geeky-politics-46

[geeky-politics-46]

No words. Just tears.

An Angel for a Soldier

Pairing: John Walker x Thunderbolt!Mutant!Fem!Reader Summary: A year of tender love between a soldier and a mutant is shattered when it's revealed a painful secret, forcing them to navigate the devastating aftermath of broken trust within the Thunderbolts' found family. Warnings: Fluff, Smut, ANGST!!, mentions of depression and bullying. A/N: Ok, this is so long, I didn't know if it was better to make two parts but well... I let it all in one part D: I tried to do it right, I really hope you like it. ✨ sorry if there is any mistake. ✨Comments, likes, shares are appreciated! 🙌✨ ✨ENJOY!! ☺💖 W/C: 50k (I´m so, so sorry) Please don't hate me :)

The first rays of the New York sun, sharp and molten gold, sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the former Avengers Tower. They illuminated galaxies of dust motes dancing in the still air and fell across the tousled blonde hair of John Walker. He was sprawled on his back, deeply asleep, one powerful arm flung possessively over your waist, anchoring you to him. In sleep, the sternness that was his armor melted away. The harsh lines etched by frustration, guilt, and the crushing weight of command were smoothed into an almost startling peace. He looked younger, unburdened.

Propped on one elbow, you watched him. Your enhanced senses painted a vivid tapestry: the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat against your side – a comforting drumbeat beneath the city's distant hum. The clean, masculine scent of his soap, layered over the unique, warm musk that was purely John – the salt tang of his skin, the faint, clean linen scent of their sheets, and beneath it, the vital, unmistakable signature of him.

A year. A year since the fiercely confident, winged mutant with a penchant for dramatic entrances had collided, quite literally, with the walking thundercloud that was US Agent. Sparks, literal from your kinetic descent and figurative from your clashing personalities, had flown.

And somehow, improbably, wonderfully, they’d ignited this.

Your fingertip traced the familiar scar above his left pectoral, a feather-light caress. You smiled as the memory of your first meeting, summoned by the quiet intimacy, bloomed vividly behind your eyes…

The mission had been going FUBAR. Trapped in a dusty canyon basin, the team was pinned down by enhanced mercenaries using gravitic tech. Ammo was low, comms were jammed, and Bucky’s worried voice crackled in John’s ear. Then Val’s static-laced message: “Backup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.” John, crouched behind shattered rock, gritted his teeth, tasting grit and blood. They needed an exit, fast.

Then Val’s voice, sharper than the static but still distorted, cut through: “Backup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.” John risked a glance around the rock. “Backup?” he barked into the dead comms, scanning the bleached, empty sky. “What backup? Where?”

A few yards away, Yelena pressed flat behind cover, snorted. “Perhaps Val sends a drone? Or... a very small missile?” Her tone was dry, skeptical.

Bucky, methodically checking his dwindling ammo, grunted without looking up. “Unless she’s got a cloaked helicarrier parked behind the moon, it’s wishful thinking.”

Alexei, hefting a chunk of rock like a discus, boomed, “Bah! What backup? I see only sky and suffering! Send more bullets, Contessa!”

Ava, shimmering slightly as she phased to avoid a ricochet, added tersely, “Scanners show nothing incoming. Not a damn thing.”

The consensus was clear: they were expecting reinforcements they could see – maybe a squad fast-roping in, an aerial drone strike, perhaps even a surprise kinetic bombardment. Something tangible, military, predictable. John’s mind raced: Squad? Airstrike? What asset could Val possibly scramble this fast, this deep into hostile nowhere? He scanned the empty horizon again, finding nothing but heat haze and despair. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity under the mercenaries' relentless fire.

They never expected you.

Suddenly, the sun flared, blinding him. He threw up a hand, cursing. A massive shadow, impossibly swift and silent, swept across the canyon floor like a silent storm. John dropped to one knee, blinking furious tears to clear the burning afterimages. Around him, the relentless enemy fire… faltered, then stopped. Not with a bang, but a series of soft, almost musical thwips. He risked a look.

Disbelief froze him. A dozen mercenaries closest to the Thunderbolts' position were down, not dead but perfectly incapacitated, a single, impossibly long, silver-tipped feather embedded with surgical precision in a pressure point or neural cluster at the base of their necks. They lay scattered like broken toys, the sudden silence jarring.

But the fight wasn't over. Further out, alerted by their comrades' fall, five more mercenaries spun, their gravitic rifles seeking the new threat in the sky. They opened fire, crackling bolts of distorted energy lancing upwards.

You were already moving. One moment, you were a hovering silhouette against the sun; the next, you folded your magnificent wings and dove. Not away, but towards the fire. Just before impact, your wings snapped open like twin shields of living silver, deflecting the gravitic pulses in showers of sparks. You hit the ground in a three-point landing amidst the remaining foes, dust exploding outwards in a ring.

Before the dust even settled, you were a whirlwind. A mercenary lunged; a flash of a boot caught him square in the jaw with a sharp crack, sending him sprawling unconscious. Another swung a rifle like a club; your wing, impossibly fast and strong, swept low like a silver scythe, catching his legs and sending him crashing down. You spun, a dancer in the chaos, another kick finding its mark on a third attacker's solar plexus, doubling him over with a whoosh of air.

"Covering fire! Now!" one of the remaining mercs yelled, panic edging his voice. They backed up, rifles spitting bullets in a frantic, concentrated burst aimed directly at you.

You didn't flinch. Instead, you spun. Like a top wreathed in lightning, your wings became a solid, shimmering dome around you, deflecting the barrage with a cacophony of clangs and sparks. The energy pulses and bullets ricocheted harmlessly into the canyon walls. Then, as the mercenaries paused, momentarily stunned by the display, you stopped spinning.

With a powerful, resonant thrum that vibrated in John's chest, your wings snapped open wide. Not just open, but they pulsed. A visible shockwave of pure concussive force erupted outwards, a hurricane gust condensed into a single blast. It hit the two standing mercenaries like a physical wall, hurling them backwards off their feet. Simultaneously, a dozen silver feathers, sharp as arrows yet somehow non-lethal, shot forth from the leading edges of your wings with impossible speed and accuracy. They found their marks – shoulders, thighs, pressure points – pinning the winded mercs to the ground or embedding in their gear, effectively neutralizing them without drawing a drop of blood.

Silence descended again, deeper this time, thick with disbelief. The entire remaining force was down. John’s team stared, weapons slack in their hands, expressions ranging from Bucky’s stunned disbelief to Yelena’s calculating appraisal to Alexei’s open-mouthed grin of pure, exhilarated shock. Ava had solidified completely, her eyes wide. You had been relentless. A blur of silver wings, devastating kicks, impenetrable defense, and pinpoint non-lethal precision. It wasn't just power; it was controlled, breathtaking artistry applied to combat.

Suspended high against the vast blue. You hovered, an impossible silhouette of power and grace, sunlight blazing off the silver wings streaked with intricate patterns of purest white, the air shimmering around you like a halo. The world seemed to hold its breath...

You landed softly before him, your wings folding with a whisper of light against your back. Dust settled around your boots. You stepped forward, your expression calm, concerned. You extended a hand, not in challenge, but in offer, to help him to stand up. And then you smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds – warm, genuine, breathtakingly sweet.

"Are you ok?" Your voice was clear, melodic, cutting through the ringing in his ears from the earlier firefight.

John stared, utterly transfixed. He hadn’t blinked. The words fell from his lips, raw and reverent, shredding a lifetime of discipline and ingrained cynicism: "You're an angel."

Angel. The name had stuck. A private beacon of tenderness in the harsh landscape of their lives.

--

Back in the present, nestled in the warmth of their bed, John stirred. A low, contented grumble rumbled in his chest before his piercing blue eyes blinked open. They found yours instantly, sleep-clouded but intensely focused. The transformation was profound. The lingering ghosts – the searing shame of the shield, the crushing weight of failures past – vanished from his gaze, replaced by a warmth so intense it still stole your breath. A slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes – a sight reserved solely for you, his Angel.

"Morning, Angel," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and affection. He shifted, pulling you closer against the solid plane of his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, sending familiar, delicious shivers cascading down your spine. "Those damn senses of yours wake you at the crack of dawn every damn time," he grumbled, the complaint utterly devoid of heat.

"You snore," you countered playfully, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair. "Like a grizzly bear with a particularly stubborn sinus infection. My senses are just valiantly trying to cope with the sonic assault."

He lifted his head, feigning deep offense, but the sparkling amusement in his ocean-blue eyes betrayed him. "Lies. Slanderous propaganda. I do not snore." He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath warm on your cheek. "I… emit tactical sonar pulses. For perimeter defense. Very advanced." Before you could retort, he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sleep, warmth, and unspoken promises. It was a worshipful thing, unhurried and profound, as if you were the only source of light capable of banishing the shadows in his world. He pulled back slightly, just enough for his gaze to trace every beloved feature of your face with an intensity that made your heart flutter against your ribs. "Perfect," he breathed, the word a vow, his calloused thumb stroking the curve of your cheekbone with infinite tenderness. "Utterly perfect."

You watched him, still propped on one elbow, tracing another scar above his left shoulder with a feather-light touch. Enhanced senses meant you could hear the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat, smell the lingering scent of his soap, and the unique, warm musk that was purely John. It was a symphony of comfort.

A familiar, deep ache pulsed between your shoulder blades. You shifted subtly. John noticed, he always did.

His expression instantly shifted to concern. He knew the discomfort of keeping your wings compressed within your body for too long. "They’re cramping again?" He sat up immediately, the sheet pooling around his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. "C'mere. Turn around."

You obeyed, sitting up and turning your back to him. He moved behind you, his large, warm hands settling gently on your shoulders, a familiar anchor. You took a deep breath, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh, unfurling like priceless fabric catching the dawn light, your wings emerged. They spanned nearly twelve feet, shimmering silver like moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate patterns of purest white that seemed to glow faintly from within. They filled the space behind you, majestic and powerful, yet utterly vulnerable in this moment of release.

This. This quiet intimacy was a balm you cherished. After a childhood marked by fear, stares, and whispered cruelties – being seen as a thing, a freak, something unnatural because of the very essence of your being – finding acceptance, let alone adoration, in John's eyes felt like a miracle. The journey to self-acceptance had been long and painful. You'd learned you were special, yes, powerful even, but the deep-seated fear of being other had lingered... until John. He never saw the wings as appendages, as something strange to be tolerated. He saw you. And he loved them. He loved all of you. He saw their beauty, their strength, and understood the vulnerability they represented.

A memory surfaced, sweet and potent, triggered by his touch and the familiar relief of release.

The first few weeks after joining the Thunderbolts. You were careful, keeping your wings suppressed for days on end, being on the Tower and debriefs, wincing subtly when the ache became a sharp throb across your shoulders and spine. You'd developed a routine: slipping away to the Tower's top just before dawn, the only time you felt safe to truly breathe. John, already fascinated by the quiet, sweet, and fierce woman who'd dropped from the sky into his life, had noticed. He saw the tightness in your posture, the way your fingers would press into the base of your neck, the slight grimace you couldn't always hide. Curiosity burned, but respect held his tongue. One pre-dawn, he found himself drawn to the quinjet pad, needing air after a nightmare. He arrived silently, leaning against the access door frame, just in time to see you step to the edge. He didn’t know you were there.

With a sigh that seemed to release the weight of the world, you let them out. The unfurling in the pale light was breathtaking. He watched, transfixed, as you launched into the cool air, soaring in wide, liberating circles, stretching muscles held too long in confinement.

The cool dawn air rushed past you as you landed lightly on the platform, the familiar thrum of your wings settling back into your muscles. The flight had worked its magic; the deep, persistent ache across your shoulders and spine had eased into a warm, satisfied hum. You felt lighter, freer, truly yourself for the first time in days. Turning, you smoothed a stray strand of hair back – and froze.

John Walker stood silently, leaning against the access door frame. He wasn't in uniform, just sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his hair tousled. He must have been there the whole time, watching your flight. Your breath hitched. You hadn't sensed him, lost in the liberation of the sky. A wave of shyness washed over you, hotter than the rising sun. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way combat never made you feel.

But his eyes… they held no shock, no disgust, no prurient curiosity. Only deep, genuine fascination and something softer, warmer – a quiet awe. He didn't recoil. He didn't bombard you with questions. He simply met your gaze, then gestured with a small, almost hesitant nod towards the empty spot beside him on the wide ledge overlooking the waking city.

Hesitantly, you walked over, the soft rustle of your wings the only sound besides the distant city murmur. You perched beside him, leaving a respectful foot of space, tucking your wings close. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged.

"Hi," you murmured, the word soft and shy, barely more than a breath.

He didn't respond with words, but a slow, understanding smile touched his lips, and he gave you a single, gentle nod. It was an acknowledgment, a quiet thank you for bridging the gap. You stared out at the hazy skyline, the rising sun painting streaks of pink and gold. You could feel his gaze on your profile, not demanding, just… present. Waiting.

The question hung unspoken in the air between you, loud as a shout. Why?

"I needed to spread them," you finally murmured, the words escaping softly, almost awkwardly, and shyly. You kept your eyes fixed on the horizon, tracing the silhouette of a distant building. "They… get restless."

He shifted slightly beside you. "Restless?" His voice was low, rough with sleep or emotion, matching the quiet of the dawn. "They… hurt?" The question was hesitant, carefully formed, as if afraid of trespassing.

You glanced at him then, surprised he’d pinpointed it. "When they're hidden too long, yes," you admitted, turning your body slightly towards him. The vulnerability was terrifying, yet his expression – open, concerned, utterly lacking judgment – made the words flow easier. "It starts as a stiffness, deep in the muscles where they anchor. Then it becomes a constant, sharp ache. Like… like holding your breath for days." You unconsciously rubbed the base of your neck where the tension always gathered first.

He was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. You saw the moment the pieces clicked, his observant nature connecting the dots. "So that's why," he said slowly, his voice deepening with understanding. "That's why you wince sometimes. Why you rub your shoulders like there's a knot you can't reach. Why you seem…" he searched for the word, "...pained, especially after long ops or debriefs." His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. "You weren't just tired. You were hurting."

Your breath caught. He had noticed. Not just the wings now, but the subtle signs of discomfort you thought you'd hidden so well. The realization was a warm shock spreading through your chest, melting the last remnants of shyness. "You saw that?" you whispered.

"Hard not to," he replied, a hint of something like self-reproach in his tone. "Just… didn't know why. Didn't feel right to pry." He paused, then added, his voice dropping even softer, "Must've been hell, keeping them locked down."

The simple empathy in his words unlocked something inside you. The dam broke that first night. You told him about the childhood fear – the panic attacks when they first emerged, the desperate attempts to bind them, the cruel names and isolating stares that made you feel like a monstrous thing. You spoke of the years spent hiding, the exhausting vigilance, the slow, hard-won journey towards accepting that this power, this difference, was part of who you were, not a curse. You talked about the sheer, unadulterated relief of flight, the way it wasn't just physical freedom, but a release for your soul.

He didn't interrupt. He just listened. Truly listened. His body angled towards you, his blue eyes fixed on your face, absorbing every word, every flicker of remembered pain or hard-earned pride. He asked quiet, thoughtful questions when you paused – not probing, but seeking understanding. "How old were you?" "Did anyone ever try to help?" "Is flying… is it like thinking? Or more like breathing?"

The sun climbed higher, painting the glass towers in fiery hues. The city's murmur grew into a steady hum. Hours slipped away unnoticed in that shared space on the ledge. It wasn't just him learning about your wings; it was him seeing you, the person behind the power, the history etched into your spirit. And in his quiet acceptance, his focused attention, his simple acknowledgment of your pain and your strength, you felt a connection spark – fragile, unexpected, and breathtakingly beautiful. The fear of exposure began to recede, replaced by a dawning sense of safety. He hadn't just witnessed your wings; he'd witnessed your truth, and he hadn't flinched.

"You know," he said, his voice low and impossibly gentle, breaking the comfortable silence. "You don't ever have to hide from me. Or from the team."

You couldn't respond. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat that felt too loud in the quiet morning. You were utterly glad by his words, overwhelmed by their simple, profound weight. In a world that had so often been messed up and cruel, and after a past filled with fear and hiding, the kindness and acceptance he offered felt like a miracle. It was so nice. So beautiful.

When you could find your voice, you answered, “Thank you,”. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you felt a warm flush bloom on your cheeks. He noticed—of course, he did. A quiet, understanding smile softened his own features in return, but he didn't press. He didn't say another word, simply letting the promise hang in the air between you, a new and solid truth in the dawn's light.

That was the beginning.

--

You were tracing the intricate white pattern on a secondary feather one morning, telling him more about your past. He listened, wanted to know everything about you.  "I needed therapy. Lots of it. Still go sometimes." John watched your fingers moving, his gaze thoughtful. "It helps?"

"Most days. Learned I wasn't broken. Just... different." You let out a soft, shaky breath. "My parents... they were the only ones who ever made me feel that way. They were my safe place. They loved me, wings and all, helped me figure everything out when I was so scared...". You paused, the memory of a more recent, sharper grief tightening your throat. "The therapy... a lot of it was for the… depression.” He noticed the sadness and almost… fear, just for mentioning that last word. “And I had a few bad relapses...". The words felt heavy and dark. "When my parents... it hit hard. Still does."

You didn't elaborate, but you didn't need to. The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken truth: that the time when your powers and wings manifested and your parents’ loss had been the darkest moments of your life. It was a pain that had changed you forever, a deep, suffocating void that had swallowed you whole. You'd had to fight every single day to claw your way back from it, to find a reason to breathe again, to heal enough to simply function. It was a battle you knew you'd carry with you always.

His hand almost covered yours on the ledge, a gesture of shared understanding, but he hesitated, and instead, he looked forward, giving you the space to sit with that heavy truth. "Yeah," he said, his own voice rough with an intimately familiar pain. "Loss... it doesn't really leave, does it? Just learns where to sit."

"No. It doesn't." After a moment, he looked at you again. "And good days?"

You gave him a genuine smile. "More of them now. Especially since landing here. Since... this." You nudged his shoulder. He smiled wider.

--

During another day, he watched you stretch your wings wide, catching the nascent sun. "What does it feel like? Up there?". You closed your eyes, remembering. "Weightless. Powerful. Free. Like... like your first perfect landing after a brutal op. The air isn't empty; it's something you push against, something that holds you. It’s… peace." A soft, almost wistful smile appeared on his lips. "Sounds damn near holy." "Sometimes it is."

You both smiled and looked at the city waking up. "Thirty, right? You mentioned."

You chuckled. "Almost. My birthday is in 2 months. Feel older already. What about you, Captain Serious? Ancient military secrets?"

He snorted. "Ancient? Watch it, Angel. Thirty-six. And yeah, military. West Point. Rangers. Then... the whole Captain America debacle." A shadow crossed his face. Married once. Didn't survive the uniform, the pressure... me." He said it flatly, a statement of fact, but you heard the buried regret.

“Not everything happens the way you want it to, right?” He said with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “No, but it opens new paths. Worthwhile paths.” You responded. You both looked at each other for a moment; your gazes lingered.

--

Another day, John was staring out at the city, jaw tight after a nightmare-fueled night. "Failed my team. Failed Lamar. Failed the shield. Failed my marriage. Pattern seems pretty damn clear." His voice was rough, self-loathing simmering beneath the surface. You turned fully to him, your wing brushing his arm gently. "John Walker." Your voice was firm, making him look at you. "Your failures don't make you less. They make you human. They make you real. They make you a diamond." You held his gaze, seeing the storm in his blue eyes.

He froze, his blue eyes wide, searching yours. "A diamond?"

"A diamond," you affirmed. "You think diamonds start perfect? They get forged under pressure. Scratched, chipped... but they come out shinier. That's you. You carry the weight, you own, the mistakes... and you keep trying. That's not failure. That's a strength. That's why you're amazing. Not despite the scars, but with them."

He looked at you, utterly still. He searched your face, looking for pity, for judgment. Finding only absolute conviction. His throat worked. "How...?" The word was barely a whisper, raw with disbelief. "How can you see that?"

Your hand cupped his cheek. "Because I see you. All of you. The good, the bad, the stubborn, the fiercely loyal, the man who carries too much. You are amazing, John Walker. Exactly as you are. You just need to see it yourself. Look forward, keep trying, especially with yourself. Be kind to the man who carries all that weight."

He didn't speak for a long time. He just covered your hand with his, a silent thank you trembling between you. His eyes were clearer, the self-recrimination banked, replaced by a fragile, determined hope.

--

Other times, there were no words. He sat hunched, elbows on knees, staring at nothing. The nightmare still clung to him like smoke. You simply sat beside him. Your presence, the soft warmth of your feathers against his shoulder, the quiet solidarity – it was enough. An hour passed, the sun climbing higher. You didn´t push. Eventually, he let out a long, shuddering breath. "Bad one," he rasped.

"Want to talk about it?" you asked softly. He shook his head, then paused. "Just... the noise. The falling." "I'm here. You're not falling now."

He turned his head, his blue eyes pierced into yours. "I know."

--

You both shared all you could. That also included fun. He watched you meticulously preen a primary feather. "You know, if you ever need a side gig, a high-end feather duster is a definite option. Dust the Tower in record time."

You gasped in mock outrage, flicking the feather you were holding towards his face. "Excuse me? These are precision instruments! Not dust mops!"

He dodged the feather-tickle, grinning – a rare, full, unguarded grin. "Precision dusting! Think of the efficiency! We could market it: 'Angel's Touch: Dust Be Gone!'"

“Shut up!” you said as you pushed him playfully.

He caught you easily, laughing, the sound rich and warm, pulling you against him. "Alright, alright! Truce! Your wings are majestic killing machines and delicate works of art, completely unsuited for menial labor. Happy?"

You laughed, trying to threaten him. "Much better. And don't you forget it."

--

Day by day, the conversations deepened. The silences grew more comfortable, filled with an understanding that needed no words. You learned the specific set of his shoulders that meant frustration, the slight tremor in his hand after a nightmare, the way his eyes crinkled just before a rare, genuine smile. He learned the subtle tension in your back that signaled your wings needed release long before you mentioned it, the slight catch in your voice when grief brushed too close, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about flying near the clouds. You shared fears, dreams (yours to never have to be in the darkness of depression again, his of building something lasting and good), bad jokes, and the quiet comfort of simply being together as the city woke below.

You understood him – the driven soldier, the burdened man, the surprisingly tender heart beneath the armor. He understood you – the powerful mutant, the wounded healer, the woman who found peace in the sky and, improbably, with him. You knew each other, scars and wings and all, not just despite them, but through them. It was a connection forged in the quiet dawn light, stronger than steel.

--

One crisp morning, a few weeks after your rooftop ritual began, John arrived significantly earlier than usual. He carried two steaming mugs – his thick black coffee, and yours, prepared just how you liked it: a generous splash of milk and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He hadn’t told you, but he’d developed a near-reverence for watching you fly. Seeing you launch yourself into the pale sky, those magnificent wings catching the first true rays of sun, carving graceful arcs and spirals against the awakening city… it was mesmerizing. Peaceful. But what truly captivated him was the look on your face when your eyes were closed mid-flight – an expression of pure, unadulterated serenity, almost divine. It was a side of you that few ever saw, a vulnerability wrapped in power.

He leaned against the cool concrete parapet, sipping his coffee, hidden in the deep shadows near the access door. He watched as you soared, a silver-and-white silhouette dancing with the dawn wind, eyes blissfully shut, a faint smile touching your lips. His own breath caught. It was a private benediction.

When you finally descended, landing with practiced lightness, you stretched your wings wide before folding them loosely. That’s when you saw him, stepping out of the shadows. Surprise flickered across your face, followed by a warm, perfect smile that lit up the rooftop more than the rising sun. "You came earlier," you observed, your voice soft with the lingering peace of flight.

John stepped forward, holding out your mug. "Yeah," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your face, still flushed with the cool air and exertion. He took a breath, deciding honesty was the only path. "I wanted to see you flying." The simple admission hung in the air.

Your cheeks flushed a delicate pink, a reaction that never failed to undo him. He smiled back, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” You said gently as you took the mug, warming your hands. You noticed his gaze wasn't on your face anymore. It was tracing the lines of your wings, lingering on the intricate patterns of white against silver, following the elegant sweep of the primaries. It wasn't intrusive; it was filled with a quiet, almost boyish fascination. It was… cute.

"They seem soft," he breathed, the words barely a whisper, almost lost in the morning breeze. He seemed startled he’d spoken aloud.

You felt a familiar flutter of shyness, but beneath it, a surge of warmth. His curiosity was respectful, earnest. "They are," you replied, your voice equally soft. You tilted your wing slightly towards him, an unspoken invitation. "You want to touch them?"

John froze, his blue eyes widening slightly. He looked from the offered wing to your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. "I... I’m sorry," he stammered, uncharacteristically hesitant. "It must be awkward for you. I shouldn't have–"

You cut him off gently, your smile reassuring. "It’s okay, John. Really. I don't mind." Your trust in him, established over weeks of dawn conversations, was absolute in this moment.

He hesitated for only a second longer, then slowly, almost reverently, lifted his hand. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and shields, hovered for a heartbeat just above the soft downy coverts near the base of your wing. Then, with infinite care, he made contact.

A soft sigh escaped you, not of pain, but of profound sensitivity. His touch was feather-light, tracing the velvety texture. He smoothed his fingertips over the tiny, intricate barbs of a covert, marveling at their impossible softness. He gently brushed the stronger, resilient shaft of a secondary feather, feeling its smooth, almost cool surface. His gaze was intense, studying the way the light played on the iridescent silver, the stark beauty of the white patterns woven through them like lace. A gentle breeze ruffled the tips, and his fingers followed the movement, captivated.

It was an intensely intimate moment, charged with a quiet awe. There was no fear, no revulsion, only pure, unadulterated wonder and appreciation emanating from him. This powerful, often stoic man was utterly transfixed by the beauty of what made you you. His touch wasn't clinical or curious; it was worshipful. He wasn't touching an appendage; he was connecting with your essence. You stood perfectly still, letting him explore, feeling a wave of acceptance so deep it threatened to bring tears to your eyes. This simple act – his large, capable hand gently stroking your feathers – felt like a silent vow, a deeper level of understanding blooming between you both in the hushed dawn light. It was intimate, beautiful, and forged a new, unspoken connection that vibrated in the quiet space between you.

After a long, breathless moment, his hand stilled, resting lightly on the curve of your wing. He finally met your eyes again. His own were wide, filled with a warmth and sincerity that took your breath away. He didn't need words. The reverence in his touch had said it all.

--

You both became closer, the bond deepening with startling speed in the quiet sanctuary of dawns and shared confidences. It bled into everything. The lingering gazes across the crowded briefing room lasted a heartbeat too long. The private smiles that flickered between you when no one else was looking – small, secret things that lit up your eyes and softened the hard lines of John’s jaw. The way your cheeks would flush a delicate pink whenever his hand accidentally brushed yours, reaching for a file or giving you a cup of your favorite coffee, or when his low murmur of "Angel" reached your ears across the communal space. You were magnets, constantly orbiting each other – him leaning against the counter while you prepped coffee, you finding a reason to linger near his workstation, your wings unconsciously angling towards him like a compass finding true north. The way he always seemed to know when you needed a glass of water pushed silently towards you, or how you’d wordlessly place your hand over his for a moment after a difficult mission.

The Thunderbolts noticed. Of course they did.

Yelena’s sharp eyes missed nothing, her expression often a mix of dry amusement and something almost... approving. Bucky’s stoic facade would crack with the faintest upward quirk of his lips whenever John was near you. Alexei would boom with laughter, nudging John heavily, making cryptic comments about "strong birds" and "lucky captains". Ava and Bob would simply watch the interplay with a quiet, knowing smile.

The inevitable moment came one Saturday morning. You were in the Tower’s large kitchen, attempting a batch of honey-glazed cinnamon rolls – a nostalgic comfort food from your childhood you’d mentioned once. John, claiming he was just "supervising quality control," was actually being surprisingly helpful, fetching ingredients, greasing the pan with meticulous care, and taste-testing the icing with a solemnity usually reserved for mission debriefs. His shoulder brushed yours constantly as you moved around each other in the familiar space, a silent dance perfected over weeks of rooftop intimacy.

"More vanilla?" he asked, holding the bottle close, his breath warm near your ear as you stirred the frosting.

"Just a drop," you murmured, leaning slightly into his solid presence. You added it, your fingers brushing his as he handed it over. The contact sent the usual pleasant jolt up your arm, and you shared a quick, warm glance, a silent conversation passing between you.

From the breakfast bar where the others were slowly gathering, nursing coffees, Yelena cleared her throat. Not loudly, but pointedly. Her gaze flickered between John’s hand, still hovering near yours on the counter, and the faint blush dusting your cheeks. "So," she drawled, stirring her tea with exaggerated slowness. "This is 'supervising'. Does it often involve such... intense ingredient inspection, Walker? Or is the frosting truly that fascinating?"

Bucky snorted into his coffee. Alexei grinned, slamming a meaty hand on the counter. "Is love! Is obvious! Look at them! Like two pigeons cooing over sugar!"

John stiffened almost imperceptibly beside you, his hand withdrawing quickly. Your blush deepened from pink to crimson. "We're just friends, Alexei," you said quickly, your voice a little higher than usual. You focused intently on spreading the frosting. "Helping out. That's all."

"Yeah," John added, his tone deliberately casual, gruff even. He busied himself with wiping a non-existent spot on the counter. "Just friends. Making breakfast for the team. Don't read into it."

The denial hung in the air, thin and unconvincing. Yelena raised an eyebrow, her expression plainly saying 'Really?'. Bucky just took another sip, his eyes knowing. Alexei chuckled, not buying it for a second. Ava offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

Deep down, you both knew the charade was flimsy. The word "friends" felt woefully inadequate, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of feeling that surged every time his blue eyes met yours, every time the low rumble of "Angel" vibrated in your bones. It wasn't just friendship. It was the shared vulnerability on the rooftop, the reverence in his touch on your feathers, the way his presence felt like finally coming home. It was the terrifying, exhilarating precipice of something profound, something neither of you was quite ready to name aloud in the bright light of the kitchen, surrounded by your observant, smirking found family.

You finished frosting the rolls in a slightly flustered silence, acutely aware of John’s warmth beside you and the team’s poorly concealed amusement. Later, as you both carried the warm pan to the table, your fingers brushed again. This time, he didn't pull away. He held your gaze for a charged second, a silent apology for the denial and a promise held in the depths of his eyes. Just friends? The thought echoed, hollow, as the sweet scent of cinnamon and honey filled the air. You both knew the truth, simmering just beneath the surface, as undeniable and warm as the rolls fresh from the oven.

The connection with John was the blazing sun at the center of your world within the Tower, but the warmth radiated outwards. You weren't just John's "Angel"; you'd woven yourself into the very fabric of this ragtag, extraordinary team, finding genuine kinship with each of them.

Ava's quiet intensity and Yelena's razor-sharp wit formed an unexpectedly perfect counterbalance. You often found yourselves slipping out into the electric pulse of New York City with them. Sometimes it was purposeful – tracking a lead, scouting a location – but often, it was simply because. Walking through bustling streets or quieter neighborhoods, the city's rhythm became your shared heartbeat. Ava moved like a ghost beside you, observant and calm, while Yelena dissected passersby and storefronts with acerbic, hilarious commentary that never failed to crack you up. Evenings sometimes ended curled up in someone's quarters (usually yours or Yelena's, deemed 'neutral territory'), sharing a bottle of wine or potent vodka Alexei had 'liberated', talking about everything and nothing – missions gone sideways, frustrating tech, fleeting moments of beauty spotted in the city, the absurdity of their lives. Yelena’s dry humor and surprising flashes of vulnerability, paired with Ava’s grounded wisdom and quiet empathy, created a space of easy camaraderie. They saw your wings as an asset, your power as impressive, but you – your humor, your worries, your kindness – that's what they connected with.

Alexei was like a force of nature. Time with him was guaranteed laughter, usually loud and belly-deep. His booming voice, outrageous stories (only half of which you believed), and unshakeable, slightly delusional optimism were infectious. He treated your wings like magnificent accessories, occasionally demanding demonstrations of their strength, "Lift fridge, little bird! Is good exercise!" or comparing them favorably to various Soviet aircraft. His bear hugs were legendary and slightly terrifying, but beneath the bluster was a fierce, protective loyalty. He’d clap John heavily on the back, wink outrageously at you, and loudly declare you both "Good catch!" much to John's exasperation and your amusement. He was pure, unadulterated life, a chaotic counterpoint to the team's often grim reality, and you cherished the sheer, uncomplicated joy he brought.

You had a different kind of bond with Bob, forged in shared quietude and the solace of small things. Bob carried a universe of pain and fractured power within him, a vulnerability you instinctively understood, having navigated your own internal storms. Your connection wasn't about loud adventures but shared stillness. Movie nights were common, often just the two of you in the dimmed common room, sharing a giant bowl of popcorn, finding comfort in familiar narratives or exploring fantastical worlds together. The most poignant moments came in the kitchen. You'd listen as he tentatively described a dish from his childhood – the smell of his mother's apple pie. Then, together, you'd try to recreate it. The focus required, the shared purpose of chasing a memory through flavor, was profoundly grounding for both of you. It wasn't always perfect, but the attempt, the shared focus on something warm and ordinary, was a balm. You saw the flicker of genuine peace in his eyes during those moments, a respite from the golden storm within.

And then, there was Bucky Barnes. The steady center, like a quiet leader. Serene wasn't quite the right word – it was more a deep, hard-won calm, like the eye of a hurricane. He'd seen too much, endured too much, yet carried it with a dignity and weary wisdom you respected immensely. He was the mediator, the one who could cut through tension with a single, softly spoken word or a pointed look. Training with him on Tuesdays and Thursdays was more than just physical; it was a dialogue in movement. He pushed you, respected your strength and speed, and offered insights honed by a century of combat. One evening, after an intense session, you were both wiping down equipment in companionable silence. He paused, looking at you with an expression that held layers of memory. "You know," he said, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant, "you remind me of my sister, Rebecca." The admission, simple yet profound, struck you deeply. It wasn't just about shared traits; it was an acknowledgment of a fundamental goodness, a spark of light he recognized and cherished, linking you to a cherished part of his long-lost past. It was one of the highest compliments you'd ever received, spoken with such quiet sincerity that it brought a lump to your throat. You simply smiled, understanding the weight of the comparison, the trust it implied. "Thank you, Bucky," you’d whispered, the words carrying immense meaning.

They were a family. Dysfunctional? Wildly. Prone to bickering, clashing egos, and the occasional property damage? Absolutely. But also fiercely loyal, bound by shared battles and hard-won respect, finding humor in the darkness, and offering unexpected pockets of deep understanding. Standing amidst them – Yelena rolling her eyes at Alexei's latest boast, Ava sharing a quiet smile with Bob over a book, Bucky offering you a rare, small smile as you recounted Alexei's latest antics – you felt it settle deep in your bones, warm and certain: You belonged. This chaotic, magnificent, broken, and beautiful patchwork family was yours. Your wings had carried you to them, and their acceptance had finally given you a place to truly land.

--

John let out a soft sigh, a sound of pure reverence. His fingers began to work with surprising tenderness, kneading the tense muscles at the base of your wings where they met your back. "Christ, I’ll never get tired of telling they're beautiful," he murmured, his touch both firm and incredibly gentle. "Like something out of a damn dream." His fingers traced the leading edge, feeling the resilient, almost metallic texture of the primary feathers, then smoothed over the softer, downy coverts near your spine. "Hurts when you have to keep 'em locked away all the time."

"It's worth it," you sighed, leaning back into his touch as the delicious release spread through your muscles. "For moments like this. For privacy." You flexed them slightly, the feathers rustling softly. "Besides, not exactly practical in the kitchen."

He smiled as his hands continued their ministrations, moving with practiced ease. He knew every inch, every sensitive spot, every scar earned in battles fought together. This intimacy, his utter fascination and care for this fundamental part of you, was a cornerstone of your bond. He worshipped not just your body, but your power, your uniqueness, your very essence.

The steam from the shower curled around you both, a warm, private cloud in the spacious stall. The hot water beat a soothing rhythm on your shoulders, and you leaned back against the solid, familiar plane of John’s chest with a soft sigh. His arms encircled you, his hands splayed possessively yet tenderly across your stomach, holding you close.

“Tired, Angel?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, barely audible over the spray.

“Mmm. Just… perfect,” you breathed, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. Your eyes fluttered closed. “This is perfect.”

His chuckle vibrated through you. “Good.”

His hands began to move again, but this was different from the focused massage of before. This was slower. More deliberate. One hand slid up to your chest, not with intent, but with reverence, his palm resting over your heart, feeling its strong, steady beat against his skin. The other hand, slick with soap, glided down your arm, tracing the line of muscle from your shoulder to your wrist, then back up again, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles into your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.

He loved this. Loved being your anchor, your safe harbor.

He released your hand to reach for the shampoo. You expected him to hand it to you, but instead, he poured a generous amount into his own palm. “Turn around,” he said softly, his voice leaving no room for argument, only care.

You obeyed, turning within the circle of his arms to face him. The water cascaded over your hair, plastering it to your scalp. John’s expression was one of absolute focus, his piercing blue eyes soft in the misty light. He gently guided your head back, cradling your nape with one strong hand to shield your eyes from the suds as he began to work the shampoo into your hair.

His fingers were magic. They massaged your scalp with a firm, knowing pressure, working out knots of tension you didn’t even know you were carrying. It was an act of such simple, profound service that tears pricked your eyes, hidden by the water and steam. This powerful man, whose hands were made for wielding weapons and shields, was now utterly devoted to your comfort. He took his time, his touch never rushing, every movement an unspoken vow.

When every strand was clean and lathered, he guided you back under the spray. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, and you did, trusting him completely. He rinsed your hair with infinite care, his fingers combing through the strands to ensure every last bit of soap was gone.

As the water ran clear, he didn’t stop. His hands slid from your hair, down the column of your neck, his thumbs pressing gently into the base of your skull, earning a soft, involuntary moan from you. He smiled, a small, private curve of his lips reserved only for you.

You stood there, eyes closed, supported by his presence, letting him care for you in this most fundamental way. The vulnerability was absolute, but so was the safety. In his hands, you were not a weapon, not a mutant, not a hero. You were just his. Loved. Cherished. Understood.

His piercing blue eyes were soft, stripped of all their usual defensive sharpness. Here, he was just John. Your John. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, wiping away a trickle of water like it was a tear.

"Hi," he breathed, the word simple, yet filled with a universe of meaning.

"Hi," you whispered back, a soft smile touching your lips.

His gaze held yours as he began to wash your front, his lathered hands moving over your collarbones, down your sternum, across your stomach. Every pass of his hands was a reaffirmation, a rediscovery. He knelt before you in the water, his expression one of quiet reverence as he soaped your legs, his strong hands massaging your calves, your thighs, the fierce strength in them earned from countless landings. He paid attention to every part of you, as if ensuring you were whole, safe, and cherished.

When he rose, water streamed from his blonde hair and down the sculpted planes of his chest. You reached for the soap, returning the favor. Your enhanced senses took over, hyper-aware of the feel of his skin under your fingertips—the ridge of an old scar along his ribs, the powerful beat of his heart, the way his breath hitched when you traced the defined lines of his abdomen. You washed him with the same deliberate care, your touch saying everything words couldn't: You are loved. You are safe with me. Every scar, every story, I cherish.

When the last trace of grime and soap had swirled down the drain, he didn't move to get out. He simply pulled you into his arms, skin to skin, under the warm spray. Your head found its home on his chest, your ear pressed against the steady, strong drum of his heartbeat—a rhythm more comforting than any symphony. His arms encircled you, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your wet hair.

He held you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted to hold, and in the shelter of his arms, you felt utterly, perfectly whole.

Slowly, almost reverently, your hands began to move from where they rested against his chest. Your fingertips, sensitive and seeking, traced the powerful contours of his biceps. You had always loved his arms—the defined strength, the clear map of veins that stood in stark relief under his skin, a testament to his relentless power and the life that pulsed so fiercely within him. You followed those rivers of blue with a feather-light touch, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath, a silent acknowledgment of the strength he used to protect, to hold, to build.

Your exploration drifted inward, over the broad plane of his chest. Your palms flattened against his sternum, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heart against your skin—a rhythm that had become your own personal anthem of safety. You traced the familiar scars, each one a story you knew by heart, not with pity, but with a quiet reverence for the battles he’d survived to become the man holding you now.

Your journey continued upward, over the column of his throat, feeling the faint, vulnerable flutter of his pulse quicken under your gentle caress. A soft, shaky breath escaped him, his eyes drifting closed for a moment as he surrendered to your touch. This was your worship. Your way of saying, I see all of you, and I love every part.

Finally, your hands slid around his neck and shoulders, pulling him into a tight, heartfelt embrace. You held him not with passion, but with a deep, abiding gratitude, your face buried in the warm, wet skin of his neck. You inhaled the clean, masculine scent of him, a scent that meant home.

In response, a low, contented hum rumbled in his chest. His hands, which had been resting on your back, moved. One rose to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that made your eyes prickle with emotion. The other slid down the damp skin of your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, until his fingers intertwined with yours.

He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes. The steam and water had softened everything, but the intensity in his blue gaze was crystalline, focused solely on you. He saw the love, the trust, the faint sheen of tears that had nothing to do with the shower. He saw his entire world reflected in your eyes.

Slowly, he lowered his head. His lips found yours not in a kiss of hunger, but of homecoming.

It was achingly soft, a mere brush of warmth against warmth. A silent question and its immediate, breathless answer. It was a kiss that spoke of shared mornings, of quiet understanding, of battles faced side-by-side. It was a reaffirmation of every unspoken vow that had passed between them.

The water continued to fall, cocooning them in its warm, rhythmic whisper, a private benediction on the sacred, quiet love unfolding within its mist.

The tender kiss soon turned into a passionate and hungry one. Your lips moved in tandem, caressing each other while your tongues danced deliciously within the kiss. Your breathing increased with each heartbeat. Your hands turned almost to jelly at the sides of your body. His hands applied more pressure to your cheeks as he took a few steps forward, forcing you to take steps back, colliding with the cold tiles. You let out a moan as his tall, strong, and imposing body left you caged in that corner. He never stopped kissing you, his tongue dominating yours in a wet fight. You moaned again, and then his teeth lightly bit your lower lip before beginning to descend towards your neck.

His hands began to squeeze the soft skin of your hips while his mouth, hot and eager for more, traveled along your throat and collarbone with wet, open kisses. Your hands traveled down his back as he went down. His mouth followed the path, reaching the curve of your breasts as his hands went there as well. There, he paused for a moment to give them the attention they deserved. His hands cupped your breasts and squeezed gently, applying exquisite pressure. Then his mouth found your left nipple, and his tongue licked slowly in circles. You moaned and let your head fall back against the tiles. Your fingers tangled with his short hair at the nape of his neck.

You couldn't think of anything, your mind was blank, lost in the pleasure your lover was giving you. You felt every delicious stroke of his tongue over your nipple, making it impossibly harder. From your position, when his mouth moved to your right breast, you could see that John was incredibly hard, painfully hard. You bite your lower lip just looking at him. His hands moved down, almost completely cupping your ribs. His mouth sucked, his lips kissed, and his tongue licked again and again, leaving that nipple in the same condition as the other. He separated from your skin for a moment, only to look up and find a perfect view. You were already incredibly aroused, and he had barely begun. Your gaze met his. Your body trembled slightly as he looked down at you with such an intense, hungry gaze that it made you both moan instantly, and his hands slowly moved down to your stomach, hips, thighs, and ass. It was so erotic.

He said nothing, just watched and reveled in the way your body responded to him. The tremors, your parted lips, your moans, and your rapid breathing that made your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your body was hot and wet, and he could feel it. Oh god, he could smell it. He could smell how wet you were. Only for him. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, rejoicing in that scent he craved and that drove him wild. And he was almost there, on the verge of not only smelling you, but tasting you. His lips left open-mouthed kisses on your ribs, hips, and lower belly. He paused for a moment to look into your eyes again. "Can I devour you, Angel?" He didn't need to ask; he didn't need to, given how long you'd been together and how many times he'd done it before. But even so, the thought of asking melted your heart. It let you know that even in the throes of the ecstasy he was feeling, he was still thinking of you.

A beautiful shiver ran down your spine at his question before you permitted him. "Yes," was all you could say. Then his hands moved. His right hand rested behind your left knee, lifting you and positioning your left leg on his right shoulder. His left palm rested on your stomach, for support and to keep you there against the tiles. Just where and how he wanted you. And then his mouth moved to your core.

His tongue made the first lick from the center to your clit. You moaned at the divine sensation, and your head automatically tilted back again. He continued his ministrations, licking again and again, then circling your clit with his tongue, finding an amazing rhythm. It was a terribly devastating and beautiful sensation. Your hips moved forward, seeking friction and more of his mouth. This only drove him crazy and increased the intensity. Once again, his lips kissed and his tongue licked relentlessly. You were a moaning mess, moaning louder and louder. His right hand left your thigh to join his mouth's assault on you. First, he positioned a finger at your entrance. You were completely wet, dripping down your inner thighs. Gently but in one slide, his finger slid inside. His tongue continued licking your clit in rapid circles while his finger increased the speed of its movement. You were close, so close to reaching that precipice of complete ecstasy. "Oh my God, John!" you moaned desperately. A second finger entered your warm hole. It was dripping all the way down his hand.

"Please don't stop, oh my god..." you moaned again. The sound his hand and mouth were making on you was so filthy and obscene, and it only excited you both further, bringing you closer to the release you so desperately sought.

Your hands gripped the hair on his head, tugging lightly. He could feel how close you were. His fingers plunged in and out of you over and over again, his tongue still licking and sucking at your clit. He let out a groan of pure pleasure. His mouth and hand worked in tandem for a few more moments until finally, a powerful, blinding pleasure overwhelmed you completely. He continued to work through the waves of pleasure until they slowed their intensity.

The moment stretched, thick with steam and the echo of his worship. Then, with a fluid, powerful grace that never failed to steal your breath, John rose from his knees. The water sluiced over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders, and for a heartbeat, he was just a silhouette against the mist, a giant carved from shadow and devotion.

He looked at you intensely, a promise that there was more coming. Without breaking his gaze, he lifted his hand and placed his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean of your fluids. He wasn't going to waste a drop. “I fucking love your taste,” he groaned. You were exhausted and coming down from the peak of your orgasm, following his movements in detail. And God, that was so hot.

Then his left hand came up, not in a caress, but in a claim. His palm, warm and broad, slid along the side of your neck, his calloused thumb finding the delicate point of your chin. With a gentle, undeniable pressure, he tilted your head back and up, opening you to him completely. His eyes, dark and blazing with a hunger that mirrored the one coiling deep in your belly, held yours for a single, electrifying second before his mouth crashed down on yours.

This was not the tender kiss from moments before. This was a storm. It was messy, sloppy, and utterly, devastatingly passionate. There was no finesse, only a raw, desperate need to consume and be consumed. His lips moved over yours with a frantic intensity, stealing the air from your lungs, replacing it with the taste of him. And beneath it, you could taste the faint, sweet echo of yourself on his tongue, an intimate feedback loop that made your head spin.

A broken moan vibrated against his mouth, and you weren’t sure if it came from him or you. His right arm banded around your waist, his hand splaying across the small of your back, pulling your slick body flush against his. You could feel every hard inch of him, the frantic hammer of his heart against your sternum, the solid strength of him that made you feel both incredibly fragile and absolutely safe.

Then he was lifting you. Effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all. Your back met the cool, smooth tiles, a shocking contrast to the heat of his skin and the steam swirling around you. The world narrowed to the press of his body, the cold at your back, and the scorching heat of him at your front. He held you there, pinned between the unyielding wall and the unyielding man, his mouth never leaving yours, his kiss a relentless, breathless conquest.

This was possession. Not of force, but of mutual, desperate surrender. He was claiming you, and you were yielding, glorying in the sheer power of him, in the way he made you feel totally and completely his.

The shift from desperate kissing to seamless joining was as natural as a tide coming in. With a low, guttural sound of pure need against your lips, he guided himself into you.

The first entry was a slow, breathtaking invasion, a deliberate, deep claiming that made you cry out into his mouth. He filled you, a perfect, stretching fit that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with a wave of pure, white-hot sensation. You felt every inch of him. He fit perfectly, as if you both were made for each other. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing in ragged, shared gasps, feeling the incredible, throbbing connection. The world was reduced to the feeling of him inside you, the slick heat, the faint tremor in his muscles as he fought for control.

Then, the slow, deep rhythm began. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming that punched a soft, broken sound from your throat. His grip on your thigh tightened, his other hand still cradling your head, his thumb stroking your jaw even as his mouth devoured yours with a relentless passion.

The pace built gradually, the slow, deep rolls transforming into something more urgent, more primal. The gentle rocking became a driving, powerful rhythm that had your back sliding against the wet tiles. The slapping of wet skin, the ragged gasps, the groan of the shower wall under the force of his thrusts—it all merged with the drumming water into a symphony of raw, unvarnished need.

"God, you’re so deep… John… please…" You gasped between thrusts.

There were no more gentle caresses, only the relentless, beautiful friction, the desperate clutch of hands, the meeting of mouths in messy, breathless kisses.

His hands went to your thighs for support, and he picked up the pace as his cock entered your pussy again and again nonstop. His blue eyes looked at your face, contorting in pleasure, your lips parted, your eyes shut in a pure ecstasy that only he can give you.

"Fuck, Angel… You feel… God… so perfect." His voice was a ragged whisper.

You could feel the coil of your own pleasure tightening, a brilliant, unbearable pressure building deep within you with every rough, perfect stroke. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, your legs locked around his hips, meeting his ferocity with your own.

You felt the exact moment his control shattered. "Look at me, baby. Let me see you while you come for me." A ragged groan was torn from his chest, and his thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder, losing their rhythm in the frantic pursuit of release. It was the final, glorious push that sent you both spiraling over the edge. Your climax ripped through you, a silent, seizing wave of pure ecstasy that clenched around him, pulling his own release from him with a hoarse shout of your name that was swallowed by the steam.

He collapsed against you, his body shuddering, his face buried in the wet curve of your neck. You held him there, both of you trembling, breathless, and utterly spent, pinned between the wall and the weight of his love as the warm water cascaded over you, washing away everything but the profound, echoing peace of becoming one.

The water cascaded over you both, sealing you in this private, primal world where nothing existed but love.

--

An hour later, showered and dressed, you walked into the Tower's communal kitchen. Chaos reigned. Bucky Barnes was stoically flipping pancakes while dodging flying blueberries expertly aimed by Alexei, who was booming in Russian about American breakfast inadequacies. Bob, the only one calmed was reading a book. Ava was grabbing orange juice from the fridge. Yelena, perched on a countertop, nibbled her favorite dry cereal straight from the box, her sharp eyes missing nothing, as usual.

"Well, well," Yelena drawled, her voice cutting through the din. "Look who decided to grace the peasants with their presence. Did the lovebirds finally untangle themselves? Or are you still practicing synchronized brooding, Walker?"

John, pouring himself a truly alarming amount of black coffee, shot her a glare that could curdle milk. "Belova, if I wanted your commentary, I'd install a tiny, annoying speaker in my ear. Which, come to think of it, might be less grating."

You slid onto a stool next to Bucky, accepting a perfectly flipped pancake with a smile. "Ignore him. He’s just grumpy because I beat him at sparring yesterday." You winked at John.

John sputtered into his coffee. "A cheap shot! You distracted me!"

"Distracted you?" You feigned innocence, fluttering your eyelashes. "By existing? How terribly inconvenient for you, Agent."

Bucky hid a smirk behind his coffee mug. Ava materialized beside you. "He does seem perpetually distracted when you're in the room, Y/N. It is… disgustingly alarming." Her voice held a hint of dry amusement.

"See?" you grinned triumphantly, stealing a piece of bacon from John's plate. He snatched it back playfully, his fingers brushing yours, the earlier grumpiness replaced by a fond exasperation.

Yelena hopped down, landing silently. She sauntered over to John, poking him sharply in the ribs. "Admit it, Walker. You are less… how to say… asshole? Grumpy? When your winged goddess is near." She grinned wickedly. "It is almost tolerable."

John swatted her hand away, but there was no real force behind it. A faint, reluctant smile touched his lips. "Shut up, Belova."

"Ah, see!" Alexei boomed, gesturing with a half-eaten sausage. "The American eagle smiles! It is a miracle! We must mark this day! Perhaps a parade?"

John rolled his eyes heavenward. "God, give me strength. Or better yet, give me a mission far, far away from this circus."

--

Later that afternoon, you found John on the top of the tower. He was leaning against the wall near the landed Quinjet, looking out over the city, the setting sun painting his profile in shades of gold and orange. The usual tension was back in his shoulders, a familiar weight settling over him. You approached silently, your enhanced senses picking up the subtle shift in his breathing.

"What´s in your mind, Soldier?" you asked softly, leaning your hip against the wall beside him.

He didn't turn immediately. "Just… thinking about how damn normal it feels sometimes," he said, his voice low. "Having breakfast. Arguing with Belova. Watching you laugh." He finally looked at you, his blue eyes intense, vulnerable. "After everything… the divorce, losing Lemar, the shield, the disgrace… I didn't think I'd ever have normal again. Didn't think I deserved it." He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your jawline. "Then you crash-landed into my life."

You covered his hand with yours, turning your face to kiss his palm. "You deserve this, John. You deserve happiness. You're trying. Every single day. We see it. I see it."

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. He held you tightly, as if you were his anchor in a stormy sea. "You are… everything, Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "My light. My sanity. My perfect, impossible angel." He tilted your chin up, his gaze searching yours. "I love you. More than I ever thought possible. Sometimes it scares the hell out of me."

"Why?" you asked, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw.

"Because losing you…" He swallowed hard, the shadow of his past losses darkening his eyes for a moment. "That would destroy what's left of me."

You pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere, John Walker. You're stuck with me and my inconvenient wings." You stretched them slightly behind you, catching the last rays of the sun, making the silver and white blaze like captured fire. "Besides, who else would put up with your grumpy ass?"

A genuine laugh, deep and warm, rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all his gratitude, his fierce devotion, his hard-won hope into it. Below, the city lights began to sparkle like scattered diamonds. Up here, wrapped in his arms, your wings a protective arc around you both, the world felt perfect. He was yours. You were his. The Tower, with its chaotic inhabitants, felt like home. The past was a scar, not an open wound. The future, bathed in the golden light of this love, seemed limitless, bright, and achingly beautiful.

This was the apex. The pinnacle of happiness, hard-earned and fiercely cherished. John Walker, the fallen soldier, the grumpy antihero, found his peace, his purpose, his redemption in the arms of his silver-winged angel. The team saw it. Yelena’s teasing was a testament to it. Bucky’s quiet nods acknowledged it. Even Alexei’s booming pronouncements celebrated it. Love had softened his edges, not weakened his core, but given him something precious to fight for beyond duty or vengeance.

As the last light faded, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I'll always catch you, Angel," he vowed, his voice a low rumble of absolute certainty. "Always."

And in that suspended moment, high above the bustling city, surrounded by the quiet hum of the Tower and the warmth of the man who loved you with a ferocity that matched your own, you believed him utterly. The world was golden. The heartbreak was a specter banished to some distant, impossible future. Here, now, with John’s arms around you and your wings shimmering softly in the twilight, you were invincible. You were loved. You were home. The happiness wasn't just a feeling; it was a tangible force, a brilliant, blinding sun at the center of your shared universe. You kissed him again, sealing the perfection of the moment, your head tilted up, his tilted slightly down, the tip of your noses touched while you both closed your eyes and chuckled in complete happiness, blissfully unaware of how fragile that sun truly was, and how quickly twilight can descend into the deepest, most shattering night.

--

Two days later, the Tower had settled into the deep, bone-deep quiet of a Saturday evening. The week's tension had finally dissolved, leaving behind a serene, almost palpable calm. A golden, slanted light poured through the windows, not casting sharp shadows but bathing everything in a warm, syrupy glow that made the air itself feel thick and peaceful. Outside, the distant, steady murmur of the city was a gentle lullaby, a sound that spoke of weekends and rest. The very silence in the room felt soft and earned, a comfortable blanket after the noise of the week.

The steady, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of John’s fingers on his datapad was the only sound in the room. A soft, grey afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his room, painting everything in muted, silvery tones. He was hunched over his desk, a fortress of focus amidst the organized chaos of mission reports, tactical maps, and a half-dismantled pistol. The line of his shoulders was rigid, a familiar tension he carried when the weight of command pressed down on him.

You were curled on the large leather couch opposite him, a book open in your lap. Or, it was supposed to be open. You’d read the same paragraph three times, the words failing to capture your attention. Your focus wasn’t on the page; it was on the man at the desk. On the subtle furrow between his brows, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.

A slow, playful smile touched your lips. The book was forgotten.

You slid off the couch with a whisper of sound, your bare feet silent on the cool floor. You padded over to him, not with any specific intent, but drawn like a moth to the quiet intensity of his flame. You stopped behind his chair, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. He didn’t jump, but his typing slowed. He was always hyper-aware of your presence.

“What’re you working on, soldier?” you murmured, your voice soft as the dusk outside.

“Supply requisition forms,” he grumbled, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Thrilling stuff. Someone has to make sure Belova and Alexei don’t order enough C4 to level a small country. Again.”

You hummed, resting your chin on the top of his head, your arms looping loosely around his shoulders. You could feel the knotted muscles there, hard as stone beneath his thin cotton shirt. “Seems important.”

“It’s paperwork,” he corrected, though a slight relaxation crept into his neck at your touch.

Your fingers began to move, tracing idle, soothing patterns on his chest. You felt him sigh, a slow release of breath. Encouraged, you let your hands drift up to his shoulders, your thumbs pressing gently into the tight cords of muscle at the base of his neck.

He groaned, a low, involuntary sound, and his head tipped forward slightly. “Angel…”

“You’re all knots, John,” you whispered, your lips close to his ear. “You’ve been sitting here for hours. Your spine is going to fuse into this shape.”

“I’m almost done,” he protested, but it was weak. His eyes had drifted closed.

“No, you’re not,” you argued gently, your thumbs working a particularly stubborn knot. “You’re just going to keep grinding your teeth until you get a headache. You need to relax.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Relaxation isn’t in the job description, sweetheart.”

“Well, it’s in mine.” You straightened up and gently took the datapad from his hands, ignoring his half-hearted grunt of protest. You set it aside on the desk, screen down. Then, you took his hands in yours. “C’mon. Up.”

He allowed you to pull him to his feet, a rare, acquiescent smile playing on his lips. “Bossy today.”

“Only when my favorite soldier is being stubborn,” you led him a few steps to the couch and pushed him down gently until he was sitting. “Turn around. Scoot forward.”

He obeyed, a look of bemused curiosity on his face as he settled himself on the edge of the couch, presenting his back to you. You climbed onto the cushions behind him, kneeling so you were level with his shoulders.

Your hands found their place again, but this time with purpose. You started slowly, kneading the formidable muscles of his shoulders and back through his shirt. He was solid, powerful, a landscape of earned strength and carried tension.

“Christ,” he breathed out, his entire frame seeming to sag under your touch. “Your hands are magic.”

You smiled, focusing on your work. You used the heels of your palms, your fingers, your thumbs, working out the tension with a firm, steady pressure you knew he could take. You felt him unravel beneath your touch, muscle by locked muscle. The only sounds were his deepening breaths and the soft rustle of fabric.

After a long, quiet while, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his chest from behind and resting your cheek against his back. You could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart. “Better?” you whispered.

He covered one of your hands with his own, his calloused fingers lacing through yours. “World's better.” He turned his head slightly, his stubble brushing your temple. “Thank you, Angel.”

You kissed his shoulder blade through the shirt and untangled yourself, moving to sit beside him. “Anytime.”

But he wasn’t done. A thoughtful look crossed his face, that intense focus now turned entirely on you. “My turn.”

“Your turn for what?”

In one smooth, effortless motion, he shifted, turning to face you. His hands went to your waist, and he lifted you, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him. Before you could process the movement, he twisted you both, laying you down lengthwise on the couch cushions with a soft oomph. He settled himself at the other end, his back against the armrest, and gently tugged until your legs were draped over his lap.

“Hey!” you laughed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What are you doing?”

“Returning the favor,” he said, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. His hands settled on your calves, his thumbs immediately finding the tension there. “You’re always on your feet. Or in the air. These,” he said, squeezing gently, “deserve some attention too.”

Your protest died in your throat. His touch was… exquisite. Firm and knowing, he began to massage one leg, starting from the ankle and working his way up to your thigh. It wasn’t a prelude to anything else, yet; it was purely, simply, an act of reciprocated care. An intimate offering.

You melted into the cushions, a soft sigh escaping you. “Oh… wow. Okay. You win.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “I do have talented hands. Good for more than just field-stripping a rifle.”

“I’ll say,” I mumbled, your eyes fluttering closed. The rhythm of his hands was hypnotic. He paid attention to every part, from the arch of your foot to the tight muscle of your calf, his fingers working out aches you didn’t even know you had.

You lapsed into a comfortable silence, the grey light deepening into twilight. The city below began to sparkle, a distant, glittering world that felt a million miles away from your quiet cocoon.

“You know,” he said after a long while, his voice soft, “I used to hate quiet moments.”

You opened your eyes to look at him. His gaze was on your leg, his expression contemplative, almost tender. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Silence meant the noise in your own head was too loud. The failures. The regrets.” His thumb pressed a perfect circle into your calf. “It was… lonely.”

Your heart ached for the man he used to be. “And now?”

He looked up then, and his blue eyes found yours, clear and utterly focused. The storm in them was calm, replaced by a depth of feeling that still, after all this time, stole your breath.

“Now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “the silence is my favorite place to be. As long as you’re in it with me.”

The honesty in his words, the raw vulnerability he offered so freely only to you, filled the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the setting sun. This was the real John Walker. Not the US Agent, not the gruff soldier, but the man. The man who carried the world on his shoulders but found his peace with his hands on your skin.

“It’s my favorite place, too,” you whispered back.

He held my gaze for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between you two. Then, a slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Good.”

He returned his attention to your legs, his touch gentler now, more of a caress than a massage. His gaze followed the path of his hands with a kind of rapt fascination, as if memorizing the landscape of you. He loved this—the quiet intimacy of it, the privilege of having your trust so completely that he could worship you in these small, profound ways. He loved the feel of your legs—long, smooth, and impossibly soft against his work-roughened palms. He loved the subtle strength in them, the power that could launch you into the sky, now resting so pliant and trusting in his lap. His eyes darkened with a soft, possessive awe as he watched his hands slowly glide up your calf, over the gentle curve of your knee, and along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You closed your eyes again, surrendering to the sheer, pleasant sensation of being adored so thoroughly.

The atmosphere began to shift, almost imperceptibly at first. The caring massage slowed, the firm pressure of his thumbs softening into something more deliberate, more intimate. His hands grew bolder, the strokes becoming languid caresses that lingered on the softest parts of your skin. Then you felt it—the warm, soft press of his lips against your ankle. A kiss, so gentle it was almost a whisper. Then another, a fraction higher on your calf. He was mapping your skin with his mouth, a slow, tender pilgrimage up your leg. Each kiss was a brand of devotion, a silent promise spoken against your flesh. The sensation was exquisite, a trail of fire following the path of his lips, warming you from the inside out.

A soft, involuntary gasp escaped you as his mouth reached the sensitive hollow behind your knee. Your eyes flew open. The comfortable haze of relaxation was gone, burned away by a new, electric current that crackled in the air between you. Your gaze met his, and the look you found there stole the air from your lungs. His eyes were no longer soft with contemplation; they were dark, intense, blazing with a fire that mirrored the one now roaring to life within you. The silent question in them was answered by the heat in your own. The intimate care had seamlessly, inevitably, transformed into a different kind of worship—one of pure, consuming desire.

“The team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,” you mused, your voice now a husky whisper, the words feeling irrelevant in the face of the tension thrumming between you.

“The team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,” you mused, content to stay right there forever.

“Let them wonder,” he said, his tone playful and possessive. “Alexei can boom at someone else. Bucky can brood unsupervised. Yelena can find someone else’s coffee to threaten.” His hand slid down to your ankle, his thumb stroking the delicate bone there. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

His lips continued their achingly slow ascent, his hands smoothing a path up your thighs, over the soft, worn cotton of your shorts. Your breathing hitched, growing shallower, and your heart began to drum a frantic, eager rhythm against your ribs—a rhythm you were sure was audible in the sudden, thick silence of the room.

He heard it. Of course he did.

His lips were pressed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath a hot ghost through the thin fabric, when he went perfectly still. He didn’t look up. He simply listened, a slight, predatory smile touching his mouth where it met your skin.

“I can hear it,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your flesh that made you shiver. “Your heart. It’s beating so fast.” His thumb stroked a slow, maddening circle on your other thigh. “And your breathing… It’s changed. It hitches every time I get… here.” To emphasize his point, he let his lips brush against the exact same spot, a feather-light touch that had you arching off the cushions with a sharp intake of air.

The intimacy of it was overwhelming, devastating. He wasn’t just touching you; he was listening to your body’s most primal, involuntary responses to him. He was attuned to every shudder, every skipped beat, every soft gasp, and he cherished each one like a secret only the two of you shared. It was the most exposed and cherished you had ever felt.

A weak, breathless laugh escaped you, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control in the face of his utterly disarming intensity. “Well,” you managed, your voice trembling, “you did say you were… talented with your hands.” You paused, swallowing hard as his fingers traced the hem of your shorts. “I guess I should have asked if your… other assets… were just as… proficient.”

The effect was instantaneous. A deep, rich chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating through you. He finally lifted his head, his blue eyes dark with promise and gleaming with wicked amusement. He looked entirely captivated.

“Is that a challenge, Angel?” he asked, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that never failed to liquefy your bones. He shifted his weight, moving over you with a fluid, predatory grace that made your breath catch all over again. He caged you between his arms, his face inches from yours, his gaze holding yours captive.

“Because,” he continued, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his whisper a sinful, delicious threat, “if you’re conducting a full performance review of my… assets… I feel obligated to point out…” His hand slid from your thigh, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your cotton shorts. “…my mouth is arguably my greatest talent.”

The promise in those words, spoken against your skin, burned away the last vestiges of thought. There was no more teasing, no more city lights, no more world outside. There was only him, the overwhelming certainty of his touch.

The challenge hung in the air, a delicious, electric charge between you. His words, a sinful whisper against your ear, were a promise that shattered the last of your composure. You saw the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes a second before he moved.

There was no more teasing. The need was too urgent, a live wire sparking between you. His mouth found yours in an all-consuming kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a claiming, a desperate, passionate seal of everything that had been building. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met him with equal fervor, tasting the promise he’d just made.

True to his word, his hand slid beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, his fingers—those incredibly skilled, knowing fingers—dipping lower. A broken cry was torn from your throat against his lips as he found the slick, aching heart of you. His touch was not tentative; it was confident, exact, a master playing an instrument he knew intimately. He drew a rhythm from you that had you bucking against his hand, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.

But he was a man of his word, intent on a full demonstration. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw to the frantic pulse pounding in your neck. He lavished attention there, with lips, tongue, and the gentle scrape of teeth, each sensation layering over the exquisite torture his hand was delivering. You were unraveling, completely at the mercy of his devastating proficiency.

His fingers entered your core. There was no more time to waste. Your back arched responding to him. He didn’t wait; he didn’t need to. His fingers moved inside you nonstop, feeling how wet you were for him.

“John…” you gasped, the word a ragged plea. You could feel the hard ridge of his desire pressed against you, and it was all you could think about. The layers of fabric were an intolerable barrier. “Please… I need you. Right now. I need to feel you.”

It was all the command he needed. The ‘please’ shattered the last of his control. With a growl that vibrated through your very core, he obeyed. His hands, trembling with a reined-in urgency, made quick work of your clothes, peeling away the soft cotton shorts and everything beneath with a reverence that belied his speed. He shed his own with a few efficient, sharp movements, never breaking the intense, heated lock of his gaze with yours.

And then, skin met skin.

The sensation was electric, a shock of pure, undiluted heat. His body was a solid, warm weight atop you, every hard plane and defined muscle aligning with your softer curves. You melted into the couch cushions beneath him, a perfect fit. He kissed you again, hard and deep, pouring every ounce of his love, his desire, his soul into that connection.

He entered you in one slow, devastatingly perfect stroke that stole the breath from both your lungs. There was no rush, only the profound, breathtaking sensation of becoming one. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut as if in prayer. The only sound was your shared, ragged breathing.

“I love you,” he breathed, the words a raw, broken vow against your lips.

Then he began to move. It was a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was pure, unadulterated love made physical. Each removal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming. His eyes never left yours, the blue depths holding a universe of emotion—awe, devotion, a tenderness so fierce it brought tears to your eyes. This was more than passion; this was communion. This was John, showing you with his entire body and soul exactly how much he loved you, how he cherished you, how you were his whole world. The city lights blurred into distant stars outside the window, witnesses to the silent, sacred promise being renewed in the quiet twilight of the room.

--

The metallic tang of blood, the ozone sting of discharged energy weapons, and the pervasive grit of concrete dust clung to them like a second skin as the Quinjet settled into the Tower’s hangar bay. The mission had been a success – a Hydra cell dismantled, hostages freed – but it had been messy. Close-quarters combat in crumbling warehouses rarely ended without souvenirs.

John Walker moved stiffly beside you, the usual arrogant swagger replaced by a weary determination. A deep gash marred his left bicep, courtesy of a reinforced knife, and angry purple bruising was already blooming across his ribs where a concussive burst had caught him off-guard. His uniform was torn and smeared with grime, his jaw set in a familiar line of pain he’d never admit to. The team dispersed with tired nods – Bucky heading straight for the showers, Alexei loudly proclaiming his need for vodka and a hot bath, Yelena giving John a pointed, assessing look before vanishing with Ghost.

You matched John’s pace as he limped towards the elevator, your own wings a dull ache beneath your skin from rapid maneuvers and shielding blows. Your enhanced senses picked up the hitch in his breath with every other step, the subtle tremor in his right hand. "Your room," you stated softly, not a question but a gentle command. "Now."

He grunted, a non-committal sound, but didn’t argue. The defiance that usually sparked in his blue eyes was dimmed by fatigue and pain. The elevator ride was silent, the only sound the hum of machinery and John’s controlled breathing. When the doors slid open on his floor, the familiar scent of leather, gun oil, and him enveloped you – a stark contrast to the battlefield stench.

His room was tidy, functional. A large bed, a weapons locker, a sturdy desk strewn with tactical reports. No frills, no lingering ghosts of his past life beyond the invisible weight he carried. He leaned heavily against the doorframe as you closed the door behind you, the city lights painting stripes of gold and silver across the floor.

"Alright, Soldier," you said, your voice a low murmur that filled the quiet space. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing the torn fabric near his bicep. The wound beneath was ugly, deep, still oozing sluggishly. "Undress. Let me see the damage."

A flicker of his usual stubbornness surfaced. "I'm fine. Just need a shower and some tape." He tried to straighten, wincing immediately as the movement pulled at his ribs.

You didn't budge. You simply looked up at him, your gaze steady, unwavering, filled with a quiet authority born of love and concern. "John," you said, his name a soft plea and an unyielding order all at once. "Undress. Please."

The fight drained out of him. He sighed, a rough exhale, and began the laborious process of peeling off the damaged tactical suit. The Kevlar suit hit the floor with a thud, followed by the undershirt, sticky with sweat and blood. Revealed, the extent of the injuries was clearer. The gash on his bicep was indeed deep, needing stitches no medic could match. The bruising across his ribs was a sprawling, violent map of purple and black, promising fractured bone beneath. Smaller cuts and abrasions marked his knuckles and chest.

He sank onto the edge of the bed with a low groan, the springs protesting softly. The city lights cast long shadows across the powerful planes of his chest and shoulders, highlighting the tension in every corded muscle, the stark white of older scars against tanned skin. He looked exhausted, vulnerable in a way few ever witnessed.

You moved then, stepping smoothly between his knees. The proximity was intimate, grounding. You placed your hands gently on his shoulders, feeling the tremor running through him. "Breathe," you instructed softly. "Just breathe."

Closing your eyes for a moment, you centered yourself. Then, you brought your hands to the worst injury – the gash on his bicep. Your fingertips hovered just above the ragged edges of skin. A soft, warm golden light began to emanate from your palms, gentle as dawn but potent. It wasn't blinding; it was a comforting radiance that filled the space between you.

John sucked in a sharp breath as the light touched his skin. Not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming sensation of it. It was warmth that sank deep into his marrow, a soothing balm that chased away the sharp, grating agony. He watched, utterly transfixed, as the light intensified slightly where your fingers traced the edges of the wound. The torn flesh seemed to shimmer, the ragged edges softening, knitting together with impossible speed. Blood flow ceased instantly. New skin, pink and healthy, flowed like liquid silk over the injury, leaving only a faint, silvery line where moments before there had been a gaping cut.

His gaze wasn't on the miracle happening to his arm. It was locked on you. On the intense concentration etching your beautiful features – the slight furrow between your brows, the soft part of your lips as you focused your energy. The golden glow reflected in your eyes, making them look like molten amber. Strands of hair escaped your usual style, framing your face. He saw the absolute care in your touch, the deep well of power harnessed solely for his healing, his comfort.

You shifted your attention lower, your hands hovering over the brutal bruising on his ribs. The golden light pulsed gently, sinking into the discolored flesh. The deep, sickening purple began to lighten, fading through blues and greens to a faint yellow before disappearing entirely. The underlying ache, the sharp protest of fractured bone, dissolved under the tender onslaught of your power, replaced by a profound sense of wholeness and warmth. You smoothed your hands lightly over the now unblemished skin, feeling the solidity of healed bone and muscle beneath your fingertips.

The silence was profound, thick with unspoken emotion. The only sounds were your soft breaths and the distant hum of the Tower. You worked meticulously, moving to the smaller cuts on his knuckles, the abrasions on his chest, your touch feather-light, the healing glow a constant, gentle pulse. He remained still, his breathing evened out, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every detail. The curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes, the determined set of your jaw. He saw the faint sheen of effort on your skin, the subtle concentration that spoke of the energy this took, even for you.

The sheer magnitude of what he felt – the awe, the gratitude, the overwhelming, terrifying love – built inside his chest like a physical pressure. It was more potent than any adrenaline rush, more profound than any victory. It threatened to crack open the hardened shell he’d spent years building. He watched your hands, so capable and gentle, erase the evidence of the fight, and he felt something fragile and precious shatter within him, not broken, but finally set free.

You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch; he wasn't watching the healing light; he was staring at you.

Your eyes met his, once, twice, a silent question hanging in the charged air. Finally, you murmured, "What?" He didn't look away, his piercing blue eyes holding yours for a long, potent moment before his voice, rough with residual pain but utterly sincere, filled the space: "God, you are so beautiful." A slight, almost shy smile touched your lips. "You said it like I'm holy." His expression didn't waver; it deepened, becoming fiercely intense, utterly serious as he answered, the words a quiet vow: "You are to me." The hum of your power seemed to soften, absorbed into the profound stillness his declaration created.

Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second on a nearly healed abrasion near his collarbone. You looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his blue eyes stole your breath. It wasn't just admiration; it was pure, unadulterated reverence. Awe. A love so deep it seemed to radiate from him, mirroring the golden light fading from your hands.

A soft, warm smile touched your lips, reaching your eyes, and your cheeks flushed. "Flattery won't get you out of trouble, John," you murmured, but your voice was thick with emotion. You finished smoothing away the last trace of injury on his knuckles, your touch lingering.

He caught your hand before you could pull away, his calloused fingers wrapping around yours. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there that was infinitely tender. "It's not flattery," he rasped, his voice rough with feeling. "It's the truth. Watching you... what you do... what you are..." He shook his head, struggling to articulate the maelstrom inside him. "I've never... Christ, Y/N, I've never felt like this. Ever." His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking the curve. "You heal more than just the cuts and bruises, Angel. You heal... me."

Tears pricked your eyes, but they were tears of profound happiness. You leaned into his touch. "Then be more careful," you whispered, the worry you’d held back surfacing in your voice. "Please, John. Seeing you hurt... it tears me apart." You looked directly into his eyes, your gaze serious, loving. "I know the job is dangerous. I know you’re a soldier. But try. For me. Because I love you too damn much to lose you to recklessness."

The raw vulnerability in your plea, the depth of your fear mirroring his own deepest terror, hit him like a physical blow. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, drawing you fully into the space between his knees. He buried his face against your stomach, inhaling the scent of you – sunshine, jasmine – mingled with the faint, clean scent your healing power left behind.

"I promise," he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled but fierce. "I swear, Angel. I'll try." He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a love so intense it was almost frightening. "You're my light. My reason. Losing you isn't an option." He pulled you down into a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of that terrifying, overwhelming love into it. It was a vow, a prayer, a desperate anchor in the storm of his emotions.

Your wings, hidden but always present, seemed to hum with the shared energy, the profound connection. He stood so his lips found yours with desperate tenderness, the golden city lights painting your embrace, and the battlefield was forgotten. There was only this: the healed soldier, the healing angel, bound by scars both seen and unseen, and a love so powerful it felt like it could mend the very fabric of their broken worlds. In the quiet aftermath of violence, tenderness reigned, more potent than any super-soldier serum, more beautiful than any silver wing. He held you like you were his salvation, and in that moment, bathed in the soft glow of recovered peace, you both knew it was true.

--

The first, pearly light of dawn of a new day was just beginning to bleed through the high windows of John Walker’s room, painting the world in soft shades of grey and rose. The city below was a hushed murmur, a distant heartbeat. You lie on your stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting near your head, lost in the deep, peaceful sleep that only comes with absolute security. The sheets were a soft tangle around your hips, leaving your back bare – a smooth, flawless expanse of skin that seemed to drink in the nascent light.

John stirred beside you. Unlike you, his sleep was often fractured, haunted by echoes of the past. But this morning, he woke not to a nightmare, but to paradise. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, blinked open, adjusting to the dimness. His gaze immediately found you, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the elegant slope of your shoulders. A profound sense of peace, still novel enough to feel miraculous, washed over him.

He propped himself up on one elbow, his movements deliberately silent. His gaze traced you with a reverence that bordered on the sacred. This. This was what he fought for. This peace. This beauty. You.

He couldn’t resist. With infinite tenderness, he lowered his head. His lips, warm and slightly chapped, brushed against the delicate skin just below your shoulder blade. It wasn’t a kiss demanding anything; it was an offering. A silent hymn of adoration. You murmured in your sleep, a sound like distant thunder, a vibration of pure contentment against his lips.

Encouraged, he continued his pilgrimage. His lips traveled slowly, deliberately, along the path of your spine. Each kiss was a soft press, a benediction whispered onto your skin. Between the kisses, his hands began to move. His fingers, calloused and strong from countless battles, traced patterns of exquisite gentleness. He skimmed over the subtle ridge of your shoulder blade, his palm smoothing down the dip of your waist, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles just above the curve of your hip. He mapped the territory of your back with a lover’s intimate knowledge, rediscovering every beloved inch of your sleep-warmed, silk-smooth skin in the pearly light of dawn, his fingers occasionally pausing to gently gather the spill of your hair and draw it aside like a curtain, ensuring nothing obstructed his reverent exploration.

"You're perfect," he breathed the words against the small of your back, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rasp that vibrated through your core. "So damn perfect, Angel." His hand slid up, spanning your back possessively, his warmth seeping into you. "My perfect girl."

A soft, involuntary purr rumbled in your chest, escaping your lips as a contented sigh. You shifted slightly, pressing back almost imperceptibly into his touch, into the shelter of his large hand. "Mmmph... John…" Your voice was thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. "S'early... sun's barely up." You cracked one eye open, peering blearily over your shoulder.

He met your sleepy gaze, a soft, almost shy smile playing on his lips – a rare expression reserved solely for these private dawn moments. "Didn't mean to wake you," he murmured, his fingers never stopping their gentle exploration, tracing the subtle definition along your side. "Go back to sleep. I'm just... appreciating the view." He punctuated this with another kiss, this time on the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, eliciting another soft sigh from you. "And leaving a few reminders of who you belong to."

A sleepy laugh escaped you, turning into a yawn. "Reminders, huh? Like a big, blonde, grumpy claim tag?" You wriggled slightly, trying to turn, but his hand on your back held you gently in place.

"Exactly like that," he affirmed, his voice laced with amusement and a deep, possessive affection. He continued his ministrations, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder, his hand now sliding down to rest possessively on your hip, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above the sheet line. "Best view in the whole damn Tower. Better than the skyline. Better than anything."

You relaxed back into the mattress, surrendering to the sheer luxury of his touch. "Flatterer," you mumbled, but the smile was evident in your voice. "You just like having a warm pillow."

"Warm, beautiful, perfect pillow," he corrected, nuzzling the back of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair and skin – sleep and comfort and home. "Who purrs when kissed properly."

"Only because your stubble tickles," you retorted, though the purring sound started up again as he deliberately rubbed his cheek against your shoulder blade.

A comfortable silence descended, filled only with the soft sounds of the waking city and their breathing. His hands continued their worshipful journey, learning your contours anew with each pass. "Did I ever tell you," he began, his voice a low rumble against your skin, "that Lemar would have absolutely adored you?"

You stilled slightly, touched by the mention of his lost friend. "No," you whispered.

"Yeah," John said softly, his fingers tracing a slow circle on your back. "He'd have teased me mercilessly about how whipped I am." A small, genuine chuckle escaped him. "But he'd have loved your spirit. Your fire. The way you don't take any of my shit." His hand tightened slightly on your hip. "He'd be glad... so damn glad... that I found you." You didn´t know what to say to that. John had told you everything about his friend, but you knew they were all good friends with his ex-wife since they were younger. You doubted the possibility that his friend would want a woman other than John´s ex-wife to be with him.

John noticed your silence and hesitation. He knew you too well to know what was going through your mind. "Hey," he said, his hand resting on your chin and turning your head back, enough to look into your eyes. He was silent for a moment, then he gently talked, "He knew and saw that I loved my marriage the best I could, and when it ended, I felt like I was in the dark and would stay there forever. Alone. But I know he'd be happy for me if he could see me now. Because I don't feel alone and I'm not in that darkness anymore. You got me out, you gave me hope. I'm really happy, and I know he would have liked you."

Tears pricked your eyes as you smiled. "I wish I could have met him," you said softly.

"Me too, Angel. Me too." He kissed your shoulder blade again, a kiss that held both sorrow and profound gratitude. His gesture encompassed the room, the bed, and you.

You finally managed to twist gently under his touch, turning onto your side to face him. Dawn light caught in his blonde hair, turning it into a halo, and illuminated the deep blue of his eyes, filled with a love so raw and overwhelming it stole your breath. Your wings, compressed but always present, hummed with the shared emotion.

"Hey," you whispered, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

"Hey," he echoed, his gaze drinking you in – your sleep-soft face, your eyes still heavy-lidded, your lips slightly parted. The possessiveness in his eyes softened into pure, tender adoration. He leaned in slowly, deliberately. His lips met yours not with hunger, but with a breathtaking tenderness. It was a kiss of reverence, of homecoming, a silent communication of everything words couldn't possibly hold. Soft, lingering, exploring the familiar contours with infinite care. A sigh escaped you, melting into him.

For long moments, there was only this: the soft meeting of lips, the shared breath, the gentle pressure. The world outside the Tower ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of the bed, the scent of each other, and the profound connection thrumming between you both.

Then, inevitably, beautifully, the tenderness deepened. The kiss grew less tentative, more assured. His hand slid from your hip to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. Your own hand came up to rest against his stubbled cheek. The soft exploration gave way to a slow-building heat, a familiar spark igniting. The gentle pressure increased, lips parting slightly, inviting a deeper connection. The kiss became a slow, passionate dance, a languid search fueled by the depth of your love and the intimacy of the shared dawn. It was a promise, a reaffirmation, a silent vow whispered in the language of touch and taste.

The early morning light gilded your entwined forms as the kiss deepened further, a slow burn replacing the gentle embers. Then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, eliminating any space between you. His hand went then to your neck, his thumb caressing your pulse point, feeling the pulse rising. The world outside the room, the Tower, the city, the future with its potential heartbreak – it all faded into insignificance. Here, in this sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breath, bathed in the soft glow of dawn and the incandescent light of your love, there was only John and his Angel. Hearts impossibly full, bodies speaking the language words could never fully capture, lost in the exquisite, tender, and increasingly passionate devotion of the morning. The grumpy soldier was gone. In his place was a man utterly, irrevocably, gloriously in love, worshipping his goddess with every touch and every kiss.

The deep dawn kiss quickly flared into an inferno. His kisses were impossibly deeper, hungrier, stealing your breath and replacing it with the taste of him. His hands grew more demanding, roaming your back again and again, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your hip, the swell of your backside, your thigh. Each touch was electric, sending shivers cascading over your skin despite the warmth radiating from him.

He broke the kiss for a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, blue eyes dark with desire, pupils blown wide. His gaze traced your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. A familiar, wicked smirk played on his lips, the one that promised trouble.

"Y'know, Angel," he rasped, his voice rough, sending another delicious tremor through you. His hand slid lower again, possessively cupping your backside, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. "All this worshipping... got me thinking about altars." His smirk deepened, pure, unadulterated Walker mischief. "And how much I'd love to have you spread out on mine."

"John Walker!" Your eyes flew wide in mock scandal, but a helpless, breathless laugh bubbled up instantly, followed by a fierce blush that spread from your cheeks down your neck. The heat pooling low in your belly flared violently at his filthy, irreverent words. You swatted lightly at his shoulder, but the effect was ruined by the huge, involuntary smile splitting your face and the way your body instinctively arched into his touch.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound of pure satisfaction that vibrated against your skin. He knew. He always knew. He saw the spark in your eyes, the way your breath caught, the flush that had nothing to do with indignation. He knew the sweet, confident woman he loved secretly thrived on his crude, adoring brand of possessiveness. "What?" he rumbled, leaning in to nip playfully at your earlobe, his stubble scraping deliciously. "Just stating theological facts. You are divine. Requires proper veneration. Thoroughly." His hand flexed again, pulling you tighter against the hard evidence of his own devotion.

The combination of his words, his touch, and that infuriatingly knowing smirk shattered your last vestige of restraint. The heat inside you wasn't just burning; it was a supernova demanding release. A slow, deliberate smile curved your own lips, matching his mischief with your own boldness. You held his smoldering gaze, biting your lower lip – a gesture you knew drove him wild.

Then, with a fluid grace that always captivated him, you moved. Leveraging your strength and agility, you pushed against his chest just enough to create space, then swung a leg over his hips. In one smooth motion, you were straddling him, settling firmly onto his lap, pinning him beneath you on the rumpled sheets. The dawn light haloed your form, casting your face in soft gold and shadow.

John’s breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to your hips, gripping them instantly, his gaze locked on yours, surprise and intense approval warring in his eyes. The smirk softened into something deeper, more primal – pure, awestruck desire. "Well, hello there," he breathed, his voice thick. His hands slid up your sides, mapping the warm skin of your waist, your ribs. "Taking charge, Angel? Didn't know morning prayers could get this... interactive."

You leaned down, bracing your hands on his solid chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms. "Maybe I'm tired of just being worshipped," you murmured, your voice husky, trailing a finger down the center of his chest. "Maybe I want to do some claiming of my own." His breathing started to increase, and you haven't done anything yet.

“Besides,” you said, whispering, “didn't you say you'd love to see me spread out on your altar?” His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. You lowered your head, brushing your lips against his in a feather-light tease that was pure torture. Part of your hair fell over your right shoulder, gently caressing his face. "This grumpy soldier... he's mine. Isn't he?"

A groan tore from his throat, part surrender, part fierce agreement. "Christ, yes," he growled, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you down completely into a searing kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a collision of heat and need, a desperate affirmation. His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming, demanding. His hands were everywhere – tangling in your hair, gripping your hips to grind you against the hard ridge of his arousal, sliding up to grab the weight of your breast, his thumbs finding your peaked nipples and rubbing slow, maddening circles.

The world narrowed to the feel of him beneath you, the taste of him, the sounds he made – low groans, rough whispers of your name, the sharp intake of breath when you rocked against him just right. His earlier sarcasm was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered need and adoration. "God, you feel so fucking good," he gasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "Perfect. Mine." He punctuated the word with a sharp nip at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you cry out, arching into him.

Your hand moved between you, gently grabbing his cock, stroking a few times, his eyes closed instantly, feeling the pleasure of your touch. You positioned him at your entrance and slowly lowered yourself onto him, feeling him enter every inch until he was completely inside you, making you feel a delicious yet sharp pleasure. You waited a moment, looking down at him; his eyes were now dangerously on you. His eyes roam over your body, delighting in every detail. Starting with your hungry gaze, parted lips, your delicate neck and throat exposed, strands of your hair falling over your shoulders, and your arms held forward, holding you against his chest, forcing your delicate breasts together. Your beautiful, perfect, warm body, the soft curve of your waist, your flat stomach, the valley below your navel, and your strong, delicate, and smooth legs. And of course, that beautiful physical connection that was already driving him wild.

You began to move, slowly, delicately up and then down, feeling his cock enter you each time. He was so hard, and you were already wet. You both never needed too much to be ready; the love and desire you felt for each other were amazing. Your gaze never left his as you gained speed in your movements. Your hands then rested on his at your hips, allowing him to see everything completely.

He could see every time his cock disappeared into your warm pussy, hear every moan that escaped your mouth as his cock filled you deliciously as your hips lowered. After a beautiful, agonizing moment of slow, careful movements, you began to go faster. Your breasts bounced up and down. It was an extraordinary view. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned.

You met his passion with your own, rolling your hips in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing fervently. Your hands explored again the hard planes of his chest, his shoulders, the powerful cords of his neck, learning him anew in this position of delicious dominance.

"Say it again, say I´m yours," you demanded breathlessly, capturing his lips once more, your kiss fierce and possessive.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with love, lust, and utter surrender. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness amidst the frenzy. "You're mine, Y/N,” he vowed, his voice raw, stripped bare. "My Angel. My heart. My impossible, perfect woman." He surged up, capturing your lips again in a kiss that was both a claiming and a surrender, a desperate prayer and a fervent answer. "All mine."

The playful power dynamic – the teasing jabs, the sarcastic retorts that defined so much of your daily rhythm – dissolved like mist under the dawn sun. What remained was pure, unadulterated passion, a desperate joining of mouths and bodies that spoke a language older than words. Lips met in a fierce, consuming kiss, tasting of shared breath and whispered promises tangled with low moans. His groan vibrated against your mouth as you shifted, the slick heat between your bodies intensifying the connection. He looked up at you, eyes darkened to stormy blue, reflecting the pale morning light and something far deeper: raw, unguarded awe mixed with fierce, tender possession. It was the look he reserved only for you, the look that laid bare the grumpy soldier’s soul and revealed the devoted man beneath.

As you moved above him, finding a rhythm as ancient as the tides, he suddenly stilled you, his hands framing your face. You looked at him, surprised, and before you could ask what happened, his thumb brushed your kiss-swollen lip, his gaze intense, vulnerable. "Angel," he rasped, his voice rough with need and emotion. "Let them out. Please. I want to see you... all of you. I want to feel you like this."

A tremor of vulnerability, chased instantly by a surge of trust, ran through you. You closed your eyes, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh that seemed to echo the beating of your hearts, your wings unfurled. Moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate, glowing white patterns, filled the space above the bed, spanning wide and majestic. The early sun caught the silver, scattering prismatic shards of light across the rumpled sheets and John’s sweat-sheened skin.

The sight stole his breath. "Christ..." he breathed, utterly transfixed.

Then you moved again, riding him with the full, glorious expanse of your wings spread wide behind you. From beneath you, John’s perspective was nothing short of transcendent. He loved this view, even more with your beautiful wings in full display. It was a sight of pure ecstasy and sin, savage and beautiful. Extremely erotic. Your delicate form arched, bathed in golden light, your head tilted back, throat exposed in a perfect line of surrender and frenzy. Your breasts moved with the rhythm, a mesmerizing bounce that spoke of life and abandon, your skin exquisitely sweaty. But it was the wings that completed the vision, framing your body like a living sculpture, powerful and ethereal. They weren’t separate; they were an extension of you, of the passion flowing between you. He could feel the faint stir of air they created, see the subtle shift of muscles in your back controlling them, and sense the immense power held in graceful check. He watched, utterly rapt, as you became a vision of divine sensuality – fierce, beautiful, and utterly free.

"Look at you," he breathed, the words thick with emotion. "My God... you're not just beautiful. You're a goddess." The words tore from him, raw and reverent, not a whisper but a declaration ripped from the depths of his soul. There was no doubt, no hesitation. Seeing you like this – powerful, vulnerable, surrendering and claiming him simultaneously, your wings a testament to the miraculous being you were – shattered any last barrier. You weren't just beautiful; you were holy. A goddess made flesh, choosing him. His hands slid down to grip your hips, not to control, but to anchor himself in the face of such overwhelming awe, to feel every shift, every tremor, every pulse of connection as you moved together.

“Fuck!” he groaned.

The sensation was overwhelming. The silken heat where your bodies joined, the cool brush of dawn air contrasting with the furnace of your combined heat, the faint, clean scent of your feathers mingling with the musk of lovemaking. The visual feast of your body moving above him, the wings casting shifting patterns of light. The sound of your shared breaths, your moans, his groans, the soft rustle of feathers against the sheets. Every sense was saturated, every nerve ending alight. The profound hum of your wings seemed to resonate with the frantic beat of your hearts, amplifying every touch, every thrust, into something beyond physical sensation. It was a merging of body and soul, a communion where laughter had no place, only gasps, sighs, and the profound, wordless language of two souls utterly, irrevocably entwined.

Your movements were a study in devastating leisure, a slow, hypnotic, consuming ride that was all your own. You used the full, graceful length of your body, rising until he was almost free before sinking back down with a luxurious, weighty finality that stole his breath, each descent a step closer to his blissful ruin.

The rhythm between you shifted, deepening from exploration to urgent necessity. Every nerve ignited—the slick, molten heat where their bodies joined, the delicious friction coiling tension low in your belly, the answering pressure building in his hips with every lift and fall. His hands, rough yet reverent, slid from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above your pelvis, grounding you as you moved. Your wings trembled, then flared wider with a powerful sweep, catching the golden light, the rush of displaced air cool against your feverish skin. “Oh God, John!” You gasped, head falling back further, exposing your body to him as the sensation crested—a brilliant, tightening spiral. He felt it too, the inevitable pull, his groan vibrating through your core as his fingers dug possessively into your flesh. "Look at me, Angel," he rasped, voice shattered. Your eyes, dark with ecstasy, snapped to his, locking onto the storm of awe and desperate love you found there. That connection, the raw vulnerability in his gaze, shattered your last restraint. A cry tore from your lips—not of pain, but of pure, unadulterated release—as your inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic waves, the silken walls fluttering wildly. The sight, the feel of your soaring above him, wings arched like a raptor’s in the moment of triumph, your cry echoing his name, undid him completely. With a guttural shout that was pure surrender, he thrust up one final, powerful time, spilling himself deep within you, his own release a hot, pulsing counterpoint to your tremors. Pleasure detonated through him, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating outwards until his vision blurred at the edges, leaving only the image of his goddess, radiant and claimed, burned into his soul. For endless, suspended seconds, you both were lost in the shared tempest—your wings shuddering, his body arching beneath you, your cries mingling with the rustle of feathers and the frantic drumbeat of your hearts slamming against each other’s ribs. The world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation: the pulse of him still deep inside you, the aftershocks rippling through your own core, the scent of sex and salt and warm feathers thick in the air, the golden light painting your sweat-slicked, trembling bodies as you clung to each other, breathless and absolutely spent in the sacred silence of your shared peak.

Silence descended, thick and sweet, broken only by the frantic hammering of two hearts gradually slowing, syncing. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath your cheek. His hands moved slowly, soothingly, up and down your sweat-slicked back, tracing the skin where your wings were born, a gentle, grounding pressure. He pressed soft, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, the curve of your shoulder – each one a whispered benediction.

You shifted slightly, just enough to lift your head and meet his gaze. His eyes were soft now, the earlier fire banked to a deep, contented warmth, filled with a love so vast it made your breath catch. A slow, entirely unguarded smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. You smiled back, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip.

"I love you, grumpy," you murmured, the words soft but resonant, landing against his lips like a feather.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. He captured your lips in a kiss that was pure tenderness, slow and deep, a languid exploration that tasted of salt, satisfaction, and utter devotion. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his blue eyes holding yours captive. "I love you, my Angel," he breathed, the intensity in his gaze a tangible force. "More than anything.”

You stayed like that for long, precious moments, wrapped in each other, skin still humming, hearts full to bursting. The early sun had climbed higher, bathing the room in a stronger, golden light that felt like a blessing on their tangled limbs. Eventually, the stickiness of sweat and the pleasant ache in muscles prompted movement.

He nudged you gently. "C'mon," he murmured, his voice rough but soft. "Shower. Before Belova hacks the intercom, demanding breakfast." He pressed another quick kiss to your lips, his smirk returning, though softened immeasurably by the lingering warmth in his eyes.

You laughed, the sound light and happy. Extracting yourself reluctantly, you stretched, feeling deliciously used and utterly cherished. He watched you, that same look of awe and possession softening into pure, domestic affection. He swung his legs out of bed, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. Standing naked before him in the morning light, no longer in the heat of passion but in the quiet aftermath, felt just as intimate. He traced a finger down your arm, his touch feather-light. Once standing, your wings hid behind your back.

Together, still touching, fingers loosely entwined, you walked towards the bathroom, the promise of warm water and shared closeness a sweet continuation of the sanctuary you’d built within these walls, within each other. The grumpy soldier and his silver-winged angel claimed, complete, and blissfully, messily in love, ready to wash and face the day, together.

--

The next morning dawned with a different energy in the Tower. Gone was the lazy, intimate warmth of the previous dawn. Instead, the air crackled with the focused tension of mission prep. John stood near the weapons locker in the common area, meticulously checking the loadout on his specialized pistol. His movements were economical, precise, the familiar mask of the US Agent firmly in place – jaw set, blue eyes sharp and assessing. The softness you cherished, the tender vulnerability reserved solely for you, was tucked away beneath layers of Kevlar and steely resolve.

Bucky Barnes leaned against a nearby console, similarly armed and armored, his vibranium arm gleaming dully under the harsh lights. He offered you a brief, almost imperceptible nod as you entered. Alexei Shostakov, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in his Red Guardian suit, boomed a greeting. "Ah! The radiant Angel! Come to wish your scowling eagle luck? Do not worry! We will bring him back! Perhaps only a little dented!" He thumped his chest plate.

You smiled at him, “I came to wish luck to all of you. Don’t do stupid things… Alexei”. You told that last part especially to the cheerful man. He laughed harder than ever at your words.

John didn't look up immediately, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture, a slight relaxation in the rigid line of his shoulders as he sensed your presence. He finished clicking a magazine into place and finally turned. The professional mask remained, but his gaze, when it met yours, held a warmth that was unmistakably yours. It softened the hard edges, just for a moment.

"Morning," he said, his voice clipped but lacking its usual bite. He holstered the pistol and took a step towards you.

"Morning," you replied, stepping close. You resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the invisible furrow between his brows, knowing the persona he needed to wear. "Everything set?"

"Standard recon and extraction. Hydra splinter cell holed up in an old SSR bunker in the Alps. Should be in and out in forty-eight hours, tops." He shrugged, trying to project nonchalance, but you knew him. You saw the slight tension around his eyes, the way his hand flexed at his side. He hated leaving you. Hated the separation, even for a short while.

Yelena’s crisp voice crackled over the comms. "Walker, Barnes, Alexei. Wheels up in five. Hangar Bay."

Alexei clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Time to crush some capitalist-fascist traitors! Or... Hydra. Whatever they call themselves this week!" He lumbered towards the exit, humming a Russian folk tune.

Bucky pushed off the console. "See you in a couple of days," he said to you. His tone was kind, and he smiled. “Take care, Bucky,” You smiled softly at him, and as he nodded and followed Alexei.

That left just you and John in the suddenly quiet corner of the room. The mission-ready facade slipped a fraction further. John closed the distance, his large hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "Be good," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register reserved only for you. "Try not to burn the Tower down while I'm gone. And keep Belova away from my coffee machine."

You smiled, leaning into his touch. "No promises on Yelena. But I'll try. Just... be careful, John." The worry you tried to keep out of your voice seeped through. "Come back to me. In one piece. Preferably grumpy."

A ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips. "Grumpy is my default setting, Angel. Wouldn't be me without it." He leaned in, his gaze holding yours. "I'll be back before you know it." The kiss wasn't the desperate, passionate one from the morning before, nor the tender worship of dawn. It was firm, grounding, a promise sealed. It spoke of his absolute certainty of return and the depth of his connection to you. His lips lingered, warm and reassuring against yours.

He pulled back, his hands sliding down to squeeze your shoulders briefly. "Forty-eight hours," he reiterated, his eyes intense. Then, with a final nod, the mask snapped fully back into place. He turned, his stride confident and purposeful as he headed towards the hangar bay, joining Bucky and Alexei.

You watched him go, a familiar ache settling in your chest – the price of loving a soldier. This wasn't new; the team often carried out missions in smaller groups when the situation called for it. During your time on the team, a year and a half now, you've done this many times. Although that didn't stop you from worrying about their well-being, especially John's. But he always returned to you, and your concern was tempered by the lingering warmth of his kiss and the fierce certainty in his eyes.

Inside the Quinjet, as the ramp hissed shut, John sank into his seat, the familiar pre-mission tension already coiling in his muscles. Almost instinctively, his fingers went to the small, cool metal of the wing pendant resting against his sternum beneath his suit. He rubbed the delicate silver feathers between his thumb and forefinger, a grounding touchstone. A slight, private smile touched his lips—not of joy, but of profound connection. The pendant was more than jewelry; it was a vow, a tangible piece of your faith in him. His mind flashed to the image of you just minutes ago: the fierce love in your eyes, the soft, worried press of your lips against his, the whispered "Come back to me" that was his most powerful talisman. The memory was a shield, fortifying his resolve. He held onto that image, letting it eclipse the mission ahead, and promised himself he would absolutely be returning to the woman who had given him a reason to.

--

The Tower felt emptier that night. Quieter. You, Yelena, Ava, and Bob had commandeered the massive living room. The screen flickered with the chaotic action of some over-the-top superhero movie Bob had chosen, mountains of popcorn overflowing on the coffee table. Bob himself kept accidentally vibrating the bowl, sending kernels flying like miniature projectiles. Ava would phase her hand through them, letting them scatter harmlessly.

"Bob," Yelena sighed dramatically, plucking a kernel from her hair, "if you cannot control your molecular instability, perhaps you should eat the popcorn before it becomes an aerial hazard."

"Sorry! Sorry!" Bob stammered, blushing furiously. "It's just... the tension! Will Captain Quantum defeat the Anti-Matter Man?"

"It’s statistically improbable given the established power differential," Ava stated matter-of-factly from her perch on the armchair. "But the narrative suggests he will."

You chuckled, snuggling deeper into the plush sofa, wearing one of John’s old Army hoodies you’d ‘borrowed’. It smelled faintly of him. It was a comforting anchor.

As the credits finally rolled on the movie’s improbable victory, Yelena stretched languidly. "Well. That was... loud." She eyed you, a familiar, mischievous glint in her eyes. "So. How is the Walker withdrawal? Has the Tower imploded from lack of brooding yet?"

You threw a piece of popcorn at her. "He's been gone twelve hours, Yelena. The Tower is fine. I'm fine."

"Fine?" Yelena scoffed, expertly dodging the popcorn. "You are wearing his hoodie like a security blanket. You sighed five times during the car chase sequence. And you have that... look."

"What look?" you asked, trying to sound innocent and failing miserably.

"That disgustingly happy, lovesick look," Yelena declared, wrinkling her nose playfully. "Even when he is not here, he is here." She gestured vaguely at your face. "It is nauseating. And also... strangely heartwarming. Like watching a particularly grumpy cactus bloom unexpectedly."

Ava solidified slightly. "Know this: The frequency of your smiles increased when discussing Walker earlier, and your pheromone levels suggest elevated oxytocin despite his absence. It is...  significant affection." Her tone was analytical, but there was a hint of something like approval.

Bob beamed. "It's really nice! He's way less... shouty... since you two got together. And he smiles! Actual smiles!"

You felt your cheeks flush, but you couldn't suppress the wide smile spreading across your face. Yelena was right. You were disgustingly happy. The thought of John, even his absence, filled you with a warm, fizzy feeling. "Okay, okay," you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged. He... makes me happy. Ridiculously happy. Even when he's being a grumpy ass."

"See?" Yelena pointed triumphantly. "Disgusting! But," she added, her smirk softening into something genuine, "it is good. For him. For you. For all of us, frankly. Less broken furniture from frustrated punching." She stole a handful of popcorn from Bob's bowl. "Forty-eight hours, Angel.” She joked with the nickname he used with you. “Then you can resume your mutual admiration society."

The rest of the evening passed in easy camaraderie. Yelena recounted a ridiculous story about a mark in Marrakech. Bob nervously described trying to help an old lady cross the street. Ava offered dry commentary. It was fun, comforting. But underneath it all, like a steady bass note, was the awareness of John's absence.

Later, back in your own room, the quiet settled more deeply. You changed, the soft fabric feeling different without the promise of his warmth beside you. You slipped into bed, pulling the covers up. The hoodie lay folded on the chair, but his scent still lingered faintly in the air.

You thought of him. His rare, genuine smile. The intensity in his blue eyes when he looked at you. The feel of his calloused hands on your skin. The way his gruff voice softened when he called you 'Angel'. The ridiculous, sarcastic jokes that somehow always made you laugh. The sheer, overwhelming force of his love, a love that had cracked open his hardened shell and revealed the fiercely loyal, surprisingly tender man beneath.

A wave of longing washed over you, sharp and sweet. You missed him. Missed the weight of his arm across your waist, the rumble of his breathing, the quiet conversations in the dark. You missed his grumpy morning face and his possessive touches. You missed him.

But intertwined with the ache was an undeniable joy. A profound gratitude. You were so deeply, irrevocably in love. The thought alone made your heart feel too big for your chest. You pictured his face, the way it would light up when he saw you again, the feel of his arms wrapping around you, crushing you close. The promise in his kiss.

A soft, contented sigh escaped you. You turned onto your side, hugging a pillow, but it wasn't the pillow you imagined holding. A silly, helpless smile curved your lips, refusing to fade even as your eyes drifted closed. Disgustingly happy? Absolutely. Blissfully, wonderfully, incandescently happy. And you wouldn't trade a single second of it, not even the ache of waiting, because you knew what waited on the other side. Him. Your grumpy soldier. Your love. And forty-eight hours suddenly felt like far too long. You fell asleep with his name a silent whisper on your lips and a smile still warming your face, the tangible warmth of his love a comforting presence even across the miles.

--

Thirty-two hours. The Tower’s common area hummed with a quiet, domestic rhythm utterly at odds with the mission unfolding continents away. You were curled on the vast sofa, immersed in the dense, philosophical sci-fi novel Bob had pressed into your hands with earnest enthusiasm. "It explores the nature of consciousness across parallel dimensions, Y/N. Truly profound!" Bob himself sat beside you, utterly absorbed in a sprawling fantasy epic, occasionally murmuring appreciatively about world-building. Across the room, Yelena flicked through channels on the massive screen with restless precision, her brow furrowed in mild disgust at the offerings. Near the kitchenette, Ava Starr shimmered slightly, she meticulously prepared a pot of jasmine tea, the delicate scent a calming counterpoint.

"Channel 47 has a documentary on Soviet-era ballet," Yelena announced flatly. "Marginally less offensive than the reality show about people marrying their pets." She took a vicious bite of an apple.

"The thematic resonance of the protagonist's journey through the Shadow Marshes is quite compelling," Bob offered, looking up briefly. "The author uses the fungal ecosystem as a metaphor for societal decay."

"It's... intricate," you agreed, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the low-level thrum of anxiety that had been your constant companion since John left. Your enhanced senses, usually a source of comfort, now felt hyper-alert, straining for any sound from the comms room down the hall. You traced a line of text without absorbing it, your mind drifting to John, hoping he was safe, wishing for the familiar weight of his arm around you.

The tranquility shattered like dropped glass. The discreet comm unit embedded in the wall console near Yelena flared to life, Bucky Barnes’ voice crackling through, stripped of its usual stoic calm, laced with urgency and the unmistakable whine of energy weapons in the background.

"Tower, this is Bucky! Mission compromised! Heavy resistance, unexpected reinforcements – tech we haven't seen before. Alexei’s pinned, Walker’s down, bad! Need immediate backup! Coordinates transmitting NOW!"

Time seemed to compress and fracture. The book slipped from your numb fingers, thudding softly onto the plush rug. Bob gasped, his own book forgotten. Yelena was already on her feet, the remote clattering to the floor. Ava turned instantly, the teapot forgotten, steam curling into the suddenly charged air.

"Shit!" Yelena spat, already sprinting towards the armory corridor. "Move! Suit up! Five minutes, tops! Bob, hold the fort!"

Ava vanished, reappearing moments later near her specialized suit, phasing through the wall separating the common area from the gear lockers. Your own heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. John’s down. Bad. The words echoed, cold and terrifying. Enhanced senses amplified the frantic pounding in your own ears, the sharp scent of ozone and blood that seemed to cling to Bucky’s transmission even through the comms.

You moved on autopilot, the training kicking in. Minutes later, you were strapped into your tactical gear, wings compressed but humming with nervous energy beneath the reinforced panels. Yelena, face a mask of lethal focus, checked her Widow’s Bites. Ava, fully suited and shimmering with unstable energy, nodded curtly. The backup Quinjet was prepped, engines whining as you boarded.

--

The flight was a tense blur. Bucky kept feeding fragmented updates over the comms, his voice tight with strain. The Hydra splinter cell had lured them into a trap within the decaying, labyrinthine SSR bunker. Advanced energy dampeners had disrupted communications intermittently, and they’d encountered heavily armored mercenaries wielding unfamiliar sonic weaponry. Alexei had taken a blast meant for Bucky but was mobile. John… John had taken the brunt of an ambush protecting Bucky’s flank. Stabbed. Multiple hits. Bleeding out.

Each word was a knife twist. You gripped the handrail until the metal groaned, your knuckles white. The image of John, strong and vital just yesterday morning, now bleeding and broken, filled your mind, threatening to drown out everything else. The love you felt curdled into a cold, sickening dread.

Landing was rough, the jet setting down in a concealed valley, miles from the bunker’s main entrance. The plan was swift and brutal: split up for speed, find the targets, extract under fire, rendezvous back at the jet.

"Alright,” Yelena snapped, checking her grapple. "Alexei’s last ping was Sector Gamma, lower levels. Sounds like he’s making enough noise. I’ll grab the old bear. Ava, Bucky’s signal is flickering near the central reactor core – likely interference. You’re fastest through walls. Y/N," her gaze locked onto yours, sharp and assessing, "Walker’s bio-signature is faint but holding, last known position… Sub-Level 4, Corridor Echo. Go. Comm silence unless critical. Move!"

You didn’t need telling twice. You were out of the jet before the ramp fully lowered, silver wings snapping out with a powerful whoosh that stirred the snow-dusted pines. The cold mountain air bit at your face, but you barely registered it. Your senses expanded, filtering the wind, the distant crackle of gunfire from the bunker, the scent of ozone and burning metal. John. Find John.

The infiltration was a deadly ballet. You moved with lethal grace through Sub-Level 3’s labyrinthine corridors, the air thick with the ozone stink of energy weapons and the metallic tang of fear. Your wings weren’t just adornments; they were instruments of salvation. A patrol rounded the corner – three Hydra troopers in tactical gear. Before their startled shouts could fully form, your wings snapped open with a resonant crack, solidifying instantly into shimmering silver shields. Pulse rifle fire spanged off the hardened feathers, throwing sparks into the gloom. You didn’t flinch. In the same heartbeat, you drew your compact sidearm – John’s spare, the grip still warm with his imprint – and fired twice. Two troopers dropped, neat holes blooming in their foreheads.

The third lunged, vibro-blade humming. You pivoted, a wing-edge sweeping low like a silver scythe. It connected with his knees with a sickening crunch, dropping him screaming. Before he hit the ground, a single, needle-sharp primary feather detached with a soft thwip and embedded itself in his neck pressure point. Silence. You didn’t break stride, retracting your wings just enough to navigate the corridor, the faint hum of their energy field fading.

Your healing power thrummed like a caged star beneath your skin, a desperate, aching pulse synced to your racing heart. Too slow. You’re taking too long. Every second scraped raw against your nerves. Bucky’s voice crackled briefly in your comms, strained but clear: "Ghost has me. I'm mobile. Alexei?"

A burst of static, then Yelena’s voice, punctuated by the distinctive crack-hiss of her Widow’s Bites and a guttural cry: "Got the noisy one. He’s singing like a drunk nightingale. Heading to the jet." A grunt, the sound of a body hitting metal. "Try not to die, Angel."

Relief warred with intensified fear, sharp as a knife twist. They were okay. They were clear. But John… your John… The mental image of him bleeding, alone, fueled the fire in your veins. The comms signal from his suit tracker was flickering, fading like a dying heartbeat on your internal HUD.

Deeper into Sub-Level 4. The air choked you – dust, ozone, and the thick, cloying stench of blood and death – much of it freshly spilled by you. Corridor Echo was a testament to John’s fierce last stand, now overlain with the brutal signature of your approach. Bodies weren't just down; they were broken. One agent lay with his head wrenched backwards at a grotesque angle (your hands, seeking the fastest silence). Another was impaled on a jagged shard of conduit you'd ripped free and driven home. Hand-to-hand wasn't a technique; it was savage dismantling. You used a fallen rifle stock to cave in a helmet, and felt the skull give way beneath the impact. You disarmed a trooper and rammed his own knife up under his ribs into his heart, twisting the blade as you met his wide, terrified eyes. No hesitation. No quarter. They were obstacles. Living speedbumps between you and John. Removing them permanently was the fastest route.

You took hits. The stun baton jolt that numbed your arm? Met with a roar and a headbutt that shattered the attacker’s nose, followed by a stomp to the throat. The grazing shot across your ribs? Ignored as you vaulted debris, firing John’s pistol one-handed to drop the shooter before he could fire again. Warm blood trickled freely, soaking your suit, painting silver feathers crimson. Your healing stitched the worst, but the raw, burning ache remained – a constant companion to the white-hot rage. It didn't slow you down. It defined you. You were a weapon now, honed to a single, terrible purpose.

Then, the HUD blip steadied. Junction 7. You rounded the final corner, your wings slick with blood – yours and theirs – flared wide like banners of wrath.

Devastation. John’s handiwork, now underscored by your brutal path. And there, slumped against the buckled bulkhead, half-hidden in shadow, was John. Pale. Still. Blood pooling beneath him. That wet, rattling gasp tore through the silence – and through you.

"JOHN!" The scream ripped from your throat, raw, primal, shattering the grim stillness. Mercy was gone. Ruthlessness had served its purpose. Now, only desperation remained as you surged forward, healing light erupting from your palms like a fallen star, your bloodstained wings collapsing around him in a protective, trembling shroud. You had fought like a demon. Now you had to heal like an angel.

Your breath hitched, sharp and painful in your dust-choked throat. He was pale. Not just pale, but terrifyingly bloodless beneath the grime and the drying streaks of crimson that painted his face like war paint. The stark white of his exposed collarbone above the torn neckline of his undersuit looked almost luminous against the grime and the alarming pallor of his skin. His tactical vest had been shredded, peeled back like foil to reveal the dark, wet horror beneath. A massive bloom of crimson, nearly black in the flickering emergency lights, stained his abdomen and lower chest, spreading like a vile inkblot across the dark fabric of his suit. It was still spreading. One arm hung limp at his side, a steady, rhythmic drip… drip… drip of blood falling from his slack fingers onto the debris-strewn floor, each drop echoing like a death knell in the sudden, grim silence. His head lolled weakly against the buckled bulkhead.

Then, as you landed softly just a few feet away, the silken whoosh of your wings folding, breaking the dreadful quiet, his eyes snapped open. Recognition flared instantly in the pain-glazed, stormy blue depths – a spark of fierce intelligence cutting through the haze. It was followed by a wave of profound, almost childlike relief that softened his features for a split second. But beneath that relief, lurking in the tightness around his eyes and the slight clench of his jaw even now, was something else… something guarded. Haunted. A shadow you couldn’t immediately name.

"Angel…" The word was a broken rasp, scraped raw from a throat tight with pain and effort. Each syllable was a struggle. "Knew… you’d come…" A ghost of his usual stubborn defiance flickered as he tried, agonizingly, to push himself up against the metal. A strangled groan tore from his lips, harsh and guttural, as the movement clearly sent fresh agony lancing through him. Fresh blood welled at the edge of the main wound.

"Don't move!" Your voice was sharper, louder than intended, cracking with the raw terror that had been your constant companion since Bucky’s strained voice had crackled over the comms. It echoed in the ruined corridor, startlingly loud. You dropped to your knees beside him in a fluid rush, uncaring of the sharp debris digging into your legs or the warm, sticky pool of his blood soaking into your suit. Your hands were already moving, palms radiating the warm, urgent golden light of your healing power before they even made contact. The light cast shifting, hopeful patterns on the grimy walls and the stark planes of his face.

Your enhanced eyes scanned the injuries with terrifying clarity, cataloging the damage beneath the blood: deep, vicious puncture wounds, ragged at the edges, likely from a vibranium-tipped blade or some similarly cruel implement. They were serious, bleeding heavily – arterial spray mixed with slower, darker ooze – but crucially, within your power. The organs felt intact beneath your scanning energy, the damage localized to muscle and vasculature. You could fix this. You had to. The alternative was unthinkable. "Just hold still," you murmured, your voice softening now, thick with emotion you couldn't suppress. "Let me work. Please, John. Just hold on for me."

You placed your hands gently, reverently, over the worst wound low on his abdomen. The golden light intensified, bathing your hands and his ravaged torso in its warm glow. You poured everything into it – your desperate energy, your boundless love, your bone-deep fear, the frantic pulse of your own heart. You felt the intricate work begin beneath your palms: knitting severed capillaries, coaxing torn muscle fibers to weave themselves back together, stimulating clotting pathways. It was a race against the relentless seep of his lifeblood onto the cold floor. He sighed then, a ragged, shuddering exhalation that held a universe of pain beginning to relent. Some of the terrifying tension eased from his rigid frame as the agony receded under the insistent warmth of your power. His breathing, still wet and labored, seemed to find a slightly less desperate rhythm. Tears fell all along your cheeks while you worked. Seeing him like this, injured, bleeding out, pale, weak, too near to death, terrified you.

His uninjured left hand lifted weakly from the floor, trembling visibly. Fingers, cold and slick with a mix of his blood and grime, brushed tentatively against the back of your hand where it rested on his stomach. The contact was feather-light, seeking reassurance. You didn’t pull away, your focus absolute on the life-giving flow channeling through you. His hand shifted slightly, his cold, strong fingers curling clumsily to cover yours where you pressed against his wound. It was a gesture of profound vulnerability, seeking connection, seeking the anchor of your touch amidst the storm of his pain. His thumb moved weakly, a faint stroking motion against your knuckle.

And that’s when you saw it.

His movement had shifted the angle of his hand. The weak emergency lights glinted dully off something metallic encircling the base of his ring finger on his left hand. It wasn't part of his tactical suit. It was a simple, thick band of what looked like white gold or platinum, worn smooth with age and constant wear. It was smeared with blood and grime, almost blending in, but the shape was unmistakable. His wedding ring. The one from his failed marriage. The one he never talked about, the one that represented a past life of loss he carried like a hidden weight. He still wore it. Even now, bleeding out in a Hydra hellhole, even after months with you, sharing his bed, his heart, his deepest vulnerabilities… he still wore the symbol of that broken bond with another woman.

Your heart didn't just drop; it plummeted into an icy abyss. The warm, focused energy flowing from your hands stuttered and died. The golden glow winked out. You froze, utterly still, your gaze locked onto that band of gold. Time stopped. The sounds of distant battle, John’s labored breathing, the drip of blood – everything receded into a muffled roar. The world narrowed to that ring, gleaming accusingly against his blood-stained finger.

He followed your frozen gaze. Saw what you saw. The fragile color that had begun to seep back into his cheeks under the golden glow of your healing vanished instantly, draining away to leave a corpse-like, sickly pallor. His eyes, moments ago, softened with relief and the comfort of your touch, widened in pure, unadulterated horror. They weren’t just guilty; they were shattered, reflecting a gut-wrenching maelstrom of panic, shame, and the dawning, devastating understanding of what he’d done. He knew. In that single, horrifying second, he knew the magnitude of his error, the sacred trust he’d just obliterated with a simple, silent lie worn on his finger.

"Y/N… Angel, wait…" he choked out, his voice thick not just with physical pain now, but with raw, clawing panic. His hand, the one still covering yours, twitched convulsively, as if trying to physically pull the ring off or hide it, but he was too weak. It was too late. "I can explain… Please…"

"Silence."

Your voice wasn't loud. It was flat. Arctic. Devoid of every ounce of warmth, worry, and tender sweetness that had defined you moments before as you poured your soul into saving his life. That single word cut through his desperate stammering like a scalpel, cold and final. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the guilt warring with fear in those familiar blue eyes, eyes you’d gazed into a thousand times with love. Couldn’t trust your own voice not to shatter into a million jagged pieces, revealing the raw, bleeding wound beneath the ice. Couldn’t trust your thoughts, swirling in a vortex of agony. Couldn’t trust the heart pounding against your ribs, the heart that had belonged utterly to him, now feeling like a traitorous, broken thing.

The despair hit first. A physical blow to the chest, stealing your breath. It was a black hole opening inside you, sucking in the light, the hope, the future you’d dared to imagine. He wore it. He still wore it. After everything…

Then came the anger. White-hot and searing, rising like bile. It burned through the icy shock, a furious counterpoint to the despair. How dare he? How dare he lie there, letting me touch him, heal him, pour my love into him, while wearing her symbol? While carrying that ghost between us?

And beneath it all, a crushing, suffocating sadness. The profound grief for what was lost, for the beautiful illusion that had just shattered. The sweetness of mornings, the intimacy of shared secrets, the reverence in his touch on your wings… it all curdled into ash in your mouth.

Your mind spiraled, a hurricane of tormenting questions shredding the foundation of your shared world:

Why was he wearing it? Right now? On this mission? When I wasn’t here? The implication was a knife twist. Was it a talisman? A reminder? A connection he couldn’t sever?

Has he worn it on every mission I didn’t join? The thought was poison. How many times had he suited up, kissed you goodbye, and then slipped her ring back on? How many times had he carried that hidden weight into danger while you waited, oblivious?

Does he always put it back on when he leaves me? Was taking it off only for your benefit? A performance for the "Angel"? Did he slip it back on the moment he walked out the door, a secret ritual separating your world from his?

Does he still think about her? The ghost suddenly felt terrifyingly present. Did he compare? Did he regret? Did he wish…?

Does he still…? You couldn't even finish the thought. The possibility of lingering love, of unresolved longing, was a physical pain.

What does that mean? For us? For the love he swore was only mine? If the ring was still there after a year, what did that say about his commitment? About the truth behind every "I love you," every whispered promise?

The tender moments, the whispered devotions, the way he worshipped you… Was it all just… convenient? A distraction? While his heart still held space for the ghost of his past?

Why? Why, after a year of my love, my trust, my body, my soul…? The sheer injustice of it choked you. Hadn’t you been enough? Hadn’t you chased away the shadows of his past?

Was everything we had… everything he said… a lie? The most devastating question of all. Had the rooftop confessions, the tender moments, the fierce passion, the whispered "Goddess"… had it all been built on sand? Had his devotion been a mask?

Did I do something wrong? The insidious whisper of self-doubt, the cruel reflex to blame yourself. Was I not enough? Too much? Did I push him? Did I fail him somehow?

The golden light emanating from your hands faltered, flickering like a dying star. The intricate work of healing stuttered, the flow of energy disrupted by the violent tempest within you. You took a sharp, shuddering breath, forcing your focus back to the immediate, brutal necessity: stopping the blood leaking from his body. Not because the warmth had returned – that was gone, replaced by a hollow, aching cold – but because you were not a monster. Because your friends were fighting, waiting. Because retreat to the Quinjet wasn't optional; it was survival. For him, physically. For you, emotionally. You couldn't break down here. Not now. The ice was your armor. The silence, your shield. You would get him out. You would get yourself out. And then… You actually didn’t know what was next.

"I have to focus," you stated, your tone mechanical. You forced the golden light back into your hands, pressing them back onto his wound with deliberate force, ignoring his flinch. The healing energy flowed again, efficient, clinical, but utterly devoid of the love that usually infused it. It was a job now. A necessary task. Nothing more. You worked in furious, icy silence, your jaw clenched so tight it ached. You could feel his eyes on you, feel the weight of his guilt, his desperation to speak, but you shut him out. The connection, the intimacy of the healing touch, was gone, replaced by a chasm of betrayal.

"Y/N, status?" Yelena’s voice crackled in your ear, startling you. "We’re at the jet. Where are you?"

You finished sealing the last of the major wounds. The bleeding had stopped. He was stable. Functional. "Found him," you reported through the comms, your voice disturbingly level. "Stable. Heading to the jet now." You withdrew your hands, the light vanishing. You stood up, avoiding his outstretched hand, avoiding his pleading eyes. "Can you walk?"

He pushed himself up, wincing but managing. "Yeah. Yeah, I can walk." His voice was raw. "Angel, please…"

"Then move," you commanded, turning towards the corridor exit.

The journey back to the surface was a nightmare sculpted from grim silence and punctuated only by the brutal symphony of violence. Hydra stragglers, like roaches emerging from the shadows, tried to block your path. You dispatched them not with your usual controlled precision, but with a chilling, detached efficiency that froze John’s blood. Gone were the disabling strikes, the non-lethal feather barrages. A mercenary lunged from a side corridor; your wing snapped forward, not to shield, but to spear – the hardened leading edge punching through his throat with a sickening crunch. You didn’t pause to watch him choke. Another fired wildly; you didn’t dodge, you closed. Two shots from John’s spare pistol – center mass, then the head as he fell – executioner’s cadence. Your movements were sharp, economical, utterly devoid of hesitation or mercy. You moved like a blade honed for slaughter.

John fought beside you, his own movements stiff and painful despite your initial healing, every step a fresh agony he ignored. His focus, however, was fractured. His gaze constantly flicked to you, drawn with horrified fascination and deepening anguish. He saw the cold set of your jaw, the unnerving lack of expression in your eyes – eyes that usually held warmth, mischief, or fierce determination, now flat and empty as polished stones. He’d never seen you like this. Not in the fiercest battle, not under the heaviest fire. The Angel he knew was fierce but merciful, powerful but gentle. This… this was something else. Something terrifying.

He desperately tried to rationalize it. Adrenaline. Survival. The stress of the mission, of finding me like that. She’s in shock. She’s protecting us. He clung to these thoughts, a fragile lifeline against the dread coiling in his gut. She isn’t like this. She’s sweet. Warm. Delicate, even in her strength. She doesn’t kill ruthlessly in cold blood. But the evidence was irrefutable in the corpses left cooling in your wake. The mercenary whose neck you broke without breaking stride. The one you shot point-blank as he tried to crawl away, pleading. This wasn't survival instinct; it was purgative fury.

He tried to stay close, his instinct screaming to shield you, to pull you back from the brink he sensed you were teetering on. He angled his body, attempting to position himself between you and potential threats, his battered frame a meager bulwark. But you maintained a deliberate, icy distance. Always three precise steps ahead, forcing him to push his injured body harder to keep up. Or slightly to the side, your posture angled away, your wings held tight and defensive, forming a physical and emotional barrier. You never looked back at him.

Then, rounding a blind corner stacked with smoldering debris, a flicker of movement caught John’s peripheral vision near a half-collapsed doorway. Instinct, honed by years of combat and a desperate, aching need to protect you – even from yourself, even now – surged. "Look out!" he rasped, lunging forward, his good hand shooting out to grab your arm and yank you back behind him.

Your reaction was instantaneous and visceral. You didn't just pull away. You flinched. Violently. As if his touch were a white-hot branding iron. You twisted out of his grasp with serpentine speed, putting another foot of space between you, your wings flaring defensively, not towards the potential threat, but towards him. Your head snapped around, and for a split second, your eyes met his. In that frozen instant, John saw it all: not fear of the enemy, but raw, icy revulsion aimed squarely at him. It was a look that pierced deeper than any Hydra blade.

He stopped dead, his hand hanging uselessly in the air where your arm had been. He stared at it, then at you, his face a mask of stunned hurt and dawning, terrible comprehension. That flinch… it wasn't just anger. It was rejection. It was contamination. "Y/N…" he started, his voice thick with a pain that had nothing to do with his wounds – a raw scrape of hurt and frustrated helplessness. "Why did you—"

"It would be a stupid question, John." Your voice cut him off, colder than the void of space, devoid of any inflection beyond weary contempt. You didn’t even turn your head fully, your attention already snapping back down the corridor. You raised the pistol, sighted with unnerving calm, and fired once. A choked gurgle echoed from the shadows near the doorway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Another threat eliminated. Another piece of his heart turned to ash. You started moving again, your stride purposeful, lethal, leaving him standing amidst the carnage, the taste of blood and betrayal thick in his mouth. "Move."

The command hung in the acrid air, not an instruction, but a condemnation. He knew why. The ring. The hidden lie. The shattered trust. And the terrifying realization settled over him like a shroud: the warm, healing Angel was gone. In her place walked an Avenger of ice and wrath, and he had forged her himself.

"Y/N, Walker, report!" Bucky’s voice was tense over the comms as you neared the bunker entrance. "We’re taking fire near the exit!"

"I’m hit," you stated flatly, registering the sharp impact and sudden bloom of heat in your left shoulder almost as an afterthought. A lucky shot from a flanking position you’d missed because your mind was a thousand miles away, lost in a labyrinth of betrayal. The pain was distant, secondary to the crushing weight in your chest. "Superficial. Proceeding."

"Hit?!" John was beside you in an instant, his face contorted with renewed fear and fury, all his own pain forgotten. "Where? When? Let me—" He reached for your arm.

You recoiled sharply, stepping back. "Don’t touch me." The words were out before you could stop them, sharp as broken glass. The raw hurt in his eyes was almost physical, but you couldn’t bear it. Couldn't bear his touch, his concern, not now, not with that ring still gleaming on his finger. "Just… get to the jet." You pressed a hand briefly over the wound, a faint golden glow stemming the bleeding. "I’ll deal with it later."

The final push to the Quinjet was a nightmarish blur – the percussive crack of Bucky’s rifle, Alexei’s booming shouts and the heavy thump of his impacts, the acrid sting of smoke stinging your eyes, and the frantic whine of the jet’s engines powering up. Yelena, efficient and grim, hauled John up the ramp, her sharp eyes flicking between his pained movements and your rigid, blood-smeared form, absorbing the shattered tension with a single, knowing glance. Ava phased through the closing bulkhead, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating concern. Bucky, pale and favoring his side but resolute, slammed himself into the gunner’s seat, his metal hand already gripping the controls.

You stood rooted on the edge of the ramp. The cold Alpine wind tore at your hair, whipping strands across your face sticky with drying blood. It howled in your ears, but beneath it, a deeper, insistent ringing had taken hold, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the engine roar, Bucky’s shouted orders, everything. You weren’t looking at the closing hatch, the safety it promised. Your gaze was locked back down the ramp, into the smoke-choked valley, towards the gaping maw of the Hydra bunker. It wasn't just a stronghold anymore; it felt like a tomb – a tomb for the trust you’d built, for the future you’d believed in.

The throbbing ache in your shoulder where the sniper’s shot had grazed you was a dull, distant pulse. It was nothing. Nothing compared to the vast, hollow void where your heart had been violently ripped out. The adrenaline that had fueled your brutal ascent was leaching away, leaving behind a terrifying numbness, punctuated only by the icy fury that had sustained you and the crushing weight of betrayal.

Then, you looked down.

Your hands. They were coated. Not just smudged, but slick with drying, rust-brown blood. John’s blood, mingled with the darker crimson of the Hydra agents you’d executed. It was caked under your nails, streaked across your knuckles, painting your palms in a grotesque abstract. You stared, uncomprehending for a moment. Your hands. The hands that healed. The hands that traced John’s scars with tenderness, that cupped his face at dawn. Now, they were instruments of cold slaughter. You flexed them slightly. The blood cracked.

Your gaze drifted upwards. Your suit was torn, the fabric around the graze on your ribs dark and wet, a fresh trickle of your own blood weaving a slow path down your side, warm against the chill. And your wings… your magnificent silver wings, etched with pure white patterns, symbols of grace and freedom… they were desecrated. Spattered with gore, dark streaks marring the luminous metal sheen, feathers matted with blood – his, yours, theirs. The sight was profoundly wrong. Profoundly yours.

Shock, cold and deep, washed over you. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was a mental and spiritual disconnect. The world seemed to tilt, the snow-capped peaks blurring, the smoke swirling in nauseating patterns. The constant ringing intensified, a physical barrier separating you from reality. You didn’t even hear Yelena calling your name when she stepped a little closer to you, standing on the ramp.

You felt sick, bile rising hot and acidic in your throat. You were adrift, trapped in a silent, blood-red trance, staring at your stained hands without truly seeing them, the horror of the past hour and the shattering discovery crashing over you in relentless, icy waves.

"Y/N! Get in! NOW!"

Bucky’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the high-pitched whine in your ears like a physical blow. It jolted you back into your body with painful suddenness. Your head snapped up, your eyes wide, momentarily unfocused before locking onto the scene inside the Quinjet.

Everyone was staring at you. Yelena paused near the cockpit door, her usual sardonic mask replaced by stark worry and disbelief. Ava, solidified near, her eyes wide, reflecting the ghastly sight you presented. Alexei, half-strapped into a seat, looked uncharacteristically subdued, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. Bucky, twisted in the seat, his expression etched with deep alarm beneath the strain of his own injuries.

Except John.

He was braced against a bulkhead near the front, supported by a webbing strap, his face ashen beneath the grime. But his eyes… his piercing blue eyes weren't filled with worry like the others. They held a raw, profound hurt. A deep, bewildered pain that mirrored the chasm opening inside you. His uninjured hand was clenched tightly into a fist, knuckles white. You knew, instinctively, the ring was hidden within that fist. But it didn't matter. The image – the cold metal glinting amidst the blood on his finger – was seared onto your retinas, branded onto your soul. “I…” You tried to talk, but your words failed with everything you were feeling right now.

The thought of stepping into that confined metal tube with him, breathing the same air, feeling his gaze… it was suffocating. The questions – Why? How long? Do you still love her? Was it all a lie? – screamed inside your skull, a cacophony threatening to split your head open. The betrayal wasn't just a memory; it was a fresh, open wound, pulsing with every beat of your damaged heart.

"I… I need…" Your voice emerged, miraculously steady now, a flat monotone that sounded alien even to your own ears. It betrayed none of the violent tremor threatening to consume you from the inside. "...I need to stretch my wings." You gestured vaguely upwards, towards the vast, cold sky. "I’ll fly back.” The excuse was paper-thin, ludicrous, given your visible injuries and state of shock. But it was the only barrier you could erect. The only escape. "I’ll be at the Tower later."

John’s face didn't just fall; it crumpled. The raw hope that had flickered when Bucky shouted died instantly, replaced by utter devastation. "Angel, no!" His voice cracked, raw with panic and a pain that mirrored your own, yet somehow felt like a further violation. "Please, we need to— We need to talk! You’re hurt! Let me—"

But you were already moving. You couldn't listen. Couldn't bear another word from him. Couldn't risk him taking a step closer. With a powerful, almost violent downstroke, your magnificent wings – stained, burdened, no longer symbols of freedom but heavy shields against the world, against him – unfurled to their full, bloodied span. They caught the fierce, icy updraft roaring around the hovering jet. The lift was immediate, effortless, pulling you backwards off the ramp before Yelena could lunge, before Bucky could shout another order, before John could utter another plea.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You angled your wings, banking sharply away from the Quinjet’s downdraft, climbing into the vast, indifferent expanse of the Alpine sky. The metallic thud of the ramp sealing shut echoed faintly, swallowed by the wind and the relentless ringing in your ears. You left behind the jet, the mission’s carnage, and the shattered, irreparable pieces of your relationship scattered on the cold steel floor.

The golden band, that tiny, insignificant circle of metal, burned brighter in your mind’s eye than the glare of the rising sun reflecting off your own tarnished silver feathers. The flight back would be long. It would be bitterly cold. And it would be utterly, desolately alone.

--

The wind wasn't cold; it was numbness. It whipped past your face, stinging your eyes, but you barely felt it. The rhythmic beat of your silver wings, usually a source of exhilarating freedom, felt mechanical, heavy, like lifting leaden weights through tar. You flew not towards the Tower, not towards home, but away. Away from the suffocating confines of the Quinjet, away from the crushing weight of his guilt-stricken gaze, away from the gleaming, accusatory circle of gold burned onto your retina.

Altitude didn’t bring clarity. It brought a terrifying, hollow silence inside your own head. The frantic whirlwind of questions that had torn through you in the bunker corridor had settled into a chilling, heavy fog. They weren't sharp shards anymore; they were thick, suffocating blankets smothering every coherent thought.

Why?

The single syllable echoed in the vast emptiness of your mind. It wasn't a scream anymore; it was a broken whisper, lost in the howling void left behind. Why wear the ring? Why that ring? Why after all this time? Why on a mission? Why, when you weren't there? Had it become a talisman? A superstition? A… connection? He hasn't gotten over his marriage yet?

Your enhanced senses, usually so sharp, felt dulled, overwhelmed by the internal static. The scent of pine and snow from below was distant, irrelevant. The panoramic vista of the snow-capped Alps unfolding beneath you might as well have been a grey void. All you could see was his hand, blood-smeared, trembling, covering yours… and the gold. All you could feel was the instant freezing of your own blood, the way the healing light had died, not from lack of power, but from a shattering of faith.

He worshipped you. The memory surfaced, unbidden and cruel. His lips are tracing your spine at dawn. He whispered, "Perfect". The awe in his eyes as you healed him. The ferocity of his possession. Had it all been… what? A performance? A way to fill the void she left? Was his love for you just… a rebound? Convenience? While the symbol of his commitment to her stayed hidden in his gear, waiting for the moments he stepped away from you and back into his old life?

Tears didn't fall immediately. They pooled, hot and heavy, behind your eyes, blurring the magnificent, indifferent landscape below. A choked sob escaped, ripped from your throat by the sheer, brutal force of the betrayal. It felt like a physical wound, deeper and more agonizing than the bullet graze on your shoulder, which throbbed with a dull, distant ache you actively ignored. This pain was in your chest, a cavernous emptiness where your heart, so impossibly full just hours ago, now felt like shattered glass.

He promised. The thought was a fresh lance of agony. He promised to be careful. He promised to come back to you. He promised you were his light, his reason. Promises whispered against your skin, sealed with kisses that now tasted like ash. Had the promises to her been etched in gold, while the ones to you were written on sand, washed away by the tide of his unresolved past?

Logic offered no solace, no lifeline in the howling void of your thoughts. You weren’t a jealous little girl. You prided yourself on understanding complexity, on respecting the past that shaped the man you loved. You knew his ex-wife would always be a part of him. Theirs wasn’t some fleeting fling; they’d shared years, built a life, brought a child into the world. That bond, forged in shared history and parenthood, was indelible. You knew Olivia was a good woman. From the rare, unguarded moments when John spoke of her – usually about their son – you’d pieced together an image of someone competent, kind, a devoted mother who had tried her best in a marriage ultimately broken by the relentless pressure of John’s acts and the crushing weight of the shield. You harbored no ill will towards the ghost of Olivia. How could you? Olivia was the mother of John’s child, a boy whose laughter occasionally echoed through the comms when he called his dad. That connection was sacred, untouchable.

But this? The ring. The physical symbol of a romantic union, a vow of love and fidelity, specifically between John and her. What did it mean that he still wore it? Not kept it. Not stored it respectfully. Wore it. And worse – he deliberately put it on when you weren’t there. When he suited up for missions you weren’t part of. That detail was the knife twisting in the wound. He knew. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew it was weird. He knew it was a choice he shouldn’t be making. He knew, deep down, how inexplicable, how hurtful it would be to explain away after a year of sharing his bed, his secrets, his fragile hope for the future with you. He knew the questions it would raise; the trust it would erode. He knew all of that, and he did it anyway.

How many times? The question was a poison ivy, wrapping around your heart, constricting. How many times had he kissed you goodbye in the morning, his lips warm and promising, only to slide that cold band of metal onto his finger the moment the Tower doors closed behind him? How many times had he fought alongside the team, your hand perhaps brushing his armored one, while her ring sat snug against his skin beneath the glove? How many times had he returned to you, smelling of gunpowder and sweat, pulling you into his arms, murmuring "Angel" with that tender gruffness that melted you, all while that symbol of another woman’s claim was tucked back into some hidden pocket, the ghost of it still warm on his skin? He wore the ring that represented his love, his vows, to her, and then he came home and told you he loved you? Which love was real? What was the performance? Was the ring the anchor to his truth, and you… Were you the comforting illusion? The thought was a physical sickness, a vertigo that threatened to send you plummeting from the sky.

It was too much. The contradictions collided like tectonic plates inside your skull. The John who looked at you with awe, who touched your wings like they were sacred, who whispered his deepest fears and fiercest hopes against your skin in the quiet dark… could that man coexist with the one who kept this intimate secret, this tangible link to a past love, active and present? You didn’t know what to think. Your mind, usually so sharp, so analytical, felt fractured, overwhelmed by the sheer dissonance. Fury warred with a desperate, aching need to understand. To find some scrap of logic that could mend the rending tear in the fabric of their reality.

You wanted to give him the chance to explain. The part of you that still loved him, the part that remembered rooftop dawns and shared laughter, screamed for it. Maybe… maybe there was a reason. A stupid reason, a hurtful reason, but a reason nonetheless. A talisman for luck? A morbid reminder of past failures? A bizarre sense of obligation? But each potential explanation you conjured felt flimsy, insulting. It crumpled under the weight of the central, devastating truth: He knew how it would look. He knew how it would feel. And he chose to wear it anyway. He chose secrecy. He chose the ghost over your peace of mind. He chose to carry that symbol into danger, a hidden weight you never knew he bore.

But is this a logical explanation? The question echoed in the hollow space the fury had momentarily vacated, leaving only cold, bleak despair. Was there any explanation that didn’t fracture the very foundation of the year you’d built together? Keeping the ring? Maybe. Understandable, even. A memento of a significant chapter, tucked away in a drawer with old medals or his son´s picture. A tangible piece of history, respected but archived.

But wearing it? Actively, deliberately sliding it onto his finger when he prepared for a mission without her? You thought of the same questions over and over again. That wasn't sentimentality; it felt like a secret ritual. A private observance. A hidden allegiance is maintained. It whispered that a part of him – a part he felt the need to physically reconnect with when stepping away from you – was still fundamentally bound to her. Bound by love? By guilt? By unresolved pain? It didn't matter. The binding itself, the act of wearing the symbol, was the betrayal. It meant that even as he held you, loved you, called you his Angel, a silent vow to another lingered on his skin, a counterpoint to every promise he made to you.

The questions kept spiraling, each one a shard of glass grinding deeper into your heart, and the rationalizations collapsed as fast as you could build them. And then, your fingers instinctively touched the pendant hanging around your neck, inside your suit. A small, perfect replica of John's shield. And like ice water dumped down your spine, another thought pierced the chaos:

He wears his wedding ring… but did he wear the pendant you gave him?

The question hit with a fresh wave of nausea, somehow sharper, more personal than the ring itself. Because the pendant wasn't just a gift; it was a covenant, a symbol forged in the purest moment of your burgeoning love. The memory, vivid and agonizing, flooded in, a stark counterpoint to the bloodstained reality of the Quinjet ramp and the icy Alpine wind…

Three Months After Joining the Thunderbolts - Rooftop Dawn

The air was crisp, the city below a tapestry of twinkling lights slowly yielding to the soft gold of dawn. You sat side-by-side with John on the familiar ledge, shoulders brushing, sharing the comfortable silence that had become your sanctuary. Steam curled from the mug of coffee he’d handed you – your favorite, brewed strong with just the right amount of milk and honey, learned by heart after weeks of these shared mornings.

It was your birthday. You hadn’t made a fuss, but the quiet acknowledgement hung in the air. You had told him once when your birthday was, but you didn’t know he would remember it. After a while, John cleared his throat, uncharacteristically hesitant. He pulled a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket, the dark blue fabric soft against his calloused fingers.

"Happy Birthday, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough with a tenderness that still made your heart skip.

You looked at him, surprised. "John… you didn't have to…"

"Open it," he insisted, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips.

Inside, nestled on black satin, lay a pendant. Not extravagant, but exquisitely crafted. A perfect, miniature replica of his own shield, rendered in gleaming silver. Your breath caught. You remembered, weeks ago, watching him train with the real thing – the controlled power, the defiant glint – and offhandedly mentioning you admired its symbolism, its weight of duty, hope, and him.

"It’s…" you stammered, tracing the cool metal with a fingertip. "John, it's beautiful."

He shifted, looking out at the waking city. "It represents… what I'm trying to be," he said, his voice low and earnest. "The good man. The protector. The one worthy of… helping and saving people." He met your gaze, his blue eyes intense and vulnerable. "It's important to me. And… I wanted you to have a piece of that. To have something that means… something." A pause. “And to remember me when I’m far away.”

Tears, warm and sudden, pricked your eyes. This wasn't just a gift; it was an offering. A piece of his identity, his aspiration, his fragile hope for redemption, entrusted to you. The significance washed over you, profound and humbling. Without a word, you turned and threw your arms around him, burying your face in the solid warmth of his shoulder. It wasn't just a hug; it was an outpouring of the deep, wordless connection you both felt, a silent promise. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and secure, pulling you close. He rested his cheek against your hair, his breath warm on your scalp. You stayed like that for a long, timeless moment, wrapped in the dawn and the shared understanding that something profound had just shifted between you. It was a silent declaration, more powerful than words. Special didn't begin to cover it.

One Month Later - Tower Hangar Bay

The air crackled with pre-mission tension. John stood near the Quinjet ramp, suited up in his US Agent gear, the familiar stern mask settling over his features. But you saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his eyes. This mission was high-risk. You walked up to him, your own heart pounding with worry.

"Hey," you said softly, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself out there."

He turned, the sternness softening slightly when he saw you. "Always do, Angel."

You took a deep breath, pulling a small, identical velvet box from your pocket. "Here. Something… something to remember me by. When you're far away." Your voice was barely above a whisper, suddenly shy.

He looked surprised, then touched. He took the box, his gaze fixed on it as he lifted the lid. Nestled inside was another pendant. Two delicate, intricately crafted silver wings, spread as if in flight, catching the harsh hangar lights. They were small, elegant, undeniably you.

You held your breath, searching his face. He didn't smile right away. His expression grew strangely serious, almost solemn. His fingers, clad in tactical gloves, reached into the box and gently lifted the pendant out. He held it up, turning it slowly, studying the fine details of each feather, the curve of the wings. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the jet. Your stomach clenched. He doesn't like it. It was too much…

Then, his gaze lifted from the pendant to meet yours. The seriousness hadn't faded; if anything, it had deepened, intensified into something raw and profound. There was no smile, but his eyes held a blazing certainty that stole your breath.

"It's perfect," he said, his voice low, gravelly, vibrating with an emotion that resonated deep in your bones. "Exactly perfect." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours, pinning you in place. "When I get back…" He took a step closer, the air between them crackling. "...I want you to be with me, to be my girlfriend. Officially. No more… whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his expression fierce. "I want it real. I want it known. I want everything with you."

Your heart stopped, then slammed against your ribs. The world narrowed to his intense blue eyes, the pendant glinting in his hand, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability and conviction in his words. In that exact moment, he knew. The love, the connection nurtured on the rooftop, solidified by the shield pendant, had become undeniable, monumental. It demanded acknowledgement. It demanded commitment.

Your smile bloomed, wide and radiant, chasing away the shadows of worry, filling your eyes with tears of pure, unadulterated joy. It was all the answer he needed. His own serious expression finally broke, transforming into a wide, brilliant grin that lit up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Without hesitation, he unclasped the chain and fastened the wing pendant around his own neck, tucking it securely beneath the collar of his undersuit, close to his heart.

He leaned in, his forehead briefly touching yours, his hand warm on your cheek. "Wait for me, Angel," he murmured, the promise vibrating with anticipation and certainty. Then he pulled back, that brilliant grin still in place, and turned to board the Quinjet.

You watched him go, your hand instinctively covering the shield pendant resting against your own chest. Your heart wasn't just melting; it was overflowing, incandescent with the sheer, perfect rightness of it all. He was yours. You were his. And he carried your wings, your symbol, next to his heart as he flew into danger. It was the moment everything became real.

--

The cold began to seep in, not just from the high altitude wind, but from the inside out. A deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the cold of isolation, of realizing the person you trusted most profoundly, the person whose soul you thought you knew, had kept a fundamental part of himself locked away, hidden behind the fortress of his grumpy exterior and the intensity of his love for you.

Your wings grew heavy. The powerful muscles screamed with fatigue, not just from the flight, but from carrying the crushing weight of heartbreak. You scanned the jagged peaks below, seeking not shelter, but oblivion. A high, isolated ledge, jutting out like a broken tooth on the face of a sheer cliff, caught your eye. Desolate. Exposed. Perfect.

You landed with less grace than usual, stumbling slightly on the uneven rock. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through crevices. The city lights were a distant, indifferent glitter miles below. You sank onto the cold stone at the very edge, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying vainly to hold the broken pieces together. The tears finally broke free.

They weren't the quiet, cinematic tears of sadness. They were harsh, wrenching sobs that tore through you, shaking your shoulders, stealing your breath. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, freezing almost instantly in the biting wind. You buried your face in your knees, the rough fabric of your tactical pants scraping against your skin, a minor discomfort lost in the tidal wave of grief. You cried for the trust obliterated. You cried for the future that now lay in ruins. You cried for the man you thought you knew, the man you loved with every fiber of your being, who now felt like a devastating stranger. You cried for the sheer, stupid, overwhelming pain of it.

Hours bled away unnoticed. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange – colors that felt mocking in their beauty. One by one, the stars emerged, cold, distant pinpricks in the vast, uncaring blackness. They offered no answers, no comfort. Only a reminder of your own smallness, your own devastating insignificance in the face of this personal cataclysm.

Then, you saw it. Far on the horizon, beyond the glittering cityscape. Not the comforting dark of night, but an encroaching wall of deeper, more ominous darkness. Lightning flickered within it, silent from this distance but unmistakable – jagged forks tearing through the bruised sky. Thunderheads boiled, rolling towards you with a terrifying, inevitable majesty. It mirrored the storm raging inside you perfectly: the dark clouds of betrayal, the jagged lightning bolts of pain and confusion, the deafening thunder of your own shattered heart.

You watched it approach, the tears still falling freely, tracing icy paths on your wind-chapped cheeks. The numbness was giving way to a deep, aching sorrow, a profound sense of loss that felt permanent. The ring wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was a key. A key that had unlocked a door you never knew existed in the fortress of John Walker, revealing a hidden chamber still occupied by the ghost of his past. And standing there, bathed in the cold starlight with a storm gathering on the horizon, you had no idea if that door could ever be closed again, or if your love could survive the draft blowing through it. The only certainty was the icy rock beneath you, the hollow ache in your chest, and the terrifying, beautiful, destructive storm drawing ever closer.

--

The storm didn’t cleanse; it drowned. Rain, cold and relentless, lashed against your silver wings, plastering your hair to your skull, soaking through your tactical suit until it clung like a second, icy skin. You flew slowly, mechanically, towards the distant, glittering spike of the Tower. The initial, shattering sobs had subsided, replaced by a profound, echoing hollowness. Your chest felt scraped raw, a cavern where only the cold wind of betrayal now whistled. Tears still mingled with the rain on your cheeks, but they were silent, automatic. The fierce, vibrant love that had filled you felt like a distant memory, replaced by a weary ache and a chilling numbness.

You had to go back. The thought was a lead weight. There was nowhere else. The Tower was home, the team was family, and John… John was the storm center you inevitably orbited. You loved him. That terrifying, all-consuming truth hadn't vanished with the discovery of the ring. You could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, hear the rasp of his voice calling you 'Angel,' see the fierce, vulnerable love in his blue eyes. You knew he loved you. That wasn't the question tearing you apart.

The question was: Was your love enough? Enough to truly bury the ghost of Olivia? Enough to finally shed the skin of the man who failed his wife, his son? Enough to deserve the future you’d dared to dream of together?

You feared, deep in the newly hollowed-out core of your being, that the answer was no. Love was powerful, yes. But it couldn't force healing. It couldn't erase a past someone clung to, symbolized by a circle of gold worn in secret. If he couldn't let go, truly let go, then his past wasn't just a scar; it was an anchor, dragging you both down. And you couldn't build a future on the wreckage of his unresolved yesterday. The thought made the cold seep deeper, past your bones, into your soul. The rain felt like the tears the sky was shedding for your broken heart.

***

The moment the Quinjet ramp had sealed, cutting off the sight of your silver wings vanishing into the grey Alpine sky, John Walker’s world collapsed inward. The pain from his mostly healed wounds was nothing compared to the vise tightening around his chest, the acid churning in his gut. The flight back was a blur of tense silence, punctuated by Bucky’s grim updates and Alexei’s boisterous recounting of his fight, oblivious to the suffocating tension radiating from John. Yelena watched him with unnervingly sharp, knowing eyes, saying nothing, which was worse than any barb. They all knew something happened but didn’t ask.

He practically bolted from the jet the second it touched down in the Tower hangar, ignoring Bucky’s clipped demand for a debrief. "Later!" he snarled, the sound raw and desperate, startling even Alexei into momentary silence. He didn’t run; he stalked, a wounded animal seeking its den, leaving a trail of water and blood – his own, from reopened scrapes ignored – on the polished floor.

He slammed the door to his room, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. The space felt alien, charged with the phantom scent of you, your perfume, the memory of tangled sheets and whispered devotion now a cruel mockery. He ripped off the torn, bloodied tactical suit, hurling it across the room. Then the undershirt. He stood bare-chested, breathing hard, staring at his left hand.

The gold band gleamed dully under the harsh overhead light, a malevolent eye. It felt heavy. Filthy. A brand of his monumental, catastrophic stupidity.

"What the FUCK did I do?" The words tore from his throat, a guttural roar of pure agony directed at the empty room, at himself. He slammed his fist against the reinforced wall. Once. Twice. Pain flared through his knuckles, a welcome counterpoint to the soul-crushing guilt. He welcomed the sting, the split skin, the smear of blood. It was real. Tangible. Unlike the devastating fracture he’d caused in the one good thing left in his shattered life.

Fumbling, his hands shaking violently, he grabbed the ring. It felt cold. Alien. How long had it been since he’d consciously registered its presence? He yanked it off, the skin catching, protesting. He stared at it, lying innocently in his bloody palm. This tiny, insignificant circle of metal had just detonated his entire world.

Why? The question echoed your own, a frantic, panicked drumbeat in his skull. Why did I put it on? Habit? Stupid fucking superstition? He’d started wearing it again on missions after Lemar died, after he lost the shield, after Olivia took his son. It felt like… armor. A reminder of a time when he wasn’t a complete failure, a monster. A time before the darkness swallowed him whole. He’d worn it automatically, thoughtlessly, packing his gear. It wasn't about Olivia, not anymore. It was about him. His brokenness. His fear.

And look where that fear got you, you fucking idiot. He closed his fist around the ring, the metal biting into his palm. You ruin everything. Everything you touch turns to shit. Lamar. His marriage. The shield. His reputation. And now… you. His Angel. The one pure, perfect light in his endless night. The woman who saw the wreckage he was in and somehow saw something worth saving. Worth loving. He’d shown her his darkness, his rage, his grief, and she hadn’t flinched. She’d healed him, body and soul. And how had he repaid her? With a hidden lie. A symbol of a past he claimed was buried, worn like a secret shield against the world, a shield that had now shattered your trust.

He loved you. God, he loved you with a ferocity that terrified him. It was the only thing keeping him upright now, the only anchor against the tsunami of self-loathing. What did that love matter now? How could he possibly explain that the ring wasn't about missing Olivia, but about hating himself? About clinging to a dead identity because the man he was now felt unworthy, especially of you? Who would believe that? How could you believe that, after seeing it there, glinting on his finger as you saved his life? The irony was a knife twisting in his gut. You saved me, and I destroyed us.

Panic surged, cold and sharp. Where are you? Hours had bled away. The storm was raging outside the Tower windows. Were you still flying? Were you hurt? That graze on your shoulder… had you healed it? The image of you flinching away from his touch, the raw rejection in your voice – "Don't touch me!" – lanced through him again. He’d caused that. He’d put that distance, that pain, in your eyes. He paced the small room like a caged tiger, the ring a burning coal in his clenched fist. He needed to see you. Needed to know you were safe. Needed to fix this, even though the damage felt irreparable.

He needed to hold you. To kiss you. To beg. To explain, even if the explanation sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He needed to feel the warmth of your skin, the solidity of your presence, to prove to himself that he hadn't lost you completely. But the fear was paralyzing. What if you wouldn't listen? What if you looked at him with that hollow emptiness forever? What if you never flew back? The thought was a physical blow, stealing his breath.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, the same bed where he’d worshipped your body with reverence just two mornings ago. He dropped the ring onto the nightstand. It landed with a tiny, final clink. He buried his face in his hands, the scent of blood and rain and his own despair filling his nostrils. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within – thunder rumbling like his own choked sobs, lightning flashing behind his closed eyelids like the devastating clarity in your eyes when you saw the gold.

He was an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging idiot. You’d flown into hell to save him, and all you’d found was proof he was still chained to his own. He waited in the suffocating silence of his room, the rain hammering against the window, every creak of the Tower, every distant hum of machinery making him jerk his head up, heart pounding with futile hope. Come back. Please, Angel. Come back. Let me try. Let me explain. The hours stretched, agonizing and empty. The hollow space beside him on the bed yawned wide, a physical manifestation of the chasm he’d ripped open between them. He waited, a monument to guilt and desperate, terrified love, listening for the sound of wings that might never return.

--

The Tower’s familiar hum felt alien. You landed on the rain-slicked helipad, the wind whipping strands of wet hair across your face. The storm had followed you, or perhaps you’d carried it within. Your wings folded inward with a weary sigh, disappearing completely, leaving you feeling strangely vulnerable, diminished. The vibrant silver felt tarnished. You walked through the access door, water pooling at your feet with every step, tracing a cold path behind you. The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting a ghost. Pale, hollow-eyed, lips slightly parted, breath shallow. The wound on your shoulder, a jagged tear in the tactical suit fabric, throbbed dully. Blood, diluted pink by rainwater, seeped steadily, staining the dark material. You registered the discomfort distantly, a minor annoyance compared to the gaping void where your heart used to be.

You bypassed his room. The instinct to go there, to seek the warmth and sanctuary you’d always found within its walls, was a physical ache. But the image of the gold band, gleaming against his bloodied finger, slammed that door shut in your mind. It felt contaminated. Betrayed. Your own room felt cold and impersonal, a space barely used in the past year, filled only with echoes of solitude. You entered, the door sighing shut behind you.

Mechanically, you began peeling off the soaked, ruined suit. Every movement felt leaden. The fabric clung stubbornly to your skin, peeling away like a scab to reveal the angry, untreated graze on your shoulder. You didn't look at it. You didn't summon the familiar golden warmth. The physical pain was a grounding counterpoint, a tangible manifestation of the internal devastation. You deserved to feel it. You pulled on a soft, oversized sleep shirt and shorts, the clean cotton a stark contrast to the grime and blood still clinging to you. You picked up a towel, running it slowly, absently, over your dripping hair, staring blankly at the wall.

***

He heard the muffled thud of the access door closing. Heard the faint whir of the elevator ascending to your floor. The sound was a physical blow. You went to your room. The realization slammed into him, colder than the Alpine rain. You never went to your room anymore. Not unless he was deployed for weeks. That small, instinctive choice spoke volumes louder than any scream.

He waited, frozen in the agonizing silence of his own room, the discarded ring burning a hole in his vision where it lay on the nightstand. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Worry warred with crippling guilt. Were you okay? Had you healed yourself? The image of you flinching away, the raw pain in your eyes when she saw the ring, the blood on your shoulder you’d ignored… it fueled a frantic, desperate need to see you, to know you were physically whole, even if everything else was broken.

He couldn't bear it. He crossed the hallway, the short distance feeling like miles. He knocked softly on your door, the sound hesitant, almost fearful. Silence answered. He knocked again, louder. "Angel? Y/N? Please." Still nothing but the muffled sound of movement inside. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned the handle. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open slowly, stepping into the dimly lit room. The sight that greeted him stole his breath, not with desire, but with gut-wrenching horror. You stood by the bed, towel in hand, drying your hair with slow, lifeless strokes. You were facing away, but the oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing the angry, bleeding wound. Untouched. Unhealed. Fresh blood welled and trickled sluggishly down your arm, stark against your pale skin.

"Y/N..." His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "God... you're soaked. And your shoulder..." He took a hesitant step closer. "I was... I was so worried. Where were you? Are you...?" He trailed off, seeing the utter lack of reaction in your posture. You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept the slow, mechanical motion with the towel. The silence was suffocating, worse than any accusation. "Please," he begged, his voice raw. "Please, heal yourself. Let me... let me help? Just... please heal it."

You remained still. Silent. A statue carved from grief and rain. You simply stopped drying your hair, the towel hanging limply in your hand, waiting.

He took your stillness as permission to speak, desperation clawing at him. The words tumbled out, a frantic, disjointed torrent.

"Y/N... Angel, please..." His voice was a broken rasp, scraping raw against the stillness. He took a hesitant step further into the room, stopping as if an invisible barrier held him back, radiating helpless frustration. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I... I know what you saw. What you think it meant." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "It wasn't… it wasn't her. Not Olivia. Not like that. Not anymore. Please, you have to believe that."

He launched into his explanation, words tumbling out in a desperate, disjointed flood, each sentence punctuated by a tremor in his voice or a gesture of helplessness. "It was… God, it was the stupidest thing. The dumbest fucking habit. I'm so sorry. So unbelievably sorry." His eyes were wide with anguish. "After… after everything fell apart. Lemar…" His voice hitched on his best friend's name, a fresh wave of grief twisting his features. "...the shield… the fucking world crashing down… Olivia taking my son..." The words were choked, each one a blow. "I was… I was nothing. Less than nothing. A ghost walking around in my own skin. And that ring…"

He looked down at his clenched fist, as if seeing the phantom band. "It was… it was like… armor? A stupid fucking reminder of a time… a time before I was just… broken. When I thought I had it figured out. When I thought I was… worthy of something good." He shook his head violently, disgusted with himself. "I started wearing it on missions. Solo missions, mostly. At first, maybe it was about her, about failure… but then… it just became… like a fucked-up good luck charm? A stupid superstition? A reminder of… of failure? Of what I lost before I found you? Something to ground me when things got dark? Or maybe… maybe just me punishing myself? I don't know!" His voice rose, thick with frustration and profound self-loathing. "My head… It’s a mess, Angel. You know that. It was just… me. My damage. My fucked-up way of coping."

He took another half-step forward, pleading with his whole being. "It became automatic. Like putting on the vest. Like checking my sidearm. I forgot it was even there most of the time. It was just… part of the gear. I never thought… I never imagined..." He gestured wildly, encompassing the room, the history, you. "...that I could ever have this. Have you. I never dreamed I'd find someone who looked at me like you do… who saw past the wreckage…" His voice cracked again. "It didn't mean I loved you less! Not for a second! It wasn't about holding onto her; it was about… about trying to hold onto some semblance of the man I thought I was supposed to be, before everything went to hell. Before I lost it all. It was a weakness. Stupidity. But it wasn't a lie about us! About how I feel about you!"

He looked at you, tears finally welling in his own eyes, mirroring yours but born of desperation and the dawning horror of irrevocable loss. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible, a final, broken plea against the silent weeping that filled the space between them. "It was just… my damage. Trying to armor a broken piece, I didn't know how to fix it. It didn't mean I loved you less."

He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on your rigid back, pleading.

"I love you. Only you. You have to believe me. You are everything. My light. My reason. I worshipped you because you are a goddess to me. You saved me, Y/N. In every way possible. Please... please trust me. Please forgive me. I'll throw it away. I'll melt it down. Just... please. Look at me. Talk to me."

His words washed over you. Explanations. Excuses. Pleas. They buzzed like angry flies around the numb void inside you. They couldn't penetrate the icy wall of betrayal. The core issue remained, unaddressed, festering.

Slowly, deliberately, you turned. The movement wasn't angry; it was heavy. Final. You faced him, your eyes lifting to meet his desperate blue gaze. What he saw there made the blood drain from his face. The vibrant warmth, the teasing sparkle, the deep love – all gone. Replaced by a hollowness so profound it was terrifying. A deep, inconsolable sadness. And beneath it, a crushing disappointment that seemed to age you instantly.

The silence stretched, thick and charged. He saw the tears welling, not falling yet, just pooling in those devastated eyes. Your eyes were already red from crying so much. Your voice, when it finally came, was low, flat, devoid of all inflection, yet carrying the weight of the world.

"One question." The words were like stones dropped into still water. "Answer me honestly."

He knew. With a sickening lurch in his gut, he knew what was coming. Please, he screamed silently, please don't ask me that. Don't make me say it. His throat closed. He couldn't breathe.

You held his gaze, the tears beginning to spill over, tracing silent paths down your cheeks. "We've been together a year. You have hugged me, kissed me, made love to me... You have told me that you loved me. In that time... you've had many missions. Missions where I wasn't by your side." You paused, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air between you. "Did you wear that ring... every single time you went on a mission without me?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Agonizing. He stared at you, his own eyes wide with dawning horror, his jaw working soundlessly. He saw the knowledge already etched in your hollow gaze. You knew. But you needed to hear it. Needed him to confirm the scale of the deception.

"Answer me." Your voice was a whip-crack, sharp and cold, cutting through his paralysis.

He flinched. His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to bear the devastation in yours any longer. A strangled sound escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could erase the truth. When he forced them open, looking back at you, it was with the expression of a man facing his executioner.

"...Yes."

The single syllable hung in the air. Final. Devastating.

It wasn't just the admission. It was the confirmation of a pattern. A deliberate, repeated choice. Not a forgotten relic, but a conscious act he performed every time he stepped away from you. He hadn't trusted you enough to explain this quirk, this piece of armor he felt he needed. He'd hidden it, knowing – knowing – it would hurt you if you discovered it. Because he knew you. He knew your heart, your capacity for understanding. If he’d come to you, explained this strange, broken piece of himself – this need to wear the ghost of his old life as armor when facing danger alone – you would have listened. You had listened to his darkest confessions about Lamar, about his failures, about his fear of never seeing his son again. You had even encouraged him to reach out to Olivia, for his son’s sake. You had never been threatened by his past; you’d only ever tried to help him heal it.

A bitter, broken sound escaped you, half-laugh, half-sob. "Every single time…" The words tasted like ash. "So… you take it off when you come back to me? When you hold me? When you kiss me? And then… You just… put it back on?" Your voice rose, trembling with disbelief. "Like clockwork? Like it’s… routine? Like, I am just part of the routine you leave behind?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came.

"Why?" The word tore from you, ragged and raw. "Why, after a year? After everything we built? After every promise, every 'I love you' whispered in the dark… why does that," you gestured wildly towards his empty hand, "still have a place on your skin when you walk away from me?" Your breath hitched, tears mixing with the blood on your shirt. "Does it mean you still think about her? Does it mean…" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, the most terrifying question of all, "...you still do?

He recoiled as if struck. "No! God, Y/N, no! It’s not like that! I told you—"

"You told me nothing!" you screamed, the numbness shattering into razor-sharp shards of rage and agony. "For a YEAR! You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it!" The image burned in your heart. "What does that mean, John? Was it all…" Your voice broke, the foundation of your world crumbling. "Was everything we had… everything you said… was it just… a lie? A beautiful, comforting lie you told yourself… and me?"

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, rocking slightly, the questions turning inward, corrosive and devastating. "Did I do something wrong?" The whisper was barely audible, yet it filled the room. "Was I not enough? Not strong enough? Not… her?" The name hung unspoken but deafening.

He didn’t answer; he couldn’t. He truly loved you, but he couldn’t choose the correct words because, hearing your words, your questions, his mind was slowly beginning to understand the magnitude of his mistake, and the fact that perhaps no explanation would fix this.

He hadn't trusted you with this. He’d chosen secrecy. He’d chosen to wear that symbol of a life before you, deliberately, every time he left your side. The "why" – whether armor, superstition, or self-flagellation – was almost irrelevant now. The repeated act of concealment was the death knell for your trust. You walked away from him, facing the floor-to-ceiling window now. Your tears were falling freely. Your hands covered your eyes, trying to control your crying.

He cleared his throat, the sound raw. "Angel…" His voice was a broken whisper, scraping against the sudden silence. "Please. Look at me."

You didn't turn. You couldn’t. The memory of his blood on your hands, the icy revulsion at his touch on the ramp, the image of that damned ring… it played on a loop behind your eyes.

His words washed over you, hollow echoes in the cavern of your hurt. Logic offered no solace. A habit? He chose to put it on, deliberately, knowing you wouldn't be there. A superstition? He'd never mentioned it. A reminder of failure? Why wear the symbol of a marriage to remember failure? A grounding tool? He had your pendant for that. The thought struck like a physical blow.

"Did you wear it?" Your voice, when it finally came, was terrifyingly flat, devoid of inflection. You still didn’t turn. "The pendant? My wings? Did you wear it… while you wore her ring?"

The silence behind you thickened, became charged. You heard his sharp intake of breath.

Slowly, forcing yourself to move through the crushing weight of dread, you turned.

John stood frozen, his face a mask of dawning horror. His hand instinctively flew to the base of his throat, where the chain of the wing pendant usually lay beneath his shirt. His eyes, wide and desperate, met yours. He didn't need to speak. The guilt, the sheer wrongness radiating from him was answer enough.

“Oh, my God…” you whispered.

He had worn both.

The shield pendant he gave you – a piece of his aspirational self, shared. The wing pendant you gave him – a symbol of your love, accepted and declared. And nestled against his skin, hidden beneath the armor, hidden from you, the cold circle of metal that bound him to a ghost. He had carried your symbol of love alongside the symbol of his vows to another woman.

A silent sob wracked your frame, violent and involuntary. It felt like your ribs were cracking. More tears broke free, not in noisy wails, but in a relentless, silent river that streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the front of your still-bloodstained shirt. It wasn't dramatic; it was the quiet, soul-deep weeping of absolute devastation, the sound of something precious and irreplaceable shattering beyond any hope of repair.

He saw it. Saw the final, irrevocable shattering reflected in your eyes – the light, the trust, the future, extinguished. "Angel, no... please..." His voice was a ragged sob now, mirroring your silent agony. He took a stumbling step forward, hand outstretched, instinctively wanting to pull you to him, to absorb the immeasurable pain he’d caused, to somehow glue the pieces back together with his own desperation.

"If you use it," you whispered, more to yourself, but he heard every agonizing word, "it's because you still remember your marriage… because you still remember her. Because you want to remember. And even when you say you love me…" You looked down at the blood on your shirt, then back at him, utter desolation in your eyes. "...you still choose it. Over and over. You put it back on. Every time you left me."

"No, no! I swear; I love you! It was just... me! My fucked-up head! Please, please, let me explain properly! Let me stay! Let me fix this!" His plea was raw, stripped bare, filled with a terror that mirrored your own desolation.

"Get out." The words were low, almost a whisper, but they vibrated with the titanic effort of containing the volcanic rage and soul-crushing pain threatening to erupt beneath the numb surface. Your knuckles were white where you gripped your own arms.

"Y/N, please!" He took another step, his hand still reaching, tears now tracking through the grime still on his own face. "You have to believe me! I love you! I love only you!" His voice cracked, desperation turning into a ragged, broken wail.

"HOW CAN I BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU DIDN'T TRUST ME?" The roar tore from your throat, shocking in its primal intensity, shattering the fragile silence like glass. It wasn't just anger; it was the raw, bleeding edge of ultimate betrayal finally finding its voice, amplified by the horrifying image of the pendant and ring sharing space on his skin. "You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it! You wore it with my wings! You chose to wear it every single time! You chose to keep that part of yourself locked away, separate from me! You never gave me the chance to understand! You never trusted me enough to tell me! So how, John? HOW CAN I BELIEVE A SINGLE WORD WHEN YOUR ACTIONS FOR A YEAR SCREAMED YOU WERE STILL HOLDING ONTO HER?"

You pointed a trembling finger towards the door, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "GET OUT!"

The final command echoed in the devastated space. It wasn't just a demand for physical distance; it was the slamming shut of a door on a shared life, a shared future. It was the expulsion of the man who had been your sanctuary, now the architect of your ruin. John flinched as if struck, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side. The look on his face wasn't just hurt; it was the desolate realization that he had indeed destroyed the most precious thing he'd ever found. He stared at you for one more agonizing second, seeing only the broken angel he had shattered, then turned and walked out, shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of his own catastrophic failure. The door clicked shut softly behind him, the sound echoing with the finality of a tomb sealing.

Alone, the silent weeping began again, the only sound in the hollowed-out shell of what was once your home.

He slumped against the wall in the hallway outside, sliding down to the floor, his head in his hands, the devastating sound of your now freely noisy weeping the only sound in the world. The storm raged outside the Tower windows, but the true tempest, the one that had shattered his world, raged silently behind the door he could never cross again. The ring, a tiny circle of gold, lay forgotten on his nightstand, its cost immeasurably higher than he could have ever imagined.

--

The click of the door latch echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of your room. The fury that had propelled your shout drained away instantly, leaving behind a chilling vacuum, a numbness so profound it felt like falling through ice into black water. You stood frozen, arm still outstretched towards the now-closed door, trembling not with anger, but with the aftershock of utter devastation. The raw, bleeding wound on your shoulder pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat, a mocking counterpoint to the gaping tear in your soul.

You stood there, your hands holding your head, trying to dull some of the deep pain you felt in your heart. The crying erupted again without warning. The sobs echoed in your room, and you felt like a pulse was pounding in your head, aching.

After an agonizing and endless while, slowly, your arms dropped. You turned, mechanically, back towards the bed. The towel slipped from your nerveless fingers, landing in a damp heap on the floor. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of your own breathing and the relentless drumming of rain against the Tower's windows. You could hear him – a muffled, choked sound from the hallway, the scrape of fabric against the wall as he slid down. A sob, raw and broken. The sound twisted like a knife in your already shattered heart. He’s crying. The image, the grumpy, stoic John Walker brought low by his own colossal mistake, should have evoked pity. Instead, it fueled a fresh wave of icy, hollow despair. His tears couldn't wash away the year-long deception.

Hours passed, you didn’t even know how many. You walked to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving. You avoided the mirror. You couldn't face the ghost staring back. Instead, you focused on the sink. Turning on the cold tap, you cupped water in your hands, splashing it onto your face, trying to wash away the tear tracks, the grime, the feeling of his desperate pleas clinging to your skin. The water was shockingly cold, a brief, sharp sensation that pierced the numbness for a fleeting second. You looked down at your shoulder. The graze was ugly, inflamed, blood still oozing sluggishly. It hurt. A deep, insistent throb.

Heal it. The thought was automatic. Your power hummed beneath your skin, a warm, golden potential. But summoning it felt like a betrayal of a different kind. Healing required focus, required channeling the life-force within you. And that life-force felt extinguished. The warmth felt like a lie. Why erase this pain? It was real. Tangible. A physical anchor to the emotional cataclysm. A punishment you deserved for loving too blindly, for trusting too completely. You left it. A stark, bleeding testament.

Everything hurt: your heart, your shoulder, your eyes, your head. You just wanted it to stop. I just wanted it all to stop.

You returned to the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, casting a long, lonely rectangle across the floor. You didn't sit. You stood by the window, staring out at the storm-lashed city. The glittering lights below seemed indifferent, mocking. The world kept turning. Life went on. Except yours felt like it had stopped dead the moment you saw that glint of gold.

***

Outside your door, John Walker sat slumped against the cool metal wall of the corridor. His knees were drawn up, his forehead pressed against them. His shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs he tried desperately to stifle, biting down on the fabric of his pants. The sound of your roar – "How can I believe you when you didn't trust me?" – played on a loop in his shattered mind. It wasn't the volume; it was the raw, broken truth in it. The accusation was unanswerable.

He replayed the year in his head, a torturous slideshow. Packing his gear for solo missions. The familiar, almost unconscious ritual: check weapons, check comms, check armor... slip on the ring. A habit born in the deepest pit of his self-loathing after losing everything. It had felt like armor then. A flimsy shield against the feeling of being a ghost, a failure. A reminder of a time when he’d had a wife, a son, a best friend, a purpose he hadn't utterly corrupted. He hadn't thought of Olivia in years – not romantically, not longingly. He thought of his son, a constant ache, but the ring wasn't about her or his son. It was about John. His brokenness. His fear that the darkness inside him was all he deserved.

And he’d worn it. Every. Single. Time. Like putting on a second skin of failure. He’d never once thought. She should know. She would understand. Why? Because deep down, beneath the love he genuinely felt, festered the unworthy conviction that if you saw this pathetic, broken piece of him, clinging to a dead past, you’d realize your mistake. You’d see the monster he feared he still was. So he hid it. He lied by omission. He betrayed the one person who saw past the monster and loved the damaged man beneath.

The muffled sound of movement from inside your room – the splash of water, the soft pad of feet – was agony. He pictured you alone, bleeding, hollow. Because of me. The self-loathing was a physical weight, crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to bang on the door again. To scream his apologies until his voice gave out. To beg for a chance to prove his love was real, that the ring meant nothing compared to you. But your final roar, the devastation in your eyes, the way you’d flinched from his touch… they were walls he couldn’t breach. He’d destroyed the bridge of trust.

Time lost meaning. He sat there, a broken statue in the dim hallway light, listening to the storm outside and the terrifying silence from within your room. His tears eventually dried, leaving his face stiff and sore, his eyes burning. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The only thing left was a gnawing, terrified certainty: he’d lost you. He’d finally succeeded in destroying the only truly good thing he’d ever had.

***

Downstairs, the uneasy tension was palpable. Yelena paced the common area like a caged panther, her usual sardonic expression replaced by grim concern. Bucky sat stiffly at the table, methodically cleaning a knife, his gaze distant. Ava shimmered near the window, observing the storm, her form unusually still. Bob fidgeted nervously, radiating anxious energy.

"They haven't come down," Bob whispered, breaking the heavy silence. "It's been hours. And... did you see her shoulder? When she flew off? It was bleeding."

Yelena stopped pacing, her sharp eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she could see through the floors. "Something is very wrong. Walker looked like death warmed over when he bolted from the jet. And she... flying off alone in that storm?" She shook her head, a flicker of genuine worry in her eyes. "The grumpy one finally did something monumentally stupid, I am certain of it."

Bucky set the knife down with a soft *clack*. "Give them space," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Whatever it is... it's bad. Pushing won't help."

"But the shoulder," Bob insisted, wringing his hands. "She heals everything! Why wouldn't she...?"

Ava phased slightly, her voice calm but carrying an edge. "Physical wounds are often secondary to psychological trauma. Her bio-signature, when she returned, indicated extreme emotional distress. The suppression of her healing ability is a known physiological response to severe emotional shock."

Yelena muttered a curse in Russian. "Psychological trauma? From what? They were disgusting loved-up idiots yesterday!" She resumed pacing, her boots clicking sharply on the floor. "That ring," she suddenly hissed, stopping dead. "When Barnes hauled him onto the jet... Walker was clutching his left hand. Like it hurt. But his hand wasn't injured. And in the Quinjet... she looked at his hand." Her eyes narrowed, piecing it together with lethal accuracy. "The ring. His old wedding ring. He was wearing it." The disgust in her voice was thick.

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He knew about the ring. Knew John kept it. He’d never imagined he still wore it. Especially not now. "Idiot," he breathed, the word heavy with disappointment and understanding.

Bob looked horrified. "He... wore his wedding ring? But... but he loves Y/N! Why would he...?"

"Because men are idiots," Yelena spat, fury replacing worry. "Stupid, self-sabotaging idiots clinging to ghosts." She looked towards the elevator bank, radiating protective anger. "If he broke her heart over that sentimental..."

Upstairs, John finally pushed himself up from the floor. His legs were stiff, his body aching. He leaned his forehead against your door, the cool metal a shock against his skin.

"I'm so sorry, Angel," he whispered, the sound raw and barely audible. "I'm so... so sorry." He listened. Nothing. Not a breath, not a sob. Just the endless drumming of the rain and the hollow echo of his own shattered heart in the empty hallway. He pushed away from the door, the movement heavy with defeat. He couldn't stay out here forever. He couldn't fix this tonight.

He walked back to his own room, each step an effort. The space felt alien, cavernous, filled only with the accusing silence and the ghost of your presence. His gaze fell instantly on the nightstand. The ring sat there, a small, innocuous circle of gold gleaming dully under the dim light. He walked over, staring at it. The armor. The shield. The shackle. He picked it up. It felt cold. Heavy. Not with the weight of memory, but with the crushing weight of consequences. The symbol of a past failure had just ensured his greatest one. He closed his fist around it, the metal biting into his palm, a tiny, insignificant pain compared to the devastation he’d wrought. He didn't throw it. He didn't melt it. He just stood there, in the center of his empty room, holding the tiny instrument of his own destruction, listening to the storm rage outside and the terrifying silence from the room next door, knowing he had no idea how to survive the dawn.

--

The days bled into weeks, each one longer and bleaker than the last. The Tower, once a vibrant hub of chaotic energy and shared warmth, became a mausoleum of unspoken grief and stifling tension. The air itself felt thick, charged with the invisible, agonizing current flowing between your room and his.

You existed. You didn't live. You moved through the Tower like a ghost haunting its own life. Sleep was fractured, filled with nightmares of gleaming gold and John's desperate, tear-streaked face. You woke exhausted, the hollow ache in your chest a constant companion. You trained. Relentlessly. Brutally. Pushing your body to its limits in the gym, the *thwack* of your fists against reinforced bags echoing the blows your heart had taken. You flew. Long, solitary patrols over the city, the wind a cold balm against the numbness, the silver wings beating a rhythm of escape rather than freedom. You ate when reminded, mechanically, tasting nothing. Conversations with the team were monosyllabic, your eyes perpetually distant, fixed on some internal horror only you could see. The wound on your shoulder? It healed, eventually. But only when the physical pain became a distracting nuisance. The act of summoning your golden light felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the power you’d used to save him while he’d been harboring his secret. You slept in your own room, the bed vast and cold, the silence a screaming void where his breathing, his warmth, his presence should have been.

John Walker became a specter of remorse. The usual grumpy bluster was gone, replaced by a crushing quiet. He moved with a heavy tread, his shoulders perpetually slumped, the light in his piercing blue eyes extinguished, replaced by a haunted shadow. He saw you everywhere – a flash of silver wings out the window, the echo of your laugh (now painfully absent) in the common room, the scent of your shampoo lingering in a hallway. He passed your door a dozen times a day, pausing each time, hand raised as if to knock, before letting it fall limply to his side. The memory of your shattered expression, your roar of betrayal, stopped him cold every time.

He tried, in small, clumsy ways. He’d leave a steaming mug of your favorite tea outside your door in the morning. It would sit there, untouched, growing cold, until someone else cleared it away. He’d notice the book Bob had given you was finished and leave the next in the series silently on the coffee table near your usual spot. It remained unopened. He’d linger awkwardly in the kitchen when you came in, hoping for a glance, a word, anything. You’d walk past him as if he were furniture, gaze fixed straight ahead, the air crackling with your silent anguish. Each rejection was a fresh wound, a confirmation of the devastation he’d wrought.

The team watched this agonizing dance with varying degrees of pity, frustration, and sorrow. Bucky maintained a stoic silence, his own past whispering warnings about the difficulty of rebuilding broken trust. Alexei, initially baffled and booming inappropriate questions ("Did you forget anniversary? Did you insult her mother?"), eventually fell quiet, recognizing a grief too deep for his usual bluster. Bob radiated anxious sadness, flitting between you both like a worried moth, wanting to fix the unfixable. Ava observed with analytical detachment tinged with a flicker of something resembling sympathy.

Yelena’s gaze was the sharpest. She saw the hollow devastation in your eyes, the raw, impotent guilt in John’s. She witnessed the untouched tea, the unread books, the silent meals eaten at opposite ends of the long table. Her usual teasing sarcasm was absent, replaced by a simmering anger on your behalf and a reluctant pity for the broken man who clearly loved you with a desperation that bordered on self-destruction.

--

One evening, the weight became too much. John found himself standing outside Yelena’s door, fist clenched, knuckles white. He knocked, a sound more like a thud of desperation than a request for entry.

Yelena opened the door, leaning against the frame, her expression unreadable. "Walker. To what do I owe this… pleasure?" Her tone was flat, devoid of its usual bite.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. He stared at a point just past her shoulder, his voice rough, choked. "Belova… I… I don’t know what to do." The admission cost him everything. Pride, dignity, the illusion of control.

Yelena raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat painful. "She… she won’t look at me. Won’t speak to me. I try… I leave things… I just…" He ran a trembling hand through his already disheveled hair. "How… how do I fix this? How do I make her see…?" He trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of his love or the magnitude of his stupidity.

Yelena studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. The raw pain in his posture, the genuine desperation in his voice – it wasn't the act of a cad. It was the agony of a man who’d finally found something precious and then, in a moment of profound idiocy, smashed it to pieces. "You are," she stated bluntly, "an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging, emotionally constipated idiot."

He flinched but didn't argue. He just nodded, a jerky movement.

"But," Yelena continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "even I can see it. The way you look at her when she isn't watching. Like she lit up your whole damn world, and every shadow fled before her. Even now. Especially now." She sighed, a rare sound of genuine weariness. "What you did? Hiding that ring? Wearing it behind her back? It wasn't just stupid, Walker. It was a betrayal. You told her she wasn't enough. That your broken past was more important than your present with her. That you didn't trust her with your ugly little secret."

John closed his eyes, her words landing like hammer blows, each one true. "I know," he whispered, the sound ragged. "God, I know. But I swear… it wasn't about Olivia. Not like that. It was… me. My fucked-up head."

"Doesn't matter," Yelena cut him off. "The action mattered. The lie mattered. Trust isn't a light switch. You shattered it. You think leaving tea and books is going to glue it back together?" She shook her head. "You broke something vital in her. Something beautiful. That hollowness you see? That's the echo of what you destroyed."

He looked up then, his eyes pleading. "So what do I do? Give up? Walk away?" The thought was physical agony.

Yelena met his gaze, her own surprisingly serious. "If you love her? Truly? Then no. You don't get to walk away because it's hard. You don't get to give up because you feel sorry for yourself." She paused. "You be patient. More patient than you've ever been in your miserable, grumpy life. You be consistent. Every single day. You show up, even when she ignores you. You prove, through actions, not pathetic words, that you understand the magnitude of what you broke. You respect her space, her pain, even when it tears you apart. You become someone worthy of the trust you threw away. And you do it knowing it might take months. Years. Knowing she might never look at you the same way again. Knowing that the best you might ever get is her tolerance, not her love." Her voice dropped lower. "That's the price, Walker. That's the penance. You work for it. Every damn day. Without expectation. Because you love her enough to endure the agony of hoping for a sliver of forgiveness you might never earn."

John stood frozen, absorbing her words. The sheer scale of the task, the years-long marathon of atonement she described, was terrifying. Yet, the alternative – a life without you – was unthinkable. A deeper, more profound darkness than any he'd known. He nodded slowly, a grim determination settling over the despair in his eyes. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay."

He turned to leave, shoulders squared with a new, heavy resolve.

"And Walker?" Yelena called softly. He paused. "Keep that ring far away or throw it into the Hudson. It's not armor. It's a shackle. And you don't deserve to wear it anymore."

He didn't look back, just gave another stiff nod and walked away, the weight of Yelena’s impossible advice settling onto his already burdened shoulders. The path ahead was desolate, paved with silence and his own guilt. But it was the only path that led even remotely towards you. He’d walk it. One agonizing, patient step at a time. Even if it took forever. Even if it killed him. Because the alternative was a death he couldn't survive.

Back in your room, you sat on the edge of your cold bed, having overheard the muffled voices in the hall. You hadn't caught the words, just the low rumble of his voice and Yelena’s sharper tones. You didn't need to hear. You knew it was about you. About the wreckage. A fresh wave of that soul-deep weariness washed over you. You picked up the discarded Army hoodie you’d worn the movie night before the mission – the last night of normalcy. It still faintly smelled of him. You pressed it to your face, inhaling deeply, a sob catching in your throat before you viciously stuffed it into the back of the closet, slamming the door shut. The echo in the empty room was the loudest sound of all. The days stretched ahead, endless and grey, a purgatory of shared space and shattered hearts.

--

The silence in the Tower’s common room was oppressive. Not peaceful, but hollow, like the air after a bomb blast. John Walker sat slumped in an armchair, bathed in the sterile glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was fixed, unseeing, on an object held loosely in his right hand.

A single, unspent bullet.

His thumb moved with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, turning the cold brass cylinder over and over against his calloused fingers. The metallic shlick sound was the only thing breaking the silence, a morbid counterpoint to the frantic, silent storm raging behind his vacant blue eyes. He saw nothing of the room. He saw you. Your hollow eyes, the devastating disappointment, the silent tears. He saw the gold band on his finger, glinting like an accusation. He heard Yelena’s brutal assessment echoing: "You broke something vital... That's the echo of what you destroyed." Patient. Consistent. Years. “Might never look at you the same way again.” The words were a crushing weight, a sentence handed down. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick.

He was drowning in it. The guilt wasn't just emotional; it was a physical presence, a leaden cloak pressing him into the chair. The carefully constructed persona of US Agent, the grumpy soldier, the man trying to be better – all stripped away, leaving only this raw, exposed nerve of regret. The bullet was a focus point, a tiny, dense weight representing the enormity of his failure. A morbid talisman.

The soft hiss of the automatic door broke the rhythm. Bucky Barnes walked in, heading towards the kitchen area. His vibranium arm glinted faintly in the low light. He moved quietly, a ghost in his own right. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. He glanced towards the living area, his sharp eyes immediately registering the figure in the armchair, the unnatural stillness, the repetitive motion of the hand.

John didn’t react. Didn’t turn his head. Didn’t acknowledge Bucky’s presence in any way. He remained locked in his internal purgatory, the bullet turning, turning, turning. Shlick. Shlick.

Bucky watched him for a long moment. He saw the utter desolation in the slump of John’s shoulders, the thousand-yard stare, the way his fingers moved over the bullet with a familiarity that spoke of deep, dark thoughts. He saw a man teetering on an edge. Bucky wasn't one for unnecessary conversation, especially with Walker. Their history was… complicated. Mistrust layered on antagonism, barely tempered by shared trauma and forced proximity on Val’s team.

He started to turn away, water bottle in hand. Not my problem. Let him stew. But the image of you flashed in his mind. The hollow ghost you’d become. The vibrant, confident woman with silver wings, reduced to a shadow walking the halls. And then he saw Walker again, not as the arrogant rival, but as a man shattered by his own monumental stupidity. A man who, against all odds, had genuinely seemed… better, happier, human… when he was with you. Until he wasn’t.

Bucky sighed, a low, rough sound. He hesitated, then walked deliberately towards the living area. He didn't sit next to John. He pulled a straight-backed chair from the nearby dining nook, turned it around, and sat down facing John, resting his forearms on the chair back. He leaned forward, his gaze steady on Walker’s profile.

John remained oblivious. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

"Walker," Bucky said, his voice low but cutting through the silence.

No reaction. The vacant stare didn't waver. The thumb kept moving. Shlick.

Bucky waited. A full minute passed, marked only by the turning bullet and the faint hum of the Tower’s systems. He knew dissociation. Knew the frozen state of shock and guilt that locked down higher functions. He’d lived there himself for decades.

"John," Bucky tried again, firmer.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, John’s head turned a fraction. His eyes shifted, focusing not on Bucky but somewhere near his vibranium shoulder. Awareness flickered, dim and distant, behind the blue irises. The movement of his thumb slowed but didn’t stop.

Bucky held the gaze, such as it was. He saw the depth of the agony there, the self-loathing so profound it was almost tangible. He saw the echo of the Winter Soldier’s own guilt, a reflection that unnerved him.

Another sigh escaped Bucky, this one heavy with reluctant understanding. "Look," he began, his voice gravelly but lacking its usual edge. "We’re not friends." He paused, choosing his words carefully, a rare effort for him. "But I see her. Every day. Walking around like someone ripped her heart out and just left the space." His vibranium fingers tightened slightly on the chair back. "And I see you. Sitting here looking like you're trying to figure out how to load that bullet into your own head."

John flinched, a minute tightening around his eyes. His thumb stilled on the bullet. He didn't deny it.

"Yelena’s probably already told you you’re an idiot," Bucky continued bluntly. "She’s not wrong. What you did? That was a gut punch, Walker. A betrayal of trust on a fundamental level. You know why? Because she trusted you with everything. Her wings, her power, her heart. She saw the mess you were, the grumpy asshole, the guy drowning in his own failures, and she didn't run. She stayed. She tried to fix it. With you. For you." Bucky’s gaze intensified. "And you repaid that by keeping a secret. A stupid, selfish secret that screamed you didn't trust her enough to see that broken piece of you."

John’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping. He looked down at the bullet in his hand, his knuckles white.

"I watched you," Bucky said, quieter now. "After she came into your life. Saw the edges soften. Saw you actually smile, for Christ's sake. Saw you trying. Really trying. Not just playing soldier, but trying to be a better man. For her. Because of her. And yeah, you were still a pain in the ass, but… it was different. It was progress." He shook his head slowly. "Until you blew it sky-high."

He leaned forward a little more. "Here’s the thing, Walker. I care about her. I want her to be happy. And for some godforsaken reason I haven't figured out yet, she was happy with you. Genuinely, disgustingly happy. And you…" Bucky hesitated, the admission costing him. "...you seemed happy too. Actually happy. Not just less grumpy. Happy."

John finally looked up, meeting Bucky’s eyes directly. The raw pain and desperate hope warring there were almost painful to witness.

"So," Bucky said, holding the gaze. "If there's even a sliver of a chance that you can both get back to something resembling that? You fight for it. But not like this." He gestured vaguely at John, the bullet, the despair. "Sitting here playing with ordinance and feeling sorry for yourself? That’s not fighting. That’s wallowing. That’s selfish. Again."

He pointed a metal finger at him. "Yelena told you to be patient? To work? She’s right. But it starts with getting your head out of your ass. Stop focusing on how much you hurt. Focus on the hurt you caused. Understand the depth of that crater you blew in her trust. And then? You get up. Every damn day. You show her, through every single action, no matter how small, that you understand what you broke. That you’re not hiding anymore. That you’re trying to be worthy, even if you feel like you never can be."

Bucky stood up, the chair scraping softly. "Throw that bullet away, Walker. Or better yet, use it on the next Hydra goon who deserves it. But stop pointing it at yourself. It doesn't fix anything. Only consistent, patient, selfless work might do that. Might." He picked up his water bottle. "And for God’s sake, shower. You look like hell."

Bucky walked away, leaving John alone once more in the heavy silence. The words hung in the air, stark and challenging. The condemnation was clear, but so was the reluctant acknowledgment of his potential for change, and the sliver of hope tied to your happiness.

John looked down at the bullet in his hand. It felt heavier than ever. Bucky’s words echoed Yelena’s, but with a different weight – the weight of reluctant witness, of seeing the before and after. Selfish. Again. Stop wallowing. Work.

He closed his fist tightly around the cold brass, the edges biting into his palm. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't a solution. But it was a focal point for the resolve that began to stir, fragile and desperate, beneath the crushing guilt. He had to get up. He had to try. Not for himself, but for you. For the echo of the happiness he’d destroyed and the terrifying, infinitesimal chance of rebuilding something from the ruins. He slowly uncurled his fingers, staring at the bullet lying in his sweaty palm. A symbol of despair… or perhaps, now, a reminder of the battle he had to fight. The longest, hardest mission of his life.

--

Dawn bled into John’s room, grey and indifferent. He hadn’t slept much, Bucky’s words and the cold weight of the bullet blending with Yelena’s brutal roadmap in his mind. But when his eyes snapped open, it wasn't with the crushing despair of the previous weeks. It was with a grim, hard-edged determination.

Fight.

The word echoed, a command barked in the silent barracks of his soul. Not for himself, not for absolution he didn't deserve, but for you. For the ghost of your smile, the echo of your laugh, the light in your eyes that his monumental stupidity had extinguished. Bucky was right: wallowing was selfish. Patience wasn't passive; it was relentless, daily action. Yelena was right: it might take forever. It might fail. But giving up? Letting you remain that hollow, shattered version of yourself? Never. He would try. Every single day. For the rest of his life, if necessary. Even if the only victory was seeing you happy again, even if that happiness existed in a world where he was only a tolerated shadow.

The resolve hardened like steel as he showered, the water sluicing away the physical grime but not the deep-set guilt. He dressed methodically, his movements precise, focused. The first battle of the day commenced immediately.

The Coffee Ritual

He brewed your favorite coffee, a generous splash of milk, and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He poured it into your favorite mug, the chipped one with the tiny silver wing design Bob had found at a thrift store. He carried it, steaming gently, down the silent hallway. He placed it outside your door, just like before. But this time, he didn't slink away, hoping. He stood there for a moment, hand hovering near the wood. He didn't knock. He simply whispered, low enough only he could hear, "Good morning, Angel." Then he turned and walked away, back straight. It would go cold. He knew it. But he would bring it tomorrow. And the next day.

The Silent Vigil

He started showing up in common spaces when you were there. Not crowding you, not forcing interaction. He’d sit at the far end of the massive sofa while you read, pretending to study mission reports. He’d be in the kitchen, meticulously cleaning already-clean equipment when you came in for water. He offered no words, just a quiet presence. Acknowledging your space, respecting your silence, but refusing to vanish. His gaze, when it flickered to you, held no pleading expectation, only a deep, aching sorrow and unwavering focus. He watched the way you moved, slower now, less fluid. He noted the books you picked up and put down unread. He cataloged the shadows under your eyes. Intel. Understanding the battlefield. Your pain was his map.

The Gestures

He remembered you loved the obscure pistachio croissants from that tiny bakery three blocks down. He went early, before dawn ops meetings, and left one in a small paper bag outside your door. It sat there all day, untouched, the pastry growing stale. He didn't retrieve it until late at night, disposing of it with a pang.

He saw you looking tiredly at a wilting succulent on your windowsill. The next day, a vibrant, healthy replacement appeared, along with a small, simple note tucked under the pot: "Needs less water than the last one. - J" No plea, no apology. Just practical care.

He even Googled. Desperately. "How to show someone you're sorry when words aren't enough." "Grand gestures vs consistent small actions." "Rebuilding trust after betrayal." The results felt hollow, inadequate, but he mined them for ideas. He remembered that you had a strange fascination with small rocks of different colors, shapes, and shine. He started leaving small, smooth stones he found on his city patrols – grey, white, flecked with quartz – on the corner of your desk in your room (when he dared to peek in and see you weren't there). A silent, pointless offering of something small and solid.

The Words

He wrote letters. Long, rambling, tear-stained drafts filled with explanations, apologies, self-recrimination, and desperate declarations of love. He crumpled them all. They weren't for you; they were his own catharsis. Instead, he started writing simple notes on crisp, plain cards:

"The sky is clear today. Good for flying. - J"

"Bob made too much chili again. It’s… edible. - J"

"Yelena threatened to poison my coffee. Business as usual. - J"

“I miss you, Angel. - J”

He slipped them under your door. No demands for a response. Just… communication. A quiet signal: I’m here. I see the world. I remember you’re part of it.

The Team Watches

The change in John was subtle but seismic. The crushing despair was overlaid now with a tireless, almost grim energy. He wasn't less sad; he was working through the sadness.

Yelena watched him place the coffee mug with military precision. Saw the untouched croissant bag disappear later. A flicker of something almost like approval crossed her face before the usual sardonic mask slid back. "Still an idiot," she muttered to Ava one morning, "but at least he's a busy idiot now."

Bucky observed John sitting silently across the room from you, radiating focused calm instead of abject misery. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod one evening. The path was being walked.

Bob was the most visibly affected. He saw the stones appearing, the notes. "He's trying, Y/N!" he blurted out one day when you passed him in the hall, clutching one of the discarded notes you’d left on a table. You didn't react, walking on, but Bob looked heartened. "He is!"

Alexei clapped John heavily on the back one day, nearly knocking him over. "Good! You fight! Like Red Guardian! Never surrender! Win back your fierce bird!" John just nodded stiffly, accepting the painful encouragement.

Weeks Blurred. The coffee appeared. Every. Single. Morning. Sometimes accompanied by a fresh croissant, just the mug. Always untouched. He’d retrieve it later, wash it meticulously, repeat the process.

The notes continued. Simple observations. Mundane updates. Never pushing. Never mentioning the past, the ring, the pain. Just… presence. A quiet, persistent drumbeat: I am here. I see you. I remember.

He started fixing small things around your room when you weren't there – a loose shelf bracket, a flickering light panel. Leaving no note, just the evidence of care.

He didn’t try to talk to you. Not directly. He respected the fortress walls. But he maintained his silent vigil, a sentinel of remorse and unwavering intent.

--

You felt it. The relentless, quiet tide of his presence. The coffee’s aroma was a ghost each morning. The notes were small weights you couldn't ignore, accumulating like fallen leaves. You saw him, a still, watchful figure at the periphery, no longer radiating desperate need but a somber, patient resolve. It didn’t erase the hollowness. The betrayal was a cold stone lodged deep in your chest. The image of the ring, the confirmation he’d worn it every time, was a wound that throbbed.

But… the sheer, dogged persistence wore at the edges of the numbness. The consistency was a new factor. This wasn't a frantic burst of apology; it was a campaign. It was him, stripped of bluster and arrogance, showing up day after day with nothing but quiet, unwavering effort. It was infuriating. It was… confusing.

One rainy afternoon, you found a book on your desk – a rare, beautifully illustrated volume on celestial navigation you’d mentioned offhandedly months ago. No note. Just the book. You traced the embossed cover, a strange tightness in your throat. He’d remembered. He’d sought it out. The gesture was so specific, so unlike the earlier clumsy offerings. You didn't open it. But you didn't throw it away either. You left it there. A small, silent concession in the desolate landscape of your heart.

John saw the book still on your desk the next day. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't forgiveness. But it wasn't rejection. It was… presence. A tiny foothold on the sheer cliff face, he had to climb. He felt no surge of triumph, only a deeper resolve. The road was endless, paved with cold coffee and silent notes. But he would walk it. For you. To see the light return to your eyes, even if he was never again the one to put it there. He picked up the coffee mug from outside your door, its contents long cold. He washed it. He would bring it again tomorrow. The relentless tide would keep coming in.

--

Weeks bled into a monotonous, grey tapestry of pain. The hollow ache inside you wasn't just an absence; it was a living, breathing entity, a cold weight crushing your lungs, constricting your throat. You functioned. You trained, you ate, you slept (fitfully), you even occasionally exchanged clipped words with the team. But you were a ghost haunting your own life.

The irony was the sharpest knife: you missed him with a ferocity that stole your breath. Not the idealized version, but the real him. The infuriating, cocky smirk that secretly thrilled you. The startling blue of his eyes when they softened, looking only at you. The possessive warmth of his kisses, the way his hands mapped your skin like uncharted, sacred territory. You missed waking tangled in his sheets, the scent of his cologne and sleep-warmed skin filling your senses. You missed the rumble of his voice, the dry, sarcastic jokes that made you laugh despite yourself, the way he’d argue passionately over the most trivial things just to see you engage. You missed the gravelly whisper of "I love you, Angel" against your neck in the dark. The memories were shards of glass, beautiful and agonizing, cutting deeper with every recollection.

You saw his campaign. The relentless, quiet tide of effort. The daily coffee ritual, the simple notes observing the mundane, the small, thoughtful gestures like the book on celestial navigation. You registered the change in him – the grim determination replacing despair, the silent respect for your space. Part of you, a traitorous, wounded part, ached to respond. To let the dam break, to run back into his arms and pretend the ring, the betrayal, never happened.

But you couldn't. The image was burned onto your soul: the glint of gold against his bloodied finger. The confirmation – "Yes" – that he’d deliberately put it on every single time he left you behind. It wasn't jealousy of Olivia. You’d never hated her. You’d even encouraged him to rebuild a bridge for his son’s sake. You respected the love they’d once shared. The devastation was born from a far more profound wound: Your love wasn't enough. Despite a year of devotion, of healing his wounds, body and soul, of building a sanctuary together… he still needed that piece of his past as armor. He hadn't trusted you enough to share that broken piece, to let you help him lay that ghost to rest. The symbol screamed that the man you loved still belonged, in some fundamental way, to a life before you. And that knowledge was a poison slowly killing you from the inside.

The pain became unbearable. Physical. A constant, grinding agony in your chest that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. Days blurred into a meaningless procession of grey hours. Smiling felt like a torn muscle. Living felt like dragging chains. Seeing him, a constant reminder of what was lost and what could never be fully reclaimed, became torture.

Self-preservation, raw and desperate, finally kicked in. You needed air. Space. A world where his presence wasn't a constant, agonizing pressure on your shattered heart. You requested a private meeting with Val.

Val’s office was all sharp angles, polished steel, and cold, efficient light – a stark contrast to the storm raging silently within you. You stood rigidly before her imposing desk, posture locked like armor, your eyes shadowed pits holding a terrifying, hollow emptiness Val hadn't witnessed before. It wasn't grief; it was an absence. A soul vacancy.

"I need out," you stated, your voice unnervingly flat, devoid of any inflection, any of the warmth or vibrancy Val associated with the fiercely competent, winged asset she’d recruited. It was the voice of a ghost. "Solo assignments. Black ops. Deep cover. Anything…" You swallowed hard, the action visible in the taut line of your throat, the words like shards of glass forcing their way out. "...anything where I don’t have to be here. Where I don’t see him."

Val leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, her sharp, calculating eyes missing nothing. She scanned you like a malfunctioning weapon: the unhealthy pallor beneath the bruises and grime from your last mission, the subtle, persistent tremor in your hands that you couldn’t quite suppress, the way your gaze seemed to drift, unfocused, even now. Most telling was the profound deadness in your eyes – the light that usually sparked with fierce intelligence or dry humor was utterly extinguished. She’d seen operatives break under pressure, crack under torture, drown in guilt. This was different. This was a soul fracture. The Angel wasn't just grounded; she was shattered.

"Walker?" Val asked, her tone deceptively neutral, though the name landed like a stone in the sterile silence.

A single, stiff nod was your only answer. The name itself seemed to trigger a minute flinch you couldn’t control.

Val sighed, a short, sharp exhalation that held a rare note of something almost like… weariness? A flicker of regret for the efficient asset she’d lost? "He’s been… different since you," she conceded, her gaze fixed on you. "Less of a loose cannon. More focused.” A pause, heavy with unspoken assessment. "But I need functional operatives. And you, currently, are not functional. Not here."

She tapped a key on her console, pulling up a dense file on the holoscreen embedded in her desk. The glow reflected in her impassive eyes. "Your recent performance metrics are… concerning. Hesitation in critical engagements. Lapses in situational awareness – you zone out, Y/N. You’ve become clumsy. Reckless in a way that isn't calculated aggression; it’s distraction. Your reflexes are off. Your judgment is clouded." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, pragmatic murmur. "Frankly, your relocation isn't just your request; it’s starting to look like an operational necessity. You seem like you haven’t got a soul or a heart left in the fight here."

The brutal honesty should have stung. It barely registered. You just felt numb.

"There’s a persistent rot festering in Madripoor," Val continued, gesturing to the holoscreen displaying schematics of the chaotic city-state. "Low profile insertion. High risk of messy termination. Requires someone with your specific talents – flight, healing, enhanced senses – and… significant discretion. Absolute deniability. Think permanent relocation. New identity burned deep. Minimal contact, potentially for years. Radio silence protocols." Her eyes locked onto yours, searching for any flicker of understanding, or perhaps sanity, in the void. "Is that truly what you want? A clean break?"

Clean break. The words echoed mockingly in the cavernous hollow inside you. There was nothing clean about this. It was a brutal amputation performed with a rusty saw. Staying here, seeing him in the corridors, hearing his voice on comms, feeling the phantom ache of his betrayal every single day… that was a slow, agonizing death by a thousand cuts. Madripoor offered oblivion, a chance to drown the pain in different shadows. Maybe the darkness there could finally match the one inside you.

"Yes," you whispered, the word scraping your throat raw, tasting like ash and defeat. It wasn't a desire; it was a desperate need for survival. "That’s what I need."

"Done," Val declared crisply, the word final. She tapped another key. "Safehouse apartment secured in Hightown. Details, credentials, and extraction protocols will be transmitted via secure burn channel within the hour. Report to the designated insertion point in 72 hours." She didn’t offer condolences. Val dealt in assets, geopolitical chess pieces, not broken hearts. But as you turned to leave, a ghost of something–not pity, perhaps caution–flickered in her gaze. She held it for a fraction longer than strictly necessary.

"One more thing, Y/N," Val said, her voice regaining its usual steel, but with an undercurrent of grim warning. "Madripoor eats idealists for breakfast. The missions I funnel there… they’re dark. The kind of wet work I usually reserve for agents whose souls are already halfway down the drain. Agents who fit the grime, not…" She paused, her gaze sweeping over your bloodstained, weary form, lingering for a heartbeat on the faint, ethereal glow still clinging to your feathers despite the grime. "...not sweet angels who hang the damn moon for broken soldiers. Tread carefully. Don’t mistake the numbness for invincibility."

Her final words landed like a physical blow, stripping away the last pretense. "Don’t get dead. You’re still useful."

Useful. Not healed. Not whole. Just useful. It was the only epitaph left for the Angel who once was. You nodded once, a stiff, mechanical movement, and walked out of Val’s office, not towards a new beginning, but into the waiting jaws of a different kind of hell. Anything was better than staying. Anything to stop the madness slowly consuming you from the inside out.

***

The sterile efficiency of Val’s office clung to you like a second skin. Back in the Tower – your Tower, his Tower, the place that had briefly been home – the silence felt heavier, charged with ghosts. You moved through the familiar space like an automaton. The first stop was the shower. You stood under the scalding spray for a long time, water sluicing over skin that felt alien, numb. You scrubbed mechanically, as if you could scour away the grime of the mission, the phantom stickiness of John’s blood, the scent of what happened that seemed embedded in your pores. The water ran pink, then clear, but the feeling of contamination remained. You emerged raw, wrapped in a towel, steam fogging the mirror. You avoided looking at your reflection. The eyes staring back wouldn’t be yours; they’d be the hollow ones Val had assessed.

Packing was a clinical exercise. A single, sturdy duffel bag. No sentimentality. No favorite sweaters, no books, no trinkets from shared missions. Just tactical essentials: your compact sidearm, ammunition, encrypted comms, basic medkit, and a few protein bars. Val’s sleek, untraceable credit card went into a zippered inner pocket – lifeline to an anonymous future. Clothes? Shoes? You’d buy nondescript, disposable things on route or in the fetid streets of Madripoor. The less you carry from here, the better. Speed was the only imperative.

Then, your gaze snagged. On the small, simple frame perched on the desk beside the bed you’d shared. A photo. Taken months ago, on a rare day off. You were both laughing, genuinely laughing. John had an arm slung around your shoulders, his head thrown back, sunlight catching the gold in his hair. You were leaning into him, your wings relaxed behind you, a radiant smile lighting your face. You looked… happy. Unburdened. Whole.

The dam broke.

A choked gasp escaped you. You reached out, fingers trembling violently, tracing the glass over his smiling face, over your own vanished joy. The numbness shattered, replaced by a tsunami of raw, exquisite pain. Silent tears, hot and relentless, streamed down your face, dripping onto the polished wood of the desk. You remembered the warmth of his arm, the rumble of his laughter against your side, the impossible lightness of that moment. The utter, devastating trust. It felt like a lifetime ago. A life belonging to someone else. The contrast with the hollow shell you were now, preparing to flee into darkness, was a physical blow. You crumpled forward, elbows on the desk, forehead pressed against the cool frame, shoulders shaking with silent, soul-wrenching sobs. The sound of your own heart breaking filled the room, muffling the world outside.

You didn’t hear the soft knock. Didn’t register the door easing open. Bucky stood framed in the doorway, a steaming mug of coffee held carefully in his metal hand – his habitual peace offering, his quiet way of checking in. His sharp eyes took in the scene instantly: the half-packed duffel bag gaping open on the bed, the tactical gear laid out with grim purpose, the credit card peeking from the pocket… and you. Hunched over the photo, your body wracked by silent tears, the raw, unguarded agony radiating from you like heat.

He didn’t need an explanation. He knew. The grim set of his jaw tightened. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch finally pierced your grief-soaked haze. You jerked upright, hastily swiping at your tears, trying to compose your shattered face, but it was futile. The devastation was written in every line of you.

"Y/N…" Bucky’s voice was low, gravelly with concern. He set the untouched coffee mug down on the desk, deliberately away from the photo. He didn’t approach further, giving you space. "Don’t do this."

You couldn’t speak. You just shook your head, fresh tears welling.

"Stay," he urged, his voice firm but gentle. "It’s… It’s bad now. Real bad. I know. But you’ll heal. Takes time. A lot of damn time. But you do." His gaze held yours, steady, anchoring. "He’s… he’s trying; you know? He’s a mess, worse than you, maybe. Barely functional. But he���s trying… to understand what he did. To… to fix it."

That was the knife twist. He’s trying. The image flashed – John, earnest, devastated, pleading, his own eyes red-rimmed. The memory of his desperate explanations, the self-loathing, the raw need for forgiveness. The knowledge that he was suffering, that he wanted to mend what he’d shattered… it didn’t lessen the pain. It deepened the wound. Because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to let him try. But the fracture was too deep, the trust too obliterated. The thought of seeing him in the halls, the kitchen, the gym… of watching him try while you drowned in the aftermath of his choices… it was unbearable.

"You don’t understand, Bucky," you whispered, your voice shredded, raw with a pain that felt terminal. "If… if I heal… I can’t do it here. Not seeing him… every day. Every hour. A constant reminder." You wrapped your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold the pieces together. "It hurts. It hurts so much I feel like I’m dying. Like I’ll just… stop breathing if I stay. I need this. I need to be gone."

Bucky studied you for a long, silent moment. He saw the truth in your eyes – the absolute, desperate necessity for distance, for survival. The fight drained out of his posture, replaced by profound sadness and acceptance. He wouldn’t push. He knew about running from pain, about the prison's memories that could build.

"Alright," he said softly, the word heavy with resignation. He took a step closer, then another, closing the distance slowly. "Just… know this. I care about you. We all do. Whatever you need… wherever you end up… if you need backup, extraction, intel… hell, if you just need someone to listen… anything." He placed his flesh hand gently on your shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "You call. Anytime. Day or night. You understand?"

You nodded, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Not just from the pain now, but from the unexpected anchor of his loyalty in the midst of your shipwreck.

He didn’t ask for promises. He simply opened his arms. You didn’t hesitate. You stepped into the embrace, burying your face against the worn leather of his jacket. His arms closed around you, strong and steady, offering a fleeting sanctuary. It wasn’t the embrace you craved, but it was safe. It was a human connection in the desolation. He held you for a long minute, a silent vigil for the love lost. "Take care of yourself out there," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion against your hair. "And remember… the team’s here. We’ll be waiting when you’re ready. If you’re ready."

You pulled back, wiping your eyes roughly. "Tell the others… tell them goodbye for me? Please? Yelena, Ava, Alexei, Bob… Tell them I’m sorry. And… thank you."

Bucky nodded, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "I’ll tell them."

You took a shaky breath, squaring your shoulders with a resolve that felt brittle. You zipped the duffel bag closed with finality. One last, lingering look around the room – the bed, the desk, the photo still damp with your tears – and you turned your back on it all. You slung the bag over your shoulder, its weight insignificant compared to the burden you carried within.

Bucky didn’t follow you out. He stayed rooted in the center of your room, a silent sentinel in the space you’d vacated. He watched you go, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway long after you’d disappeared down the corridor. The untouched coffee cooled on the desk beside the photograph of a happiness that felt like a cruel, fading dream.

You moved through the Tower corridors like a ghost, footsteps silent on the polished floors. The distant, rhythmic thuds and shouts from the communal gym were your cover. Everyone was there – training, venting, living. You timed it perfectly. The car park was cavernous, echoing, and deserted. Your SUV, a sturdy, unremarkable vehicle perfect for disappearing, stood waiting. You threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat.

You paused, hand on the driver's door handle, taking one last look back at the entrance to the Tower. The place that had become your unlikely home, your found family… the place where you’d found love and lost it catastrophically. A fresh pang, sharp and desolate, lanced through you. Then, you hardened your resolve. Survival. Escape. Madripoor’s shadows beckoned, offering a different kind of pain, one you might learn to navigate. Anything was better than staying here and bleeding out slowly.

You slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine.

John’s knuckles stung, raw from pounding the heavy bag with a fury that felt less like training and more like self-flagellation. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud hadn’t drowned out the static roar of guilt and dread in his head. He’d left the gym early, the aggressive energy spent, replaced by a gnawing, urgent need. He had to see you. Not to plead again – he knew words were ash now – but just… to see you. As if he knew. To assure himself you were still there, still within reach, even if that reach was across an uncrossable chasm. Maybe he could stand silently outside your door for a moment. Maybe the simple fact of your proximity would offer a sliver of oxygen in his suffocating world.

He took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing too loudly in the quiet corridor. Your door, when he reached it, was slightly ajar. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway. His heart hammered against his ribs – hope, fear, a desperate kind of longing. He pushed the door open gently.

Bucky.

Not you. Bucky Barnes stood rigid in the center of the room, his back mostly to the door. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He was just… standing there, a statue carved from grief and resignation. The air felt thick, hollowed out, like the aftermath of an explosion.

John’s gaze swept the room instantly, a soldier’s assessment honed by panic. The bed was neatly made, too neatly. The usual clutter of her life – a discarded sweater, a book by the bed, the small potted plant Ava had given you – gone. The surface of the desk was bare except for… the photo frame. One of them laughed. It sat alone, a stark monument to what was lost. And beside it, a cooling mug of coffee, Bucky had clearly brought and never been offered.

His eyes snapped back to Bucky, who had slowly turned. Their gazes locked. Bucky’s face was grim, etched with a profound sadness, but his eyes held a terrible, knowing stillness. There was no surprise at John’s arrival, only weary acknowledgement of the inevitable.

"Where is Y/N?" John’s voice was tight, strained, the question ripped from him. The silence stretched, heavy and accusing. Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at John, the weight of unspoken truth pressing down.

"Bucky! Where is she?" John demanded, his voice rising, cracking on your name. The panic wasn't creeping in; it was flooding him, icy and paralyzing. He saw the answer in the emptiness of the room, in the finality of Bucky’s posture, in the untouched coffee meant for a conversation that wouldn't happen. He already knew. He just needed to hear the words that would make it real. And unbearable.

"She left." Bucky’s voice was flat, quiet, carrying the weight of a tombstone being laid.

No. The denial wasn't a word; it was a physical convulsion, a punch to the solar plexus that stole his breath and doubled him over for a split second. You can't be gone. Not like this. Not without… Without what? A chance he hadn't earned? A goodbye he didn't deserve? The thought was obliterated by a tsunami of raw panic, cold and sharp, slicing through the grim determination he’d worn like armor since the confrontation. It was primal. Stop her.

He was moving before conscious thought formed. He shoved past Bucky, a blur of desperate motion. The hallway blurred. He bypassed the elevator – too slow, too confining, a death trap of waiting – and hit the stairwell door with his shoulder. He took the concrete steps three, four at a time, gravity and terror lending him a reckless, plummeting speed. His boots slipped on a landing, skinning his palm raw on the railing, but he barely registered it. The only sound was the frantic hammering of his own heart and the ragged gasp of his breath echoing in the hollow shaft.

He burst through the door to the underground garage level like a shot, the heavy metal door slamming back against the wall with a resounding clang. The cavernous space smelled of oil, concrete dust, and damp. Rain sheeted down outside the massive open bay door, a grey curtain obscuring the world beyond, casting the garage in a watery, melancholic light.

There.

His eyes found you instantly. You were at the driver’s side door of a sleek, anonymous black sedan, rain already spotting the dark paint. The trunk was closed. You weren't loading anything. You were leaving. One hand was on the door handle, the other held a small, plain key fob. Your posture was rigid, prepared. You were dressed for disappearance: dark jeans, a nondescript black jacket, your hair pulled back severely. No trace of the vibrant Angel remained in the practical, shadowed figure.

As if sensing his violent arrival, you turned. Your expression was carefully, terrifyingly neutral. A mask carved from ice. But your eyes… your eyes were wide, startled by his sudden appearance, and in that unguarded instant, he saw it: oceans of raw, unprocessed pain. A reflection of the desolation he’d created. It was there for only a heartbeat before the shutters slammed down, replaced by a cold, impenetrable wall.

He stood frozen for a microsecond, chest heaving, rain dripping from his hair and gym clothes, his scraped palm stinging. The sleek black car, the rain, your closed-off face – it was the image of finality he’d dreaded since seeing Bucky in the empty room. You hadn't just packed a bag; you were erasing yourself. And you were seconds from vanishing into the grey downpour.

--

The rain hammered the sedan’s roof like a frantic drumbeat. John stood frozen in the downpour, ten feet away, looking less like the indomitable US Agent and more like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood. "Y/N! Wait!" His voice wasn't just ragged; it was a raw scrape against the storm, echoing with a terror that vibrated in your bones.

You flinched, your hand tightening on the cold metal of the trunk lid. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. You squeezed your eyes shut, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath that did nothing to steady the earthquake inside. The mask of numb practicality you’d worn since packing was crumbling, replaced by the raw, gaping wound beneath. When you finally forced yourself to face him, the rain plastered your hair to your cheeks, mingling with the tears you could no longer hold back. "John," your voice was a broken whisper, barely audible over the downpour. "Don’t. Just… move."

He didn’t move. He took a jerky step forward, hands outstretched, not in demand, but in desperate, futile supplication. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from the tears carving paths through the grime. "Please!" The word was a sob. "Don't go! Not like this! Not without…" He choked, searching for words he didn’t have. "Give me more time! I’ll… I’ll do anything! I’ll quit the team! Walk away from everything! I’ll go to therapy every damn day! I’ll… I’ll cut off my damn hand if it makes you believe me!" His voice shattered completely, raw and stripped bare. "Please, Angel. Please. Don’t leave. I can’t… I can’t breathe without you here. It feels like drowning."

The raw, animal agony in his voice, the sight of this powerful man reduced to a trembling, rain-soaked wreck by his own catastrophic failure, was the final blow. Your carefully constructed walls dissolved. A choked cry escaped you, ragged and broken. Tears, hot and relentless, flooded your vision, blurring his anguished face. "I can't!" you cried, the words tearing from a place of pure, shredded agony. "Don't you understand? I can't live like this! Seeing you in the halls… hearing your voice… smelling your damn soap… remembering…" Each word was a gasp, laced with a pain so profound it felt physical. "It hurts, John! Every single second, it hurts! It’s carving me up from the inside out! I feel like I’m dying just standing here!"

He flinched violently, as if each word were a physical lash. "I know!" he roared back, the sound raw with shared agony. "God, I know what I did! I was a fool! A selfish, broken fool who didn’t deserve you! But I love you! I love you more than my own damn life! More than breathing! Please… just… stay. Let me fix it. Let me try!"

"Love isn't enough! My love isn’t enough!" you screamed, the dam finally bursting. A torrent of fury, betrayal, and soul-crushing grief exploded out of you, fueled by weeks of silent torment. "Not when you’re still holding onto your past! Not when you strap on a symbol of another life every time you walk out the damn door!" You took a step closer, the rain plastering your hair to your face, your eyes blazing with a pain so deep it was incandescent. "But you know what breaks my heart even more than the ring itself, John? It's the lie. The routine of it. The knowing that every single time you suited up for a mission I wasn't on, you deliberately put that ring on."

Your voice dropped, trembling with a mixture of disgust and profound hurt. "You slid it onto your finger, a conscious choice, a secret ritual. And then…" A bitter, choked sob escaped you. "And then, every single time you walked back through that door to me, to us... You took it off. You hid it away. Tucked it back into its little box, its little pocket, like dirty laundry you didn't want me to see."

You gestured wildly, encompassing the Tower, your room, the life you'd built. "You washed your hands, maybe changed your clothes, and then you walked into my arms. You kissed me. You held me. You told me you loved me. You acted like everything was perfect, like that hidden piece of metal, that hidden allegiance, didn't exist!" The disbelief curdled into something darker. "How could you? How could you stand there, look me in the eye, swear your love, after just performing that… that sick little vanishing act? Shedding one skin to put on another? It wasn't just a ring, John! It was a performance! A daily betrayal you rehearsed and executed!"

The raw incredulity returned, sharpened by nausea. "I don’t hate Olivia, John! I never did! I’m glad you had someone who loved you! But our love? My love?" Your voice cracked, raw with shattered disbelief that now encompassed the sheer, brazen duplicity of his actions. "It wasn't enough to make you let her go! It wasn't enough to make you trust me! It wasn't enough to make you choose me – completely! It wasn't even enough to make you stop the charade! To stop pretending that ring didn't exist between us every single damn day!"

You were trembling violently now, the rain soaking you to the skin, plastering your clothes to your body, mixing with the ceaseless flow of your tears. The cold was nothing compared to the icy desolation within. "Do you have any idea?" you whispered, the fury momentarily replaced by a devastating emptiness. "Any idea what that does? To pour your soul into loving someone? To heal their wounds? To build a life… only to find out they were secretly clinging to a ghost?" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, barely audible over the rain. "That your love… your perfect, beautiful, everything love… wasn't enough to make them whole? To make them yours?" A sob racked your frame. "It destroys you, John. It makes you feel… worthless. Unfixable. It makes you want to…" You choked, the truth too vast, too dark to voice fully. "Die."

"Then do it!" John pleaded, taking another step closer, his eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless intensity. "Shout at me! Curse me! Scream until your voice gives out! Hit me! Break my nose, crack my ribs, I don't care! Do anything! Anything but leave! Just… just feel it! Don't run! Don't take the easy way out!"

"The EASY way?!" The words detonated within you. White-hot fury, hotter and purer than anything before, surged through your veins, burning away the numbness. "YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?!" You slammed the trunk lid shut with a force that echoed like a gunshot in the garage. You stood facing him in the downpour, inches away, trembling not just from cold, but from the sheer, incandescent force of your pain.

"Leaving is the hardest fucking thing I've ever done!" you screamed into his rain-streaked face, your voice raw and ragged. "Staying would kill me! Do you understand? Kill me! Every time I look at you, I see the ring! I see the lie! I feel the knife you left in my chest twisting! I'm not strong enough, John! I don't have the strength to heal that wound while you're standing right there, a constant reminder of how deeply you cut me!" Your voice broke, the anger momentarily swamped by the tidal wave of grief. Tears streamed freely, indistinguishable from the rain. "DO YOU KNOW WHY THIS HURTS SO FUCKING MUCH?!" you roared, the question bursting out, raw and ragged, cutting through the echo of your own scream. You surged forward half a step, driven by the unbearable pressure in your chest. "DO YOU?!" The rain lashed your face, mingling with tears of pure anguish. Your voice cracked, but the intensity didn't waver. "Because I gave you everything! Everything I had! My heart, my soul, my trust, my stupid wings! I built us with my bare hands, John! I poured every ounce of love, every shred of hope, every broken piece I’d ever carefully glued back together… I poured it all into you! Into this!" You gestured wildly between you, the movement encompassing the ruins of your relationship.

"I never…" Your voice hitched, a sob tearing through the fury. "I never felt this for anyone! Not even close! This love…" You pressed a fist hard against your sternum, as if trying to physically contain the agony tearing you apart. "It wasn't just love. It was… consuming. Terrifyingly huge. Like standing too close to the sun. You were my gravity, my air, my entire damn sky! I hung the moon for you, John! I burned for you!"

The raw confession hung in the rain-soaked air, more vulnerable than any accusation. "That's why!" you cried, the sound dissolving into a wretched sob. "That's why this pain isn't just bad… It's unbearable! It's ugly! It's devastating! Because what you broke…" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, filled with immeasurable loss, "...wasn't just a relationship. It was the only time I ever truly let myself exist completely in love. And you made it feel like a lie." He couldn’t find the words to say something to you, anything. "So it hurts! It hurts so much I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating! It feels like… like that darkness is back. That void I thought I'd escaped. That..." The words were a whisper filled with terror.

Then, the memory surfaced – sharp, bright, agonizing. A rooftop dawn months ago, your head on his shoulder after a nightmare about the suffocating blackness of your past depression. His arms tight around you, his voice thick with fierce conviction: "Never again, Angel. I swear it. You'll never feel that alone, that lost in the dark, ever again. Not while I'm here. I won't let it touch you. I promise."

"YOU PROMISED!" The accusation tore from your throat, a guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls, louder than the thunder outside. It wasn't just anger; it was the shriek of ultimate betrayal. "YOU PROMISED ME I WOULDN'T FALL BACK INTO THAT DARKNESS! YOU SWORE YOU'D KEEP IT AWAY!" You pointed a trembling finger at him, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "AND NOW? YOU PUT ME THERE! YOU ARE THE DARKNESS, JOHN! THE VOID I'M DROWNING IN IS YOU!"

The impact was instantaneous. John staggered back as if physically struck, all color draining from his face beneath the rain and grime. The wild desperation in his eyes vanished, replaced by dawning, absolute horror. He hadn't just broken your heart; he'd shattered the sacred vow he'd made to protect you from your deepest fear. He'd become the very monster he'd sworn to slay. He looked down at his hands – the hands that had held you, healed you, promised you safety – as if seeing them for the first time, stained with an invisible, unforgivable guilt. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Only a silent, shattered gasp. The fight, the pleas, the desperate hope – it all bled out of him, leaving only the hollowed-out shell of a man staring into the abyss of his own irrevocable failure.

He didn't move as you turned, your fury spent, leaving only a crushing, hollow exhaustion. He just stood there, paralyzed by the devastating truth echoing in the rain-filled silence: He hadn't just lost you. He'd destroyed the woman he loved, and the instrument of your destruction was his own broken promise.

The fury that had fueled the screaming accusations spent itself as abruptly as it had ignited. You sagged back against the cold, wet metal of the sedan door, the fight draining out of you like blood from a fatal wound. Your breathing was ragged and rapid, fogging briefly in the chilly, rain-lashed air before being swept away. The downpour was relentless now, soaking your hair, plastering your clothes to your skin, running in icy rivulets down your face, mingling with the hot tracks of your tears. You lifted trembling hands, pressing your palms hard against your closed eyes as if you could push the pain back inside, then dragged them slowly, heavily up through your soaked hair, fingers tangling in the wet strands. The storm raged outside, but inside, a terrifying quiet descended, broken only by your shuddering breaths.

Your eyes remained closed, hidden from the wreckage standing before you in the rain. When you finally spoke, your voice was low, hoarse, stripped of its earlier fire, vibrating with a profound, bone-deep weariness. "It was okay," you whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "If you couldn't get over it... Your old marriage. If you struggled... all this time." You swallowed hard, the admission tasting like ash. "I understand that, John. I do. You had a partner... a life... for so many years. You built something. You had a son together." A bitter, humorless sound escaped you, lost in the downpour. "Fuck, I understand that. More than you think."

You finally opened your eyes, but you didn't look at him. Your gaze was fixed on the rain-slicked concrete floor, seeing nothing. The anger was gone, replaced by a crushing, icy clarity. "But if that was the case..." Your voice dropped even lower, filled with a finality that was more devastating than any scream, "...you should never have told me that you loved me."

Slowly, with immense effort, you lifted your gaze from the rain-slicked concrete. Not to plead. Not to rage. Simply to deliver the epitaph. Your eyes, when they finally met his, were devoid of the fire that had burned there moments before. They held only an ocean of immeasurable sadness, a deep, weary grief that had settled into your bones.

"You promised me a future together," you said, your voice a low, rasping whisper, barely audible over the downpour. It wasn't accusatory; it was a simple statement of a fact now rendered meaningless. A ghost of a smile, fragile and infinitely sorrowful, touched your lips. "I even dared to fantasize," you continued, the words soft, almost lost. "About you. Me. Your son." Your voice hitched slightly. "And maybe… maybe a little brother or sister for him someday." The smile faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving only bleak emptiness. "Silly dreams."

You held his gaze for one more heartbeat, the depth of that lost future reflected in your sorrowful eyes. "But we can't build a future," you stated, the finality absolute, crushing, "if you refuse to let go of your past."

The words hung there, the simple, undeniable truth that sealed everything. There was nothing left to say. No plea, no bargain, no explosion of anger could bridge the chasm his secrecy had carved.

Your eyes, holding only that profound, world-weary sadness, finally broke contact. They drifted down again, fixing on nothing. Your arms, which had gestured wildly in anguish, now hung limply at your sides, utterly devoid of energy, of fight, of hope.

John stared at you, his face a mask of horrified understanding and crushing guilt. He saw the abyss of pain he’d created. He saw the love that still warred with the betrayal in your eyes, even now. He took a hesitant step closer, then another. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from tears.

He stopped inches from you. His hands rose, trembling violently, hovering near your rain-soaked cheeks. He hesitated, terrified you’d flinch away. When you didn't move, didn't recoil, just stood there trembling and broken, he gently, reverently, cupped your face. His touch was warm against your cold skin, achingly familiar and unbearably painful.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick with tears, his thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks with infinite tenderness. "I'm so, so sorry I made you feel that. That I made you feel anything less than everything. You are everything. You were enough. More than enough. The failure was mine. My brokenness. My fear. Not you. Never you." His blue eyes, swimming with tears, held yours with a desperate intensity. "You were perfect. You are perfect. And I ruined it. I ruined us."

The proximity, his touch, his tears, the rain, the raw, unfiltered pain and love in his eyes – it was too much. A new sob tore from your throat. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. Your hands rose to rest over his. His lips brushed yours, a feather-light touch at first, tasting of salt rain and desperate sorrow. Then, with a soft, broken sound from deep in his chest, he kissed you. Not with passion, but with a profound, aching farewell. It was a kiss saturated with a love that was real and deep and utterly shattered, a final communion of broken hearts.

You kissed him back, one last time. Pouring a year of blinding happiness, a lifetime of shattered dreams, and an ocean of unbearable grief into that single, rain-drenched touch. It was the sweetest, most agonizing kiss of your life.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting, precious second, his breath mingling with yours. His hands lingered on your face, a final, trembling caress.

"Be safe, Angel," he whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "Please… just be safe."

He stepped back, releasing you. The absence of his touch was immediate, a fresh wave of cold emptiness. You looked into his eyes one last time, seeing the reflection of your own utter devastation, the ghost of the future you’d both murdered. His lips parted, breath catching. "I love you," he choked out, the words a final, desperate plea thrown against the storm, a raw confession hanging in the space between annihilation and goodbye. His tears fell from his blue eyes.

You said nothing. But he knew you loved him; that´s why you couldn’t stand this.

Your eyes, holding only the vast, desolate landscape of your broken heart, remained locked on his for one endless, suspended moment. The rain fell. His confession echoed, unanswered, into the void. Then, without a word, without a sound, you turned. Your movements were slow, deliberate, and final. You opened the car door, the sound a dull, hollow thunk in the rain-filled silence. You slid inside. The door closed with soft, devastating finality. The engine roared to life, a mechanical snarl against the organic drumming of the rain. The headlights cut through the grey gloom, illuminating the rain-slicked concrete and the solitary, broken figure standing in their path for a split second before you shifted into gear.

John Walker stood rooted to the spot, rain soaking him to the bone, watching the red taillights of the sedan blur and vanish into the grey curtain of rain. The empty space where the car had been felt like the hollow space in his chest. He brought a hand up, touching his lips where the ghost of your kiss still lingered – a bittersweet brand of finality. The relentless tide had finally receded, leaving only a barren, desolate shore. He stood alone in the garage, the sound of the rain the only witness to the silent shattering of what remained of his world. The fight was over. He had lost. And the victory he’d sought – your happiness – was now a distant, unknown star, moving further away with every beat of his broken heart.

[geeky-politics-46]

I swear blonde guys normally don't do it for me. This one does, apparently, because I'm amassing a collection. I can only imagine there will be more. Threw in my new Bucky keychain because he's adorable, too.

I also have the John & Sentry Marvel Legends 2 pack on pre-order. Please ignore te cat hair on everything.

[geeky-politics-46]

Every now & then this circulates & I 100% imagine they have done this for Alpine. Quite possibly for Alexei too.

alpine will go to each person separately and beg for treats in such a needy way that they think she hasn’t had any at all. they eventually caught onto this and now have to check with each other constantly (but not before she emptied two packs of treats and threw up in john’s room).

[geeky-politics-46]

My goals for the weekend:

- Posting all my Walker stories on my AO3. Username is TalkPoliticsToMe.

- Finishing my current Walker story (morning bj).

- Putting a writing plan together & pre-queing some posts for when I go to Morocco in a few weeks.

[geeky-politics-46]

So, I missed my anniversary post because I was busy getting everything ready for Comic Con last weekend. There will be a separate post coming about that, but anyway, happy 4 year Tumblr anniversary to me!

Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, or even just glanced at my page. Thank you for humoring my crazy & for encouraging my most depraved thoughts. ❤️ Here's to lots more years!

[geeky-politics-46]

Why is it so hard to come up with story titles?! I feel like everything i come up with is either dumb sounding or borderline inappropriate. I mean, the story is smut, but I feel like at least the title should be safe.

So if anyone has any title ideas for a story about waking John Walker up with a blowjob...

Also a call to see if anyone wants to be added to my John Walker taglist. Comment below.

[geeky-politics-46]

Should I post my Walker stories on AO3? I've gotten a bit behind on posting there. Is there an audience for Walker there.

Ps. I started 2 new stories for him & a headcanon thing for Bucky. So if you sent in an ask recently, it might be yours!

Why is he so cute?!

[geeky-politics-46]

Send me John Walker asks & requests! Or Bucky. Or John & Bucky! Either way, send me stuff please. Im getting towards the end of my previous Walker requests.

[geeky-politics-46]

I couldn't help myself. I bought one of the little John Walker plushies & he finally arrived today. He's adorable. Zero regrets. He's gonna live with my Doctor Strange & Venom plushes.

I'd love to get one of the Bucky ones, too, but he's way pricey. I can swing $30 on something stupid coming from Japan, but I can't justify $90. Maybe if I get drunk in the near future.

[geeky-politics-46]

Make It Up To You

Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary: After John scares off a guy you're trying to hook up with, he wants to make it up to you.

Warnings: Smut (NSFW) - 18+ ONLY - dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), slight degradation, slight exhibitionism, pet names, language, fluff, John being an idiot.

I dont know why, but I got really bad writer's block writing the smut part of this, so I'm not sure how happy I am with it. May be revised later, but I wanted to get something out.

Group outings and parties in general with the Thunderbolts were a little odd. The weirdest part was that half the group couldn't actually get drunk. Alexei, Bucky, and John were all unaffected by alcohol because of the super soldier serum. You all had a feeling Bob probably would be too thanks to Sentry, but with his history of drug addiction, he tried to stay away from it mainly for that reason. You all unquestionably supported him in that.

On one hand, this meant your group had built-in babysitters. You, Yelena, and Ava really didn't have to worry about getting too drunk to get home because one of the boys would always make sure you were safe. Not that you all couldn't handle yourselves anyway, but they were all still overprotective by nature. 

John and Bucky were usually the two sticks in the mud. Actually, John, even more so than Bucky. Alexei and Bob would happily dance or do whatever fun activity you had planned. Especially once Bob got more confident in himself. You even managed to get Bucky to dance occasionally if the music was right. John always sat like a watchdog despite your constant attempts to pull him out of his shell. 

You had tried numerous times to get him to dance with you. Shamelessly flirting and grinding up against him in the process. There had always been a bit of a flirtation there, even when you weren't drinking. When you were drinking, though, you clung to him like a koala bear, and according to Bucky and Alexei, John seemed over the moon about it. He never did anything about it the next day, though. Once the alcohol was out of your system and your bravery fell back behind your fear of rejection. 

You were getting tired of your advances going unreciprocated. You were frustrated in more ways than one. That's why as Yelena and Ava were calling the boys, ready to be herded back to the Watchtower, you decided to stay and flirt with a guy across the bar you had been dancing with. 

As you walked the two of them outside to hand them off to the boys, Yelena checked to make sure you weren't too drunk to make a rational choice. That you weren't letting hormones and alcohol make your decisions for you. Like any good friend would.

“Not that I'm going to miss your drunken attempts to mount Walker again, but are you sure this is a good idea? You are drunk. Are you at least armed? Here, take my knife.”

You actually weren't that drunk. You were delightfully tipsy. You had also decided you were done waiting for John to make a move. You took the knife she pulled from somewhere on her person. You had no idea where she had concealed it and tucked it into the top of your stiletto boot. 

“Yes, Yelena. If you check your phone, you'll also see I already sent you a pic of the guy, so if im not home by tomorrow afternoon, you know who to kill. I'm tired of letting fancy underwear go to waste. You know I'll be fine. I'll text you every few hours. Okay?” 

You kissed her forehead and gave her and Ava a group hug. All 3 of you giggled before you steered them over to where the boys were waiting. She yelled over her shoulder as she waved you back into the bar.

“Fine, enjoy your boytoy! Use protection and make sure he knows who we are.” 

You waved at the group, with Bob happily waving back before you turned and strutted back inside. What you were a touch to tipsy to notice was the blonde super soldier who stealthily followed you. Staking out a spot in the corner where he could keep an eye on you. Not liking the idea of leaving you alone at all.

He became even less fond of it when the man approached you at the bar. Quickly snuggling his way behind you. John's gut lurched when he saw you laugh and run your arm up the stranger’s chest. His blood pressure was pounding in his ears by the time he watched you dance with the other man. 

His hands were on your hips. Your hands were around his neck. Your eyes slipped closed as he whispered something in your ear that had you sinfully biting your lower lip. The final straw was when one of the man's hands drifted down to grab the swell of your ass and his lips went to your neck.

Before he could even get a good handful of flesh, his fingers were yanked back, and his arm twisted behind him as he was pushed away from you and pinned to the wall. Somehow, very few people noticed the commotion. You, on the other hand, were royally pissed.

“John! Let him go! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

John had already grabbed your arm and was pulling you out of the side exit of the bar before you even finished the sentence. Away from everyone. Especially the man who had his hands all over you. The quiet, dark alleyway suddenly becomes the scene of your argument and perhaps John's death at your hands.

“He was about to grab your ass!”

“Yeah, John. No shit. That's what I wanted him to do. In fact, I wanted him to do a hell of a lot more than that. Thanks to you though, he's probably gonna be too scared to even come near me now.”

He huffed at your statement. Planting his hands on his hips and making a face like he couldn't believe you actually wanted that other guy to touch you. Like you were already John's, and he had just forgotten to tell you about it.

“So now I'm just nothing to you?!”

You were dumbfounded at what he had just said. Your brow furrowing in confusion before you realized what he had even meant by that.

“What?! John, we've never done anything. YOU never do anything! Despite me throwing myself at you over and over. So forgive me if I got tired of waiting on you and found someone instead who actually wanted to fuck me.”

You suddenly realized you may have poked the bear a little too hard. His eyes shot back up to yours, and he stalked toward you. You backed up on instinct but only got a couple of steps before your back hit the concrete wall off the building behind you. The alleyway suddenly seemed much darker than before as he caged you in. An arm on either side of your body, his palms flat against the wall. 

“You think I don't want to fuck you?! Every time you touch me it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to throw you down and ruin you in front of everyone. Pound into you until you're screaming my name. I think about you every fucking night when I'm alone. Whatever new way you've tortured me with that day. Whether it be you shamelessly bending over right in front of me in training, the little extra wiggle in your hips that you think I don't notice when I pin you on the mat, or the way you grind up against me when you've had a couple drinks like a bitch in heat. Thought you liked acting like a little slut just for me. Then I see you all over someone else. Guess I was wrong, huh? You just do that for everyone.”

He had you in the palm of his hand, ready to drop to your knees for him up until that very last sentence. In typical Walker fashion, he accidentally stepped over the line without even realizing it.

Your nostrils flared as your anger piqued again. Not at him calling you a little slut or a bitch in heat. No, that had you borderline dripping, but at the fact that he seemed to assume you would continue to fawn over him with no indication it was actually getting you anywhere. You knew the man had an ego, but it took everything in you not to slap him outright.

Instead, you felt the tears starting to prickle at the corners of your eyes. Your anger melting into helpless frustration. Your head turning to the side and biting your lip, trying to force them back down. Willing yourself not to cry in front of him. 

When you finally turned back you saw the confusion blooming beneath the heat in his eyes. Finally realizing he stepped over the line. He knew he had fucked up. He had seen how the streetlight caught the glint of sadness in your eyes. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to come up with something, anything, to say.

“God John. You can be such a fucking asshole. It was just for you, because I like you. I wanted you, but I repeat, YOU never did anything! You think I'm gonna keep throwing myself at you when you have shown zero intent to actually acknowledge me? Think again. I'm not some fucking toy for you to ignore until someone else is interested. Let's just go home. You've just effectively cockblocked me and now my night is ruined. Thank you for that.” 

He was speechless. You might as well have slapped him by the look on his face. Thinking you had still been trying with him and only now realizing his words had actually wounded you. That was the last thing he had wanted to do. He was gutted by your response. 

You went to shove your way past his arm to get out of the situation. If you were really lucky, you could catch up with the others and pretend this encounter never happened. He pulled you back. Bringing one hand up to cup your cheek in his calloused palm.

“Hey, hey. No. Look at me. I'm sorry. Okay? I shouldn't have said that. I went too far. I'm not sorry about not letting him touch you, though. I just don't know how to do this. I don't know how to show you that I want you to. I'm a fucking idiot. That shouldn't be news, but I really do like you. A lot. Fuck. I hated seeing you with someone else tonight. Give me one more chance okay? Let me prove to you that I want you so badly. Let me show you. Let me try to un-ruin your night.”

You couldn't help it. There was a pathetic-ness about John Walker that you couldn't resist. He lowered his forehead to lean against yours before letting his hands shift from pressing into the wall beside you to sitting tentatively on your hips. Waiting for any form of objection. When you didn't immediately push him away, he took it as a green light to continue. 

His hands were shaking as he let his fingers start to dance up and down your sides. Feeling your curves under his fingertips like he was memorizing a map. A low noise akin to a growl coming from his throat as he let his fingertips dance over the outsides of your breasts before lowering back down to sit in the crease of your hips.

With the reverence of a man bringing himself to kneel before a religious altar, John dropped to his knees in front of you. His fingers draging down your hips and onto your bare thighs. Ghosting his lips over your clothed abdomen before gazing up at you. His pupils blown and his blue eyes begging for you to allow him to keep going. You gave him no resistance. 

His lips fell to the inside of your thigh as he shifted one arm to lift your left leg up and over his shoulder. A soft “please” mumbled against your skin as he positioned you exactly how he wanted you. Waiting for your explicit consent before moving forward.

You brought one hand to comb through his blonde hair. Ruffling it from its perfect placement. His pretty blue eyes closing and a sharp exhale coming from his lips at the contact from you. His fingertips kneaded into your thighs a little bit harder. His teeth nip as high up on your inner thigh as he could get without his nose brushing your panties.

You let your hips shift away from the wall and towards his face as you nodded your head. Adding a whispered “yes, John.” That you knew his enhanced hearing would pick up. You also guessed because of his enhanced sense of smell. He also knew you were soaked for him.

He carefully started nuzzling his way under your skirt. Placing a tentative kiss over your panties. Testing the waters before he truly let himself go. A smirk on his lips when he heard your breath hitch and your mouth drop open. Ready to beg him for more.

He started to lick at your clit through the fabric of your panties. His fingers reaching for the waistband before deciding to simply rip them off of you instead. Tearing first the left hip that was closest to his face and then the right. Using his teeth to pull the fabric away from your body. Before taking them and sticking your now destroyed panties in his jacket pocket. 

Bringing both of his large hands to grab ahold of your bare ass, staking his claim and leaving his fingerprints on the skin, you almost let someone else have minutes ago. Now thoroughly marked as his as he got his first full taste of your cunt. His tongue licking a wide flat stripe from the base of your opening to the top of your clit. 

Your head dropping back against the cement wall behind you and a hand flying to your mouth to cover the moan that ripped through your chest. 

The sight of the normally composed John Walker on his knees, hair mused, pupils blown wide, and lips swollen from sucking on your clit in a public place was enough on its own to push you towards climax. You couldn't help the spasm that tore through you as his long fingers started to move faster, and he hit the perfect spot inside you. The one that made your head spin.

You could feel him grin against your skin. Thoroughly pleased with your response to his touch. Repeating the same motion a few more times. Leaving a soft open mouth kiss on your clit in between each lick. 

Part of him wanted to take his time with you. Really drag this out. He knew you were probably running on borrowed time, though. You were in a public alleyway. Anyone could walk by and overhear or see what was happening. A staff member could open the back door of the bar and be face to face with you any minute. As much as he wanted to savor this, he needed to get you off without taking too much time.

The last thing any of you needed was it to be splashed all over the internet that two of the New Avengers were caught getting naughty in an alley. He knew that he especially would never live it down. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth harshly. Growling at the feeling of your fingers tightening in his hair. Moving his hands so one was holding the front of your hip firm enough to help keep you upright. The other circling around to tease the crease of your inner thigh. Letting his thumb drag over your slick entrance as he continued to suck on you. 

You were plenty wet already and deliciously warm. You were just as ready for him as he was for you. He was half tempted to fuck you right now instead, but he owed you for dragging his feet all this time. You deserved for him to worship at your feet. His lips pulled away from your flesh just long enough to position his middle finger against your twitching hole. 

He pressed in slowly, and your body responded greedily. Your hips rolled, begging for more even as his finger bottomed out inside you. He started with short shallow thrusts. The pad of his finger stroking your front wall. You were perfect. More than he had ever fantasized about.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much I've thought about this.”

John felt your gaze drop to look at him as you finally moved your hand from covering your mouth. Gripping onto the wall next to you and clawing at it. He glanced up at you through his blonde lashes as he lowered his mouth back to your bud. Softly lapping at it with the same tortureously slow tempo he worked his finger. 

“More, John. Please. Need more!” 

Who was he to deny you when you asked so nicely? He sucked your clit into his mouth shaking his head before letting go. Pulling his hand away and slapping at your cunt once before taking his middle and index fingers in his mouth. His eyes nearly rolled back at the tang of your arousal. 

“You got it, darlin. I'm gonna take good care of you.”

He wasted no time in replacing his fingers. Feeling you stretch around his thick digits. If you were this tight on his fingers he couldn't imagine how you were going to feel on his cock. He bit his bottom lip and moaned thinking about it. 

As soon as he brought himself up to stand in front of you, he started kissing up your chest and neck. Eventually, he made his way to your lips. His hands gripped tightly on your hips to make sure you stayed standing. Your hands flew back into his blonde hair. Pulling at it and raking your nails along his scalp. 

“That’s it, baby. Fuck, want you to cum for me.” 

Your hips bucked as he repeated the motion. A wicked grin on his face before he dove back in. Alternating between licking and sucking at your sensitive pearl. Testing what shapes he could draw and going back to the ones that made you pull his hair tighter. When he heard your voice shift an octave higher, he doubled his efforts.

Sucking as hard as he could and laving his tongue over you at the same time. His fingers gained speed as the wet sound of your cunt trying to hold onto him got louder. He moaned against you at the sound of your slick and your taste overwhelming him. 

The vibration from deep in his throat, along with his perfectly angled fingers, was what tipped you over the edge. Your knees shook as you threw your head back and bit your lip. Trying not to draw attention to yourself. Both hands now firmly planted in his soft blonde hair as you humped against his face. Broken moans falling from you.

John swore he was in heaven at that moment. The only thing tethering him to the Earth was the sting of his scalp from the tugging of your fingers. The feeling of you soaking his hand and the taste of your nectar begging him to keep going. To make you cum again, but he knew that if he kept going you wouldn't be able to walk back to the tower under your own power. 

As it was, you were barely standing. Your pussy still contracting around his fingers as he kept working your g-spot. Making sure to drag out your orgasm every second he could. Your breath stuttering and your high pitched whines slowly started to fade as you rode the crest of your high. Letting the tension in your low belly melt away and any lingering frustration drift into the distance. 

A delighted hum coming from your lips as you savored the last electric sparks of your climax. You were still aware of John's movements. The sting on your labia from his beard. All the wonderful sensations lingering in your extremities.

He let you catch your breath as you came down from your high. Carefully easing his fingers out of you once your cunt stopped fluttering and licking them clean before bringing both hands to rub against your hips. Pressing kisses against your pubic bone, his beard tickling your clit just enough to make you shudder. 

Once he felt your fingers start to release the death grip you had on his hair, he eased your leg off of his shoulder and made sure you were able to stand on your own feet without falling. He couldn't help but smile at the little half-hearted grunt you gave when he finally pulled his mouth away from you. 

If John had his way, he would be back there soon enough. He started adjusting your skirt back down to cover your lower half. Straightening the seams at your sides and making sure everything else on your outfit was in place. Your hair and the expression on your face still gave away that you had been ravaged, but the rest of you at least looked put back together.

John licked across your lower lip, and you gladly welcomed him in. The taste of yourself on his tongue re-igniting the hunger in you. After another minute of making out, you let one hand drop down his chest and started to reach for his belt. Ready to either drop to your knees and return the favor or hop into his arms and have him fuck you raw right there.

You whined against his lips in protest as he caught your hand and stopped you before you could get a hold of the bulge in his pants. He had to chuckle at your frustration as you whined his name. Trying to convince him to let you continue. His Georgia drawl came out as he talked you down.

“Uh-uh Darlin’. This was about me apologizin’ to you for being an idiot. Now I wanna do this right. I'm not expecting anything in return before I've earned it.”

You took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself. If his tongue was anything to go by, his dick would be worth the wait. You still couldn't help but sound slightly disappointed when you finally answered. 

“Okay John. Consider yourself forgiven, for now, at least. Come on, take me home?”

Before he let you start walking, he took off his jacket and slipped it over your shoulders. Leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead. A proud smile on his face as he pulled back to look down at you one more time. Then, he held his arm out for you to take. 

You leaned up to press another sweet kiss to his lips before adjusting his jacket and taking hold of his arm with both hands. More confidence in his step as he started to lead you back to the tower.

“So… how do you feel about going out on a date with me sometime?”

--------------------------------

John Walker taglist: @sareim123122 @witchygagirl @fire-joestar @marvels-at-misfits @sunkissedsentry

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[geeky-politics-46]

Im having a bad mental health day & need someone to talk me into taking a shower. Or come poke me with a stick until I give in.

[geeky-politics-46]

You know whats frustrating... trying to write smut & then getting mad because the thing that you are writing about a fictional man happily doing without prompting is the thing the last 3 of your ex's wouldn't do & the last time you experienced it was probably over a decade ago?!

Anyway, new John Walker story coming in the next 24 hours, assuming I can get past my anger at real human men. At least there's a reason if its not great.

[geeky-politics-46]

Dont hate me, but....

Maybe it's just cause I like older men, but I still think Bill Pullman is hotter than his son. Lewis ain't bad by any means, but I'll stick with the OG.

That being said, Wyatt Russell over Kurt for sure, and that's saying something since normally I don't really like blondes.

Both are cuties either way.

[geeky-politics-46]

Sorry I've been M.I.A for the last week. You remember the stray mama cat & her babies that i posted about on my birthday? 2 out of 3 babies have now been rehomed & it looks like mama kitty has decided she's staying with me. She got fixed last week & Ive been slowly introducing her to my cats. So Akasha has taken most of my attention this week. Hoping to have a new Walker story done & posted by the end of the weekend though.

Here's mama & babies before:

Here's mama last night on my bed:

[geeky-politics-46]

He's such a drama queen. I just can't. He's literally a foot taller than me & I just want to pat him on the head. Or the butt. I'll take either.

𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐇 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍-𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐕𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐑 / 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 / 𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓

Thunderbolts. The New Avengers (2025) GhostWalker fight in the elevator shaft. requested by @grecianghost

[geeky-politics-46]

Everyone else's first thought during this scene was about riding him, right? At least until Bucky showed up, then it was about a super soldier sandwich? Just me? Surely it can't be just me?

“I'd like not to die today, so maybe somebody else should be driving?”

John Walker in Thunderbolts* (2025)

[geeky-politics-46]

I have actually had this conversation with people I went to high school with. Im always Bob.

They tried to rope me into a chat about how sad they were that we didn't have a 10-year reunion. I'd rather give myself a DIY root canal than ever be in the same room with 90% of them ever again.

John: What’s your favorite high school memory?

Bob: LEAVING. FUCKING LEAVING!