Watching Carrie at work is one of Quinn's pleasures in life. It's not just the aesthetic element, although she's hardly a pain to look at, but the single-minded intensity and focus on whatever she's doing; whether it's hunting down terrorists, filing reports or even doing the crossword. He wonders whether that intensity translates into any other aspects of her life; fleetingly imagines her above him, transfixing him with that stare as she sinks down onto him before he reminds himself of professionalism and responsibility and moves the thought to a recess of his brain where he can - will - explore it later.

It's not often he can get the jump on her though; she hasn't reacted to his presence which means she's either lost in her own world or ignoring him deliberately. Either way, he has no intention of moving. It's peaceful in the office, only a few stragglers still around this late, and he has nothing else to be doing.

For a moment he indulges himself with the idea of sneaking up on her just to see her jump, see the wild animal flash in her eyes that spikes through his blood, but he resists. There's something about her that hooks him; he can't tell whether it's her personality or her illness or maybe a combination of the two, but from their first interaction and her subsequent loathing of him he's not figured out to back out from it.

He can't tell if he wants to hit her or hold her; whether he wants to fuck her until she can't stand or cherish her. He can't tell if all they're mutually exclusive feelings; he suspects not but that touches on rather darker territory than he's in for tonight.

"Are you just going to stand there?" she asks without looking up; so she was ignoring him then. Comforting; she puts herself in enough risky situations without the worry of her senses being dulled.

He steps inside silently, standing over her left shoulder. 90% of black-ops soldier scans over the documents she's working on, while 10% red blooded male reminds him that she's wearing a low top and push-up bra.

"Everyone's gone home" he comments, and that makes her look up in surprise.

"I thought it was earlier."

"It's pretty late. You going to head soon?"

She surveys the carnage that is her desk, scrubs her fingers through her hair and shakes her head.

"Need help?"
A bitter laugh escapes her at that and he can't help but join in. He isn't expecting her to agree but somehow she does; whether through boredom or sleep deprivation or maybe just the unusual sensation of desiring company. Coffee-fuelled, they work through the night, and it's not until the early hours of the morning that she suggests taking a break.

He draws out a hipflask and she swigs without a second glance. He's momentarily impressed she doesn't flinch at the strength of the liquor, and takes a hit himself.

"So why are you here so late?" she asks, eyes sliding over to him.

He toys with a few answers, the truth among them, before speaking, which is stupid because now whatever he says she will take as a lie or evasive answer.

"I had a late meeting, thought I'd wander around and see if anyone was still here."

She accepts it, swigs again from his hipflask and makes a pleased sigh.

"Thanks"

He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

"I don't really sleep much any more."

He hums in agreement, surprised that she's decided to open with that, not quite sure how to respond without pressurising her.

Even the silence is too much; he can feel her shoulders hunch slightly and she clambers to her feet with a wry smile.

"Thanks...again."

He unfolds from his position on the floor, invading her personal space just a little as he snaffles the hip flask back with a grin.

"Your turn to supply refreshments next time"