s words had aged him another century. “You were right? That I’m sorry?”

“No. I don’t— I don’t need your apologies.”

“What do you want, then?”

John sat down, words suddenly feeling leaden on his tongue. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Apparently, those weren’t the words Bucky expected, because he was shocked into silence. John continued. “For snapping at you. For hurting the team.”

“John, it’s okay—”

“It’s not, alright? You took away my fear, and— fuck! You’re not who I thought you were. So, yeah, I’m sorry.” 

Bucky’s gaze wandered over him, taking every part of him in with a keen sniper’s eye. “You’re not who I thought you were, either,” he mused quietly. John took solace in that. 

“You’re still an asshole, Barnes,” he added, because he couldn't let the moment get too raw. “And I’m still not over you and your freaky powers or whatever. But,” his voice dropped lower once more, “I kept thinking about that day. I… I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise. So, I get it. Why. You kept it from getting messy.”

Bucky snorted at that. “Just messed it up in a whole new way.”

“At least no one else died.”

The words lingered in the still air. Bucky’s fingers tapped a rhythm on the porcelain of his mug; it sounded like dripping blood—no, John wasn’t going to think about that. He forced himself to sink back into the sofa, let the warmth of the drink seep into his hands and relaxed into the silence of the room, letting it turn more comfortable than tense. Then, a thought occurred to him. “You did try and use it on Sentry, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Your power? You better have.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Of course I did,” he drawled. “But apparently superpowered god complexes are my weakness.”

“Good to know you’re just as useless as the rest of us.”

“Goodnight,” he said, and stood up to stalk away to his room.

“It’s morning, actually,” John retorted, just to be an ass. And maybe it was his eyes playing tricks on him, but there was the slightest play of a smile at the edge of Bucky’s lips as he walked out. The air wasn’t quite clear between them, and maybe it never would be. There were wounds on both of them that ran too deep and intertwined to ever be fully untangled, that had scabbed over, for now, and maybe one day the scars wouldn’t hurt to touch. But, at least they’d found an understanding. That was a start.

“Still not helping you with your shield!” Bucky called from down the hall, reminding John of his unfortunately shaped weapon. And the air certainly wasn’t clear then, because it was filled with every colourful word he could think of. When morning truly came with the rising of the sun, they still greeted each other with scowls and middle-finger salutes, and insults in more than one language. 

But it was a start.

Notes:

Is John a bit OOC? Maybe.

Look, I am by no means a John Walker apologist. I kinda hated him in TFATWS, but I think Thunderbolts* did a good job at showing him in a more sympathetic light, and I think that with the right team and support, he can change and grow, and that's what I wanted to explore here. How it actually turned out, I have mixed feelings about.

But, I hope you enjoyed!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Dreaded Man