[ The beat cloth bag grumbles lowly as Quentin jerks it open, the subdued sound making a joke out of his vehemence. He pulls out the rag-wrapped notebook and yanks the fabric free enough to expose the top. ]
It's not like I can back out now, you're gonna get it no matter what, but I kinda figure you'd like it back without fucking up half the pages with blood, right?
That's about the only reason I ain't pulled the trigger yet.
[ but it's not a hard deterrent. He knows everything in the notebook by heart. If he had to, he could rewrite the whole thing. It'd just be a right pain to do so, especially if the Entity keeps calling him up for trials at the rate that it has been. Best for Quentin to hand it over sharpish. ]
All those pages better be there and just like the last time I saw 'em, or you'll answer for that too.
[ He's getting nowhere, isn't he? His expression steels up, insides tensing from his stomach all the way up to the top of his throat as he creeps closer step by step. There's part of him that wants to be a badass, standing straight and stepping surely, holding Caleb's overcast eyes with rebellion.
[ He manages the rebellious look, but the rest is undercut with shallow breaths and anxious glances to the gun. When he stretches the notebook out, his arm wobbles for the tension in his body, cover hovering just over the Redeemer's barrel. ]
[ with barely restrained impatience, Caleb watches Quentin approach. The moment the notebook's within reach, he reaches out with his left hand and snatches it away. Then, true to his word—even though he hasn't promised a thing—he does put down the Redeemer, lowering it so the spear points at the ground instead of at Quentin. But he doesn't sling it across his back again, and his grip doesn't loosen. His finger stays a hairsbreadth away from the trigger. Neither his stare nor his voice softens in the least. ]
Me. [ Instant, earnest, and wholly unbelievable--particularly to a man who's seen through more deft liars before. His jaw works, teeth scrape inside his lower lip. ] You want me to bring the notes I tried to make? They look like shit.
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[ The beat cloth bag grumbles lowly as Quentin jerks it open, the subdued sound making a joke out of his vehemence. He pulls out the rag-wrapped notebook and yanks the fabric free enough to expose the top. ]
It's not like I can back out now, you're gonna get it no matter what, but I kinda figure you'd like it back without fucking up half the pages with blood, right?
no subject
That's about the only reason I ain't pulled the trigger yet.
[ but it's not a hard deterrent. He knows everything in the notebook by heart. If he had to, he could rewrite the whole thing. It'd just be a right pain to do so, especially if the Entity keeps calling him up for trials at the rate that it has been. Best for Quentin to hand it over sharpish. ]
All those pages better be there and just like the last time I saw 'em, or you'll answer for that too.
no subject
[ He manages the rebellious look, but the rest is undercut with shallow breaths and anxious glances to the gun. When he stretches the notebook out, his arm wobbles for the tension in his body, cover hovering just over the Redeemer's barrel. ]
no subject
Who's read it?
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