Chapter Text
John Walker could sit still. He’d trained for it, lived through it, long missions, long briefings, endless hours crouched in scrub or perched behind barricades with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the weight of a rifle in his hands. Stillness wasn’t foreign to him. It was a requirement.
But that didn’t make it easy.
Stillness came at a cost. He could do it. He had done it. But there was a difference between sitting still for survival and sitting still while everyone watched you, waiting to see if you’d crack.
Right now, seated behind a black table at the front of a press room packed with reporters and cameras and lights, he was dying by degrees.
To the untrained eye, he probably looked composed. Head up. Hands folded neatly on the table. Eyes forward. But inside, his skin itched with the weight of it. The suit, custom tailored, courtesy of Valentina’s preferred PR team, was too tight across the shoulders. The collar felt like it had shrunk with every passing second, a vice pressing into the sides of his neck. Sweat prickled along his spine beneath the starched shirt.
“Relax, Walker,” came the voice beside him, low and sharp. “You’re twitching like you’re about to bolt. Remember, this is for both of our images.”
Bucky Barnes. Of course. Always so fucking calm. Or at least good at pretending.
John didn’t answer, just shifted slightly in his seat and gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached. The cameras were rolling. He could practically feel the lenses zeroing in, capturing every shift of his expression, every tell. His palms were slick. His right knee bounced once before he forced it flat again. He straightened his spine until it hurt.
He wasn’t new to this. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
To his left, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was a study in control. Legs crossed, back arrow-straight, her designer suit somehow effortless. Her expression was practiced charm, but with just enough bite to keep anyone from feeling too comfortable. She was in her element, radiating confidence like a shark who’d scented blood.
She lived for this.
John… didn’t.
Every question fired from the press line hit like a test he hadn’t studied for, even when he had. He knew the key phrases, the lines. Knew what words to use, what emotions to fake. But it never felt clean. Never felt natural. Not like it did for Val. Not even like it seemed to for Bucky, who answered questions with a perfect blend of dry disinterest and edge, the kind of calculated aloofness that made people lean in instead of flinch.
John wanted to flinch.
His tie was choking him.
He hated this room. Hated the way it smelled faintly of over-perfumed skin and cleaner. Hated the silence that bloomed between each reporter’s voice.
And he hated, more than anything, how much it felt like being paraded.
He could hear Valentina’s voice in his head. You’re not just a soldier anymore, John. You’re a hero. Heroes are polished. Managed. Celebrated.
He risked a glance sideways, caught Bucky’s profile.The man barely looked like he was breaking a sweat. One arm rested casually on the table, fingers drumming a slow rhythm.
John turned back to the crowd.
They were still watching.
“Today,” Valentina said, her voice smooth as silk, “we’re here to talk about partnership. About second chances. About unity in a divided time.”
John tuned out the rehearsed bullshit. He’d heard the pitch a dozen times in private briefings. Public image rehabilitation. Reframing the narrative. Making America remember its heroes. Not the man who caved in a skull with the symbol of Captain America. Not the failure.
He’d swallowed his pride. Agreed to team-ups. Sat through debriefs and media training with his teeth grinding the entire time. If this was what it took to earn back a fraction of what he’d lost... fine.
But something in Valentina’s tone tonight was different.
“To that end,” she said, pausing just long enough to savor the moment, “I’m thrilled to announce a new development. A story not of rivalry, but of reconciliation. Of growth. Of love.”
John’s heart stopped.
Beside him, Bucky straightened.
Valentina’s smile widened.
“John Walker and Bucky Barnes, America’s favorite enemies-to-lovers story, are officially dating.”
Silence.
For half a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then the room exploded.
Cameras flashed like gunfire. Reporters surged forward, shouting over each other.
“Mr. Walker, how long have you been together?”
“Sergeant Barnes, is it true you hated each other at first?”
“Was this a secret relationship during your missions?”
“Do you see yourselves as the next Steve and Peggy?”
John’s brain short-circuited.
Bucky didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at him. His fingers were curled into fists on the table, white-knuckled. He was too still.
Bucky leaned toward Valentina. “This wasn't the deal,” he hissed under his breath.
Valentina didn’t even glance at him. She simply kept smiling, all teeth. “It’s the deal now.”
John could feel the blood draining from his face. He wanted to stand up, storm out, call it off, but the cameras were still rolling. The press was eating it up. The story was already live.
And if he walked now, she’d spin it like a tantrum. She’d win.
“I can’t do this,” he said, quieter, turning like he might leave anyway.
Valentina’s voice was a velvet noose. “Walk out now, and you’ll confirm every negative headline they’ve ever written about you.”
He hated her.
But he hated that she was right even more.
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth, managing the barest twitch of a smile. “If this is what it takes.”
Bucky didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. His jaw flexed. “You’re gonna owe me for this.”
The press loved it. The narrative was too good. They were laughing now, delighted.
Valentina leaned forward, basking in it. “They were hoping to announce it themselves, but nerves got the better of them. You know how it is.”
She was a master of bullshit. John almost admired it.
Almost.
“How did you two meet?”
“Who made the first move?”
“Will you be attending the Stark Foundation Gala together?”
When the initial frenzy subsided, a reporter in the front row raised her hand. “Can you tell us how the relationship started?”
John’s mind blanked.
There was no script for this. No rehearsed answer.
But Bucky, ever the consummate bastard, didn’t miss a beat.
“He annoyed me into submission.”
The room laughed. Loud, delighted, unfiltered.
John’s fingers dug into the table edge. “Mutual loathing was the foundation. The rest was a surprise to all of us.”
Another wave of laughter. Cameras clicked like a firing squad.
Valentina gave them an approving nod. “You see? Proof that even the most unlikely allies can become partners.”
John’s stomach turned. This was a circus. But somewhere, deep beneath the mortification, a small voice whispered: You wanted a chance. This is it. Take it.
As the press conference dragged on, the questions blurred together. Personal ones. Loaded ones. Probing into things that had nothing to do with missions, nothing to do with their work.
“Who’s the better cook?”
“Does Mr. Walker’s military schedule clash with Sergeant Barnes’ downtime?”
“What’s a typical date night look like?”
It was surreal. Bucky deflected with dry sarcasm. John answered with stiff professionalism. But every response added bricks to the wall Valentina was building.
By the end, the public would believe this.
And that was the point.
When the moderator finally called it, dismissing the press with promises of exclusive interviews, John felt like he’d gone ten rounds in the ring.
Backstage, away from the cameras, the silence was deafening.
“What the hell?” Bucky’s voice was a low snarl.
Valentina was entirely unbothered. “That, gentlemen, was a masterclass in narrative control.”
“You blindsided us,” John said. “You used us.”
“I gave you an opportunity . Public opinion is malleable. You want forgiveness? You play the game.”
Bucky stepped in close, crowding her space. “I don’t play games.”
Valentina’s smile never faltered. “You’re playing now.”
John hated how right she was.
They could protest, fight it, make noise, but the seed was planted. By morning, the internet would be ablaze with gifs, edits, conspiracy threads. Their images intertwined in a romance neither of them had signed up for.
And yet… walking away meant forfeiting control of the story. Again.
“You really think people are gonna buy this?” John asked, arms crossed.
“Oh, they’ll eat it up,” Valentina said. “Enemies to lovers is timeless. You two are catnip for the masses.”
Bucky looked like he was chewing glass. “You’re lucky we don’t kill you.”
Valentina winked. “But you won’t. Because deep down, you know this works.”
John caught Bucky’s eye then. For a moment, past the anger, past the shared humiliation, there was something else. Recognition. Familiar. Ugly. Honest.
Because they both knew what it was like to be paraded as symbols. To be told what their legacy should be.
And maybe, just maybe, controlling that narrative, even through this farce, was better than being voiceless.
“I hate this,” John muttered.
“Good,” Bucky said. “We can hate it together.”
Valentina clapped her hands. “Excellent. I’m glad we’re all on board.”
“We’re not,” Bucky snapped.
She ignored him. “First joint appearance is a charity fundraiser. Expect hand-holding, not from me of course.”
John’s soul left his body.
The cameras still flashed in the distance as they exited into the night and John fell into step beside Bucky.
“This is going to be a disaster,” he said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “No, it’s going to be worse.”