"It's okay, I don't mind. I never get to hear any of this shit. The coordinated outfits is kinda weird, mostly because the guy-with-clearly-questionable-tattoo-choices-number-eight-thirty-six is obviously gonna be pro-self-expression, but you guys do whatever works for you. At least you'll love them," Felix replied, a little surprised that he actually meant it. As much as he knew about everyone in the house, the strong majority of it was through spying. That someone was actively being open with him, even if it was just Pam, was almost an odd little novelty.
"Sorry about Hathaway."
That hadn't exactly been what he'd intended to come out, and for a second he felt an almost cold panic tickle the back of his neck. In the context he knew it was very unlikely that there was anything genuinely suspicious about it, and he could work with it easily enough, but that didn't mean he liked just saying shit out loud like that. And definitely not when he knew there cameras on him. Maybe he could swing this as some kind of strategic move later. Would They fucking believe it? Would doing that make it look even more like bullshit?
"The whole situation was fucked up," he offered another nonchalant shrug, nudging a tuft of longer dried out grass to see if anything hopped out, then continuing on, "but if They wanted shit to happen, there probably wasn't anything you could do about it. Your not a bad octomom, just like you'll be telling me I'm not a bad bunnydad when They eventually pull that shit with me." Or someone else pulled it on him, or he was forced somehow to pull it on himself. He didn't want to go there, but he probably would if he had to. And didn't that make him feel a little ill.