There wasn't enough Peter Quinn in episode 3.09, so I decided to write this.
[All sorts of season 3 spoilers. Quinn's not in the best mood, so there's some profanity.]
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Homeland characters/world. No copyright infringement intended. I'm not making any money out of this.
—
The elevator chimes, signaling its arrival to B3. Peter Quinn squares his shoulders and opens his eyes. The doors slide open, revealing Dar Adal in the dimly lit CIA lobby. Quinn steps out, curtly nods at his mentor and turns toward the hallway leading to the ops unit offices. He hasn't slept in days and his mind has been unsettled for months. Last night however, was more than he could bear. It knocks all the air out of his lungs and makes his stomach churn just thinking about it.
Carrie's 13 weeks pregnant.
He struggles to rein in his despair. Being the soldier that he is, Quinn wipes away any outward sign of the storm raging inside of him. Unfortunately, his hope to be left alone this morning vanishes when Dar Adal ignores the waiting elevator and calls out his name.
"You missed the debrief this morning."
Quinn turns around. "Yeah, I must have got the time wrong."
That answer doesn't fly with Dar Adal, because he closes the distance to Quinn and hisses, "Where were you that you couldn't bother to answer your goddamn phone?"
The events of the past several hours is an unbandaged wound, but Quinn manages to keep his expression neutral. "The hospital."
"All night?" Dar Adal asks in exasperation. "It was just a nick in the arm for God's sake."
Quinn feels his control waning. Yes, all fucking night.
"No... not all night," Quinn challenges dangerously. "But while we're talking about whereabouts, where's Saul?"
Dar Adal looks unphased, as if he has been expecting this question. "I can't say."
Dar Adal presses the button to call the elevator. A tense silence ensues and the two men eye each other warily.
Quinn nearly turns to leave, but the storm walloping inside overtakes his better judgment. He carefully asks, "What'll happen to Carrie now?"
"That's not your concern."
Quinn can't contain the grimace that crosses his weary features.
Dar Adal notices and raises one eyebrow, seemingly amused. "You don't agree?"
Quinn takes a sip of his coffee. "It's my concern because I shot her," he says disdainfully in a low voice. "On your orders."
The older man's demeanor darkens visibly. "On my orders. Now that you mention it, what do you have to say about that delay? What took you so long to stop her?" Dar Adal jabs the younger man in the chest and says furiously, "You nearly let the window close and cost us the whole damn operation."
Quinn tenses up. "If I'd stopped her earlier..." He hesitates before adding, "She'd have fallen in a part of the lot where Franklin would have seen her."
"Bullshit," Dar Adal says, his eyes flashing. It is a look Quinn has seen before on his mentor - a man going in for the kill. "Even after she was long gone, you were still foolishly pleading with her to turn around."
Quinn parts his lips to contest, but nothing comes out. He knows there is some truth to the older man's accusations. At the hospital, he had replayed those moments at the motel over and over again in his head, and did not like the conclusions he drew. His actions last night boiled down to the fact that he didn't want to risk leaving the shot to anybody else and that he truly believed he could convince Carrie to listen to him. Realizing how misguided that latter assumption was bothered him to no end.
Dar Adal shakes his head. "You're getting soft," he spats. "I've spent over ten years building you up." Seeing the unease on Quinn's face, he presses on. "Carrie Mathison is a plague. I don't know when you jumped ship, but listen to me. Keep your distance, Peter. Don't make the mistake of trusting her."
Too late.
The room begins to feel unbearably hot. Fortunately, Dar Adal lets up on his protégé.
"Christ, Peter. Take the day off. Go clear your goddamn mind."
—
Quinn sets his coffee down and sinks into the chair at his workstation. He looks across the desk to where Carrie usually sits. He runs a hand across his jaw and lets out a heavy sigh.
Damn it, Carrie.
He pulls out his laptop, opens his inbox and sees yet another email from the Agency's Office of Medical Services. After some consideration, he decides to make an appointment for this morning.
—
"Hello, nice to finally meet you, Peter. I'm Dr. Eloise Bowen. Please take a seat."
Quinn nods at the middle aged woman and takes one of the large cushioned chairs in front of the desk. He watches as she scrolls quickly through the notes on her monitor.
"Peter, I'm surprised this is your first visit. It looks like we've been emailing repeated notices for you to come speak with us, so we can help you minimize the impact of recent traumatic events. What made you decide to stop by?"
He shrugs. "I was given the day off."
She smiles gently, and Quinn knows it is a blatant effort to lower his walls. It will be an uphill climb for her. He tends to hold his cards tightly in unknown situations, and this counseling session is a huge unknown. He can't really remember the last time he didn't think he could deal with shit on his own; perhaps this was the first since his troubled days at Harvard before Dar Adal took him under his wings.
The counselor interrupts his thoughts with a warm smile. "Would you like something to drink? Water, coffee, or tea perhaps?"
Quinn shakes his head, and murmurs "No thank you." He folds his hands on the table and waits for her to begin.
"All right. Let's see, it's been several weeks since the incident in Caracas. Do you want us to start there?"
"No."
What is there to say other than that I murdered a nine year old boy?
"All right." She continues her perusal of his file on the computer. "I understand that you were ordered to use force upon your partner Ms. Mathison last night. Is that accurate?"
He looks around the room, glances at the woman in front of him who is now adding sugar to her tea, and wonders how much to reveal. But in thinking back about the events at the motel, he unknowingly unlatches the floodgate, allowing a host of unwelcome feelings and realities to surge in.
"We weren't partners," he says at last.
The woman nods and doesn't press him further. She keeps smiling at him, which is enough to make Quinn regret making this appointment.
"How have you been feeling lately?"
"Fine."
Hellbound.
She reads a question from her computer monitor. "Have you had any suicidal thoughts in the past 12 months?"
"No."
"Any difficulty concentrating on your work?"
He shakes his head.
The questions persist, one after another. She asks about recent drug and alcohol use, whether he smokes, looks at pornography, whether he engages in promiscuous sexual activity, gambling, abusive behavior, etc. Quinn shakes his head on each, and senses that this session feels oddly similar to the psych evaluations all employees were regularly subject to. After twenty minutes of confirming that he has no personal life to speak of, it dawns on him.
This is a fucking waste of time.
The CIA isn't interested in his wellbeing. They are only concerned about his ability to do his job, maintain the agency's reputation, and not be a liability. He knew exactly what happens to liabilities. With the realization of what kind of appointment he had naively signed up for, he leans forward and gives the woman his full attention.
She continues going through her checklist. "Have you been exercising on a regular basis?"
"Yes."
"How have you been sleeping?"
"Fine."
"How many hours on average?"
"Enough."
She types in his answers. She then swivels away from the computer. "Let's move on. What have you been doing on your own to deal with all that's occurred?"
"It's my job," Quinn says without missing a beat.
That must be an answer she hears frequently, because she only pauses for a moment before saying, "Peter, it's not unusual to be feeling a large amount of guilt when it comes to collateral damage."
Was this just guilt?
They sit in silence for a minute. The woman patiently waits for Quinn to say something, but he merely looks down at his hands, which are still folded on the table.
This can't just be guilt, because I can deal just fine with guilt.
The woman takes a sip of tea and ventures, "We often have cases of friendly fire, and agents come in worried that those working relationships will never be the same." Seeing Quinn look up, she probes, "Is that something you're worried about?"
"No."
It wasn't friendly fire. I shot her.
She looks unconvinced. "It may take some time to rebuild that work relationship, but it can be done" she explains.
Quinn feels his jaw tense and knuckles tighten.
Wasn't just our work relationship that got fucked up.
Before Quinn could reel in the storm, she takes notice. "Tell me what's on your mind Peter."
That this is a fucking waste of time.
He pastes on a neutral expression and asks evenly, "Are we done here?"
If the counselor's surprised, she doesn't show it. "We have a ways to go, but if you like, we can coordinate a follow-up plan to help you recover from all that's happened. You'll feel like yourself again in no time."
His head pounds unbearably.
She's 13 weeks pregnant with Brody's child. She's fucking still in love with him.
Quinn stands up abruptly. "I have somewhere I need to be. Excuse me."
He walks out the door and finds his way to the elevator. Once inside, Quinn stares at the elevator keypad; his finger hovers over the starred button that would bring him to the ground floor exit. He was given the day off, but he finds that he has nowhere to be, nowhere to go, and a monster storm inside that he needs to somehow quell on his own.
Quinn reluctantly presses the button to take him back down to B3.