Tseng is watching this whole process. It shouldn't be a surprise at all. As a Turk, he's a stroke above hyper-sensitive to people reaching into pockets that likely contain weapons. And smooth and quick as Rude can be, there's still plenty of time to anticipate the blast.
It's just—it's the timing. Like how Reno instinctively knows that precise beat and a half to wait after he's said something to add a "...bitch" to the mix that gets everyone rolling. That kind of humor, sure, maybe it'll work a soft smile hidden behind a hand out of him on a good day, but it's not really Tseng's brand of funny.
This, however. This is it. The slow-aching lead up, the click of the silencer and pistol coupling, the whisper of fabric as Rude lifts his hands, and then that explosion of plaster all over Tseng's carefully organized stack of binders. The exhaustion helps a little too; perhaps with a good night's sleep, he'd only be laughing. Now, he is fucking dying, arms hugging round his middle to ease the ache in the stitches he's tearing through his sides because he cannot stop laughing, not even long enough to breathe, not for a second to wipe his tears away or register that he is falling against Rude's chest, hysterical.
Every time he tries to calm himself, the punchline hits him again. He can barely conjure up the strength to lift his phone out of his pocket and hold it aloft for the taking, his wrists wavering as laughter wracks his whole body.
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It's just—it's the timing. Like how Reno instinctively knows that precise beat and a half to wait after he's said something to add a "...bitch" to the mix that gets everyone rolling. That kind of humor, sure, maybe it'll work a soft smile hidden behind a hand out of him on a good day, but it's not really Tseng's brand of funny.
This, however. This is it. The slow-aching lead up, the click of the silencer and pistol coupling, the whisper of fabric as Rude lifts his hands, and then that explosion of plaster all over Tseng's carefully organized stack of binders. The exhaustion helps a little too; perhaps with a good night's sleep, he'd only be laughing. Now, he is fucking dying, arms hugging round his middle to ease the ache in the stitches he's tearing through his sides because he cannot stop laughing, not even long enough to breathe, not for a second to wipe his tears away or register that he is falling against Rude's chest, hysterical.
Every time he tries to calm himself, the punchline hits him again. He can barely conjure up the strength to lift his phone out of his pocket and hold it aloft for the taking, his wrists wavering as laughter wracks his whole body.