Certain things hurt
He should have killed Nicholas Brody when he had the chance and he was not about to make the same mistake again. He wasn't going to let his personal feelings get in the way of doing his duty this time. He was going to kill Carrie Mathison.
You better be sure, he told himself. Quinn dismissed the thought. He was sure. He wouldn't have accepted the job if he hadn't been sure. He would simply have slid the envelope back into the drop box with a big, fat NO written on top of it. That would have been clear. He had no qualms; no reservations. Absolutely nothing pointed to him not being sure. Except that thought just now.
He had expected there to be some resistance, to be honest. After all, she was the woman he loved. It didn't matter that she'd left him hanging. A relationship had been a stretch anyway and he'd been asking for much more. He'd been asking her to do something he hadn't been able to accomplish: save him from the CIA.
To mentally prepare himself, Quinn imagined how it would go down, but his mind invariably changed the simple concept of killing Carrie into some stupid, implausible scenario. For instance, she always said something afterwards. He was pretty good at shooting people; they didn't usually talk after he had pulled the trigger. Yet, he shot her and she talked. Often, she said things that were hilarious in a horrible way.
'That hurt,' was one of those things. She sounded more angry than hurt. Then – presumably to accommodate the fact that Carrie was still talking – it was revealed that he'd merely winged her. For fuck's sake.
Or, another time, she said: 'But you are… me.' And then – bullet wound forgotten – they had sex. Of course.
The closer he got to actually killing her, the more ridiculous the scenario became. Eventually, he had entire conversations with her dying in his arms wherein he told her that he loved her and she forgave him. She never said that she loved him too. His imagination had its limits. That was alright. He just wanted her to know that she meant the world to him.
(***)
None of it turned out to be even remotely accurate.
For one, she didn't talk after. Only before. Quinn didn't respond. He'd read The Dumb Waiter enough times to know that engaging only made things harder.
He approached her; his gun at the ready. She heard him, looked confused for a moment and then smiled.
'What are you doing here?'
At least, that was what he thought she had wanted to say; he didn't let her finish. It took less than a second. The autumn leaves softened her fall. He examined the body and took her wallet. Dragged the body back to the car. Wrapped it in tarpaulin and threw it in the trunk.
It didn't hit him until he was starting the car. It wasn't a feeling. It was a taste. Like he'd bitten his tongue or busted his lip. Blood filling his mouth quicker than he could swallow it down. A sense of resignation settled over him. As if he deserved this. Well, not as if. He did deserve it.
It appeared that he was a stranger to himself. Otherwise, how could he explain what had happened? What he had done? How could he have known that he loved her and at the same time have believed that he could kill her? How could he have?
He loved her in an obsessed kind of way. He had curbed the urge to follow her, to track her, to stand outside her house in the middle of the night, to break in and touch her belongings, to watch her without her being aware. Thoughts along these lines gave him the creeps. Never had he wanted to be close to someone so badly that he had needed to stop himself from becoming a stalker. Carrie had that effect on him, though.
And when they'd kissed... Jesus. That had been almost more than he could handle. Her mouth underneath his own. Her body against his. All the possibilities and too little time to do everything he wanted to do. He doubted there would ever have been enough time.
Always he'd had to force himself to look elsewhere when all he really wanted to do was look at her. Quinn had dated women who had looked at him the way he suspected he looked at Carrie. This sort of total surrender of self. No wonder Carrie had waited until he took the hint and quietly went away. Such devotion was terrifying.
Without wanting to, he flashed back to the moment before he'd shot her and found himself praying for another outcome. Give me a reason to lay down my gun. Please, Carrie. Do it. Do something. Say something. Anything. Change my mind. Make me reconsider. Make me not to this.
Somehow he got out of the car and opened the trunk. Peeled away the tarpauling, carefully. She was still where he'd left her. Not miraculously breathing. Not alive. How could he have done this? He didn't understand himself.
(***)
A week later.
Saul called. He'd noticed that Carrie was missing. He seemed mystified. So, he isn't the one who put her name in the box, Quinn vaguely realised. Not that it mattered anymore.
'Quinn, are you listening?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know if you're listening?'
'I... don't know,' Quinn repeated. Apparently, I am completely falling apart, he registered without interest. He put down the phone and stared at his surroundings. The car. The empty tarpaulin. Someday soon a hiker would find him. And her. He wondered what they'd do to him. No, false. He wondered what he'd do to them. He had decided that he wouldn't let anyone take Carrie from him. They could kill him for all he cared. He was already dead.
The end.