[ Oh shit. The easy veneer drops away instantly, giving way to a notch between his brows and a loose jaw as he takes that in.
Massacre. Two hundred years ago.
He sits with it for a long moment - too long a moment - entirely unequipped to offer any kind of comfort. Finally, a brief lift of two fingers lands a full, unlabeled bottle of the same liquor they're drinking on the table with a thud. ]
Sorry.
[ For asking. For what happened. It can't mean much in the face of that, coming from a near stranger, but it's clear he means it. The word catches in his throat somewhere, emerges roughened somehow. ]
[The silence stretches long enough for Takeshi to add it to his regrets, to realise that it had been too heavy, too destructive for the companionability they were building between them. Stephen had offered him an open hand, and he had knowingly dropped a grenade in it.
It means the bottle that arrives on the table in response feels more than undeserved. Still, he reaches for it, examining it despite the lack of label, the implication there that nothing would identify its origins except his knowledge of the man sitting across from him. Magic.]
Don't be. You'll pay me back, whenever I walk into one of your war wounds.
[ If nothing else, it's done the job of distracting him from his own worries. Stephen watches Takeshi closely as he rides through the receipt of the bottle, the absence of label, the heaviness that's descended in a blanket across the table.
And when he speaks again, he allows himself to huff an almost-laugh in response. Even though it's not funny. Even though he'd rather, acutely in this moment, that neither of them had any tales to tell. ]
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Massacre. Two hundred years ago.
He sits with it for a long moment - too long a moment - entirely unequipped to offer any kind of comfort. Finally, a brief lift of two fingers lands a full, unlabeled bottle of the same liquor they're drinking on the table with a thud. ]
Sorry.
[ For asking. For what happened. It can't mean much in the face of that, coming from a near stranger, but it's clear he means it. The word catches in his throat somewhere, emerges roughened somehow. ]
no subject
It means the bottle that arrives on the table in response feels more than undeserved. Still, he reaches for it, examining it despite the lack of label, the implication there that nothing would identify its origins except his knowledge of the man sitting across from him. Magic.]
Don't be. You'll pay me back, whenever I walk into one of your war wounds.
no subject
And when he speaks again, he allows himself to huff an almost-laugh in response. Even though it's not funny. Even though he'd rather, acutely in this moment, that neither of them had any tales to tell. ]
Right. I'll start the tab.