Chapter 2: Isn't it lonely?

'Should I get used to sleeping on the floor?' he asks when she shows up on his doorstep again the following evening. The bluntness of his greeting catches Carrie by surprise. She smiles awkwardly, slipping past him quickly, as if she's afraid that he'll change his mind. Smart woman: he might.

'Or you could stop being such a goddamn prude. I mean, what's that about? You flash me in the hospital and now: nothing. Just fuck me already.'

It's clearly a joke. Casual in theory, but forced in its delivery.

Arriving in the kitchen, she places one of the bags she's been holding on the counter. Her back is expressive as hell. Her shoulders are at the right height, but they don't move. The rest of her body forms one straight line. A rigid line of nervous energy. Never once looking at him, she begins to unpack containers.

'You like Indian food, right?'

Despite his lack of enthusiasm, she continues to doggedly clutter the counter with more containers. When that's done, she crumples up the now empty paper bag and starts to open drawers. Suddenly, she faces him. Quinn notices that her hands are twitching.

'Look, I can't go home. I mean, I've been there, but I can't, you know, be there. So, I would really appreciate it if I could sleep here again tonight.'

One moment she looks embarrassed, the next strangely dignified. She makes eye contact, but her gaze is soon wildly roving around again. There's something unnerving about the desperate gleam in her eyes coupled with the action, action, action vibe that she is giving off. Like she wants to do something so bad, but doesn't know what to do. Quinn swings for indifference and misses by about a mile. Fuck.

'Stay,' he says. Carrie sighs, visibly relieved.

'I'll take the floor,' she offers. When he nods, she frowns. 'You don't wanna object?'

He shakes his head and she laughs.

(***)

They each have a dog-eared book in front of them. Occasionally, a page is turned. It's getting dark outside. Before she can say anything, he turns on an extra light. They immediately return to their respective books.

Quinn is not reading, though. He wonders how much Carrie knows about the Brody operation. She would have wanted to know all the painful details, but Quinn doubts that Saul would have given her the name of the shooter. He looks at her.

Does she suspect that it was him? Is that why she's here?

'You're a fan of Dickens?'

'What?'

'You're reading Great Expectations,' she points out.

'That Pip is a whiny little bastard.'

Carrie laughs. Every time she does she looks surprised. Quinn can barely stand it.

'Why do you put up with my shit?' she inquires. The question sounds serious. There's a thoughtful expression on her face. He slides a new bookmark between the pages and puts the book aside.

'Your shit is much more interesting that anyone else's shit,' he remarks. Carrie puts her book away too. She appears to consider his reply.

'Hmmm. Yeah, I'm not buying that.'

'I like you?' he attempts.

'You're so full of shit,' she protests.

'You're right. I just want to fuck you,' he admits, smirking. Carrie dismissively waves that explanation away.

'Pfff, like I haven't given you plenty of chances. Last night alone.'

They smile at each other. She leans back, resting her shoulders against the wall. Her posture is relaxed. Or whatever passes for relaxed when it comes to Carrie Mathison. At least she isn't as wound up as before.

'Thanks for being...' She pauses uncertainly. 'Thanks, Quinn.'

'You're welcome.'

(***)

Quinn is listening to her breathing. He thinks she might be doing the same thing.

'Why do you live like this?' she whispers.

'Like what?' he whispers back, humouring her. If he left tomorrow, he would leave nothing - nobody – behind. That's exactly how it should be. Her blankets make a dry rustling noise. She's moving.

'Like you're a fucking shadow. Isn't it lonely?'

There's an edge to her words that he can't imagine she intended to be there. Maybe she wants it to be yes, so she can propose for the two of them to fill each other's voids. That appears to be a pattern with her: seeking out unsuitable men.

Maybe she wants the answer to be no, so she can adopt the lifestyle as her own. She still has connections, relationships. He doesn't. Maybe she thinks she will function better without them.

Quinn has no idea how the hell to satisfy her and, more importantly, he doesn't want to. Carrie is so much like him already that it's scary. Eventually, he settles on the safe in-between.

'I don't know, Carrie. Is it?'