In the kitchen, Maggie was putting the finishing touches on a large pot of corned beef and cabbage. Carrie stood by, leaning idly on the counter, observing the taste testing process.

"Gah," Carrie said. "I can't believe how much he likes this stuff."

Maggie sampled a last mouthful right off the end of the wooden spoon, nodding in approval. As soon as she swallowed, she said, "Mmmm. Of course. He's Irish."

"I know, but still. I never thought of him as anything. Only once can I remember him saying he liked Indian food," Carrie complained. Quinn had never showed preferences, or volunteered anything. He had really been all business. But, that was before.

Carrie raised herself up with her hands to sit on the kitchen counter. She said, more softly, "Quinn and I worked together for two years, you know? We went through all kinds of shit. By the time we went to Islamabad, I trusted him completely. I didn't want to work over there without him. He protected me, even when I was too blind to see it. But he was always so, I don't know. Private," she said finally.

"You guys," Maggie said, quietly, "Had a difficult start together. But it worked out. Reach behind you and pass me the garlic powder."

Carrie did so, contemplating the incredible ride that brought her to this situation. It was March, now going into Spring, and it had been 7 weeks since Quinn had effectively come back from the dead. A miscommunication on a busted Black Op had caused Quinn's farewell letter to be delivered to Carrie, and after six months of watchfully waiting and hoping that he would return, receiving this letter nearly killed her with grief. But about a month later, he had come pulling into the driveway, darkly tanned, thin as a rail, and tapped on the glass of the front door, startling Maggie half to death. Since his return, he had begun processing out of the special ops group, and in light of his uncertain life circumstances, had been staying with Maggie and Carrie. Maggie, delighted for her sister's happiness, and glad to encourage the two to enjoy what was essentially a honeymoon after all their suffering, had been eager to facilitate their companionship. And honestly, he was nice to have around.

Carrie shook her head. "It's bizarre,' she sighed. "I'm finding out so many things that I didn't know. I think it's the first time in his life that Quinn's been contented enough, trusted anyone enough, to share anything."

"There's a reason for that," Maggie said, wisely. Her gossip pump had been primed, though, and she couldn't resist asking lightly, "So, what have you learned?" She rolled her head and gave Carrie a significant look.

"Well," Carrie said, smiling secretively. "I knew he was intelligent. It's obvious. But, when he was in 9th grade at Hill School, he scored a 175 on an I.Q. test."

Maggie let out a low whistle. "Wow. Is that verifiable?"

Carrie snorted. "I'm sure it is," she said. "In spite of his expensive education, I don't think he had a particularly happy childhood." Carrie shook her head. "He won't talk about it much," she finished, softly.

"Hm," Maggie considered, hoping her quiet would draw out more information.

"Here's something," Carrie said, "When Quinn was a freshman in college, he got busted for drag-racing a cop. On a motorcycle," she said. Maggie gave Carrie the raised-eyebrow look that seems to be a specialty of mothers. "I don't think he'd do that anymore," she said, hurriedly.

"What the heck would he want to do something like that for?" Maggie asked. "Was he trying to impress a girl?"

Carrie gave a half-smile. "I don't think he needed to try that hard," she said. She jumped down from the counter, got out a couple of wine glasses, and poured herself some Pinot Grigio. "You?" she asked Maggie, holding up the bottle. Maggie nodded.

"Oh, another tidbit. I'm sure I told you that he studied at Harvard. But did I tell you what he studied?" Carrie paused for emphasis, and then said the words very deliberately, "English. Literature." She set Maggie's wine glass next to the stove, and turned to stand next to her.

"Hah!" Maggie crowed. "I love it! Now wait, English like God-Save-the-Queen, or English like the language?"

"Like the language," Carrie said, sipping at her wine. "He says he likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Joseph Conrad."

"Heart of Darkness, huh." Maggie said, smiling.

Carrie stared out the kitchen window, a warm smile lighting up her face. "It figures, right? He's interesting," she said. "And everything I find out makes me want to find out more," If you consider the weapons specialty and the general bad-ass qualities that Quinn personified, it was hard to think of anyone she'd like better.

Maggie peeked at Carrie's face out of the corner of her eye, observed how naturally flushed her cheeks were. "Fuck-me pink," Maggie thought, repressing a giggle. What a relief, that for the most part, things were looking up. And that her young man was turning out not to be just someone she was madly in love with, but a decent and clever person as well. In their home, he was gentle and quiet, a deep well of secrets, but obviously madly in love with Carrie.

Carrie set her wine on the table. "I'm gonna check on Fran, she's napping too long. I don't want her up until ten P.M. again," she said.

Low and suggestive, Maggie's voice followed her down the hallway, "I'm sure you don't. Grownups bedtime, eh?"

"Stop," Carrie said, over her shoulder, grinning.

Carrie and Quinn finally had time to spend, time that wasn't dedicated to travel, diplomacy, or spycraft. They found they had some common interests, about which they'd never known. Carrie and Quinn both were fond of jazz, and as she had suspected, and he loved going through her father's LP collection and setting up stacks of records on the old turntable. With the kids in bed, Maggie would say goodnight, and leave Peter to douse the lights and pull Carrie into his arms. A quiet dance to soft music, her head on his chest, his hands pressing her to him. She would press her hands into his waist, and lean into him, drinking in his smell, his warmth. At those times, their long ordeal seemed distant, and the pleasure of the moment so great, that they couldn't find any words at all.

He was also sweet and playful with Franny, who adored him, because he seemed to have infinite patience for making hand puppets talk. I guess that doesn't go on many assassins' resumes, she thought, but the man made a damn good babysitter. As Quinn would stack blocks for the child, or read to her from her board books, Carrie grinned to herself, delighted with his eagerness to please the little girl. His openness, smiles, and frank delight to be with them all was touching.

In the night, of course, Carrie and Quinn indulged their hunger for each other in any way that came to mind. Twice daily, if not oftener. He seemed to have a bottomless well of desire for her, ready whenever she reached for him. He was uninhibited, accepting, and no act or desire was unthinkable or offensive to him. In the first month he was home, Carrie and Quinn probably tried every position known to man, in every room in the house. Their biggest challenge, in the bustling household, was finding privacy. One afternoon, Carrie came home from work to find Quinn changing the indoor lock on the bathroom next to their room, from a push-button "idiot lock" to a new doorknob that had actual lock with a key. Kneeling on the floor with the screwdriver, his hair pushed back into spikes, he was as smoking hot as any man alive, she thought, melting. He gave her an impudent grin when she asked his purpose.

"In that fucking desert, one of the things I thought about every night was bathing with you. And I don't think we need any kids busting in, do we, Carrie?" he asked, suggestively. He ran a hand up the inside of her thigh, for emphasis.

Those were the good times.

But as she had predicted on the park bench the day he returned, things weren't all wine and roses. They were both fucked up. It was just something they'd have to work through. Thank God, Carrie thought, he's with someone who knows his shit.