contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[bouchonne]

I am having a very nice morning.

[ There's no eyebrow waggle in return. Just sickening sincerity. And, when Bastien comes up with a blanket: ]

Oh, you gorgeous thing. [ He wraps himself up, and then plops himself down right on the ground to give Whiskey a great embrace. ] How did you sleep?

[bouchonne]

"I'll never tell." A finger is laid alongside Byerly's nose, and he winks.

"Though if I had ruined his guts, it might actually have saved his life." His wry grin is turned on Flint himself. "I think you were about ready to put a knife in his heart. Bastien was, too, though he'd have come in from the back." Byerly mimes the neat way a Bard would dispatch a target from behind. "You'd have done it from the front." He arranges his face in a reasonable approximation of the hard, still expression Flint has when he truly hates someone, and mimes a far less elegant and far more brutal swing of a dagger into a chest. "Sending him home meant he'd live to shit himself another day."

Byerly drops the key into Flint's hand, then gestures towards the cabinet in invitation.

[cozen]

Not too bad,

[ comes not in Bastien's normal voice, but in one that's both mournfully slow and feminine, with his best attempt at a Fereldan accent. (Whiskey was born in Tantervale, but of course she would have her Papa's accent by now.) ]

There are so many new smells and noises here, but your feet were the same, and when I woke I only had to go down one flight of stairs to attend to my business.

[ While Bastien answers for the dog, he sits on the hearth behind and to the side of Byerly, careful not to block the radiating warmth from the fire. He's in reach of the kettle this way, and close enough to wriggle his toes under Byerly's blanket-wrapped butt to steal a little warmth himself. ]

[katabasis]

They could have made it look like a tragic accident, Flint doesn't say. Instead, a sidelong look—what a pity, or maybe, that's a terrible fucking impression of him—, then he pockets the key, bends, and fetches a bottle from somewhere in the cabinet's cheap shit band. He's not walking out with the whole cabinet right this moment, but that doesn't mean he has to leave the office entirely empty handed.

Presumably a few servants will be along shortly who can be instructed to shift the liquor collection and the piece of furniture to the neighboring division office. This bottle, meanwhile, is set comfortably into the crook of his arm.

"I trust all your papers are in order."

[bouchonne]

Just one flight of stairs?

[ Byerly grins and lifts Whiskey's drooping cheeks, drawing them upwards into a doggy smile. ]

Hmm, I don't know. I'm afraid you'll get fat. We may need to cut down on the bacon you eat.

[ In spite of seeming to ignore Bastien in favor of 'conversation' with Whiskey, he does scoot backwards a bit to sit more thoroughly on Bastien's feet. ]

[bouchonne]

"Filed with love and care by my shockingly competent assistant," By replies. "I am quite glad we didn't murder the lad. He's turned into quite the asset."

Byerly's glance is a punctuating sort of look, and the punctuation it offers is a firm and decisive full stop. Not a question mark, nor a comma; this is a plain assertion of fact, with no interest in whether or not Flint concurs. Don't forget that fact when I'm not in office. We need him.

The glance softens into amusement, though, when he sees the bottle Flint grabbed. "How many years on land, and yet you still prefer the rotgut?"

[cozen]

Noooooo.

[ Whiskey obliges Bastien's ventriloquism by giving Byerly a more attentive look at the word bacon. The thunk of her tail signifies that this is a hopeful head raise, not a bothered one, but her droopy face is so inherently sad that she looks a little heartbroken all the same.

(Bastien wiggles his toes gratefully beneath Byerly.) ]

I will run laps. I will walk to Antiva and Orlais with you. Anything but my bacon.

[katabasis]

Byerly's full stop or no, there's a definitive movement in the direction of a curl from Flint's lip behind the bristle of his whiskers—there and gone, so fleeting that it's possible he only feels the flare of irritation rather than getting as far as thinking, Agree to disagree.

Instead, he twists the bottle half over in the crook of his arm to consult the cheap makers mark. That reflexive lip curling slants in the direction of a generally unapologetic flexing through most of the lines of his face. Yeah, well.

"I was under the impression that you're meant to reserve the decent stuff for sharing."

And it's not as if Byerly's likely to join him in a toast, now is he? So the rotgut it is.

[bouchonne]

All right, my darling, all right.

[ He gathers up her heavy, droopy head and showers loud kisses all over her nose and ears. ]

I would never. Your life will be a proper bacon-alia at all times.

[ He wiggles his butt a little bit in a bit of pride over his terrible pun. ]

[bouchonne]

"You're not going to share it?"

Now that they're not colleagues, Byerly is keen on a bit more of the fun gossip. He leans cheerfully against the wall beside him, arms crossed, face rather warm.

"Not with anyone? Not even Silver?"

Come on, girl, dish.

[cozen]

[ Bastien snorts and laughs. The laugh lasts longer, as he droops forward to kiss the whorl of hair on top of By's head, now with the added benefit of huffing hot laughing breaths onto his scalp. Whiskey is busy answering him big broad swipes of her tongue, which gives Bastien the opportunity to say, ]

Horrible,

[ in his own very Orlesian voice. 'orreeble.

Behind him, the kettle begins to bubble audibly, not quite fully boiling. He does what he can without getting up, but ultimately he has to, to assemble the coffee. He says, ] Bacon-alia, [ to himself as he goes, still tickled.

Less under-his-breath: ]

We should do something nice today. Your first day of freedom. No one will blame us if we don't go in to the Gallows at all.

[ When he makes to pass a hot mug into Byerly's hands, finally, he works in a bit of not-really-hidden sleight of hand to also pass a ring onto the tip of By's finger, where it hands loosely in need of being pulled all the way down. It's a fox, as requested, etched into the face of a silver signet ring.

Having ruined his own opportunity to romantically slide it on while naked and cozy, Bastien's gone full anti-fuss; his only comment on the matter is a particularly pleased smile as he settles down to sit on the ground beside By with coffee of his own. ]

[katabasis]

Keen or no, warm or otherwise—

"Messere Silver has better taste in liquor than I do." As far as tacit refusals to indulge in the man's needling go, it's simple and affable. Good try, but no.

a note;

[heirring]

[Some days after receiving the T.R.I.P., a narrow two page sheaf of papers is left in Byerly's pigeonhole. Unfolded, the sheaf of papers turns out to be the lyrics and melody notes for a comedic tune called The Kaiten Jackrabbit, a brisk folk tune detailing a large jack rabbit who repeatedly eludes and frustrates various hunters and their dogs. A brief note scribbled at the top of the page reads—]

Mister Rutyer, I think this might be a good addition to your playing repertoire. —W.

[bouchonne]

[ It will take about two months. But at some point, in the not-so-distant future, Wysteria will pass a minstrel, and she will hear that tune being played. The lyrics aren't quite perfect - a word will have been changed here and there, in the way that such things are transmitted and transformed - but it's her song. ]

crystal.

[cozen]

[ Like fifteen minutes of sulking post-this: ]

Has Benedict mentioned still being angry with me or—anything?

[bouchonne]

[ Hm. Interesting. ]

He hasn't. Though I think it's likely he wouldn't say anything to me.

[cozen]

[ A defeated, horselike exhale. ]

That's true. [ But he sheds some of the defeat as he goes on: ] Complaining about me is a terrible way for anyone to stay on your good side.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly hums in affirmation. ]

Anyone who says something unkind about you? I'm immediately going and farting on their pillows.

So - why do you ask?

[cozen]

Mon chevalier en armure puante, [ warmly, but right, back to it. ] I don't know. I have been trying to—

[ Bond. Again. Kind of a pathetic thing for a professional charmer to admit. ]

I know he is going through something, with the drinking and everything, but he was so serious with me just now. Then he told me he was busy. And it was not 'I'm sorry, this is very urgent and I have to go' busy. It was 'I don't want to deal with you right now' busy. I know the difference.

I suppose that is fair, though.

[bouchonne]

You fought rather bitterly, didn’t you? When I was - [ hm. ] After Granitefell?

[cozen]

I guess. I mean—I said something about not wanting to tie his boots for him every morning. That was as bad as it got. And I thought we made up. We've been getting along. I thought.

Maybe he is only having a bad day.

[bouchonne]

[ Hmmmm. ]

The lad is moody. Still - may I have your permission to ask him about it?

[cozen]

[ How terrible, to be a manipulative con man by trade (and by nature) but still have to ask for his boyfriend’s help and intervention to figure out why an eminently bullyable Tevinter twink is mad at him.

But not knowing is worse. ]

Yeah. Alright.

[bouchonne]

[ And how terrible, to be a spy (heartless by requirement) with a great, soft, beating heart. ]

I adore you, my darling. Thank you for trying to get along with the lad.

[cozen]

Yeah, well—

[ Of course he's warmed and touched by this. It's audible beneath the dry upper layer of his tone. ]

—he is your kin.