Carrie eases her G-car into a spot outside the non-descript apartment complex 4 miles south of Langley. She gave the place a once-over- the slightly down-at-heels cars, the door frames that needed paint, the glowing Coke machine that cast a red glow over the swinging "vacancy – short or long term lease" sign. The evening was humid and the breeze on her skin felt almost warm to the touch as she stepped out of the car. If the address in the file checked out, she was standing outside Peter Quinn's latest apartment complex. She knew him, she knew how he lived. She knew that he had about 2 suitcases worth of clothing and spent considerably more time caring for and packing his classic Walther PPK and his Glock 17 than he did for any other possessions. She knew he had an affinity for American hard liquor particularly Mr. Jack Daniels but Wild Turkey was his favorite – and the color grey. Quinn had so many grey shirts, that she had heard one of the office admins call him "Christian Grey" behind his back. If he had overheard and gotten the reference –w hich he would almost certainly have not – he would have frozen the silly admin with a glacial stare and an iceman posture that said, "Don't try me."
Quinn was steady, quiet, clench-jawed in control of difficult situations. Since the bombing, the death of Estes, the loss of so many Langley team members, and the retirement of Saul, he was also one of the last living members of the CIA that she could trust implicitly. But since Sandy's murder by an angry mob in Pakistan, Quinn was going to pieces.
Carrie walked towards the staircase, since the address in the file specified apartment 2F. But she heard sounds from down around the pool, central to the building's fleabag hotel-like layout before she got halfway up. She heard a slurred, mumbling voice – low, sarcastic… yep, sounded like Quinn. And a woman's voice. A little louder, but she seemed to be gentle imploring him to do something.
Then a splash. Not a big body sized splash, a small one.
Carrie moved down the stairs and quietly around the corner. She was wearing one of her signature pantsuits and a white tank top – never wear skirts if you have to fight for respect with male colleagues and possibly even run and use a handgun at work. She wished she had changed into something more casual when she saw Quinn from the back , slumped into a reclining pool lounger, wearing a dark grey ("of course…") T-shirt and black gym pants. Standing next to him, and pointing at the empty liquor bottle floating in the pool was a statuesque woman of about Quinn's age, who was bantering and flirting with Quinn. Her red hair was neatly styled with bangs, and she wiggled her generous hips as she scolded Quinn about his state of drunkenness.
"Hey, please. Don't throw glass in the pool area. I'm going to have to fish that out tomorrow."
Quinn smirked and slid deeper into the chair. "Hmph…" he chortled. "I am soooo sorry. Really sorry," he slurred. He was clearly sloshed.
Carrie watched for another minute, but then decided to be seen. "Hey, Quinn." She opened the gate to the fence that surrounded the pool area and walked over to the woman. "Hi, I'm Carrie."
"Oh. Hi." The apartment manager eyeballed Carrie from head to foot, and took a step back from the lounger. "Your friend is drunk."
Quinn looked around and made eye contact with her. "Carrie, Carrie. Just who I wanted to see. Carrie. Haaaa," he laughed.
Carrie gave the woman a searching look, and then said, "I'll take care of it." Him, she scolded herself internally. I'll take care of him, I meant. But she didn't say it.
The apartment manager gave Quinn a last look and said, "Well, if you want anything, you know where I live." She sauntered off towards a ground-level apartment which looked better kept than the rest of them, with a door neatly painted glossy red and a couple of potted geraniums sitting on either side of it. Carrie watched, her expression blank, until the door closed. Then she sat down in the lounge chair next to Quinn.
"What's going on, Quinn?" Carrie asked, frowning concernedly.
"Oh you know, just a little drink with all my friends. Look at them all," he waved aimlessly around the empty courtyard. "Oops," he slurred, "Looks like you chased my only friend off."
Carrie stood and bent to put a hand on Quinn's upper arm. He shut his eyes at her touch on his bare skin. "Cut the shit, Quinn. Come on, I'll take you inside."
"Carrie, Carrie, you're here to fix everything, aren't you?" Quinn mumbled as he pulled himself heavily to his feet. "I don't need your help," he said, stepping quickly to one side, and almost losing his balance.
"Whoa. Here." Carrie put one arm around his waist, and he put an arm over her shoulder. "Come on. Is the door locked? Do you have your key?"
"Hmmz. Key. Yeah, here…" Quinn said, fumbling in his pocket. A minute went by as they shuffled towards the apartment door and up the stairs, arms slung around each other, and still Quinn didn't come up with the key.
"Here, let me," Carrie said. Jesus, he's really drunk, she thought. She reached her hand into the pocket of his gym pants and felt for the key.
"Oh, Carrie, be careful, what you might grab in there…" Quinn chortled.
"I don't give a fuck, Quinn. What are you doing out here anyway?"
"I don't give a fuck anymore either, Carrie. That's what I'm doing out there." He belched companionably.
"Nice," Carrie said, wrinkling her nose.
His arm around her shoulder tightened as she felt around in his pants pocket. She came up with the key and unlocked his apartment door. Pushing the door open, she guided him inside. The apartment was classic Quinn – hardly any personal effects, hardly a sign that a person lived there. A secured G-laptop, a locked briefcase with papers, a few items of clothing folded with military precision, and lined up with perverse neatness, three, no, four empty liquor bottles on the passthrough bar.
"Do you have any food in this place? You should drink something, and take Tylenol, or something."
"Don't know. Don't care," Quinn said, falling full-length on the couch, his arm over his eyes.
Carrie sat on the coffee table next to Quinn's couch and just for a minute, listened to his breathing. She looked at her hands, at the floor. What was wrong? He had been working this kind of ops job for years. She knew he was talented with wetwork. What the hell was going on in his head?
"Quinn," she tried again. "Talk to me. What the hell is going on with you?"
He said nothing, but removed his arm from his eyes, turning his bloodshot gaze towards her face. He looked at her for a moment – closely. So closely she started to feel very uncomfortable. Almost undressed. His eyes on her face, her torso, her hands, her body… she started to feel hot. She looked at the floor as he started to speak.
"There are so many things… so many things I could tell you. But I can't. Won't. But," he sat up quickly, too quickly for someone so apparently drunk. "But… I'd like to. Someday. Let's just say…" he trailed off.
Jesus, he was so complicated. "Say what, Quinn."
He looked back at her. Somehow his eyes were cooler. He seemed a lot more sober, and when he spoke he was back to being more of the iceman she was used to.
"Let's just say, tonight's not the night. I need to go to bed."
Carrie stood up a Quinn got to his feet. He headed towards the bathroom, and with his back to her, said, "Good night, Carrie."
"Quinn, I could stay. If you wanted me to."
He turned around and looked at her from the open bathroom door. "Do you need to?" Quinn said, his eyes once again studying hers. That searching gaze again.
She looked at him. The drunkenness, the strange talk about secrets, but what wetwork operative didn't have secrets? If she didn't know better, she'd say he seemed vulnerable. Thus her offer. But he asks her if she needed to stay.
"No, I don't need to stay. I thought you might like it if I did."
Quinn looked at his feet for a moment, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. When he looked back at Carrie, his gaze was clear. "Night, Carrie. Lock the door on your way out." The bathroom door shut with a quiet click, and he was gone.