(A/N: Since the internal dialogue has decreased in frequency, it occurred to me that I might want to cut it out completely. I compiled a doc of only his thoughts, though, and HOLY SHIT, while most are just throwaway insights into Tseng's character, several contain the bulk of the foreshadowing for where the plot is headed, so they're sticking around… I know, I know, shocking to consider there's a plot, but it does have one that I've almost completely mapped out. Gonna be a longer journey than I'd like, which is a bit frustrating, but I want to keep the slow pace, as the dynamics I'm setting up, along with the personal exposés, are my main focus. On a different note, at six feet, V's height is the only one of the three listed explicitly, and Square has monkeyed with everybody's height across the board to match up with American averages. Tseng looks roughly as tall as Zack in Crisis Core at six three, but was six even in the original. Reeve is a little shorter than Vincent in Dirge, and I'm placing him at five ten. Doesn't matter much, but helps me describe positioning, which I think the occasional mentioning of makes it easier to imagine a scene in your head. The rare use of highly detailed descriptions is intentional. I could happily ramble on as much as I'm doing here, wax poetically about how pretty the boys are, but nothing I write would ever come close to what the mind can conjure and beauty will always be in the eye of the beholder.)


"First, I want something from you," I state plainly and turn to face Valentine directly, our sight aligning perfectly due to our identical heights.

The already stern line of his mouth tightens further as he grumbles, "I'm not accepting demands from you."

"Veld has told me you are a man of your word. Is that true?" I ask, my referencing of his former partner and close friend a calculated move.

He stares at me blankly for a moment, his patently inscrutable appearance having been reconstructed to enshroud him with maximum force. "…Yes."

"What I want from you is your word that anything I say to you regarding this matter, regarding the Commissioner, is kept to yourself and not shared with anyone, especially not Kisaragi."

"Yuffie can help."

I give a quick shake of my head in negation. "She is too entangled with the WRO, while you have maintained your distance." After pausing briefly, I add on, "Predictably," and his eyes narrow slightly in response.

"I'll give you my word if you stop trying to make me angry."

Thank the Promised Land, he hasn't lost all of his ability to recognize when his emotions are being influenced. I hope his other Turk skills are also up to par.

"If you prove that you don't need to be prodded, I will," I concede with ill grace.

"I have nothing to prove to you," he contends grimly.

Raising an eyebrow sardonically, I cast an unimpressed glance down his leather-clad figure and then back up to refocus on his face. "You might have everybody else on the Planet eating out of the palm of your hand, Valentine, but my judgment is more discerning. All you have proven is that you're good at killing things."

In what might merely be wishful thinking on my part, I detect a minute tensing in his posture from the impact of my assertion.

Tuesti would be proud… and furious that I am manipulating his pet world-saver in such a way.

My lips twitch faintly as I fight back the desire to smile malevolently and I draw my patience about myself for the duration, passively watching the gunman either deliberate on my words or delve into the past of his memories to no doubt obsessively condemn his previous conduct and perceived mistakes internally.

Probably both. How he hasn't driven himself insane with the constant self-flagellation is a mystery.

The minutes roll by and I am glad that I had set aside ample time for this encounter, even as my irritation level rises with the delay. At last, a semblance of life chases away the unnerving stillness of his countenance and a present awareness returns to the striking crimson irises as he examines me closely, an uncomfortably penetrating appraisal I tolerate indifferently.

"…You have my word," he vows solemnly.

"Thank you," I respond graciously, my appreciation sincere even while I resist the impulse to criticize his dramatic seriousness, before beginning my explanation, "Tuesti has been evading numerous attempts on his life for, in his own words, 'quite some time'. His-"

He interrupts with, "Why did he share that with you?"

'And not with me', I finish his question in my head, and mildly taunt, "That is what you consider to be the central concern here?"

"No, but it's… worrying."

"'Worrying'? How so? That he didn't disclose this information to you or that he chose me as the recipient instead?"

"Both. Turks are only loyal to Shinra."

I scoff lightly and refute, "Not always, but if you're really worried about my involvement, I assure you that President Shinra is loyal to the WRO, however reluctant and ill-fitting that loyalty might be."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe, but let's at least pretend to be on the same side or we will accomplish nothing," I declare succinctly. When it becomes obvious that he is not going to say anything more about my lack of trustworthiness, I take his silence for agreement and move on, "His mechanical decoys were providing sufficient protection until one fell into enemy hands. I doubt I need to tell you how potentially catastrophic it is to have that technology stolen by hostile entities, but you must be on guard against his creations."

"Do you know why he doesn't want AVALANCHE's help?"

He isn't stupid, I know that, but the questions he asks definitely are.

Stamping down on my annoyance, I manage to answer steadily, "Given his do-gooder mentality, I suspect because he doesn't want to put any of you in danger. So far, he is the only one being targeted."

"You will be targeted now," he points out impassively.

"I know, but that doesn't matter," I insist, my tone emphatically unconcerned.

Ignoring my implication, he refuses to let the subject drop and inquires, "Why are you willing to risk yourself for Reeve?"

Constrained rage prickles into the forefront of my brain as I reflect on just how much of myself I am risking for Tuesti, and my voice is harder than I would prefer when I reply, "I may not always see eye to eye with him, we've had our differences in the past, but I can't deny that he is a competent leader and someone worthy of my respect."

Again, he studies me with that piercing stare, seemingly in an attempt to burrow beneath my skin and unlock my secrets with his sight alone, and I school my features into careful neutrality under the weight of his inspection. Once he chooses to speak, all he says is, "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm sure you have your own ideas and that you'll do whatever you want to anyway, but I would like for you to leave the Commissioner's safety to me and focus on figuring out who is responsible for the attacks. My presence is only tolerated by the organization, not celebrated as yours is, and you are surprisingly skilled at remaining unseen," I remark and spare quick, dubious glances at his cloak and metal gauntlet, falling momentarily to the garish golden sabatons adorning his feet before raising my eyes back up to his.

Showing no visible reaction to my implicit insult, he suggests, "You should contact Veld."

"I already have."

"And?"

"And if you want to know what he's up to, ask him yourself," I riposte coolly, knowing full well that he has been avoiding my aging mentor just as much as he does everybody, perhaps more.

"I'm going to ask Reeve why he trusts you," he pledges abruptly, likely with the sole purpose of provocation.

Keen to disabuse him of that ill-advised notion, I snap, "No. Do not speak to him about this, not a single word."

"I want to know if there's any truth to what you have said."

"Then open your eyes. You won't have to talk to him to see what's going on," I grit out forcefully, but the clear suspicion he is now regarding me with reveals that my insistent protests are working against my favor, digging the hole deeper. Switching tactics, I explain, "It will make him mad if he finds out I have broken his confidence. Worse, he would probably close himself off even more. I think I might be the only person he has confided in."

"You freely admit to breaking his confidence and I'm supposed to trust you?" All inflection is absent from his reverberating speech, but auditory mockery is unnecessary for driving home his disdain.

"No, you should trust your own observations to determine the validity of my account of the situation before deciding whether to bring my indiscretion to Tuesti's attention," I clarify, making an effort to appeal to his pride and common sense. "You don't like me or trust me and that's fine, but he's paranoid to the point of being a threat to himself. We can't afford to have him stonewall me."

"All I have is your word on this?"

A sharp gust buffets us, sending my hair and the long train of his worn mantle sailing out sideways to whirl chaotically on the current like disparate banners flapping in the wind, a metaphor that does little to ease my discomfort at the prospect of allying with such a capricious individual, one whose battles with his inner demons, both real and imagined, remain an ongoing issue. Having allowed him his ruminations during this summit, I grant myself the same courtesy as time stretches to a taut diaphanous cord in the pale sunlight slipping through the billowy cloud cover above us. If he is bothered by the postponement of our conversation while I gather my thoughts, it doesn't show and he stands as motionless as a piece of statuary.

Is this the right decision?

Once my debate with myself is finished, I shatter the silence with an admission that is long overdue, "I am grateful that you rescued us. I owe you, Valentine, and I give you my word that my intentions are strictly to preserve the longevity of the Commissioner."

"I might accept that… if you tell me why." I bite back a curse at his dogged determination to expose my motivations, but I am not afforded a chance to tear into his obstinance as he continues, "Why is Reeve so important to you?"

And that is the true crux of the matter, isn't it?

In a split-second, I change my mind about a resolution I had made to not reveal anything regarding the baser nature of my recent interactions with Tuesti.

If there's one thing he's clueless about, it's romance. Even the blind could see that.

"It's none of your business, and has little bearing on the current problem, but we are in a relationship." When I distinguish no comprehension dawning in his gaze, I elaborate bluntly, "A sexual relationship," and feel a burst of spiteful pleasure as he recoils slightly.

"…You're not gay."

"Why does everyone seem so certain of my orientation?" I denounce in annoyance, and then banally observe, "I notice you didn't claim that he isn't gay." The look of ambiguous embarrassment that graces his features in response sets off a low alarm bell of warning in my head.

Was there more to Tuesti's recount of his drunken cape robbery than he let on?

"I don't speculate about people's orientation," he asserts brusquely. "But I was under the impression that… you and Elena-"

"May Bahamut strike down all idiots on the Planet!" I swear vehemently. "There wouldn't be many survivors, but I might have some peace then." Tempering my ire and conveniently ignoring my ancient lapse of judgment in requesting a date from my employee, an endeavor which was mercifully aborted, I resume with greater calm, "I have never engaged in inappropriate behavior with my subordinate, ever."

"I… see."

"Do you?" I harp tightly and glare at him with icy derision. "Do you see why Tuesti's welfare might be of some concern to me?"

He watches me as though I have become a venomous serpent capable of grievous injury and I am mollified by his apparent display of apprehension, before he replies quietly, "…Yes."

"And will you help me help him?" I demand curtly, wanting his overt, verbal compliance to the strategy.

"Do you care about him?" he probes mildly, but I understand the significance of his question despite his cautious projection of detachment.

I breathe out a small sigh and allow a fraction of the weariness that has latched deep into my soul to show in my expression, before answering with as much honesty as I can muster, "Unfortunately, I do."

After my reluctant confession, he glances at the ground for an irritatingly lengthy breadth of time, furtively casting his eyes over the strewn pebbled surface as the breeze picks up to a steadier gale, ruffling our personal effects with delicate intensity, and then returns his focus to my face and assesses my portrayal of stoic authenticity with thoughtful precision. I stand firm against his viewing, the tentative quality of my conviction that my performance is strong enough to fool his observation absent from my demeanor.

"…I will," he finally agrees with a melodic resonance barely audible above the growing lamentation of the air surrounding us.

The unmistakable declaration in his voice serves to settle my reservations, and as unwelcome as the sensation is, I cannot prevent the bolstering uplift on my drained spirits at the acquisition of such a formidable partner, no matter how fickle his whims may be.

And he will put Tuesti's safety above all else… even when I won't be able to do the same.