In the bright kitchen of the Maggie's cozy suburban home, Carrie Mathison sat across the kitchen island from her sister, who placed a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down. On the floor on a play mat, baby Franny burbled and jabbered, happy in the presence of her mother and aunt, leaning forward on her chubby bottom to take a swipe at the tail of an orange tabby cat that sauntered through the room periodically. Carrie regarded the baby intently.

"She's thinking about cruising," Maggie said.

"Cruising?" Carrie said, still clueless about the terms used to describe infant locomotion, having been an absentee mother for the better part of a year.

"Pulling to a stand, trying to walk while holding on to things."

"Oh," Carrie said. "She's doing great," she admitted, and making eye contact with her warm-hearted sister, said sincerely, "Thank you."

Maggie shrugged. "She's a delight," she said. "You've gotten four texts since you got here. Everything ok?" Maggie was used to Carrie's insanely stressful lifestyle, and urgent texts on life-or-death matters were, unfortunately, something of a routine for them.

"Yes, I think so," Carrie said. "They were all from Quinn."

Maggie stirred her coffee, and sighed. "Is he ok?" she asked.

"I think so," Carrie said. Shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head, she grimaced embarrassedly. "He's still extremely pissed at me. Now doubly so, because I signed him up for eight weeks of mandatory psychological counseling, if he wants to stay with my group and keep his G-status. And his bonus," she remarked, thoughtfully.

Maggie smiled sadly. "It's good for him. Too many soldiers don't get treatment for PTSD, and those are the ones we lose," she said.

"I know," Carrie said. "I'm just glad he decided to stay with the stateside team for a while. We all need to cool out and recover, or something. I might have a bit of PTSD myself," she said, and looked at her hands, tracing a finger over a brown line on the back of one.

"Is there something you're not telling me? I mean, beyond the crazyness you've already told me?" Maggie said concernedly.

Carrie sighed and stirred her coffee. "Yeah, there is," she said. "It's so bizarre, I'm not even sure I know where to start."

Maggie frowned, and looked at the clock. "Four P.M.," she said. "Not too early for me," she said, and got up and went to one of the kitchen cupboards. She came back with a bottle of Bushmill's, and added a healthy dollop to each of their coffees. They stirred, lifted their cups, and clinked the coffee mugs together. "To Dad," Maggie said.

"To Dad," Carrie echoed dolefully.

After they sipped for a moment, Maggie inquired,"You going to tell me?"

Carrie looked at her guiltily. "Don't freak out. But, three nights before I left Pakistan, I got married."

Maggie set her cup down hard enough to splash Irish Coffee on the counter. "What?!" she intoned.

"Let me tell you what happened," Carrie said, taking a deep breath.

It was a week after the Embassy incursion, and Carrie Mathison stood tired and dispirited at the airport, seeing off a planeload of American Embassy employees and Agents. That afternoon, she had gotten a very tired and very irritable Peter Quinn on a transport, bracketed by two large, trustworthy Marines who swore on their sainted mother's lives that he would arrive at Langley in one piece. With a hostile glare, he allowed himself to be briefly, awkwardly hugged, as he sighed, "You win, Carrie."

"You heard what I said," she said, eyes becoming misty. "I can't lose you. Now go home, rest up, and get better. OK? I need you back in fighting form. I'll be in the US in a few days."

He said nothing, but looking slightly mollified, he nodded and moved off down the tarmac between the Marines, with his duffel. What an ordeal, she thought. But her friend was safe, and she had put an end to the losses. That part of this mess was over. She turned, signing the vacate order for the agent standing by, and giving Quinn a last wave, watched him board the plane. She had only a few days to pack herself up, and was starting to feel the urgency of the station closing, when she turned and almost bumped directly into a broad chest, covered by a sharply pressed Pakistani officer's uniform. She looked up, into the brooding dark eyes of Aasar Khan. At that moment, she had no stomach to deal with ISI, Tasneem or any of that pack of Taliban jackals. She knew Khan had very divided allegiances, with some of his actions clearly placing him on the side of the Americans and some with ISI, but she had never been able to ascertain his reasons for helping her. Still, she was not in the mood to massage this asset at the moment.

"Chief," she said briefly. "Excuse me," and began to move off around him, blowing him off. He turned and walked with her as she strode away, headed for the airport entrance and her driver. She noticed, annoyed, that he was following her. "What brings you here this afternoon," she inquired over her shoulder, hoping to cut the right balance of boredom and disinterest with polite inquiry.

"Miss Mathison," Khan said, finding himself having to hustle to keep up with her, even with his long stride. "I actually came here to find you."

"Oh, really," Carrie said, looking straight ahead, then down at her watch, walking on. "What can I help you with," she said, keeping it businesslike.

"I came to inquire if..." Khan said, "if you might have a few hours of time that you could spare. This afternoon, perhaps, or this evening." His correct, deferential English, underscored by a clipped British accent, gave away nothing of his purpose, only suggested a meeting. He sounded nervous. Carrie bulldozed on, saying, "I'm going to be packing and moving out over the next day or two. I also have to see off one more transport of American caskets tomorrow," she said, at which Khan winced painfully.

Khan reached out to Carrie and grabbed her shoulder. She was shocked. In his culture, it was unbecoming to touch an woman in public who was not a relation. His grip forced her to a stop, and she turned to face him. Despite her apparent irritation, she remembered that moment from the week before, when Haqqani's jeep had crawled down the street in front of her, Peter sweating and swearing at her from a nearby buildingtop, and Khan had seen her and retreived her from a moment of near insanity as she considered using her semiautomatic to... what? She didn't know, and now would never know, because Khan's arms had gone around her and held her firmly in place.

She hadn't seen Khan since that afternoon. Neither she nor Peter had worked out yet what Dar Adal was doing in the jeep. But Saul said he was meeting Adal at Waffle House in Arlington the next weekend, and would report back what he found. Maybe they'd find something out then. The delights of working in the intel community - there's always something you don't know.

The memory of Khan's muscular arms around her, shielding her from the crowd in the crush of hysteria, the warmth of his hand through her suit jacket, all brought Carrie's senses to bear on him. Really seeing him for the first time that afternoon, she looked up into his dark eyes and waited. "Chief? What is it," she asked.

Khan took his hand away from her shoulder, as if it burned him. "Miss Mathison," he started again. "My request is... entirely personal," he stated, looking uncomfortable. "I would like to spend some time with you before you leave Islamabad. Tonight, if possible. Even now. I would like to show you my city, and speak to you."

Carrie squinted at him, then considered. "Speak to me about what?" she said.

Khan drew himself up to his full height. He looked down on the diminutive blond agent. "It will take a bit of time to explain. Would it be convenient to meet tonight, and share a meal?" Jesus God, she thought, is he asking me on a date? Impossible. But who the Hell knew with the counter-terrorism Chief, with the ISI, with any part of the Pakistani Government; who knew which side they were on, what they thought, or frigging anything for sure? She thought for a moment, and said, "I can spare a few hours."

"My driver and I will pick you up at six thirty," he said, and she thought she heard a relieved note in his voice. Remind me to bring my sidearm, she thought.

"OK, see you tonight." Carrie walked out to the waiting G-car.

Carrie frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. She thought her personal style had become compromised as she rose to prominence in the C.I.A., always feeling that each succeeding year and promotion took more individuality away from her manner of dress. Still, she needed to be taken seriously, so suits and pants were her thing. The fluttering round collar of the pure white silk blouse she chose for this evening was the most feminine thing she could find in her wardrobe. In her purse, she had placed a large square navy headscarf, dotted with tiny flowers, in case she and Khan wanted to travel into areas that required she cover - almost inevitable when she was out without her American escorts. She wondered, briefly, why she cared if she appeared feminine or not. Still, she took a moment to apply a light fragrance, under her breasts and around the backs of her ears, "Jewel", by Alfred Sung. Maggie had sent it to her for her first Mother's Day gift, to her everlasting guilt. She questioned her own wisdom in going out with Khan at all, let alone getting ready like it was a real date. But still, it felt good to take care of herself. She wrote this one up to "good self-esteem" and went downstairs.

Carrie stood under the overhang, the evening breeze moving through the folds of her blouse and her soft, wide legged navy pants. At precisely 6:30, Khan's large black Expedition pulled into the Embassy grounds. The rear door opened. Khan stepped out of the car, and he stood there, tall and handsome , holding it for her. "Miss Mathison," he said, eyes lingering on her face as she decended the stairs.

"Good evening, Chief," she returned, and was surprised when he reached out and took her right hand, but instead of helping her immediately into the back of the SUV, he raised her fingers to his lips, and placed a heated kiss on her white knuckles. He bowed slightly to do this, and his eyes looked up to meet hers as his lips touched her fingers. The gallant gesture knocked Carrie for a loop. He continued to hold her hand as she stepped into the vehicle, then let go reluctantly, as she took her seat. He followed, closed the door, and the driver moved off.

They sat in opposite ends of the SUV's back seat. After this strangely intimate greeting, Carrie felt tongue tied. "How was your afternoon," she inquired lamely.

"It has been a week of trials. I thank you for coming out to dine with me. It is rare that I get to spend leisure time at all, let alone with a..." Khan realized he had talked himself into a tight spot, "colleague," he finished weakly.

She smiled. He was nothing if not charming. It had been a long week. It didn't appear that he had anything in mind but food and good company, and God knows there had been little enough of that in the last few months of her life. She could remember whole days of coffee, no sleep and not eating anything at all. "I agree. A week of trials. Where should we go tonight?" she said.

"I have a place in mind," he said, and leaning forward, tapping on the window, instructed the driver in Urdu to drive into the Margalla hills.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Restaurant Monal, where Khan once again gallantly stepped out first, and held the car door for Carrie. He held her hand as she descended from the high SUV, and once again, seemed to be lingering over the chivalrous custom of assisting a lady, his thumb rubbing sensually over the back of her hand as she alighted. She wondered if he was merely trying to hold her hand for a little longer, then dismissed the idea as absurd.

"This is one of my favorite places in Islamabad," he stated, as they took the elevator up. The stuffy, warm atmosphere of the elevator felt slightly claustrophobic to her, as Khan stood close to her side, in order to give a man in a wheelchair more room. As the man rolled off the elevator first, Khan's hands rested on Carrie's shoulders, holding her aside. Once again, the absurd thought. But there it was.

Khan and Carrie emerged from the elevator hall into the rooftop restaurant deck, which afforded an astounding vista of the Margalla hills, the city of Islamabad spreading out far below, like a magic carpet. The open format contributed to the romantic atmosphere, with only the sky and stars for ceiling, and local acoustic music playing quietly behind the patrons' conversation. The maitre'd seated them immediately at one of the best tables in the house, which must have had something to do with Aasar's high status, because the place was packed. Khan took a moment to point out the beautiful view of Islamabad to the north, and Rawalpindi to the south. "I have lived here most of my life, but I never get tired of this view." He was right, the view was spectacular. He ordered tea for the both of them without consulting her, and a selection of dishes that they could share. He was courteous without pandering, and when he cutely and awkwardly asked, "Do you like spice?" she actually giggled. His ears reddened slightly at her laughter, and he told the server brusquely, "Keep it mild, please." She knew that even "mild" dishes could be blazing here, and was pleased to find that they served it exactly as he asked.

They spoke pleasantly over the meal, a variety of topics ranging from Carrie's birthplace, her education, Khan's military career, and family. "I went to Oxford," he said, "where I read political science. I also studied European art." He watched for her reaction. Carrie's eyebrows went up, "That is impressive," she said, "and when you graduated, you came directly back home?"

"Not straight away," he said expansively, relaxing. "After some travel. My mother and father needed me, but I wanted to see Italy first. And Spain."

"Oh," inquired Carrie. "Madrid?"

"No, the Guggenheim, Bilbao," Khan said, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "After that, I came home to resume my duties." He sighed. He flicked his eyes towards Carrie, whose silk blouse fluttered in the evening breeze. The skin of her neck was white as milk. The air had cooled rapidly since the sun had set, and the tiniest of gooseflesh had raised around her throat. His hands itched to touch it, warm it with his hands. He gazed at her steadily, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

Carrie had been enjoying socializing (though, she confessed, she would have enjoyed it more with a glass of wine), but was curious about the real purpose of the meeting. There had to be something else he wanted.

"Chief Khan..." she started.

"Please," he said, a pained look on his face. "Call me Aasar."

"Aasar, then. Why are we out here tonight, having dinner together? Was there something you needed to talk to me about?"

Khan cringed. Carrie Mathison, American woman. Always so straight and to the point. "Well," he said, "I was going to get around to that. But we must take a walk," he said.

She looked across the table at him, and felt kindly towards his gentleness, his refined manner, his deferential treatment. She would wait to hear what he had to say. He had treated her, since they met this evening, like no less than a princess. "Shahzadi," she corrected herself internally. The Urdu honorific for princess. She would be as considerate in return.

Khan paid the check, and then got up to pull Carrie's chair back from the table. His hand cupped her elbow as she rose. There was a delicious tingle in her stomach as his skin contacted hers. She found herself discomforted by this arousal - this man had surely been duplicitous to her country. But to her, he had behaved very decently, kindly. At his house, in his office, at their street meetings, and certainly in the crowd outside Haqqani's crib. She was willing to give him benefit of the doubt.

They walked around the rooftop restaurant, making their way slowly back down to the car, he continuing to hold her arm protectively, while she relived in her mind that bizarre afternoon and evening during which she had slept off the effects of the hallucinogen that Dennis Boyd had substituted into her regular medication. She was very conscious of the heat, the direct contact of skin between his hand and her arm, and was glad she had worn short sleeves. Just knowing he was there to lean on made her stronger, as the frightening memories rolled by in her mind.

Her memories of the first part of that horrible afternoon were hazy - she recalled seeing Peter at the hospital and accusing him of being in love with her, then belting him in the nose with her elbow as she escaped. Although it felt like something that might have happened, she had confirmed with Quinn that it was a hallucination. Then, she remembered shooting an Islamabad police officer in the streets outside the hospital. Thankfully, she had not harmed anyone in her delusional state. Then, she remembered being captured, bound, screaming wretchedly for her freedom until she was delivered to Khan's palatial home. That part was real. She felt like she could recall more memories after that, but she hadn't delved. She had other things on her mind, and there had been no reason.

Khan and Carrie descended in the elevator, now keeping as far apart as possible from each other. She was now aware that he was attracted to her - all of the touching, the chivalry, the heated looks and sneaky glances, at her eyes, her neck, her shapely legs... he was definitely taking her in. It didn't have anything to do with being Station Chief either - an entire evening had passed without any shop-talk. He was interested in her. The choice to stay farther apart in the elevator only served to increase the electricity in the air between them. She looked down at her strappy black high heels. No wonder he felt awkward this afternoon, she thought. The man had a crush.

He helped her into the SUV, his soft hand again clutching hers, and instructed the driver to commence. A pregnant silence fell as the car moved smoothly through the streets, the night breeze moving in the palm trees, the cityscape lights below them a tangle of diamond bracelets thrown into a black velvet box. The homes grew more stately and the yards larger as the SUV approached Khan's house. Carrie's eyebrows went up, but she said nothing. The SUV pulled into the circular driveway, and dropped them off. Khan spoke to the driver, who pulled out and left them alone under the carport overhang.

"So, we're going for a walk... at your house?" she said, suspiciously.

He had the good graces to look embarrassed. "My garden," he said, eyes down. "I want to show it to you."

She shrugged and preceded him into the grand foyer, and wrapping her flowered scarf around her shoulders, she left her purse on a lowboy in the entryway. The home's grandeur had mostly escaped her the first time she had been there, as she had been a mess of mind-altering drugs. But this time she was able to appreciate its opulence. Marble floors, columns, high ceilings, voluminous, drifting curtains, and a huge open back wall leading into the gardens he was hoping to show her. She followed him through these rooms, shoes clicking on the shiny marble. Slowly over the course of the evening, she had felt herself becoming distant from her Station Chief persona, her responsible self. Recollections of one-night stands back in the states cropped up in her memory, evenings of altered states and risky sexual adventure. As she observed Khan's impeccable home, a sliver of impulsivity and craziness instigated itself into her mind, and she realized that no one had touched her intimately since Ayaan. And what a disaster that had been - simply pro forma sex, performed rotely. No pleasure for her at all, in fact, his lack of experience compounded with the flashbacks to Brody had rendered it downright painful. Ayaan noticed she was crying, and had asked why - poor, stupid kid. The whole thing made her sick. Compared to that memory, this evening had been a revelation.

Khan opened French doors that led out into his garden. Carrie followed him outside, observing how the warm indoor lighting reflected off his glossy, dark hair. He was right to be proud of this place. A huge, well maintained grassy sloping lawn held a pond covered with lotus blossoms. Fruit trees lined the far end of the yard, but closer to the house, a manicured rose garden with symmetrical gravel paths encouraged walking among Khan's carefully selected sculptures. Of course, Oxford-educated Aasar Khan would have an English sculpture garden. They walked side by side behind his mansion, very slowly, not touching, until they reached a reproduction of a recognizable masterpiece.

"Rodin. The Kiss," Carrie said, softly. "Yes," Khan said, his voice grave. "Please," he said, indicating a nearby bench. They sat down together. Finally, we'll get to it, Carrie thought. The meal had assuaged one kind of hunger, but awakened another.

Khan's long brown fingers flexed as they smoothed his uniform. He said nothing at first, apparently nervous, gathering his thoughts. They both looked at the Rodin sculpture, the night breeze sweetly moving through their hair. The portrayal of a nude couple locked in an intimate embrace, the man's fingers pressing into the woman's bare thigh, gave the evening a decidedly sensual tone. There was no denying the attraction on either side, and although unspoken, it hung in the air like the scent of jasmine.

Finally, Khan spoke. "How much do you remember of the night and day you spent here?" he said.

"The earlier bits, I can remember. The parts that took place at your house are hazy, at least until the morning."

Khan sighed and looked at the ground. "I must speak frankly with you, Miss... Carrie." he said, switching to the familiar, feeling bold and looking to her eyes to see if she accepted it.

"Please," she said, wondering what he had in mind.

"The night you stayed here, they brought you to me in a straightjacket. I was able to... unbind you, but keep you here, keep you safe. No one would know. I had you brought to my sitting room, and when they removed the restraint, you thought I was... someone else."

She flushed with embarrassment. The vision of Brody had been so intense, she had thrown herself at who she imagined was he, her lost, broken prisoner of war. "Yes," she said, her shoulders hunching. "I remember that."

"Do you know what you said, and how you acted?" Khan asked.

Carrie's eyes pricked with tears. "Is that why you brought me here, just to embarrass me?" she said, hurt. She stood and walked to the statue.

Khan was immediately up on his feet, right behind her, placing one supple hand on each of her shoulderblades, boldly. "No, no. That is not what I want at all," he said, anguished.

She turned to him, "Then what? Why are we discussing this?" Her eyes leaked a single tear of humiliation.

Khan towered in front of Carrie, holding her upper arms in both of his smooth palms, breathing in and out through his nose, agitated.

"I brought you here," he said, "Because I needed to speak to you, if only once. The night you spent at my house, I..." he was unable to finish the sentence. Turning his head slightly to the side, he looked at the nearest rose bush. "I became... enamored."

Carrie looked up at him. She said nothing, just waited for him to recover himself. "Khan, please. Be more clear. You know I don't remember most of that night." His eyes turned to her, sparks of frenzy appearing within their black depths, an emotional compulsion that was going to force the truth from his mouth at last.

"Carrie. When I had you here that night, you kissed me. I held you in my arms most of the night. In my lap, like a babe. I kissed your forehead and tried to get you to come back down to earth. You cried and cried. While I held you. Do you remember?" he said, straining to control his voice, his words.

"I remember some of it," she said softly. He released her arms, and turned away, facing the house, hands in his pockets.

"All that night, I tended you. The next day, you were still ill. You tried to get up and I..." he turned, looked at her, his dark eyes distressed, his chest expanding with a huge, deep breath. "I put you back into my bed. I almost carried you. You protested, but I knew what was best," he finished, sounding protective, but embarrassed at the same time.

Carrie's irritation at the memory came to the surface and she said, "Did it never occur to you to call medical help? Call my Embassy? Maybe get Quinn and some of my guys to take me home?" The thought had never occurred to her before. But now she felt she had to ask.

"I couldn't," Khan said, sounding tormented.

"And why is that?" Carrie demanded.

"Because," Khan swallowed, "I fell in love with you that night," he uttered. "And since that night, I have felt like I am losing my mind." He sighed. The words had been said, he couldn't unsay them, he could only stand and wait anxiously for her reaction.

The silence of the quiet residential neighborhood wrapped around them, broken only by the voices of insects, trilling their silvery tones out into the night. Khan said nothing more, his handsome features cramped with anxiety, his anguished gaze locked onto Carrie's face. She realized the effort it took for a man this proper, in this culture, to speak these words. In a society still dominated by arranged marriages, the idea of being in love with someone - and telling them - was pathologically romantic, very uncommon and completely unacceptable. Would he now be so Western as to try to seduce her? She sort of hoped that he would. He crossed the distance between them, and once again reached for her hand.

He raised her right hand to his lips again, and kissed the back of it passionately, then turned his head to the side, and pressed his cheek into her fingers, murmuring her name. Undoubtedly he ached to touch her, and at his admission of affection, she was ready to allow it. His tall, strong body strained at the effort of holding back from seizing her and beginning his lovemaking, right here in the garden.

"Aasar," Carrie said softly, expecting to be invited to bed. "What do we do now?"

He took her hand down from his face. Placed it open, palm down, over his heart. "Marry me," he whispered.