It isn't like the weddings Robin prefers to attend. It's very small, and very quaint, and despite the somewhat non-homogenous crowd, very human, in a way. In a way that it is not very grand.

He's found himself a seat in the lawn on top of a cheap plastic chair with legs that he worries might crack at any minute from the way he's tipped back in it, feet resting on the edge of a nearby picnic table.

He has a plastic -- plastic -- glass full of a reasonable wine that he made damn sure to bring a supply of himself for everyone, and the weather is decent, for fall, although perhaps not in that perfect autumnal way that is more common in memory than reality.

It's nice, though. People are enjoying themselves, and that suffuses Robin with warmth, somehow, far above that of the constant stream of liquor that's been running past his lips since the morning. He drops his over-priced sunglasses back down over too-sharp green eyes.

"It's too bad," he murmurs to himself, raising his red Solo cup up to the thin, late afternoon October sun. "That you couldn't be here for this, Caliban. It's your kind of wedding, I have no doubt. What a time to be alive."