[He snorts--or, well, sneezes, almost: that scoffy little sound dogs make when they are unimpressed with your bullshit--and bumps North's arm with his shoulder. Doesn't pull his hand away, though.]
You don't scratch, Batty. Also, no thanks, not what I'm into these days.
[He reaches across himself with his other hand to poke carefully at North's wing, to try to trace the edge where North's arm muscle ends and flight membrane begins.]
Action
You don't scratch, Batty. Also, no thanks, not what I'm into these days.
[He reaches across himself with his other hand to poke carefully at North's wing, to try to trace the edge where North's arm muscle ends and flight membrane begins.]
Huh. Think you could fly with these?