yourfavtony

[yourfavtony]

“Son he never actually knew”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x son!user

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: prolly nothing lol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,9k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: English is not my first language so I’m so so sorry for any mistakes, if there is something wrong or mistake just let me know guys!! I’m open for requests so let me know 💗

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It’s not that John never wanted children. He did. The thought had always lingered in the back of his mind—sometimes quietly, sometimes loud enough to ache. He could picture it in fragmented daydreams: a small hand gripping his finger, laughter echoing through a quiet house, bedtime stories told with a voice softer than he usually allowed himself. But wanting something and believing he deserved it were two different things. John knew he didn’t want to become a father until he’d made peace with the ghosts that followed him—ghosts that walked silently beside him in the morning and shouted in his dreams at night.

War changes a man. It doesn’t just leave scars on the body; it rearranges the soul. The battlefield had molded John into someone he didn’t always recognize. In the mirror, he saw a soldier, a survivor, a man built on discipline and damage. But a father? A protector, a nurturer? He wasn’t sure that person was still in him. And if he ever was, he had been buried somewhere under layers of grief and guilt and grit.

But life has a way of laughing at his plans. And then—you arrived.

You were small. Fragile, even. He remembered the first time he held you, how terrified he was of dropping you, of breaking something so impossibly soft and new. You opened your eyes, and he saw something in them that unmade him: hope. And for a moment, he let himself believe he could be what you needed. Not a soldier. Not a shell. Just… Dad.

From the outside, it probably looked like you were the center of his world. Neighbors waved and smiled when they saw the two of you. Friends, even men from his unit—hardened, cynical, weary—would clap him on the back and say, “She’s your spitting image,” or “That boy’s your pride, huh?” And John? He let them think that. He smiled. Nodded. Said all the right things. But behind that smile, the truth sat heavy in his chest.

He loved you. That much was never in doubt. He loved you in a way that was fierce and automatic, like a reflex. But love didn’t always translate to connection. There were days he felt like he was trying to hold onto something he didn’t fully understand—like trying to read a book in a language he hadn’t yet learned. He didn’t always know how to love you in the way you needed. There were moments he feared he was failing you, that his past would bleed into your present.

You were never like him.

Even when you were small, he could tell. While other boys in the neighborhood played rough and stormed through yards like miniature commandos, you stood apart. You liked your toy tanks—but not for the explosions. You named them. Created intricate battles with elaborate narratives and backstories. You gave them voices, emotions, arcs. You weren’t interested in conquest—you were interested in meaning.

John watched you, sometimes from the porch or a cracked door, and wondered how someone so gentle had come from him. He respected it—deeply—but he feared it too. Because the world was not kind to boys like you. It was not built for softness. And he didn’t know how to prepare you for that.

He noticed your quietness. Your curiosity. The way your feelings lived right under your skin, impossible to hide. He caught you once, crying at the end of a movie—something animated, something with a talking animal—and it had stunned him. Not because you cried, but because you didn’t hide it. And for a moment, he envied that. You didn’t wear armor. You didn’t seem to need it. And yet, you were vulnerable in a way he didn’t know how to protect.

He tried to shield you from the worst of his world, but life in uniform doesn’t offer many hiding places. There were days the babysitter didn’t show, or you were sick, or he simply ran out of options. So he brought you to base. His fellow soldiers—rough, loud, irreverent—eyed you with a mixture of amusement and confusion. They called you “sensitive.” Mocked the way you curled into your headphones and tuned them out. You didn’t respond. But he saw the way you shrank just a little smaller every time.

And John—he should have defended you. Loudly. Fiercely. But he didn’t. Instead, he laughed along. Ruffled your hair. Acted like it didn’t matter. But it did. It always did.

As you got older, the quiet gaps between you stretched longer. You struggled with things he couldn’t name, couldn’t fix. Anxiety. Loneliness. You drifted into your own world—of books, of games, of art. You found sanctuary in things he didn’t understand but wished he did. He tried, sometimes clumsily. He fumbled through awkward conversations, bought you the wrong kind of notebooks, tried to connect through half-remembered video game references. You were growing up faster than he was catching up.

Then one morning, something changed.

It was a Saturday. Calm. John was nursing a bitter black coffee, the weight of the week still hanging on his shoulders. He was half in uniform, the camouflage pants looking strangely out of place in the peaceful quiet of the kitchen.

You stood in the doorway. Hesitant. Older than he remembered, suddenly.

“Dad?” you asked, almost too softly to hear.

He looked up, surprised. “What’s up, kid?”

You hovered there for a moment, then stepped in, uncertain. “I… I need some advice.”

He set the mug down. Slowly. “Yeah?”

“I got invited to prom,” you said. Then a pause. “And I think I need a suit.”

He blinked. Stunned. “Prom?” A huff of laughter escaped. Not mocking—just amazed. “When did that happen?”

You shrugged, sheepish. You weren’t quite smiling.

He smiled instead. “So… who’s the lucky girl?”

You paused.

And in that pause, he felt the earth shift.

“Actually…” you began, breath catching, “it’s a guy. He invited me.”

Silence. Just for a heartbeat too long.

John didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice or look away. He just… sat there, processing. Slowly. Carefully.

“You saying you’re gay?” he asked, gently. No accusation. Just an open door.

You shrugged again. “I… think so. I’m still figuring it out.”

And then, without a word, he reached out and took your hand. It was rough—calloused from years of training, of holding rifles and carrying weight—but steady.

“Kid,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot in my time. I’ve walked through hell and back. And I’ve learned this: it doesn’t matter who you love. What matters is that you love bravely. That you stand in your truth. That you don’t let anyone shame you for being exactly who you are.”

Your eyes welled with tears. Not from pain. From the sheer relief of being seen.

“I love you,” he said. “Exactly as you are. And I always will.”

You exhaled, shaking. “Thank you.”

He smiled, rough and warm. “Now let’s go get that suit. Gotta make sure you look better than Captain America in formal wear.”

You laughed—a real, free, full laugh.

And in that moment, something between you healed. Not perfectly. Not all at once.

But it was a beginning.

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[yourfavtony]

This is the plot of Thunderbolts, trust me