Tseng does not bother to answer the text. He knows that he has already missed so many. (Or has he? Has his doppelganger been here the entire time, surveiling Rufus, answering emails, taking care of business in his stead? He cannot tell.) To tarry and text would be to deny what he reads as a direct order. Besides, he is sure the message that Rufus would prefer is his arrival.
On the best of days, he knows where to find Rufus as well as he knows how to find any target. It is a part of that keen instinct for people that he has. But today, he barely needs that. He knows exactly where to go.
When he passes through the door, he is rewarded for his intuition by the sounds of bathwater rippling beyond his sight. He can smell lavish salts and feel the heat from here. First, he passes into the den, retrieving a bottle from the bar and two crystal flutes. Rufus, he is sure, will need something to dull the edge of all this madness. Then he strolls silently towards the bath, appearing as a stark shadow against the gleaming white light and the dazzling white tiles. His gloves are removed along the way, tucked neatly into the pocket within his jacket.
He sits down at the edge of the tub, depositing his offerings somewhere nearby, and reaches out a hand to brush a sliver of gold that is clinging wetly to Rufus's cheek. His actions are automatic, withdrawing soap from its painted porcelain bottle, working it into Rufus's hair, taking particular care to ensure that not a single sud drops into that piercing glacial gaze.
He murmurs what he knows to be Rufus's favorite words to hear:
no subject
On the best of days, he knows where to find Rufus as well as he knows how to find any target. It is a part of that keen instinct for people that he has. But today, he barely needs that. He knows exactly where to go.
When he passes through the door, he is rewarded for his intuition by the sounds of bathwater rippling beyond his sight. He can smell lavish salts and feel the heat from here. First, he passes into the den, retrieving a bottle from the bar and two crystal flutes. Rufus, he is sure, will need something to dull the edge of all this madness. Then he strolls silently towards the bath, appearing as a stark shadow against the gleaming white light and the dazzling white tiles. His gloves are removed along the way, tucked neatly into the pocket within his jacket.
He sits down at the edge of the tub, depositing his offerings somewhere nearby, and reaches out a hand to brush a sliver of gold that is clinging wetly to Rufus's cheek. His actions are automatic, withdrawing soap from its painted porcelain bottle, working it into Rufus's hair, taking particular care to ensure that not a single sud drops into that piercing glacial gaze.
He murmurs what he knows to be Rufus's favorite words to hear:
"Mr. President."