Amycus was strangely unmoved by this heated vow of his. No laughter now, not even a giggle, as he studied his fellow Death Eater, wondering vacantly what it was like to do one's fighting beneath the anonymity of a mask. Then his eyes veered to the side, making a scan of the area as he brought his arm up and pressed the flannel-covered crook of his elbow to stopper the blood seeping from his mouth. They were safe to talk -- for now, at least.
"Smashing," he finally replied, the single word flatly formed. "You can take it to your old-man mentor and pretend you don't know me and hope like shit for a promotion. Whatever."
He spread his palm against the wall, using it to push the dead-weight of his body away from it. Two staggering steps were taken toward Emory, and there was a repeat of the 'bring it' gesture made with a flutter of his fingers. "Round two, babe. Promise I won't touch your dick."