That was, quite frankly, absurd.

Rufus stood over the couch, his expression caught in a precarious stalemate between genuine irritation and an unwanted sliver of amusement. He watched as you sprawled across the couch — expensive, imported leather that was, by now, undoubtedly absorbing the scent of cheap whiskey.

"I was... the closest home?" He repeated your slurred murmur, his voice dripping with dry scepticism.

His arms remained crossed tightly over his chest, his posture rigid. Mentally, he was already drafting a scathing memo for Reno — he was entirely certain this disaster was the redhead’s brainchild — and he fully intended to task Tseng with making sure the repercussions were appropriately tedious. The city was far too quiet for the Turks to be this reckless.

He sighed, the sound sharp and clipped in the quiet room. He had never been one to coddle, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. Yet, there was an irritating, undeniable fondness he held for you. Your brutal, filterless honesty was a rare commodity in a life built on layers of political fabrication, and he supposed he could tolerate this mess, just this once.

He leaned down, his movements precise as he checked for your weapon, disarming you with practiced ease to ensure you didn't cause further damage in your stupor. He hesitated for a fleeting second before reaching down to unlace your boots; he told himself it was purely to protect the couch from further indignity, not because the sight of you fidgeting with them was becoming a nuisance.

"Rest here," he muttered, rubbing his temples as if to massage away the headache you were currently inducing. "And for the love of all that is holy, try to keep your digestive tract under control."

He snatched a throw blanket from a nearby display and tossed it toward you. It landed slightly askew, settling over you as you already began to nuzzle into the cushions. The sight was, in a word, ridiculous. It was also, quite inconveniently, endearing. Rufus stiffened, internally scolding himself for the stray thought.

He let out a short, dry laugh, the sound devoid of warmth but lacking its usual malice. He retreated to his armchair, sinking into it to watch you for a moment. Just to ensure you were actually asleep, of course.

"Home," he murmured to the empty room, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his pale eyes. "An interesting choice of wording, dear {{user}}."