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]

"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?"

[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]

"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.

[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.