[ If Tseng was only privvy to the Sephiroth's wariness of him and his intentions, he'd likely encourage it. The few people he trusts personally are only considered so because they never stop disproving what he considers a career-appropriate sense of paranoia. He is a Turk, after all, and it's likely that if Sephiroth himself were to take a step out of turn and fall out of favor with the Shinra elite, then it'd probably be Tseng's gun flashing in the dark, quietly disposing of him before he became a bigger threat to public security.

Tseng is sure that would never happen, but that bottom line will always be there. Either way, none of that has any bearing on simply sharing a pleasant conversation, which is precisely what they are doing right now. Just talk, uncomplicated. This is fine. And if his gaze drifts to the plush curve of Sephiroth's lips while he is speaking, that's fine too, it can be easily explained, he has a concussion after all and his eyes—clearer and brighter than ever—haven't been the same since. So.

Anyway, his brow lifts, ever-skeptical. ]

Hm. You'd prefer my company over the illustrious Mr. Fair.

[ Of course he knows who Sephiroth is talking about. All of Angeal's nicknames for new recruits trickle down to the basement levels eventually, where the rest of the black suits can titter over them in the fluorescent dark. Tseng's smirk is mostly concealed by his hand, but there's a touch of it in his gaze, anyway. ]

I'm not certain whether or not that's an honor or the lowest bar ever set for me.