Clarisse glances down at her lap to make sure she hasn't spilled oatmeal onto her shirt. Then she reaches behind her back and feels for anything stuck there (look, it's happened before). Only when she can't find anything obvious does she get to her feet and move to Benedict's table, carrying her bowl along with her.
"I'm not," he hedges, looking everywhere but at Clarisse as he shoves a spoonful of Stew du Jour in his mouth. He chews it fully and swallows before adding, pettily,
Clarisse is a bad liar. She knows one when she sees one. It's actually kind of gratifying to see someone else be as terrible at it as she is.
"You're full of shit." She spoons another mouthful of oatmeal into her mouth. "I wasn't looking at you, I was looking around the room. And every time I did, you were staring at me!"
Squirming silently for a moment, Benedict looks away as he tries to come up with literally any reason he might have been looking at her other than what he was actually thinking about:
"Your hair looks good," he says, throwing on a brilliant smile. Diversion tactic. It works sometimes.
Clarisse's cheeks go pink, and she reaches up to pinch a strand of her hair between two fingers. "Thanks. I've been... using that stuff." If nothing else, it smells good.
Before Benedict can walk away, Clarisse lunges across the table and grabs his wrist. Her grip is unsurprisingly strong. She's not going to yank his shoulder out of joint or anything, but it's a pretty firm hold.
"What the hell is your problem, man? I thought we were cool."
His gasp is one of alarm and only slight fear— the instinctive knowledge that Clarisse can and would and almost did kick his arse— but Benedict stops, pinioned more by her words than her grip.
“We are,” he says, apologetically. He doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t explain, either.
On a normal day, a gasp of slight fear in response to her human touch would make Clarisse feel proud, and then later it would make her feel gross for having felt proud. Today she's too confused by this entire sequence of events to really register that it happened, but she does release her grip on his wrist.
He looks at her a long moment, chewing his lower lip and clearly struggling with something unseen.
He doesn’t run, at least.
“Um,” he finally hedges, “I heard about something.” He glances around, his shoulders dropping— Abby will never forgive him— “that happened. And it’s good, I think it’s good, I’m. I’m happy. For you. Both.”
It takes a minute, but it finally dawns on Clarisse what he's saying. She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again just as quickly.
It's not like she told Abby not to tell anybody. Truthfully, it hadn't occurred to her that Abby might do that in the first place. Clarisse wrestles with that for a few seconds, then pushes it away to deal with later. There's more pressing shit to go over first.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Clearly.
For a long and tense moment, Benedict looks afraid again. But Clarisse’s reaction seems, in fact, to relieve him.
“You’re right,” he agrees, far too cheerfully, “I’m probably making it up for attention.” Anything, anything but the awful truth: that he fucked up.
“Byeee,” he concludes, hurrying away before she can protest. He’s got some damage control to do, or more realistically, spiraling: whichever comes first.
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"Why are you looking at me weird?"
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"you were looking at me."
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"You're full of shit." She spoons another mouthful of oatmeal into her mouth. "I wasn't looking at you, I was looking around the room. And every time I did, you were staring at me!"
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"Your hair looks good," he says, throwing on a brilliant smile. Diversion tactic. It works sometimes.
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Clarisse's cheeks go pink, and she reaches up to pinch a strand of her hair between two fingers. "Thanks. I've been... using that stuff." If nothing else, it smells good.
behold the dumbest bitch alive
“What’d I tell you?” he gloats, pleased, “now you’ll just have to tell me what Abby—“
He stops. Sits back, bolt upright. He didn’t say anything you said it
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"What Abby what?"
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“Must go.” He’s very busy you see. Many things to go and places to do.
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Before Benedict can walk away, Clarisse lunges across the table and grabs his wrist. Her grip is unsurprisingly strong. She's not going to yank his shoulder out of joint or anything, but it's a pretty firm hold.
"What the hell is your problem, man? I thought we were cool."
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“We are,” he says, apologetically. He doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t explain, either.
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"Seriously. What's the matter?"
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He doesn’t run, at least.
“Um,” he finally hedges, “I heard about something.” He glances around, his shoulders dropping— Abby will never forgive him— “that happened. And it’s good, I think it’s good, I’m. I’m happy. For you.
Both.”
Wince.
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It's not like she told Abby not to tell anybody. Truthfully, it hadn't occurred to her that Abby might do that in the first place. Clarisse wrestles with that for a few seconds, then pushes it away to deal with later. There's more pressing shit to go over first.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Clearly.
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“You’re right,” he agrees, far too cheerfully, “I’m probably making it up for attention.” Anything, anything but the awful truth: that he fucked up.
“Byeee,” he concludes, hurrying away before she can protest. He’s got some damage control to do, or more realistically, spiraling: whichever comes first.