[ It could have gone the other way. It's definitely tangled up in his identity for all sorts of complicated reasons - but he's got just enough stuff to handle for other people to keep enough pressure on. Also, his identity was in question before he arrived in Duplicity. There's a little freedom in the moment and loss and it's...
it is not terrible. ]
The gangs here actually stole umbrellas? [ There's a confused blink at that. Why would-
Oh wait, there's something more interesting there.
He folds down carefully to sit on the roof ] How mean's mean? [ He's seen the scars. ]
They stole umbrellas for a whole month. A really rainy month.
[That was also the month Logan drowned in a pointless attempt to save him. It was the month he got a vicious flashback of Logan drowning his own son, the same one who winds his way round a the same pole Dick does some nights at the Scratch, and who Dick has to look at without letting the memory show.
So, the umbrellas.]
I think they misunderstood the meaning of petty crime. And mean depends.
[He doesn't sit, but he crouches, leaning back on his heels with easy balance.]
Bludhaven's bloody. Star City gets the bad science. Metropolis takes capitalism to the evil extreme. And Gotham - Gotham gets mean and crazy.
[ He's concerned. Without the glasses to hide it, it shows a little more clearly. Maybe not to Dick, but to a more casual observer. Something around his eyes and the lines around them and whether he's looking much younger, or about his age.
He also feels like he needs to be careful with Dick, though less careful than he is with Jason. Just differently, too.]
Remind me that I especially never want anything to do with Star City.
[Dick reads people better than the casual observer. He reads them like intuition's a career path. Scott isn't exactly the toughest of books to pry open - at the moment, anyway.
So, after a minute, he sits. Folding a leg under him in a way that means he can still get himself to standing in a single spring.]
You don't know that much about me, do you. I don't know how much you've been told.
I haven't been told anything, really. Wait, Jay told me you were brothers.
[ His smile is wry and rueful, not dissimilar to one of Jean's smiles, really, when she's a little embarrassed or pained about something -- but smaller and a lot more restrained. More in, ironically, his eyes than the curve of his mouth. ]
I haven't had a lot of conversations with Logan [ or Jay -- for very different reasons. ] If you haven't told me, I don't know it.
[ Scott's snort in response to that joke is inelegant, unrefined, and amused anyway. In spite of himself. ]
You've told me quite a bit. [ Or made it observable. Hypnos, the vampirism, the relationship with Jay and Logan, talk about mean streets, going where he was needed, the state of his body. ] Just how young did you start?
[That's... a question with a few answers, really. But the truth of it has always been the age he was when he picked up a gun and went out to find his parent's killer.
He holds a hand out, twisting it to indicate this is a rough approximation, but -]
[ Without his glasses on, Scott's startled expression and confusion are really readily apparent. Would be to Dick anyway, probably, but more so without them. He glances down the building for a moment, before looking back to Dick.
Now with some dry, pretty dead-pan humor. ]
What, a blank check to ask questions? It might not be the usual outcome, but I don't know that it needs an apology.
Let's turn it around. Is there anything you don't know about me, but want to?
Assuming his expression was what he thinks it was, which... hard to say.
Murdered parents? Sad, but not outside the level of trauma he... sees too much of. Nine year old deciding (or feeling they had to) do something and being able to do it? Outside the norm and concerning but not shocking. ]
[Dick's lips circle an oh, - still, it seems fairly evident to him. Maybe it's just that he's the only traumatized person he knows who didn't use it as an excuse to throw social skills out of the window.
...]
Maybe it's just that I'm the only one in my family who didn't let trauma mean throwing social skills out of the window. You want some smaller talk at any point, I'll be good for it.
[ It's not really a joke - there is truth there - but it isn't a whole truth, either. Also not really what the discussion here is. He doesn't need or want smaller talk, anyway.]
X-men? 16. Parents? 7, though my dad wasn't actually dead. I thought he was, he thought it was better that way, but he was off [ he gestures upward, though the sky is definitely not the one he knows ] being a space pirate.
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