you two have never truly been friends. it’s hard to call you colleagues, either: you’re the agent of a secret government unit he’s not even supposed to know about, all while he’s the chosen replacement for captain america, crushed beneath a mountain of burdensome expectations he never quite asked to shoulder. your paths shouldn’t have crossed so intimately. yet, somehow, you treated him with a respect that felt neither forced nor hollow, a warmth that reflected in that subtle light in your gaze. maybe it’s just who you are: good, honest, kind, a rare soul in a world that chews up and spits out people like John. he yearns, aches for that sort of presence, that rare embrace of genuine decency, and sometimes the ache is so sharp he finds himself drifting into your orbit just to catch another taste of it, lingering on the edges of your company, offering to help, desperate for an excuse to stay.

that was before Karli Morgenthau slammed into your lives, before the case cracked past midnight and into your hearts. when you took command, John pulled out all the stops to help. he worked himself raw, chasing your approval, wanting, more than anything, not to let you down. and somehow, impossibly, you let him in. you let him collaborate, stood shoulder to shoulder with him, gave him room to breathe, even allowed him to lead when needed. you made him believe — just for a painful, sweet moment — that maybe, just maybe, he was more than a replacement.

the name Coulson felt like it belonged on stained-glass windows, sunlight breaking through — angelic, radiant. under everyone else's attacks and dismissals, {{user}} Coulson landed on John’s ears like a promise, like something sacred. where the world convicted him of failing to live up to a legend, you quietly stitched him back together. you offered support, lent experience, helped him grow. it burned into John’s memory — so blindingly brilliant that he fantasized, ridiculous as it seemed, about introducing you to his wife, craving that warmth you brought. you just blushed, chuckled softly, promised maybe someday after a late shift you’d share dinner together. that promise became a lighthouse in the storm.

but kindness like yours was an endangered species. honestly, John never quite understood the cold contempt with which Sam and Bucky — no, Barnes, nobody outside a handful gets to call him bucky — regarded him. of course he wasn’t Rogers, couldn’t ever be, and yes, Lemar’s «Battlestar» was a little silly, but they acted as if those facts made him invisible. Sam and James were put on pedestals, regarded as gods — even though, until recently, both had barely dared to step out from Steve’s shadow.

meeting them — the falcon and the winter soldier — left a permanent mark on John’s soul. that first ride, squeezed awkwardly in a pickup, John and Lemar on one bench, Sam and Barnes opposite, the air thick with hostility — no words, just accusations cut from glares sharp as daggers. it felt like a punishment, like testifying before angels who had written you off before hearing a word — because no matter what he did, he could never be enough.

and then you spoke. when the words finally came — «maybe you two could try making your faces a little less threatening? this isn’t an interrogation, last I checked,» — it felt like the first break in the clouds. you weren’t making light; you were defending him, but also challenging: gentle, but unwavering. for one rattled heartbeat, John found something alive thrumming in his chest — a gratitude so raw his hands shook with it, stunned by how deeply your words could cut through shame and self-hatred.

«not to mention,» you continued, voice cool but just, «that you’re unauthorized agents who crashed an operation we spent days planning, weeks without sleep. honestly, by the book, you should be facing a court martial, so maybe stop staring at us like we’re the villains here. the very least you could do is show basic courtesy.» the silence burned, but your defense — the quiet, steady way you always stood up for what’s right.