One fine autumn evening, very soon after this, Benedict finds Abby in the dining hall and sashays over to plunk his tray down across from her, quite decisively seating himself right after. Then he takes a sip of water, eyeing her shrewdly over the rim of the tin cup, choosing his words.
Ah. Abby doesn't say anything as he definitely claims a seat across from her, only continuing to pick pieces off a bread roll and pop them into her mouth one at a time. She does make a point out of checking him over though. Two arms, still? That's good.
The silence hangs between them a little longer, perhaps, than Benedict intended. He finishes drinking, picks up his spoon and twirls it around a moment in his stew, raises it, blows on the contents, takes a bite. Chews it thoughtfully. And then, finally:
Like she said: she is not stopping anybody from doing anything. "If you're here to try and convince me to change my mind, I'm not gonna. You're wasting your time."
He's not really the lecturing kind, but Abby's stubbornness is butting up against Benedict's own, and he feels his resolve weakening quickly.
"Lots of them," he continues, steeling his voice to keep emotion out of it (and probably failing). "They would probably fill this room, shoulder to shoulder. Some of them are still here, and most of them. Aren't. Because they vanished into thin air."
His mouth twitches when he closes it, and he tosses his head in the guise of straightening his hair. "We don't know where they went. They don't get a funeral, because they might be alive. But they might not be. The main thing is that they're gone forever, and nobody gets--"
He tosses his head again, clearing his throat harshly.
When that emotion twists up through his voice she looks at him quick, eyes sharp and narrowed—she waits for him to finish speaking, or at least, to run out of words. "You don't have to explain to me what it's like to have people one day and lose them the next. I get it." Did he forget where she came from? He was there himself, if only for a moment.
She adds, clearing her throat and finding it dislodges that ache. "What I don't get is why you're all so okay with experimenting with lyrium. What if it does something to you, and you can't take that back?"
"Not just lose them," Benedict insists, and he's getting sloppy, he knows this, but-- "there's no death or farewell or-- or anything, you just can't find them one day. And it doesn't matter who they were to you, they're just-- you don't know. You don't know where they are, or if they are. Just that they're gone."
The level to which he's straining to keep his face straight is borderline comical, and he eventually cedes a temporary defeat as he ducks his head and pretends to focus on his as-of-now untouched meal.
"Plenty of things have been done to me that I can't take back. At least it's my choice this time. It's worth it." He sniffs wetly, angrily. "...it's worth it if we can find even one answer."
"No," she argues, pushing back, but he keeps going over the top of her. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying that it is like that, was like that back home. People left, people disappeared, they defected. They died out on missions you weren't part of, you never saw a body, only heard a story. Or drew your own conclusions when they stopped showing up at breakfast.
Benedict is upset, and trying not to show it. Abby waits him out. She isn't looking at him either, she's picking bits off her bread but not bringing them to her mouth any more, opting to create a pile to the side of her plate.
"I get it. Okay? I do, I just—" How does she explain this? It's difficult. She's frowning thoughtfully. "Fenris told me about what happens when people are exposed to lyrium. When he was here, I mean, he told me, and it's fucked up. And we all just fucking died and came back." Though, not all of them did; Jude is gone, and what Ellie said is true. She is mad and upset, and burying it under other things, lashing out in a different direction. She breathes out. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you guys. And this lyrium shit feels bad."
This has gone wretchedly, Benedict already knows he's far overplayed his hand and made a fool of himself like he always does, and he shoves another bite in his deeply frowning mouth to stop it from either talking or quivering. Abby thus gets a word in edgewise, and although he bristles in response, he doesn't argue-- say what you will about Benedict Artemaeus, but he'll never talk with his mouth full. By the time he's finished chewing again, Abby has said her piece, and the wind has left his sails.
"Well," he says in an attempt at his usual primness, "I don't. Want anything bad to happen to you. ...guys." He's thrown off momentarily by the colloquialism, squinting as if he isn't sure he's saying it right, or that he should be saying it at all.
Abby doesn't really notice him tripping up over the expression. She's eating the shredded bits of her roll to remove the evidence of it, brow furrowed. Mouth curling down at the corners, jaw set and back teeth touching each other painfully when she chews, sensitive from being ground in her sleep.
"I know." And there's no talking the other out of it, is there.
A pause. She nibbles bread. She adds, less angry and worried, more sulky, "I didn't do anything to that fucking sign-up sheet, you know."
Despite her grouchiness, seeing Benedict start to smile makes Abby slowly grin too, ruefully. She's shaking her head.
"She's so dramatic. She messaged me about a week ago telling me that somebody had filed a suit against me and she needed to know where I was for the whole day."
"No. I really only just met him." So maybe she fell for it, a little bit. It was quickly rectified anyway. "He told me that somebody else fucked with the sign-up sheet, but he didn't tell me who. Or how he knows."
Though, now that she's sitting here considering it, the argument did drum up some sympathy for her. And people promptly crawled out of the woodwork to defend her precious study too, including the idiot sitting opposite her at the table, she has not forgotten about that. "... Would she?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action
Then he takes a sip of water, eyeing her shrewdly over the rim of the tin cup, choosing his words.
no subject
So she's still feeling a little stung.
no subject
"It's worth doing."
no subject
Like she said: she is not stopping anybody from doing anything. "If you're here to try and convince me to change my mind, I'm not gonna. You're wasting your time."
no subject
"Do you know how many Rifters have come through this place, Abby?" he asks, once he's collected himself, his gaze hard. Hurt.
no subject
But she's sure he's about to tell her. There's something familiar and aching jammed up behind her teeth but she's refusing to examine it too closely.
no subject
"Lots of them," he continues, steeling his voice to keep emotion out of it (and probably failing). "They would probably fill this room, shoulder to shoulder. Some of them are still here, and most of them. Aren't. Because they vanished into thin air."
His mouth twitches when he closes it, and he tosses his head in the guise of straightening his hair. "We don't know where they went. They don't get a funeral, because they might be alive. But they might not be. The main thing is that they're gone forever, and nobody gets--"
He tosses his head again, clearing his throat harshly.
no subject
She adds, clearing her throat and finding it dislodges that ache. "What I don't get is why you're all so okay with experimenting with lyrium. What if it does something to you, and you can't take that back?"
There is worry, there. Buried deep.
no subject
The level to which he's straining to keep his face straight is borderline comical, and he eventually cedes a temporary defeat as he ducks his head and pretends to focus on his as-of-now untouched meal.
"Plenty of things have been done to me that I can't take back. At least it's my choice this time. It's worth it." He sniffs wetly, angrily. "...it's worth it if we can find even one answer."
no subject
Benedict is upset, and trying not to show it. Abby waits him out. She isn't looking at him either, she's picking bits off her bread but not bringing them to her mouth any more, opting to create a pile to the side of her plate.
"I get it. Okay? I do, I just—" How does she explain this? It's difficult. She's frowning thoughtfully. "Fenris told me about what happens when people are exposed to lyrium. When he was here, I mean, he told me, and it's fucked up. And we all just fucking died and came back." Though, not all of them did; Jude is gone, and what Ellie said is true. She is mad and upset, and burying it under other things, lashing out in a different direction. She breathes out. "I don't want anything bad to happen to you guys. And this lyrium shit feels bad."
no subject
Abby thus gets a word in edgewise, and although he bristles in response, he doesn't argue-- say what you will about Benedict Artemaeus, but he'll never talk with his mouth full. By the time he's finished chewing again, Abby has said her piece, and the wind has left his sails.
"Well," he says in an attempt at his usual primness, "I don't. Want anything bad to happen to you. ...guys." He's thrown off momentarily by the colloquialism, squinting as if he isn't sure he's saying it right, or that he should be saying it at all.
no subject
"I know." And there's no talking the other out of it, is there.
A pause. She nibbles bread. She adds, less angry and worried, more sulky, "I didn't do anything to that fucking sign-up sheet, you know."
no subject
He looks up, taken entirely out of his head by the remark.
"...the one for the study?"
no subject
"Yeah. I didn't do that."
no subject
Did something happen to the signup sheet? After he put his name down he just went on living his life.
"...wait, is that what Wysteria was going on about?"
no subject
no subject
A snicker spills out of him before he can stop it.
"She made it sound like someone tampered with the lyrium."
no subject
"She's so dramatic. She messaged me about a week ago telling me that somebody had filed a suit against me and she needed to know where I was for the whole day."
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Maybe it was him.
no subject
"Maybe Wysteria did it."
no subject
Though, now that she's sitting here considering it, the argument did drum up some sympathy for her. And people promptly crawled out of the woodwork to defend her precious study too, including the idiot sitting opposite her at the table, she has not forgotten about that. "... Would she?"
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)