[Well that’s a fine good morning for you. Benedict stops dead halfway to his desk, swiveling on his heel to fix Byerly with a look as startled as it is mortified.]
...what?
[He wracks his brain for reasons, and one arrives sooner than he thought— shit. The fake appointment.]
[He was framed, this is all a misunderstanding, he-- wait. Oh.
Bene is visibly taken aback.]
...I did.
[With a deep exhale, he backs up to sit against the edge of his desk, his hands curled over its edges to prop him up, a hangdog look overtaking any fearfulness. When he speaks again, it's with guilty resignation.]
[That same terrible tightness has returned to his guts, reminiscent of when he faced the anger of Gabranth himself. His groveling is, at least, sincere: there’s an element of knowing he’s got to endure it and come out the other side, rather than wriggle out now and have to pay the piper later.]
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[ Byerly's voice is mild as anything. He picks up the coffee and sips it. ]
Mm, good cup today.
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...what?
[He wracks his brain for reasons, and one arrives sooner than he thought— shit. The fake appointment.]
I’m sorry, [he says quickly.]
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Why are you apologizing to me?
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Is this a game, Maker's breath, he's gotten so good at knowing when things are games, but this has him completely at a loss.]
I'm...
[He winces, his eyebrows quirking as if in pain. Maybe it's not about the appointment, shit.]
...who else... would I apologize to?
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The fellow you tried to blind?
[ He gives a gesture evocative of poking someone hard in the eye. ]
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Bene is visibly taken aback.]
...I did.
[With a deep exhale, he backs up to sit against the edge of his desk, his hands curled over its edges to prop him up, a hangdog look overtaking any fearfulness. When he speaks again, it's with guilty resignation.]
I'm a little surprised he came to you about it.
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I'm utterly shocked that you didn't.
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Benedict is silent a moment, fully caught in it.]
I suppose I thought we'd. Sorted it. He and I.
[His speech is halting and sheepish.]
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[If ever it were possible to just disintegrate, now would be the time.
At least he likes the coffee.]
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Yes.
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[That same terrible tightness has returned to his guts, reminiscent of when he faced the anger of Gabranth himself.
His groveling is, at least, sincere: there’s an element of knowing he’s got to endure it and come out the other side, rather than wriggle out now and have to pay the piper later.]
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Maker, stop looking at me like I'm some grand bully persecuting you.
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Now doesn’t seem like the time to get smart.]
I’m agreeing with you, [he says faintly.]
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...how should I look.
[It's almost an earnest question.]
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You're cleaning out the privies.
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What?
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[He can't stop himself from sneering at the thought, but it is what it is.]
...fine.
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Get to it, then.
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