"Chemistry homework." The way Seth says it manages to be both quizzically neutral and exactly like saying 'bullshit'--he's never had a reason to learn how to hide what he can do under the influence, and it turns out that he's not very good at it. He also doesn't particularly care about being good at it, at least not right now. He awkwardly pours himself a glass of orange juice and closes the carton with exaggerated care before storing it in the refrigerator.
"I suppose boredom is good enough. I can't imagine how you'd be held accountable for any mishaps happening to me. You could always tell them you thought I was joking." Seth sips the orange juice with conscious restraint, the tartness of it mixing sharply and bitterly with the metallic residue of gin in his mouth before washing it away. He cocks his head as the surge of her fear settles into him, his interest a little too avid and a little too pointed. Like a needle angling under a fingernail, but not quite pressing in. Just knowing that he could, if he wanted to.
"You seem uncomfortable, Anna," he says conversationally, settling his orange juice between his knees for lack of a coaster to put it anywhere else. She's a fluttering and small thing, like--and then there's something about 'birdlike' that's distasteful, and he decides she's more like a leaf shivering on a bare branch. He retracts the tips of his potential cynicism (like potential energy in a spring, ready to be tripped whenever he lets it go) and picks his orange juice up to sip it again, admiring the bloody fingerprints he leaves on the glass.
"I'm not rabid. You'll be fine." He swirls his orange juice speculatively, looking at the way orange is shaded through smeared red, and adds: "Thank you."