[ A pause, before he decides there's no way to be as gentle as he'd like to be without doing everyone a disservice and plows ahead with what he has. ]
I know it's fucking miserable to be in a room full of people who are angry with you, [ or he'd guess, anyway, having shaped his entire personality from childhood on to avoid ever actually experiencing that situation, ] but answering their concerns with fire me if you can might have sounded a lot like if you do not like my cooking, go eat with the pigs.
[ This is, to Bastien, a bit hasty and backwards—rushing to nail down potential solutions without working out exactly what the issue is, exactly why Flint (somewhat of an ally) and Yseult (certainly not the mages' ally, if also certainly not Byerly's) and Tony (almost a bandmate) would be united in a decision to oust him. Too hasty to write off the usefulness of an apology, too.
But that's alright. None of them are going anywhere. They don't have to go in order.
[ That's said to Bastien with full, warm affection. Byerly apparently approves of the disrespect, even in the midst of his ongoing tantrum.
Then, to Benedict's question: ]
I don't know. Not...gifts, or anything of the sort. Again, that would just seem to be weaseling. [ By's quiet a moment, then says - ] I wonder if I could ask for something from Stark. He seems to enjoy tinkering. And it is a bit of a truism that, to earn someone's loyalty, it's more effective to ask for a favor than to grant one.
[The ‘really?’ is clear on Benedict’s face even if he doesn’t ask it aloud. Clearly there’s still a lot he has to learn about how normal people conduct business.]
[ Bastien has time for, like, half of a cheeky, dimpled grin, before the conversation moves on from slob and into buttering up Stark and the grin disappears. ]
By.
[ Maybe this will earn him an exasperated look, too. Maybe something worse. But his tendency to be (happily) indulgent and cooing has, if not gotten them here, not diverted them from the destination, either.
So. ]
For argument's sake, let's suppose that they gave you the position because they believed you could do it, or hoped that you could, and they have worked with you this long willingly, and even if they don't like you they want you to succeed because they want Riftwatch to succeed, and as we've established and there is no obvious, perfectly-behaved, well-trained replacement waiting in your shadow. Let's assume they are not considering this lightly, and so a light buttering up is not going to solve it.
[ Feet still on the desk. One arm flopped around his own middle, the other holding his water. On the one hand, it's a shame to do this in front of Benedict. On the other, maybe he needed Benedict to be here to motivate him to stay on this side of the desk, clear-eyed.
Maybe a little frustrated, also. ]
You fucked up. You know you fucked up. But you dug in deeper, and when they told you that you fucked up, you—you collapsed, you know? You do that. People criticize you, [ like he's doing now, more than he ever has in the course of their relationship, right in front of a smirky little shithead, but he'll deal with that later, whether that means in thirty seconds or tonight, ] and you say what did you expect or you might as well give up on me or—
[ He gestures. Please just fire me. Other things. ]
And then the conversation isn't about what they are trying to talk to you about. It's about you. And I will wrestle your self-loathing for you every day for the rest of our lives, because I love you and honestly I kind of enjoy it, but other people aren't going to do that. They don't have time. For them it only seems derailing and unproductive and possibly manipulative. I know they are three different flavors of asshole [ affectionate/derogatory ] who all love to be right and it is probably infuriating to deal with, but they need to be able to tell you when they think you are wrong, and you need to be willing to hear them out and have a reasonable conversation about it. You have to have a little faith in them, too, or what the fuck are we doing here? We wouldn't have to run away to an island and ignore the war. There are a thousand other places we could try to make ourselves useful. We could even bring Benedict.
[ Bastien has never spoken to him like this before. Not even when they were fighting. Byerly feels naked, and humiliated - in front of fucking Artemaeus, who's probably just going to smirk at him and take pleasure in seeing it. And Byerly's mind immediately says, He hates you, and He thinks you're stupid, he thinks you're worthless, the man who knows your heart better than any others and he thinks you're worthless -
He thinks about his mother. For some reason, in that moment, he thinks about his mother. Who, as their finances dwindled and the house rotted and her children got hungrier and hungrier, simply found her bed, and crawled into it, and became a living corpse.
His jaw tightens so hard that his teeth creak. He wants to hurl himself at the liquor cabinet. But he tells himself: Bastien always runs. When he gives up, he runs. He doesn't say cruel things; he just fades away to nothing. This is hard for him, too. ]
All right.
[ His voice is low, and a little strangled. And then he says: ]
[Benedict doesn't smirk. He looks from Bastien to Byerly with the gaze of someone who is, however quietly, Having A Whole Feeling and at a loss of how to handle it, but fortunately Bastien breaks the spell by saying his name. He has a moment to be caught off-guard before he forces his mind back on track, watching Byerly with careful encouragement.
It's strange to see the man so openly feeling the way he himself has so often felt. He doesn't want to step on him while he's down; the solution to being in the dungeon isn't to put someone else where he sat, it's to get everyone out.]
[ Bastien watches Byerly until he speaks, half afraid he'll cry, or get up and walk out, or both, and Bastien won't have the willpower to do anything except go after him and tell him that he's sorry and Byerly is wonderful and everyone else in the entire world can go fuck themselves. The other half expects an argument. Quibbles on the minor points, if not the entire premise.
It almost feels worse, not to have one. But worse in a way that still makes him relax, within the rigid outline of his fake-relaxed, slouchy, feet-on-desk posture, in barely perceptible ways.
He checks Benedict's face. If he'd found a smirk there he might have thrown him out of the room. But he doesn't. The kid can stay.
Bastien nods, adjusts to the reality that they might be closer to on the same page, and pronounces, with great dignity: ]
[ That grand declaration gets a bark of despairing, choked laughter out of Byerly. ]
Gee, thanks.
[ Then he shakes his head. Blows out a breath. And he says: ]
I suppose I...don't have much faith in them. That much is true. There was a moment in there that I remember where I agreed with Yseult, and she looked at me like I'd declared that I was the second coming of Andraste. I do wonder if - perhaps I've been too skeptical. If it seems so unlikely that I'd call an idea good when it's good.
[ Though - and this is directed at Bastien, an accusation because he the one who likes her for Maker's sake - ] In my defense, though, I still don't bloody know who she works for. She won't tell me. It makes her damn hard to trust when I don't know what other agendas she has. At least Flint is open about his allegiances.
[ Bastien smiles again, mild and unoffended. His friendship with Yseult has suffered somewhat of late, the same way it would if she had such obvious disdain for anything else he loved, like his music or ambitions or jokes. Not mad—he does still like her, and respects her even more—but more distant, more content to accept that that's how it's going to be, more understanding of the fact that he'll never hear from her again once this war is over and he's no longer just one of the least intolerable people she has no choice but to deal with. ]
It would be really funny, [ he says, a small olive branch after the lecture, ] if it were the Chantry.
[ That gets a look of gratitude. That Bastien is willing to razz Yseult - but to do so in a way that's not particularly mean, so Byerly doesn't have to feel the guilt of having asked him to truly turn against his friend - It's very comforting. It's very kind. ]
She'd look quite fetching, it must be said, in a wimple. She has that round face and those lovely eyes. You'd look good in one, too, Bastien. Benedict...You'd look like a witch.
[ A little olive branch of his own, extended to the boy. An acknowledgment of him that's gently teasing, rather than sharp or defensive. ]
I suppose an apology wouldn't be...Well, they'd likely think I was trying to weasel out of it. Certainly. But at least it might be some start.
[ The thought of everyone in wimples earns a grin—not a laugh, because Bastien's not quite that relaxed yet. When they're alone, he'll tell Byerly more about how he met Yseult: the chaos and harm that he was trying to cause, for a few hundred pieces of gold, and that she was trying to stop. Whoever she works or has worked for, he's as confident as an Orlesian can ever be that it's no one who would want Corypheus to win, and he's never seen any evidence she has any goal other than that.
Of course, Fitcher slipped through. And Gideon.
The grin reduces to a more serious smile. ]
If you're prepared to follow through on it.
[ If you mean it, he might have said, if he were not Orlesian and/or a bard. But those are two different things, and only one of them actually matters. ]
Good, [Benedict remarks primly, regarding looking like a witch, but he carefully withholds any commentary about the apology. He had suggested it in the first place, but leaning too hard on it would be an odd look, considering who he is.]
[ Bastien is still for a moment—the absence of any other demonstration of a little swell of frustration—before he swirls his water and takes a drink. ]
Suppose they do not want their boots licked.
[ A little faith. ]
Suppose they want to know they can count on you not to provoke people during meetings just because you have gotten bored with the topic.
u can skip me for a bit, just assume he’s listening/processing
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That is - the general shape of it, yes.
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He falls back to listening instead, scanning the headings of the documents he’s compiled.]
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I know it's fucking miserable to be in a room full of people who are angry with you, [ or he'd guess, anyway, having shaped his entire personality from childhood on to avoid ever actually experiencing that situation, ] but answering their concerns with fire me if you can might have sounded a lot like if you do not like my cooking, go eat with the pigs.
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I know. I'm not proud of having said it.
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They wouldn't give a damn if I apologized to them. They'd decide I was just - trying to weasel out of consequences.
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But that's alright. None of them are going anywhere. They don't have to go in order.
He puts his feet on the desk, after all. ]
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[ That's said to Bastien with full, warm affection. Byerly apparently approves of the disrespect, even in the midst of his ongoing tantrum.
Then, to Benedict's question: ]
I don't know. Not...gifts, or anything of the sort. Again, that would just seem to be weaseling. [ By's quiet a moment, then says - ] I wonder if I could ask for something from Stark. He seems to enjoy tinkering. And it is a bit of a truism that, to earn someone's loyalty, it's more effective to ask for a favor than to grant one.
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By.
[ Maybe this will earn him an exasperated look, too. Maybe something worse. But his tendency to be (happily) indulgent and cooing has, if not gotten them here, not diverted them from the destination, either.
So. ]
For argument's sake, let's suppose that they gave you the position because they believed you could do it, or hoped that you could, and they have worked with you this long willingly, and even if they don't like you they want you to succeed because they want Riftwatch to succeed, and as we've established and there is no obvious, perfectly-behaved, well-trained replacement waiting in your shadow. Let's assume they are not considering this lightly, and so a light buttering up is not going to solve it.
[ Feet still on the desk. One arm flopped around his own middle, the other holding his water. On the one hand, it's a shame to do this in front of Benedict. On the other, maybe he needed Benedict to be here to motivate him to stay on this side of the desk, clear-eyed.
Maybe a little frustrated, also. ]
You fucked up. You know you fucked up. But you dug in deeper, and when they told you that you fucked up, you—you collapsed, you know? You do that. People criticize you, [ like he's doing now, more than he ever has in the course of their relationship, right in front of a smirky little shithead, but he'll deal with that later, whether that means in thirty seconds or tonight, ] and you say what did you expect or you might as well give up on me or—
[ He gestures. Please just fire me. Other things. ]
And then the conversation isn't about what they are trying to talk to you about. It's about you. And I will wrestle your self-loathing for you every day for the rest of our lives, because I love you and honestly I kind of enjoy it, but other people aren't going to do that. They don't have time. For them it only seems derailing and unproductive and possibly manipulative. I know they are three different flavors of asshole [ affectionate/derogatory ] who all love to be right and it is probably infuriating to deal with, but they need to be able to tell you when they think you are wrong, and you need to be willing to hear them out and have a reasonable conversation about it. You have to have a little faith in them, too, or what the fuck are we doing here? We wouldn't have to run away to an island and ignore the war. There are a thousand other places we could try to make ourselves useful. We could even bring Benedict.
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[ Bastien has never spoken to him like this before. Not even when they were fighting. Byerly feels naked, and humiliated - in front of fucking Artemaeus, who's probably just going to smirk at him and take pleasure in seeing it. And Byerly's mind immediately says, He hates you, and He thinks you're stupid, he thinks you're worthless, the man who knows your heart better than any others and he thinks you're worthless -
He thinks about his mother. For some reason, in that moment, he thinks about his mother. Who, as their finances dwindled and the house rotted and her children got hungrier and hungrier, simply found her bed, and crawled into it, and became a living corpse.
His jaw tightens so hard that his teeth creak. He wants to hurl himself at the liquor cabinet. But he tells himself: Bastien always runs. When he gives up, he runs. He doesn't say cruel things; he just fades away to nothing. This is hard for him, too. ]
All right.
[ His voice is low, and a little strangled. And then he says: ]
So what do I do with that?
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It's strange to see the man so openly feeling the way he himself has so often felt. He doesn't want to step on him while he's down; the solution to being in the dungeon isn't to put someone else where he sat, it's to get everyone out.]
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It almost feels worse, not to have one. But worse in a way that still makes him relax, within the rigid outline of his fake-relaxed, slouchy, feet-on-desk posture, in barely perceptible ways.
He checks Benedict's face. If he'd found a smirk there he might have thrown him out of the room. But he doesn't. The kid can stay.
Bastien nods, adjusts to the reality that they might be closer to on the same page, and pronounces, with great dignity: ]
I don't know.
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Gee, thanks.
[ Then he shakes his head. Blows out a breath. And he says: ]
I suppose I...don't have much faith in them. That much is true. There was a moment in there that I remember where I agreed with Yseult, and she looked at me like I'd declared that I was the second coming of Andraste. I do wonder if - perhaps I've been too skeptical. If it seems so unlikely that I'd call an idea good when it's good.
[ Though - and this is directed at Bastien, an accusation because he the one who likes her for Maker's sake - ] In my defense, though, I still don't bloody know who she works for. She won't tell me. It makes her damn hard to trust when I don't know what other agendas she has. At least Flint is open about his allegiances.
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It would be really funny, [ he says, a small olive branch after the lecture, ] if it were the Chantry.
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She'd look quite fetching, it must be said, in a wimple. She has that round face and those lovely eyes. You'd look good in one, too, Bastien. Benedict...You'd look like a witch.
[ A little olive branch of his own, extended to the boy. An acknowledgment of him that's gently teasing, rather than sharp or defensive. ]
I suppose an apology wouldn't be...Well, they'd likely think I was trying to weasel out of it. Certainly. But at least it might be some start.
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Of course, Fitcher slipped through. And Gideon.
The grin reduces to a more serious smile. ]
If you're prepared to follow through on it.
[ If you mean it, he might have said, if he were not Orlesian and/or a bard. But those are two different things, and only one of them actually matters. ]
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I suppose it would depend on what they ask as recompense. I'm willing to lick their boots, to be sure. But I'm not sure what else they'd desire.
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Suppose they do not want their boots licked.
[ A little faith. ]
Suppose they want to know they can count on you not to provoke people during meetings just because you have gotten bored with the topic.
u can skip me for a bit, just assume he’s listening/processing
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What’s the point of an apology, if not boot-licking?
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stung** dangit
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