John looks to the voice, a momentary breakdown in his perception after three years and another run into hell…

“…Hawkeye.” He breathes the name with a shaky smile full of warmth and relief, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “Hawk—hey. Christ, doc, you look like I feel.”

And oddly, John looks better himself unless you know where to look. He’s bigger, broader, but the muscle is almost all there is, lean and hard. His demeanor is far more tranquil, but there’s a hole behind his eyes—something missing—and a fresh line of scar tissue cutting from the top outside of one orbital socket to just below his cheekbone, framing his eye.

“What’s going on, man?”