Winter blue eyes narrowed. The papers on Rufus' desk were hard copies of Cuthbert's "private" journal entries, a poem by one Robert Browning, detailed accounts of the individuals in Niflheim and Asgard, record-keeping (such as it was) and personal notes. Rufus had not brought them for show.
He might, he realized, have accepted or even returned Reno's banter, recently. Away from ShinRa (he forced his mind not to recoil from the train of thought: he had been away from ShinRa, and it had affected him, somehow) he had been forced to temper his usual detachment in order to carve himself a niche: the same detachment which had kept him apart from Reno in the past, the tones of their tempers were discordant. Tseng had always stepped in on those occasions when he and Reno had been at real risk of clashing, and there had never been a real problem. But Tseng wasn't here, and Rufus was remembering how frustrating Reno was. Accordingly, it was time to make a few changes.
"I see." He spoke very softly, looking Reno in the eye. "Let us avoid the production of discussing the enemy." Rufus slid the second copy of Cuthbert's journals out of his pile of papers and turned it face down. He'd intended to hold off on this next part, to make Reno sweat through a full meeting before Rufus came to the reaming. But the President was tired, and his temper was frayed to a degree he associated with a great deal more pressure than he currently faced. What did he have to do for the business, after all? Nothing. Nothing but this next part. Cold eyes glittering, he lobbed his bomb. "We shall go straight to the question of whether or not I do know everything of interest, since it seems I must question you at your word."