"What? No, I--" Confused, both hands still holding Clark's, Bel looks down and sees nothing but rust and dust and grease. It hasn't been tidy work, but blood? And there's no visible wound on Clark's hand, nowhere the blood Bel can see could have come from.....

A sharp, assessing look back up at Clark, mirroring his perplexity. "Looks like we've got our very own liar's paradox. I feel fine and definitely haven't butchered anything recently, and you can't see the bloodstain I see on your hand?" Not even on Ceti before they found out about the sentient whales. Growing accustomed to galactic cuisine, even up to proteins that hadn't been humanely vat-grown, hadn't extended to wanting anything to do with how meat gets to the plate. Military life is bloody enough without thinking about where sausage comes from.