driftfleet | steve's luck with things that fly is nonexistent, really.

[he feels weak, but he's not being hurt for it. there's no knife, there's no blame. the better part of him is encouraged to keep trusting that it's okay, despite many, many lifetimes of experiencing otherwise.

the other man didn't have to apologize, after all. he didn't have to soften his voice or explain, and his words aren't even weighted with pity. he glances up and sees that Steve's withdrawn into his own space, leaving plenty of room for Robin to slink out of his own proverbial armor.

for a second, he looks almost as inhuman as he feels--perched and still and unblinkingly observant. layers of it shed away as he slides over, reaching with his arm, practically melting against the surface of the table. it's slow enough to be obvious, maybe even a little comical, because his next move is to lightly tap the back of Steve's hand, twice, with one of his own gloved fingers.

Robin always wears gloves, even while he's eating. funny little detail.]

Don't worry about it. [he looks up at him from his low vantage point. he doesn't look nervous anymore, nor is he pretending to smile.] Not your fault for feeling strongly about it, either.

[he really means "don't worry about me" and "not your fault for caring deeply about something enough to make a mistake", and maybe even a hidden "sorry for overreacting myself", but those are all things you don't say in front of someone who wants to keep themselves hidden in as many ways as possible.

which is why he puts on some of his normal face again, almost laughing even though he's still leaning all over the table.]

Fuck, now that I think about it, I think I'd be more worried if you didn't have a reaction. Shit's awful.

[It's neither the first nor the last time that he draws a breath and thinks about how much he hates the war. Not one in particular - his is a specific one, a series of memories in foxholes and aid tents across Europe, but when it comes right down to it they're all the same. Young men and women and innocents dying for what old men believe. War never ends, it just changes hands. Korea followed his. Vietnam. The Soviets invaded Afghanistan, people died in droves in Cambodia and Ghana and Rwanda. Resources, money, religion, and he is so tired of the fight. He woke in a world where nothing had changed. Zola's words corrode his ideals in the dark. A zero sum.

Robin touches the back of his hand, and he stares at the point of contact hyperfocused, like an anchor. The gloves are something else that's put on a shelf for later examination. With a humourless quirk to his mouth,]

Awful's one word for it.

[Again, his voice is soft. 'Awful'. One of many. He could dip into the resources of every language he knows and still not have a colourful enough vocabulary to describe his hatred of the war machine. He flexes the fingers of the hand Robin had touched as if brushing aside the cobwebs of a bad memory, and picks up his fork.]

How long were you in?

[at the question, he slides sluggishly back in the direction he'd come, returns to sitting like a normal person. his answer, however, is a conflicted quiet groan. how does he even start with something like this?]

That gets... pretty complicated. And mine's barely formal, or anything. [he waves a hand a little before picking up his own fork again, attempting to return to the idea of food.] I had a good friend back home who served a while, and knew a lot of others in or out of terms, but I can't pretend to be them.

[he's been a lot of things. he's fought in a lot of battles, on lots of sides. he's genuinely held several ranks, several times, just like he's also genuinely been a doctor and a priest and a dance instructor and a mercenary-for-hire. but he's never considered himself a soldier, not once, not really.]

That's fair.

[And he knows when to drop a topic. He gives Robin a thoughtful look, not bothering to hide it. Curious more than dissecting. Then he lets himself slouch just slightly in his chair. Enough to indicate a certain level of casual intent.]

So what did you do before Atroma decided to extend their hospitality?

[do u hear the unbridled irritation in the way he says the word 'Atroma'?]

If you don't mind my asking.

[he's not bothered by Steve's curiosity at all. he's used to being a mystery to everyone around him, regardless of whether or not he spins the web intentionally. this feels normal, in a way that things rarely are anymore.

and it's so satisfying to hear his irritation turn towards Atroma. his smirk is wide, this time, carries into what he says.]

I don't, but... Are you looking for the informative answer, or the one that gives your alien bit a run for its money?

[Don't think he doesn't see that smirk, young ('old') man. Steve rolls his right shoulder back and leans his elbows on the table. It's all very un-Catholic of him, his Ma would've swatted him for the offense once upon a time.]

Surprise me.

[oh good. a challenge.]

Well, technically I haven't been on my own world for a little over four years. Before this nonsense-- [waving vaguely with a fork, indicating the whole of the Drift Fleet.] --I'd been dropped in three other, I don't know, dimensions for no apparent reason.

[he puts some of the last dregs of his food in his mouth, does that thing where he explains carefully around a mouthful again.] Maybe three and a half, depending on whether you count jumping a good hundred years into the future.

[because he could say a lot about what he used to do back home, but... he has't been doing any of it for a while. some people change their whole lives in four years, and he's not necessarily an exception.]

One of those was six months trapped in an underground network of dragon dens. Their king was paranoid and crazy and my being there was a huge threat to everything. It was fun.

[not that he's. bitter. about that, still. (he totally is.)]

[What has his life become, that 'dropped in other dimensions' is enough in his wheelhouse he doesn't think to question it? Steve just nods, willing - for now - to take it as fact. 'Jumping a hundred years into the future is the only thing that gives him a faint moment of pause, forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He seems to think better of the bite, and sets it down instead.]

Sounds hard.

[Which is definitely a synonym for what he assumes Robin meant by 'fun'. Still no pity - he's hardly the sort - but there's some element of understanding there.]

It... was.

[said almost as if it's a tiny revelation--like it hasn't occurred to him to call it that until just now. the ugly truth is that those six months were some of the worst of his life, and the things he saw still visit him in his dreams, and he can't let people touch him without remembering all these bizarre little awful shards of things he thought he'd buried a year ago.

once, he'd told Rin about this. he tried to explain that he saw the decaying future of someone he'd loved, that he watched them turned bitter and empty a thousand years in the future. he'd asked her how he could explain to that person, in the present, that they turn into a tyrannical madman. how could he tell them that their own world was rotting from the inside, that their soul was unraveling into nothingness?

she didn't take it very well. she got kind of upset on his behalf, so.

he doesn't talk to anyone about it anymore, except for just now. and it's strange (comforting) to be acknowledged, even just a little, hence his pause. he continues on easily enough, doesn't want to give the good moment any time to go wrong.]

But my point is, I'm happy to talk about what I used to do, I just haven't done it in a while. Been too busy trying to wrap my head around... anything.

[they don't even have dragons where he's from. or dimensional travel. or spaceships. or rampant magic. or super-soldiers. the list goes on.]

[Far be it from him not to recognize a wounded soldier when he sees one. He's been on the fence about Robin all this time, nowhere near to trusting him (and if he's being honest, he still doesn't) but there are many, endless ways to wind up in the trenches, and not all foxholes are literal. Trauma is an ouroboros, eating its own tail. It can come from something small, and cascade. It can come from something shattering, and sunder you. There is no allowable 'threshold' at which it becomes permissible to bleed, and Sam's spent long nights explaining the concepts to him. The thing about it: most everyone has some form of it, nearly no one talks about it, and so it festers.

At least when a physical infection crawls through your body, it has the good grace to leave red streaks in the wake of its poison.

Steve works his jaw off to one side, the muscle flexes there. His gaze on Robin is-- attentive. Used to be, when confronted with other people's suffering his first thought was for his Ma or Buck or Peg and later, for Sam. The four of them together always seemed to know what to do, what to say, but Steve's never had a healer's hands, and isn't a gentle touch besides. It's not that he doesn't care - God help him, he cares too deeply and too well - but words are never how he's shown it.

It was, Robin says, like it's the first time he's ever allowed himself to think it ever might have been, and Steve takes a slow sip of his coffee.]

I'm not going to presume you need help figuring that out. [Pointed-- wrapping your head around your anythings. He nods at Robin, regardless.] But if you ever think it might help to have somebody listen-- I've heard I'm pretty good at it. Better than my falsetto, at least.

[well, at least he doesn't freeze up this time.

the offer does take him by some kind of surprise, and a quiet settles over him while he looks at Steve and tries to figure out a way to answer that. his mouth opens a little, like he's got something to say, but he ends up closing it again.

he doesn't know what to do with kindness. people have offered to listen before, but they always regret it. his burdens are too heavy. he sinks even the highest of spirits, and then they get upset when he resists advice and common sense. he hates that lens of pity infinitely more than he hates pretending everything is okay.

but. he's said plenty of revealing things already, and he's gotten nothing but patient understanding. he considers it, which is further thought than the offer ever deserves.]

Did you know, [he eventually asks, very casually,] That you do this thing with your jaw whenever you're thinking hard about something?

[The observation gets an amused huff of amusement - near a laugh - out of him, but he doesn't even begin to deny it. Instead, he lifts one hand and makes a dismissive little c'est la vie flutter of his fingers before he curls them back down against his palm.]

One of the many reasons I've always been a terrible spy.

[His poker face is only suitable for one thing: poker. And that only because he's always counted cards.]

[that's all he wanted. a break in the mood, something to loosen up his own awkward thinking. he catches the smile like it's contagious.]

I'll think about it, Grosbeak. Talking happens to be a talent of mine.

[a quiet dig at himself, but with less of the self-loathing than usual. he stabs the air in Steve's direction with his fork, to punctuate.]

And for the record? My falsetto is beautiful.

[Did you just seriously call him a bird. Don't think that French name is lost on him for a minute, Robin, wow. Steve raises both eyebrows before turning back to his food.]

Well, Christmas is coming. Maybe you can go caroling.

[Excuse his sass. Or don't. Your call.]

[oh, he has not yet BEGUN to bird.]

I only recently learned what Christmas is, but I'm going to assume that was funny.

[so. that's how that goes.]

[That settles it you are getting presents from your pilot. After a moment's consideration (and yes, the jaw thing) he even decides what it'll be. Then he continues idly without missing a beat,]

I'm hilarious. Now [ahem.] eat your food. [He makes a pointed gesture with his own implement towards Robin's plate.] There's pie for desert. If you don't know what that is, don't ask, you'll break my heart.

I know what pie is.

[AFFRONTED, he rolls his eyes... but obediently goes back to stabbing at his food. he sounds as comically offended about this as he can:]

And I am delighted.

Good. [An exaggeratedly delicate sniff.] Wouldn't want this hard work to go to waste.

[He smothers a grin as he says it, and cleans up the rest of his plate with a broken-off piece of biscuit. Then, it's a matter of getting up to grab the pie. And it's his Ma's recipe, so you better appreciate.]

steve's luck with things that fly is nonexistent, really.

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