Vaan is on his knees in the sand 'round the corner of the Southgate, out of sight and out of mind to all but one soused Imperial. He is too drunk on serpentwyne to properly say his own name, but Vaan is not concerned; Vaan just wets his lips and shifts his knees in the scrubby grass.
"What's your name, boy?"
Vaan doesn't see why it matters. He says, "Tomaj."
The way he eyes him with his lids heavy and his mouth curving is convincing as hell.
"I knew Dalmascans were good for something," the Imperial says and curls his achingly hot gauntlet tight around Vaan's shoulder.
"Of course we are," Vaan says, smiling with sticky clear-white pap on his lips and teeth, and slides Penelo's dagger into the soft flesh of his side.
Vaan always says the crusted blood on her dagger (better than his sword, lightning-quick and untraceable) is a rat's, a dog's, or, on occasion, his own; Penelo always rolls her eyes and says "don't use my dagger to hunt in the sewers, okay?", but she's no fool.