4.1.1

Quinn sits in the ambassador's office, does his best to be polite while his head is somewhere in a bunker in Kabul. He's annoyed at having to placate the ambassador yet again, wonders how the hell that job fell to him - he's never been tasked with relationship management before, people were never part of his skill set. But Sandy is possibly worse at it than he is or he just doesn't give a fuck. And Quinn's pissed at Sandy but does his best not to show it, wonders for the millionth time what the station chief is up to, why he's always MIA, providing lame excuses.

Of course things don't improve when Sandy finally shows, and Quinn forces himself to just stand and grit his teeth. He does his best to tamp down the roil of emotion he feels as Sandy bullshits the ambassador, gives her the usual justifications, blows off the questions about dropping bombs in Pakistan's sovereign air space.

Quinn doesn't really give a shit about Sandy, thinks his boss is too caught up in the cycle of destruction, lost to the realities of it all. The guy doesn't seem to care about anything except black market intel and checking off the kill list; the accolades that follow a 'successful' drone run. So Quinn's not surprised with the BS that Sandy spouts off, wonders if he actually believes it, if he's that far gone.

But if he's honest about it Quinn knows he's not really thinking about Sandy at all. He's thinking about fate, about the shit that can't be avoided. That a situation like this would come along after so many months trying to keep her out of his head. That he had purposefully placed himself in Islamabad because he'd be close enough if something did happen.

And of course something happened. And if he's still being honest Quinn knows the seal has already been broken, that fate and his own complicity have again shifted the path of his life. Because ever since the bomb run last night, since the news started the accusations in the morning, since the protesters showed up outside their door, there's only been one thing on his mind.

He wonders where she's at with all this, if she's alright, if bombing a farmhouse full of civilians has taken its toll. It mostly kills him to not know, to have to wonder about her state of mind, pick up clues from Sandy's comments. And he knows it could go two ways, that Carrie is unpredictable at best, that he wasn't even sure he knew her anymore by the time she'd left for Kabul.

Quinn picks up the phone, looks at it with a frown. He's never been one to run from a problem, avoid the things he needs to do. But he's also never felt so torn about a single phone call, knows exactly the storm it will bring, feels it rising in his chest already.

He sighs, looks at the phone again. Punches in a number he's memorized but never dialed before.

######

Carrie picks up the call, her head still on the carnage she just saw, the dead from the farmhouse she'd blown up. She tries to tell herself to let it go, that mistakes are made in war, that civilian casualties are a given, that it's all the fault of the terrorists because she wouldn't be dropping bombs if they weren't plotting to kill innocents, destroy America.

"Hello," she says, wondering who's on the line to ream her out this time.

"Carrie, it's Quinn," he replies. And hearing his voice, everything freezes for a nanosecond, and then she's hit by a slow sadness in her sternum. Which is exactly what she's been trying to defend herself against - the emotions that go along with the responsibility for so much death and pain.

"Quinn," she says, surprise evident in her voice. "Long time."

Carrie hears him breathe a sigh as she responds and she's still not sure she wants to talk to him. Which is fitting considering the number of times she's thought of calling him ever since she got to Kabul, especially after she found out he was in Islamabad. But she's avoided it, never got the courage up to dial the number. Because what would she say? Not the truth - that she misses him, that she's alone and unsure. She knew they would just end up arguing, that she would fuck it up and then wouldn't be able to make amends. So it was better if she didn't call at all.

"Yeah," he says in a tone she can't read.

"What a clusterfuck huh," Carrie says, thinking that he's only calling on orders, that he doesn't sound very pleased to be talking to her.

The truth is Carrie's not sure how she feels about talking to him, feels both stress and relief picturing him on the other side. And she wants to tell him how glad she is he called but then remembers it's just a business call, that Quinn doesn't give a fuck about her personal shit.

"How you holding up?" he asks.

She's surprised, thinks it's unlike Quinn to ask about her before demanding the sitrep. Convinces herself he's just being polite then reminds herself Quinn doesn't bother with social conventions, especially with her. But she knows it's dangerous to think that he still gives even half a shit about her so Carrie puts that thought away, scrunches it up and throws it back into the abyss.

"It was a Taliban spokesperson," she replies with a sigh. "I'm trying not to get too worked up about it."

Carrie wonders if he hears the tiredness in her voice, the anxiety of the accusations, the subtle hint regarding her precarious mental health. And then she reminds herself he doesn't give a fuck, that if he did he'd be in Kabul, that he deserted her when she needed him the most. Which are exactly the thoughts that drag her down the well, the thoughts that she barricades away deep in her mind so she can make it through the day, do her job.

But the thoughts aren't always as controllable as she would like, show up at inopportune moments - when she's trying to sleep, whenever she's not working. And now Quinn's on the phone and Carrie knows she fucked up but doesn't want to have to admit it to him. Because that would mean he was right all along, that Kabul was a bad idea, that she's a bad person, someone he doesn't want to be around. And with everything else going on she needs to believe that Quinn could still be on her side, that he doesn't hate her too.

So she takes a breath, steels herself. Goes through all her justifications, knows she'll have to convince him. Thinks maybe she will convince herself at the same time.

######

"It was a Taliban spokesperson," Carrie says. "I'm trying not to get too worked up about it."

Quinn pauses, tries to read between the lines, tells himself not to react to the twinge he hears in her voice, the one that tells him she is worked up, that she's tired and struggling. Keep it to business, he tells himself even though his concern for Carrie is clearly more than professional.

"Yeah, we have protesters outside the embassy here," he replies, doing his best to stick with the script, keep it about work.

"They pull this shit all the time," Carrie says, sounding aggravated. "If it wasn't a wedding they'd say it was a mosque we hit. Or an orphanage. Or a mosque for orphans."

Quinn feels a flicker at the Carrie-ness of that phrase. Exactly remembers the expression she gets when she's frustrated, annoyed.

And he hears the distant hope in her voice, that somehow they hadn't just fucked things up royally. And the attempt to deflect, justify things that can't be justified.

"I don't know. This one feels different somehow," he says, tests the waters.

"Why?" she asks sharply. "The time frame, the way we went in," Quinn replies calmly. "The fact we didn't have eyes on before we ordered the strike."

And he knows she knows all this, that she must have had the same doubts before sending the bombing run. Above all Carrie is good at the job, the procuring of information. So she knows what it must mean that this particular one failed - that something was wrong with the intel, most likely deliberate. But she's already defensive and not ready to admit her mistake - he can hear the edge in her voice and he knows what it means.

"Way to stay positive," she retorts, exactly as she would.

Quinn looks out the window, at the protesters outside the gate. And in his heart he knows it's true, that they hit a wedding, that he was again complicit in the killing of civilians, women and children. Really he agrees with the people outside, thinks of course they should be at the door, demanding justice.

He thinks about Carrie, in the bunker. Wonders how far down the rabbit hole she's gone. Hopes she can still see some light but is starting to doubt it. And he's surprised how much it hurts, to hear her sound so aloof about the whole thing.

"You still there?" she asks. And he thinks yeah. I'm here. But where the fuck are you, Carrie?

"Yeah, I'm here," Quinn finally says. Because unfortunately he is. There, in Islamabad. And there, for her.

"Listen to me Quinn," Carrie says. "Worst case scenario it was a wedding. Obviously not ideal. But Dande Darpa Khel is about as deep in the tribal area as you can get."

Not ideal? he thinks. That's one way of putting it. And who the fuck cares where it happened. Dead wedding parties are dead wedding parties.

"I'm not following you," he says because he really isn't.

"Who's going to risk going in to verify anything?" Carrie continues, sounds confident even. "Nobody that's who. We're bulletproof on this."

And Quinn thinks what the fuck, Carrie. Who are you? Because he definitely feels something now, a burn in the pit of his stomach, a solid mass in his throat.

"Bulletproof?" he asks, incredulous.

"Completely," she replies, clearly missing his tone, what he's been trying to say.

Quinn closes his eyes, fights back the sudden pulse in his temple. He knows this shouldn't bother him so much and then wonders why he expected any different. What were the chances that Carrie would stop being a fucking mission-driven machine, would somehow hold onto any humanity while ordering bombing runs from a bunker? It was why he didn't go to Kabul, said no to her for once. Because he couldn't pretend to be alright with it all, watching her walk a line he knows all too well. And so he had managed to stay blind to it until now, stuck his head in the sand because he'd been too scared to look.

And Quinn's not usually one to be afraid of anything. But he's good and scared now - knows he's finally being forced to open his eyes, knows he's not going to like what he sees.

######

"Bulletproof?" Quinn asks.

Carrie wonders why he sounds so surprised, thinks she's made a good point at least. Even if they did fuck up they could probably contain the damage, limit the problems created. The protests will die down soon enough, especially if no one can find any proof and eventually people will forget and the program can continue.

"Completely," she says.

And part of her knows that she's just trying to convince herself, that nothing is bulletproof in their world, especially not this shit. Carrie keeps going through what it means if Sandy's intel was bad just for this one rush job, one that couldn't wait for proper vetting. Because it definitely means something, is not just a coincidence. And she bets Quinn sees it too - he's been in the game too long not to suspect.

Quinn doesn't reply again and Carrie briefly wonders where his head is at. It seems like it's been a long time since she last knew him, and yet she still knows his exact inflections, the pauses in between.

But all Carrie can do is pretend not to hear the doubt in his voice, mostly because she isn't ready to give up yet, thinks she can still come out on top of this one, figure out what the hell happened.

"Quinn?" she asks when he doesn't reply.

There's another long pause but she can hear him breathing, knows he's still there. And despite her efforts to maintain her inner poise, she starts to feel the creep of emotion set in. Because he's on the line and she's thankful yet anxious, unsure she's ready to face him, see herself reflected in the ice of his eyes.

"I've got to go, Carrie," he finally says quietly.

And there's too much to read into his tone, the defeat she hears from him. It makes her twinge internally, because she senses he's struggling and she doesn't have the capacity to care, to deal with it. Because she had long ago succumbed to the numbness, let it take over, let it absolve her of responsibility. And now Carrie doesn't know what to do with the emotions that are starting to poke through, thinks it's best if she shoves them back, deal with it all later.

"Wait," she says. "Not yet."

She hears him sigh and when he doesn't hang up Carrie has a minor panic, realizes she's got to figure out something to say if she's making him stay on the line. But she didn't really have anything to tell him, just didn't want to let go of him yet, no matter if he sounds defeated, depressed. He's still the only person who's called that she actually wants to talk to.

Quinn's more patient than she would have imagined, stays on through a long silence while Carrie scrambles for words. And of course she can't just say what she feels - that she's glad he called, that she's fucking missed him.

"Carrie? You alright?" he asks when she doesn't say anything more.

And she's again surprised he asked, that he hasn't already hung up. Then thinks no, Quinn. You know I'm not fucking alright, know it probably better than anyone, including myself. But it isn't the time for introspection, that can all wait until the mission is over.

"Yeah," she finally replies. "I'll be fine. Thanks for calling, Quinn."

She hears him absorb her answer, then he silently hangs up the line.

And Carrie thinks shit, this is only the beginning. And she's not at all sure she's ready for everything that's to come.