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There is a little robot hanging around the Cooper farm.

No. No, not that one. That is a big robot.

This one's about the size, shape, and colour of a basketball. It's adorable as all hell and would be delighted to make your acquaintance.

Today, it is making its first foray into the Cooper house. People seem to congregate in the kitchen, so it hops up onto the table and swivels back to face the door.

Please do not mistake it for food.

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"Hey. Hey."

This? This is a hug. Complete with a hand coming up to wipe away those tears with gentle fingertips. The gloves make the gesture a little less personal, but not much.

"It's okay, Steve. You're gonna be okay. I promise."

Steve, who has never been the best at hiding his emotions, clings to Neil in shame and sorrow and gratitude.

"Why the -- fuck did he have t-to go?" This time, rather than the ground, Neil's shoulder has the honour of Steve's intimate address. "Why the fuck did he h-- hh--"

Soft: "I don't know."

And it doesn't really matter that much anymore.

What matters to Neil at the moment is Steve's well-being. Which means hugs. A lot of hugs.

There are no words.

There is only clinging.

It takes no prompting whatsoever to take Steve back to the basement under the ruined house, with a far smaller Spots burbling in the sink and Gabriel on the--

--He wrenches himself out of it, because now that memory hurts.

Or in the kitchen of the Cooper farm, with the conversation turning from normal to awkward to unexpectedly, blissfully--

Or in the bunker, shouting--

Or--

He doesn't speak, just wraps his arms around Steve's shoulders and holds him.

Sometimes, that's what you need.

In this instance, short of Gabriel rising from the dead, it is exactly what Steve needs.

Eventually, the shaking of his body quietens as he brings his crying under control. Gradually, he stills.

But he still doesn't let go of Neil.

A hand rubs up and down Steve's back, gentle as anything.

If you asked Neil what he was thinking right now--

If you asked Neil what he was thinking right now and then prevented him lying about it, he'd say he wished he'd had somebody to do this for him when his parents died.

No-one should be forced to grieve alone.

Steve still doesn't let go, because he doesn't want to, because he feels safer this way. By a little, which is a lot better than by nothing.

And he feels the need to say, in a whisper: "Thanks."

"Anytime, man."

He ruffles Steve's hair. There's something about the motion perhaps a fraction less brotherly than the rest of this little interlude.

"Anytime."

A rather large part of Steve doesn't want it to be brotherly.

The rest of Steve leaps on that part and berates it, and it blinks and backs down, but it doesn't go away.

Suddenly self-conscious, Steve breaks the hug at last, reluctant and staring into Neil's face.

Neil meets Steve's eyes, one hand still resting on his shoulder, the other falling away.

Steve's gaze, after a searching, desperate couple of seconds, falls away as well.

"I just..."

...no, even he doesn't know how he was planning on finishing that sentence.

He squeezes Steve's shoulder gently.

That's all.

Okay.

That's.

Okay.

"Thanks," says Steve again. And he stops himself from re-initiating the hug, because he's already being overfamiliar and Neil probably has better things to do and he wants to see where it might go and he doesn't want to see where it might go and there's guilt in his face all over again.

...Good God, this man is an open book.

A heartbreakingly familiar open book, in at least some respects.

Neil tells himself that Steve is not his fourteen-year-old self, and that given certain other aspects of this situation that train of thought is unutterably weird, and then he closes his eye and gives Steve another quick one-armed hug.

This time, if you asked him what he was thinking, he wouldn't have an answer at all.

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