[Not that it surprises him, that Tseng tries; he wouldn't be Tseng if he didn't. But something inside him still wrenches even at that soft noise of pain, because it's still more than Tseng would ever usually allow himself to begin with. They told him, his Turks told him, that even after being run through Tseng had still gotten to his feet and walked to them, prior to collapsing into their waiting grasp. That he'd mumbled something about needing to make his report. He pushes himself too much; even on the brink of death, that much is never going to change.
But there's one thing Tseng will listen to, Rufus knows, and he isn't above using that against him for the sake of the greater good. If he makes it an order, if he can bear to render it a command, Tseng won't defy him. Not when there's no competing priority to speak of, otherwise.
The real question is, can he make himself do it? To even consider it asks a...candor that they both usually avoid.
But if it means never hearing Tseng make that sound again, then it's really no question at all.]
...Don't move. Let me do it.
[And what a reversal that is, isn't it? But strangely, it isn't one he minds; after day after day of useless waiting, there's finally something at his fingertips that he can do about the situation. And so he eases Darkstar's head out of his lap and rises from his chair, moving the scant few steps to the small refrigerator concealed in the base of the nightstand and retrieving a cupful of ice chips from it.
There isn't much room on the edge of the mattress, but he doesn't need much to suffice. He settles down onto a sliver of it, about even with Tseng's elbow, and clutches onto the cup in his hands like a lifeline before digging in after one of the larger chips and catching it carefully between two of his fingers.
It feels — forbidden, somehow, the prospect of what he knows he's about to do. But he's Rufus Shinra, and he bends the world to his will, even when it's something so seemingly insurmountable as this: moving the already-melting bit of ice close to Tseng's mouth and letting the edge of it skim along his lower lip, wetting and cooling it until the frozen chip has warmed enough to melt and trickle past his lips into his mouth as mere cold droplets of water.]
no subject
[Not that it surprises him, that Tseng tries; he wouldn't be Tseng if he didn't. But something inside him still wrenches even at that soft noise of pain, because it's still more than Tseng would ever usually allow himself to begin with. They told him, his Turks told him, that even after being run through Tseng had still gotten to his feet and walked to them, prior to collapsing into their waiting grasp. That he'd mumbled something about needing to make his report. He pushes himself too much; even on the brink of death, that much is never going to change.
But there's one thing Tseng will listen to, Rufus knows, and he isn't above using that against him for the sake of the greater good. If he makes it an order, if he can bear to render it a command, Tseng won't defy him. Not when there's no competing priority to speak of, otherwise.
The real question is, can he make himself do it? To even consider it asks a...candor that they both usually avoid.
But if it means never hearing Tseng make that sound again, then it's really no question at all.]
...Don't move. Let me do it.
[And what a reversal that is, isn't it? But strangely, it isn't one he minds; after day after day of useless waiting, there's finally something at his fingertips that he can do about the situation. And so he eases Darkstar's head out of his lap and rises from his chair, moving the scant few steps to the small refrigerator concealed in the base of the nightstand and retrieving a cupful of ice chips from it.
There isn't much room on the edge of the mattress, but he doesn't need much to suffice. He settles down onto a sliver of it, about even with Tseng's elbow, and clutches onto the cup in his hands like a lifeline before digging in after one of the larger chips and catching it carefully between two of his fingers.
It feels — forbidden, somehow, the prospect of what he knows he's about to do. But he's Rufus Shinra, and he bends the world to his will, even when it's something so seemingly insurmountable as this: moving the already-melting bit of ice close to Tseng's mouth and letting the edge of it skim along his lower lip, wetting and cooling it until the frozen chip has warmed enough to melt and trickle past his lips into his mouth as mere cold droplets of water.]