Nobody's crying

Chapter 1: Sad little history

Quinn wishes he'd stayed in Argentina for a while. Not in the same village, obviously, because strangers stick out, but somewhere by the coast. It's just that being on a holiday doesn't suit him anymore. Maybe once upon a time he knew how to be a tourist, now all he's capable of is acting the part.

Before he knows it he's back in the familiar, cramped space of the team's head quarters. Carrie smiles at him. Two things immediately become clear to him. One: Carrie doesn't know yet. And, two: he's not done feeling his fucking feelings.

He smiles back and, when she's not looking, nods at Saul. Watching some surveillance footage of God knows what, Quinn observes how Saul takes Carrie into the next room. To his chagrin, they leave the door ajar.

It's early and Quinn's still recovering from jetlag, so he pours himself some coffee on the other side of the room. He sits down and, despite himself, listens. There's silence on the other side of the door. Or, at least, he doesn't hear anything. Then, suddenly, there it is. Carrie's voice, high and frantic, pleading.

'You don't understand! He's innocent!'

'Carrie, Brody is dead.'

'No, he's not. He's coming home to me,' Carrie says. There's something determined about the words. Pathetic, but determined to bend reality to her will. They re-enter the room and Quinn doesn't look. The fact that it's hard to keep his gaze trained on the table in front of him is disappointing. He thought he was done with this bullshit.

'Go home. Take the day off. That's an order,' Saul booms.

Carrie swallows. Quinn refuses to look up. He feels rotten. Not for killing Brody. Not for sitting here like a robot while she's hurting. For feeling rotten in the first place. He did his job. Nothing more, nothing less. He kills bad guys: it's who he is. He raises his head and glances at Carrie. Her eyes are everywhere. Taking in the equipment, processing the information. She blinks and nods rapidly.

Quinn gets back to work as soon as she has left.

(***)

There's someone on his doorstep that night. This is not something that happens a lot. There are precious few people who know where he lives and even fewer who would visit him. He shoves a magazine into his Glock and goes to look. It's Carrie. He curses and puts away the gun.

When he opens the door, she looks sheepish.

'Saul gave me your address,' she explains, apologetically. There's a pause wherein she stares at him. Amused, she raises her eyebrows as if to say that he should hurry up and make a decision. He does. It's probably the wrong one. He lets her in.

'So, what do you think?' he asks, spreading his arms to indicate his apartment. He's not much of a conversationalist.

'Spartan,' Carrie answers. They both chuckle. She sounds wounded and like she's doing a bad job of covering it up.

'I came here… What I wanted to say…'

Her voice is hoarse and weak and breaks again and again. There are tears in her eyes; he pretends not to notice. When he looks at her again, they are gone.

'I want to tell you about Brody,' she announces.

'Why?'

'Because everyone else thinks I'm crazy and in love and crazy in love.'

'And I don't?'

'Maybe you do. But you'll listen and I need someone to listen. I'll just give you the facts and that will be it, I swear.'

He thinks about it. This is the last thing he needs right now. On the other hand, Carrie really needs this. He can listen. She looks at him, expectantly. He shrugs.

'Okay.'

Relieved, she laughs.

'Okay,' she echoes.

He gets two beers from the fridge, but she asks for something stronger. There's a bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer. It must be her lucky day, Quinn thinks, before recalling that just that morning Carrie was informed that the man she loves is dead. So, not so lucky after all.

Carrie says she doesn't need a glass, which causes all sorts of alarm bells to go off in his mind. He ignores them and hands her the vodka. Unscrewing the cap of his bottle, he sits down across from her on the floor. She begins.

(***)

Picture a block of marble before the sculptor has decided what emotion to carve onto it: that's Carrie's face after she's finished. She looks at him and comes back. Piece by piece. Her expression shifts from blank to something he can't quite decipher.

'Are you still fucking that ER nurse?'

It doesn't take a genius to guess where she's going, but Quinn doesn't think there's enough alcohol in the world for him to go there.

'Time to go home,' he tells her, getting up. His limbs are stiff from sitting on the floor for so long. Carrie tries to get up, but stumbles. He catches her. She smiles wryly and points out that they are both not fit to drive. That's true. It's not too late to call a cab, though, Quinn thinks. The same thought appears to occur to Carrie and suddenly she looks lost.

'I'll sleep on the floor,' he offers.

'Such a gentleman,' Carrie mocks. She starts to undress, scoffing when he turns away. Quinn kind of appreciates the harshness of her reaction. It's softness that always gives him trouble. He looks in the hall closet for blankets, an extra pillow, maybe even a spare mattress and only finds two thin blankets. Well, he has slept in far worse conditions.

He takes off his shoes and socks first. His shirt and jeans follow quickly.

'Bet that hurt like a motherfucker,' Carrie remarks of his abdominal scar. When he looks at her, she's already staring at the ceiling. He spreads one blanket out on the floor and lies down, pulling the other one over him. After ten minutes of waiting – and dreading – for Carrie to make another move, he goes to sleep.

(***)

It's cold and light when he wakes up. His entire body aches. It's a good feeling. It vanishes when he sees that Carrie is shuddering. Her back is to him and for a moment he thinks it might just be the temperature. It's not. It's less shivering, more shaking. Quietly, he gets to his feet and kneels by the bed.

'Hey,' he whispers. When he touches her shoulder, she turns around. Her face is pale, her lips are trembling. She frowns.

'How can you tell if you had the real thing?'

He doesn't have an answer for her. Distraught, she brushes her hair back and grimaces.

'Fuck! He played me, didn't he?'

'Didn't look that way from where I was standing.'

His admission wakes both of them up properly. She is all business again immediately, glancing at her watch, slipping into her clothes. All traces of vulnerability are gone. After she has left, Quinn wonders for a long time about what he said. Does he think he could recognise love if he saw it? Would he recognise it if he felt it?

(***)

Author's note: This is a sequel to To the end of the Earth.