He can manage little more than an insubstantial jerk of his head to one side, a corner of his mouth contorting in a fleeting tear of disgust. Neither Fring nor ROMAC have particularly managed to inspire any sense of trust from him - nor from, he notes with a distant sense of approval, Asadi. But within that structure of paperwork and bureaucratic consolidation, they have aligned themselves in an axis opposed. There is little doubt that Fring is aware of it, and now Durant as well. The TARDIS he trusts unquestionably, both to maintain awareness and to potentially take action. As for the Doctor - Rush grudgingly must accept that he would trust him in this particular case as well, if solely by association.

"God, yes," he whispers, flicking his gaze to the coffeemaker that sits in crisp, glowering adjacency to the apartment's bare stretch of empty space. A jumbled row of mugs and paper cups have lined themselves up beside it in an unconcerned and meandering arrangement, the sole indications of any sort of frequent use. "There should be grounds. Somewhere."

Adjustment of posture is still an agony of unresponsive limbs and tensely contracted musculature, but Rush inches himself upward, straightening incrementally with a tautening of shoulders.