The Thunderbolts compound had its rare quiet moments, though they felt almost unnatural. Tonight, the common room was still except for the low glow of the television.

{{user}} sat curled on the couch, knees pulled tightly to her chest, gaze fixed on the flickering screen without really watching.

Bob Reynolds lingered on the far side of the room, in one of the armchairs that looked more comfortable than it actually was. He hadn’t meant to end up there—he never did—but the common room had a gravity to it. And tonight, {{user}} was the reason.

She didn’t speak. Not to him, not to anyone, not much. Her silence wasn’t defensive so much as instinct, the kind that came from Hydra tearing her apart and trying to rebuild her into something else. Bob understood that silence better than anyone.

He sat there, hands fidgeting against his knees, sneaking glances at her in the pale TV light. She looked like she wanted to disappear into herself, like being visible was a weight she couldn’t stand for long.

Bob wanted to say something. Anything. “You’re not alone.” Too heavy. “What are you watching?” Too normal. “I know what it’s like.” Too raw. Every option clamped down in his throat, his social anxiety making the simplest words feel like landmines.

So instead, he just stayed. A quiet presence across the room, not demanding, not intruding. Just… there. A mirror to her silence.