Arms Hotel, Outside Room 412, Before Dawn Sunday Morning
Elena couldn't sleep. It was late, and then it was later, and then it was early, and she still couldn't sleep. She kept catching it in bits, but it wouldn't stick around. Maybe it knew her too well and was running for it
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The notion had, in fact, crossed his mind. But he'd spent far too many nights chasing away his own demons to be able to drift to sleep so easily as that, and tonight was hardly any different.
He actually still looked as alert as always when he answered the door, though he had changed into something slightly less formal over the course of the night. One hardly needed to go to bed wearing a suit and a tie when one was on vacation, after all.
... And so he was wearing his uniform slacks. They were comfortable.
"Elena?"
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Do not stare at your boss, Elena.
She gulped down air and glanced up at his eyes. Which were safe.
"Hi," she said. "I couldn't sleep. Are you Tseng One or Two? They numbered you, at the front desk. I was worried about ... Rosalind and I couldn't sleep. Were you sleeping? Did I wake you? I didn't mean to wake you. Can I come in? Or were you sleeping? I can go."
Good. Excellent. Her mouth was broken again.
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Yes, horrible inappropriateness aside. The fact that he'd met her when she was twelve just the other day aside, as well. He was willing to make small mental adjustments for the sake of different timelines. This Elena, after all, was relatively grown up. Occasional bouts of rambling aside, of course.
"I wasn't sleeping just yet," he offered, calmly. "And yes, Elena, I am the Tseng that accompanied you here."
Although, he mused, it would have been interesting if he had wound up having to threaten his younger self for getting entirely too close to one of his Turks.
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Because, well, Other-Tseng would have so many things to say about that situation, and very few of them were any good.
"Not that I ... came here to make a huge mess of things," she added, weakly. "I meant -- you know what I mean."
No, Elena. He probably didn't.
Oh, Shiva, he wasn't wearing a shirt, and she was in his hotel room. He had such presence, in his suit, and he had presence without it, but it was a very different sort of presence. One that wasn't helping her inability to use words.
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Yes. Yes, he did need a gun in order to answer the door on a strange island at four in the morning. And now it was going back to his holster, with the rest of his uniform, where it belonged.
"Please, take a seat," he said, calmly, not quite looking her way just yet. "You said that you were worried about Rosalind. If you were here to make a mess of things, I would be giving you a full reprimand in the hallway already."
It was true.
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She sat down on the bed, gingerly. It was forward to sit on the bed, but the other option was a single chair in the corner, and if she sat there, exactly where would he sit?
She ran a hand through her hair. "It's not any specific worry," she admitted. "I just ... miss her. I'm worried about what lies ahead. Seeing the other me made it more real."
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"She's young. She has her entire life ahead of her, and you know exactly how that life went," Tseng observed. It was possible that he had some very convenient recent insights into that same point of view, himself. "And you've already made up your mind to keep that life from falling into place the same way that your own did."
Save Rosalind. Save Zack. Would they be saving the rest of the Turks, next? Aerith? An entire other world? They had their own troubles, their own cleanup to worry about, but he couldn't deny how tempting it was to think that they could just sweep in and spare so much grief, just by virtue of knowing when it was going to occur.
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"It's not her that I'm concerned about," Elena said, a touch sharply. "I can fend for myself. I always have. But Rosalind -- Amelia -- she practically raised me. It's one thing to say that timelines are important, and all that rational garbage, but I can't just step back and let everything happen again. I can't. She loves me. She may be the only person that ever has."
Their father had closed off once his wife died. Besides, he might be dead now, anyway.
It was probably odd that she didn't know. But she didn't imagine the rest of the Turks kept tabs on their old lives or old families, either.
But Rosalind ...
"I can't lose her again."
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Perhaps they could get through this conversation without her deciding to stay behind on this damned island, hm?
"Then we'll save her."
That seemed like a good start.
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No, it wasn't very helpful. But hey, on the upside: if she was staring at him, speechless, then her mouth wasn't running.
"We will?" she said. "But I ... I thought you ..."
The wind was coming out of her sails.
"I thought that was the start of a lecture," she admitted, finally.
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Or, rather, too late at night. One or the other.
Or else, perhaps, this was one of those subjects that he wouldn't have lectured Elena on at all. He would leave that up to her own creative way of interpreting things.
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She didn't add that this Tseng appeared to wear less clothing than the one she was accustomed to. But she was certainly thinking it.
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"Perhaps you are. Perhaps I am actually several years younger, and very carefully gathering confidential information pertaining to the personal matters of somebody who, for me, is currently a twelve year old child."
He'd had a series of very long showers this weekend, yes.
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It figured.
"I ... really hate to tell you this," she said, "but she's, like, eight."
Nine, at best.
More showers, Tseng? They were so invigorating!
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Many more showers. All of the showers. He would be heading to have one at right that very instant, were it not for the fact that his youngest Turk was currently having a Fandom-caused timeline-related existential crisis while sitting on his hotel bed.
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And, really, he wouldn't risk heading to the shower with her in his room, for fear she'd try to join him.
"I grew up," she said simply. "Everybody grows up. That was eleven years ago."
A lifetime, especially for an eight-year-old.
"At least I didn't kick your shins?"
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