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.