Tarn continues to scrub, gently cleaning the length of his twitching rotor blades. He slings an arm around Spinister's lower back to support him from toppling backwards. Instead it urges him further into Tarn's space, and closer to his lap

There are worse things, he supposes, than having to sit in front of a fire with a warm heli-frame curled against him.

At lease they'll be clean.