[ There's an inn across from the Chateau with a good view of the crowds, which is precisely where Tseng heads for most of his two hours. The concierge takes a couple hundred gil not to ask questions about his very specific requests and brings him a perfectly prepared cup of tea while he settles beside the window, watching. In the end, it works out. While he's got no doubt in his mind that the big sharks have their own entrance, somewhere far out of sight from easy vantages, he's able to pick out how operations flow, who's coming in, and how they come out. Pretty simple stuff, but for someone like Tseng, it's worth the gil in hush money and then some.
And the whole time, his senses are tingling. No, he doesn't know anything for sure. This whole job could be a bust or a trap or worse. But that part of himself that made Veld steal him away to the underground like the reapers of legend, the part that just knows, is singing like a canary right now, and its song is loud and clear as day.
Once it's about time to meet, he leaves his post, greases the concierge's palms one final time, and heads out on to the streets. He keeps his distance at first, holding a conversation with himself on a device that has never been used for anything more than this, a signal-less prop. The den girls are out in force on a night like this, begging patrons off the street with swishing hips and soft, fleeting touches, but Tseng greets them all the same. ]
[ And then there it is, the moment when Tseng recognizes the dress and has to quickly process all the rest in kind to keep from gawking. Reno has done this before, sure, but that wasn't this. This doesn't make any sense to his eyes, a transformation of not just wardrobe and color, but bone structure and biology too. It doesn't seem possible. Maybe two hours was enough for Reno to score some off-market drug cocktail from one of the dealers down here that specialize in that sort of thing. Tseng isn't convinced that's the case. This is just Reno magic through and through, all him, all improvised, thorough to the fucking nth.
Also, this is going to be a problem.
Tseng has been having trouble lately with keeping his eyes off Reno. All that was child's play in comparison. There's so much to see, the way the glossy tint makes his lips look like ripe fruit, full of juice and delectably biteable, the shape of his calves in those heels, a perfect silhouette of shadow and curves, the subtle way he carries himself, like fire dancing atop a torch. It's good that this is a job, that he's Liang and not Tseng right now, because Tseng would be severely disappointed with the way his gaze drops in obvious increments, his lips parted just so, ready for surprise everywhere his eyes wander. Liang, on the other hand, isn't shy about appreciating the dame on his arm.
Yeah, that's totally it. Oh well. Roll with it. He slips into an easy smile. ]
Well look at you, Renate. Gonna make me the most envied guy in all of Sector 8.
[ There's truth to it. They're already drawing stares. He snaps Reno close, hands on his hips, leans into his neck to press a kiss to his skin and whisper, confidentially: ]
no subject
And the whole time, his senses are tingling. No, he doesn't know anything for sure. This whole job could be a bust or a trap or worse. But that part of himself that made Veld steal him away to the underground like the reapers of legend, the part that just knows, is singing like a canary right now, and its song is loud and clear as day.
Once it's about time to meet, he leaves his post, greases the concierge's palms one final time, and heads out on to the streets. He keeps his distance at first, holding a conversation with himself on a device that has never been used for anything more than this, a signal-less prop. The den girls are out in force on a night like this, begging patrons off the street with swishing hips and soft, fleeting touches, but Tseng greets them all the same. ]
Bú yòng xièxie—no thank you, Miss. I'm waiting...
[ And then there it is, the moment when Tseng recognizes the dress and has to quickly process all the rest in kind to keep from gawking. Reno has done this before, sure, but that wasn't this. This doesn't make any sense to his eyes, a transformation of not just wardrobe and color, but bone structure and biology too. It doesn't seem possible. Maybe two hours was enough for Reno to score some off-market drug cocktail from one of the dealers down here that specialize in that sort of thing. Tseng isn't convinced that's the case. This is just Reno magic through and through, all him, all improvised, thorough to the fucking nth.
Also, this is going to be a problem.
Tseng has been having trouble lately with keeping his eyes off Reno. All that was child's play in comparison. There's so much to see, the way the glossy tint makes his lips look like ripe fruit, full of juice and delectably biteable, the shape of his calves in those heels, a perfect silhouette of shadow and curves, the subtle way he carries himself, like fire dancing atop a torch. It's good that this is a job, that he's Liang and not Tseng right now, because Tseng would be severely disappointed with the way his gaze drops in obvious increments, his lips parted just so, ready for surprise everywhere his eyes wander. Liang, on the other hand, isn't shy about appreciating the dame on his arm.
Yeah, that's totally it. Oh well. Roll with it. He slips into an easy smile. ]
Well look at you, Renate. Gonna make me the most envied guy in all of Sector 8.
[ There's truth to it. They're already drawing stares. He snaps Reno close, hands on his hips, leans into his neck to press a kiss to his skin and whisper, confidentially: ]
If shit goes south, it's officially your fault.