"Gods, what's wrong with me!" Robin cries, fists pounding the floor.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with you, darling," Inigo assures, shaking his head and holding out a hand.

It had been a semi-rhetorical question, shouted in a huff from the floor after too many mis-steps. Frustration doesn't sit well on her pretty features, so he's told her more than once, and in such spirit tunes down a glib tongue to instead give encouragement through disturbed dust in the air for Robin to get back on her feet.

Inigo means it too, she can see in the shine of brown eyes, looking down to her without looking down on her. He simply appreciates that she's humoring him in trying to learn this dance - however ungraceful and rigidly precise she may remain, in stark defiance of more fluid movements.

(Ugh, watching her fall may have been the most entertaining part about it…)

And she has a sudden appreciation for why he feels the need to sometimes HIDE. Gods know, Robin would be mortified were anyone to see all her scrapped maps and second, third, fourth attempt plans with irreconcilable casualties and notes that weren't even from the right category (oops). These things are a process, and she understands now - there's nothing squandering about only wanting a final product to be seen.

And it's true; there's also nothing wrong with the process of learning.

"Ah…" lips part for a jaw to hang partway open just a little too long; embarrassment slows her movements, both from screwing up and from still being accepted, despite. It burns pink beneath skin on the apples of her cheeks, "You're right, of course."

There are few Robin would let see her falter, perhaps why it took her so long to practice this skill in the first place. But she knows it would never be in Inigo's nature to let a lady dwell with a frown, consumed by her own failures. So she picks herself up and brushes herself off, unafraid, "Not that I'm… er, without any faults, far from it, just that… there's nothing wrong… right now."

She's always required and respected a patient, gentle hand, capable of holding her rough edges and helping her move forward. From the first time he'd offered an arm, and she'd taken it, she knew she always would. Always would take it, always would rely on it, always would treasure it… always would let it lead her through things, like any good dance partner, when she doesn't understand.

So once more he holds himself out with a smile, and once more she smiles back and layers her fingers with his. Palm to palm and shoulder to shoulder they stand.

"Ahem… So then, let's try it again, yes?"