[The part that sinks its hooks into him, unprecedented and unexpected, is that last bit — you know I'm good for it. It stands out precisely because it's not something Tseng even needed to say to begin with, because there couldn't be any other outcome to this, so why would it need to be reaffirmed that he can be counted on to deliver on his half of a bargain? Tseng doesn't waste words on unnecessary things, not with him. He gives opinions when invited and keeps them to himself when he isn't. He handles what he's tasked to handle. He deals with the tasks he's assigned, whatever the means.
So to reassure him of the good faith of his commitment almost feels like Tseng stepping outside the bounds of his head of security, just for a moment, and granting him a glimpse of the man instead of the job. Maybe that's a signal, surreptitious in and of itself — that there's a chance, just a chance, that he might see a flash of the man again as this goes on.
(It reminds him, fleetingly, that to truly own the Turks, you have to be one of them yourself. That he is, in the singular way that matters, one of them, himself.)
Rufus hasn't said anything, now, for a bit. That's not unusual. Silence from him often speaks just as loudly as if he'd found words to begin with. But the tension is rising, not just in Tseng's shoulders and fingers and the grip of his own chest, and there are no illusions about the fact that they're both waiting for him to move first. The white pieces always do.]
I know.
[What will it take, he wonders, to make Tseng touch him? Is he waiting for permission, or just to test the limits of his own resolve? Does he want an order so he can call it plausible deniability, or to break so he can classify it as beyond his control?
It doesn't matter. He reaches up and takes Tseng's face in his hand — fingers firm against one cheek, thumb pressed into his jawline on the opposite side — and kisses him like he's aiming to learn the skill of the mouth that's going to deliver his goals to him.]
no subject
So to reassure him of the good faith of his commitment almost feels like Tseng stepping outside the bounds of his head of security, just for a moment, and granting him a glimpse of the man instead of the job. Maybe that's a signal, surreptitious in and of itself — that there's a chance, just a chance, that he might see a flash of the man again as this goes on.
(It reminds him, fleetingly, that to truly own the Turks, you have to be one of them yourself. That he is, in the singular way that matters, one of them, himself.)
Rufus hasn't said anything, now, for a bit. That's not unusual. Silence from him often speaks just as loudly as if he'd found words to begin with. But the tension is rising, not just in Tseng's shoulders and fingers and the grip of his own chest, and there are no illusions about the fact that they're both waiting for him to move first. The white pieces always do.]
I know.
[What will it take, he wonders, to make Tseng touch him? Is he waiting for permission, or just to test the limits of his own resolve? Does he want an order so he can call it plausible deniability, or to break so he can classify it as beyond his control?
It doesn't matter. He reaches up and takes Tseng's face in his hand — fingers firm against one cheek, thumb pressed into his jawline on the opposite side — and kisses him like he's aiming to learn the skill of the mouth that's going to deliver his goals to him.]