Robert wasn't standing in front of the door crying the whole time, no. Even his processes function better than that. He could only stand a few minutes of it, the angry noises of destruction behind the door juxtaposed with the dark staring silence of its surface, and when it rapidly became evident that Don's emotions were not changing, he left. What else was there to do?
Since then he's obsessively scoured dust from his clothing and himself, washed Don's towel at least twice over (and no, it wasn't the sweat that bothered him, it was the dust on that too), and then... emptiness set in. Suddenly the dust's presence seemed unproblematic next to whatever trouble he caused.
As he is wont to do in any situation where he has caused a problem and can't understand what it is, he essentially retreated to his room to hide.
And that, of course, is where Don finds him. He is indeed staring at nothing, and there are worrying marks on his hands where he's been rhythmically rubbing them. His nanocomputer sits open at his desk, screen blank and forgotten. It's evident he tried to write something, failed, and then simply got caught up in his own thoughts. Don's towel, cleaned and almost reverently folded on the bed, is likely the only sign he's done anything whatsoever.
At first the noise of the door opening, and the light of the hallway filtering in, is not noticed by the occupant. But the sweet scent of tea in a room as sterile as Robert's...
He turns, enough to see Don there, kneeling, and he doesn't really know what to say.]
...
[He takes the tea from Don's hands, cradles it like a lifeline, and looks into his eyes.
no subject
Robert wasn't standing in front of the door crying the whole time, no. Even his processes function better than that. He could only stand a few minutes of it, the angry noises of destruction behind the door juxtaposed with the dark staring silence of its surface, and when it rapidly became evident that Don's emotions were not changing, he left. What else was there to do?
Since then he's obsessively scoured dust from his clothing and himself, washed Don's towel at least twice over (and no, it wasn't the sweat that bothered him, it was the dust on that too), and then... emptiness set in. Suddenly the dust's presence seemed unproblematic next to whatever trouble he caused.
As he is wont to do in any situation where he has caused a problem and can't understand what it is, he essentially retreated to his room to hide.
And that, of course, is where Don finds him. He is indeed staring at nothing, and there are worrying marks on his hands where he's been rhythmically rubbing them. His nanocomputer sits open at his desk, screen blank and forgotten. It's evident he tried to write something, failed, and then simply got caught up in his own thoughts. Don's towel, cleaned and almost reverently folded on the bed, is likely the only sign he's done anything whatsoever.
At first the noise of the door opening, and the light of the hallway filtering in, is not noticed by the occupant. But the sweet scent of tea in a room as sterile as Robert's...
He turns, enough to see Don there, kneeling, and he doesn't really know what to say.]
...
[He takes the tea from Don's hands, cradles it like a lifeline, and looks into his eyes.
Peace.]