Special Agent | ✓

Thirty-Eight

More like daggers, but fine.

But that wasn't what had propelled him to take a sudden leave from the Agency, hunting down Sarraf's spineless informant, going on this hunt to find her. It was because he knew some of it was his own bloody fault, and that guilt had weighed him down more than the exhaustion of his ceaseless search.

"I'm not here for the Agency," Locke started, eyes searching Quinn's face. Her eyes welled with emotion she was actively attempting to quell, a fight she was losing.

"Then why? Do you believe me now?" Her question was quiet, and it was one Gavin had been asking himself the past time he'd searched for her.

It wasn't just the guilt. He knew it. Guilt alone would not be enough to compel him to suddenly depart completely from his work as a Special Agent, and from the administrative decisions of the Agency as a whole. But Locke wasn't ready to face the implications of that realization, so he refrained from it.

The silence between them was loaded. Gavin was unsure of how much Quinn knew of the meeting where her kill order had been passed, but if he was correct in assuming Chief Tibble had passed along some of — if not all — the information she had then Quinn would have no reason to let him reason with her.

And he wouldn't force her to, either. Locke knew O'Reilly well enough to trust her logic, her judgment — and he'd made a bad mistake, betraying both her and his own trust in her. He wouldn't step aside that simply, though.

It wouldn't stop me from taking her side against the Agency.

As for her question, whether or not he believed in her —

"I do," Locke said, finally.

Quinn felt a weight in her chest dissolving rapidly, as if rising out of her. A careful, almost invisible smile briefly passed her face. Locke's eyes merely darted across her face again.

Her arms dropped, the defensive cross disappearing. That made some stress run out of Locke's shoulders. Quinn watched him quietly, saw the way his eyes darted to the exit of the alley whenever a car passed the street, or someone briefly walked by the opening. He was very much in Special Agent mode, yet further from the Agency and its business than he'd ever been.

Quinn had seemingly decided not to call him out on the meeting itself, or when, exactly, he'd switched over to believing her. Locke knew exactly when that had happened, though, and his suspicions had steadily stacked higher and higher.

Slamming Sarraf's spineless informant against his own bartop and finding out a bounty had been put on Quinn's head had been the nail in the coffin for him to fully believe that it was not Quinn who'd put the target on her back through actions of her own.

"How'd you find me?"

Locke reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as his mind went over the events that had led him here. Instead of launching into a detailed explanation, he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a worn ticket.

He handed it to Quinn carefully, watching her face shift as she read the date and title on the ticket. It permitted entry for one to the National Theatre Ballet's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

"Kat's ticket," Quinn said, smiling softly. Locke committed it to memory.

"I called Dr. Ryonne," Locke continued, keeping his eyes on Quinn, " — asked her about Kat."

The Special Agent turned Analyst. Never thought I'd live to see the day.

"She said you'd been very close friends. I gave it a shot." Locke's eyes turned to the alleyway entrance, watched warily as someone passed it. The tension drained out of his shoulders only when the steps stopped being audible.

"You followed Kat?" Quinn asked.

Locke shook his head.

"Ryonne gave me the address."

"She didn't tell me you were coming." Quinn replied, thinking of the Matriarch she remained friends with.

"I asked her not to."

Quinn blinked at him.

"Why?"

Locke angled his head, a dark look passing in his eyes.

"I was worried you'd leave."

And then I wouldn't be able to find you again.

The simple truth of his words rendered Quinn mute. She remained leaning against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes.

"O'Reilly — Quinn," Locke started, voice low and dark, " — part of this entire fucking mess is my fault. You probably already know that, from Tibble, but I thought you should hear it from me."

Locke's eyes darted to the alleyway entrance, tracked the figure of someone hurrying past, before he continued:

"I didn't trust you." His eyes turned back to Quinn's, " — and I didn't pay attention. Ironically, I should have thought more like a bloody analyst than an agent."

He chuckled darkly. Quinn remained in front of him, rooted to the spot. His hand reached up, rubbing the back of his neck again. Shadows accentuated the dips in his face, the unexpected soft side in his dark eyes. His jaw ticked before he continued:

"I'm sorry. It doesn't cover it, not remotely." He shook his head, " — but I'm here to help."

Locke turned to face Quinn, completely. Her guard was down, and he saw a myriad of emotions flitting past her expression, swirling in her eyes.

Perhaps it was stupid of her to take his words at face value. Perhaps it was not the clear-cut rationalism she was used to — whatever it was, the trust welling within her was a step out of the rigidly logical box Quinn had resided in. She found that having the ever-scowling, ever-surly Special Agent Locke openly apologizing to her, asking for her understanding, had efficiently torn down every since logical defense she'd had in place.

Quinn had no way of responding. Not with words. There was a swell of, well, something in her head that effectively blocked out reasoning. She was mostly eternally grateful to hear that someone believed her, when she had been ruthlessly banished from everything near and dear. Hearing it from Locke, too —

— Quinn's face changed, directing a smile at Locke.

"I believe you," Quinn said, slowly.

A car passed, headlights spewing a smattering of light across Locke's face.

Before she could back out of it, Quinn took half a step forward. And then another. Her arms lifted, then wrapped around Locke's midriff, flattening across his broad back. He stiffened, surprised. Carefully, Quinn tightened her arms, pressing the side of her head against the front of his jacket. She listened to the steady beat of his heart, and decided to speak before she backed out:

"Thank you," Quinn said softly, " — for believing in me."

Locke's arms moved around Quinn, returning the embrace. One hand crept up her back, resting on the back of her neck as if cupping her head.

You're alright, Gavin thought. You're alright.

In the silence, the two of them were content. 

—————

a/n: are you guys happy now xd 

questions of the chapter: 

1. how are we feeling? 

2. what are we expecting moving forward?

3. will the others find quinn? and *when*? 

xo, cleo

ps. i was listening to 'you give good love' by whitney houston + 'some lovin' by lenno while writing this chapter lmao. very fitting songs tbh.

pps. sorry for the sporadic + frequent updates .. im abt to *graduate* so i've had a lot of time to write. hope that's fine ;)