He started the night with three quick shots of bourbon, just to take the edge off, then took a breather and ordered a cold beer. He had been there less than an hour, but it was late and he was gladly feeling the effects of the alcohol.
"Fucking Carrie," he muttered to himself. Tenth time he had said it this week, no doubt.
"What troubles you?" he hears…and the tension immediately returns to his entire body.
Ah fuck no…he thinks. He doesn't even bother turning to look at her. He knows it's Carrie. Could he not get one fucking minute to himself? He decides to say nothing, knowing full well that if he opens his mouth a stream of angry profanities will come pouring out at her.
"Oh come on," she pushes, "you're not going to let a woman shut you down, are you?"
Carrie sidles up next to him at the bar and watches as the bartender places two full shot glasses in front of Quinn.
"Is one of those for me?" she asks, trying to be coy.
"No," he says flatly, then quickly throws back one, then the other and winces mildly from the shock to his throat. With five shots in and half his beer down, Quinn's head is buzzing.
Carrie orders herself a tequila on the rocks and turns to face him.
"Slow down or I'll never catch up…"
Quinn, finally, turns to her.
"Since you haven't picked up on my subtle hints, let me make it clear to you, Carrie. Go. The fuck. Away."
Carrie says nothing but takes another sip of her drink. She could take his verbal assault. Bring it, she thinks.
"What's got you so riled up?"
He immediately stands, picks up his beer and half walks, half stumbles to the back of the bar and outside onto the deck. He was not kidding around. He needed to be alone. Fuck her if she couldn't get the hint.
By the time Carrie makes her way out to him, he's lighting up a cigarette and asking the waitress to bring him another shot.
"Come on, what you saw back there, you know it's just part of the game. I was just giving him…an incentive," and she smiles at what she thinks is her brilliant wit.
"An incentive." Quinn exhales the smoke through his mouth. "That's what you call an incentive?!" Quinn's anger is now seeping through his words.
"Oh come on…you sometimes use your knife, I sometimes use my physical assets,…" she says with a smile.
Quinn is now seeing red. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenches and he inhales deeply trying to calm his growing rage.
"The difference, Carrie, is that my weapons can kill a person, your 'weapons' don't. Yours…"
He stops himself because the thought of it just sickens him.
"What?" Carrie barks him.
Quinn stares at Carrie, his eyes dark with anger. Anger at Carrie for being so fucking blind to her reckless behavior and anger at himself for still being in this fucking game and caring. But then he recognizes her cluelessness, her complete inability to see or understand his perspective. It's all a job to her. All just a means to an end. He knows this and understands it because God knows he's lived it himself.
Quinn steps backwards and haphazardly lowers himself into a chair. He closes his eyes and smiles, drunkenly.
"What?!" she barks at him again.
"You," he laughs.
"What?"
"So fucking reckless…all the fucking time…so blinded…." he slowly mumbles to her then takes another swig from his beer.
Carrie looks at him with disgust and leans down to get in his face.
"How dare you…" she seethes. "Don't you dare lecture me…you're just a fucking hired gun…you don't know…"
He can't hold himself back any longer and pushes himself up to stand face to face, nose to nose with her.
"A hired gun…with a dick and a conscience! I know what these men will do with you and your incentive program, Carrie. You want to get yourself raped and beaten and thrown in an alley, just keep it up."
Quinn stumbles back into the chair, closes his eyes and let's his head fall back. She stares down at him, stunned and angry.
"I don't need you to manage me…I know this place and these people better than anyone, so don't think for a second you can tell me how…"
"For fuck sake, Carrie, I'm not trying to manage you…" he pauses and lifts his head to look at her.
"I care about you… and don't want you to get fucking hurt again!" he blurts out.
She stands silent.
"And you're so damn…you can't even see it, can you?"
"What the fuck are you talking about, Quinn?"
He lowers his head into his hands and grasps at his hair, his voice now a deep, rough whisper.
"What am I supposed to do when they tell me you're missing again."
He's thinking back to the day Abu Nazir captured her. The gut wrenching sickness he felt not knowing where she was, what was happening to her. That day and night changed everything for him.
"'Cause we're not at home anymore, Carrie, we're in fucking Kabul…it's a different game over here and I can only imagine what they would do to you here…."
Quinn abruptly stands.
"I can't do this anymore…" he mutters and starts to walk towards the door.
Carrie grabs his arm.
"Quinn…"
"No…I'm done," and he tries to push her hands off his arm but he's now too drunk to get a solid grip on her.
"Quinn!"
He stops, stares down at her, and biting his lips he silently asks himself how he let himself get this attached. How did he let himself get this close. For what?
So as if taking a final leap, Quinn grabs her arm, pulls her to him and finally does what he's been wanting to do since the day he met her. He kisses her...deep, hard and long. And fortunately for them both, Carrie's got just enough alcohol in her to let him do it. Let herself do it. And when he finally pulls himself away, she reaches out to him for more. But it's his goodbye kiss, so he slowly backs away from her and leaves.