Judging by how out-of-breath Benedict is when he enters the dining hall, making a beeline for Bastien's little work station, he just ran all the way here. He approaches with desperate purpose, claps his hands on the table, and freezes: whatever he had come to say with such confidence immediately eludes him.
"Bastien," he says instead, hushed in timid apology. whoops
Doing his best to catch up on a good week's worth of work that he wasn't allowed to touch is as good a reason as any not to immediately look up, despite the breathless purpose. But the raise of his eyebrows is still visible even with his head angled down and his eyes on the notes he's taking.
Bastien looks up as he sits, with a bland, quizzical sort of expression. The expression one might wear if a total stranger came to their desk and informed them of their own name with no context.
Sucking in a breath, Benedict gives the briefest impression of having been stabbed right in the heart. He’s quick, however, to remember how easily Clarisse recalled him, and this is enough to get his mind on straight.
“You’re not serious,” he says weakly, calling Bastien’s bluff as sweetly as he can.
Years of grueling training and decades of do-or-die refinement all lead to this moment, now, when Bastien doesn’t crack even a little. He shakes his head, faint and wondering and a little apologetic not to recognize this poor confused man.
“Sorry,” he says again. A freshly ordained Chantry brother couldn’t be more sincere.
There’s a pause, in which the oft-credulous Benedict struggles to believe him, but he simply knows Bastien too well by now. His face reddens with indignation, his expression darkening. He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks.
“You’re an arsehole,” he says in an undertone, his voice quavering, and he gets up from the table just as quickly as he sat down.
Before he’s completely stepped away, however, Benedict turns with a toss of his hair to snip, “and Rattie loves me more than you.”
The quavering is right on the verge of making him crack — because no, Benedict doesn't deserve it, not for more than a few seconds — when the comment about Rat Red lands and all hope evaporates. His eyebrows pinch together, a faint hint of what are you talking about to maintain the pretense in place of a more genuine and more miserable I fucking noticed, and he doesn't try to stop him from going.
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action; immediately post-forgetti, like The Day it wears off
"Bastien," he says instead, hushed in timid apology. whoops
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"Hm?"
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"I'm," he squirms a moment-- how to encompass the magnitude of what happened in one pithy statement-- "I'm sorry."
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He hums. He puts his pen down.
"I'm sorry," he says politely. "Who are you?"
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“You’re not serious,” he says weakly, calling Bastien’s bluff as sweetly as he can.
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“Sorry,” he says again. A freshly ordained Chantry brother couldn’t be more sincere.
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“You’re an arsehole,” he says in an undertone, his voice quavering, and he gets up from the table just as quickly as he sat down.
Before he’s completely stepped away, however, Benedict turns with a toss of his hair to snip, “and Rattie loves me more than you.”
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