Looking Out from the Inside
When he's finished cleaning himself up, he seems much calmer and walks into the room to see me sitting exactly where he told me to. He even seems a little surprised that I never bothered to move. But he ignores me other than that and he grabs his pillow from the bed and points at the other one and states that I'm welcome to use it before he starts to walk out.
Nothing registers at first—not until I suddenly shake my head and wonder why I'm letting him talk to me like I'm one of his subordinates. And he gets as far as a foot into the other room before I find myself grabbing him from behind and placing my hand over his mouth as I threateningly growl into his ear, "You're not sleeping out here."
Then I mindlessly brush my mouth against his ear without meaning to, even though I think I do.
And the moment I take my hand away, he retorts by telling me in a hushed voice that makes him sound like he's hissing, "You don't give the orders in my home," while I proceed to push him into his room and he makes every effort to make it difficult. And when I get him near the door, his legs fly up and he presses his feet to the wall on both sides to carry out his assumptive protest as he voices it.
"I'm not sleeping with you, Vince."
"Vincent," I remind him, again, and then in hopes of getting him to give up on his stubborn streak while I try to keep him from falling due to the awkward position he's managed to put us both in, I genuinely tell him I'm not expecting him to.
"Then what do you want?" he demands as he squirms in my enhanced grip and walks slightly up the wall to reposition his body for a better edge.
"I don't want you sleeping on the couch."
"Keep your voice down," he reminds me before he gives up on struggling and runs up the wall so he can successfully flip over me. Then he snickers when he lands on the floor like a cat, and he stays like that while he stares up at me with a small fire in his eyes and maliciously lowers his voice, "You've already caused me enough trouble."
If only I had my gun right now, I would be aiming it at him, given the untrustworthy and almost predatory look he's suddenly exhibiting. But since I don't, I find myself kneeling down to his level with an uncontrollable sneer on my face and lowly accusing him, "You're getting off on this, aren't you?"
Degrading me like he does, I think, as I finish the rest of the thought off in my head instead of giving him the satisfaction of hearing me say it.
He turns completely serious at that and smacks me across the face again like I've done something to offend him before he tells me, "Give it up."
Then he grabs his pillow and pries my hand from his shirt that I didn't realize I was using to pull him toward me and starts to head toward the sofa while arrogantly stating, "You're not my type," suggesting that he thinks there's only one thing on my mind.
"What is your type, Tseng?" I ask him, as if I really am curious while I rub at my cheek and watch him stubbornly lay out the sheets he must have grabbed before he came back into his room and I accusingly suggest as if it bothers me, "Reno?"
Then I lower my voice and take it a step further out of nothing more than pure vindictiveness over nothing, "Or maybe you prefer them younger, Like Rufus…"
"Rufus," he mutters as he quirks his brow, snorts, sneers, snickers, and shakes his head before fluffing his pillow like he can't seem to get it to his liking.
Then he leans into the couch and rests his knees on it while placing his hands on the back so he can regard me over it. And I don't doubt for a second that he knows he's leaving me with more questions than I thought he would, and I also don't doubt that it's the reason he just leaves it at that without elaborating on what the hell his mixture of thoughts were pertaining to.
"As far as Reno goes, no one knows what the hell his preferences are."
Then he waves his hand at nothing and mutters, "Or if he has any at all."
"No one," I repeat, wondering how that's even possible since they've all worked together for so long while feeling kind of angry over something as well. But I'm not sure what it is.
"No one's ever seen him with anyone, not even his best friend, Rude," he admits while he shrugs and turns around to sit, "He's always talking about women, and he'll flirt with anyone or more accurately, everyone. But he dates no one."
Then he smiles, almost perversely and provokingly states as I walk around and stand in front of him.
"I'll admit that I find him flattering and easy on the eyes, Vince. I'd have to be blind and dead from the waist down if I didn't."
After that, he turns his attention to my hands that are unconsciously tense over something and tilts his head as he studies them. Then he snickers and shakes his head again before he looks up at me and turns completely serious as a dead wash literally veils over him, "I'm not what you want, Vince."
"How would you know what I want?" I ask even though I have no idea why I say it as he pushes himself up and walks over to pull the drain out of the sink.
And I can't help but notice that he walks passed me like I'm not even here while I silently grit my jaw over it.
"I don't know what I did to make you so obsessive over me. But I can guarantee you that you don't want to be with someone like me, even if you did swing my way."
"Why?" I ask, completely oblivious to why I ask that instead of denying that he's accusing me of wanting him or having feelings that I know I shouldn't be having for him.
"Besides the fact that I could write you a twenty page essay full of reasons to stay away from me—and that would only cover a fraction—allow me to tailor it for you by giving you one reason that should be more than enough for someone like you," he starts before he pauses for a moment and scrapes the broken glass out of his sink with the rag.
"Someone like me…"
"I'm a firm believer in equality."
With a light snicker at the confusion he's sensing from me, he turns around and tilts his head before he clarifies that he's not exactly the submissive type, or at the very least, not all the time.
"Personally, I don't see why I should be the only one to bend over in a relationship, if you catch my drift."
And for some unknown reason, I consider what he's saying when it sinks in and I stand there for a moment and wonder if I could go that far. The moment passes quickly though, and I decide to help him clean out his sink while I come to the conclusion and admit it to him, "I can't do that."
"I know," he says while he focuses on his sink and wipes it down with the rag that's taken on a pinkish tinge from when he wiped his blood off the wall, "Which is why I'm not idiot enough to kid myself with you, Vince."
"What makes you think you'd be kidding yourself?"
"Because I'm not stupid," he tells me as he turns to run his eyes over me and steps back to put more distance between us.
"You're addicted to me because I'm the first person you've been with in over thirty years, and you're confusing yourself by thinking it's because you're attracted to me when it's only because you've been building up by denying yourself for so long. Although, I have to admit that I have no idea why you decided to chase after me when, as rumour has it, that little Wutian girl you sometimes hang around is crazy about you. And you'd probably stand a better chance with her in more than one way."
"Yuffi," I tell him, before I walk over to the sofa and grab his pillow to return it to his room. All the while, I'm feeling angered over the fact that he thinks he knows me better than I do.
"What's that?"
"Her name," I answer. Then I come over to him and pull him by the arm, more coaxingly this time, in hopes that I'll have better success in getting him into his own bed since I'm still not willing to let him win on every account.
"I honestly can't have you sleeping on the sofa," he finally tells me, sounding more human about it than he did before as if he has a valid reason that he just didn't want to tell me about before.
"Why?"
"Because someone might see you when I come and go. Our hours are peculiar and the sofa's near the door. And if I move it out of the way, Reno will be even more suspicious than he already is due to all of the other bizarre things he's already pointed out."
Realizing that it's probably the most effort he's put into explaining anything since the day I first met him, I suddenly find myself stopping us both under the frame to his room and turning to stare at his front door.
"Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" I ask, somewhat frustrated by the way he chose to fight about it instead.
"Because I don't see why I should have to explain myself to you."
"I'm not one of your Turks," I tell him as I give him a quick and agitated push into his room and watch him stumble with a mild satisfaction. Then I sit him on his bed and hold him down by keeping my hand over his shoulder, "I don't follow orders without a reason."
"You never asked for one."
"I shouldn't have to," I inform him before I kneel in front of him and go for the buttons on his nightshirt, and when he quickly grabs me by the wrists to stop me and my sleeve pulls back, he suddenly falters and stares at the circular scars on the underside of my forearm.
"It's where Hojo injected the Lifestream," I tell him, along with a few other things I care not to talk about. And after a short nod, he curiously looks at the chain around my neck before he pushes my sleeve farther up and stares at the long scars on the other side while I ignore his silent questions and ask him to, "Trust me," and I start for his buttons again.
He almost acts like he doesn't hear me and he undoes the buttons on my shirt as well so he can push the shoulder down on my other arm, where he shot me, and he notes that the bullet wound has completely healed with no marks left before he returns his attention to my arm. I know what he's doing as he silently takes note that I no longer scar anymore, and even though it bothers me, I let him do it—knowing that he's almost envying something that I view as a curse.
"I'm surprised I didn't notice this when…"
"You were focused on other priorities," I remind him in a quiet and distant tone while trying to spare him from having to bring up the fact that I took advantage of him since he's referring to that morning, and I start to pull his shirt off while he tenses and quickly grabs it to stop me.
"I'm not comfortable with…"
"I know," I tell him as I cut him off and manage to get him to reluctantly cooperate. Then I decide to use his own and questionably kind tactics that he used on me when he took me to Wutai while I position myself behind him and tell him to relax.
"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do."
After that, I run two of my fingers down the outline of his spine while minding the pressure to release the fluid that's built up from his neglect. And I keep my other hand on his shoulder to reduce the shock of contact.
During that, I pay close attention to his reaction since I'm sure he's not going to tell me if I hit a tender spot, or even if it feels good. Then I lean slightly forward with a bit of a frown over how misaligned his muscles are and I tell him, "I just want to return a favour."
I know he thinks I'm probably doing this in hopes that I can find another way to seduce him. But the truth is, like he'd asked me in Wutai, I'm beginning to wonder when the last time he took care of himself was, beyond that of personal grooming. And at the moment, the only thing I'm focusing on is trying to see if I can help him get a better night's sleep by trying to loosen his back enough to give him some sort of relief.
"Leviathan," he mutters, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud when I take special care around the areas that require more attention and he surprises me by admitting that it feels good. Or as he literally puts it while closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, "It's been so long since someone's done that."
"Why don't you lie down then," I coax, and I find myself almost wanting to smile at the fact that he can be tamed when he surprises me again and does it, as well as the fact that he turns onto his stomach so I can continue with greater ease.
As stubborn as he is, he went for my suggestion that we should both sleep in the bed since neither of us would allow the other to sleep on the couch. Of course, he had terms and insisted that I don't cross the imaginary line he laid out before he'd go for it.
Or as he put it:
"If you so far as touch me, I'll shoot you without thinking twice about it."
He was yawning and unusually relaxed when he said it though. But I took him seriously—if not the actual threat—knowing that his reasons for trying to push me away are probably more valid than I care to admit to. He still curled up though, and he still grabbed onto the bed for support and grimaced every time he wanted to move. But he did seem a little more comfortable and I have to admit that I wasn't expecting any miracles to happen overnight.
Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping.
When I wake up in the morning, he's already gone, not that I'm surprised by it and I decide I'll do as he ordered and keep my presence unknown by not going near any of his drapes as I cautiously walk into his front room where there's a note sitting on the small table in his kitchen. Half-expecting to find a list of things he'll want me to do to earn my keep, I walk over to it and pick it up before I read it with mixed feelings.
I know it was pointless.
It reads,
But I made you breakfast, even if you don't require it. It's in the oven keeping
warm.
Whether you want it or not, make sure you turn the oven off. There's tea in the
cupboard near the cooling unit if you want something warm to drink. But use a
pot and not my kettle to boil the water.
It whistles and I don't want you drawing any more attention to me.
— Tseng
With a deep breath, I lower my head as I fold it back over and feel like turning his oven up high enough to set fire to whatever he's got in there for being ignorant enough to suggest I need to be told to turn the damn thing off. But I don't.
I know he's just doing and saying things the only way he knows how, and I try to remind myself that I should be thankful that he went through the trouble to do everything he's done so far, even though I don't know why he's done it when I consider that he acts like he thinks I'm some kind of mongrel that's trying to ruin his life.
It's pointless to stew over it though. So I walk over to his oven and open it, half-expecting it to explode and half-expecting there to be nothing, and I wind up staring at the plate with even more confusion. Why I'm suddenly wishing he was a prick enough to do one or both of the things I was expecting, or maybe even hoping for, I don't know.
And why I'm so bothered by what he's made is beyond me. It's nothing offensive or even degrading about what kind of person he thinks I am. Instead, it's something that looks like he put effort into it and I can't help but wonder why as I pull the plate out with bare hands and stare at the omelette with what looks like smoked boundfat and fresh vegetables sprinkled with a light seasoning.
I can't help but think he was inspired by the Forgotten Capital again, like he was with dinner since I'm well-aware there's a good number of boundfats running wild in the Forgotten City, and I also can't help but be reminded of the barbaric reputation my ancestors have as well. Whether he's making a dig at me or being genuinely inspired is unknown though.
All I can do is shake my head and lower it as I catch myself wanting to smile again without knowing why, and I grab a piece with my fingers to taste it. Then I catch myself nodding at the fact that it's something I could eat more of before I fill a pot with water like he suggested, figuring it wouldn't hurt to have something to wash it down with while wondering why I'm putting just as much effort into it as him.
When I'm done, I quietly wash the dishes I used and put everything where it looks like it's supposed to go. Then I go into his room and pull his rug out from under his bed and I frown while wondering if I can get the stains from his blood out.
Luckily, he has enough solutions in a cupboard near his washing machine that has my clothes neatly folded and mended on top. He even went so far as to sew the cut he made in my pants back up, and despite that, I suddenly wonder how many times he's had to wash blood from his belongings before. I suppose it's a trivial question though, since I know what he does for a living even though it doesn't sit well. But I brush it off, and when I find something that looks suitable, I take it back to his room and start scrubbing with a surprising ease.
And again, I don't know why I'm doing anything at all for him and convince myself that it's to fight off boredom, even though I know it would be just as easy for me to sleep all day. But then again, if I wasn't doing this, I wouldn't have noticed the shoe-boxes under his bed that catch my attention when I'm done.
I know I shouldn't pull them out, and I know his privacy is none of my business. But unfortunately, my curiosity about him has the best of me and I find myself sitting on his bed and opening one to discover a lifetime of photos. Most of them are what I suspect to be past lovers, considering he's even in a few of them. And for some strange reason, I find myself relieved that I haven't come across any with Reno in them. Though I don't know why I'm looking for them or even suspecting there might be some, and I don't know why the thought bothers me either.
It comes to a point to where I convince myself that I shouldn't be doing this and I put the box back. Then I go to the laundry room to collect my clothes that he went through the trouble to wash and I put them back on since I'm more comfortable in them than I am in his clothes.
But before I do that, I find myself holding them and feeling nostalgic over the clean scent they have, considering I haven't done anything more than rinse them off or scrub them on a rock since the day I crawled into that coffin in Nibelheim. And again, I'm finding myself put off by the fact that he's probably sending me some kind of condescending message by going through the trouble to do it.
I can't help but frown over it before I change and go back into his room with mixed feelings again. And to make matters worse, and more confusing to myself, I'm reaching back under his bed to pull out another box while I hear what sounds like the four of them—the Turks—near the barn Reno nearly burnt down and they're yelling at someone.
Or to put it more accurately, the four of them sound more like they're demanding information and I conclude that they must have found someone they think has answers to Tseng's assumptions about the renegade Turks. And a part of me is torn for a moment as I walk to his window and move the drape just enough for me to get a hazy image of Tseng grabbing a severely beaten man by the collar and ramming his head into a trough full of water.
I tell myself it's not my business and that they're only doing what they're supposed to be doing as Tseng pulls the guy up for air and whispers something threatening into his ear while the other three stand by and watch.
Then he holds out his hand toward Reno and says, "Give me the rope."
His second-in-command wastes no time to hand him what he requests while chuckling darkly at their victim with a look that doesn't appear promising. And Tseng wastes no time while ordering Rude to hold the man in a position to tie the man's wrists to the heavy branch of the tree above the trough while he supports himself with both feet on either edge of the trough.
I almost don't want to know what they're going to do, and I want to question the reason Tseng has left the man's feet in the water less. But there's not much room for questions the moment Tseng nods over to Reno with a dark look in his eyes and Reno steps up to the water and hits the switch on his EMR.
All I can do is fight the urge to run out there and put a stop to it as the end of Reno's weapon mercilessly hits the water with an electric charge, and I step away so I don't have to watch anymore. But despite the fact that I've fallen to sit against the wall with my attention away from the window, I can still hear the screams and continuing demands, and I still can't find a justifiable reason for any of it to be happening.
I suppose it's my own fault since Tseng told me to stay away and I didn't listen for whatever reason. And I suppose it's not really my business, even though every sense of my being tells me that none of this is right. So in an attempt to try to take my mind from it, I find myself scanning his room for anything of meagre interest and set my attention back on the second shoebox.
At this point, anything will do, and I decide that looking at more pictures of a killer's past can't do that much harm. And I find a new sense of justification when I convince myself that he's not a wholesome creature and that no violation can come from digging through what he's left in the open anyway.
Of course, I brush the nagging reminder that it wasn't out in the open and that it wasn't his original intention to have me here either as I open the box to find myself at odds with more questions about him.
At the very top, there's a folded letter with a wedding ring sitting above it, and when I pick up the ring, there's an inscription that reads:
Tseng and Marina Forever.
I can only stare at it in confusion as I turn it in my hand and note the delicate inscription in the plain gold with a small design that I don't recognize on the outside. About the best conclusion I can come up with is that it's his and that he was married, assuming that it belongs to him and not some other Tseng that it might have belonged to.
Figuring I'm not going to get much more information by doing nothing but stare at it with a dumfounded feeling, I place it on the bed beside me as if it's something that's both sacred and cursed, and I pick up the letter, wondering if I should read it or not. And again, I'm dumbfounded even before I read the note because directly under it is a wedding picture with him unmistakably dressed as the groom and what I can only assume is his bride, Marina, smiling and standing next to a wedding cake.
Almost as if I've opened the gates to a place that will condemn me, I'm tempted to simply put it all back and wipe its existence from my mind before I jump from the unexpected sound of a gun going off—one shot. Then Tseng orders the others to, "Dispose of him—We've gotten all we can."
And for a moment, I sit quietly and wait as if I'm expecting him to come barging through his door to bring hell upon me for looking at something I don't think I should be looking at. But instead, I hear him and Reno talking about something I can't make out, and then he calls Elena over and tells her he'd like her to do something for him.
Once I come to the conclusion that it's back to simple business between them all again, I find I'm unable to resist the urge any longer and I glance over at the window through a blackened veil, unable to see anything since it's covered so heavily, and I unfold the letter that reads:
I saw you with him, you bastard…
You're a miserable son of a bitch for doing this to us…
Most of it's vindictive and accusatory, written with a heavy pressure and an uneven consistency, suggesting the person was unstable and emotional when they wrote it, despite its obvious words. But for some reason, the last lines strike me, and I can't seem to pull my focus away from them while everything outside seems like it no longer exists.
I'll make your life a living hell that will make you wish you were never born, and I'll start by taking the only thing that matters to you away…
Consider yourself to blame for what's happened to her.
—
If it wasn't for me overhearing Tseng saying he's famished and going to get some lunch, I might have been able to make more sense out of what the letter's about by digging through the rest of the box. And to make it even more confusing, I'm left wondering who 'her' is, or if it's just a mindless typo.
But as it is, I can already hear Tseng approaching and I have little time to put everything back the way I found it. Though I manage, and I decide to rush into the bathroom to wipe down the sink in hopes of making my position less conspicuous.
