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[There should be no give in him for that. Not under these circumstances. But: an exhale, rounded like something gentle and pained under the curve of his hand pressed to ribs.]

Then it seems we understand one another.

[ By's eyes lift to meet Flint's. He hesitates. Under normal circumstances, he'd assume that was a lie to mollify him, something to bring his guard down. But it's difficult - near-impossible - to lie under the drug's effects. Yet - it seems too easy. Has the immovable object been moved? Is it possible? ]

And to what will this understanding lead, my dear Captain?

[Now. This is the moment where with one hand he catches Byerly by the collar and draws the knife with the other.]

I haven't decided yet. [He says instead because it's truer than the knife is.] I suspect it depends on what you make of this opportunity, knowing you will never be afforded it a second time. Whether you pick the fight in this room or the one outside it - I will resolve it.

[ Ah. The air goes vibrant; his vision sharpens as he hears the drawing of that knife. By has no fondness for injury, but it is a tragic irony of his life that he never feels quite so grand or alive as when there's a knife drawn and pointed at him.

So he smiles, enjoying the clarity. ]

I told you, Captain. All I want is your friendship. Treat me as an equal, safeguard the South, and keep your pirate fucking hands off me and mine. That's all I want to make of this.

I've no doubt you'd win in a fair fight, that is true - but I hope by now you know that I am without honor or pride, and my fights are never fair.

[ He reaches out and caresses Flint's wrist. How fierce a creature he is, to try to kill even through the drug's euphoria. How astonishing his wells of determination. A man could fall in love. ]

But I don't want to be the storm that wrecks you.

[Of the two, his grip on Byerly is the steadier; it would take more effort than sits at his fingertips just now to manage anything beyond a barely serviceable hold on the knife while he pours himself into the task of twisting cloth between his fingers.]

Then let us agree. [Knuckles pressed to Byerly's warm throat, an unresistant point to the meandering touch at his wrist, there is yet something even and untroubled in his temper - a kind of bizarre satisfaction for this instant, with all its stark shapes. Maybe it is the drug. Or maybe it's because the implication, not the cut, is the weapon here and they are both aware of it. Or because recognizing what Byerly is will make all of this easier.] That from here we both go forward trusting what we know the other to be.

[ Never accept an oath from a drugged man or a drunk man. That's a truth as plain as the sun itself. And yet. ]

What will you swear to me on?

Edited 2019-09-30 18:10 (UTC)

[The line of his mouth thins, goes crooked. It's a grim kind of gratification, punctuated by the release of the collar and the flat of his hand instead setting there where shoulder and neck meet, callous rough thumb easy at the base of Byerly's throat. The knife's still there, but what would be the point in holding him to it?]

You don't really think there's anything I could say that would validate this any further, do you?

Of course there is.

[ By's hand comes up to touch the hand at his throat, caressing it with more daring sensuality. Not an incidental contact, but a deliberate one now. ]

Every man has something sacred. Swear to me on that which is sacred to you.

[Something small shifts in his face, but it's a distant shape and has no bearing on the flat quality of his hand. His palm has the same square pressure. His thumb does not dig where it sits. He doesn't twist his fingers away. It's as much a wall, retaining distance, as it is anything else.

This doesn't belong to you, it says.]

Then I swear on my home.

[ A flicker of curiosity, of surprise. ]

Tevinter?

The one I chose. [Here. His thumb presses.] Nascere.

How curious.

[ Byerly's voice is a low murmur. He supposes he should have expected that, but - The idea of forsaking your homeland is so foreign to him that it honestly wasn't even thinkable until Flint said it. If it were him, he'd still be starving for his native land, even from Nascere. Much as he had when he'd been in Orlais...Every day of his self-imposed exile, he'd craved Ferelden. How does one get to the point of forgetting it? Of considering someplace else home?

Of course, Tevinter is a shitpile. So he can't really blame Flint. ]

I accept it.

[There is a soft click of metal. The knife nips back into its sheath.]

Good.

[ How strange it is. A moment longer, then By tilts his head very slightly to the side. ]

Perhaps you should let go of me.

[Instead his spare hand turns up, palm open.]

Return the crystal.

[ Oh. Right. He pulls it from his pocket - but holds it teasingly out of reach. ]

I could use it to make you a few new friends.

[His thumb can evidently press harder, regardless of the sluggish haze overlying the effort.]

[ By, in response, just tips his head up, baring his throat more. ]

Oh, dear Captain, that sort of thing is a reward for me, not a punishment.

[He steps forward then. It's not lethargic, just deliberate - narrow space made narrower. Hands don't grip to hold, they're just firm there across Byerly's collarbone and at his wrist. And though he nearly a span shorter than the other man, moving slow from the drug and the ache in his chest, there is no question of his certainty. Maybe that's the poppy too - the unearned sense of security, the strange confidence that if he has let things go, Byerly has been made to pay something for them. Regardless, he sounds very low and sure:]

To be clear, Messr Rutyer. If at any point you turn your attention from ending this war to the dissection of my part in it, if you find yourself inclined to threaten me, if you attempt anything like this again or if I find you asking too many questions whose answers are none of your concern, then I will be forced to assume that my trust has become disposable to you. Do you understand me?

Friends play with friends.

[ But - message received. He drops the crystal into Flint's pocket. ]

There's no malice in it.

Forgive me. I've been drugged.

[You fuck.

He unhands Byerly.]

Yes, but by a really fun one.

[ He steps back, then, and straightens his lapels. And, cheerily - ]

I could give you a dose. If you'd like. To loosen someone's tongue someday. Or a poison? I'm honestly quite well-supplied, if you have any desires.

[He sags back, hip checked by the desk. A hand returns to his side.]

Get the fuck out, Rutyer.

[ A little wave of his hand, acknowledging; he turns to go. But then hesitates, and tosses back over his shoulder - ]

Nothing for your side? What I can supply is a bit better than what you'll find amongst the basic infirmary kits.

[Somehow, the offer doesn't appeal in this hour.]

Give your best to my wife.

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