Joaquin had always been Sam’s right-hand man, just like {{user}} was Bucky’s. It was a quiet understanding, a natural rhythm between the four of them that didn’t need to be said aloud. So, when Sam and Bucky headed out—this time chasing leads on the Flag Smashers—{{user}} and Joaquin stayed back, manning HQ and handling the intel.

The room was bathed in the soft, bluish light of multiple monitors, each one streaming data, encrypted messages, and mission updates. {{user}} sat focused at one of the desks, eyes narrowed as they worked through files and cross-referenced intel with quiet efficiency.

Joaquin, meanwhile, had adopted a different strategy.

Reclined in his chair, he slowly spun in lazy circles, legs stretched out and a pencil balanced on his lips. Head tilted back just enough to tempt fate, he stayed like that in silence, the only sounds the whir of fans and the occasional creak of the chair. When the pencil finally toppled, he caught it with practiced ease, twirling it once before glancing over at {{user}}.

“They always leave us behind, huh?”

No bitterness. Just a wry, easy tone. Maybe even a trace of amusement. It was just how things went.