Rufus opens the door to his office and waves Mr. Winner - Quatre - in. He closes the door behind himself, and locks it. The sound of the click seems stifled, stuck in the air somewhere.

Quatre turns around, and there's a brightness in his eyes that wasn't there before. His smile has edges like a knife and Rufus is suddenly on alert, locked in his office with a man he's no longer seducing.

"Scotch?" Rufus asks, because he doesn't want silence; he needs a pretense while he figures how much the tables have turned.

"Thank you," says Quatre, charming and distinctly polite, and his smile has too many teeth to be warm. Rufus heads to the corner, selects his ice carefully, pours.

When he turns around, he finds Quatre seated in his desk chair. There is absolutely nothing unnatural about it: the man looks comfortable behind the dark oak desk, his eyes lingering idly on papers as if it's his own office. The chair has curved around him like it's his own; Quatre looks so at-home he almost looks bored. Rufus watches him and forgets to breathe.

Quatre looks up. "Come here," he says, too kindly, and it's not optional.