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[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

His own smile, tamer now, flexes in a proud little flicker.

No, Benedict. He isn't.

"I imagine you'll do better next time."

He's taken up space at the edge of that desk again, idly drawing deft fingers along its faintly dusted corner before one rises to meet his lips, the universal signal for a hushed mouth.

"Our little secret."

[altusimperius]

But nothing happened, Benedict wants to say-- nothing fell into the wrong hands, no secrets were told-- but still he feels shame rising in him at the sight of that hushing finger, and all at once it's as though something did happen, if only because for a stupid instant he thought he'd get lucky.

Maybe Mother was right about him after all.

"...I think you should go," he says, the lusty intrigue draining from him as surely as wind leaving the sails of a lost skiff.

[illithidnapped]

"Well. And here I thought we were having ourselves a lovely little conversation— getting acquainted, becoming fast friends."

He looks sullen, Benedict. You've wounded him: one hand pressed across his frigid heart, chin settling low into the ruffed collar around his own neck.

"But I know when I'm unwanted. I'll do as you ask."

[altusimperius]

Benedict looks sullen right back at him. It hurts me more than it hurts you, really.

"I'll... see you around," he murmurs, wistfully. Next time. Maybe when there are fewer compromising documents around.

[illithidnapped]

“I’m sure.”

There’s no bow, no flourish— only that hand still left clasped across his chest as he backs out the door.