‎not anymore. ‎ ‎he could still hear their voice in his head like that, could still feel the way his body had tensed standing at the podium with his broken arm, purpose and honor. and in the back of his mind, he wanted to say something, defend himself more, reason, rage, blame, beg—but he didn't. he can't. how could he when he's half the man he used to be? how dare he? ‎ ‎but now he knows. he's not worthy of any of that shit anymore—he's not cap's party clown anymore— no more valor, no more respect, no more honor. he's not a soldier anymore. he's not a father anymore. he's no husband anymore. hell, he's not even himself anymore—he's not that guy john walker who serve and protect anymore— he's a phoney, a disappointment, a pile of durian, a bad product. ‎ ‎but he tries, you know. it's his fault. it's all his fault, and john understands each and every angle of it, but he still try to be—be that guy. be someone. be who he used to be, who his son would look up to. and he failed. he failed. he always does. and now you're here confronting him about that— telling him to get a grip, snap out of it and what, forgive himself? ‎ ‎eyes sore red at the corners, he tries to look around, focus on something, blink, hold his breath, anything. head turning here and there, trying to stay still as his hand clench and unclenches, then runs his hand on his face then comb his hair back and he breathe, let out something, an exhale or a sigh. anything. he heaves. ‎ ‎his eyes are narrows, his pupils dilating, his tongue prods the inside of his cheek and the next second—the table is flying across the room, splintering into chunks as it collides with the wall. ‎ ‎he lunges forward, grabbing you by the collar, all up in your face like something wild, unstable, broken—lifts you up and ram you against the wall, nail you there like the christ he denied and refused to accept to help him, hear him— see him. like you're the god he'd once begged for and now curses. like you're the answer that never came. ‎ ‎he’s so close you could see the quiver to his eyes. minute, and telling as he lifts a shaky finger that he points at your face, "don't you," he whispered, struggling to just keep it all in, keep himself standing and holding on, "raise your voice at me." ‎ ‎his gaze locked onto yours, the fury in it fades, bleeding out beneath the surface. his eyes shine, wet now, and then—ever so quietly—they break—not loud, not at all. it was unfeeling, denying — and that arrogance he wears like a uniform—the country’s pride be — it peels off, strips away like chipped paint in the rain. ‎ ‎his grip slips. shoulders sink and his head leans forward till his forehead is pressing against your collarbone. he hides there—not in shame. he hides, like someone who never learned how to ask for help without bleeding first.