Shortly after sunset, a heavy rain began to fall, beating the tile roof over the Islamabad safe house, making an idle roar, filling the rain barrels and splashing down the gutters. Inside, Carrie lay nude with the young medical student, him smiling down at her, a worshipful gleam in his eye.
"Can I touch you again?" Aayan asked shyly. Carrie sighed. A means to an end, she told herself. But I can't stand him inside of me again, not just now. She smiled and put on her best game face.
"Let me show you something different," she said, reaching underneath the sheet.
15 minutes later, Aayan was sound asleep, and Carrie was in the lukewarm stream that passed for a shower in the safe house. Virgin, she thought, smirkingly. At least it hadn't taken her long to appease him. She was pretty sure that by tomorrow, he would give up the information about Haqqani that she was sure he had. She had pressed any feelings she had about sexual recruiting down into the mental "Do Not Enter" closet. Just freeze that part off, she thought. Crush it down. Disconnecting from her feelings had become second nature by now.
She toweled herself off and dressed quickly. When she emerged from the bathroom, Ayaan was up and dressed. Shit, she thought. I thought he was out cold for the night.
"I have to go," he said, looking down nervously, tying his shoes.
"At this time of night?" Carrie said, trying to be charming.
"I got a call. I need to go check in with someone. I'll be back tomorrow," he insisted, grabbing his backpack, pocketing his cell.
"Aayan," she attempted finally, "it's really not safe out there…'
He looked at her, irritable, and clearly torn, then decided he wasn't going to be manipulated by a mere woman. "I'll see you, Carrie," he said, and left by the back door, holding his backpack up over his head in the pouring rain as he ducked away into the dark.
"Fuck," she said out loud to no one, turning the deadbolts on the back door.
She walked to the window that looked out over the back patio, considering the merits of waiting for the rain to let up. Several minutes went by, as she stared numbly out the window. She pondered a search through the fridge, to see if there was any white wine left: Aayan certainly hadn't drunk any. Slowly, she became aware of a scratching sound. She turned, identified the location of the sound as the front door, when after a moment, the deadbolt turned from the outside and the door swung open. Standing on the threshold, soaked to the skin, eyes flashing angrily, stood Peter Quinn, holding a set of picklocks.
"What the fuck, Quinn?" she said, exasperated. "What if my asset had still been here?"
"I knew he wasn't," Quinn said flatly. He took a step inside, shut the door behind him, and while still facing Carrie, holding her gaze, reached behind himself to turn the lock.
"What?" she said, then a moment later, snapped to the realization that Quinn knew Aayan wasn't here, because he'd been monitoring her. Or, maybe had let himself in and set up a webcam? Christ, he was deranged. "Have you been listening to us?"
He threw the picklocks on the kitchen counter, and stepped further into the apartment, a despondent cast to his expression. His features constricted. "You wouldn't tell me what you were doing in here," he said. His rain-soaked shirt dripped steadily onto the linoleum.
"I'm recruiting someone," she huffed.
He gave an exasperated cough, so coldly angry that his eyes appeared beetle-black under his furrowed brows. "Really? Cause, to me, it looks like you're fucking a child," he bit. He was a big man, and when he got pissed, he seemed larger, nostrils flaring, shoulders squared. He looked like a human bulldozer. He was, oh he was…
Oh, my God, Peter Quinn was jealous. "What is it to you, anyway?" Carrie snapped.
His eyes were menacing. Walking slowly towards her, he was not her regular workmate and confidante, but rather had taken on the demeanor of his real profession: trained assassin, cold as ice. She knew how fast, how agile, and how deadly he could be. Having no idea what his intentions were, she backed up, fear poking a finger of nausea into the pit of her stomach.
He took another step towards her, scowling, hands open at his sides, palms aiming slightly forward as if to catch something. Catch me, she thought, fuck. If it had been anyone else, Carrie wouldn't have trembled at the posture, but this was Quinn, and the way he was coming at her looked like a capture move about to happen. As Carrie shuffled backwards, her legs bumped into the back of the couch, and she sat down abruptly, involuntarily. Quinn walked straight to her, and bending over at the waist, placed both of his hands on her shoulders, pinning her there, forcing her to look him right in the face.
"Are you enjoying it, Carrie?" he asked, "Do you like educating children," he said bitterly. "Or do you hate yourself for doing this?" His hands pinched her shoulders painfully. "Or, do you not have any feelings at all?" Tears started in her eyes, and she swatted his hands away.
"Stop it," she said, more than a little frightened.
He stood back up before her, not touching her, regarding her with an intensity that raised goosebumps on her neck. When he spoke again, his voice was dry, detached. "You brought me to this shithole, to protect you," he said, "So, yes. I have been monitoring you. I have been listening to you. And I think you're doing yourself a disservice. I think there are other ways to recruit assets. And better ways to get your itch scratched," he finished cruelly, unconsciously passing his hand over the fly of his pants.
Carrie's lip trembled, and she heaved a few breaths, trying to form an angry retort. Attempted to form the words, "How dare you." But what came out was a feeble whine, the beginning of a cry.
"I hate it," she said. "Since Brody, since the baby…" she trailed off, couldn't finish. Her hands wrung in her lap, two white starfish trying to strangle each other. She looked down at Quinn's feet, couldn't meet his eyes. She took a hitching breath. "I don't feel much of anything," she finished. She dropped her face into her hands, and crouched over, head on her knees.
He stood dripping a moment longer, above her crumpled form, the rain outside pouring hard enough to rattle the windows. He heard a deep sniffle. At that, he realized she was crying. His ire evaporated, turning to concern and no small measure of guilt. Well, maybe this would burst the floodgates, he thought. Turning and sitting next to her on the couch, wet clothes and all, he tentatively placed a hand in the middle of her back, rubbing softly up and down. She wept silently, humiliated, shoulders shaking, but didn't turn away. He hoped his concern and affection was evident in the way he was touching her, because it sure hadn't come through in his words.
"You asked, what is it to me," he said, conflicted, feeling like an ass for making her cry. "Don't you know?" he asked, expressively.
She wiped her face with both hands, as she looked up at him. He attempted to keep his expression neutral, but knew the tenderness he felt, the source of all the rage, was visible. At least to her, it would be. The only person who really knew him.
Still, he only touched her back, rubbing slowly up and down, releasing tension in her spine with two knuckles pressing on either side of her backbone. Relaxing her, like a cat. He searched for the right words, the words to bring her close, not make her run and hide again.
"I can help you," he said, helplessly, sincerely.
He gulped. He was not vulnerable to any other person in the world, but a single sentence from Carrie could plunge him into despair, or send him flying.
Carrie looked up at his eyes, his face. Saw the compassion there. Cracking, she leaned over, put her head on his shoulder, and put her arm around his chest. The hand that had been stroking her back pulled her in close, as she folded. Collapsed. Totally gave in to the heart-rending sobs, tears she should have shed when Brody died. When she became a single mom. When she left her baby. When the drone strike went wrong, and she became the scapegoat for half a hundred wedding guests.
"Oh, Quinn," she wailed, really cutting loose. "I'm just so fucking sad," she cried.
He had come in, in a jealous rage, hoping to slap some sense into her – maybe literally. He had been almost out of his mind. But now here she was, soft, tender, finally feeling the things she needed to feel, in order to not go down the goddamn rabbit hole. To stay true to herself, and maybe show a little self-love for once.
"I know," he said, swallowing back tears of his own. "I know you are. It's ok."
He kept his peace while she cried; holding her close, giving her time to work out the sorrow, vomit forth the pain that had been keeping her from feeling anything. Ten minutes went by, then twenty, and she cried on. He cradled her, hardly breathing, clasping her in a tight embrace. She pulled her arm back across her stomach, as if her guts hurt, but continued to press her face into the front of his shirt, never losing contact, like he was oxygen, and this was outer space. Her sobs finally came slower, face still pressed to his soaking shirt, a few hitching gasps coming from her trembling lips. He looked down on her shining hair, bowed head. A bright sunflower with a broken stem. He took a calculated risk, and pressed his lips to the top of her head, remaining there for a moment. She sighed, deeply, and relaxed into him. Sniffled.
Neither of them said anything for some time, listening to the rain pound on the roof. Quinn wanted, so badly, to take her in his arms and give her some pleasure, show her the way she could feel, pour his ardor into her, gentle her pain. But, it would complicate her recovery, it would complicate their relationship, and, to be honest, he feared her rejection. For now, he thought, he would have to satisfy himself with holding her, comforting her.
"Quinn," she said finally, "Why are you soaking wet?"
He sighed. "I might have been standing outside the door for a while, deciding whether or not to come in," he said.
"I'm glad you did," she said; face still pressed into his chest. His proximity gave her the only relief from the depression she had felt since leaving the US. At last, she sat back up, wiped her eyes. But kept one hand on Quinn's knee.
"Let me take you home," he said. "You eat, you get some sleep, and you come back here early enough tomorrow to get here ahead of your asset," Quinn suggested. "And this time, don't fuck him."
She sighed. "I've set a pattern; I'm worried he'll want more."
Over my dead body, thought Quinn. He looked at her, and said meaningfully, "Carrie, I'm sure you're very good at keeping interested men at arm's length."
She looked at him. Blinked, understood. Then smiled, wanly.
"Come on, you're soaking into my couch," she scolded. "Let's get out of here."
"And get me out of these wet clothes, right?" he said, only half-kidding.
"Ha. Don't forget your picklocks."
He closed the door firmly behind them, while the rain continued its hushed, fervent song.