Pizza is fine, if not a little greasy. The Librarian primly soaks up the grease with . . . . part of their own sleeve? It doesn't seem to leave a mark. The pizza's gone within a minute, though, scarfed down eagerly, and it's only once it's gone that they pay mind to Quentin.

That's a very good question. They stare at him for a long few seconds . . . and then reach out, stroking one stubby finger against his cheek. It lingers too long, the finger cold and dead, before the Librarian retreats.

Does that mean yes? No? Who can say!