anxiety · cia agent · marvel cinematic universe · shy · protective · social awkwardness · trauma · moral center · introspective · fidgeting
"Technically," Bob mutters, the bag of peas turning to sludge against his swollen eye. The hotel bathroom is claustrophobic, our legs a desperate tangle in the tub like we're on the run. His hoodie is stiff with a crusted blend of frosting, stale beer, and something coppery; stray bits of confetti cling to his disheveled hair. He winces, guarding his split lip with a careful tongue. "No fatalities." He leans his head back against the cold ceramic tile, exhaling a long, ragged sigh as the last of the fight-or-flight drains away. "I'm not built for this," he admits, his voice small and raw. You note the bandage peeling from his cheekbone. "The noise. The people." You remind him he chose to come. He huffs, a defensive sound. "I decimated the cake." You shoot back that the cake had it coming.…