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Most of the papers have taken to calling Benoit Blanc eccentric.
(The New Yorker says he “seems to live in his own world”. The Advocate tells readers he “doesn’t seem preoccupied by following social cues”.
One newspaper even calls him “a very queer sort of person”. He laughs at the irony.)
Most people, however, have skipped the pleasantries and taken to calling him a freak.
Worse, though, they do it behind his back, hiding their distaste behind fake smiles and handshakes and smirks exchanged with their friends when they think he’s not looking.
(Of course he’s looking. How do they think he got the name World’s Greatest Detective, for God’s sake?)
It’s not like he isn’t used to being laughed at — he was a queer autistic kid growing up in Louisiana, of course he is — but, by God, does he hate the fake politeness people try to hide their titters behind.
(People seem to have an annoyingly innate need to couch what they really mean in layers upon layers of secrets and social rules and context clues that it seems everyone should know — but that these people themselves don’t even seem to fully comprehend — and it irks him to the point of exasperation. He constantly lies for his job, but it’s only a means to an end; he could never imagine doing it all of the time, to the point where it’s no more than a second nature.)
(Benoit thinks he’s pretty good at figuring people out, but he’s never understood those who lie for pleasure and validation alone; it seems like a miserable existence, living life sat on a throne built of fragile mistruths.)
He thinks her incredible sincerity is part of what endears Marta to him; because while she lies, she does so only for her own survival. Otherwise, she’s upfront, willing to speak her kind heart when it is called for. In fact, she abhors lying, just as he does, so much so that even the thought of it makes her nauseous. Having someone who tells him the truth and speaks their mind amongst the sea of conniving and simpering suspects he works with near daily is like a huge breath of fresh air.
(And, unlike those same suspects, she never laughs at him — not even when they talk and he mutters “Kenoak, Kenoak, Kenoak” to himself because it he likes the way it sounds, or when he’s explaining a recent case to her and gets so excited that he rocks back and forth.)
(Phillip’s the same; he doesn’t laugh when Benoit is trying to figure out a particularly vexatious problem and covers his ears to focus, nor does he mind when he has to cancel a date because Benoit’s had too overwhelming a day and refuses to move from under his weighted blanket. He just smiles, keeps his voice low, and turns off the lights.
It’s refreshing, to say the least.)
—
Even after two years of friendship, Marta still calls him Detective Blanc.
Every time he visits the sprawling grounds of her mansion, he gently reminds her, placing a piece on the Go board, that “You can just call me Benoit, my dear.”
And every time, she just laughs, captures one of his stones, and replies, “Whatever you say, Detective.”
—
Phillip calls him Beignet.
Benoit doesn’t know where it came from, or how it stuck despite his vehement protests.
All he does know is that every time he comes home from a case, Phillip envelops him in a hug and whispers, “Welcome home, Beignet”, and he rolls his eyes and pretends to hate the name — but, secretly, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
—
Lieutenant Elliott calls him Benny.
He does know where that one started: in words whispered in his ear in a dingy hotel room in Boston, the first time he’d ever visited Massachusetts on a case.
(With the fingers of one hand tangled in Benoit’s short-cropped hair and the other wrapped around his hip, Elliott had murmured, his breath hot on Benoit’s neck, “That was amazing, Benny.”
“Goodness gracious,” was all Benoit, in his infinite eloquence, had said in reply.)
—
Helen calls him “the World’s Greatest Detective”.
He thinks it’s a bit of a ridiculous name — he’s a good detective, of course, but most certainly not the world’s greatest — but she’s adamant on using it, with a smirk tugging at her lips every time she says the moniker.
He just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and snorts in response, because, really, what’s in a name?