Fraser looks up, his usual alert nature somewhat hampered by fatigue after the long plane flight. He's used to bringing her coffee in the mornings at the Consulate, a habit he engaged in early on as he acted more like a gopher than a Constable, in an attempt to show her he was capable, efficient.
Worthy.
"Yes, thank you," he says.
It's almost like they're strangers once more, in a way. He has pulled within himself, reluctant-- or perhaps incapable-- of putting forth into words the innumerable feelings that he keeps an airtight lock upon. He watches her back as she walks into the kitchen space, then looks down at the pages of text before him again.
"I hope Diefenbaker wasn't too much trouble," he says.