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Chapter Text

The firefight had been going sideways from the second they breached the compound.

Explosions thundered through the steel rafters as the enemy’s last-ditch defenses activated—turrets sweeping low, pulse rounds slamming into walls and tearing through cover. Smoke choked the corridors. The team was split. Comms were flickering in and out, static dancing between clipped orders.

John had been covering the east wing, pushing deeper than he should’ve alone. Standard op? No. But the fallback point was compromised and the hostiles had locked onto Yelena’s position. So he moved. Fast. Loud. Reckless.

“Three on the left!” he barked into the comms, voice fraying. “Suppressing fire!”

He hurled a flashbang around the corner and charged after the burst—shield up, boots pounding over scorched tile. One shot to the chest. Another to the leg. A third grazed his ribs but he didn’t stop. Not until he’d cleared the hallway, taken out the last two guards, and kicked open the central generator room.

That’s when everything went to hell.

The generator—unstable and half-rigged with alien tech—was already overloading. Sparks spit like lightning. The hum in the air was deep and wrong, vibrating through bone. John’s gut told him to fall back. But he saw the power surge spike on the monitor. Saw it jump straight into red.

If that thing detonated, it wasn’t just the op that would fail—it’d take half the block with it.

“Shit,” he breathed. Then threw the shield at the panel and ran straight in.

He barely had time to disconnect the primary line before the overload triggered a secondary collapse.

The explosion wasn’t clean. It was all jagged metal and concussive heat. The blast knocked him off his feet and slammed him into a support beam. Everything went white—then black.

-

“You Done Being Stupid?”

The dust hadn’t even settled when Bucky shoved a smoking beam out of the way and grabbed John.

“Walker!” 

Fingers clenched tight in the straps of his tac vest, jerking him back like he was nothing more than a misbehaving mutt. John hissed through his teeth, whole body tensing as his left side screamed in protest.

“Jesus— fuck —easy, man—”

“You don’t get to ask for easy ,” Bucky growled, voice sharp, chest heaving from exertion. His eyes scanned John, laser-focused, furious. “What the hell were you thinking?”

John didn’t answer. Not right away. He was too busy blinking through the spots in his vision and trying not to pass out from the dull, hot pressure in his ribs. His right hand was trembling, blood smeared along his knuckles from the punch that landed wrong. The shield was still humming faintly, lodged halfway into the wall where he’d thrown it like a goddamn boomerang from hell.

“I handled it,” John finally muttered, lips cracked and voice raw. “It was under control.”

“ Under control? You jumped into a firestorm with no backup and pulled a guy twice your size off a bomb with your bare hands . Then you tanked the shockwave like you’re made of adamantium— which you’re not , by the way—and now you’re bleeding all over my boots!”

John’s knees buckled slightly. He caught himself. Barely.

Bucky caught him harder.

The metal hand came up under his arm, locking around his bicep like a vice. He didn’t let go.

“Goddamn it, Walker,” Bucky muttered, softer now. “You’re shaking .”

“I’m not—” John tried to lie, but his breath hitched. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

John coughed, something wet catching in his throat. 

“You’re bleeding through your side,” Bucky muttered, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading beneath cracked armor. “You got a puncture? Internal?”

He staggered when Bucky pushed him toward a nearby wall—gently but firmly—letting him lean back against the cool concrete while he crouched to check the damage. John winced as Bucky lifted his shirt, sucking in a sharp breath when fingers pressed against his ribs.

“Don’t touch—fuck—”
“That’s broken.”
“Just bruised.”
“That’s at least two cracked ribs, genius.”

Bucky’s hand was warm against the bruised skin, his touch gentle despite the bite in his tone. John flinched anyway, jaw clenched tight.

“You’ve got blood down your side and glass in your palm. You dislocated your goddamn shoulder and reset it yourself like you’re in a straight-to-DVD action movie. What is wrong with you?”

John didn’t flinch. “Since when do you talk this much?”

Bucky took a breath. Slid a hand behind his neck. Let his thumb press lightly into the pulse point there—steady, grounding.

“You keep pulling this shit,” he said, voice lower now. “Taking the worst of it so the rest of us don’t have to. Like you’re trying to prove something. You know you’re not invincible, right?”

John’s eyes flickered, glassy.

“...Never said I was.”

“You act like it.” Bucky leaned in closer. “You act like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Like we wouldn’t care.”

Something in John’s expression cracked at that.

His breath hitched, just once. Shoulders slumped, finally letting some of the pain show in the way his body sagged against the wall.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, quiet. Honest.

“You didn’t scare me,” Bucky replied. “You pissed me off .”

John’s breath caught. He shifted his weight again, and his knees buckled. His vision swam.

That’s when Bucky narrowed his eyes. And then—without another word—he scooped him.

Full fireman carry. Like he weighed nothing.

John let out a startled, pained grunt. “Bucky—what the hell —”

“Shut up,” Bucky said, already moving, boots crunching over debris.

“I can walk.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I don’t need to be carried like a—”

“Like a dumbass who just walked through an explosion and tried to bleed out in peace?” Bucky adjusted his grip, hauling him tighter. “Yeah, well. You lost the right to complain the second you played human shield.”

John groaned, his voice rasping against Bucky’s collarbone. “You are the worst .”

“And you’re concussed. So if you throw up on me, I’m dropping you.”

He didn’t mean it. Not really.

John knew that. He could feel it in the way Bucky’s hold didn’t slip, not even when he stumbled over a twisted hunk of rebar or when the aftershocks of adrenaline made his hands shake. His voice might be all steel and sarcasm, but his arms were steady. Protective.

Behind them, the building groaned—a sound of settling ruin and near-collapse. The kind of sound that said next time, you might not make it .

John turned his face into Bucky’s shoulder, mostly to block the smoke, but partly to stop the world from tilting again.

He didn’t fight the carry this time.

Didn’t have the strength. Didn’t really want to, either.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” he mumbled.

Bucky snorted. “Too late for that, Captain Catastrophe.”

“…That’s not even catchy.”

“Doesn’t need to be.” Bucky paused just outside the evac zone, setting John down gently on a piece of uncollapsed pavement. “Just needs to be accurate.”

Medics were already heading toward them, radios crackling. Someone shouted for a stretcher. Bucky didn’t move, crouched beside John, one hand braced on his knee, the other steadying his shoulder.

“Next time you feel like throwing yourself on a grenade,” he said, quieter now, “maybe don’t.”

John blinked up at him, exhaustion dragging at his bones. “Only if you promise not to follow me in.”

Bucky gave him a long, unreadable look.

Then, finally— finally —a ghost of a grin. Dry. Wry. Barely there.

“No promises.”

-

They made it halfway down the hall before Ava appeared.

Silent as ever, stepping out from a side corridor like a shadow given form—arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes locked onto the sight of Bucky storming forward with John slung over his shoulder like a duffel bag .

Her gaze dropped to the blood on John’s fingers. The bruising blooming across his exposed side. The way his head was barely lifted, breathing shallow against Bucky’s back.

She didn’t speak at first.

Which somehow made it worse.

Bucky didn’t slow down. “Don’t say anything,” he barked.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said calmly. Her eyes didn’t leave John. “What happened?”

“Ask him ,” Bucky snapped. “He’s the one who decided it’d be a great idea to charge a detonator rig with a half-collapsed support beam over his head.”

“It was stable at the time,” John slurred weakly.

“It was on fire at the time,” Bucky shot back. “Like literally — fire . Actual flames.”

Ava stepped aside wordlessly as Bucky shouldered open the med bay doors.

“Great,” the nurse muttered from behind the desk. “Another one. What is it this time—concussion? Fracture? Missing kidney?”

“Cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, burns, glass embedded in his hand, and enough stupidity to fill a bunker,” Bucky barked. “ Help him. ”

John winced as he was set down—not gently—on the exam table. Bucky didn’t even pretend to be gentle now. He just dropped him like a sack of bricks and stepped back, arms crossed, pacing the room like a pissed-off rottweiler.

John tried to speak. “It was—”

“ Don’t. ” Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do not give me another half-assed line about how ‘you handled it.’ You nearly bled out in a death trap and you limped away like it was a goddamn Tuesday .”

John’s jaw clenched. He looked away.

Ava moved forward quietly.

She didn’t speak right away. Just peeled off her gloves, sat on the edge of the cot next to him, and brushed the blood from his brow with the softest touch imaginable.

Then—her fingers gently tilted his chin toward her. Their eyes met.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Not a trap. Not judgment.

John swallowed hard. He nodded.

“Liar,” she whispered.

Then, her hand ghosted over his side—careful, but firm enough to make him flinch.

He didn’t hide it fast enough.

Her brows drew together just slightly. Still calm. Still composed. But there was a storm gathering behind her eyes now too.

“You’re not walking out of here without scans,” she said.

“Didn’t plan to,” he rasped.

Bucky scoffed in the background. “Good. Because if you even try , I’m stapling your ass to the gurney.”

John let his head fall back with a groan. “So much love in this room right now.”

“Love would’ve let you bleed alone,” Bucky muttered. “ This is rage.”

“You know,” John croaked, eyes half-lidded, “that actually makes me feel better.”

Ava didn’t smile. But she let her hand rest lightly over his—the uninjured one. Just enough pressure to say: I'm here. I saw what you did. You idiot. I'm still here.

And across the room, Bucky kept pacing. Still pissed. Still sharp. But quieter now.

Because John was alive.

And for now, that was enough.

-

The med bay lights are dimmed now, save for the soft pulse of the vitals monitor and the glow of the screen tracking John’s scans.

He’s dozing. Or almost dozing. One arm bandaged, shoulder stabilized, ribs tightly wrapped. The cut above his temple is stitched, but blood still lingers faintly in his hairline.

Every breath is shallow. Controlled. Like even unconscious, he doesn’t trust his body not to betray him.

Ava’s still beside him. Legs crossed at the ankle, posture relaxed—but not asleep. One hand rests on the cot near his. Not touching. Just close enough that if he reaches out in a fevered haze, she’ll be there.

Across the room, Bucky stands by the window.

He hasn’t sat down once.

Not when the nurse read off the list of injuries. Not when John started mumbling half-conscious apologies. Not when Ava said softly, “I think he was trying to end it fast. Keep us out of it.”

Not even when the toxicology screen lit up red.

That part hasn’t left his mind.

Something in the air—weaponized, maybe experimental—spread during the blast. The others made it out before it hit full force. John didn’t. The scans caught elevated levels of something they haven’t even identified yet. And John hadn’t mentioned a thing. Not when they found him coughing blood. Not when he staggered to his feet to keep covering their flank.

He knew.

And he didn’t say a word.

Until the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Yelena padded in wearing mismatched socks and a hoodie three sizes too big.

“You gonna burn a hole in the glass if you keep staring like that,” she said, quiet.

Bucky didn’t look over. “He’s an idiot.”

“Mm.” She came to stand beside him. Tilted her head. “But he’s our idiot.”

Bucky finally glanced over. “He’s reckless.”

“He’s trying.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

“He’s trying really hard not to.” Yelena leaned her shoulder gently into his. “You know that.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that shook a little at the end. “He keeps doing this. Taking it all on like he’s supposed to be the one bleeding in the dirt while we walk away clean.”

“He’s been trained for that,” Yelena said. “Punished for anything else. You know how it works.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserves it.”

“No.” She looked over at John—faint bruising at his jaw, a soft line between his brows even in sleep. “But he listens, eventually. Ava yelled at him with her eyes for an hour.”

“She didn’t yell,” Bucky muttered.

“She whispered very threatening things.”

“…True.”

A beat.

Then Yelena bumped his arm lightly. “You want to sit down now?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you haven’t sat down since the explosion.”

“I haven’t.”

Yelena eyed him. “You can keep glowering from the chair. I won’t tell.”

Bucky hesitated. Then, slowly, moved to the seat Ava had vacated briefly earlier. He didn’t say anything. Just sat next to the bed, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

Ava looked up at him. Gave a small nod. Then stood quietly and left to get fresh coffee.

John stirred in his sleep, fingers twitching faintly like he was reaching for something. Bucky’s expression softened just slightly as he reached out and wrapped his hand gently around John’s wrist—steadying, grounding.

The touch calmed him.

“You’re not alone anymore, dumbass,” Bucky murmured. “So stop acting like it.”

He waited, unsure if he’d get a reaction—but John’s chest rose a little deeper this time. A breath that wasn’t panicked. That wasn’t held like a secret.

Bucky didn’t let go.

Didn’t move when Ava returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to him without a word before settling back into her spot. Didn’t move when the monitor beeped gently, signaling a heart rate that was finally starting to steady.

Didn’t move because, for the first time since the mission, John wasn’t drifting.

He was anchored.

And maybe it wasn’t enough yet.

But it was something.

And tonight, Bucky could be enough for that.

Sometimes Bucky wonders how the hell his life ended up like this.

Because four years ago, he’d hated John Walker.

Not the kind of mild irritation or philosophical disagreement kind of hate. No—bone-deep, blood-hot hate. The kind that made him clench his fists every time he saw the shield in the wrong hands. The kind that made it easy—almost satisfying—to break John’s arm in that fight.

He remembered the look in John’s eyes when it happened. Not fear. Not even pain.

Just grief. Blazing, hollow, bottomless grief.

And Bucky—angry, unmoored, still clawing his way out of seventy years of programming—hadn’t said a word when Lemar died. Hadn’t offered a scrap of sympathy. No sorry. No nod of understanding. Not even a look.

He just walked away.

Back then, he couldn’t see past the blood on the shield. Couldn’t imagine John as anything more than a government puppet with too many medals and not enough restraint.

But now—

Now, John’s lying broken in a med bay, ribs wrapped, shoulder wrecked, clinging to consciousness with a stubborn kind of quiet that Bucky knows all too well.

Now, Bucky’s hand is wrapped gently around his wrist, holding on like it matters. Like he might drift if Bucky lets go.

Now, the thought of losing him makes Bucky’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t have language for.

Maybe he still doesn’t have the right words. Maybe he never will.

But tonight, he can stay.

Tonight, he can be the steady presence he never was back then.

And maybe that’s not redemption. Maybe it’s not forgiveness.

But it’s something close.

And Bucky holds on just a little tighter.

-

Ava was back in her chair, sipping lukewarm coffee, watching John’s chest rise and fall in a steadier rhythm. Bucky had dozed off sitting forward, arms crossed over his chest, chin tucked in.

The peace was sacred.

Naturally, that’s when the door burst open.

“HELLOOOOOOOO INJURED AMERICAN SOLDIER MAN!” Alexei announced at full volume, arms flung wide like a game show host. “I BRING YOU... VITAL SUPPLIES! ”

John groaned softly in his sleep.

Bucky startled upright like he’d been shot. “What the fuck —?”

Ava didn’t flinch. She just sipped her coffee again. “Three hours,” she said calmly. “It lasted three whole hours.”

Alexei charged in like a man on a mission, a massive plastic grocery bag swinging from one hand and a six-pack of root beer under the other arm. He kicked the door shut with his boot, nearly tripping on the welcome mat someone definitely did not put there.

“I have brought snacks, healing beverages, and this delightful neck pillow I found in the lounge!” He held up a bright pink U-shaped plush monstrosity with sequins. “It has unicorn horns ! Very good for spinal support!”

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

Alexei ignored him entirely.

He reached the bed and peered down at John, who was definitely awake now but doing an Oscar-worthy impression of someone unconscious.

“Ah. Playing dead. Classic strategy.” He leaned down closer. “But you cannot fool Papa Alexei . I feel your heartbeat.”

“Please stop breathing on me,” John croaked, eyes cracking open.

“ He lives! ” Alexei bellowed. “I knew the American Super Serum would triumph over minor inconveniences like ‘shrapnel’ and ‘internal bleeding!’”

“Shut up,” Bucky groaned. “Before I inject you with something that does knock you out.”

“I am simply injecting morale ,” Alexei said proudly. “I am very good nurse. Ava, tell him.”

Ava: sip
Ava: “I plead the Fifth.”

John shifted with a grimace, groaning softly as the movement tugged at his shoulder brace. Alexei immediately panicked.

“NO, NO—STOP. DO NOT MOVE. YOU MUST REMAIN STILL. YOU ARE LIKE PRECIOUS RUSSIAN DOLL, VERY FRAGILE INSIDE.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“Let me fluff your pillow—Bucky, stop glowering and give me the unicorn!”

“No one’s giving you the unicorn,” Bucky snapped, pushing himself up. “And you are not fluffing anything.”

Ava looked at the time and stood. “I’m going to the armory. For earplugs. And maybe a grenade.”

“Oh!” Alexei lit up. “Can you bring snacks back? The gummy bears in the kitchen were expired.”

“They weren’t expired,” Bucky said.

“They were hard! Like little rubber bullets. Delicious, but dangerous.”

Ava raised a brow. “You’re dangerous.”

John wheezed a laugh from the bed. “He’s— he’s not wrong. ”

Bucky groaned. “God. I hate all of you.”

“ You love us, ” Alexei said, slapping him on the back so hard Bucky actually stumbled . “We are family!”

Bucky glared at him. “Touch me again and you’re getting defenestrated.”

“Is that the thing with the stabbing?” Alexei frowned. “Or the windows?”

“Both,” Bucky deadpanned.

-

The chaos was already reaching critical mass when the door creaked open again.

Yelena stepped in first—arms full of gauze, antiseptic wipes, and a frozen pizza still in the box . Behind her, Bob trailed in with two plastic containers, an energy drink, and an entire watermelon. Uncut.

She took one look at Alexei fluffing John’s pillow—with the grace of someone trying to smother a bear—and sighed. “Why did I know it was going to be loud in here?”

“I AM PROVIDING MORAL SUPPORT,” Alexei declared.

“You’re providing migraine fuel, ” Yelena shot back. “How is he supposed to rest if you’re screaming like a dying opera singer?”

“I am projecting with love!”

“You’re projecting with volume. ”

Bob grinned. “Hey, hey—look who’s not dead!” He beamed at John, who blinked at the watermelon in his hands. “I brought hydration. It’s mostly water. That counts, right?”

“Is that a whole-ass melon ?” John asked, voice scratchy.

“Yep.” Bob placed it proudly on the counter. “I didn’t cut it because I wasn’t sure what shape your soul needed today.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “That’s... vaguely poetic. And also concerning.”

Ava returned just in time to see Bob trying to juggle surgical gloves and Alexei trying to tuck a blanket around John like he was tucking in a toddler.

She paused in the doorway. Took one long look at the absolute circus inside.

Then turned to Yelena. “How much trouble would we get in if we just locked the door from the outside and let natural selection handle it?”

Yelena considered it. “Depends on who dies first.”

Bucky was sitting again, pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man this close to cracking.

John, for his part, looked weirdly touched beneath all the bruises. His voice rasped as he croaked, “You all didn’t have to come.”

Yelena raised a brow. “You collapsed from internal bleeding, you idiot. Of course we came.”

“ I brought fruit, ” Bob added, holding up the watermelon again.

“You are not cutting that in here,” Ava warned.

“I brought a butter knife. ”

“That makes it worse. ”

John coughed a laugh—then immediately winced and clutched his ribs. “Ow. Okay. No laughing. Not allowed.”

Bucky reached out without thinking, pressing his palm flat over the brace at John’s side. “Breathe shallow. And stop talking. They’re loud enough for both of us.”

Yelena leaned casually against the wall and tossed a gauze roll in the air. “So. Which one of us gets to yell at him next?”

Alexei immediately raised his hand. “I would like to go again.”

“No,” Ava, Bucky, and Yelena said in perfect unison.

Bob just peeled open his energy drink. “Can I be the support guy? Like, emotional snacks and bad metaphors?”

“Buddy,” John rasped, “that’s already your entire brand.”

-

The door hissed open.

And the air went cold.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked in like the room belonged to her. A folder tucked neatly under one arm, heels clicking sharp and deliberate against the med bay floor. She didn’t pause to assess the wounded. Didn’t blink at the sight of gauze or blood or the beeping of the vitals monitor. Her gaze swept the room like someone inspecting a property she might burn down for insurance money.

Perfect posture. Perfect lipstick. Not a single hair out of place.

Like she hadn’t just sent her entire black-ops team into a firestorm and left them there to rot.

No one said a word.

But the tension snapped taut.

Yelena’s expression sharpened—knife-edge calm, the kind that came right before something was set on fire. Bob instinctively edged half a step behind Bucky, eyes flicking between everyone like he was calculating which wall he’d have to phase through to escape. Ava didn’t move, didn’t blink—but her hand slid closer to John’s where it lay limp on the cot. Not touching. Just ready.

Bucky stood up.

His body language didn’t scream aggression.

It whispered something worse.

Val smiled like a predator baring its teeth. “Wow. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually cared about each other.”

Bucky’s voice was low. Unimpressed. “What do you want.”

“I’m here for a progress report.” She made a show of flipping open the folder, then promptly ignored it. “One blown op. Three injured. Six failsafes triggered. One unstable power signature lighting up the grid like Christmas. And my most volatile asset—” her eyes landed on John with surgical precision, “—doing his usual impression of a wrecking ball.”

John didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t bother sitting up.

But his voice, when it came, was clear. Raw. Scraped hollow.

“Don’t pretend I’m your problem child. You only call me that when the body count’s not high enough.”

His breathing was shallow. Labored. Every word sounded like it cost him something—but he said them anyway.

Val raised a brow. “Aw. You almost sounded bitter.”

Slowly, John turned his head toward her. Eyes half-lidded. Glassy. Ringed with exhaustion deep enough to drown in.

“I’m just tired.”

Not angry. Not defiant.

Just… tired. Bone-deep and soul-worn.

The kind of tired that doesn’t leave when you sleep.

“Good,” she said brightly, like it was a victory. “Maybe you’ll be less inclined to do something heroic next time.”

The silence after that crackled.

Then she turned, addressing the room like they were nothing more than assets on a balance sheet.

“For the record, there are no higher-ups. No board. No backup. No Avengers Initiative. Just me. You work for me. You breathe because I allow it. And if any of you forget that again—” she looked back at John, slow and deliberate— “I’ll replace you. Don’t think I won’t.”

John didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t say a goddamn word.

But Bucky stepped forward, eyes dark and voice colder than the air she brought in with her. “Try it.”

Val smirked like it was a game. “That’s the spirit, Barnes. Real team leader energy. But let’s remember—I sign your mission approvals.”

She clicked the folder shut with a snap and started toward the door.

“And John?” she added, not turning around.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at her.

“You’re not my favorite. But you’re loud, and effective, and mean enough to scare diplomats. Keep surviving, and maybe I’ll bump you up the list.”

A breath left him—sharp, pained, close to a cough.

Then: “Can’t wait.”

She left.

The door hissed shut behind her.

Silence followed.

It lingered.

Hung heavy in the fluorescent air like smoke after a fire.

Then—

“...I’m gonna key her car,” Yelena said flatly.

Bob blinked. “She drives?”

“No. But I will find something expensive she likes and destroy it.”

“I’ll help,” Bucky muttered.

Ava didn’t respond. She just looked down at John.

He hadn’t moved since Val left. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. His breathing still shallow. One hand limp on the bed. The other curled into the sheets like he needed something to hold onto and this was all he had.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

His voice was nearly a whisper. “No.”

A beat.

“But I’m still here. That’s what she wants.”

Ava’s expression didn’t soften—but her voice did.

“That’s not why we want you here,” she said quietly.

And that—finally—that broke through something.

His eyes fluttered shut, the weight behind them dragging down.

John had gone quiet again.

Not asleep. Just still. The kind of stillness that meant he was counting the pain, breath by breath.

Ava didn’t miss it.

Neither did Bucky.

She leaned forward slightly, watching the tension around his mouth. “Your breathing’s off,” she said under her breath.

John didn’t open his eyes. “I’ve got broken ribs. Of course it’s off.”

“No. It’s not the pain.” Her voice sharpened. “It’s shallow. Labored.”

Yelena, who’d been mid-sentence complaining about Bob’s snack choices, stopped. Looked over.

“John.”

His eyes flickered open. Sluggish. “M’fine.”

“You’re sweating,” Bucky said, stepping closer. “And this room’s freezing.”

John tried to lift a hand, but it trembled too hard to get far. His skin was clammy—grey at the edges. When Bucky pressed a hand to his forehead, his palm came away damp with sweat.

“Something’s wrong,” Ava said, standing fast. 

Bob hesitated. “Wait. What was in that bunker? There was that coolant system—and those weird storage tanks—”

Yelena swore under her breath. “That wasn’t coolant. It was some kind of synthetic compound. You think it leaked?”

“There was that vapor release right before the blast,” Bucky muttered. “He was closest.”

John’s fingers curled slightly into the sheets. “Didn’t feel like anything.”

“That’s how they design it,” Ava said, already halfway to the door. “I’m calling the med team.”

She was back within minutes—two medics and a toxicology specialist in tow. One of them already had a portable scanner out, hovering it over John’s chest and neck while attaching a cuff to track vitals.

“Hold still, Agent Walker,” the doctor said. “We’ll know what we’re dealing with in a second.”

The monitor beeped. Then turned red.

TOXIN DETECTED
NEURO-SYNTHETIC AGENT 04-VT
EXPOSURE: HIGH
IMPACT: RESPIRATORY + NEURAL STABILITY
RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: ANTIDOTE PROTOCOL / IMMEDIATE ISOLATION

Everyone froze.

John blinked slowly, the color draining from his face. “That… that bad?”

The doctor didn’t look at him. Just turned to the team. “Clear the room. Now.”

“No way,” Bucky growled. “We’re not leaving—”

“I said now. We need to stabilize his respiratory system before it collapses entirely. If you want him to make it through the next hour, go. ”

Ava didn’t move at first.

She looked down at John—his unfocused eyes, the way his chest struggled to rise evenly—and nodded once.

“Fix him.”

Then she turned and left with the others.

The door sealed behind them with a hiss.

And the med team got to work.

-

Outside the Med Bay Isolation Room
The door had sealed. A red light blinked above it.
QUARANTINE IN EFFECT.

The team stood in the hallway like the ground had vanished beneath them.

Ava’s arms were crossed tight. Bucky paced like a caged animal. Yelena was uncharacteristically silent, eyes fixed on the floor. Bob just kept staring at the blinking light, jaw tense, like he was willing it to stop.

Finally, Ava turned on the medic who’d stayed behind with the tablet.

“You had him in here for hours. Why the hell wasn’t that toxin detected sooner?”

The medic flinched. “His symptoms… weren’t presenting clearly. The injuries masked the onset—bruising, fever, tremors, shallow breathing—it all lined up with blunt trauma.”

“Yeah, but he was exposed ,” Bucky snapped. “Shouldn’t your scans pick that up on intake ?”

“They should,” the medic admitted. “But we didn’t run a full spectrum tox screen. The protocol only flags that when environmental hazards are confirmed on site.”

Yelena looked up. “You mean unless someone tells you there’s a risk, you don’t check?”

The medic hesitated. “We—well, yes. There are levels of screening, and no one flagged the compound as chemically compromised. Not in the brief. Not in the diagnostics. We were told it was a structural threat, not biological.”

“So someone missed it ,” Ava said, voice like ice. “Or someone lied.”

The medic didn’t respond.

Bob stepped forward, quieter. “What even is that thing? That agent—04-VT?”

The medic shook his head. “I’ve only seen it once. Off-books stuff. Engineered neuro-toxin. Military prototype, maybe. Experimental. It attacks your system like a slow-burn neural suppressant—weakens respiratory function, overrides pain responses, disrupts focus. Meant to destabilize without killing outright.”

“Unless you’re already injured,” Bucky muttered.

“Exactly,” the medic said grimly. “And he took a lot of damage before this even hit.”

Ava exhaled, sharp and furious. “So if we hadn’t noticed—if he hadn’t started crashing—”

“He’d have gone under in his sleep,” the medic finished. “And we wouldn’t have known it until he stopped breathing.”

Silence followed.

The light above the door kept blinking.

Yelena finally spoke. “When he wakes up,” she said, “I’m going to scream at him for not saying anything.”

Ava nodded. “Get in line.”

Bob swallowed. “You think he knew?”

“No,” Bucky said darkly. “If he had , he would’ve told us. He would've made a joke. Or pushed us away. He didn’t know. He just thought he was supposed to suffer quietly.”

And no one disagreed.

-

The hallway had mostly cleared.

The medics came and went with updates and whispered urgency. Yelena had stormed off to find someone to yell at. Bob followed after her, still clutching the watermelon like it was the only thing in the world he could control.

Ava stayed.

So did Bucky.

They didn’t speak.

Just sat in silence—one on either side of the sealed door, backs against the wall, eyes on the quarantine light that blinked red every few seconds.

The sound of footsteps, distant chatter, equipment clinking down the corridor—none of it mattered. Not now.

“He’s gonna hate this,” Bucky said eventually, voice low.

Ava didn’t look at him. “What?”

“Waking up and realizing we sat out here all night.” He exhaled through his nose. “Makes him feel weak. You know how he gets.”

Ava nodded. “Then he shouldn’t be in there alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They lapsed back into silence.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more.

Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes still fixed on the blinking light.

“Don’t you dare die on us,” she murmured.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just let the words settle.

Inside the room, John didn’t move.

But the heart monitor beeped on.
Steady. Faint. There.

And outside the door, neither of them left.

Chapter Text

The beeping was steady.
Too steady.Too loud.

John blinked, eyes dragging open like it took twice the effort. The ceiling above him blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Every light felt like it had a pulse, like it was throbbing in sync with the slow, boiling ache behind his eyes.

His head was full of ringing . Not sharp, not piercing—just this low, constant whine, like radio static bleeding through his skull. It made his thoughts scatter. He couldn’t remember what day it was. What room this was. Why everything smelled like metal and bleach.

But Lemar was there.

Sitting in the corner chair like he hadn’t missed a single day. Relaxed. Familiar. Like it was all normal.

“You look like shit,” Lemar said, voice calm, easy. “But hey, still breathing. So that’s something.”

John stared at him. For a second, something inside him paused . Like catching sight of a dream before it slipped away.

“I thought you—” he started. Then stopped.

Lemar smiled. “You always think too much when you’re hurt.”

John shifted in the bed. His whole body ached. His ribs screamed. His head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat. But the worst part— the worst part —was how wrong his arms felt. Like his muscles weren’t wired right. Like his veins were too tight.

“They said I was exposed to something. Some kind of… synthetic agent.”

Lemar tilted his head. “You feel fine though, right?”

“Yeah,” John said. Too fast. “I mean—I’m sore, but I’m fine . I know what fine feels like.”

“Exactly.”

Lemar stood up.

John blinked—and the motion left streaks in his vision, smears of light that didn't clear right. His ears rang louder. A hollow roar started up in the back of his skull.

“Wait—where are you going?”

Lemar didn’t answer.

He was already at the door. Turning to leave.

“ please don’t walk away from me! ” John barked, voice sharp.

And before he could think twice, before his body could protest—

He ripped the IV out of his arm.

A snap of pain tore up his bicep. Blood bloomed fast—bright, too red —dripping down the inside of his elbow and onto the floor in fat, hot droplets. It ran fast, faster than it should’ve, like his veins were open highways and not wound tunnels.

The monitor shrieked.

John staggered off the bed, the room pitching violently. His vision warped —the walls curved, the floor stretched, his own breath echoed like it was coming from behind him. The pressure in his skull was climbing , ringing becoming a full-on roar , like someone cranked the volume inside his brain and snapped the dial.

“ Lemar! ”

The hallway outside was long and wrong . Tilted. Lemar was just turning the corner at the end, his silhouette flickering like a bad feed. John shoved himself forward, barefoot, shoulder crashing into the doorframe, blood smearing the wall as he tried to push off it for balance.

His knees buckled once. Caught himself. Kept going.

“Wait—wait, you were right here— !”

Then the hands grabbed him.

Two medics from the side—one hooking under his arm, the other trying to pin him back as he thrashed.

“Agent Walker— stop! You're bleeding—”

“Get OFF—he’s right there! I saw him!”

He tried to fight them, adrenaline pushing through the fog, but everything was off. He was heavy and slow and burning . His own limbs felt foreign —like he was wearing someone else’s body and trying to sprint.

“ LEM— ”

And then the lights fractured into white. The floor gave out.

And the roar in his head swallowed everything.

-

It had been quiet for ten minutes.
Just the soft hum of the med bay, the buzz of the quarantine panel, and the faint thump of boots passing in distant corridors.

Ava sat still as stone. Bucky hadn’t stopped pacing.

Neither of them spoke.

Then the alarms went off.

BEEEEP. BEEEEP. BEEEEP.

Both of them froze.

The red quarantine light above the door started flashing faster—urgent now, not steady. Inside, through the reinforced glass, they could see shadows moving—fast.

A med tech slammed through the hall, nearly knocking over a tray. “Clear the hallway!”

“What the hell’s going on?” Bucky barked.

The tech didn’t stop running. “He ripped his IV and got out of bed—he’s bleeding, he’s hallucinating— ”

Ava was on her feet before he finished the sentence.

“ Let us in. ”

“You can’t,” another nurse shouted from down the hall. “He’s aggressive—he’s not responding—he’s fighting the staff!”

“He doesn’t know where he is! ” someone else yelled from inside.

Bucky stepped toward the door, fist tightening. “Open it. Now.”

“I can’t open quarantine protocol!” the medic snapped. “Not unless someone inside authorizes it.”

Inside, there was shouting.

A crash.

A sharp bang —something metal slamming to the floor.

Then a voice.

John’s voice.

Raw. Panicked. “ LET ME GO! HE WAS RIGHT THERE—HE WAS JUST— ”

Another monitor shrieked.

Ava’s hand was pressed hard against the glass, fingers splayed, palm fogging the surface with every shallow breath. Her eyes darted across the room, searching— desperately —for any sign of movement. For him .

“He’s scared,” she whispered. Her voice was shaky, almost too quiet to hear. “He thinks he’s chasing someone.”

The air felt thicker suddenly, harder to breathe.

Bucky stood beside her, motionless except for the way his jaw clenched. His hands were fists at his sides, white-knuckled. He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“Lemar,” he muttered. “He’s seeing Lemar.”

Inside the room, a medic stumbled into view. His scrubs were soaked red at the shoulder, one hand pressed tight against the bleeding. His face was pale, stunned. The overhead lights flickered once.

And then—

John.

He appeared in the background like a ghost, staggering into view. Barefoot. His hospital gown clung to his body, torn and dark with blood. One arm was still bleeding, the bandages hanging loose. His eyes were wild—glassy, unfocused—but locked onto something only he could see.

He was fighting. Struggling against two techs trying to hold him back. Not attacking them—but reaching. Lunging. As if the past were just inches out of reach.

His mouth moved. Saying something. A name, maybe. Or nothing at all.

Bucky swore under his breath, stepping forward, one hand slamming against the glass.

“He’s gonna tear something open,” he growled. “We need to get in there—now—”

And then—

Everything dropped.

John’s legs buckled beneath him.

There was no bracing. No instinct to catch himself. His body folded, slumped forward like a marionette with cut strings. He hit the tile floor hard. His head cracked against it with a dull, final sound.

Ava flinched.

For a beat— just one beat —the room fell into eerie silence.

Then the lights strobed red.

A high-pitched tone began to scream from the monitor—

BEEEEEEEEEE—

A flatline.

“No—” Ava breathed, and then louder, “ CODE DOWN! ”

Someone inside shouted it back, chaos erupting around John’s still form. But Ava didn’t wait.

She was already moving.

“ OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR— ”

Her voice tore out of her, raw and panicked, the sound of something breaking open inside her.

Click.

The lock disengaged.

Bucky was the first through, slamming his shoulder into the doorframe. Ava followed, fast and reckless, her hip catching hard on the metal edge—but she didn’t feel it.

The hallway blurred around them. Voices shouted over one another. Feet pounded the tile.

But all Ava saw—

Was him .

John. On the floor. Unmoving.

Face turned toward the wall. Eyes closed.

And the sound of that flatline didn’t stop.

-

The door hadn’t even finished swinging open before Bucky was on his knees.

He reached John in three long strides and dropped beside him, boots skidding on the slick tile. His hands hovered for a heartbeat—one shaking, one blood-smeared from where he'd shoved the door—and then he grabbed .

“John,” he rasped, voice low and hard, already sliding two fingers to his neck. Nothing.

No pulse.

Not here, not now, no.

Ava hit the floor on the other side. “Is he—?”

“Help me roll him!” Bucky barked.

Together, they turned John over. His head lolled against Ava’s arm, blood from the reopened wound trailing across his jaw, matting into his hair. His skin was too pale. His lips had gone faintly blue.

“Get the crash cart in here!” someone shouted from behind them.

But Ava wasn’t listening.

Her hands were already on him—one cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder like she could will him back. “Come on, John. Come on—” Her voice cracked. She looked at Bucky, eyes wet and wild. “You said we had time.”

“I thought we did.”

Bucky’s hands were already interlocked, pressing down on John’s chest. “One—two—three—four—”

Each compression jolted his body. Ava flinched every time.

“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Bucky hissed. “You hear me, Walker? You don’t get to do that.”

The room spun with noise—monitors shrieking, footsteps scrambling, the hum of the crash cart being wheeled in.

A tech dropped to the floor with the paddles. “Back—clear!”

Bucky yanked his hands off and pulled Ava back with him.

John’s body arched violently off the ground as the shock hit.

His arm twitched. Nothing else.

The flatline continued.

Ava’s breath stuttered. Her fingers were still tangled in the sleeve of his gown. She hadn’t even realized she was still holding on.

“Again!”

They shocked him a second time. His body jerked.

And then—
A gasp .

Barely there. But enough.

His chest rose. Just once. Then again.

“Sinus rhythm returning,” the tech said. “Pulse is weak but present.”

Ava blinked, stunned. “Wait—he—?”

Bucky’s hand was already back on John’s wrist. “He’s here,” he said. His voice shook for the first time. “Barely. But he’s here.”

Ava let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. It shuddered out of her, broken.

Bucky sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling like he’d just been the one shocked.

She leaned forward again, cupping John’s face in both hands. His skin was clammy, lashes sticky with sweat and blood. “You idiot,” she whispered, thumb brushing his temple. “You don’t get to leave like that.”

The room buzzed with motion—nurses reattaching lines, monitors recalibrating, someone wiping away blood from the floor. But none of it registered. Not really.

Then the door burst open behind them.

Yelena froze just past the threshold. Her eyes landed on John’s unmoving form—then Bucky—then Ava—and she moved .

“What the fuck,” she breathed. “Is he—?”

“He flatlined,” Bucky said, voice low, strained. “We got him back.”

Yelena’s gaze dropped to Ava’s hands still cupping John’s face, her knees on the floor, blood staining the edges of her sweater.

“He looks dead,” Yelena muttered.

“He’s not,” Ava whispered. “Not anymore.”

Bob arrived a second later, pausing when he saw the mess. “Jesus.” He stepped in, gently setting something down—two towels, a wrapped heat pack, something to do. Something normal .

The medics worked fast—clamping the bleeding, restitching the wound, stabilizing vitals—but the room still felt suspended in glass. Too quiet , even with all the noise.

And then—

John twitched.

A full-body, involuntary jerk, like a wire sparking back to life. His fingers curled slightly around the edge of the blanket draped over him.

Ava felt it.

Her breath caught, eyes locking on his face. “John?”

Nothing.

But his hand twitched again. Slightly. Then more.

“Come on, come back,” she murmured, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone. “Right here. Right here with me.”

His brow creased.

Just a little.

The tiniest flicker of pain. Of presence.

And then his lips parted.

“...Lemar...?”

The word rasped out, cracked and almost inaudible. But they heard it.

Ava’s eyes filled instantly. “No,” she said gently, leaning in, forehead almost to his. “You’re not there. You’re safe. You’re here.”

Bucky’s hand wrapped gently around John’s wrist, anchoring him. “You’re back, Walker. Stay with us.”

From behind, Yelena sat down hard against the wall, covering her face with her hands.

“oh my god,” she muttered. “You scared the shit out of us.”

Bob crouched down beside her, silent. He didn’t offer words—just passed her the heat pack he’d been carrying. She didn’t reach for it. So he just held it there in her lap.

Ava hadn’t let go of John’s face.

Her thumbs brushed softly along the line of his cheekbones, wiping away blood he didn’t seem to feel. Her own breathing was shallow, lips parted like she was still waiting for him to stop. For everything to crash again.

But it didn’t.

John was still breathing. That awful flatline tone was gone.

And in its place—a quiet, inconsistent rhythm. A struggling kind of life. But life all the same.

Bucky finally exhaled. It sounded like it hurt.

He leaned back a little, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s gonna be pissed when he wakes up,” he muttered.

Ava huffed a soft, shaking breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Only if he remembers it.”

“Yeah. If we’re lucky, he’ll sleep through the embarrassment part.”

John stirred faintly under their hands. His head tipped just a fraction toward Ava’s palm. It was nothing—but it made her blink fast, like her eyes suddenly burned.

“I’m staying,” she said quietly, without looking up.

“No one’s moving you,” Bucky replied.

Behind them, a nurse stepped back from the monitors. “Vitals are stabilizing,” she confirmed. “But he needs to rest”

Yelena finally looked up, wiping her hands over her face like it would erase everything that just happened. “There a chair in here?”

“Corner.” Bob was already dragging one over. He didn’t say anything else—just set it by the bed and gave Ava a look like take it or I’ll put you in it myself .

She hesitated—then nodded. Let Bucky guide her up, still keeping her hand in John’s even as she sat down. Her fingers never left his.

The room started to still.

Yelena stretched out her legs in front of her with a groan and let her head thunk back against the wall. “If he flatlines again,” she said flatly, “I’m hitting him.”

Bob glanced over. “With what?”

“My shoe. Or a clipboard. Maybe a chair.”

Bucky gave a tired grunt. “He’d probably thank you. Less paperwork.”

They were all trying to joke now—badly, clumsily—but it was something. It kept the air from collapsing in on them.

A long silence followed. The kind that settled in after the worst had passed but before anyone dared to believe it.

John’s breathing deepened slightly. His hand twitched again under Ava’s.

And this time—his fingers slowly tightened around hers.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but Ava felt it instantly, warmth spreading sharply through her chest. It was the first deliberate thing John had done since hitting the floor.

Ava closed her eyes, relief washing over her like a wave.

Beside her, Bucky tipped his head back, staring blankly up at the ceiling tiles as he released the breath he'd been holding, slow and shaking, as if he'd been drowning and finally found air.

“I need some air,” Bucky murmured after a beat, pushing stiffly to his feet.

“Figured,” Yelena rasped from her spot on the floor, voice sand-papered by exhaustion. “Don’t wander far.”

Then he slipped into the corridor, the door closing behind him with a muted click, leaving the room hushed and close—just Ava, Yelena, Bob, and the steady rise and fall of John’s breathing.

-

The door slid open again—this time with a softer hiss, like the med-bay itself was holding its breath.

Bucky re-entered first, shoulders squared but eyes still raw around the edges. Close behind him walked a tall woman in dark teal scrubs, tablet hugged to her chest, face set in the calm-but-urgent mask of someone about to deliver bad news.

Ava looked up, hand still wrapped in John’s. Yelena straightened against the wall. Bob hovered half-way to standing, energy drink forgotten in his fist.

“Everyone still alive in here?” Bucky tried for a steady voice; it landed rough, frayed.

“He hasn’t moved,” Ava said, thumb rubbing slow circles on the back of John’s hand. “But his rhythm’s holding.”

“Good.” Bucky took one more breath, then stepped aside. “Dr. Ortega needs a moment.”

The doctor nodded a quick greeting. “I know you’re exhausted, but I need all of you focused for one minute, okay?” She tapped the tablet and brought up a glowing schematic—lung silhouettes, blood-chem readouts scrolling red.

“We finished Agent Walker’s toxin panel,” Ortega continued. “The concentration in his system is higher than we thought—dense enough that minor secondary exposure is virtually guaranteed for anyone who shared air with him before quarantine sealed.”

Bob frowned. “You mean… us?”

“Exactly.” She swept her gaze across the three of them—Ava at the bedside, Yelena on the floor, Bucky by the door. “You were all in here while he was symptomatic, some of you in direct contact during the arrest and resuscitation. I need baseline samples from each of you—blood, pulmonary scan, neuro check—today.”

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up. “Are we talking quarantine quarantine?”

“Not yet,” Ortega said. “The agent degrades quickly in low doses. Odds are you’ll all test clean. But if levels spike, we act fast.” She softened a fraction. “It’s precautionary—but non-optional.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. “How long will it take?”

“Ten minutes per person. I can start right here, bedside.” Ortega pulled a kit from her pocket. “Ava, you’re seated—let’s begin with you.”

Ava’s grip on John’s hand didn’t falter. “Fine. Just… work around this.”

Bucky moved to the opposite side of the bed, fingers brushing John’s forearm in silent apology before resting there—grounding both of them. “I’ll go last,” he told the doctor. “Need to keep an eye on him.”

Bob cleared his throat. “Guess that leaves me second.” He tried a crooked grin. “I hate needles, just so everyone knows.”

Ava huffed a weary breath of amusement as Ortega swabbed her arm. “Deep breath,” the doctor murmured, sliding the needle home.

Ava barely blinked—eyes fixed on John’s face, as if willing him to feel none of the bustle. When the vial clicked free, she asked quietly, “Could he get worse?”

“He’s trending stable,” Ortega answered, sealing the sample. “Antidote’s circulating. What he needs now is rest—and you three healthy enough to keep breathing in case he forgets how again.”

Bob shuffled closer as Ortega switched needles. “If our samples pop red, what’s the protocol?”

“Isolation, antitoxin boosters, seventy-two-hour observation,” Ortega said briskly. “But let’s not borrow trouble yet.”

Yelena pushed to her feet. “I’m next after Bob. Let’s get it done.”

As the doctor worked, the room settled into a tense hush broken only by the gentle beeps of John’s monitor and the soft click of vials dropping into the collection tray.

Bucky kept watch over every breath John took, thumb drawing absent patterns against his wrist. Without looking up, he asked, “You guys good?”

“Peachy,” Yelena muttered, rolling her sleeve. “You?”

He didn’t answer—just stared at the slow rise and fall of John’s chest.

When Ortega finally turned to him with the last syringe, Bucky held out his arm without hesitation. “Make it quick.”

Ortega capped the final sample and tucked it away. “Results in an hour. Stay in this wing until we know.”

She left as quietly as she’d arrived, door whispering shut behind her.

For a long moment no one spoke. Bob set the melon-sized energy drink on the counter like it might break. Yelena leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed.

Ava exhaled, slow and deliberate, then brushed a stray lock of hair from John’s forehead. “Hear that, John? We all get matching bracelets now—blood-draw chic.”

John didn’t stir, but his lips parted on a deeper inhale, like even unconscious he’d heard the joke and chosen to breathe along with it.

Bucky finally allowed himself a weary half-smile. “He’s still fighting,” he echoed, softer this time, and the words—small as they were—felt like a promise they all intended to keep.

-

The pain came first.

Not sharp. Not clean.
It was dull —deep—threaded into the meat of him like it had been waiting. Every breath scraped against the bandages around his ribs. His shoulder burned like someone had poured heat into the joint and sealed it shut. His mouth tasted like copper and dust, and something cold and clean was taped to his arm.

He didn’t know where he was. Or when. Or how long he’d been drifting.

His head throbbed in slow, pulsing waves. A high ringing wove through the quiet—constant and thin, like a wire stretched too tight. His thoughts slid sideways whenever he tried to hold them. Like his brain was out of sync with his body.

A hand touched his.

Steady. Warm. Fingers curling around his lightly.

He couldn’t speak yet. Could barely lift his eyelids. But he knew that hand.

Ava.

He let himself drift again.

-

When he surfaced next, the light was dimmer. Someone was whispering—not to him, just nearby.

“…he twitched again,” Bob said. “That counts as progress, right?”

“I’m watching the monitors,” Ava murmured. “He’s still fighting.”

“He’s probably dreaming of us being quiet,” Yelena muttered. “Poor bastard.”

John wanted to smile. Couldn’t.

His neck hurt when he tried to shift. His chest seized halfway through the breath, and pain lanced down his side. His fingers twitched—uselessly—like they didn’t belong to him.

The hand over his didn’t let go.

-

A knock at the door broke the silence.

They all turned as Dr. Ortega stepped in, a tablet tucked under one arm and a sealed med kit in her hands. She looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—but the kind that came from watching people you’ve patched up get torn open again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, voice brisk but not cold. “I have an update.”

The lab team finally identified the compound—neural suppressant, mixed with synthetic destabilizers. The good news is, one of our internal research divisions developed a counter-agent for similar exposures.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Wait— internal research?”

Ortega nodded grimly. “They had it ready. Quietly. No one told us until now.”

“Of course they didn’t,” Yelena muttered.

Ortega didn’t comment. She just opened the med kit, revealing a row of slim, cold syringes. “They’ve authorized use. It’s still labeled experimental, but it’s the best shot we’ve got. All of you were in proximity. That means you’re getting dosed—today.”

Bob squinted at the needles. “Even if we don’t feel anything?”

“The agent can lie dormant,” Ortega said. “Linger in neural tissue. It’s subtle—fatigue, dizziness, impaired decision-making. You might not feel it until it’s dangerous.”

“And John?” Bucky asked.

Ortega’s expression darkened. “His case is more complicated. The exposure entered directly through open wounds. The toxin bonded faster. He’s already received the full protocol, but his body’s still recovering from the trauma. His progress will be slower. Days, maybe weeks.”

The room fell quiet again.

Ortega softened slightly. “I’ll give you all a moment. But you will need to report for injection in the next hour.”

She left the syringes and slipped out without another word.

-

Walker woke again to movement. Bucky was adjusting the blanket, tucking it tighter around his legs. A glass of water was nearby, the condensation cold where it touched his wrist. Ava was still seated at his side, unmoving.

His throat was raw when he tried to speak. The word caught in his mouth, dry and unfinished.

Ava noticed anyway. She leaned forward, her voice low and steady. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

John didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

His ribs ached. His arm was lead. His head felt like it was packed with cotton and noise.

“I know you’re trying to apologize,” Ava said after a moment. “Don’t.”

He blinked once. Slowly.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the other side of the room. “If you apologize, I swear I’ll punch you in the other shoulder.”

“Which one’s dislocated again?” Bob asked.

“The left.”

“Cool. Right hook it is.”

John let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Too small for that. But it felt like something.

Ava leaned in just slightly. “You didn’t fail us. You didn’t drag us down.”

Across the room, Bucky sat down finally, rubbing a hand over his face like he’d been holding the whole day together by the edge of his jaw.

“You’re not a burden,” he said quietly, not even looking up. “You’re our guy. That’s it.”

John closed his eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Because the pain was still there—his body still broken in places—but this time, he wasn’t waking up alone.

-

The hallway outside John’s room was too quiet.

Ava stood with her arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the wall near the med bay door. She hadn’t moved in almost twenty minutes. Not since the doctor told them John was stable enough to rest without direct monitoring.

Bucky was pacing. Tight, purposeful strides up and down the short stretch of tile. Like if he stopped moving, the walls would close in.

“We should rotate shifts,” he said suddenly. “You’ve been here since before he woke up. I’ll take the next six.”

“I’m not leaving,” Ava said simply.

“You need rest.”

“So do you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Bucky turned to face her. “I’m not trying to win some loyalty contest. You’ve done more than enough. Let someone else take over.”

“I’m not here because I owe him,” she said, voice calm but steel-edged. “I’m here because he might wake up again scared and alone, and I don’t want that for him. Not now.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I know. I don’t either.”

“Then let me stay.”

He exhaled sharply, gaze flicking to the med bay door like it might swing open at any second.

“I know what it feels like,” he said, quieter now. “To wake up in a cold room, wondering if anyone’s still on your side.”

“I do too.”

Their eyes locked—two different kinds of guilt looking for a place to land.

Then Bucky huffed and looked away. “You always win these.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “That’s because I’m right.”

Bucky gave her the smallest of smirks. “You’re exhausting.”

She didn’t smile. But she did look toward the door again. “Go,” she said softly. “I’ll update you if anything changes.”

He nodded. Started down the hallway—then stopped and looked back once more.

“You tell him when he wakes up,” Bucky said. “Tell him we’re still here.”

“I will.”

-

The lights in the conference room were too bright.

Or maybe the shadows under everyone’s eyes just made them feel that way.

No one sat at the table properly.
Yelena was perched backward on a chair, arms folded over the backrest. Bob was slouched in the far corner, spinning a pen between his fingers. Bucky stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, like he was guarding it.

They’d just come from the med wing.

John was stable.
The antidote had worked.
The toxin was clearing.

But the recovery wouldn’t be short.

“He’ll be in and out of assisted breathing for at least a week,” the doctor had said. “Physical mobility’s affected too—shoulder trauma, nerve strain, muscle fatigue. He’s tough, but this is going to take time.”

Time. And a lot of silence they didn’t have answers for.

Now, they were here.

And for the first time in weeks, no one was yelling.
Which made it worse.

“So what do we tell Val?” Bob asked, breaking the quiet. His voice was subdued, like he already hated himself for asking.

“No,” Yelena said immediately.

“No?” Bob frowned. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say—”

“You were going to ask if we lie. If we cover it up.”

He hesitated. “Maybe not lie lie…”

“She doesn’t deserve the truth,” Yelena muttered. “Not after she nearly got him killed.”

“She didn’t ‘nearly’ anything,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “She knew.”

The room stilled.

Bob blinked. “You think she knew about the toxin?”

“I think she knew something ,” Bucky said. “Maybe not the exact strain. But she’s been pulling intel off black-market supply lines for months. She knew that facility was loaded with untested crap. She sent us in without warning.”

“And told John to push deeper when the rest of us were told to fall back,” Yelena snapped. “That bastard generator was already primed to blow.”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, looking nauseous. “Why would she do that? What would she gain?”

“She wanted a test run,” Yelena said. “To see who would survive what. How far we’d go before one of us broke.”

A long silence stretched.

Then Bucky spoke again—slow, deliberate, but every word ringing clear.

“I don’t want to watch another one of us almost die before we admit it,” he said. “This whole system is killing us. Slowly. And we’re still calling it a mission.”

He looked around the room. First at Bob. Then at Yelena, whose expression was so tight it looked like it might crack.

“Every time we follow Val’s orders, we lose more ground. Not tactically. Personally. She’s not building a team—she’s building disposable assets. And we’re letting her.”

No one argued.

Not this time.

Bob sighed through his nose. “So what are we saying here? We walk?”

“We think,” Bucky replied. “We plan. Quietly. We wait until John’s stable, and then we decide—together—what we do next.”

“Because if we walk,” Yelena said, “we have to burn the bridge behind us. She doesn’t let people go.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Then maybe it’s time we stop asking permission.”

The silence that settled afterward felt heavy—but clear.

They weren't broken. They weren't scattered.

For the first time in a long time, they were facing the same direction, seeing the same truth.

No concrete plans yet. No easy answers.

But finally, a question none of them had been brave enough to ask was now sitting openly between them, waiting for an answer.

What if we don’t go back?

-

The med bay was quiet when Bucky stepped inside, the monitors murmuring softly, casting muted blue reflections across the walls. Ava sat in the chair beside John's bed, her head nodding forward with exhaustion.

Bucky stopped beside her, his voice gentle but firm. "Ava. You're off shift. Get some rest."

She straightened immediately, startled awake. "I’m fine."

"You’re not," he said softly. "You’ve been here too long. I’ll stay."

Ava hesitated, glancing once more at John's sleeping face. Reluctantly, she nodded and rose, stretching stiff muscles as she walked toward the door.

"Call me if—"

"I know," Bucky assured her. "I promise."

When the door shut quietly behind Ava, Bucky pulled the chair closer and sank into it, leaning forward with elbows propped on his knees. He watched John’s chest rise and fall in slow, shallow breaths beneath the hospital gown, his expression clouded with concern.

Hours passed in quiet vigilance. Occasionally, Bucky stood to stretch his legs or adjusted the blanket, careful not to disturb John's fragile sleep.

Eventually, a faint rustling drew Bucky’s attention. John’s eyes opened slowly, squinting against the gentle dimness. He groaned softly, turning his head slightly toward the sound of movement.

"Hey," Bucky murmured, leaning closer. "You're okay, John. Take it easy."

John blinked sluggishly, confusion giving way to recognition. Pain lined every feature of his face. "Feels like I got hit by a truck," he rasped, voice barely audible.

"You nearly did," Bucky said dryly, reaching for a glass of water beside the bed. He gently raised John's head and helped him sip a few careful swallows. "Slow breaths. Don't push yourself."

John lay back heavily against the pillows, breathing unevenly, jaw clenched in silent struggle.

For a long moment, neither spoke. John stared at the ceiling, his gaze distant, haunted.

"You remember anything?" Bucky asked carefully.

John swallowed, hesitant, eyes flickering briefly toward Bucky. "I saw Lemar," he said finally, voice rough with emotion. "It wasn't... wasn’t just a hallucination. It felt real. Like he was right there, waiting for me."

Bucky watched John's expression closely, seeing the unspoken grief shadowing his eyes. "You tried to go after him."

John's mouth tightened painfully, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I thought—if I just reached him...maybe I could make it right. Apologize for... for everything."

He trailed off, voice choked by emotion, looking away sharply.

Bucky sat in silence a moment, the room feeling suddenly colder. His chest ached, familiar wounds reopening quietly.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said at last, his voice quiet and steady.

John turned slowly toward him, confusion mingling with raw vulnerability. "For what?"

Bucky exhaled heavily, meeting John’s gaze squarely. "For Lemar. For not saying it sooner. For pretending I didn't understand what you lost."

John stared back, eyes widening slightly, caught off guard. The apology settled between them, quiet yet enormous, filling the space where silence had previously lingered.

"You didn’t owe me that," John murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, I did," Bucky replied firmly. "You weren't the only one carrying ghosts from that day. I’ve had enough people die next to me to know what it does to you. You deserved better."

John swallowed again, his throat working painfully. "Does it ever stop? That feeling?"

Bucky glanced down at his own hand, metal fingers flexing gently. "No," he admitted softly. "But you learn to live beside it. It doesn’t go away, but it doesn’t have to drag you under."

"How?" John's voice cracked, the single word heavy with desperation. "How do you stop it from drowning you?"

Bucky leaned forward, voice calm but firm. "By holding onto the people who’re still here. By trusting them when they say they’re staying." He paused, eyes steady on John's face. "You're not alone in this, John. You never were."

John took a shaky breath, the tension in his chest slowly easing as he absorbed Bucky’s words. Exhaustion settled deeper into his bones, but the raw, biting edge of pain softened slightly, replaced by something fragile yet hopeful.

Bucky moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. "You’re alive, John. You survived. And now we get to figure out what that means. Together."

John didn’t respond right away. His eyes drifted closed again, fatigue overwhelming. But just before sleep claimed him once more, he murmured, almost inaudibly, "Together."

Bucky settled back into the chair, exhaling deeply as he watched John slip peacefully back into rest. The room felt warmer now, less haunted, as if something long hidden had finally begun to heal.

Together.

The word echoed quietly, a promise made in silence, binding them tighter in the darkened room.

-

The next morning, soft sunlight filtered through the thin hospital curtains, warming the med bay in gentle gold. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee, underscored by the muted hum of distant footsteps and the occasional beep of monitors.

They'd all ended up back here, drifting in one by one, without discussion or planning—each pulled toward the quiet room by an unspoken agreement that none of them should be anywhere else right now.

Yelena had dragged in a sleeping bag, stubbornly stretched out along the floor beside John’s bed, head propped against a rolled-up hoodie. Her arms were folded loosely over her chest, her breathing slow and steady, finally surrendered to exhaustion.

Bob was sitting cross-legged near the wall, lazily sipping a strawberry milkshake, a plastic straw between his lips as he flipped through a worn paperback he'd found somewhere. Occasionally he glanced toward the bed, as if to reassure himself John was still breathing, then returned quietly to his drink.

Bucky had taken the chair in the corner, arms crossed firmly over his chest, eyes closed but not truly asleep. He shifted occasionally, vigilant even in his attempts at rest, each breath deliberate and controlled.

At John's side, Ava slumped slightly forward, eyelids heavy, on the verge of nodding off. Despite her obvious fatigue, her grip remained steady around John's hand, fingers gently curled around his, ensuring he'd feel her presence if he stirred again.

Slowly, John's eyelids fluttered open. For a long moment, he lay motionless, blinking sluggishly at the familiar ceiling above. Pain still lingered, a dull reminder of everything he'd been through, but something felt different now—softer, lighter.

Turning his head carefully, he saw them—his team, gathered silently around him. Each one holding space in their own quiet, stubborn way. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he let out a small, breathy laugh, barely audible but genuine.

The quiet sound drew Ava immediately awake. Her eyes opened slowly, instantly alert as she met his gaze.

“You’re still here,” John murmured, voice rough but warmed by quiet surprise.

Ava gave him a faint, tired smile, squeezing his hand softly. “We told you. You’re not alone anymore.”

The simplicity of her words settled over him like a comforting weight, something warm and real he hadn't fully believed until now. He looked around again, taking in each of their familiar presences.

Bucky’s eyes had opened quietly, meeting John's briefly with a subtle nod—simple acknowledgment, yet heavy with understanding. Bob offered a small wave, milkshake straw still between his lips, eyes crinkling gently at the corners.

Yelena stirred suddenly from her spot on the floor, jolted awake by the vibrating phone beside her head. She groaned, fumbling blindly to answer, voice still thick with sleep.

“Alexei?” she muttered irritably into the phone. “Why—wait, slow down—no. No . Do not come here.”

She sat up abruptly, frustration sharpening her tone. “Because you’re loud, you idiot. You’re like a foghorn in a library. Stay. There.”

She hung up, scowling fiercely at her phone. Then, noticing John's faint smile, her expression softened slightly. “You think you’ve had it rough?” she said dryly. “Try dealing with Alexei for five minutes.”

John managed another weak laugh, wincing slightly at the ache in his ribs.

The room settled once more into comfortable silence. Sunlight warmed their tired faces, lingering gently as each of them seemed to breathe just a bit easier. None of them moved toward the door. No one felt the urge to leave.

Because for now, in this quiet moment, everything they needed was right here.

And for the first time in a very long time, John knew exactly where he belonged.

He was home.