[ he's never been to the hospital on the grounds but it takes little time for him to navigate, carefully minding the over-filled plate he has covered with another, walking through the halls with the confidence and ease of a man who should be carrying a hot plate of food into a medical ward.

he's astounded, first, by all the noises - whirring machines and beeps, but he comes to the door of room where tim sits inside, looking quite different from their run-in at the baths. quentin is dressed a little more casually as well, stuck with what the house has provided him, but oddly enough? his hair is braided back along his skull in what some might call a french braid. he's a little bruised up, but he doesn't make note of it. instead, moving to set he food down on the bedside table like he owns the room the injured companion of tim laughlin rests in. he keeps his voice cown. ]

I don't know the names of some of these items, but I've been assured they're all delicious. [ eggs, toast, pastries, fruits... you name it. in fact, he swipes a little cinnamon roll and with little restraint, presses it to tim's lips softly. ]

And I insist you eat in my presence, else I will have to return every morning and make a fool of myself juggling eggs in the dining room. I think the maid took pity on me when I spilled the milk. Go on - eat.