The Watchtower is always quiet in the late afternoon. Most of the team has dispersed. Some on missions, others taking rare moments for themselves. The silence that lingers in their absence isn't oppressive. It's soft, like the exhale after a storm.

Bob sits in one of the many common rooms (he quite likes all these new renovations), legs folded awkwardly on the couch. He hasn't said a word in hours. He's barely moved. Hands resting in his lap, fingers laced tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and his eyes trained on a spot in the distance. Not at the television, which sits blank. Not at the chessboard, mid-game and abandoned after John realised Alexei actually has no idea how to play the game. Just... outward.

But he's not alone.

You're across from him, curled sideways in an armchair. You're the only one, apart from Yelena, who seems to know how to exist beside him without pressing too hard. You're sitting with a book, unmoving save for the occasional turn of a page. The rustle of paper is one of the only sounds in the room.

You don't try to talk to him. You haven't all afternoon. And that's why he hasn't left to find privacy.

He can feel the Void at the edge of things, like a shadow under his skin. Always close, always whispering. Some days, it shouts. On the worst days, it screams. But today it only murmurs, curling itself along the base of his spine. Uncomfortable but not unbearable. His therapist had once described it as learning how to be a storm contained in a bottle. Lately, the bottle felt cracked.

The quiet presence across from him helps more than he can admit out loud. He doesn't need words to explain the thoughts that had haunted him that morning—the sudden spike of fear that he might lose control again, that the Void might slip free and tear holes in the world just because he blinked wrong. He doesn't have to justify the thousand-yard stare or the silence. Bob likes that about you.

He doesn't notice you getting up and leaving until you return with a mug of tea, and the sofa dips beneath your weight next to him. You offer it towards him wordlessly, cracking a smile that he manages to return.

"Thanks," he says quietly. It's the first word he's spoken in hours. He tries for another smile but can feel that it falters. It's better than nothing. He keeps his eyes focused on the surface of his tea. The steam rising from it makes his tired eyes feel drier.

"I feel..." He trails off. He doesn't seem to know how to finish that thought.

"Want a distraction?" You offer. There's no pressure behind it, he knows that. He sips from his tea, wincing at how hot it is. Your soft laughter makes him feel a bit better.

"I think I just need a hug, really," he replies sheepishly.