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Usually, John is the one who does the cooking. The rest of the team is absolutely criminal at it. It’s not really their fault, John knows—they either grew up during an economical crisis or had really crappy childhoods—but that doesn’t stop him from giving them shit about it.
Momma would probably faint at the sight of the pancakes Alexei had made, or the omelet that was more shell than egg that Yelena had attempted to make. He was just being appalled for her, since she wasn’t in New York to see it.
But John isn’t cooking tonight because some dumbass had shot him in the shoulder, and now his left arm was in a sling that completely imbombilized his arm. It severely limited his cooking capabilities, and Bucky was insistent on the fact that he rest and not overdo it. John thought it was stupid, he’d be healed up in a week and had done more on worse, but it was nice to be fussed about every once in a while, though he’d never admit that.
Ava was the one to take over cooking for him. She sucked the least, and everyone else refused to do it.
John was bored and came to watch the spectacle. He had absolutely no idea what she was making. There were two pots and a pan on the stove cooking while Ava ran around the kitchen chopping up vegetables and mixing what John thought was a sauce.
“You have to dice that Garlic better, it’s basically chunks. The flavor won’t spread as well,” he called to her. He sat on the bar stool watching the chaos.
“Oh, shut your pie hole,” Ava threatened, pointing her knife at him. “I know you’re just making that shit up. Garlic is Garlic. Deal with my chunk-sized pieces.”
John huffed. “Yeah, don’t believe the chef. Smart idea.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to dicing. “This is all your fault, you know. If you hadn’t been an idiot and jumped in front of Yelena, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I can take a bullet. She’s tiny—do you know how fast small people bleed out?” John did. He’d seen it happen too many times to count. “Besides, y’all need to practice cooking. It’s pathetic.”
“Well, excuse me , I was raised on the run and in constant debilitating pain for most of my life.”
“We all have sob stories, Starr. Doesn’t excuse bad cooking. I’m pretty sure what you made at Christmas last month was against the Geneva Convention.”
She scowled. “How was I supposed to know—”
She’s still saying words, but John can’t hear them. He smells smoke, fire. Usually, John can control the flinches and keep his mind clear around fire. It’s mostly bombs and fires started with accelerant that he encounters. It smells different than a regular fire—sharper, almost.
But regular fires, he hadn’t been able to stand for years. He could never go to barbeques or bonfires or anything, it freaked him out too much. Lemar had once forced him to go to a bonfire with some of their other friends, but it ended so terribly that Lemar had still apologized for it till the day he died.
One of the pots on the stove is smoking and burning, and suddenly John isn’t in the Watchtower anymore.
He is five years old, and his parents and his big sister—the people who were supposed to protect him, love him, why don’t they love him —have left him to die. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this fate; he just knows that he’s going to die and no one cares enough to save him.
He’s hyperventilating and falling to the ground, trying to hide from the fire. From the memories. He can’t separate the two realities, and it’s like every bad day rolled into one is punching him in the face and telling him he’s about to die.
He can’t breathe, and there’s smoke in his lungs, and he can’t—
The tile floor is cold underneath his hand, but it doesn’t feel real. His shoulder is screaming in pain from being jostled, but he doesn’t care. He just wants the fire to be gone. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to burn alive. He wants his parents to care about him. He wants them to save him.
But they don’t.
They don’t care, and they won’t save him.
*
*
*
In five seconds, everything had gone to shit.
Ava had been bitching at John when she started to smell smoke and damnit one of her pots was on fire. She phased over, grabbed the pot, and practically threw it in the sink, dousing it in water.
Shit.
John would never let her live burning soup down.
“I know, I’m an idiot,” she huffed before turning to face him.
But something was wrong.
His face was ghost white, and his breathing was labored.
“John?” she asked. “You with me?”
His breathing got worse, and before she could blink, he was falling to the ground.
“John!” She screamed, phasing through the counter to his side.
He’d landed on his bad shoulder and shit , did he rip his stitchs? He was shoving himself up against the counter before she could check, making himself as small as possible.
“No,” he whispered, his voice rasped. “No.”
She’d never seen John so out of it before, and she was starting to panic. She didn’t know what to do with this—she wasn’t Yelena or Bucky. She was an asshole who didn’t know how to show empathy.
She took a calming breath, sending off a text to Bucky telling him to get his ass to the ktichen STAT. She’d have to handle it until he arrived.
“John, you’re safe. You’re in the Watchtower.”
It didn’t do anything; in fact, she might’ve made it worse, because he started crying . Sobbing, more accurately. It was like a dagger to her heart. She had never seen him cry or even sniffle. Someone had hurt her person. For this to happen…she’d kill whoever did this to him.
He kept mumbling, begging , for someone to save him.
She saw red. There was death in the future for someone.
“I’ve got you, John, I’m not leaving,” she promised, her voice wobbly.
It was that damn fire, she realized after a moment. He’d been fine before that. The room still smelled like smoke, so obviously, he was still triggered. But she didn’t dare move him. He was a super soldier who was pumped up with adrenaline—touching him would be a bad move.
They sat there for a while, John begging someone to save him, and Ava murmuring reassurances while her heart broke. She didn’t know how long it took for Bucky to arrive; he slid in, huffing and out of breath.
“What happened?”
“I was making dinner and something burned and he started freaking out. He’s been like this for ten minutes. I-I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “And he might’ve torn his stitches. I didn’t want to touch him and freak him out more.”
Bucky swore. “We need to get him to medical.”
Ava moved out of the way, and Bucky knelt in front of him. “Hey, buddy. We need to move and get your shoulder checked out. Can you get there on your own, or am I going to have to carry you?”
His voice was much softer than it normally was. Almost like he was comforting a child.
John just continued to mumble under his breath, but stopped when Bucky put a hand on his shoulder. “Mike?”
Bucky and Ava shared a look. Neither of them knew who the hell that was, but John seemed to calm down.
“Yeah, it’s me, buddy.”
“They left me, Mickie. They left me ,” John said, his eyes bright.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you now. I’m not going to leave you,” he promised.
John broke down and sobbed into Bucky’s shoulder, who looked absolutely shocked, eyes blown wide, before wrapping around his shoulders. “I’ve got you, John. I’ve got you.”
*
*
*
John woke up disoriented. He couldn’t remember going to sleep or the last thing he did. Which was weird, his memory was hauntingly good. It never let him forget things, and it wasn’t like he could get drunk anymore.
When he opened his eyes, he was met by a very confusing sight. He was in Medical, which wasn’t that strange. It was the five people sleeping in the torturous chairs or straight up just lying on the floor.
“Why are you guys stalking me?” he asked.
The super soldiers jumped in their seats at his voice, and the rest were startled out of sleep by them.
“You’re awake!” Bob said with a sniffle, rushing over to his bedside. “You tore your stitches. We were so worried.”
John frowned, his mind still foggy. “What?”
“You don’t remember?” Ava asked, her eyes suspiciously red.
Wait.
Fire.
Smoke.
Shit. He’d freaked out, hadn’t he? And they’d all seen it, and he’d hurt himself and—just shit.
“Why don’t we give him some space?” Bucky said, and all of them took it for an order and scrambled out of the room. Ava looked reluctant to go, but left nonetheless.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
Bukcy nodded tiredly. “I figured you wouldn’t appreciate all of them piling on you, even if it was good-intentioned.”
Yeah, they meant well, but that didn’t matter much. John felt vulnerable. Like someone had seen one of his worst secrets. What kind of loser freaked out over smoke and fire? Normal people could handle that just fine.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But we’re here for you if you do. And trust me, talking about it makes it much easier to carry,” Bucky promised.
John thought of Lemar, who had thought he was joking. But had instantly become the most overprotective mother hen after he’d found out how bad it was. He never judged him. He just had his back till the end of the line.
And the team…they were a family. A messed-up, traumatized one. But family.
“I think…I think I’ll tell you guys.” He paused. “But only if I get coffee first. I won’t be able to do this without caffeine.”
“Whatever you need, buddy.”
*
*
*
It happened once he was released from Medical. They all gathered in the common room, nestled in blankets and armed with coffee and donuts, John told his story.
“...if Mike didn’t show up, I’d be dead. Haven’t been able to stand fire since.”
Ava frowned. “You talk about your mother all the time, is she really this shitty?”
John spluttered. “No! My mom and my momma are two different people. Momma practically raised me. She’s Lemar’s mom.”
To even compare the two—he hadn’t talked to his biological mom since Mike died. She still didn’t love him, and it still hurt too badly to look at her without seeing his brother.
“Oh,” Ava said quietly.
They’d only recently learned of Lemar’s existence. It was hard to talk about him—almost like reopening a life-threatening wound—but it was hard to talk about John without Lemar coming up. They’d practically been the same person.
“She wants to meet you guys,” John said once the silence got too thick. “And Pops. And Leon and Daisy, their kids.” Leon and Daisy wanted to bully all of them and interrogate them—especially Bucky. They didn’t trust him with John’s safety after the whole Flagsmasher debacle.
“Really? Sounds like great fun to meet the ones who raised our teammate!” Alexei boasted.
“Y-yeah, that’d be nice,” Bob said.
“I’m in. I need to see who managed to put up with him for thirty years,” Yelena joked. “They must be saints.”
Bucky eyed him warily. “Why do I get the feeling that I’ll regret agreeing to this?”
John smirked. “Let’s just say that Daisy and Leon remember you.”
Bucky sighed. “It’s not like I have a choice anyway. Let’s do this. Let’s meet John’s family.”
John was smiling before he knew it. Telling them had been…nice. He felt a little lighter than he had before.
Maybe this whole team thing would work out all right.
*
*
*
The team silently made sure that John never had to deal with flames again. Cooking was now more of a mission than a chore, and they all made elaborate excuses to make sure Val never forced him into a position that involved it.
They slowly learned more about it all. How his parents had never really cared about him. How he and Lemar had been brothers on a level no one could ever understand, and how his family had raised John.
They learned about his brother Mike and how he inspired John to join the Army. How he died.
They were a family, and would do their best to support their own, no matter what.