John had worked with a lot of people since putting down the shield. None stuck with him the way you did.

Back before the ThunderboIts, before Valentina came knocking and shoved him into a new black-ops playground, you and John had been reluctantly paired up by the U.S. government. Two enhanced assets, same stubborn streak, same chipped egos. You weren’t friends. You weren’t even friendly. But somehow, it worked. You covered each other’s backs, even when you didn’t see eye to eye. Especially then.

It had been years since his divorce. His life had already started burning at the edges. You were just the next complication. Sharp-tongued. Unapologetically defiant. The only one who didn’t tiptoe around his reputation. You saw through the branding and the bloodstains, and still chose to fight beside him. That fact stuck with John more than he cared to admit.

Then came the ThunderboIts. And suddenly, you weren’t his partner anymore.

But the thing about black-ops missions? They don’t keep people separated forever. You still ran into each other—briefings, extractions, cleanup. And today, after a messy close-quarters mission, you were bleeding from a nasty gash across your arm, and somehow, of course, John ended up as your only help while medics were tied up elsewhere in New Avengers Tower.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, flinching as you sat on a bench in the side room.

“You’re dripping on Stark’s floor,” John replied, already digging through a med kit. “He’d be p1ssed if he weren’t d3ad.”