A drabble written in response to Decayed Cotton Candy's comment about Turks crying in fanfic over on LJ.
Inadmissible Evidence
On his knees in the corner of Rufus' office at Healen, rifling through the contents of the wastepaper bin, is not the most dignified of positions for a Turk to be in. Perhaps especially not this Turk – the Director himself – sleeves of his immaculate suit carefully rolled up, his face registering no sign of disgust as his un-gloved fingers sort through crumpled paper, a browning apple core, curled wood-shavings, and messy graphite dust from a sharpened pencil that stains his skin grey. A Turk getting his hands dirty is hardly news, after all.
It's not contamination he fears.
But a Turk's job is to know the truth, and if there is evidence to be found he will find it, regardless of what he already knows it will mean if he's right.
During the meeting Tseng saw Rufus take a tissue from the box on the corner of the desk. He watched as the president wiped those fine, long-boned hands – noticed the tiny pause – the stillness that lasted for less time than his own quick indrawn breath – before Rufus crumpled the fragile paper into a loose ball, tossed it casually into the bin behind him and observed, "Gaia, it's hot today."
Tseng sits at Rufus' empty desk and smooths creases out of the tissue. The white paper is clean except in one small area near the centre, stained unmistakably black.
Evidence. Evidence that means endings – the end of a fight, of a hope, of a future he was beginning to believe in. Of the life of a man who, it seems, has not yet suffered enough.
Tseng blinks, frowns. There is a single drop of water on the desktop – a glistening dome like a lost contact lens catching the light.
However it got there, it's irrelevant to the current investigation.
All the relevant evidence implies is another kind of future – a new direction – something different to fight for.
Tseng shoves back the chair – gets to his feet.
It's in his nature to be patient, but Turks have jobs to do, and he is their leader – and there is a touch of impatience in the way he wipes the desk dry with the tissue, crushes it in his fist, throws it back into the trash.
Tseng replaces Rufus' chair exactly as it was, rolls down his sleeves and brushes down his suit.
He closes the office door quietly, leaving no evidence behind him.