[With a little nod, Benedict lapses into silence and tries to focus on his work. He's exhausted, smarting from the recent succession of hits to his pride, and, worst of all, he realizes once again how much he cares what Byerly thinks of him.
It's not something he wants to vocalize, and inevitably worsen by shoving his own foot in his mouth-- instead, he resolves to simply get through the day without being a problem.
This manifests as hunching over his desk as if deep in concentration, allowing a gentle quiet to grow between them.]
[Benedict, having ruminated for so long now that he's all but counting down the minutes until he can finally leave work and go be unobserved for a while, looks up quietly.]
...I... tried to.
[His reticence, at least, doesn't seem to come from fear of what Byerly will do or say, as before. He's exhausted, from exhausting himself.]
[ What the hell else is there to say here? Maker, Byerly hates the way the boy acts when he's like this - cringing and miserable. It'd be so much easier if he were the sort of person who reacted defiantly, rather than miserably. He'd almost prefer someone who spat in his face. ]
[The words are an unexpected (but welcome) balm, yet somehow just manage to make him all the more aware of what a disaster today has been. He needs to go smoke something, maybe mash his face into a pillow and throw a fit like the spoiled brat he is, release some tension, but only where no one can see or hear or judge.
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Don't be sorry. Be smart.
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It's not something he wants to vocalize, and inevitably worsen by shoving his own foot in his mouth-- instead, he resolves to simply get through the day without being a problem.
This manifests as hunching over his desk as if deep in concentration, allowing a gentle quiet to grow between them.]
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The man said you acquitted yourself well.
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...I... tried to.
[His reticence, at least, doesn't seem to come from fear of what Byerly will do or say, as before. He's exhausted, from exhausting himself.]
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[ What the hell else is there to say here? Maker, Byerly hates the way the boy acts when he's like this - cringing and miserable. It'd be so much easier if he were the sort of person who reacted defiantly, rather than miserably. He'd almost prefer someone who spat in his face. ]
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[The words are an unexpected (but welcome) balm, yet somehow just manage to make him all the more aware of what a disaster today has been. He needs to go smoke something, maybe mash his face into a pillow and throw a fit like the spoiled brat he is, release some tension, but only where no one can see or hear or judge.
In the meantime, he's lucky to still be here.]
...um,
[But perhaps the point is made.]
...could I take off a bit early?
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You may.
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They Are Free]