Duo went from laughing to very much not in the space of a foot-stomp.
It wasn't even his foot.
It did feel a little like a gut shot.
Duo's expression flickered through momentary shock, by-passed hurt, and skidded to a halt somewhere in the tense milieu of pissed off. "Fuck you, blue," he snapped quietly, too angry to yell, and shoved himself upright.
There was an instinct for Duo, a long-ingrained habit that went back even before the second war. It ran something like; when there's nowhere else to go -- something that happened far too often -- head for Deathscythe.
It didn't matter that it wasn't his Deathscythe.
He side-stepped Kisame as the man took Dick's hit, and went for the cockpit.
In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that he hadn't eaten.