[ Curiosity keeps Bob's eyes glued on watching the man turn the lightsaber this way and that, until he realises that he's intruding on something that's none of his business. It's not often that he feels the dull ache of guilt settle deep into his frame, but he can feel it now, unpleasant and intense. Fidgeting is part of his nature on a good day, but he's frozen in place now, not moving save for the somewhat steady inhale exhale of his chest.

The question breaks some of the tension, but not for long. Bob doesn't know the story behind this lightsaber and why the other man looks so fucking sad at getting it back, but he's also wrestling with the sudden realisation that he hasn't got anything more to give. How can he give details on something he doesn't understand himself? It's an uncomfortable, ugly feeling, cold and hard against his usually casual, jokey disposition. Clearing his throat of the lump that's settled in it, he tries to find a good place to start explaining. ]

I uh... one of my powers is sort of... imagining things. To me. It's...

[ Out of control and not something he has a handle on. It's also not something he knows where the boundaries are yet. Can he tell where these items have come from? He thinks, hard, as if it's the single most important thing he has to do today - maybe it is and he just doesn't know it yet. ]

I can't tell where it came from, mate. I'm sorry. I didn't even know what it was and I wasn't trying to nick it on purpose.