"You can't do anything in plate," Bellamy informs her, perhaps in vain. He doesn't trust the whispering or the gesturing, but he is powerless to really do anything about it--besides leave, of course, which he could do. And might.
Until he can't, because he's surrounding by fabrics and samples and measuring tapes and a lot of technical conversation with regards to style and his own measurements, cavalierly bantered about. None of this is directed at him.
This is well beyond any kind of treatment he's ever had, and it's overwhelming at first. Then it is nightmarish. One look at that sick green and he scowls, only to be met with the embroidered pink, and then a yellow that looks like bile, and on and on and on, and even when he says no, no one pays him mind.
Except the lady, who catches his eye when he's trying to step away from an invasive tape measure.
"Can you make them stop?"
One of the assistants loops a strand of lace around his wrist. Bellamy shakes free, with a scowl.
"Look, I appreciate the gesture. All of this isn't necessary."
no subject
Until he can't, because he's surrounding by fabrics and samples and measuring tapes and a lot of technical conversation with regards to style and his own measurements, cavalierly bantered about. None of this is directed at him.
This is well beyond any kind of treatment he's ever had, and it's overwhelming at first. Then it is nightmarish. One look at that sick green and he scowls, only to be met with the embroidered pink, and then a yellow that looks like bile, and on and on and on, and even when he says no, no one pays him mind.
Except the lady, who catches his eye when he's trying to step away from an invasive tape measure.
"Can you make them stop?"
One of the assistants loops a strand of lace around his wrist. Bellamy shakes free, with a scowl.
"Look, I appreciate the gesture. All of this isn't necessary."