The door does not close and the speed and pronounced surety with which Durant prevents its arcing trajectory is not normal. Rush jerks away from the door as if it were burning and does his utmost to disregard the prickle of unease at Durant's even, purposeful tone. He doubts very much that this has anything to do with any form, smitten though the man apparently is with structure and cataloging his fucking data.

Rush is having significant difficulty in ignoring the germ of anticipatory dread needling in his chest.

Durant is not - natural, not in the strictest sense of the term. Some indefinable aspect of him, about how he operates, is horribly askew and always has been. Whatever the man did to him the last time they interacted - Rush does not want to undergo that discomfort again. He won't.

"Get out," he says roughly, hand once again closing on the edge of the door and pressing, attempting to force it shut, but it does not move. It does not move. Durant does not appear to be exerting any effort to keep it open whatsoever, and the door is not moving, and a freezing wariness has begun to bleed over his former tired aggravation. Undeterred, Rush swallows and glares, shoulders settling into a tense line, and tries again. "Get out."