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The briefing room was dim, lit only by the low hum of a flickering screen casting a pale-blue wash over the room. Shadows stretched long across the table, the glow distorting their faces as lines of mission code scrolled upward, silent and sterile. The air was still, thick with the residue of old tension, the kind that didn’t come from the mission—it came from the people waiting to talk about it.
Yelena sat with her boots propped on the edge of the table, ankles crossed, a half-eaten protein bar dangling from two fingers. She chewed slowly, eyes heavy-lidded but far from asleep. Every few moments she glanced up, scanning the room with the casual sharpness of someone who’d been trained to notice things before they became problems.
Across from her, Bob sat with a pen in hand, tossing it into the air and catching it without looking. He missed again. That made four. He didn’t seem to mind. The pen hit the floor and rolled. He just sighed and picked it back up, trying again, eyes on the ceiling like maybe that would help.
Ava sat perched on the edge of the table, posture stiff, flipping through a folder of recon photos like she was examining a crime scene instead of prepping for a mission. Her brow furrowed with every page. Occasionally she marked something in the margins—tight handwriting, fast notes—but she never looked up.
And John—John hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
He sat hunched at the far end of the table, shoulders rigid, hands flat against the surface like he might slide off if he let go. His eyes were locked on the screen, unblinking, the rolling data reflected in his pupils but clearly not reaching him. His jaw was clenched. A muscle in his cheek ticked. His fingers twitched once, like they might reach for something—then went still again.
Yelena watched him for a moment longer. Then she said his name.
“Walker.”
Nothing.
No shift, no blink, no sign he even heard.
She exhaled slowly, flicked the protein bar wrapper off her thigh, balled it up, and tried again. A little louder this time.
“Walker.”
Still nothing.
Her eyes narrowed.
She stood in one smooth motion, boots thudding quietly against the floor as she dropped them down. Crossed the space between them in four steps. Raised a hand and brought it down between his shoulder blades—not hard, but firm. Centered. Grounding.
“You with us, John?”
The reaction was immediate, violent in its suddenness. He jolted like he’d just been shocked, full-body, his spine stiffening and shoulders snapping back. His eyes flew wide, pupils blown for a second before he blinked—once, twice, three times—and his chest heaved like he’d just surfaced from underwater.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice raw and uneven. “Yeah. Sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize,” Yelena cut in, too fast to be casual. Her voice softened immediately after, not losing any of its edge, but smoothing out the impact. Still sharp. Still hers. Just… gentler.
John ran a hand down his face, dragging the fatigue down with it. “Didn’t sleep,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.
She didn’t say anything to that. Just tilted her head, studying him with that quiet intensity she always carried when she was deciding whether to push or to let it go.
Across the room, Bob stopped tossing the pen.
Ava froze with one hand halfway through a page.
John let out a long breath that didn’t sound like it had cleared much. Then he pushed back from the table, chair legs screeching faintly against the floor as he stood. His movements were stiff, disconnected from his body, like everything was on delay.
“Gonna get some air,” he said, voice low.
No one stopped him. No one told him to wait.
The door hissed open behind him. He stepped through, shoulders tense, head down, and the door slid shut with a soft, final click.
Silence followed, a strange kind of echo.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Yelena looked down at her hand and realized she was still holding his pen. Just his stupid black-clicky pen, the one with the chewed-up grip and the ink stains near the clip. The one he always fidgeted with during briefings, spinning it through his fingers like he might write something down but never did.
She turned it slowly between her fingers.
Behind her, Bob shifted. His voice was quieter now. “He doing that more lately? The… zoning out thing?”
Yelena didn’t answer.
She just slipped the pen into her jacket pocket.
Ava didn’t speak either. She simply closed the folder with a soft snap.
Outside the room, the mission plan continued to scroll. Inside, no one was looking at it anymore. The screen flickered. The room stayed still.
And they waited—for John to come back.
-
It was raining—not a storm, no drama, just a steady, cold curtain of water falling from a sky that didn’t seem to end. It softened the edges of everything: dulled the wind, muted the distant sirens, blurred the low crackle of comms where cleanup crews were still checking in. The battlefield was a ruin now, soaked through and silent, the kind of place that stayed broken long after the fight was over. The skirmish had ended hours ago, but the ground still bled—crimson water pooling in the torn-up soil where boots had slammed down hard, where bodies had fallen fast. Smoke drifted lazily from the twisted remains of a vehicle husk nearby. Something scorched lingered in the air—maybe fuel, maybe bone. It didn’t really matter anymore.
Ava moved carefully through it all, boots sinking with every step into mud that clung and pulled. Her gloves were damp, streaked with black from brushing against a half-buried drone casing. She didn’t look at the bodies. Didn’t look at the crater. Her eyes scanned only for one thing—and when she saw him, she stopped walking.
He was near the edge of the blast zone, half-kneeling in the wreckage like he’d dropped mid-motion and never remembered how to finish falling. One hand was braced on the ground, keeping him upright. The other was pressed hard against his ribs, red to the elbow. He wasn’t moving. Rain rolled down the back of his helmet, down his jaw, over the dirt and blood on his face. His armor had cracked along one side—fractured, not shattered—but it didn’t seem to matter. His body was locked up. Still. Like he’d forgotten he could move at all.
“John,” she said, voice steady. No urgency. Just his name. A fact.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t twitch. Just kept breathing—barely visible, barely audible.
She approached slowly, careful not to startle him, and lowered herself to the ground beside him. Her boots sank deeper into the soaked earth, her knee pressing into the mud. She didn’t feel it. Rain slipped down the edge of her hood, across her face, as she let her fingers hover a few inches from his arm.
“You’re hurt,” she said, gentler this time. “Let me help.”
He drew in a breath—not sharp, not pained, just uncertain. Like even that was too much noise. And then, so softly it barely reached her over the sound of the rain, he whispered, “Please don’t.”
She froze. The words weren’t angry. They weren’t forced. They sounded thin. Worn. Like they’d been said a hundred times in his head already. She didn’t pull back completely, but she didn’t press closer either.
His head lifted just slightly, the effort visible in the strain of his neck. When he finally met her eyes, they looked wrong. Not hostile, not afraid—just gone. Unfocused. Like he wasn’t seeing her at all. Like he was still somewhere else.
“Don’t touch me,” he said again. Quieter now. A breath, not a command. “I just… I need a second.”
She nodded immediately. No hesitation. “Okay.”
She adjusted her posture, staying beside him but not invading. Gave him space to breathe. Space to exist without needing to perform. “I’m here,” she added. “That’s all.”
So she stayed. There, in the mud and blood and quiet rain. No comms. No evacuation call. No ticking clock. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The rain soaked through her sleeves, down the back of her collar. The wind was sharper now. But still, she stayed.
Minutes passed. Or longer. She didn’t check.
Eventually, he shifted. Barely. Just enough to glance at her again, really see her. His eyes still looked tired. Still had that distant fog in them. But this time, they landed on her. Stayed.
She met his gaze. No pressure. No rush. Just quiet presence.
Hours later, back at the Watchtower, the rain was still tapping lightly against the upper windows. The storm had followed them home. In the med bay, John sat on the edge of a cot, arms wrapped tightly across his chest like it was the only thing keeping him together. His shoulders were drawn high. His jaw clenched, loosened, then clenched again, over and over like he didn’t know how to stop bracing.
He hadn’t spoken once. Ava didn’t make him.
She moved around him with quiet, deliberate care—handed off gear, passed tools to the med tech, cleaned the worst of the grime from his armor. She didn’t hover. Didn’t look at him too long. Just stayed near.
When she offered him the pain meds, he took them. No resistance. When she came back with a folded blanket, he didn’t flinch when she approached. He let her drape it over his shoulders. After a moment, his hands came up to grip the edge of it—slowly, like his body wasn’t quite sure what to do with the softness.
Later, out on another mission, different terrain but the same kind of aftermath, Ava made a quiet change. She didn’t approach him from behind anymore. No more sudden calls over comms. No more footsteps he couldn’t hear coming. Now she came from the side. Always within view. Always announced.
And once—only once—when she crouched beside him to check a shallow wound along his collarbone, his shoulder brushed hers.
Not deliberate. Not intentional.
But not nothing.
A second. Maybe less.
Then he turned away again, eyes elsewhere, posture drawing back into itself.
He didn’t thank her.
He didn’t need to.
She already knew.
And she made sure he knew this too: she wasn’t going anywhere.
-
The tunnel smelled like dust and ozone, the kind of old chemical residue that clung to walls long after a war had ended. Burned wiring twisted along the ceiling like veins, and metal shrapnel had rusted into the corners, half-forgotten. The damp in the air carried with it the faint tang of explosives—remnants of something that had once meant to end everything that passed through here.
Each footstep echoed louder than it should’ve. The air was too still.
Bucky led the way, movements sharp and economical. His weapon was raised, eyes flicking to each shadow like second nature. The grip on his rifle was relaxed but firm—ready. He’d done this too many times not to recognize the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty, but waiting . Behind him, John followed close, neither too near nor too far. He was watching their six, moving with the kind of precision that was meant to say everything was fine.
Except it wasn’t.
Something felt wrong.
Not in the tunnel. Not in the structure. But in him .
Bucky slowed. He stepped briefly to the side and pressed his back against the wall, checking his comm. All he got was static—a low hiss that faded into silence. He tapped it once. Nothing changed. No signal. The walls were too thick, the whole structure buried deep enough to swallow anything that tried to escape it.
He turned to signal a stop.
And froze.
John was no longer at his shoulder.
He was several feet back, standing dead center in the corridor. Perfectly still. He wasn’t checking corners. He wasn’t scanning exits. He wasn’t present .
His posture was too straight, too formal—like he’d been placed there, rather than moving on his own. His shoulders didn’t shift. His legs didn’t reposition. His arms were locked by his sides with his hands still on his rifle, but his fingers were stiff around the strap, white-knuckled.
Bucky’s frown deepened. He lowered his weapon slightly.
“Walker.”
No response.
No flicker of recognition. No turn of the head.
Just the rise and fall of John’s chest—steady. Measured. Too even.
His jaw was locked. His eyes were forward, but not seeing . Not here. Somewhere else entirely.
Bucky took a slow step forward. Then another. His voice softened.
“Walker.”
Still nothing.
So he stepped directly in front of him, quietly, carefully, like someone disarming a mine. He moved into John’s line of sight, breaking that faraway gaze with something solid.
“You good?”
There was a pause. One second. Two.
Then a blink.
Just one. But it was enough.
John’s eyes found his. There was something far back behind them—fractured, like whatever part of him had been running this far on autopilot had only just realized someone was speaking.
“Yeah,” John finally whispered, hoarse. Flat. Mechanical.
It was a lie. Bucky knew it. John knew it. But it wasn’t defensive. Just something automatic, something he was supposed to say to keep things moving.
Bucky didn’t call him on it. He didn’t need to. He saw it in the way John’s boots hadn’t shifted. In how tightly he still clutched the strap across his chest. In the slope of his shoulders, exhausted in a way that no amount of rest could fix.
So Bucky just stepped forward and reached out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t what he was good at. But he placed a hand on John’s shoulder anyway. Firm. Still. Nothing commanding. Just real .
A tether. Something human in a place that felt like it had forgotten what that meant.
“Keep moving,” Bucky said, low.
John’s fingers relaxed slightly. Not completely. But enough.
His breath caught. Shifted. Not deeper, but less rigid.
And they moved on.
—
Later, back at the Watchtower, the air was too bright. Too clean. Fluorescent lights washed the debrief room in that sterile kind of white that made every bruise and burn stand out more clearly. Mud flaked off boots. Dried blood crusted the edges of sleeves. No one had showered yet.
John sat at the far end of the table. Back straight. Hands clasped loosely in his lap. Eyes forward.
The screen played the helmet cam footage—grainy, distant, someone’s voice calling coordinates. Heat signatures pulsing. Data scrolling in the corner.
The others were watching. Sort of. They took notes. They exchanged glances. They listened.
John didn’t.
He didn’t move.
He just stared at the wall behind the screen.
Thirty seconds passed. Maybe more.
Ava leaned forward, mouth parting to speak—then stopped.
Yelena beat her to it. She didn’t joke this time. Her voice was low. Serious.
“Is he okay?”
Bob shifted in his chair, glancing sideways. Even Alexei, normally relaxed, had a crease between his brows.
Bucky stood at the wall, arms folded—not tightly. Not like he was bracing. Just watching .
“He’s fine,” Bucky said.
His voice wasn’t hard. Wasn’t defensive. It was quiet. Measured. Reassuring—for them .
But no one fully believed it.
Not even him.
—
The meeting ended.
The others filtered out in pairs, steps soft on the tile. A door hissed shut. Pages rustled.
John stayed where he was.
Bucky didn’t leave either.
He waited until the room had cleared. Then crossed the floor, slow and steady, boots echoing softly.
He stopped beside John. No sound from the chair. No movement.
So Bucky set a bottle of water down on the table. Just that. No ceremony. No commentary.
“You did good out there.”
Still no response.
But after a pause, John reached for the bottle. His fingers wrapped around it—not hurried, not distracted. He just held it.
Like it gave him weight. Like it made him here again.
And Bucky turned. Walked away.
Not far.
Not out of reach.
Just enough to give him space.
-
They were back at the Watchtower. The mission was over—technically. The extraction had gone clean, the last shot fired hours ago. The debrief had been short, cold, and too clinical for how messy it had felt. Bucky handled most of it. Yelena had volunteered to “file” the report, which really meant rewriting it to make them all sound slightly more heroic and slightly less exhausted. Ava hadn’t spoken at all on the way back.
Now the tower was quiet. Not fully asleep, but lulled into something close. The halls were dimmed, the med bay ticking softly in backup mode, its monitors blinking in lazy sync. Even the walls seemed to hum with a sort of muted exhale, like the whole building was trying to recover. Yelena was upstairs, probably arguing with a quartermaster over missing knives. Ava and Bucky were still in the control room, locked into the kind of low-voiced, purposeful multitasking only survivors of too many close calls could pull off.
And John—John wasn’t really anywhere.
Unless you counted this.
He was on the kitchen floor. Not collapsed. Not unconscious. Just sitting. His back slouched against the cabinets, one leg stretched out, the other bent loosely with an elbow draped over it. His boots were caked with dried mud, one half-untied, leaving faint streaks along the tile. His arms hung heavy at his sides. His knuckles were raw—split and swollen, the kind of mess you only get from hitting something solid, something that doesn’t give. The right hand was worse, the skin broken across the bridge, knuckles cut to the bone in places. A scrape along his temple had already begun to bruise, the purple tint blooming beneath the layer of dust and dried blood.
He wasn’t in pain exactly. He wasn’t flinching. But he wasn’t resting either. Just there. Still. Head bowed slightly like he’d forgotten it could lift, like the act of keeping himself upright was the only thing he could still remember how to do.
He wasn’t patching himself up. Wasn’t moving. Just breathing—slow, like it was a manual task.
The low hum of the fridge beside him was the only sound in the room.
Then came the footsteps.
Bob rounded the corner, humming something under his breath. Something tuneless, barely a thread of sound, the way people do when they’re not really awake. He stopped short when he saw him.
John, motionless on the floor.
Bob blinked.
His gaze moved slowly across the room, registering the scene in pieces—the slouch, the bruises, the silence.
This wasn’t normal.
John Walker didn’t sit on kitchen floors. Not like this. Not unless something inside him had come undone in a way that chairs couldn’t fix.
“...John?” Bob asked, voice quiet.
There was no reply. No shift. No reaction.
John didn’t even flinch. He just kept breathing like he was following invisible instructions.
Bob stood there for a second longer, then exhaled and walked to the fridge. The exaggerated sound of it opening filled the quiet like a placeholder. He rummaged with purpose, muttering to himself, probably more for John than for him.
“Let’s see. Bottled water, more cold packs, week-old noodles… gross. Ah. There we go.”
He pulled out a juice box. Apple. Always apple.
He turned back toward John, paused—then tossed it underhand like it was a movie night and not a crisis.
Thud.
It bounced off John’s chest and landed in his lap.
Bob smiled faintly.
“Guess you’re not invincible, huh?”
No answer.
John didn’t blink. Didn’t look up. He just stared at the box like it had appeared out of thin air, like he didn’t know what it was.
Bob’s smile faded a little. He shifted awkwardly, scratched the back of his neck.
“Hey. It’s, uh… vitamin C. Good for blood loss and... whatever,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “You look like you lost a lot of that.”
Still nothing. No sarcasm. No eye roll. No snap.
Just that awful, quiet absence.
John’s hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the box. His thumb found the straw still taped to the side, but he didn’t open it. Didn’t move beyond that. He just held it. Like he needed something solid to remind him where he was.
Bob watched him a moment longer, then let out a breath. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the sound of someone letting go of a hundred unsaid things. He crossed back to the wall and slid down onto the floor, sitting a few feet away. Close, but not too close.
He didn’t talk. Didn’t push. Just rested his elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, and let the silence settle in around them.
The fridge hummed. Pipes knocked faintly somewhere overhead. The tower shifted in its bones like it was turning over in its sleep.
Six minutes passed. Then seven. Bob didn’t look at the clock, but he counted anyway.
At exactly ten, he heard it.
A soft crinkle. Then the small pop of a straw piercing foil.
He glanced sideways.
John was drinking. Slowly. Carefully. His grip around the box was a little too tight, but he was doing it.
One sip. Then another.
Bob didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. He just got up, stretched his back with a grunt, and walked back to the fridge.
He pulled out two more juice boxes.
He didn’t explain. Didn’t joke.
He tossed one onto the counter. Set the other on the table. One for now. One for later.
When he turned back, John was still drinking. Still silent. But his hands weren’t shaking anymore.
And as Bob walked out, heading toward the hallway, he heard the sound—the soft, hollow squish of the straw hitting air.
The juice was gone.
John had finished it.
Bob didn’t say a word.
But he left the kitchen light on.
-
It was late. The kind of late where the entire tower seemed to let out a long, exhausted breath. The overhead lights in the halls were dimmed, doors mostly shut, and the sound of rain tapping against the windows had become a quiet rhythm, weaving in and out of the low hum of the vents. Most of the team was asleep—or at least pretending to be. Alexei wandered into the rec room barefoot, hoodie tugged lazily over his head, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t come looking for anything in particular. Maybe a snack. Maybe a moment to himself. Certainly not this.
He stopped just past the doorway.
There was someone standing in front of the window, framed in moonlight and utterly still. At first, Alexei didn’t recognize the shape, but then he saw the squared shoulders, the tilt of the head, the familiar tension that clung to the figure like a second skin. It was John. The TV in the corner had long since gone into screensaver mode, floating images of distant galaxies drifting silently across the screen. The rest of the room was dark, but John hadn’t moved—not once. Just stood there, rigid, staring out into the night.
Alexei didn’t speak right away. He just watched from the edge of the room, quietly noting how John’s arms hung stiff at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his forearms trembled with the effort. After a moment, he stepped in, careful not to startle him, voice low and rough with sleep.
“John?”
There was no reply. Only the faintest creak from the floor beneath John’s boots as he shifted slightly forward, the motion automatic, like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.
Alexei stepped in a little closer, but still kept his distance. “You alright?”
Again, nothing for a moment. And then—finally—a breath. Uneven. Dragged in and let out like it cost him something.
“I didn’t hear you,” John murmured. His voice was low, frayed at the edges. Like talking wasn’t something he’d done in a while.
Alexei nodded, slow and soft. “Wasn’t trying to sneak up on you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t tense—just stretched thin and quiet. John didn’t turn around. He didn’t offer any explanation. He just kept looking out at the city, watching the faint pulse of faraway traffic lights and the pale moon half-obscured by clouds.
Alexei lingered for a few more seconds, then quietly walked over to the small kitchenette in the corner. He opened a cabinet, pulled out two mugs, and filled the kettle with water. The faint hiss of it beginning to heat broke the stillness just enough to feel like movement.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said over his shoulder. “Just… don’t stand in the dark alone.”
When the tea was ready, he brought both mugs over, placing one on the windowsill beside John without making a fuss. Chamomile. It was the safest bet—and the one least likely to earn him a scolding from Yelena in the morning. Then he settled on the couch, wrapped his fingers around his own cup, and leaned back, saying nothing else.
John didn’t touch the tea at first. He stood where he was, shoulders high, eyes distant. But a few minutes later, after the moonlight had shifted across the floor and the quiet had deepened around them like a blanket, he finally reached out. He wrapped a hand around the mug—not to drink, not yet. Just to hold it. Like the warmth of it was the only thing in the room still tethering him to the present. Alexei didn’t look. Didn’t comment. Just sat with him in the silence and let the night move around them.
The next morning, nothing was said. No comments. No questions. But when John walked into his room after training and paused just inside the doorway, something was different. The wide, bare window—the one that always let in too much light—now had blackout curtains. Heavy, clean, neatly hung. The kind that blocked out everything. There was no note. No signature. But tucked just inside the fold of fabric, half-hidden like an afterthought, was a small packet of chamomile tea.
John didn’t smile.
But he stood there for a long time.
And then, with quiet hands, he reached out and pulled the curtain closed.
-
The hallway was chaos—noise and motion in every direction, the kind that always followed a mission that hadn’t gone to plan. Boots scuffed against the floor, comms buzzed with overlapping voices, medics moved with urgency, and the sharp scent of smoke still hung in the air. But away from the center of it all, pressed against the wall like he was trying to disappear into it, stood John. Or rather, leaned. His body was rigid, locked into place, every muscle tensed like it might snap. Sweat ran in uneven trails down the side of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His breathing was shallow and measured—not calm, just controlled, like he was focusing all his energy on staying upright. His eyes were open, but unfocused, glassy. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular. He was present, technically—but not here. Not really.
Yelena noticed first. She stopped mid-step, frowning, her gaze sharpening as soon as she caught the blank look in his eyes.
“Guys—” she began, tense and alert.
But Ava was already moving. Calm, quiet, deliberate. She stepped into his line of sight slowly, not too close, just enough to anchor him.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You’re okay.”
There was no urgency in her voice, no push. Just a steady presence, something to hold onto. John didn’t react. Didn’t look at her. But he didn’t pull away, either.
Bob came next, crouching down near John’s side. He didn’t reach out, just rested a hand near his elbow, palm open, voice low.
“We’re here, man,” he said gently.
It wasn’t much, but it was real. John swallowed, but still said nothing. His fists trembled at his sides, shoulders barely moving with each breath.
Alexei stood a few steps back, arms crossed—not with indifference, but with thought. He watched John with an expression more serious than usual, all the teasing stripped away.
“Nobody’s gonna rush you,” he said, his tone softer than anyone expected. “Take your time.”
Across the hall, Bucky stood still, leaning back against the wall with his arms loose at his sides, eyes locked on John. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. Protective. Ready.
Yelena approached quietly and, without a word, took off her jacket. She laid it carefully over John’s shoulders, slow enough not to startle him, as if saying you’re not alone without making him look her in the eye.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said softly. “We’re not leaving.”
Finally, Ava reached out. Her hand moved toward his slowly, patiently, hovering just a few inches from his. When she made contact, he flinched—just a sharp, instinctive twitch—but she didn’t pull away. She waited.
And after a long moment, John’s fingers uncurled. Hesitantly, carefully, like it took everything he had, he let his hand wrap around hers.
His breath hitched, catching in his throat. Then, gradually, it leveled out. Not steady, not yet—but less fractured.
No one spoke after that. No one needed to.
The sounds of the hallway faded into the background. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Medical carts rattled past. But within the circle they made around John, everything was still. No pressure. No questions. No rush.
He was here now. Grounded. And they stayed—quiet, patient, holding the moment steady until he could hold it himself.
-
She wasn’t supposed to be down here.
But Val had asked for updated biometric logs from the training bay, and Mel—former intelligence operative turned assistant-slash-handler—had long since learned that asking “why” was an invitation to be replaced. Val didn’t give orders expecting questions. She gave them expecting results.
The gym lights flickered as Mel stepped inside, and she stopped.
Agent Walker was already there.
Alone.
The only sound in the room was the relentless impact of fists against the heavy bag. Over and over. The chain groaned with each hit, the bag jerking hard on its hinges. There was no rhythm. No technique. Just raw force, poured into every strike like he was trying to erase something that wouldn’t leave. It wasn’t training. It was survival—too tight, too fast, too close to the edge.
She hesitated near the door, then moved forward, slow and deliberate.
“Agent Walker.”
No answer.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t register her at all. His fists kept moving, knuckles slamming into the padded canvas. His chest rose in shallow bursts. His jaw was clenched. Pupils blown wide. Eyes glassy and locked on something far beyond the room.
She stepped closer. Firmer now. “Walker. John.”
Still no response.
He struck again. Then again. His whole body was shaking, but he wasn’t stopping. Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t this room, and it wasn’t her.
Mel stepped back.
She’d seen soldiers fracture before. Watched calm men blink into panic without warning. But this—this wasn’t panic. It was dissociation sharpened into a blade. Something long buried clawing its way back up.
She turned for the hallway, intending to flag someone, but didn’t get far before nearly colliding with a broad frame rounding the corner.
Bucky stood just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His jaw was tight, but his eyes weren’t surprised.
Mel kept her voice low. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just moved past her like he’d seen it before—like this wasn’t the first time.
“You gonna sedate him?” she asked, not entirely joking.
That got a reaction. A sharp look. Cold. Steady.
“No. We’re not S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Bucky said.
He stepped into the room, not cautiously, but calmly. Like he knew exactly where to stand and what not to do. He crouched just outside John’s reach, his voice even, quiet.
“Walker. You’re safe. It’s just the gym. No one’s coming.”
There was no immediate response. But the cadence of John’s breath shifted, ever so slightly. A catch. A hesitation. A thread pulling taut.
Mel crossed her arms, watching from the edge. “So that’s it? You just wait until he comes back?”
“We wait,” Bucky said, still focused. “We don’t touch him. We don’t crowd him. And we sure as hell don’t report it to Val.”
The emphasis in that last line wasn’t accidental.
Mel’s lips tightened. “This could be a liability.”
“So was I,” Bucky said, standing slowly. “So was Ava. So’s half this team.”
He nodded toward John, who had finally collapsed onto the mat, hands braced on his knees, sweat soaking through his shirt. His breathing was ragged, but it was real. Present. He blinked like someone waking up too fast.
Bucky moved in again, not too close, but enough to anchor.
“You back?”
John didn’t look at him, but his voice came—rough, quiet. “Yeah.”
Mel didn’t linger.
She turned and walked out, datapad in hand, her steps brisk and deliberate. She didn’t look over her shoulder, but she felt the moment settle behind her like a weight she hadn’t asked to carry. Not an incident. Not a malfunction.
A fault line.
Later, when Val looked up from her desk and asked the standard question, “Anything unusual?”
Mel didn’t flinch.
“No,” she said. “Everything was under control.”
And it was.
Just not in a way Val would ever bother to understand.