Chapter Text
Sound always came before sight. Always. A crackling, sharp whistle tearing through the air. The smell of dust, so thick it choked his lungs, mixed with the scent of scorched metal and something else. Then the heat, the shockwave, his body flung upward, light as a leaf, tumbling viscously in time stretched infinitely long. The world turned upside down; the sky was a burning crimson, the earth the yellow-green of vomit.
Then silence. Absolute silence. A deafening, thick silence, as if cotton stuffed every crevice of the universe.
John Walker’s eyes snapped open.
The white paint on the ceiling had fine cracks. Quiet. Too quiet. His heart hammered against his ribs, the sound magnified until it filled his entire being. Sweat soaked his undershirt.
Afghanistan? Iraq? Syria?
No. America. Home. The house with the white picket fence. A safe place.
The crisp sound of shattering porcelain came from downstairs.
His body reacted before his mind could. Muscles tensed, he practically launched himself from the bed, breathing ragged. His fingers instinctively reached for his waist, finding no gun, only an empty belt. He scanned the door, seeking a secure position. Adrenaline sang sharply in his veins, bringing a wave of dizzying weakness.
"John?" The voice of his wife, Olivia, cautious and alarmed. "Sorry, honey... just a mug. My hand slipped..."
He stood at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily, fingers twitching unconsciously, watching Olivia kneel on the living room floor below, carefully gathering shards of a broken mug. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the fine dust motes floating in the air.
Safe. Nothing happened.
But he couldn't quell the storm raging inside his skull. A sense of agitation gnawed at his nerves like a swarm of ants. Every minor accident, every sudden noise, even the overly loud engine of a car outside the window, could instantly drag him back to that scorching land reeking of death. Honor, medals, applause—they couldn't fill that void, that bottomless black hole carved out by explosions and loss.
He was like a precision instrument gone unbalanced, its internal gears spinning wildly, emitting a piercing noise, while the exterior had to maintain a calm facade.
It had been like this since he left the military.
So when the offer came, he grabbed it.
The government men arrived wearing well-tailored suits, carrying documents and tablets. Their voices were steady, their words measured.
Captain America. Steve Rogers. Legacy. Need. Honor.
Walker listened, nodded, his spine straight—a posture he knew well. Something churned inside him.
He could do this. He had to. He didn't want to be Rogers; he just wanted… to do well. To be needed. To be recognized.
They gave him the shield. Red, white, and blue, with a shining star. It was heavier than he’d imagined. He lifted it, arm muscles straining, offering a smile that almost passed for confident.
The name Captain America was meant to reassure people. Now that mantle fell on his head.
He tried.
God witness, he tried his absolute hardest. He didn't want to be a second Steve Rogers; he just wanted to do well, to be John Walker's version of Captain America. Train harder, smile more convincingly, wield the shield more perfectly. But the doubtful glances, the whispered comments, the tidal wave of comparisons and ridicule online—they were like fine needles, constantly pricking his taut nerves.
And then there was that name. James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier.
He knew the man from files, from museums, from stories passed around. A living legend. A tragic figure. Steve Rogers's friend. A sharp weapon. His story was dark, complex, tangled with brainwashing, cycles of ice and thaw, painful like a broken poem.
Walker was drawn to him. An inexplicable attraction he couldn't explain to anyone, least of all himself. Perhaps it came from the real, sedimented trauma of war that Barnes carried. Perhaps from somewhere else. Walker himself hadn't figured it out.
So, when a lead on the Flag-Smashers emerged, when he learned the Falcon and the Winter Soldier were involved, he practically leaped at the chance. Appearing in his pristine, barely battle-worn uniform, gripping that shield.
A chase. Gunfire erupting, vehicles speeding, figures leaping. Walker arrived via helicopter, throwing the shield at the man about to strike Sam Wilson. Then he glanced at the figure. James Barnes. A brief look.
"John Walker. Captain America," Walker greeted, his voice deliberately steady, yet utterly ignored.
When the shield was thrown and rebounded, Barnes caught it. He didn't even fully turn, just glanced at Walker from the corner of his eye.
A wave of inexplicable irritation washed over Walker. He tried harder. Look, he thought, look at me. I can do this. I can help you.
Super-soldiers. The serum-enhanced kind. Walker's combat skills were useless here. Their first collaboration ended abruptly and messily.
But he didn't give up. Driving his vehicle next to Barnes and Wilson, stopping, greeting, opening the door—only to be ignored. It was like a bucket of cold water dumped on him. But strangely, that cold was laced with a bizarre heat. A shiver of humiliated shame ran down his spine.
"We can work together," Walker said, his tone laced with a strong, unconscious expectation.
"You holding that shield doesn't make you Captain America."
Walker was silent for a few seconds. He had to admit those words cut deeper than any weapon. It was his own fear, one he didn't dare acknowledge—that he might not be good enough. Never good enough.
Forced optimism. He tried to lighten the mood, to make their interaction more natural, but he couldn't. He made a suggestion; Barnes refused outright, not even bothering with more words, just a simple "No." He even asked about Lemar's name, not granting Walker another glance. Walker felt even worse realizing this, though Barnes's attitude was more of a blanket hostility.
Then he got out of the car. Their first meeting ended like that. Unpleasant. Or rather, their interactions had never been associated with the word "pleasant."
That unpleasantness erupted to its extreme when the palm of his hand touched Lemar's scorching blood.
He was powerless. Even with the serum.
Lemar was dead. The street spun. The blood was hot, sticky. The edge of the shield dripped with it. The screams of the crowd were distant, as if heard through water.
In that moment, Walker began to hate the man before him.
"Lemar wasn't killed by him, John. Don't go down that road. Believe me, the end of that road isn't good."
Oh, now he decided to talk properly?
Agitation enveloped him. Tinnitus, dizziness. Until Sam demanded he hand over the shield. His first reaction was to look at Barnes. He felt betrayed, a feeling that morphed into anger, growing fiercer. Then came the pain—from Barnes's and Wilson's fists. He fought back, even gaining the upper hand.
Reason had long been washed away. The shield came down; the life before him would end. He didn't hesitate. Barnes tackled him. For a few moments, Walker almost felt he preferred fighting him. No extra words, no fake dissuasion, just pain.
He hated Barnes. He was utterly certain now.
Then the shield was wrested away. Barnes was close, the two of them controlling him, leaving him no room to resist. He looked into Barnes's eyes. Something swirled in them, making him momentarily dazed. Then he felt his own bones break. The physical pain was nothing compared to the feeling of being stripped, as if a part of him had been torn away by force.
The gap wasn't about that vial of liquid. He hadn't been worthy of the shield, worthy of the title. He hadn't earned that man's recognition. He hadn't even been able to protect his best friend.
The world didn't even grant him the mercy of pausing to feel the pain.
Press conference. Suit and tie. Hollow words. "Thank you for your service." Next steps. Meetings. Discharge. Revocation of his military honors. They averted their gazes, no longer looking at him. A tool, grown dull, was discarded.
Valentina found him on the brink of collapse.
"I would've killed him too."
"They don't appreciate you, John," she said, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. "But I do."
Olivia tried to touch him. He shook her hand off.
"Don't..." he rasped.
He saw something extinguish in her eyes. Saw her pack her bags. Saw her take the children. Saw the door close.
Silence filled his world, but his mind felt noisy, assaulted by an endless cacophony, gnawing at his nerves bit by bit. The house was empty. The only anchor in sight was a replica of the shield, leaning against the wall—a crude joke.
He drank, smashed things, screamed at the empty rooms. Sweat, alcohol, angry tears.
And Valentina gave him a target, a direction, a reason to pick up a weapon again. Hatred and chaos were good fuel; they filled the void of disorientation.
But what he dreamed of was still the sand, Lemar's vacant eyes, and the look in Barnes's eyes when he broke his arm—disgust, resentment, and perhaps a shred of pity he'd deigned to offer.
And that mechanical arm. Metal. Cold. He wondered if something capable of such destruction could also bring a strange peace.
The stitched-together shield. The somewhat old uniform. It was meant for revenge. The target was so clear. But when that vehicle was about to plunge, he hesitated. His head began throbbing violently. Then, he chose to run toward the vehicle.
The misshapen shield was tossed down, landing before Barnes. He strained with all his might to pull the vehicle back, to pull himself back, but ignored the enemy beside him. A powerful impact sent him flying, crashing to the ground right in front of Barnes.
The misshapen shield was tossed down, landing before Barnes. He strained with all his might to pull the vehicle back, to pull himself back, but ignored the enemy beside him. A powerful impact sent him flying, crashing to the ground right in front of Barnes.
His mind was still a mess. The vehicle was ultimately saved by Wilson and his Redwing. He had failed. It lasted mere seconds, but in Walker's consciousness, it stretched infinitely—pain, screams, mockery... Then a touch. A solid touch. That hand—the one that had broken his arm, wrested the shield from his grasp—pulled him up, cutting through the noise in his head.
Walker looked into the depths of Barnes's eyes. The emotions there were still complex, but he could read one of them—recognition. Maybe it wasn't much, but for Walker, it was enough.
He could finally fight alongside them, as he had longed to. With them. With James Barnes.
He didn't know why Barnes had followed him after he chose to turn right. He thought maybe Sam Wilson didn't know either. But it happened. In his heart, excitement outweighed confusion. Later, they successfully captured those Flag-Smashers. As they were leaving, Walker, as if moved by some ghost, raised his hand and lightly patted Barnes on the back.
He didn't know why he did it. He just did. Barnes didn't refuse. Said nothing. That brief contact gave him an intense sense of satisfaction, and it also made him understand: the hatred born in that time didn't come from having the shield taken away, but from being denied proximity.
"Lincoln ? Seriously?"
Walker could feel the distinct lack of aggression in Barnes's tone.
"Great man. Great words."
He looked at Barnes like that, watching his reaction.
"Just sounds wrong coming from you."
Barnes almost smiled.