Eliot, meanwhile, has discovered he apparently bartends? Or. However any of this works, which he's currently very effectively managing not to think about, on the grounds that it makes his brain hurt and also detracts from the fact that, bales of unbelievably weird shit or no bales of unbelievably weird shit, his little sojourn into Pleasantville means he is far away from actual shit. As in seeing to it spread on crops, as in all the responsibility, ugh, that much to his offense comes with being High King of a place that has never heard of fertilizer.

The point is, no one cares if just occasionally (daily) he nips off with a bottle of something strong enough to guarantee he continues not to think too hard about any of this, ergo: he is, conveniently, in search of Margo, and arrives in time to watch this adorable (to...him) display of the lady in question, uh. Being herself.

He appears magically next to her (or he has miles of leg and thus only needs two steps) and offers his arm for linkage, bottle dangling precariously from his other hand.

"Now, now, Bambi." With approximately seven hundred times the melodrama it deserves. "Mustn't put too much Fear of the Destroyer into the locals. All things in moderation, as they say."

As they who are objectively wrong say, his expression suggests. Lolingly.