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"I'm not sure exactly when we decided you were the one setting the price," was the answer, and it was too quick, almost a snap. A careful half-second to level his voice again. "If you think I am unaware that furnishing you with entertainment is most of your motivation for being here, you'd be wrong. And I'm not going to police your odd ********' choice of diversion, but you're also wrong if you think it's not being weighed up in the toll."

Honestly? He said all that. But what he was thinking was that he wished he hadn't rashly gone and dropped off so much at the portal reconstruction. It had been a drop in the bucket compared to what they needed, but it had been a major wrench compared to what he had.

He leaned back again, point made about his arms, and swung his feet back onto the desk. It was easier to look casual that way, and easier to act like it. "Been thinking now's the ideal time to have a go at quitting," he said conversationally. "Makes women b***h constantly." Not that you'd know? was the silent postscript. "Anyway, I've quit worse."

He wanted to sneer disgust at Rep's idea that the way to quiet a woman was to hurt her, but he could do nothing but think of Bird, and of April, and pretend things had never happened that had.

He was diverted almost instantly by being informed that Rep had brought more than cigarettes. That changed the landscape somewhat. Only somewhat.

"You're the one that came here," he pointed out. "You're the one that wanted something. And maybe you just wanted to fill up an idle hour, but if that's the case I'd appreciate it if you'd wrap up and get the ******** out. Otherwise, I'm working on the assumption that you wanted something tangible out of this too. What do you have that needs a charge?"

"Finally opening negotiations," he said drily. "Good. I have one stone that will charge your runics." This was a lie. He had three. And a spare for the phones, that he wasn't yet using. His decision to swing by the portals was growing increasingly distressing. "It looks like you could use a ******** magic band-aid, but I expect you'll tell me the blood isn't yours."

He wasn't actually sure which was worse: Rep dropping someone else's blood all over his room, or his own. He fairly itched to get him out of there so he could clean again.

No comment on the insults. No comment on the accusation. Both were true. As far as he was concerned there was only grief in trying to defend something indefensible.

"Tweet's been up for a while. So's the notice in the cafeteria. You are not the first person to need a phone charge." And then he grinned, very suddenly, a grin that was not at all friendly and was full of long yellow teeth. "I've got one for you," he clarified. "If you're interested in me dipping into the back room stock, that's on you and what you have to offer."

Taym was clearly not budging on being the one to start laying out a concrete offer. He had any number of reasons to let Rep have the opening gambit, not least of which was that he didn't know the value of what he had, and suspected, uneasily, that the value would rapidly diminish over time, as the market, as it were, flooded.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," was the answer, more tranquil than he felt. And then, just as peacefully: "Sit back down. What do you want for a couple packs?" He paused, adding: "And a gram." A gram felt... conservative. But he was quietly nervous about setting off a chain reaction of craving, the same way he couldn't have a beer without needing a smoke, or walk into a crowded party without becoming a sort of ambulatory, breathing sex urge. He'd spent too much of his life linking things together, and possibly pot was at the beginning of a chain he'd rather not examine too ******** it. "Or two."

He laughed, short and dry and incredulous, and if Rep thought that that was the end of the negotiations he was wrong. "Three ********' superior runestones for that? No. Three packs, maybe. And the rest. Nice and even, one for each." No comment on feeding his demons, although the desire to ask what "skelp" meant was intense.

Honestly? It wouldn't take much to wear him down, if Rep felt up to it. He was betraying none of it--he looked as comfortably settled for a long and difficult negotiation as he had seconds before--but all he wanted was to close his door on the man's back and rescrub his floors, and possibly burn his sheets. His hands were still shaking violently, a sustained, heavy tremor like the ones he'd had before Fionnghal had reached into his head and fixed something he hadn't known was broken, but his face was carefully stoic, his posture as relaxed as it got around Rep. Which wasn't very.

Well, he'd been teetering on the brink of caving, but the bad dog comment had--appropriately--his hackles up again. His patience ran out, and the answer snapped out quick and clipped.

"Well I'm not a ******** charity either, so like it or not, there's some kind of ********' negotiation happening here. Take your generous little lagniappe of a gram or leave it, I don't give a s**t. But three packs, three stones. Take it or get the ******** out of my room," he said. And, horrifyingly, he realized he meant it, and also realized he was stupider than he'd given himself credit for.

It was obvious that Rep had a foothold. A long, long silence--which felt longer to Taym than, maybe, it was--stretched on and on while Taym's jaw worked and his eyes roamed back and forth over the wall, unseeing.

Finally, he broke it: he exhaled a little noise that wasn't quite a laugh, wasn't quite a snort, and with his jaw clenched and his breath slow and careful under the labor of suppressing his own shame and rage, he reached into the pocket of the coat behind him, again, and he procured three small stones that gleamed dimly in the half-light of the room.

He wanted to throw them. He wanted to drop them on the floor and make Rep pick them up. But he was already conceding defeat and he refused to let him have the better of his temper, too. He held them out on his open, shaking palm and the thought of Rep touching him made him sick to his stomach but he waited for him, and he said: "Are we playing armchair analyst now? You piss off a dog, you deprive it of the things it needs, you don't give it respect, and yeah, it's gonna ******** bite. Never met a dog that bit that hadn't been mistreated." He leveled another stare. "I guess someone spent a long ******** time pulling on your choke chain." There was no pity in it--not in his tone, not in the look. Just a bald, unemotive statement of fact.