[ For a second, for a moment, they echo. A twisting, looping, push-pull of agony. Clint's back tenses, stilling, even as Bellamy falls into his chair like a puppet with its strings cut. Silence reigns, as Clint unwinds, busy, busy. The tension still gilds his spine, settles in his shoulders, but he breathes through it. Settles down in his own chair and tries not to think about it.
Still -- he picks up on the hesitance in Bellamy's words. A familiarity with hunger, rationing, that throws Clint back to his early years. He doesn't let anything spill, guarded, guarding. ]
Maybe, but it can't hurt to try. [ A little nod, acknowledging. With one hand, he spins his fork, a vague pasta substitute awaiting him. He won't necessarily push, but he'll nudge. ] We've more than enough for everyone here anyway.
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Still -- he picks up on the hesitance in Bellamy's words. A familiarity with hunger, rationing, that throws Clint back to his early years. He doesn't let anything spill, guarded, guarding. ]
Maybe, but it can't hurt to try. [ A little nod, acknowledging. With one hand, he spins his fork, a vague pasta substitute awaiting him. He won't necessarily push, but he'll nudge. ] We've more than enough for everyone here anyway.