( closed ) let me wrap my teeth around the world

[nonvoting]

WHO: tseng & rufus permanent catchall
WHEN: all at once
WHERE: everywhere
WHAT: everything
NOTES/WARNINGS: the usuals for ff7: parental death, mass murder, unethical human experimentation, less mass-y but still severe murder, ecoterrorism (both ways) etc. etc.

Comments

[nonvoting]

[ from the corner of his eye, tseng catches a glimpse of that grin: wide, unrestrained, so clearly unintentional that it becomes all the more precious. an honest smile from rufus is something akin to a comet in the night sky, a solar eclipse on a clear day, a phenomenon as rare as it is beautiful. he hasn't seen rufus smile like that for years. tseng should look away, and he does, but it takes a second longer than he knows it ought.

perhaps predictably, the prospect of a night off makes tseng shift almost imperceptibly in his stance, his hands moving to their customary position clasped at the small of his back. there's a reason that back home, tseng has something like 2,000 hours of paid time off banked unused. "nights off" are not exactly in his wheelhouse. ]

Is that an order, sir?

[ does he gotta.......... ]

[unionized]

[Someday, maybe, he'll crack the enigma of what Tseng does in his off-hours — not that either of them are particularly accustomed to sitting idle, all things considered. There's a part of him that, when he tries to envision it, produces something along the lines of smoking rooms in paneled wood and earth tones, wingback chairs and amber drinks in highball glasses. It's the sort of thing that people like them are supposed to want, the sort of leisure they're expected to engage in.

But it's not difficult to imagine other pursuits, too — an upscale bar instead of an exclusive club, a jacket removed, a collar unbuttoned and a tie loosened and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Maybe he'd pull his hair up into a full tail to keep it from spilling over his shoulders and into the way of the drink. Maybe someone would seek to bum a cigarette off of him, and he'd fish out his lighter as he gave it; maybe Tseng spends his leisure evenings being as little of a Turk as he can be.

He could make up all sorts of visions about it. That comes with the territory of being a visionary — vivid dreams, no matter the subject or object.]

I doubt even I could order you to relax and enjoy yourself.

[It's funny because he can order Tseng to do anything, without question. But the joke is a necessary one, so that the humor can carefully provide cover for what's coming next.]

The closest I'd get is doing it myself and taking you along with me.

[nonvoting]

[ what does tseng do in his off-hours. maybe one day rufus will be there to bear witness—to find that his imagination is halfway to reality and halfway fantasy entirely. he is right, at least, that sometimes tseng does put his hair up into a full ponytail to keep it out of the way.

the train of conversation makes tseng pause to think: which would actually be more relaxing? being ordered to take a night off, or going along with rufus while he takes a night off? neither seems restful, although each in their own way. an order would keep him home, but he would spend the entire night thinking about all the things he ought to be doing instead; going out with rufus would keep him on the job, but might be less stressful for his paperwork-oriented nerves.

what he lands on, eventually, is: ] Are you familiar with the phrase, "better the devil you know than the devil you don't"?

[ said lightly, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth that's very nearly a smile. it's almost certain that going anywhere with rufus would be preferable to being ordered to stay in alone, without anything productive to do. how do people relax, actually? ]

[unionized]

I know it ends with, "and best of all, the one on your payroll."

[The remark gives Rufus an opportunity to preen a little, though, which is beneficial in more ways that one. It's easy to turn a phrase like "the devil you know" into a sort of smirking variation on praise and approval. It's useful because it makes it easier to hide the thing he's really pleased about — the implicit validation that Tseng is enjoying himself right now, that he'd rather be here in a facsimile of Shinra Tower with a devil all in white than taking a night off to himself.

It's because it means his plan worked, and Tseng's birthday is proving to be a satisfying one. That's definitely why it matters that he's given a preference for being here, and not somewhere else.]

Shall we go up to the office?

[That's subtle, too — the fact that he phrases it as a question rather than as a direction. It's not as though he really expects Tseng to say anything other than yes, sir about it, but. Still, it matters, maybe, that he asked.]

[nonvoting]

[ unaware of exactly how much he's given away in such a simple response, but definitely thinking about how he has some devils on his payroll that he'd prefer over almost anyone else (and thus the implication that he might be the devil on rufus' payroll that rufus would prefer), tseng nods and steps to the side to hold the door for rufus. ]

Yes, sir.

[ it isn't really a question. in tseng's experience, when rufus says shall we he means we will, and thus there's no other answer to it than "yes, sir." but it is nice, that he phrased it that way. tseng doesn't dwell on it, doesn't even really notice it beyond a faint sort of appreciation spreading through him like oil on water, but it is nice, to be asked.

he lets rufus and darkstar through and then takes up his customary position, flanking rufus on the opposite side from darkstar. she can choose where she wants to walk; as always, tseng will fill in the gaps. ]

[unionized]

[There's only one floor left to ascend, now, and it's curious how his mood has shifted over the course of their little tour. The ground floor had been uncertain, even a little bewildering; General Affairs had proven eyebrow-raising but nostalgic. He'd had his reservations about the executive suite at first, then had them vaporized upon the discovery of Darkstar in what he can now, at last, begin to think of as his quarters. And now they're going up to his office, his demesnes. His throne.

It feels right, to do it like this: Darkstar to his left, Tseng to his right, one at each hand as he leads the way like the tip of a sword. It feels right to take the stairs up like he's ascending under his own power in a figurative way in addition to the literal one.

And there, at the top, it awaits him: Floor 70, the president's office.

He knows this room was designed to make any visitor that sets foot in it feel small and humbled before the opulence and power of the man who resides therein. The black marble and gold trim make it feel like a temple, and all the architectural sight lines naturally drag the eye to the chair at the focus of it, centrally placed with plate glass windows revealing the city skyline behind it. He remembers being five years old, and seeing the blueprints for this room one lamplit evening; whatever else one might say about his father — and Shiva knows there's a lot one could — he designed a hell of a room.

His room, now. He's not a visitor here. He's a boy-king come home to be crowned.]

It's perfect.

[He means the room, of course, because it is. He also means this moment, the very first one that passes once the three of them have crossed the threshold into the office. It's everything he could possibly have wanted: his throne, his Darkstar, and Tseng.

Again, the irony strikes him that he's the one getting everything, and he's not even the one with the best excuse of the evening for celebrating.]

Don't you think?

[nonvoting]

[ how many times has tseng crossed exactly this length of carpet, approached exactly this desk to deliver a report on some mission, some intelligence, some political opponent brought to their knees? this is a room he would know blindfolded, from the way his footfalls don't quite echo despite the cavernous space, the weight of the air, the size of the thing.

hundreds of times, by now. maybe thousands. and yet as they come up the stairs and enter the president's office, tseng is also keenly aware that this is the first time he's ever set foot here.

it is a faithful rendition, but tseng thinks that's most likely not what rufus means. not the replica, but the significance of it, what it means for rufus to be the only one to ever sit in the chair behind the desk ahead of them. ]

Yes, sir, [ he says again, and means it. ] It is.

[unionized]

[He'd thought that coming here would be a means, no matter how indirect, of giving Tseng something — the only thing he could possibly get away with giving, for the man who asks nothing and expects even less. The fact that he's been the one who's profited so much by it seems both laughable and yet somehow altogether aligned with the way the universe works. He's Rufus Shinra, and being a Shinra means having everything in the world at your fingertips. Turks don't stand out, don't claim favors. They simply deliver on whatever they're asked for.

Maybe this was all he was ever going to be able to do; it's not enough, and he knows that, too. He'd be hard-pressed to quantify all that Tseng deserves, after everything. His fidelity, his expertise, his confidence aren't things repaid with gold watches or time away from the office.

But better the devil you know, and this is the devil Tseng has: the two of them, in his office, so high in the sky that they can almost pretend it's Midgar outside the windows, provided neither one of them looks too closely.]

Then let's make it official.

[He wastes no time; he never does. He walks that carpet like he owns it (he does) and makes his way to the chair, pausing only to check one of the deep bottom cabinets on the hidden side to see just how faithful the companion bots were at recreating it — and there, indeed, is a half-full bottle of top-shelf whiskey and a handful of crystal tumblers, just like the old man preferred.

Just like he prefers, too.

He stays standing as he retrieves the bottle and two of the glasses, pouring identical portions before sliding one to the far side of the desk and keeping the second one close at hand. There's ample room on the carpet to the side and a little behind the chair; Darkstar seems to remember it, too, and settles in easily like the sentinel she is.

Everyone in their place, save him. He picks up the glass he'd reserved for himself, and raises it slightly in a mock toast.]

To perfection.

[He says, and takes his seat, and for a second, it all really is.]

[nonvoting]

[ but it is not, as it turns out, a zero-sum game. it isn't that if rufus gets something, tseng gets nothing, but rather that to tseng, the gift is in being able to grant rufus what he wants. to be here, watching rufus look around the room, to see him cross the space like he owns it (because he does), to see him reach into the lower cabinet to find the bottle of whiskey and crystal tumblers he knows will be there—

that is a gift, to tseng. what more could he want in this world than to see his boy-king take the throne?

he steps forward to catch the glass that rufus slides across the surface of the desk. it's against protocol for tseng to drink on duty, but he suspects that just this once, rufus will let the indiscretion slide. standing just how he's always stood—across from rufus, at ease, one hand at the small of his back and the other cradling his glass of whiskey—tseng lifts his glass to return the toast. ]

To perfection, [ tseng agrees, and takes a sip before rufus can. just in case. old habits, and all. ]