Stood above him, the urge to lay a hand on the scruff of Benedict's neck and give him a firm shake is so strong as to be nearly overpowering. What a little bastard he is, shrinking in every time except in the one he shouldn't.

Instead, Flint lays both hands flat on the desk. The rings on his fingers glint dully in the lamplight until the reflected light is swallowed up by the slanting of his shoulder as he leans forward over the desk's edge.

"Have this report sent to my office first thing tomorrow."