Way Down Below

@dreamsofasphodel​

“I remember. Though at the risk of poking said stubborn nature.” she said with a little twinkle in her eye. She was going to wait until he took the lead on the name thing but decided a little initiative couldn’t hurt. They were at drinks, after all, and as much fun as it was to keep saying Mr Strathos it felt a bit wrong in the context. “I think we can probably do away with the formalities, don’t you? Laurel is fine.” 

Was Laurel fine? As soon as she said it she couldn’t help thinking it was the wrong name. But she knew better. It was her name and she had only ever had the one. How could it be wrong?

“I didn’t think sleeping on your floor would be appropriate. But I am not at the office now, and I am hoping not to go in tomorrow, so I am going to catch up on some beauty sleep before my eyes fall out of my head.” Her head tilted to the side slightly as she smiled at him and scrambled desperately not to read too much into that comment. “No? Are you planning a wild night?”

"Laurel," he repeats her name, only realizing he's done so after the word leave his lips.

A frown knits across his brow as he nods.  He's not bothered by the lack of formality, actually he prefers it.  Every time she says 'Mr,' he feels every year of his age.  But there's something about her name that doesn't suit her, though he can't quite put his finger on why... (Does it have too many syllables?  Too few?)  He musters something more friendly than a scowl as he shrugs back at her.

"It's just Rob then."

She should know that, he realizes, but she can consider that her invitation to use it.  He hadn't realized she may have been waiting for one before.  The longer they are in each other's company, the more he realizes she likes to tease him.  Though by her next statement, he can't tell if she's teasing or not.  The scowl returns.

"Who would make you sleep on the floor?"

He hadn't followed her initial train of thought, and with annoyance he wonders if she thinks he means to keep her hostage for more work, but slowly by her slight change of expression and scrambling, it occurs to him. Oh.  Oh.

"...Should I be?"

Tact is not his strong point.    (Neither is flirting).

@dreamsofasphodel​

“Well I know why I don’t like them, but why do you hate them?” she asked. Given that she had spent several weeks working with him, in his office, late into the night (and then recapping the work they had done separately over the weekend on Mondays) she supposed she should have realised he was not an overly social individual. She didn’t know about his family situation or really why he seemed to be so married to his job, but she wanted to know.  She wanted to know everything about him. She felt a pull to him that was unlike anything she’d known before. 

“Were you?” she asked, frowning as she tried to decide if she was now holding him against his will. She thought he was probably not the sort of person to spend time with someone if he disliked them (he seemed to value his time too much for that) but what if she’d misunderstood him? Alternatively, what if she hadn’t? The thought made her stomach do a happy little flip. She had to remind herself he was probably just being polite to a colleague he could tolerate and that was all. “I didn’t mean to coerce you into staying for another drink. If it makes you feel better I have a very early bedtime and I promise not to keep you out too late.”

"I'm just not much for people," he says mildly, looking up over his glass at her.

Rob was certain she wouldn't actually be surprised to hear that, (his lack of social graces are probably one of the first things people notice about him,) but there's a shift in her expression that makes him wonder.  Somehow he knows that frown is coming before he sees it pull at the corner of her lips.  She's fretting.  Her statement only confirms why.  He sighs.

"With all due respect, Miss Attwell, I think you'll find it hard to coerce me into doing anything.  I'm stubborn, remember?"

His glass is placed back on the table, before he leans just a bit forward to study her face.  She's trying to placate him, he can tell, and he doesn't exactly appreciate the gesture. (Though he will begrudgingly admit it's probably a good sign?)  When he finally leans back, it's with another raise of his brow, and his arms crossed over his chest.

"An early bedtime must be a new practice for you, considering this last week,"  he says pointedly, then shrugs.  "And hearing that, isn't exactly as reassuring as you might think."

@dreamsofasphodel​

She can’t help but feel that it is a conversation they have had before, and more times than would have been possible in the short time that they have known one another. She shakes it off as simple deja vu and nothing more. 

“A table sounds wonderful,” she said. She hadn’t realised until that moment just how badly her feet hurt from standing in her heels. And if he was offering to sneak off into a corner with her then that wasn’t something she was going to turn down either. 

She followed him to a small table  - the last one in the now crowded bar - and slid into the booth seat. It was definitely cosy. There had likely been two chairs there also at some point but they had since been commandeered. She didn’t mind because it only made it less likely that anyone else would join them. 

“I have to admit this is not really my scene. I can’t even remember the last time I made Friday night drinks.”

Does he look relieved when she says that?  Rob hopes not.  He doesn't want to give her the impression he's miserable, or that his expression is in any way indicative about how he feels about her company. To make sure she doesn't, he looks down until he can school his expression and says:

"I usually hate things like this."

Work parties.  Social parties.  Social functions in general.  (Not that he's invited to an abundance, but still.)  When he looks back up, it's to out at the mingling crowd around them as he huffs and shakes his head.  He could do without the lot of them.

"I was thinking about leaving, actually, before you showed up."

He's not sure why he tells her this, even though it's the truth.  He was already planning his escape when he had seen her at the bar. 

@dreamsofasphodel​

“You know, you could have said that when I asked what you wanted to drink,” she points out, though she’s not sorry that she now has a short list of things that he likes. It will make finding him a thank you for your help on the file present that much easier.  And, not that she’s thinking about such things of course, but it might even lead to a thank you for the thank you telephone exchange. But she isn’t thinking about the excuses she might make to talk to him in the future. 

She is not.

But that little not-quite smile is making her want to.

She takes her glass from him and wonders if she should propose a toast, but it feels too awkward to do so and she doesn’t know what she would say anyway. Thank you for letting me camp on your floor?  Thank you for not finding it weird that I take infrequent breaks?  And besides he seems to have already said everything that needed to be said. 

“You have a very peculiar way of allowing someone to buy you a drink. I should probably know the answer to this by now, but are you always so stubborn?”

That smile fades back into his regular frown as Rob blinks back at her, his hand curling around his own glass.  

"Always," he tells her, both teasing and completely earnest.  

It's best to set expectations early, although he agrees that she probably should have already known.  Their week of work should have taught her that he's rather stubborn in all things, and he does have the vague memory of her having called him that at least once before.  He struggles to remember the details though.  For all he could remember, it could have been a long, long time ago.

Rob takes a drink of his mead.  It's sweeter than what he usually go for, but the taste of honey seems like one that'd suit her.  At least, what he thinks would suit her.  They hadn't really gotten the opportunity to do much more than talk about work until now.  He considers her for a moment before he offers a short shrug.

"I think there's still a table open if you don't want to linger by the bar."

Where Rob could not find answers was the one source of solace for Odette – the distant pinpricks of light and empty darkness between them flooded her with calm and her angry strides slowed to a more even-paced stroll. She felt more clear-headed than she had all night, no longer drowning in his cold gaze or floundering for solid ground in Ha– Rob’s presence. The embarrassment she’d felt wasn’t simply the ill-timed kiss, but that he saw her so vulnerable at all.

If she’d been feeling more hysterical, Odette would have probably choked on her own frustrated laughter, convinced the universe was playing one monumental joke on her. She’d never understood why she was like this, driven to irrational behavior and left behind with the emotional fall out. But her barbed tongue hadn’t softened and Odette managed to huff in amusement. “I’m not sure whether that means more people have tried to kiss you today, or that more people should try and kiss you.” A mere beat had passed before her inevitable snark cut through. “I know you haven’t exactly been getting any action recently.”

The streets haven’t looked familiar for a while, but in some ways, New York was the same everywhere. Though the night chill didn’t bother her, despite her lack of layers, Odette was still a moth seeking light. Catching sight of a 24 hour diner, she pivoted leading them towards the nearly empty, hole in the wall cafe. The art dealer paused by the windows, dark voice in the back of her mind encouraging a cup of coffee. Turning to Rob, Odette met his light eyes with her own, though she couldn’t hold his gaze for long. “I– I should let you know that won’t happen again. Tonight has been weird.” A patron left through the doors, warm air gusting out and drawing attention to just how cold her legs were. “But I won’t get into more trouble here. You don’t have to stay if you’d rather get some sleep.”

"I wasn't aware you were keeping track."

A snark for a snark, and a well deserved one, considering.  It crosses Rob's mind to ask Odette exactly how she thinks she knows that, but he quickly squashes the thought.  He realizes he really doesn't need all the flattering implications of her thought process.  (Especially when she's technically not wrong.)

The diner is a welcome sight from both that line of conversation and the chill of the night air.  Rob doesn't feel particularly cold, but it’s cold enough he can tell he should, and Odette is definitely not dressed for the weather.  He's about to suggest they step inside when she speaks first, and he's left staring at her with frowned contemplation.

There are times he thinks about how much he doesn't know about Odette, but her tense reassurance is all too familiar: a shared plight, perhaps, of all difficult people.  He stops himself from returning the favor of reassurance, knowing how little she'd appreciate it, and instead gives her just a simple shrug in return.  

"Tonight has been weird," he agrees, stepping aside the exiting patron can pass him."But Odette, it's nearly 3 am.  I'm wearing track pants, and you just took us 12 blocks from my house."  

He shakes his head, a clear refusal of his wiliness to leave just yet.  

"The least you can do is buy me a coffee before I trudge back home."

@dreamsofasphodel​

“I have a feeling the intern that was here before is likely to do a good enough job of reminding everyone of just how scary you can be,” she said and in a way she didn’t doubt it. He had left quickly enough that he was clearly wary of Rob’s presence and so the encounter probably only reinforced what he already thought. “Though I have to admit that after working with you I am not sure how the rumours could have started.”

“You know, you did not strike me as being indecisive before,” she told him. 

She realised that the bartender had come back, that he had no doubt noticed that she had not touched the chardonnay that he had put before her. 

“I would like the mead please, and he - ” she inclined her head towards Rob, a mischievous smile playing about her lips, “is being difficult.”

There's a quick series of subdued emotions that cross his face at that smile: Frowned confusion. Hesitant surprise.  Tempered amusement.  She'll ultimately get a high arch of one brow, but a ghost of a smile lingers at the corners of the lips.

"I'll have a mead as well.  You can put both on my tab,"  Rob says to the bartender, with a vague gesture towards Laurel, though a quick pointed glance is soon to follow.  "For the lady's trouble."

He had opened the tab much earlier on when he had thought he'd have to drink his way through the evening.   He's grateful now for his accidental foresight.  He had wanted to repay her for her diligence on the case, but had struggled to think of how.  This seems like such a small thing, but it's probably more an opportunity than he would have gotten otherwise.

The bartender is discreet in removing the offending chardonnay, and soon replaces it with the ordered two meads.  Rob is quick to offer her a glass.  

"For your trouble, and your help."

@dreamsofasphodel​

Though he turns back to her Laurel is not immediately certain that she did the right thing, that she hasn’t upset him by reaching out. She takes her hand back then smiles at him deciding that the halt in his retreat is a good sign. From their time together she has learned that he is slow to smile and that the absence of one does not necessarily mean that he is upset or annoyed. 

“By all means do not let me get in the way of your scowling if you think it will help,” she said, though given the way the intern had retreated she didn’t think he had anything to worry about. “If you like I can tell anyone who asks that you were terrible to work with and generally unpleasant to talk to?” 

“Oh I do insist. I am by no means a connoisseur,” she says but, as sure as she can be that he is not about to scarper off, she turns back to the bar. “But I was eyeing a mead cocktail. What do you like to drink?”

"Do you think they need to be reminded?" Rob asks wryly, only looking to her from the corner of his eye.

She earns a bit of a confused frown from him. He understands she'd been teasing, but the implication is there all the same.  Had she actually found him acceptable to work with?  Or at least not as bad as she had been warned?  (He is unmistakably sure she had been warned.)    He contemplates this, while coming to lean against the bar.

"I drink coffee, usually.  Brandy, when the occasion calls for it.  But ultimately I'll just take anything warm."

It's not so cold out yet, not even on that rooftop bar, not even on the verge of winter, but he is perpetually trying to get some warmth under his skin.  He gives her a half shrug.

"I'm not really picky though."

@dreamsofasphodel​

She didn’t see Rob’s approach as she was too intently focused on trying to think about what she might say to get out of whatever happened next. She couldn’t remember what way she’d swiped on the other man, if she had at all, and was equally unsure whether it would be better if she had matched with him or not for how awkward the next few minutes might be. But she didn’t have to worry as Robert loomed in at just the right moment. 

She told herself that the little flip in her stomach was from fight at his sudden appearance but she was not convincing. She also attributed her now bright red cheeks to it, though she knows it is because she wonders what he would think of her spending her time on something so banal as a dating app. 

It has been only a few days since she last saw him, and fewer still since she last spoke to him on a phone, but she realizes she has missed Rob and his gruff manner.  

“Thank you,” she breathes, though he is already doing his best to disappear. 

“Wait,” she reached for his arm in an effort to halt his hasty retreat. “We are supposed to be celebrating, Mr Strathos.”

She began to suspect that he disliked the formal moniker after the first few hours but had persisted in using it anyway just to see how long she could get away with it before he said anything. 

“Won’t you at least let me buy you a drink before you go chain yourself to a desk somewhere? If you leave too early the interns win.”

Her hand on his arm is enough to make Rob turn.  He surprises himself in doing so.   Usually, he's the type to shrug off even a handshake, but he finds he doesn't really mind her touch, even if he still scoffs at her offer.

"I do have a reputation to maintain, Miss Attwell," he says, though he's done well enough lurking around the party.  (He can think of at least one person put off by his presence.)

She's succeed though, in her aim to get him to stay, as he turns more fully towards her then looks back to the bar.  His gaze is soon drawn to her abandoned chardonnay with a cool sort of amusement. She obviously wants to drink, just not that.  He wonders if it's the contents or the hand that offered it.  He glances back to her

"But, if you insist, I'll at least take your recommendation."

“I think the word I would choose might be resilient,” she says with a smile of her own. She senses the amusement more than she sees it, and she thinks she might be imagining that hint of a smile that seems to be hiding in the corners of his mouth. She thinks she would not like to play poker against him. 

“Perhaps,” she says, though she thinks she has a few years yet before her firm will recognize it. “Luckily there are a few other things to do in the city that do not take an entire weekend and can fit around work.”

She raises her shoulders in a delicate shrug as a blush creeps up her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to tell him that (why was she so comfortable talking to him? Why did she have the feeling that she had sat with him, like this, before? Perhaps in a field of sorts, or a garden?) at least she had not disclosed that she was a somewhat regular caller. “He has a good voice for night time listening. Are you not a fan?”

"Resilient," Rob repeats, with half the mind to protest, but the argument dies on his lips.

He's made the mistake of glancing up at just the wrong moment, and has caught the full intensity of her smile.  He doesn't know why he's caught speechless, near thoughtless, really, other than his mind is reaching to try and pinpoint the source of nostalgia she invokes.  At first, he wonders if they could have met before, but more than likely, she  simply reminds him of someone else.  He just can't quite put his finger on who.  (He's certain no one has smiled at him quite like that before.)  Slowly, that familiar frown creeps across his face.  

"I met him once.  I can't say I'm a fan," He says mildly, though his mind is far from Axel Bryne and their one late night encounter.

(He's caught that much of the conversation at least.)

Frowning just a bit more, he reaches over and puts his mug back on the edge of his desk.  The slow rise from the floor soon follows, with the straightening of his jacket.

"Perhaps we should get back to work, so you can reclaim some of that weekend."

She doesn’t ask what his background is, though she will one day, or to delve further into just why he dislikes people with trust funds so much. She also doesn’t yet know that he comes from wealth, though she has her suspicions. There is just something in the way he carries himself, so quietly confident as though he has nothing to prove. Still, she is surprised when he sits on the floor with her, her smile sunny and genuine. While she is tempted to tease him she refrains in case he takes offense and abandons her back to his desk. 

“Really? How late? I’m usually up late enough to hear most of Axel Byrne’s late night radio show,” she’s not sure why she discloses it to him. He’s not really asking her to. But there is something about him that, despite their stilted start, has put her at ease. Or maybe it’s because she no longer has the energy to feel anxious. 

“Leaving the office right on five, getting out of the city somewhere, and not returning to the office until 9am. That includes no work emails.” How many of those had she managed since she had started as a junior? Only a handful. To Laurel, being able to achieve such a thing most weekends would be true success. However judging by how many of the partners she bumped into late in the evening and on the weekend, she wasn’t sure that such a thing was possible. Talking to Robert seemed to confirm it, too. “You don’t strike me as someone who is easily chased away.” 

"Is that your way of saying you find me stubborn, Miss Atwell?"  

Beyond the dryness of his tone, and the sheer deadpan of his delivery, there's the slightest spark of amusement behind his words.  She's not the first person to find Rob mulish, (far from it,) but her careful gift-wrapped delivery of the sentiment is funny to him.  She cares if she offends him, and in his world, that's a novelty.   Just subtly, the corners of his lips quirk in response, but it's truthfully hard to tell.  He ducked his head the moment she turned that smile on him.

"Too late," he finally answers her prior question, choosing to steer the conversation back to safer grounds.  "Though it sounds like you're not too different in that regard.  I imagine you earn those weekends away from the city."

He's always been too tethered in life, both to physical places, and intangible responsibilities, to just...leave.   Privately, he wonders what she does when she escapes the city.  Where she goes.   He wants to ask her these questions, but that's a far step from the work they'll soon be getting back to. He settles instead for a mildly exasperated sigh, a raise of brow, and an innocuous topic.

"Axel Bryne though?   Really?"

“Ah. But you see, copiers can be fickle beasts. In our office we have one lady who wrangles it and the rest of us just do our best to not upset the copier. Perhaps you just have the right touch?” She adopts a lighter tone, deciding that she need not be so serious during their break. Her brain needs some time off lest it go on permanent strike for the evening and she is starting to feel tired enough that she is not going to hold herself on ceremony for him. “Do you have a number of trust fund beneficiaries working here?”

She allows the subject of his dinner to drop, if only because she does not yet feel comfortable enough to push him further about something that is arguably personal. Not to mention that for all she knows he has a later dinner planned with someone - she should not be so presumptuous as to think he would disclose too much to her. 

“How weird?” she asks, curious again. He was there when she arrived so she suspected he was not the sort to start overly late to compensate for working long into the night. She suspected by weird he only meant that he worked near compulsively. “Do you at least leave early on a Friday so that you might have a proper weekend?”

"Trust fund brats," Rob corrects, scoffing.  "And too many of them, if you ask me."

It's gotten awkward speaking to her from his angle; looking down while she eats her salad sitting on the floor.  That's why after a moment of consideration, he eases down to sit across from her.  His motion is a bit stiff, but at least his knees don't audibly pop.  The last thing she needs is more ammo in thinking he's old.

"Weird enough," he says with a shrug.  What more can he say?  "I just tend to be up later than most people."

That's not entirely true, but it is entirely less dramatic than saying he's slowly learning how to survive without sleep; how to survive purely on coffee and spite.  Which, speaking of coffee, he should have refreshed before he got to the ground, but it's too late for that now. Rob wraps his fingers back around the empty mug, at least utilizing it for its residual warmth, as her final question causes him to tilt his head and hum.

"...What exactly are you considering a proper weekend?" He asks, but cheekily.

He's well aware of his own bad habits without her roundabout reminders.  She almost gets a snarky look, but as  she said only minutes before, they just barely know each other. He settles for a second shrug.

"Occasionally, they chase me out of here, so don't worry about that."

He can’t make her cower with a stern look – she’s not one of his interns. A cold breeze rushes between them, but Odette is stubborn enough to hold her stance for a bit longer, arms crossed. She irritated that he won’t let her be mortified in solitude, that the dark voice that haunted her mind had suddenly, violently returned, that suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to even look at her friend (young neighbor, dark king, lovelorn fool, the voice supplied). 

But staying still feels as much a cage as Rob’s home, and so finally Odette throws her hands up with a hissed, “Fine. Have it your way. I didn’t think traipsing about the streets of Brooklyn at four in the morning was really your sort of thing.” Tossing women over his shoulder shouldn’t be either, but there’s laughter in the back of her mind suggesting that perhaps, Rob could, even if he wouldn’t (couldn’t, comes the correction) manhandle her.

She moves past him, intentionally letting her shoulder shove against his chest on the way out. Odette strides forward confidently; she didn’t care if he followed, resented that he’d keep up. They walk in silence for a bit – thoughts of dark caves and betrayal swirl in her mind, a dizzying cocktail. The cool night air is sobering, however, enough for Odette to ask quietly, voice tense, “Are you angry?”

"It's a little late to be worried about my preferences, don't you think?" Rob responds dryly.

Is it weird he can imagine Odette looming over him when she glares like that?  She's something terrible sometimes.  Too much intensity in such a petite package.  All her glowering though, has the opposite of intended affect.  Rob shrugs off her scowl; shrugs off the shoulder to his chest.  He's too much of an expert in sour moods to let this get to him, especially when it seems like it's a concession from her.  He lets her leave in a huff.

Her concession though, at least inspires him  to follows with caution, trying to keep a few steps behind.  She seems like she needs the space.  His efforts though, are somewhat in vain.  Despite his best intentions, he keeps catching up to her far too quickly. (It's not his fault he has longer legs and she has no direction.) Eventually, he just surrenders himself to walking besides her.

When she finally does speak to him again, it's a good distance from the house.  Her comment isn't that surprising, other than it's coming from Odette and if he tilts his head and looks sideways, he might see a flicker of remorse across her face.  He has to think about his answer, glancing to the night sky as if that would hold any inspiration for him, but none comes.  He shrugs back at her.

"Only a little," he says, daring to glance back at her out of the corner of his eye.  "But you're the least insufferable person I've had to deal with today, so I guess I'll live."

ii. Hades @dreamsofasphodel

Laurel notices his look and promptly ignores it. She is settled on the floor and, aside from slightly regretting having worn a skirt, is entirely comfortable. She sees little point in rearranging the papers on the desk when she has plenty of open space still before her on the floor.

“I barely know you, Mr Strathos,” she points out lest he think she had been insulting him. She is flattered, honestly, that he thinks she will become senior enough to either attract her own work or to be busy enough that she can be choosy about the work she is given from the Partners. “So you took this incredibly messy and intense  file, that would absolutely necessitate late nights because… there was no one else to do it?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she says with a smile. The forced proximity and companionable silence had done wonders for her nerves and she no longer thought he was as scary as she had this morning. That did not mean she wanted to push him too far, but she no longer felt she had to tiptoe around him either. “I intend to remember that, and will absolutely use it against you if the occasion calls for it.”

Then it is her turn to pointedly at him standing in the doorway and, specifically, his coffee mug. “That does not look like dinner.”

"Be careful what you assume," he scoffs back gruffly, before she goes too far and thinks he's being altruistic.  "It's just a job.  My job.  I couldn't leave it to the trust fund brats.  They can't even fill the copier right."

There's a concession though, in his voice, slight as it is, as he waives off his own sentiments.  She's right, they don't know each other, and he'd been the one assuming she'd ditch responsibilities at first chance, even though she's done nothing but show him otherwise so far. There aren't many lawyers who'd sit on his floor, even if she was volunteered.  Maybe he should try a little harder not to chase her off.

"If the occasion calls for it, I probably won't mind."

If she called, that is.  Wanted to work together.  Whatever.  She's probably the best lawyer he's had to work with, if he's being honest.  He ponders this with another drink of coffee, (he'll have to make more at this rate,) until she makes her pointed observation about his eating habits.  His eyes slowly rise back to her.

"Doesn't it?"  He cups the mug in both of his hands, trying to infuse some warmth into his cold fingers. "It seems like it to me."

She's not the first person to pick this fight.  He raises his hand in an attempt to stop the argument before it even start.

"I keep a weird schedule.  I'll get something to eat later.  I have to pick up dog food anyways on the way home."

She could have pointed out that he was there too, working right alongside her, but she didn’t. She had enough sense to realize that would be baiting him a little too hard. Instead she only shrugs. The truth is that she has nowhere to be but bed, and that seems a poor alternative.

“I don’t, actually,” she says and leaves it at that lest he think her pathetic for avoiding activities on work evenings.

“I already know exactly what I want,” she says, pulling out her phone to order from her favourite place, not even pausing to wonder if maybe she doesn’t order takeout a little too often.

A short while later, after their chosen food has arrived, and she has relocated to the desk. She thinks sitting on the floor to eat her salad (kale, grilled chicken, goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, among other delicious things) might be uncouth. She wonders what he said about being a junior and having nowhere to be.

“Does it get any better?” She asks and then realized it might be a little vague. “I would have thought that at some point in your career you could choose your files and avoid anything too messy,” she gestures to the paper, “or where you end up with an impertinent lawyer commandeering you’re floor.”

While she had taken the initiative to order herself dinner, Rob had at least trudged to the break room to make himself more coffee.  She must have ordered local, because it doesn't seem like it takes too long for her food to arrive.  He meets her back at his office by leaning in the doorway, mug in hand, and looking down at her settling on the floor to eat.  His gaze travels to the desk with a pointed look, before he shrugs to her question.

"Are you worried you're going to end up like me?"  he asks, sipping at a drink that's still a little too hot.  "I wouldn't be.  There was a point in my career where I could have picked the 'better' work, just like you'll get to that point in yours.  This won't be your forever."

And  she's probably close to that future now, he imagines, especially if she keeps showing the initiative and work effort she's showing now.  People like her seem built to succeed; to surpass him.  He still 'tsk's at her.

"But I don't mind it messy.  If we all chose to do the 'better' work, what would that leave?"  

He doesn't feel like he has to gesture to the piles of papers around them.  His looks says enough, even before he buries it in a second sip of coffee.  He then shrugs again.

"And I'd rather have an impertinent lawyer on my floor, than one avoiding my calls on a yacht."