[You know what's great about this? Quentin doesn't have to do anything. In fact, it's better that he does nothing. What to do or say—that's the part where he struggles. The ability to read someone's mind doesn't tell you what they need to hear to make them feel better. At best it gives you what they want to hear. Or, you know, think they want to hear, which is a separate can of worms. And that's all assuming the person knows what they want to hear, and a lot of times they don't, and it's just a whole thing. Bleh. Point is, telepathy? Not the cheat sheet for dealing with normal people you'd think it would be.
Julian Keller? Not normal. Not at all. Dude's brain is a charcuterie board of trauma and eighteen other kinds of fuckery that's been pent up for who knows how long. All he needs from Quentin is to be available (check), not be a sobbing mess (done), and shut up (iffy). That's easy (except the shutting up part but eh).
He skims Julian's thoughts for the sake of fulfilling his duty as designated sounding board, and also because, well. Because he does actually care about the poor bastard. He'd have to be a monster not to. Sure, there isn't anything Julian's feeling that Quentin didn't expect and/or that Quentin hasn't felt himself, but... cripes, man. He finds himself holding Julian just a smidge closer, a tiny bit more secure, and he realizes belatedly that he should've probably told Julian more about the White Hot Room, that Quentin was there, that everyone had a choice of whether to stay on Krakoa or go back to earth.
... Except then Julian decides to comment about his hair. Quentin resists the impulse to pull back so he can give Julian a suitably "what the fuck" expression, but he sure is giving him the (mostly gentle, only moderately judgemental) telepathic equivalent of a side-eye.]
I don't "smell like the girls' dorm," dude. You know there's other options than smelling like a tree, right?
[Don't think he didn't notice that basic bitch Old Spice shit. Because he did. He wasn't going to say anything because he's nice.]
Anyway, you don't get to judge me when you've got this much dandruff.
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Julian Keller? Not normal. Not at all. Dude's brain is a charcuterie board of trauma and eighteen other kinds of fuckery that's been pent up for who knows how long. All he needs from Quentin is to be available (check), not be a sobbing mess (done), and shut up (iffy). That's easy (except the shutting up part but eh).
He skims Julian's thoughts for the sake of fulfilling his duty as designated sounding board, and also because, well. Because he does actually care about the poor bastard. He'd have to be a monster not to. Sure, there isn't anything Julian's feeling that Quentin didn't expect and/or that Quentin hasn't felt himself, but... cripes, man. He finds himself holding Julian just a smidge closer, a tiny bit more secure, and he realizes belatedly that he should've probably told Julian more about the White Hot Room, that Quentin was there, that everyone had a choice of whether to stay on Krakoa or go back to earth.
... Except then Julian decides to comment about his hair. Quentin resists the impulse to pull back so he can give Julian a suitably "what the fuck" expression, but he sure is giving him the (mostly gentle, only moderately judgemental) telepathic equivalent of a side-eye.]
I don't "smell like the girls' dorm," dude. You know there's other options than smelling like a tree, right?
[Don't think he didn't notice that basic bitch Old Spice shit. Because he did. He wasn't going to say anything because he's nice.]
Anyway, you don't get to judge me when you've got this much dandruff.