[ He's working through it. Quentin can see--and he has a feeling even if he hadn't been checking himself in and out of mental hospitals since he was 16, he'd still be able to recognize the signs. Shaking hands, small voice, it's more than nerves--it's almost straight up paranoia, and it's all directed towards him.
Rabbit instincts or not, Quentin still deserves it. He twists his face into what he hopes is a relaxing smile, purposely leaning away. He doesn't want to crowd the other. ]
Tea it is.
[ He makes the purchase: chamomile and lavender, something soothing to relax the strange tension in the room--he swears people are watching him like a hawk here. Must be Diarmuid's friends. Once he's dithered around enough, he decides to stop prolonging the inevitable, and sets the pot down at the booth before sliding in opposite the monk. His hands stay on the table, palms down as he waits for the tea to steep. ]
How's your arm?
[ You know how it is, he chides himself mentally, you and Eliot fucking broke it. ]
tw institutionalization
Rabbit instincts or not, Quentin still deserves it. He twists his face into what he hopes is a relaxing smile, purposely leaning away. He doesn't want to crowd the other. ]
Tea it is.
[ He makes the purchase: chamomile and lavender, something soothing to relax the strange tension in the room--he swears people are watching him like a hawk here. Must be Diarmuid's friends. Once he's dithered around enough, he decides to stop prolonging the inevitable, and sets the pot down at the booth before sliding in opposite the monk. His hands stay on the table, palms down as he waits for the tea to steep. ]
How's your arm?
[ You know how it is, he chides himself mentally, you and Eliot fucking broke it. ]