[ The hoots don't even register to Quentin--he's phenomenally good at blocking people out by virtue of the fact that he hates them--but it takes him a moment of looking at Eliot's hand to fully register what he wants. ]
Someone spills blood on your wingtips or something.
[ He moves down to lay down, too, grunting like he's about 80 years old. He's surprised they actually fit, and it takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to get his arm underneath Eliot. ]
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[ The hoots don't even register to Quentin--he's phenomenally good at blocking people out by virtue of the fact that he hates them--but it takes him a moment of looking at Eliot's hand to fully register what he wants. ]
Someone spills blood on your wingtips or something.
[ He moves down to lay down, too, grunting like he's about 80 years old. He's surprised they actually fit, and it takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to get his arm underneath Eliot. ]