faderift | PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

Presently unable to respond with anything but honesty and sleepy-limbed shamelessness, Bastien does just that, by groaning in audible disappointment and lazily pulling the blanket draped over the arm of the chaise to cover his face.

(It isn't Benedict's presence, period, that he finds objectionable. They've moved past that. It's very heartwarming. But Benedict's presence now, in the midst of chemical-induced vulnerability, sucks shit.

But he did chug half the cup all at once and nothing after. Maybe it will leave as quickly as it came on. Soon. Maybe.)

"Why would I be alarmed?" Benedict asks, shedding his cloak as he walks into the room (Rat Red tucked under his arm)-- and stops, looking between them. Something calculates in his expression, like he's not sure what he's seeing or how to feel about it.

"I can leave," he just says, uncertainly. Random hookup? In the house, though? That doesn't seem like Byerly's style.

The temptation to agree to this offer is quite powerful. No doubt Benedict will have strong words about what Byerly is doing right now. But - this is a home of sorts to Benedict as well. He does deserve to know the situation.

"No. This is - Bastien." Laith is a secret, he said. By can respect that. "He's one of the people who had their memories tampered with." Then, with a bit of embarrassment, "I drugged him. He does not seem to be like this normally."

"I am normally very composed," Bastien confirms from beneath his blanket.

"So you just... let him in," Benedict drawls, furrowing his brow at the stranger and then at Byerly, "one of them just attacked me, you know."

A pause.

"What'd you drug him with?"

Byerly frowns down as he finishes pulling off Bastien/Laith's socks. "There's a bit of it left in that coffee cup, if you want to give it a try."

Spy shit. You know how it goes.

"Are you hurt?" By straightens up and starts to adjust Bastien into a reclining position on the chaise, tilting him so he's not face-up. Just in case his stomach goes bad - better not to risk him choking.

Bastien cooperates—collaborates, even—with being repositioned, at first, before his drugged malleability runs into his his drugged earnest feelings about being manhandled and de-socked in front of Benedict. Then he kicks Byerly instead, in a harmless and floppy cut it out sort of way that doesn't land any harder than an elbow to the ribs.

A furtive glance to the cup, and the topic is quickly abandoned: yeah, right. Scratching Rat Red behind the ears, Benedict scrutinizes the prisoner.

"Just my pride," he admits, in a grumble-- Byerly would see right through it if he tried to be dramatic, but also most certainly recognizes how much one's pride can be hurt, if allowed.
"How'd he get in? What does he want?"

The kick might be a bit more alarming if the drugged man didn't signal what he was about to do so broadly. As it is, it's clearly something rather stupid and pointless rather than a real attack. "Ow," By says with pointed irritation, then shakes his head.

Then he says to Benedict, "He seems to believe he lives here. And seems to have enough knowledge of the place that he's had little trouble accessing it."

Benedict's brow furrows neatly. Something is wrong, and he can't put his finger on it, which only makes it all the worse.

He sidles over to drop into a chair, keeping his eyes on the prisoner all the while as he absently pets Rat Red. "The girl in Ellie's old office acted the same," he explains, "like she belonged there. Which they've all been insisting, obviously, but I didn't think they really believed it."

Until he did, anyway.

"If they're under mind control it'd have to be by someone in the vicinity."

"Maybe you're being controlled by someone in the vicinity," comes Bastien's voice from beneath the blanket. He's feeling less agreeable by the moment, albeit no less truthful. He pushes the blanket aside to facilitate jamming his arm down the front of his own dirty, days-worn shirt and jacket until his fist emerges triumphant with sending crystal and key on the end of their shared chain. "I have a key."

And knowledge. But mostly a key.

That's...unexpected. Byerly hadn't considered for a moment that the man hadn't simply broken in. Where did he get a key from? Well - Likely the same place he acquired the sending crystal. That did make sense; some corner of Byerly's mind insisted that it made sense.

"He's quite unlikely to lie under this drug. He believes it." Byerly rubs at his mouth, then reaches out to examine that chain more closely. Yes; that's unmistakably the key to this house.

"Would you know if he were a spirit?" Mages have the ability to tell that sort of thing, right?

Benedict wrinkles his nose at the stranger-- har har, but also let's not go bringing That up-- without demonstrating any real fear of him, at least until he mentions the key. That merits a glance to Byerly, and a shake of his head:

"No. Kostos would." Maybe we could invite him over and we'll kiss, "...you're letting him just. Stay here?"

That's worth removing the blanket, looking at Benedict with an odd sort of blankness: the result of annoyance running head-first into a potion that makes it difficult to feel very annoyed.

"It's very stupid," is not why he's almost annoyed, but it's what he's saying, earnestly. "If I was what you think I am, I could kill him. But I'm not, so you don't need to protect him from me."

That's the annoyance, blunted but struggling its way to the surface.

“Interesting,” Benedict snips, “I didn’t think I was asking you.”

"All right," says Byerly, a little too forcefully. Having Benedict exhibiting any sort of protectiveness would make Byerly feel uncomfortable under the best of circumstances. In this strange situation, in front of this stranger, the awkwardness is even more keen.

"Yes, I'm allowing him to stay here. I'm certainly not sending him out into Lowtown in this state. He wouldn't make it two blocks."

Stung, Benedict recoils slightly from Byerly, but holds his ground otherwise: Rat Red needs scratches, and by the Maker she is getting them.

"So?" he asks, incredulity growing, "he broke into your house."

Byerly shoots Benedict a look.

"I've broken into dozens of houses during my life. If not hundreds. I hope that doesn't make my life forfeit."

"Maker's breath," Benedict sighs, dropping his head back against the chair, "fine. But let me stay here too, then."

This is weird. Byerly is acting weird. Something is wrong.

"We don't know who these people are, or what they're capable of."

He is still not asking Bastien, whose frown has been deepening through this entire exchange—though only to the point of looking sulky. He doesn't have the capacity for fury. He says, "I'm Bastien," helpfully, in case Benedict missed that part, "and I am capable of embarrassing you so badly I would feel a little sorry for it later."

"Not least because I would certainly ensure you regretted it," Byerly replies to Bastien, his voice sharp. Not a threat of violence - this is Byerly - but of a cooler sort of revenge.

Then he turns to the man more fully. "Who are you, then? Do you have any recollection of what you were doing before you came here?"

The way Benedict's hands tighten their grip on Rat Red as if to clutch her for security is indication enough that "Bastien" has just threatened something far worse than pain or death, and Benedict's immediate instinct is to glance at Byerly-- do something-- only to relax slightly when he does.

It's as good an opportunity as any to shut up for a little bit. Rat Red, concerned, begins to lick Benedict's face, and he stalwartly endures it as he keeps a close eye on the prisoner.

Byerly's sharpness snaps Bastien's attention to his face. The resentful sulk that had been growing every time Benedict said another dismissive word while holding his dog melts — not away, but into a slushy puddle of wounded and betrayed. They're not entirely immune to snapping at one another, him and Byerly, but Bastien can't help his face right now. Not fully. His self-control is fighting to resurface now, close enough for something distant in his head to shout that he's embarrassing himself and give him the earnest impulse to get the fuck out of here. He sits up, swinging his legs down. He said he would leave. Benedict thinks he ought to leave. He—

He pauses where he's sitting, leant forward to reach for his stolen shoes and socks, while his stomach threatens to betray him too.

Once that moment has passed without any horrors, he says, "The Venatori were fucking with time, and we went to stop them. We did stop them." How? Great question that his mind doesn't pause to ask. "I'm Bastien," again, "and I work for Riftwatch, and I live here with you. My name is on the lease."

It’s easy enough to read Bastien’s intentions. Byerly puts a single hand on his shoulder and pushes him back. If Benedict’s alarm had weakened Byerly’s resolve at all, this re-strengthens it. Perhaps because it’s a reminder of just how dangerous it would be for him to go out there in this state - or perhaps just because Byerly is feeling stubborn.

Still. There’s some loose thread there. The lease has some strangeness about it. Where is the lease? Its location doesn’t come to mind right away, and the thought of finding it feels exhausting and difficult. But why is that? The papers are usually decently in order, aren’t they?

The thing is, of course - When you have watched so many cousins and aunts and nephews go mad, you aren’t left trusting your own mind. Byerly believes that this poor Bastien is the one who’s deluded; he feels it in his bones. And yet he knows, intellectually, that his beliefs are always to be questioned.

“Artemaeus,” Byerly says, looking to the young man beside him, “you would not indulge me if you suspected I was mad, correct?” No doubt the inbred Artemaeus clan also has insanity in their blood, but the odds of both of them losing their wits at the same time seems small.

It's a disturbing thing to watch, this back-and-forth, and Benedict isn't a cruel enough person to find any triumph in it. Especially not now, with Byerly's question causing him to wrinkle his brow and draw back to shake his head hurriedly.

"Of course not," follows, but with unease.

PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

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