Tension

by 32ndofMarch

Summary:

You’ve spent months trying to suppress every forbidden thought about your mission partner and rival, John Walker. But a racy dream, a high-stakes mission and the reveal of some hidden truths may just make the simmering tension between you impossible to ignore.

Notes:

I couldn’t find a fic that quite captured the fantasy I had in my head… so I had to write my own. I'm planning for this to be slow burn-ish and tension-filled, leading up to some spicier moments at the very end that explore the submissive side of Walker...
If you enjoy this chapter and want to see the next one, please leave kudos or a comment - I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 1

***

It all starts with a dream.

Not a nightmare. Not the usual images of blood and suffering from your past, which tend to haunt you. No - this one is different.

 

You’re in Budapest.

You recognize the basement instantly, although the background is a bit out of focus, like it usually is in your dreams. You were here only a week ago, on a mission with Walker. This time, he'd been the one in trouble and you had rushed to save him.

You find him tied to a chair, hands bound behind his back, legs roped at the ankles. The ropes are made of vibranium , holding him firmly in place despite his super-soldier strength.

His head hangs low and he's breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to break out of the restraints. He looks up when you enter.

“Hey,” he rasps. “Are you gonna help me or just stand there?”

You take a step closer. Your boots echo faintly on the concrete floor.

 

“In reality,” you say calmly, circling him like you have all the time in the world, “I untied those ropes.”

“Then maybe try doing that now?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t know… you look like you’re enjoying this.”

He doesn't protest.

 

"Just as I thought," you crouch beside him, close enough to smell the salty sweat on his skin, feel the heat radiating off his body.

“A powerful man like you,” you murmur, voice just above a whisper, “all tied up, completely at my mercy. Doesn’t it turn you on a little?”

His breath catches. He hesitates, then nods.

Your lips almost brush his ear. “What do I get out of it if I untie you?”

He tenses and writhes in his seat. "What do you want?”

There’s a rawness in his voice now, and when his eyes meet yours, the desire is no longer hidden, but bare and brazen.

“For you,” he says, “I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”

 

The possibilities hang in the air.

And it hits you - how much you want to see what he’d do. What he wouldn’t. How far the power play could stretch before he snapped and-

 

Your alarm clock goes off.

 

You sit upright with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Shit.”

You run a hand over your face and collapse back against the pillows.

 

The dream comes back to you in waves and makes you blush. His raspy voice. His eyes, looking up at you. Him promising to do whatever you wanted.

You’ve spent months squashing every shred of whatever-it-is you're feeling for John Walker. Buried the unholy thoughts that popped up in your head under professionalism and dry wit, focused on the job. You don’t sleep with your teammates, and least of all your mission partners. You pride yourself on the fact that you don’t blur lines between work and pleasure.

 

But your subconscious apparently didn’t get the memo.

 

You groan and throw the blanket off, dragging yourself to the shower. There’s a briefing in twenty minutes, and you’d rather shoot yourself in the foot than walk in late looking flustered, because Walker's not gonna let you hear the end of it.

You tell yourself that it's just a dream - a stupid, hormone-induced fantasy.

Still, even as the cold water hits your face, the images flash in your head again.

You push the thoughts aside and tell yourself to focus. You’ve got a mission briefing and you sure as hell don’t have time for this.

 

***

All the briefing room screens are lit up, flickering with various satellite images and pixelated photos of the target. You are flicking through the file Bucky has just handed out, committing to memory details about the target's appearance.

Walker, meanwhile, is swinging back and forth in his chair and drumming his fingertips on the table, clearly losing focus.

"Stop that," you hiss through your teeth.

He rolls his eyes and mouths "What?".

"You know what. You're driving me insane with your constant fidgeting," you whisper. He grimaces at you but stops the drumming and folds his arms over his chest."What's gotten into you?"

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and don't respond. You've never been happier that out of the two of you, you are the one with psychic powers that allow you to see into people's memories by touching them. Walker doesn't need to know you're even more impatient with him today than usual because you had a NSFW fantasy about him. It's pathetic, really, you think to yourself.

 

Bucky clears his throat and shoots both of you a look that suggests you shouldn't test his patience either. Since Valentina had been sidelined , the team had began to ignore her field directives and operated almost autonomously, and Bucky had slowly become the unofficial team lead. He'd settled into the role, albeit reluctantly.

"Alright, you've seen his dossier now, I suggest you familiarize yourselves with the area and the city quarter where Volkov's currently based," Bucky continues, zooming in on the satellite images showing the winding streets of Rome.

“Our intel suggests Volkov's the intermediary, and he's planning to purchase weapons-grade tech from a seller in Rome. We have to find out who his boss is and if he knows what they are going to use the tech for. We need eyes on Volkov and the seller - and then the objective is to get close to him and use your powers to extract that information," he points at you.

"What about the sale, should we stop it?" you ask.

"No, it should go ahead. We don't want him to alert his superiors before we are prepared to go after them. We keep it quiet."

“You hear that, Walker?” you give your mission partner a nudge. “Quiet .”

John scoffs and glances sideways. “I can do quiet.”

You raise your eyebrows.

 

"They are meeting at the Piazza di Santa Maria in the morning. We don't know the exact time so you'll have to do surveillance first. Your cover stories and identities are in the file," Bucky points to the folder, which John hasn't even bothered to open yet.

"So we blend in with the tourist crowd and then, when they split up, I follow the target and corner him in a more quiet spot. I'll need to touch him to establish a stable psychic connection," you add.

"Correct. And Walker will go to the getaway car and be on standby in case anything goes wrong. Best case scenario - you extract the necessary memories, stun Volkov so he's out for a couple of hours, and then get to Walker."

"Why am I on backup? Can't we just pick him up and interrogate him?" Walker objects.

"This is a stealth mission," Bucky interrupts him. "You engage only if she calls for backup."

"Are you saying I'm not stealthy ?" Walker complains.

You stifle a laugh. "We don't want a repeat of Budapest, do we?"

"Budapest was NOT my fault-" he protests.

"I should have left you tied up in that basement," you mutter, and Walker glares at you. You have to admit that you rather enjoy riling him up, and how easy it is for you to push his buttons.

“It's a straight-forward two people job. You two work well together, even if your methods sometimes...clash. Don’t go rogue, and don’t start a fight unless absolutely necessary,” Bucky reminds you.

John leans in. “So what's the play if things go sideways?”

“Then you improvise. But stay connected and live on comms at all times. And keep it clean. Your flight leaves in 2 hours.”

You give Bucky a mock salute. “Copy that, boss.”

Chapter 2

 

***

The Trastevere district is already buzzing - tourists are drifting between market stalls and snapping photos of the charming ochre buildings draped in ivy that surround the Piazza di Santa Maria. The locals are enjoying their breakfast, shaded under striped patio umbrellas. There is the clinking of coffee cups, the smell of fresh pastries and the hum of conversation all around you.

You and John are sitting at a small table tucked in the corner of a bustling café terrace, which offers a perfect vantage point. From there, you can easily observe the restaurant next door where Volkov and another man have been sitting for about a quarter of an hour. You spot two bodyguards that arrived with the seller and are now reading a newspaper at a table to their right. Volkov seems to have come on his own to draw less attention. You decided it was too dangerous to try to bug their tables before they arrived, so for now, there's nothing else to do but wait.

You stir your cappuccino, the sunlight reflecting off a simple golden band on your finger.

To anyone watching, you and Walker are just another American couple on their honeymoon in Rome - Mr and Mrs Taylor enjoying la dolce vita.

 

Or that's the idea, at least.

 

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He's wearing a crisp linen shirt and doing his best to appear relaxed, one arm slung casually over the back of your chair, a matching gold band on his finger. But you notice that his jaw is clenched and his espresso sits untouched.

“Try smiling,” you murmur, scanning the square, your eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “You look like someone dragged you here at gunpoint.”

He glowers at you. “I’m trying . This just isn’t...my favourite kind of op.”

“You mean not one where you’re kicking down a door within five minutes of arrival?”

“That, and the whole-” he gestures vaguely between you, “-‘married’ thing. I still can't believe Barnes talked me into this.”

"You should read the briefing files more carefully next time," you point out.

"And you should ask someone else to play the role of the perfect husband next time. I was never any good at it," Walker spits out, folding a napkin so forcefully that he almost tears it in half.

You swallow the biting remark that was on the tip of your tongue. You know he must be thinking about his divorce. “I know this isn't ideal for you. I get it,” you say. "But just so you know, this wasn't my idea."

"I know," he says quietly, looking at you in a way you can't decipher. You can't tell if he's still thinking about Olivia or if his mind is elsewhere.

“Besides,” you add, “you’re not exactly suffering. I mean - Rome, sunshine, my company? It's an improvement over that dingy basement in Budapest, at least.”

He scoffs but his lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Apart from when you bossed me around and made me wear this ridiculous shirt.”

You give him an exaggerated once-over. “It's a good pick. It looks good on you.”

Caught off guard, he coughs into his coffee cup. “Right.”

 

Actually, you don't really care for the particular shirt you picked out. You tell yourself it's just the nature of the assignment that is messing with your head but you can't help noticing that the golden Roman sunlight brings out the strawberry blonde and sandy brown tones in his hair and beard and the striking blue of his eyes. When he smiles instead of scowling - which, to be fair, isn't too often - you notice the faint creases in the corners of his eyes and his smile lines. You secretly think he really does look quite handsome in a clean-cut, all-American way, his broad shoulders filling out the linen shirt, two top buttons left undone and showing a sliver of his skin, - even though it's obvious to you he's ill at ease in civilian clothes.

You would never admit it to him, though. You tell yourself to snap out of it - you have found it's better to squash those kinds of thoughts when it comes to your partner. It's just the damn dream that has made them resurface.

 

Before your thoughts start drifting into more dangerous territory, the waiter appears beside your table, beaming. “Bellissimi! My favourite new couple! Can I bring anything else? Maybe a tiramisu for the lovers? It's never too early for dessert, no?”

“Uh - no, we’re good, thanks,” Walker mumbles.

The waiter frowns. “No dessert? You must at least toast your happiness! Aspetta un momento, I bring prosecco - on the house, of course,” he hurries off before either of you can stop him.

“You're not selling it, Walker. The waiter will start thinking I'm holding you hostage,” you whisper, leaning in.

Walker glances around, embarrassed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Showing just a little affection wouldn’t kill you. We don't want to seem suspicious.”

When you see the waiter approaching in the distance, you reach across the table and take Walker's hand. He looks up, visibly startled.

"Relax," you say under your breath.

Maybe you're really saying that to yourself. You notice how warm and calloused his hand is and how large compared to yours, and that there is a tiny scar near his right thumb. If you were an actual couple, it wouldn't be difficult to get lost in his eyes right now and... But you're on an assignment, you remind yourself.

 

"Beautiful!" the prosecco arrives, the waiter beaming at your linked hands. “To amore eterno,” he says, pouring.

You clink your glasses in silence.

As soon as the waiter moves on to the next table, Walker pulls back his hand and clears his throat.

He's still looking at you but your gaze is now fixed firmly over his shoulder at Volkov's table.

You feel your pulse quicken as you spot Volkov leaving the restaurant.  “Target’s heading south to exit the square. Still appears to be alone. He might be making his way towards the alley next to Via della Lungaretta. It's one of the routes to his residence Bucky flagged."

“You're sure you want to follow him?”

“That’s the idea. With any luck, I’ll get what we need - who’s buying the weapon, and why.”

“I don’t like you going in alone this time.”

You roll your eyes. “You never like it when I go in alone.”

Walker sighs. “Okay. I'll get the car.”

You raise your voice as you get up so the people seated next to you can hear you clearly. “Thank you, darling. I'll just pop to the market and then join you, try not to miss me too much, will you?”

You adjust your scarf so it covers your comms link and press a quick kiss on his cheek - soft, barely a brush of lips, but real enough to pass as a goodbye between newlyweds. You can't help but notice he smells like fresh laundry and citrus, with a musky edge. The scent is clean, with something darker and more enticing lurking underneath it; you resist the sudden urge to lean in again. 

The next moment, you slip into the crowd, making your way through the market stalls to follow in the target's footsteps.

You can't resist a look back and see that for a moment, John just sits there, stunned, watching you disappear with practiced ease.

Your heart is pounding but it's probably just the rush of adrenaline from the mission, you tell yourself.

 

***

You follow Volkov through the winding streets of Trastevere, careful to maintain a considerable distance as the streets grow quieter and you head into a residential district.  There's constantly at least a few people around, so you just keep following him, hoping the opportunity for a covert attack will present itself once you leave the busier areas. 

When he stops to buy cigarettes from a newsstand, you hear a crackling sound coming from your comms unit and step behind a street vendor's display to give yourself some cover.

"Where are you?" Walker's voice demands impatiently in your earpiece. You absolutely hate how just hearing his voice in your ear makes your heart beat faster.

"Almost there. I can see the location we flagged in intel. Orange stucco building near the alley. Number 43," you whisper.

“Copy that. I’ve repositioned. Car’s parked two blocks south. Got a visual of the street corner.”

"Roger that."

 

Volkov lights a cigarette and starts walking towards building no. 43 - a three-storey villa situated on a small hill overlooking the neighbourhood, surrounded by a large fence with two guardhouses and security cameras covering the perimeter. You casually cross the street, blending in with a group of chatting locals. You pretend to flip through the magazines in the newsstand, and then, as Volkov enters through the main gate, you turn into a sidestreet next to the villa and duck into an alcove that allows you to examine your surroundings.

"Shit. I count six men,” Walker says over comms. “No - at least seven. One on the rooftop terrace. There’s more security than expected. This is a damn fortress."

“I see a way in. A service entrance off the alley. There's an outdated security camera I'll be able to deal with.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps. “You're outnumbered and that was not part of the plan. You get caught in there alone, you're done."

"I know the layout. I can get in, corner him, extract what we need, and get out before they even know I was there.”

“Or you can get shot full of holes and I'll have to answer to Barnes."

You laugh. “Lighten up, Walker. I'll be more careful than that.”

"Call it off. That's an order. Do you copy?" he barks into your earpiece.

"I've got this, Walker," you hiss. You're already picking the lock on the old staff door, trying to pry it open without acting too conspicuously.

“ Damn it - I see what you're doing. Don’t- ”

“Stay in the car. I'll call for backup if I need it,” you cut him off. "I'm going off-comms for a moment. See you on the other side," you add as the door opens with a satisfying creak and you slip in.

 

***

"This is stupid. She's reckless. Doesn't listen," Walker mumbles to himself angrily as he loads his guns and secures his suit.

He checks his comms link- nothing but silence, of course.

Walker is not used to sitting on the sidelines. He picks up the thermal scope and looks at the house for what seems like the hundredth time - but it only detects the silhouettes of a few bodyguards and Volkov walking down a hall.

He's so focused on scanning the house for any signs of you he doesn't notice the man approaching the car until he taps on the window.

“Scusi, signore - you can’t park here,” the man says. “This zone is for residents only.”

Walker blinks, startled, then forces a smile as he cracks down the window. “Uh. Sorry. I'm kind of...in the middle of something, I need to be parked here for a while."

"Why?" the man asks suspiciously.

"Uh- I’m… delivering pizza?” He curses himself for not being able to come up with anything better than that. He is rubbish at improvising on the spot, and he is used to relying on you to talk your way out of any situation.

The man frowns and cranes his neck so he can look into the van. “Doesn't look like you have any pizzas in there-” He freezes as he sees the array of weapons - guns, grenades, tasers, knives, and more - in the back of the van. “What on earth-?”

 

Wham.

 

One well-aimed punch and the guy is out cold on the pavement. Walker looks down at the unconscious man. “Sorry, dude,” he mutters. “It just wasn’t your day.” He gets out, drags the guy behind a dumpster and then considers his options.

He knows you're in the house with God knows how many armed men, possibly no way out and noone to watch your six. Just the thought of it makes him see red. He starts to feel the effects of the super soldier serum which kick in whenever there's a spike in his adrenaline levels.

"This is Walker. What is your status, over?" he says as he activates the comms link.

There's silence on your end. You did say you were going off-comms for a while, though he can't help feeling a mix of anger and anxiety.

He looks at his arm which has started trembling, feeling the surge of energy and power, and flexes his fingers.

"This is Walker. Do you copy?" he repeats one more time, his voice barely hiding his frustration. There is still nothing on the other end.

 

For all he knows, you might already be captured, or worse.

 

He shakes his head and body to release the building tension, as if he's hyping himself up before heading onto the field at a high school football game. The serum pumping through his veins makes his decision for him.

“Screw the plan, I'm going in,” Walker growls and yanks his shield from the backseat of the van.

Chapter 3

***

You use your jammer to disable the security cameras and efficiently dispatch with one of the guards who surprises you in the hallway, putting him to sleep with one swift movement of your hands.

You do a thermal scan of the building and see that Volkov's still downstairs, talking to his men. You know you need to find the right moment to corner him on his own, otherwise you'll alert everyone in the building to your presence.

You manage to find your way to Volkov's study, having memorized the layout of the villa.

You look through his desk drawers, rifling through documents and looking for computer access codes, hoping to find some proof of his employers.

In the bottom drawer, you see something that makes you pause. Your attention is drawn to a file that says "Thunderbolts" on the cover.

"What the fuck...?" you whisper incredulously. You open it and flick through the pages - and it's even worse than you imagined. It's a detailed brief on every single one of the Thunderbolts team, their photos, descriptions of their powers, enemies, weak points, and more. You scan the page dedicated to you, wanting to find out how much Volkov has on you.

 

ABILITIES:

Subject possesses a unique form of psychic touch-based telepathy. Upon physical contact, she can access the recent and long-term memories of a target. Prolonged contact deepens the connection, allowing the subject to extract secrets, emotional impressions and strategically important information. In some cases, subject has shown the ability to disorient the target by creating cognitive impulses that distort the target's memories.

 

LIMITATIONS:

Requires direct physical contact to initiate psychic link.  Powers are susceptible to emotions; prolonged exposure to familiar targets has been observed to destabilize her recall accuracy and ability to discern between target's and own memories.  Mental strain caused by use of powers; recovery time needed between deeper extractions.

 

You have no idea how Volkov has obtained all of this information, but whoever has provided it has been very thorough in their investigation and intelligence gathering. You keep reading, engrossed in the file.

 

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Subject recruited to the team after Robert "Bob" Reynolds, also known as Sentry, lost access to his telepathic powers which were bonded with the entity known as "the Void". Subject displays high-level proficiency in infiltration, impersonation and covert surveillance. Frequently works in tandem with John Walker/U.S. Agent.

 

TACTICAL RECOMMENDATIONS-

 

You suddenly hear footsteps behind the door and in a split second, drop the file, close the drawer and duck behind one of the bookcases. You still your breathing and tense in anticipation.

The next moment, Volkov enters the study, takes off his jacket and slumps in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk, exhaling loudly. He pours himself a glass from a crystal decanter and uses his fingertip to unlock a data pad, oblivious to your presence.

You move like a shadow - silent, swift, precise. In two steps, you are right behind him, your trusted blade drawn from its sheath.

“Don’t move,” you say coldly, pressing the blade to his neck. “Don’t make a sound.”

He freezes.

 

With your other hand, you grab his wrist. He gasps and your mind locks onto his, slipping past the surface defenses, treading through scattered flashes of memories -

 

A voice on a comm device.

A hand-off in a hangar.

Coordinates.

A face obscured by darkness —

A name nearly forming on his lips -

 

You suddenly hear a deafening noise downstairs, as if someone had just blown off the front door. You've got to be fucking kidding me. 

"What the-" you exclaim as your mind refocuses on the pain in your left hand and the connection breaks. Volkov has managed to strike your hand with a stapler and struggles, twisting away from you. The blade cuts into his neck, but he uses your momentary hesitation to reach below the desk.

You yank the man back by the collar and slam his face against the desk so he lets go of whatever he's reaching for but it's too late. Alarms began to blare and you realize he's hit a panic button.

You hear someone running - the guards are coming.

"Damn it," you drop into a defensive stance as the door bursts open.

Two men rush in, and you use their confusion to your full advantage - you throw a blade into one's shoulder, then close the distance and kick him in the solar plexus, causing him to stumble backwards. As soon as the second bodyguard draws his gun, you grab his arm and redirect the bullets he fires towards his foot.

"Get her!" Volkov screams, shielding himself behind the bookshelf.

The third guard rushes forward to open fire and you dive behind the desk, bullets shredding the wood. Rolling out on the other side, you throw a blade that cuts the chain of the large chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, causing it to crash down on him.

One guard has managed to get back up and you duck when he tries to swing a baton at you.

He lunges, preparing to tackle you just as someone grabs you and drags you backwards. You struggle, trying to release yourself from the steely grip and reach your pocket where you know your trusted spear point blade is.

You hear the footsteps of more men running and then gunshots that echo through the house. There's an eerie silence so you know the men's bodies have hit the ground before they even realized what they're up against.

"We need back up, we're in the study," one of the guards holding you shouts into his radio, sounding desperate and panicked.

When a shield hits one of the men running towards the door, you know it's Walker storming the hallway.

Fucking hell.

You kick one of the henchmen holding you but the other one slams you into the shelf and chokes you with both hands.

You struggle for breath, your vision losing focus when you hear Walker's steely voice. "Don't you dare touch her."

He fires twice with methodical precision, then tosses the empty magazine aside and reloads the gun. You drop to your knees, gasping.

You can see that the serum has taken over now - there is no hesitation or mercy in his eyes, only fury, and there's already a splattering of blood on his helmet and knuckles.

Walker reaches you just in time to block another blow coming from behind you with his shield. He swings it with a wild grunt, hitting two guards with bone-breaking force that throws them against the wall, which cracks on impact.

You catch sight of movement out of the corner of your eye.

“On your left!” you shout, throwing him a blade.

He catches it instinctively mid-air, turns and drives it into the last attacker’s gut without missing a beat.

"A bit more than seven guards, then," you say, observing the carnage around you.

 

You both stand there, panting and trying to catch your breath, when you notice the wall panels in the study have been opened.  "Fuck, fuck, FUCK, Volkov's gone-"

"Son of a-" Walker curses, moving towards the secret door, intending to follow in Volkov's footsteps.

"No, DON'T, it could be a-" you scream, pulling Walker back, "-a trap."  You finish your sentence just as the door's sensor is activated and it slams down with terrifying force, an inch or so from Walker's face. The door leading to the hallway is simultaneously blocked by steel rods.

He blinks. "Good catch. What's that beeping sound?"

You hear it, too, a tick-tick-tick sound rising in volume that you recognize all too well.

"Great job, Walker - the panic button has activated a bomb, too. It will destroy every shred of evidence in here, along with us."

The ticking becomes more rapid.

"There's no time find it and disarm it. We're getting out - NOW," Walker yells.

You look at each other for a split second and he grabs you by the arm and pulls you towards the window.

You don't have time to protest.

"Hold on," he shouts as he wraps his arms around you and jumps, shield raised, protecting you from the window glass that shatters beneath your weight. You crash through just as the explosion tears through the second floor. 

You both hit the ground hard, Walker cushioning your fall with his body. The second floor is on fire, flames quickly engulfing the study and all the documents within.

Walker pulls you towards him, covering both of you beneath the shield as the second, more powerful explosion goes off. The blast wave sends you both rolling several feet. The building collapses, disappearing into flames and debris.

 

You cough, tasting smoke in your mouth, and blink dust out of your eyes.

Walker looks down at you.

“Are you injured?”

You shake your head. "You?"

"I'm fine," he declares, wiping away the blood that's running down the side of his temple.

"We need to get out of here, and quickly. There's a side exit that way," you say as you notice bystanders running towards the building and hear sirens going off in the distance.

Walker nods curtly, barely looking at you, but still extends his hand to help you get up.

You try to, but your there's a sharp pain in your ankle, and it buckles under your weight. "Fuck, I think I landed on it in a bad way...I'm gonna need something to lean on. No-wait--put me down, I can walk--"

Ignoring your feeble protests, he picks you up in his arms like you weigh nothing.

You can sense his suppressed anger as he carries you to the van in complete silence. You're angry, too, given that his intrusion led to you losing the target before you had a chance to extract intel. You know it will look like incompetence to the rest of the team.  

"Good job on keeping this one quiet," you observe sarcastically.

He shoots daggers at you. "I'm going to deal with you later. I need to send word to Barnes so they can do some damage control."

"Deal with me ? Well, speaking of damage, don't forget to mention to Bucky that you blew up the front door when you were meant to be sitting in the car."

"If you hadn't--" he says through gritted teeth, then stops himself and unceremoniously drops you on your feet next to the van. "Get in."

You are looking forward to the mission debrief, because you have quite a few things to say to him, too.

Chapter 4

 

***

On the flight back, Walker seems determined to give you the silent treatment. You type up an emergency dispatch to Bucky together, alerting him that news of the explosion in Rome might soon hit the media.  After sending it, you both retreat to opposite sides of the jet, the hum of the high-speed engines filling the silence that neither of you seem willing to break. You prop your ankle - thankfully, just twisted, not strained - on a spare seat, balancing a pack of ice on top. The quiet doesn't bother you; you'd rather have some rest than bicker for the rest of the six hour flight. You close your eyes, hoping to doze off . Your adrenaline levels are still to high, though, so you just end up replaying the day's events in your head, becoming increasingly frustrated.

When you finally give up trying to sleep and open your eyes, Walker's odd demeanour catches your attention. He’s sitting rigidly, shoulders squared, jaw tight, one hand awkwardly clamped to his side like he’s trying to hold himself together, and he hasn't moved in a while.

“Walker,” you say sharply.

He looks up, irritated. “What?”

"You're injured, aren't you? "

"It's just a scratch."

“Show me.”

“There’s nothing to show.”

“Bullshit. You’ve had your hand on your ribs for the last twenty minutes like you’re keeping your guts from spilling out.”

His eyes narrow. “Funny.”

“You’re bleeding through your suit."

He glances down and realizes that the dark stain is spreading. “It’s fine. I heal fast.”

"Let me see." You’re already up from your seat, ignoring the twinge in your ankle.

“Stop. You're gonna mess up your leg even more,” he warns.

You stand in front of him, arms crossed. “I'm willing to call a temporary truce even though you just basically sabotaged my mission. You better let me have a look.”

"I didn't sabotage-" seeing your facial expression, he stops himself, curses under his breath, and peels his hand away. The rip in his suit reveals an open wound above his ribs, just below the armpit.Even though the wound has started to heal already, its edges are ragged and it's still bleeding. You lean in, squinting, and catch the gleam of the metal bullet lodged inside, already being swallowed by fast-healing tissue.

“Shit. It’s a fragment from an expanding round. If that heals over, you’re screwed,” you announce.

“I’ll extract it myself,” he says dismissively.

"From there? You're not gonna be able to see what you're doing, but, sure, go ahead."

You've been on enough missions with him to know he's stubborn, and always refuses help at first. He's a soldier who’s patched himself up in war zones more times than he can count, and he hates needing anyone else's assistance.

 

You watch Walker as he gets the first aid kit from the storage compartment and sterilizes the tweezers with disinfectant. He shrugs off his tactical vest, lifts up his shirt and twists in an uncomfortable position to reach the injury. He's working one-handed and can't see much from that angle, so he only manages to re-open the wound, a string of expletives coming out of his mouth.

"Told you," you can't resist saying.

He glowers at you for a moment, then exhales sharply through his nose and trusts the bloody tweezers at you. “…Fine.”

“Fine,” you echo, snatching them from him. “Shirt off. Lean back. Arm up.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to make a smug remark, but he quickly obeys, tugging the bloodied shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

He looks up at you, and suddenly all you can think about is how good he is at taking your orders. And how his torso is all hard planes, taut muscles and scars, a body forged for combat, not vanity. And you can't help but notice the trail of hair on his stomach that disappears below his trouser line and makes your thoughts go somewhere they definitely shouldn’t go... You avert your gaze and occupy yourself by searching for the antiseptic and gauze.

He leans back in his seat, legs spread wide, and you have to step close enough so that you’re framed between his knees.

“Try not to stare,” he drawls.

“Try to shut up for a second,” you shoot back, but your throat feels dry. Was your staring really that obvious?

You bend down, focused on spotting the tiny bullet fragments in the wound.  He’s watching your every move, gaze unwavering. You try to keep a steady hand although his nearness is distracting - his breath warm on your skin, the faint scent of blood, sweat and something irresistibly musky clinging to his skin. When your fingers accidentally brush his ribs, he flinches as if you've just burned him.

“Hold still. That wasn't even the wound yet.”

He laughs but it comes out sounding more like a grunt. “Not exactly easy with you hovering over me like this.”

“Walker, I swear-”

"Alright, alright. "

"You’re shaking," he observes after a moment of watching you in silence. 

“I'm concentrating,” you mutter, but you're sure your pulse is hammering loud enough to betray you.

Bit by bit, you manage to remove the smallest bullet shards and then gently dislodge the largest piece. Walker stifles a groan as you pull it out and hold it up, triumphant. “There."

"I could have done it myse -OWWW,FUCK!" Before he can finish the sentence, you douse the wound with antiseptic, making him flinch.

"Serves you right," you snap the med kit shut and step back.

Walker presses the gauze to his ribs, scowling. “You enjoyed that a little too much.”

"What?" You hope you're not visibly blushing.

“I mean the part where you poured acid into my open wound. ”

“Antiseptic,” you correct him. “You’re welcome.”

He mutters something that sounds like sadist under his breath and hastily pulls his shirt back on.

For a moment it feels like you’re back in the familiar rhythm - the bickering and the barbs, both of you toeing the line between banter and something else entirely.

Then the jet console pings - a new dispatch from Bucky. Walker's jaw tightens the moment Bucky’s voice fills the cabin. “So . You blew up a villa in Rome and nearly got yourselves killed. I'm hoping the damage control I'll have to do is worth it and you at least got some good intel from Volkov . Or have you both lost your goddamn minds?”

You glance at Walker. His expression is carved from stone, lips pressed tightly together.

“Great,” you mutter. “Exactly what I wanted to hear right now.”

Walker kills the audio with a tap of his finger. And just like that, you're back to reality.

John slumps back into his seat, arms folded across his chest, looking like he can't decide whether to berate you or beat himself up for letting Volkov get way. You retreat to your corner, put the ice pack back on your ankle, and stare at the cabin wall, fuming.

The rest of the flight back feels much longer than 6 hours.

 

***

"How did it go?" Bucky asks as you and Walker walk in.

It is an unnecessary question, really, because he must see the answer written all over your faces. It's enough to set Walker off, though, who's been stewing in silence for most of the flight.

  "Do you want to explain how we were almost blown to hell because you couldn't stay out of danger for five minutes? Or should I start?" he asks as he takes off his helmet and throws it on the table with a loud thud.

You cross your arms defensively. "Please, spare me the lecture, Walker. I had everything under control until Captain Crashout here got bored and decided it was a good time to kick down some doors and shoot a few people - all while the target slipped through the side exit."

"This "c rashout " saved your ass when it turned out that your little friend had a couple of bombs stashed away in the apartment, remember?"

You turn towards him and take a step closer. "Oh, I do remember. I also remember telling you twice to wait in the getaway car and to enter the building only if I called for backup. But, shocker, the only way to make you pay attention is to punch you in your face."

Instead of backing off, he also takes a step forward, pointing his finger at you in the most annoying way. "And I remember you refusing to follow my orders to abort the mission when it became clear your target had company - but you chose to walk in without backup."

You want to wipe that smug smirk off his face. "I didn't follow your orders because you're not my commanding officer, Walker. And also because you're a goddamn moron."

"Ouch. Don't hurt my feelings," he complains in mock offense.

"You and I both know you don't have any of those."

He laughs but there's a flicker in his eyes that tells you he's not as unbothered as he wants to appear. He picks up a towel to wipe the sweat and soot off his face and then takes a swig from a water bottle.

"Look, I know you get a kick out of trailing some criminal low-lives for days and cooking up an elaborate scheme for getting the answers I could get out of them in a few minutes. But maybe next time, use those powers of yours to see the part where you almost get us both killed."

This really gets your blood boiling, and he knows it. "You think it's that simple? That I can just touch someone's hand and predict the future? I'm not a goddamn fortune teller at a country fair, Walker. I need to establish a stable psychic link, and even then I can only access their past memories."

John leans in, lowering his voice. "Could’ve fooled me. You act like you’ve got all the answers, like you're always two steps ahead of everyone. But the second things get messy, you decide you don't want to be in charge anymore, and I'm left to clean up after you."

"Maybe. But at least I'm not the one with a superiority complex and a fragile ego charging into every situation without a single thought."

Neither of you wants to back off first so you've somehow gotten so close to each other you can see the fresh cuts on his nose and temple and the muscle in his jaw twitching. There’s a beat of silence. Then he smirks again, and it infuriates you how he can make even an insincere smile look charming.

"Careful. One step closer and I might start thinking you're enjoying our little chats more than I thought."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, please. Don't even try to turn this into a joke."

Someone coughs awkwardly. You both snap your heads around, realizing you still have an audience and have completely forgotten about Bucky. "Now that you've let off some steam...Can we start the real debrief?" he asks, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

"Fuck. Sorry. Yeah." you shoot Bucky an apologetic look.

Walker runs a hand through his hair and nods. "Whatever. Let's do this."

You start the story from the very beginning and, by the time the debrief ends, you've rolled your eyes at Walker only three times. You consider that to be a sign of your immense restraint and professionalism.

 

Chapter 5

***

After taking a much-needed shower and logging your mission report, you still feel a bit groggy. As much as you don't want to admit it, this morning's mission has rattled you. Yes, you're furious at Walker for charging in and disrupting your plan.

But, although you are never going to admit it, you think Walker is partly right - you had chosen to ignore the warning signs and walked into a dangerous situation, jeopardizing yourself and your partner. You should have reconsidered as soon as Walker reported that he'd seen seven or more armed men in the building. But you'd convinced yourself you could sneak in without alerting the target's henchmen, corner him on his own and extract the necessary information before he could call for help. It was a reckless thing to do, and you can't help but wonder if you have become too reliant on Walker - after all, he is always there when your plans fall through, just like you are when he needs help (even though he's mostly too proud to ask for it). Maybe that assurance has compelled you to take on bigger and bigger risks. However, if you'd been on your own… You shudder at the thought.

You'd been outnumbered ten to one, armed with just a few blades. Ironically, you had literally brought a knife to a gunfight. You hate to admit it - even to yourself - but you'd been relieved to see Walker bursting through the door. He'd been swift and ruthless, expertly dispatching bullets with a steady hand without ever averting his eyes from the targets. You had decent hand-to-hand combat skills and were adept at handling blades but your specialty was covert operations and espionage, so you usually tried to avoid direct confrontation with your targets. Walker, on the other hand, was a formidable opponent during close-range combat, the skills gained during his time in the military sharpened by the adrenaline and super-soldier serum pumping through his veins. What he lacked in subtlety, he more than made up for in tenacity. Your skill sets were in many ways very different - and complimentary, so, since you joined the team, more often that not you'd been paired up for missions.

Your thoughts keep running in circles until you tell yourself there is no use overthinking and wallowing in self-doubt, that what you really need is something to take the edge off - so you decide to head to the common room to grab a drink.

You can hear Walker's voice - annoyingly loud - already in the corridor.

"...so after I'm done with these amateurs, that asshole detonates the first bomb. And I’m thinking, ‘Shit, she’s done for.’ But I grab her just in time, jump out of the window, land like-like five stories below on the street and cover both us with the shield. Boom - the roof caves in, there’s smoke, debris, chaos, right? Then the second bomb goes off, and the whole goddamn building collapses. It was a hell of a day."

"Wow, that's real hero stuff, Walker," you can hear Yelena observing dryly.

Ava's voice reveals a degree of skepticism. "I thought you were the reason the bomb was detonated in the first place?"

Walker ignores her and continues. "And then - get this - I carry her to the car because -"

He stops himself as you walk into the room and everyone's gaze shifts towards you. Yelena is lounging on the beat-up couch, lazily tossing crisps into her mouth. Ava is setting up the dartboard to practice her throws, meanwhile Alexei is slumped in the armchair, half-snoring, half-listening with a glass of clear liquid (presumably vodka) in his hand.

"Are you seriously still talking about that? Wasn't the two hour debrief enough for you?" you ask, heading for the fridge. You can feel your frustration bubbling up to the surface, looking for an outlet.

Walker turns, a smug smile already on his face. "I'm just giving them the highlight reel - you know, action, suspense, damsel in distress, the hero who saves the day-"

"You just desperately want someone to pat you on the head and tell you you're a good boy, don't you, Walker?" you snap.

The smirk on his face quickly disappears. You are surprised to observe that your throw-away comment has hit something deeper than it was meant to. Walker's face turns red and his jaw flexes, but he doesn't take the bait and remains silent.

Yelena coughs into her hand, while Ava pretends to examine the dartboard although it's clear all her darts have hit the bullseye.

You scoff and grab a can from the fridge. "Whatever. If it were up to me, you'd get a fucking medal for today, just so I wouldn't have to listen to you go on about it anymore."

"I already have medals."

"Yeah, and a trophy shelf in your room that screams 'I peaked in high school'."

"Well, I happened to be the captain of the best varsity football team. Back-to-back-to-back state champs, go Bears!" he chants and pumps his fist into the air as if there's a cheer squad somewhere in the room, waiting to back him up.

"Oh my God. You actually did peak in high school."

"C'mon, what's your problem? Did noone invite you to prom or something?"

"Well, I certainly didn't spend my high school years signing jerseys and doing keg stands. But, for the record, I did go to prom," you announce.

"Oh yeah? Who did you go with?" he's quick to challenge you, as usual.

"None of your business. And it's pathetic that we're still taking about this," you scowl at him.

Yelena, who's been listening to this exchange, props herself up on her elbow, ready to chime in. "She went with two friends because they were covering prom for the school newspaper."

"Oh, fuck you," you shoot her an angry look but she just giggles. You really must be more careful what kind of information you reveal to her during long stakeouts.

Walker, meanwhile, is belly-laughing. "Jesus Christ. That's even better than I expected, you were a little school newspaper nerd-"

You already know he's never going to let this one go. Before you can come up with a witty response, Alexei suddenly sits up in the armchair and everyone turns to look at him.

"This reminds me of my school years. There was a girl called Anya in my class..."

Yelena groans and shakes her head. "I think I've heard this one before."

"Sweet, sweet Anya..She always got top marks and she had long, beautiful braids..." Alexei's eyes turn misty as he takes a big swig from his glass. Everyone waits for him to continue, trying to decipher where this monologue is going.

"I used to pull her by the braids every day. I didn't know what else to do...She would sometimes scream at me or hit me with her books. But I loved her anyway… She married Mikhail, the butcher’s son...Smart boy but not so strong...I was heartbroken. She never even knew I loved her, that I pulled her braids because of that…" Alexei trails off, overcome by emotion.

"Wow. Quite the trauma-dump." Ava observes.

"...And what are we supposed to do with that information?" Yelena asks.

Alexei sighs, smiles and points vaguely in the direction of you and Walker. "You two, always fighting...Just like me and Anya."

Your eyes meet John's just for a second but you quickly avert your gaze, while he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"I think that's enough drinks for today, Alexei," you remark, wishing desperately to divert the focus away from you.

"I'm fine," Alexei mumbles.

"He's fine, he's just gonna pass out on the couch as usual," Yelena agrees.

Walker suddenly gets up with such force that the armchair almost falls over but he steadies it at the last moment. "Uh-alright - it's getting kinda late so I think I'm gonna go hit the gym and then hunker down for the day. See you tomorrow."

"See you," you repeat automatically, but he's already out of the door without a single look in your direction.

"Gym at midnight? Those super soldiers are deranged," Yelena shakes her head in disbelief, emptying the crisp packet into her mouth.

"I'm pretty knackered after today, so I think I'm gonna finish this drink in my room and go straight to sleep, too," you admit.

"Boring," Ava complains.

"Yeah, well...That's me I guess. Goodnight, guys."

They both wave you off by giving you the middle finger. Alexei is already snoring.

 

***

Later that night, you toss and turn, reliving that morning's disaster and the ensuing arguments with Walker, thinking of witty comebacks you should have used but didn't.

After your thoughts have been going in circles for hours, you finally get up to check your phone, and you see that it's almost 3 o'clock in the morning. You feel sweaty, miserable and parched so you decide to head to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water.

When you step out of your room, the corridor is shrouded in darkness and the only sound you can hear is the faint buzz coming from the security cameras and alarms that protect the Tower. You quietly walk up the stairs and pass the common room, where Alexei is sprawled on the couch, snoring, the room lit by the flashing TV screen showing infomercials.

You walk into the kitchen, feeling the cool tiles under your bare feet, and activate the motion sensor. The fluorescent light flickers lazily and then steadies into a soft glow.

You barely have time to pour water into your glass before you hear a sound behind you.

"I thought haunting the hallways at night would be more Ghost's thing."

You turn sharply, even though you immediately recognize the low voice.

"And yet here you are. Haunting me," you retort.

John Walker is leaning on the door frame, wearing grey sweatpants and a crumpled flannel shirt, his hair disheveled. He smiles, shakes his head and heads for the kitchen cupboard next to you. You don't move aside, so when he retrieves his favorite mug, for a moment your arms are so close they almost touch.

This is how it always is with you and him - you argue, trade insults and then suddenly you're talking to each other like nothing happened, sometimes, like you might even be friends. 

But tonight, you feel off-balance. You are used to seeing him in his tactical gear, battle-ready, but now, in the dim lights of the kitchen, he somehow looks...softer, more human. It is like the night removes invisible layers of armor, revealing everyone's more vulnerable sides; maybe that's why it's so difficult to fend off unwelcome thoughts and dreams during the night, you think.

He pours cold leftover coffee into the mug, completely unfazed that it's the middle of the night. You notice that the first three buttons of his shirt are open, showing a sliver of his chest, which makes you vividly remember what he looks like without his shirt on. 

"Coffee at 3am? Really?" you ask to distract yourself from looking at him.

"Sleep's overrated. Besides, it doesn't have an effect on me because of the- you know, serum. I just like the taste."

"Do you ever fall asleep? I mean, I've always wondered if super soldiers just lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling until morning or-"

"So have you spent a lot of time wondering what I do in bed?" he glances at you, smiling mischievously because he's caught you off guard, which doesn't happen all that often.

You scoff, but feel the heat rise to your cheeks. It's embarrassing. "Only when I’m imagining smothering you with a pillow."

"Whatever floats your boat," he taunts, watching your reaction so you have to look away to hide your awkwardness.

"In all seriousness...I do sleep sometimes. I just don't get physically tired in the same way anymore. So at night, I'd rather go to the gym, or do something else that's...productive."

"And doesn't give you nightmares," you conclude.

"How'd you know-"

"Lucky guess."

He gives a small nod in understanding. "Bad dreams keeping you up, too, huh?"

You gulp your water, unwelcome images from a certain dream flashing in your mind. "Sometimes."

For a moment you're both silent. He leans against the counter, coffee in hand, still watching you with an intensity that makes you feel uncomfortably…seen. You drink your water too fast and refill your glass just to do something with your hands.

When he breaks the silence, his voice is uncharacteristically quiet. "Look, about earlier... I didn’t mean to make you look bad. That story about the mission - it was just... the usual bullshit." He looks at his coffee cup, fiddles with the handle, and it sounds like it's physically difficult for him to voice the words.

"The usual ‘Hey, I'm a hero, everyone, look at me' bullshit?"

"Yeah. That. I guess."

He sounds genuine. Which is maybe the strangest thing of all.

You lean on the counter opposite him. Your cardigan falls open slightly, and his eyes flick down to your collarbone, just for a second, before snapping back to your face so quickly you wonder if you imagined it after all. 

"Why do you do that?" you ask.

"What?"

"Constantly act like you’ve got something to prove."

He looks like he’s about to make a flippant remark - but then decides against it.

"Because I - I do have something to prove," he admits.

"You're not the only one with a bad past here, Walker."

"Maybe not. But you don't really know what I've had to do and-" he exhales, stopping himself. It's like he's fighting against the impulse to show you a version of him you've never seen before.

"I am-I was the official Captain America. People expected me to be the hero, and I failed them. I can't afford to be weak or wrong or...out of control. I already made that mistake once," he declares, getting frustrated with himself as he's speaking, his knuckles turning white as he grips the marble kitchen counter.

"That's a lot of weight to be carrying every day," you quietly observe.

"I'm fine," he responds automatically but you can sense the grief, resentment and anger behind his words.

"Do you ever stop pretending?"

His light blue eyes meet yours. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You think that you're so good at reading everyone else, blending in and playing a part that nobody notices when you struggle. It's a form of pretense, isn't it?"

You're caught off guard by his astute observation. "Well,I - Okay, you might be onto something."

You should go back to your room, but for a moment, you hesitate. You both just stand there, waiting for the other one to say anything, to make the next move. He looks at you like he's searching for something, his gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips and you have the overwhelming urge to reach out and-

You swallow hard. "This is a bad idea…I mean, being up at 3 am...I should try and get some sleep-"

He nods, slowly. "Didn't say it was a good one."

He’s looking at you like he wants to say something else. Like maybe he wants to lean in.

Maybe you do too.

Or maybe you're judgment's just being clouded by your fantasies and it's all in your head.

You step back and pick up your glass. "I should go." You hate how unsure you sound, as if you're trying to convince yourself.

"Yeah," he nods distractedly, running a hand through his messy hair and straightening up.

You pause at the doorway just to glance over your shoulder.

"Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight."

You leave him standing in the kitchen, staring at the mug in his hand. A moment later he realizes that's the first time you've ever called him by his first name.

 

Neither of you has much success getting sleep that night.