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ANALISA MORGAN IS AWOKEN WITH A JOLT, the deafening sound of an unknown object utterly shattering echoing throughout the room, each nerve within the woman being set alight with the need to defend herself. The darkly-coloured eyes of the woman abruptly burst open, her gaze darting frantically around the room that she had unintentionally fallen asleep within, sitting up from her once relaxed position as she does so. And, when she finally located the cause of the sudden noise, a sigh of relief bypasses her lips without her realisation, her bubbling sense of unease settling down.
"Sorry," Quentin sheepishly meets the gaze of the woman sat upright upon her single bed, a minuscule, shy smile dancing vaguely upon his lips. Shattered shards of sharp glass litter the floor beneath the feet of the man, the echoing sound of smashing having erupted when he, as Analisa could only assume, his grip upon the drinking glass had accidentally weakened. In contrast to the unusually bold clothes which he wears into battle, he instead adorns clothes that are of a much more casual, laid back nature.
"Don't worry about it," The voice of Analisa is quietly spoken, unlike her usual self, the effects of her short sleep having yet to flee her, and in a swift attempt to wake herself up, she gently massages her closed-over eyelids. After a few moments of doing so, a small, hearty chuckle bypasses her lips, her somewhat amused gaze flickering over to Quentin. "I still can't believe that Nick Fury, of all people, couldn't manage to book more than two hotel rooms."
"At least we didn't get Dimitri," He chimes up with a joking tone underlying his words, his head shaking humorously as if to further emphasize his point. When Quentin gets a nod of agreement as the female's reply, he acts of an obviously feigned, overly-dramatic shiver, staring, "His stare creeps me out."
"You don't say," with a singular brow raised in such a way to insinuate his words were a well-known fact, a tiny smirk pulls upward upon the outer corners of the Analisa's mouth. "I haven't heard him say so much as a word. His eyes are even colder than Fury's, which, from personal experience, is no small feat."
Allowing one final chuckle to roll pass by his lips, Quentin slowly crouches down, cautious as to not fall into the destruction of what had once been a drinking glass, beginning to clean up whatever reminisce of the item remained. As he does, having never been one to remain silent when he has something to say, briefly looks upward at Analisa. "You know, you talk in your sleep."
"Really?" With confused creases forming in the space between her drawn brows, Analisa utters this rhetorical question, having never heard of such a thing about herself in the times that had come to pass." What was I saying? Anything important?"
"You were mostly saying his name," Quentin speaks solemnly, and, although no name may cross the threshold of his lips, Analisa knows exactly who he speaks of. Swallowing down a lump that had formed within her throat upon the mere mention, the woman watches silently as the only other person within the room places the broken pieces of glass within a tiny, close-by trash can, before gently sitting down on her bed, directly by her side. "Were you having a nightmare?"
