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John likes clarity.
“And now there’s this huge space crisis and no one’s telling us about it.”
“We’re running out of space? Already? That’s impossible, this building is enormous.”
“... Outer space. ”
“ Outer space.”
He recounts the brief conversation, and as he looks back on it, he sees how utterly stupid his sentence sounded. Yelena had turned around slowly, disbelief painting her face, and John recognized that glint in her eye, that crease of her brow, and that frown on her lips.
He’d missed something obvious, and Yelena thought he was absurd. He’d seen that look from teachers, strangers, and especially his parents. It was a look that portrayed how John’s mind always felt — confused, angry, but the one it always settled with, disappointment. Disappointment, in the fact that John can’t act or think like a normal human being, and then later his parents would have a long talk in their bedroom, and John would never mention how he could hear their mumbles through his wall, or how that one slur that his father loved to repeat always sliced through him, because he knew it was directed at him.
After all, his siblings never acted like him. They always understood what was being said and they laughed at jokes when they were supposed to. John started instinctively laughing in response to people, just in case there was a quip hidden amongst the words, but when they’d give him that look he knew that once again, he was wrong.
Yelena would never call him what his father did. He tells himself over and over, as his eyes draw squiggles through the texture on his ceiling, that Yelena isn’t like the others. She understands what it’s like to be different, even if it’s in another way.
Despite his insistence, John bolts out of bed, knowing that he won’t be able to sleep until he knows the real answer. The clock on his nightstand reads two in the morning, but he gets up in nothing but his t-shirt and shorts and pads down the hall, feeling akin to a lost child looking for their older sibling. Maybe, in another life where his brother Mike hadn’t done what he had, John wouldn’t just have to feel it.
He stops outside of Yelena’s door, knuckles poised to knock, and makes a few quiet raps on the door before he can psych himself out and go back to bed restless. He’s not too shocked when he hears shuffling behind it and Yelena opens the door, hair and pajamas disheveled, but eyes mildly awake.
“Walker? What do you want?” She grumbles.
“Are you mad at me?”
Yelena pauses, gears grinding to make sense of the words she was hearing this early. “Why the hell would I be mad at you?”
“I don’t know. You seemed irritated earlier, and I was being stupid,” John reasons, rubbing the back of his neck and finding a lock of hair there that feels nice between his fingers. It’s soft, and when he pulls it taut to continue to stroke his thumb across it, he quite likes the miniscule ridges that each strand of hair gives the texture.
Yelena traces the movement with her eyes. “I was irritated with everything going on around us, not you. You… feeling okay?”
“Mhm.” It’s true; the worm eating into John’s brain suddenly making its disappearance. “Thanks.”
“Uh. You’re welcome?” Yelena purses her lips. “Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
“...Okay. You can go back to your room now.”
John nods, pivoting his direction to make his way back, and Yelena only shakes her head once he’s gone.
John likes to hum.
He likes to hum when he cooks, he likes to hum when he cleans, he likes to hum when he’s sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing to warrant humming. It’s not usually even a certain tune — just noise to be noise. It makes his mouth feel less empty, and it soothes a part of his brain that itches for stimulation. His teachers would yell at him to stop disrupting the class, but then they’d yell at him for twiddling his pencil back and forth, and for tapping his leg rapidly because apparently the scuff of his jeans against his shoe did make noise, even though he certainly couldn’t hear it. After he stopped, the teachers would be happy, but his skin felt like it was prickling with a thousand invisible needles, because running his tongue over his molars wasn’t enough .
No one in the Tower seemed to be agitated by his sounds, all too focused with their own inner turmoils, so he kept it up. He found a rhythm that he liked, not from a certain song, but one that eased his vocal cords like butter nonetheless.
He supposes that, when he finds himself doing it quietly in the middle of a mission debrief while staring at the grooves in the table, someone's bound to say something.
And they do.
"Walker," Bucky states, and John glances up. "If you're not going to pay attention, at least don't ruin that for everyone else here."
"I wasn't trying to-"
"Just cut it out."
John shoots a glare at Bucky for interrupting his explanation, but goes back to being silent.
At least, he thought it was silent as he unscrews a pen he snatched off the table to disassemble it, but when he slides the thin ink cartridge back into its casing for the third time, he's too focused to hear when Bucky stops rambling and walks over to him until a harsh flick of the fingers lands on his cheekbone.
"Dude! Ow!" John shields his cheek protectively with a hand.
"Maybe if you gave a shit about what we're talking about, I wouldn't have to snap you back into focus, yeah?"
"We aren't talking about anything. You're just going over everything I already know."
"Just because you aren't listening doesn't mean everyone else isn't."
"I didn't even say that-"
"Look, if you're gonna keep your shit up, leave. I'm not dealing with your arguments today."
"I'm not arguing! I'm explaining!"
"Your tone says otherwise."
"My tone is normal!"
"God, you're like a child sometimes, you know that?"
John stands sharply, his chair crashing to the ground. He doesn't give Bucky a response or a second glance as he steps out of the room, and if his boots fall a bit harder against the floor than usual, he blames it on them not being broken in yet. It doesn't matter if they're over a year old now. Some things need more time to change.
When the door slams behind him and rattles off the frame, he wishes that he could scream as loud as it can.
John likes structure.
When he wakes up in the morning, it’s always at the same time, no matter what the day may bring. He rises with the sun and stands on the balcony while he sips at his coffee, cataloguing the watercolors of the dawn. He stays there until the rays are bright enough to make his eyes water, and that’s his sign to go inside. His mug gets washed, on the inside first, then around the outside, and lastly around the handle. It then goes in the left corner of the drying rack, and John will know where to find it when his day starts tomorrow.
Today, his alarm chimes at its set time, and he stretches his legs before throwing off the covers and getting ready to start the day. Shirt, pants, socks. Ava teases him for always wearing socks, but his feet being covered felt comforting, as if he were still relaxed in bed.
He pours a cup of grounds into the filter, setting it into the machine before pressing to fill the carafe. It bubbles to life and the familiar scent of brewing coffee hits his nose as he leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone while he waits for enough of the liquid to collect in order to fill his mug. It usually took one minute and twenty-seven seconds for enough water to get hot, drip through the grounds, and flow to the bottom. John wishes it was three seconds longer, because a minute and a half sure is more convenient to say. Once he’s satisfied with the amount, he reaches his hand over to grab his mug from the rack.
His fingers wrap around nothing but air where the cooled ceramic would be. Should be. Has always been since he moved his stuff into the Tower.
Looking over at the designated spot proves it to be empty, and it makes his breath hitch for reasons that he can’t begin to summarize. Had he forgotten to bring it in from the balcony yesterday? No, he remembers thinking about how nice the purple in the sky was as he picked it up. Did he accidentally put it in the dishwasher? Definitely not, he remembers the clink it made when he placed it in its spot, and how he had turned it around so that the handle would stick out toward him and make it easier to lift.
So, where the hell is his cup?
He’s looking frantically through the overhead cupboards when heavy footfalls let him know that Alexei has gotten up for his share of coffee, but he doesn’t acknowledge the other soldier. The plates cram together as he pushes them out of the way, searching the depths of the shelves for what he needs. It isn’t a matter of wanting coffee anymore — John has to find his mug.
“What is it you are looking for so wildly?” Alexei asks, taking the dispenser and a random mug. “You look like crazed rodent.”
“My mug,” John says flatly. “The one that’s always in the dish rack? With the blue stars?”
“Oh! The handle broke when I put bowl in the rack last night. I did not know anyone even used it!”
John’s face falls so rapidly that he feels his jaw pop. “The- The what?”
“Right in two. I was too harsh with dishes, I do see now.”
Tears ache behind John’s eyes, and not because of the brightness of the sun. It was just an object, not even given to him by anyone significant. He thinks he bought it at a thrift store for a couple of dollars because he liked the pattern.
Yet, his soul feels crushed beneath the weight of the sky he loves observing, and his ribs are tight against his aching chest as his body trembles. He wants to rip his skin apart and adjust his lungs so they’d work again. His knees feel weak, but he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t make a peep as he watches with a hollow expression as Alexei happily drinks the coffee that was supposed to be John’s, the mug in the man’s hand plain and white and larger and without big blue stars.
An intense beam of light shines through the windows of the balcony, and John knows he’s too late. He doesn’t have his coffee, he doesn’t have his sunrise, and the only thing that felt relatively warm despite the rays were those socks on his feet.
That day, John went back to his bed, and he didn’t come back out until the night passed.
The next morning, John’s mug was back in its corner, the handle carefully glued back on in apology.
John does not like to be touched.
Don’t get him wrong, he can handle a handshake or sparring with his teammates. They were predictable and he could always prepare himself for their weight against his flesh. It was when someone grabbed his shoulder to get his attention or the bus lurched too hard and they fell onto him that his skin felt as though it were on fire, the pressure of another human burning deep enough to pierce bone, and it made him feel disgusting. People always press too hard, and if John was any weaker, he imagines that their touch would leave a multitude of bruises from how it hurt.
It’s why he sits at the end of the sofa, sequestering himself into the corner with a blanket thrown over his curled up legs. Ava and Yelena sprawl over the rest of it, leaving only a few inches of space between them and John that John is hyper aware of whenever Yelena has to stretch her lower body, surely losing circulation from Ava practically on top of her.
The television glows in the dark, the beginning of a movie that Ava begged to watch covering the wide screen, and John is already prepared to doze until Bob walks into the living room with a curious expression.
"Oh hey, I've been wanting to see this one!" He exclaims.
"Join us, then," Yelena mumbles and gestures to the couch.
"I... don't know if there's room." Bob cranes his neck to see if there's a hidden open spot amongst the cushions.
"Sure there is, Walker's not joining our dog pile," Ava complains. "Just go in between him and us."
Bob shoots Ava a hesitant grimace, but steps in front of the sofa. John does his best to press himself against the side even more than he already was, lips pressed tightly as to not snap at Ava for the idiotic idea. He really does not feel like having someone else's entire body mashing itself into his, and he nearly growls in frustration when Bob, with the elegance of a bull, plops down next to him. The unwelcome intrusion causes the right half of John's body to tense as sparks singe his skin, and he feels dirty, grimy, filthy as the ashes from that fire start to stain him. He doesn't move, in fear that Bob will take it the wrong way, because he knows that Bob isn't contaminated, isn't sullied. It's his body being silly again, and if John can't even explain why he feels the way he does, it's another malfunction in his system that he'll ignore.
He can always ignore them until his brain forces a restart, but at least no one has had to witness that.
John thinks that, if he were normal, he would lean into Bob's warmth and relish in the man's softness. There was something about Bob, when John didn't feel like he was a fuck-up, that makes him want to lay his head against the man's shoulder and fall asleep. Bob radiates comfort to everyone around him, and John wishes with every fiber of his being that he could strip himself down to his skeleton if it meant that being touched wouldn't be wrong.
He yearns to be touched, to be held and have fingers run through his hair, but even by the most gentle person, John knows that the strands of his heart would be pulled. In another universe, he's able to rest his head in Bob's lap and relax from Bob's touch.
In this one, his knees tighten further into his chest, and he lets his skin char for the night. He could peel the rough flakes away in the morning, and it never burned deep enough to scar his body.
The scar tissue surrounding his mind was just another malfunction, after all.
John doesn't know how he feels about speaking.
Some days it comes naturally, words and flagrant sarcasm falling from his lips like leaves in the autumn. Other days, his throat closes up and he can't muster anything past a pitiful whine. He sure wishes he could explain why, but luckily the silent days don't come around too often. One hasn't happened since he moved into the Tower, and for a while he thinks that maybe he got better. Maybe that cat that likes to claw his tongue finally found a new home.
He shouldn't have been so hopeful when things never change.
"What's up your ass this morning?" Ava playfully remarks as he pops two waffles in the toaster.
He turns to answer, lips parting in expectation, but when he wants to fire a quip back, it dies behind his lips before he can properly think of a smart response. He coughs, in case something’s simply stuck in his throat, but he doesn’t think that his coffee from earlier would cause the pang of tightness in his chest, or how his thoughts go blank when he wills himself to speak. Resigning to looking back at the toaster, John hopes that Ava didn’t notice the bizarre act.
Unfortunately for John, this week seems to be throwing every bad thing his way.
“Uh, hello? We’re doing the ignoring game?” She scoffs, tone now tinged with genuine annoyance.
John wants to shout that, no, he heard her perfectly clear. He thought turning had shown that enough. It wasn’t a direct response, but it was an obvious gesture that he heard and acknowledged her, was it not?
“Is this about last night? I thought you liked Bob.”
When did he ever insinuate that he didn’t? In fact, being able to withstand Bob’s body against his for the entire movie last night was a far cry to how much he does like Bob.
Again, he goes to answer with assurances that he would never dislike their teammate, but the words form a thick blockade at the beginning of his throat, and he nearly chokes on them with how their rough edges scrape through his neck. He forces them through, and he’s almost confident, until they mash together into one big dagger and cut his tongue into silence, and he passes the breath that he willed them up with in a sigh.
Ava’s face falls into a sneer, and John really wants to go back to bed.
“I thought we had a good time last night, but Jesus, if you hate us all that much, you can leave,” she mutters, promptly leaving the kitchen before she’s able to see John’s glassy eyes.
It’s not Ava’s fault, and John knows she doesn’t mean it, but the words make that twinge in his chest expand greater. All those flames that he endured, ones that have branded him since childhood metaphorically and physically, were for nothing. It was useless in the end, to have been so proud of himself for conforming, only for it to burst the second that his body revolts against it. He squints his eyes against the sting of salty tears, bringing his hands up to his hair and balling his fists, trying to breathe against the rage channeling into his arms, begging him to wind back and shove an aforementioned fist into a wall, or into his own head. He'd already been brought to tears in the kitchen once this week, a second time serves to make him truly pathetic. How is he supposed to be a damn hero when the act of speaking is enough to bring him down this far?
He already allowed himself too much time to wallow in the last few, awful days. John needs to pull himself together now before a shutdown happens. His father would typically slap him out of it, and while it left a red sting across John’s face, it worked in the moment to bring him back to the present. A part of John wants to run to Bucky, who hadn’t spoken to him since earlier in the week when John stomped out of the debrief, and beg the soldier to hit him around the skull with his metal arm to knock that loose screw back into place like how John’s dad would. It’s a cruel thought, and rationally, Bucky would never do something like that, but John can hardly feel his feet against the floor anymore. Pain was what he grew up with, what he’s grown accustomed to associate with being grounded. If he’s in pain, he’s still alive, not overwhelmed in a purgatory of sounds and senses that were all too loud yet whispered in hushed voices so that he couldn’t distinguish them.
With his own fingers tearing at his scalp proving to fail and nobody around, John settles for the next best option. The countertop is like frozen stone, hard and steady, and when he slams his forehead down onto it he’s not positive whether the crack is from it or his head. Since he doesn’t immediately fall unconscious, he figures that it’s the counter.
He can’t even bark out a swear, throat closed and words swept away. He simply has to sit and stare at the noticeable dent and fissure running through the granite as blood begins to drip down the bridge of his nose.
He assures himself that it’s a good thing, the texture of the counter no longer swimming, his arms no longer shaking, and the throb of his head overriding the cacophony that had been orchestrating.
The week is almost over, he tells himself. Just one more day, and whatever virus that had infiltrated his software would sort itself out.
It had to.
No one greets him at breakfast when he wakes up an hour after his scheduled time.
They look at him with distaste, skepticism — but one emotion prevails, and he sees it in all of their eyes now.
Disappointment.
It’s always disappointment.
But he'd been one all week, hadn't he? It was only deserved.
Today's Saturday, the end of the week. He can use the hours to sort out the tangled wires of his mind, and by tomorrow, he'll be back to working order. Hell, by tonight, when Alexei surely proposes a game night, John vows to pull his shit together and participate with his team to prove that he belongs in the normalcy of everyone else. They all tear apart his face with their stares, analyzing every wrong aspect, and John couldn't take it this early. For now, he keeps his distance, turning away from their piercing gazes.
He does not notice how they all seemed to linger on the scabbed gash on his forehead, or how Ava furrowed her eyebrows in confusion at the sight, or how Bob opened his mouth to ask a concerned inquiry but stopped when John turned away.
For now, he keeps his nails firmly dug into his wrist, determined to stay in the moment even if it felt like a thousand eyes were boring into him. It works, as it always does, and he makes it through the morning without incident, and no one gives a second glance to the fact that he hasn't said a word.
"I was thinking, maybe we could all go out for lunch?" Ava suggests. "It's been a while since we've been able to... unwind."
"Good idea!" Alexei booms. "And I can fetch adhesive to repair countertop!"
"What? What's wrong with the counter?" Asks Bucky, standing a bit straighter from his spot by the couch.
John sucks in a quiet breath, tongue going between his teeth to bite down on it.
"I do not know. Simply noticed big crack in it yesterday."
Ava squints her eyes. "It was fine yesterday morning when I talked to-"
A loud shatter abrupts from the sink, followed by Bob quickly throwing his hands up from where he was rinsing off the dishes from breakfast.
"Sorry! Slippery plate, slippery hands," he explains rapidly.
"Are you okay?" Yelena darts into the kitchen to survey the accident.
John uses the distraction to slip down the hall, catching his breath once he's securely shut in his room. He's not running away or hiding, just getting ready for when they go out. He did need to get dressed, after all.
When he throws a shirt and some cargo pants out of his dresser, he expects to put his clothes on and head back out quick enough for his absence to not seem out of place. He even chooses an outfit that he's worn multiple times and knows he feels comfortable in. The shirt is plain, black, and tight enough to not irritate him throughout the day from the fabric constantly shifting. The pants are old, but John's kept them in good condition, and their olive green shade is only faded around the knees. He feels confident in the selection, and sees it as a step in the right direction to setting his week straight. He nearly grins as he slides the shirt over his chest and it's the same soft texture he's familiar with.
His pants, to his dismay, prove to be a different story.
He loses his balance trying to pull them up his legs, knocking his elbow into his nightstand and causing the lamp that sat there to tumble off, and if the crash of thin glass is anything to go off of, the light bulb most definitely broke. John groans, baring his teeth at the object lying wounded on the floor, as if that would scare it into fixing itself. He lifts his foot back up to tug on the pants leg, huffing as they finally fit as they should.
At least, that's what he thinks, until he sets his foot down and the inside seam of the pants scrapes across his leg. He flinches back, the intrusion mimicking a thousand minuscule needles puncturing his skin, and he knows right here and now that the pants need to come off. Fingers fumble with the front button, shaky in their desperation, but the button doesn't budge, getting halfway through the hole before John's hand trembles too much and it pops back into place.
"Come on!" He whisper-shouts, and his hands instinctively fly up to pull at his hair, before he's able to stop them midway to refocus on the button.
The button is almost there, caught on a loose string that he has to unravel, and he's nearly got it detangled—
John jumps when someone knocks on his door, hands flailing, and he can feel the button snap back into its spot against his abdomen.
"Walker! We're leaving in just a sec! Hurry your ass up!" Yelena announces.
John lets out a frustrated growl, glaring down at his pants. The seam was still rubbing pins into him, but he can't even yank the button out of them without breaking it off, much less choose a new pair of pants to wear. The seam in any of his jeans could be worse. In a rash decision, he decides to suck it up, put his boots on, and leave his room. As he trudges down the hall, he pretends not to feel the scratchy fabric running friction along his leg with every step and producing sparks.
"What took you so long?" Inquires Yelena when he joins the group by the elevator.
"Nothing important."
She squints her eyes, seeing through the lie but not knowing the truth. "We're getting soft tacos then stopping by a hardware store. You good with that?"
John thinks it strange for her to ask, but nods.
The beeping of the elevator doors is louder than normal and John suppresses his wince as they step in. He crams himself in the back corner, nearly holding himself up against the wall to avoid Ava and Bucky. He's actually glad that, at the moment, they seem to be keeping their distance from him. He can't say much about the car ride, aptly dissociating while staring out of the window.
It's another time where he doesn't notice Bob and Yelena's whispered conversation, or how his own hands ball into fists and bunch up his pants so that the seam of them is lifted off of his leg slightly.
"Walker." Bucky's voice states, and John is snapped into the present, where the car has stopped moving and everyone else has their seat belts unbuckled.
He bites back an apology and clicks the button to release the belt latch, the strip of polyester launching to its resting state, abrading the skin on John's neck in the process. It shouldn't bother him, it shouldn't hurt, yet he places his palm over the spot as he ducks out of the van and avoids the eyes of the team. There's nothing wrong, they shouldn't be looking in the first place, and a scowl crosses his face — not from how the bright sun stings his eyes, or from how loud the city is, or from how his ribcage slowly begins to compress his lungs.
Lunch is fine. At least, John thinks so. The drinks are fine, the food is fine, his rowdy team is fine, the way he can barely hear them over the busy restaurant is fine. Most importantly, John is fine. He's not sitting stiff as a board, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, fingers twitching with the urge to come up and cover his ears.
He tilts his head down to shove an ear into his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to block everything out, but mentally incapable of doing so properly, fear shooting down his spine when he thinks about how the team would react. He'd look like a kid attempting to ignore their parents, hands pressed against their ears and eyes squeezed shut.
John pictures his pair of headphones in his room, unassuming to anyone but him. They're perfectly normal — bland, dark gray, cordless. They aren't noise canceling, something that John loves about them, because how could someone not need to be aware of everything happening around them? The padding along the ear cuffs sits on his ears right, and they're never too loose to fall off when he's working out. His music always beats steady in tune with his heart, and the feeling of them shutting out all the sounds he can't normally filter was like Heaven.
The headache beginning to pound behind his eyes is starting to show in his scowl, which hadn't fully left after departing from the van. He can taste the blood seeping into his tongue from where his cheek was chewed raw. He continues to bite, the bitter taste of blood and the sting of the new wound snapping him into a semi-focused manner. He's not ruining today for the entire team. He's already done too much of that lately.
John can't say anything about the hardware store, seeing as he doesn't go in. Apparently, Alexei started flirting with a worker, making a fool of himself that everyone giggles about during the ride home. Ava is recounting the event to John, and he does his best to give a proper laugh back, but it forces itself out as dry and humorless, and by the time that they're at the Tower, John's forgotten what she even said.
He's desperate to run to his room, finally get these pants off, and lay on his bed with his ears covered and eyes closed. The team walks in far too slowly, concentrating on their conversations instead of how their footsteps are heavier than normal or how their hands are starting to cramp from how tight their fists were balling up. John keeps it to himself, knowing that in just a minute, he can rest. He can deal with the elevator and its blaring beeps because he knows that everything will feel good again in a moment. He doesn't pay attention to anything when they exit the elevator, rushing to get to his room to turn off.
A sudden hand to his chest seers like a brand into his heart, and he flinches back, knocking into the wall. With eyes trying to blink away his tears, he barely lifts his head, enough to see what the roadblock to safety is.
"Where are you going so fast?" Valentina questions, her signature leer casting shadows onto John, expecting a response.
He stumbles over his words, face scrunching up in effort to produce something, but as the first tear of the day slides down his cheek, he turns away with a wretched whine. He wants to beg her to let him go, he's not important to whatever announcement she needs to make to the New Avengers, if he stays here for any longer he's going to pass out.
Valentina scoffs from above him, and it grates across his eardrums.
"Pull yourself together. I didn't take you for some kind of retard, John."
There it is.
There's that word again.
It's the final dagger to stab John through the heart and keep him pinned to the wall as he tastes his salty tears and feels the sobs hiccuping in his throat. He's pathetic as he keels over, falling to pull his knees to his chest, fingers clawing at his hair in a frenzy. The pain can't ground him this time, digging into his scalp harder to force it to work, to force himself back to normalcy. Tears heat his face and he tries to wipe them away, smearing them across his arms as they're replaced as fast as they were effaced.
It’s too hot, too loud, ash is filling his mouth and he tries to cough it up so that he can breathe. Past the deafening flames, he thinks he hears the shouting of his team, and it makes him gasp harshly, knowing that they’re in the midst of the fire and he can’t help them out. He’s stuck, stuck hiding in the corner of his room, watching the fire consume his house as he screams for his parents, knowing that they’ve abandoned him here. What would the point be in saving a son deemed useless from adolescence? John can’t blame them, but he wishes that they’d save his friends. They don’t deserve this fate.
A gentler voice cuts through the smoke. “John? Hey, I’m here for you. Right here, not leaving you. Can you look up?”
It’s calm, so soft against the sharpness of heat, and John glances up. Past the blurriness of his vision, he can make out Bob’s form, kneeling in front of him. The man stays far enough not to touch, yet close enough that John’s not afraid of him pulling away. John wants to lean forward and fall into his arms, let the chill of Bob’s body heal his burns.
“There you are. You’re safe, okay? We’re in the Tower, Valentina’s gone. Bucky even threatened to punch her, crazy, right?”
John gives a frantic nod, hanging onto every word, even if he doesn’t fully comprehend them. Bob shields him from the smoke, and he finds that taking in breaths is growing easier, inhales shuddery but gathering oxygen nonetheless.
“You’re doing so good. Keep breathing. Can I touch you yet? It’s fine if not.”
Another hesitant nod in response. Bob’s hands are like fresh, running water over John’s, the waves sweeping John’s fingers away from their clutch on his hair, washing the pain with them. They stay relaxed, but hold John’s hands, thumbs sliding gently across palms. If John pays enough attention, it even tickles a bit from how soothing it is, Bob’s skin against the ridges in his rough hands. He straightens his own fingers out, strengthening the hold, and his nails run across Bob’s knuckles.
“It’s nice to see you back. You’ve been hurting for so long, John, you deserve to get it all out,” Bob murmurs. “God, I’m sorry for not noticing sooner.”
John hums, a mixture of a reply and an attempt to soothe his mind. His hands continue to toy with Bob’s fingers, the motions making him sigh, the tension aching his shoulders finally giving out.
“Anything I — we — can do to help you?” Bob inquires.
“Too much,” states John. “Headphones. On my desk.”
Someone behind Bob shifts, just to come back a moment later. Ava moves forward, John’s headphones in hand, and rests them over his ears after holding the button on the side of them to turn them on. They automatically connect to his phone, and he sluggishly pulls it out of his pocket, handing it to Bob.
“First playlist.”
After a couple of unsure taps, the music kicks on. The static covering John’s brain begins its retreat, and he slumps against the wall, shutting his eyelids. The rhythm overtakes his parent’s arguing, the slur drilling another hole in his mainframe, and the crackling of fire trying to destroy his body.
Everyone stays, taking their posts sitting on the floor around John, their presence like aloe, comforting and healing.
When he slips his headphones off, John looks around at the team.
“Um. Thanks. Sorry about that,” he mutters, a tooth catching on his bottom lip to worry at it.
“Don’t apologize,” Yelena says swiftly. “Never apologize for that.”
“Speaking of ‘that’. Why did you never mention it to us?” Bucky asks.
“What would I have said? I didn’t want to freak anyone out.” John grimaces a bit at the thought.
“You could’ve just been honest. ‘Hey guys, I have autism, take it easy sometimes’ or something.” Bucky rolls his eyes as if it were obvious.
“Excuse you?”
“What?” Bucky shrugs, then furrows his eyebrows. “Did you not know?”
“I thought—” John huffs. “I don’t know. That I was broken.”
“I have thought it was obvious,” Alexei mentions. “You are not broken, little one. Simply… what is good word?”
“Different,” Ava concludes. “But we’re all different. Being different is what makes us all human.”
“Hell yeah.” Bob intertwines his fingers with John’s, bringing their hands up to eye level. “Sometimes you won’t be able to do this. Sometimes you won’t be able to touch, or process stuff, or even talk. We… took all that for granted before. But now that we know, it’ll be different, just like we are. When you have your off days, we’ll help you. We’re a team, John.”
John looks over his friends; all sat around him, steady in their assurances, words firm with conviction.
“...Yeah. We are.”
Said team continues their vigil, caring eyes and playful jokes coating John’s burns. Bob’s hands, still between John’s, rinse the staining of ash off of his skin. Some smudges remain, too soaked into John’s flesh to truly leave.
But, for the first time in years, John feels fine.
Not new, not state of the art.
But clean .