[ A soft breath puffs out of his nose at at head bump; what are you, a golden retriever? World's worst bred hairless version, maybe. He settles his hand at the back of Steve's neck (maybe?), a loose but anchoring grasp. Seems like he's got no intentions of making this a brief contact.
Their concern almost matches; you okay?
Not just physically, that's a given, but... he's probably uniquely equipped to understand what's going through Steve's mind aside from that part. Some portion of it, anyway, if you're not accounting for the goddamn processing of being transfigured like this.
That guilt, that tension, that shame and discomfort... ]
Don't be stupid.
[ Said firmly, and the words are heavily coated by the feeling pressing through his skin. It's an enormous urge to reassure, a dark shade of understanding backed up by the kind of baggage that never really goes away. Not a single hint of blame or distrust, no real affront. It wasn't your fault.
Not like Steve even hurt anyone, not like he did anything worth feeling bad about. His arm's just metal, it doesn't matter, he can get it fixed.
That isn't to say it's all wholesome feel-goods on his end, there's still heavy fatigue and the memory of pain he's still working through. There's still a mote of feeling like Steve is wrong like this, and the discomfort that it brings. He can't help that, he can't turn it off, and he feels bad for it, but.
That's reality. That's what he feels, and it's worth pointing out how small those things are compared to how bad he wants to keep Steve from feeling guilty about any of what just happened. ]
no subject
Their concern almost matches; you okay?
Not just physically, that's a given, but... he's probably uniquely equipped to understand what's going through Steve's mind aside from that part. Some portion of it, anyway, if you're not accounting for the goddamn processing of being transfigured like this.
That guilt, that tension, that shame and discomfort... ]
Don't be stupid.
[ Said firmly, and the words are heavily coated by the feeling pressing through his skin. It's an enormous urge to reassure, a dark shade of understanding backed up by the kind of baggage that never really goes away. Not a single hint of blame or distrust, no real affront. It wasn't your fault.
Not like Steve even hurt anyone, not like he did anything worth feeling bad about. His arm's just metal, it doesn't matter, he can get it fixed.
That isn't to say it's all wholesome feel-goods on his end, there's still heavy fatigue and the memory of pain he's still working through. There's still a mote of feeling like Steve is wrong like this, and the discomfort that it brings. He can't help that, he can't turn it off, and he feels bad for it, but.
That's reality. That's what he feels, and it's worth pointing out how small those things are compared to how bad he wants to keep Steve from feeling guilty about any of what just happened. ]