[ There's no way to slice this: it's going to be awkward. Probably painful, too--not for him, but for poor Diarmuid. He nearly chickens out when he remembers the other's words; very nearly turning back. Diarmuids voice, that panicked God forgives you, I forgive you has been rattling around his brain since reviving--it takes Eliot Waugh politely but firmly telling him to get the fuck out of the house for him to do so. With a pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek, he's off.
He's being an idiot, anyway. He's written it himself in the letter: this isn't about him. This is about Diarmuid feeling safe--the selfishness of Quentin Makepeace Coldwater will have to be put on hold. He's in his late 20s, for fucks sake, he's an adult. The least he can do is meet a 12 year old monk boy who he tried to murder. He hardly spares a glance at he cloth wrapped cross--he figures monk, religious shit, whatever--and braces himself as he walks into the cafe proper. Diarmuid is pretty easy to spot: his face is hidden underneath his curls but there's no mistaking him, and Quentin visibly winces as he notices the cast.
They did that. He did that. He makes a beeline to the other, navigating around the clutter of coffee shop tables. ]
Hey.
[ He doesn't sit, though, and he's very careful to keep his hands resting on the leather strap of his messenger bag as a gesture of good faith. 'See?' he wants it to say. 'My hands are where you can see them. I'm not going to cast.' His hair is down but tucked behind his ears, and he looks like shit--not as bad as Diarmuid, of course, courtesy of post-death mending--but his usually semi-tanned skin is just a bit paler, bags under his eyes pronounced due to his inability to sleep. He tries not to stare at Diarmuid's cast. It doesn't work. That's all he can stare at. ]
Uh--do you want anything? I was thinking a pot of tea, I could get you whatever...
[ It's a far cry from how he was in the dome, or even in Diarmuid's dream--he's just plain old Quentin now, depressed super nerd in all of his henley-and-button-up glory. ]
no subject
He's being an idiot, anyway. He's written it himself in the letter: this isn't about him. This is about Diarmuid feeling safe--the selfishness of Quentin Makepeace Coldwater will have to be put on hold. He's in his late 20s, for fucks sake, he's an adult. The least he can do is meet a 12 year old monk boy who he tried to murder. He hardly spares a glance at he cloth wrapped cross--he figures monk, religious shit, whatever--and braces himself as he walks into the cafe proper. Diarmuid is pretty easy to spot: his face is hidden underneath his curls but there's no mistaking him, and Quentin visibly winces as he notices the cast.
They did that. He did that. He makes a beeline to the other, navigating around the clutter of coffee shop tables. ]
Hey.
[ He doesn't sit, though, and he's very careful to keep his hands resting on the leather strap of his messenger bag as a gesture of good faith. 'See?' he wants it to say. 'My hands are where you can see them. I'm not going to cast.' His hair is down but tucked behind his ears, and he looks like shit--not as bad as Diarmuid, of course, courtesy of post-death mending--but his usually semi-tanned skin is just a bit paler, bags under his eyes pronounced due to his inability to sleep. He tries not to stare at Diarmuid's cast. It doesn't work. That's all he can stare at. ]
Uh--do you want anything? I was thinking a pot of tea, I could get you whatever...
[ It's a far cry from how he was in the dome, or even in Diarmuid's dream--he's just plain old Quentin now, depressed super nerd in all of his henley-and-button-up glory. ]