Chapter 4: Argentina
Here's Carrie again, Quinn thinks. While opening the door for her, he wonders why he doesn't just... not? Why doesn't he go somewhere? Why doesn't he sit in the park until dusk? Or, even better, he should simply do what he used to do: go to his apartment after work and ignore the knock. Why doesn't he?
This passive behaviour is unlike him. It would be annoying but understandable if he felt guilty about killing Brody. Except, he doesn't. Maybe he feels responsible. Maybe that's it.
That isn't it.
He isn't exactly anxious to help Carrie put herself back together. Allowing her to pick up the pieces in whatever way she wants, however, maybe that's alright.
It's his night to sleep in the bed, which is funny. The fact that there are nights when he doesn't have the bed is hilarious. His life is like a fucking never ending slumber party now.
Turning away from the wall, Quinn stretches out. Sleep won't come. He's tense. Muscles tight as a drum. Always restrained.
Carrie's not sleeping either. He can hear it. Her breathing is too shallow. He can hear her move too. Suddenly, there's a shadow standing over him. She is standing by the bed.
'I'm not trying anything, I promise,' she mumbles, before lifting up the sheet and crawling into bed beside him. It's intimate because spooning is intimate by default; not because it's them. Still, Quinn wants to scream when she nestles in the crook of his arm. This probably shouldn't freak him out as much as it does. Or should it? He has no idea how the hell he's supposed to feel anymore.
Frustrated, he sighs. Carrie counters with a sigh of her own. It sounds like everything he wants her to be. Comfortable. Safe. Happy. He just doesn't want her to feel like that with him.
(***)
His arm hurts. It's the first thing he notices when he wakes up. When he tries to move his arm, he can't. Carrie opens her eyes and kisses him good morning. For about a second it's the most natural thing in the world. Then reality hits him and it is what it really is.
'I'm sorry,' Carrie says, waving her hand in front of her face. She gathers up her clothes. Quinn watches her dress. Every now and then she shakes her head as if she can't believe what she's done. She is smiling, only mildly embarrassed.
Quinn lies back and folds his hands beneath his head. Let's examine how I feel about this, he thinks. He feels calm. He feels a determination he hasn't felt without a weapon in his hand in a long time. Maybe never. Carrie tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
'That was a stupid thing to do. I know that you're not interested. You've made that abundantly clear,' she says. That might have been the end of it. Instead, Quinn gets out of bed and takes her arm. He slides his fingers down her elbow until her smooth wrist is in the palm of his hand. Carrie looks up at him. He places her with her back against the wall. Positions her, almost. He kisses her.
Line: crossed.
He cups her face in his hands. She clutches at his back. He tilts his head to the left, licks a hot strip up Carrie's throat, before returning to her mouth. It is a breathless affair. The sort of kissing that goes on in badly lit back alleys of bars and clubs. Seedy. Hungry.
When Carrie shrugs off her jacket mid-kiss, Quinn steps back. What the fuck is he doing? He is breaking her all over again.
'On my trip...' he starts.
'You were hunting,' Carrie interrupts, nodding impatiently, 'I know.'
'No, you don't.'
At a loss, she stares at him. He figures he needs to do it right now. Bluntness. Tact is not one of his strong suits.
'I was in Argentina, Carrie. I shot him.'
She exhales sharply as if she's been punched. He can pinpoint the exact moment that she realises that she heard it happen over the phone. It's when all the colour drains from her face. She wobbles, but stays upright.
'Why would you do that?' she whispers.
'I volunteered.'
He's not sure the details would make a difference here. Does it matter? He's tired of all this extraneous stuff anyway. Tired of useless desires.
Carrie's face falls. He stays at a distance and observes how she twists whatever she's feeling into anger. She snatches her jacket off the floor.
'You should have just fucked me and been done with it,' she spits out, before leaving.
