Head angled awkwardly, back of the chair digging harshly into the vertebrae of his neck, he catches briefly in his periphery the ripple of outrage, the merest fracturing of Fring's even composure. He has undermined his sense of control, however fractionally, he has unbalanced him to an unknown extent, he has gotten to the man somehow, can claim some meaningless success in verbal excoriation - he simply has no way of knowing if it will make any difference.

In all likelihood: no.

But it was, unsurprisingly, intensely satisfying. Even when taken in conjunction with the slight compression of fingers around his shoulder, the incremental swell in pressure that doubtless signals the core of the matter. The most integral part. The build toward what Fring has been building toward.

Rush swallows, lowering his head, eyes downcast. He scrutinizes the floor because it is habit, because it is distraction, because it removes some minimal shred of sensation of being the helpless thing he is. His stomach has clenched, a writhing, dying thing.

"I'm sure you would be surprised," he rasps with the last subtle edge of victory he likely has available to him. He closes his eyes in a blink approximating something painful and immediate, and finds he lacks the motor control to arrange his features into something appropriately challenging or defiant. He is tired and crawling toward an unreachable sense of triumph. It's raw and evident in the taut hunch of his shoulders, the downward tilt of his head.

It will have to do.