Two hours. He intended to be quite thorough in this, then.

One hand lifted to the clasp of his armor, though hesitating before pulling it open. Permission. He'd always need permission, always need the hand peeling out of it, because he didn't belong outside of it. Not until York decided he did. Not everyone was meant to live like this, life completely at the mercy of the whims of one individual, but for a hawk? It was a privilege. It was a choice, the last choice.

"If I had to choose again...I think I would have chosen to take the hood for you," he breathed out, his weight leaning forward slightly.