Because silence means waiting. It means keeping his guard up, forcing himself to count every shadow and every beat until the inevitable explosion.

And there was always an explosion.

Or at least most of the time there was. Enough times that when John was forced into silence, Bob had expected things to chart a similar course.

It was why Bob hadn't been worried when they learned about the sorcerer (wizard? Bucky has explained the difference to him a million times but it just refused to stick)'s spell. It was a bit funny, in fact. Because John was legitimately one of the chattiest people Bob has ever met. He had opinions about everything, no matter how asinine, like how apparently "math is a blue subject," or "sandwiches can't be eaten at dinner because it is a lunch food," and he was willing to die on pretty much any hill. He doesn't even seem to realize how much he talks, constantly filling up the room with side commentary and random quips without a second thought.

And that wasn't to say he was the only one--Yelena and Alexei were also incredibly talkative and easily willing to make their opinions known, and Bob knows that he himself can have moments where his stream of consciousness becomes a verbal waterfall. But there was something about the way John does it that makes it have more of an impression.

Bob can't help but find it endearing. How engaged John can get even about the most boring topics possible. It was cute, the way his eyes light up and the excited tilt of his mouth as he rambled on. Bob has spend many nights, barely listening as John ranted about the terrible urban infrastructure of New York, staring absolutely enamored at his face and the passion written plainly across it. It was some of the best parts of Bob's day, sitting close together and letting John's words wash over him.

So when the curse took affect, Bob, like the rest of the team, found it a little funny when he saw the pout resting on John's lips. He genuinely expected John to get really frustrated at the loss of his words and then explode into a ridiculous rant the second his voice was back.

But instead, Bob was stuck with silence. They all were.

They didn't even realize that the curse had worn off the next day until they heard the hoarse, "breakfast is ready," calling lightly from the kitchen, which made them all exchange concerned looks from the living room. It only got worse from there.

It was like John had been replaced with a dull, lifeless doll with a set of preprogramed responses sitting in a recorder deep in its gut. He talked, sure, but only when prompted or when he absolutely needed to. Otherwise, he would just silently sit there, eyes glazed like he barely registered where he even was.

It had quickly gone from concerning to alarming. And nothing seemed to help. They tried it all--asking for his input during mission strategy sessions, asking questions about his interests, even purposefully being annoying to try to goad him into yelling at them. None of it worked. And the small part of Bob that was still holding out for an explosion, for John to suddenly snap back into his bright, mouthy self, fully gave up.

It got to the point where it became all too much, where Bob couldn't stop himself from confronting him even though they had all agreed to handle the situation gently, not wanting to trigger anything.

And it was even worse then Bob imagined. Almost baffling if Bob wasn't so scared. Because how could John not realize how bad it's gotten? How could he think that he was doing them a kindness, doing them a favor by taking himself away from them, away from Bob?

This is why Olivia left you, because you think disappearing is a gift, the terrible awful part of Bob thinks viciously, and he immediately hates himself for it.

"Can you tell me about your day today?" Bob asks, and has to stop himself from begging. He grips John's hand in his, wishing that he could fix this with just the force of his will. Please, please come back. Stop being this shell of a person and come back to me.

John doesn't say anything, just looks at him with those wide blue eyes, those same eyes that used to divulge every secret and emotion of John's, but were now closed off to Bob. And Bob's heart breaks a little in the moment.

This is my own fucking fault for thinking that things were finally good. That I could fall for someone and it wouldn't immediately get fucked up.

But then. A quirk of the lips. It was miniscule, barely visible, but it was there.

"I-uh, I have been, um looking at recipes for uh alfajores, because Ava said she like them. Do you, um want to help me chose which filing she would like?"

"Yeah John," Bob responds, shakily, "I would. What are the options?"