Chapter Text
The Thunderbolts have only been a proper team for a month or so, none of them interested in Valentina’s bullshit ‘New Avengers’ name, which is an important distinction to make.
Equally as important is the team refusing to use John’s name. Sure, they called him Walker, or dime store Captain America, or any other humiliating variant thereupon to harp upon his mistakes, but none of them, not once, had called him John. He supposed that there were still gaps to bridge, and that they didn’t know him well enough for that yet. Hell, he’d called Lemar by his last name half of the time, and they were buddies.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t still a sore spot for him, though.
.
He tried with Bob first, noticing his tendency to drift off and forget to actually eat something more substantial than the family sized bags of chips he liked, or similarly prepackaged food. It didn’t work – though Bob readily accepted food after the first round of confusion, and even made himself a regular fixture helping him with small tasks during the cooking process, he still consistently called him Walker.
Last night, they had both been cleaning up the remains of one of the rare full team dinners, and Bob had dropped a knife towards his food. John had reacted fast – shoving the sturdy chopping board out to intercept the knife’s course. It landed with a dull thud into the wood.
Bob gave him a weak smile.
“Thanks, Walker. My foot really would have been a shish kabob without your help.”
Something inside John shrivels up at the use of his surname, despite the gratitude.
“Sure. Uh, glad your foot wasn’t skewered, Robert.”
God damnit, he doesn’t like being called Robert, you idiot.
.
Perhaps Alexei would adjust to his presence better – the large (in all dimensions) Russian was gratingly cheerful most of the time, and had come up with odd nicknames for most of the Thunderbolts, ‘Lena, not stupid weak Avengers. Unfortunately, John’s was ‘Captain America’ – he physically recoiled away from Alexei when he first called him that – or ‘Captain’, or mostly just Walker like he got from everyone else.
Alexei seemed to enjoy his company, especially during his weekly – used to be near nightly – rewatches of old war movies and would loudly and joyfully share his stream-of-consciousness commentary on them. It was enjoyable, in an odd way, especially when Alexei would get diverted from the movie and start talking about making food for the whole team – “Borscht I make is a good, strong recipe – traditional to hometown. Put more hairs on your chest, Walker.”
Strike two, clearly, he’s still not close enough to Alexei
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Yelena’s next, and to nobody’s surprise, she obviously still doesn’t feel any comeraderie with him – she keeps up the joke and “friendly” ribbing about his personality. Though, it does decrease in frequency slightly. He dares to hope that if he makes a concerted effort, she’ll call him by name – despite all of the bickering, she calls Ava by her first name. But no, clearly not, and so he stays just Walker – “Hey Walker, your stupid knife is blunt, give it here.” “Walker, you idiot, don’t go charging in like that!”
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Ava’s much the same as Yelena, but John still tries to bond with her through training. More specifically sparring, because her phasing and wickedly good fighting style make her a trying opponent. Their last match was Ava’s win – her phasing getting her up and under his guard and to his unprotected back, where she held a practice knife to the column of his neck.
“My round again, Walker?” she asks, like it isn’t obvious who won that.
Again, the small part of him that looks something like a young boy who was left to die in a housefire curls itself up into an even tighter ball in his chest at the rejection, exhausted.
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Bucky, well, the less said the better. John doesn’t even try with Bucky, not in the same way as the others, because he knows the other man despises him, hates his guts since the mission in Latvia. Why else would he lurk around in the corners of most rooms John went into in the tower, observing.