[ Anakin's death has stirred up memories for so many of them. Clint's are faint flickers, things that catch the corners of Bellamy's awareness and vanish before he can pay direct attention to them. What lingers is the sense of hunger, which is at direct odds with Bellamy's nausea. He's not intending to stop in the kitchen and tempt fate, but he heeds the invitation.
Clint is a mystery. He's closed off in a way that Bellamy envies but can't quite manage to replicate. Bellamy drops heavily into the nearest seat, elbows braced on the table while he rides out the initial, queasy reaction to the smell of food. ]
I better not.
[ He's sick of vomiting. He's also sure everyone who happens to brush against his mind is also sick of it. ]
no subject
Clint is a mystery. He's closed off in a way that Bellamy envies but can't quite manage to replicate. Bellamy drops heavily into the nearest seat, elbows braced on the table while he rides out the initial, queasy reaction to the smell of food. ]
I better not.
[ He's sick of vomiting. He's also sure everyone who happens to brush against his mind is also sick of it. ]
It's still not a good idea.