Quinn made his way past the entry gate, through the newly outfitted "sniffer" machines designed to pick up the slightest whiff of explosives, and into the New CIA Headquarters Building in Langley. The moniker "new" was true only relative to the older building across the interior courtyard – the groundbreaking in 1984 meant that the offices were warm in winter, cool in summer and that all of the indoor plumbing worked more or less as desired. It had one thing in common with the other government buildings located 8 miles to the East – the coffee machine produced utter crap.

Crap or not, it was the only game in town. Quinn got himself a healthy sized cup and added a good amount of sugar. Had to get those calories from somewhere. Then he headed for his desk, which was along the perimeter of the Middle East section, passing by a closed conference room where a meeting was going on inside. He paused by the door to listen for a moment. Several male voices, one female. Nobody raising their voice. Good.

He sat down and booted up. Sipping the awful coffee, he checked his email, looking through some HR directives, some bookkeeping items, and other pending emails, people he'd been ignoring. He flipped to some routine intel screenings, and tried to concentrate on going over the finer points of some of the field operative's latest acquisitions.

What nobody ever told me about the CIA, Quinn thought, is just how much boredom and repetitive work there would be. Surveillance? 99% boredom, 1% excitement. Intel work? The vast majority of it is crushingly dull. So much information to be had, from simple routine sources. Things could be found out and joined together that weren't even secret. So much information about foreign governments and their actions could be found on websites, in phone conversations, and intercepted mail, that whole parts of the department were employed just to go through them. Finding the important pieces, and pulling them together out of the chatter – figuring out which event was the next "big one", who planned it and who was responsible – that was what Carrie was good at.

But as a covert field operations specialist, Quinn was damn good at it too. He was a clever guy with an eye for patterns – for "thin slicing" situations and figuring out the implications of what he was seeing. It was partly puzzle solving, partly raw instinct. It was the reason he was still alive.

The question was, what was he still doing here? A year before, despite his most careful attempt to take out just the right person, he had killed a child in Caracas. The event sickened him to the point where he thought he was losing it. Somehow he had come back around and here he still was, doing the same job. But everything changed in a second, when he and Carrie had seen on the foreign TV station that Sandy's cover was blown. Oh, God. What a mess.

His mind kept drifted back to that horrible afternoon in Islamabad. Carrie and Quinn had raced out to collect Sandy. They reached him by phone and set a rendezvous point. Racing through the convoluted city streets, they made it to the pickup spot in record time. They got him into the car, but escaped the pick-up point only to be blocked into a street by a truck.

I did what I could, Quinn thought. I did the best I could in a vehicle that wasn't the best for the situation. I only had my sidearm. But it wasn't enough.

Sandy had been pulled from the car by the mob, and even though Quinn had fired into the crowd, and killed some members of the mob, it only cleared a partial path for the Jeep. Sandy had been surrounded and was being beaten. And Quinn had to make a decision.

It was her or Sandy. Or maybe all three of us. I couldn't stand the idea of Carrie being … grabbed – beaten… something worse. He had backed up and gotten the hell out of there. He had killed for her and undoubtedly saved her life.

And what was her reaction? "We have to go back!" Not a bit of gratitude or even a moment of thanks. I don't know why it should bother me, I know how she operates. But this time, it makes me a little sick.

He realized that during his musing, he had returned to the video of Sandy, himself, Carrie and the angry mob, and was playing it and replaying it. This, Quinn thought, finishing the horrible coffee and crumpling the cup, this is why I'm on the verge of leaving the Agency. I know what I agreed to. I know where my duty lies. And I did my duty. I saved her life. But it sickens me all the same. Sandy died. I made a choice. Was it the right choice? Am I going soft in the head? The day I can't make good decisions on this job, I'm fucked. I'm no good to Carrie or anybody else.

Completely lost in reverie, he thought to himself: whether or not anyone else knows or understands… I know why. Because she's mine, he thought. Every time he said this to himself, he found it easier to say. Maybe my decision making is fucked because of it. Maybe she's better off without me. When I lost sight of Sandy, maybe I lost sight of my real mission. Fuck, I have no idea what to do.

Not being given to introspection, it shocked him to think of it. But maybe, Quinn thought, maybe I'm not cut out for this anymore. Maybe she's better off with someone who's … more detached.

A hand fell onto his shoulder. He smelled a familiar perfume, or lotion, something that she wore. It was intoxicating. He turned, and there she stood.

"Hey, Quinn. You missed the final briefing. Are you ready to go?"

Quinn turned towards her without rising. Impulsively, he stated, "I'm not going." He wished he sounded different than a pouting teenager, but that's how he sounded to himself.

Carrie studied his face for a moment. "What do you mean, you're not coming. I need you."

Quinn sighed. "We need to talk about this."

She glared impatiently, all Type-A now that she had her game face on. "Fine. Courtyard. Ten minutes." And whirled off.

They met in the tree-filled courtyard, near the fish pond. Quinn had been waiting for a few minutes when Carrie stalked up to him with two Starbucks cups and a brown paper bag.

"Here." She handed him one of the cups. "Share this with me."

"You went to Stealthy Starbucks, eh? Which name did you give this time?"

Carrie smiled. "They didn't ask for a name. I guess I'm infamous. And these aren't exotic drinks. Coffee, plain and simple."

They said nothing for a little as they shared a scone. Sitting side by side in the morning sunlight, they could have been any two workmates from any job in the world. In so many ways, Quinn wished it was so. They still worked together – it was a barrier, no doubt. Ask any working person in their 30's or older what it means to speak about your true, intimate feelings to someone you work with. It just isn't done.

But if they worked at an insurance company, or a toy manufacturer, or anyplace else, it would have felt more possible, somehow. For some reason, the covert nature of their work made him feel that his behavior around her must be above board. For the most part, he only indulged his true feelings and exotic fantasies about Carrie when he was drinking. Thus, the amount of liquor he'd been putting away lately. For now, he just relaxed his legs so his left knee touched her right knee. He hoped it was subtle. She didn't move away.

Finally she said, "Are you feeling better?"

"Fine," he said tightly, reverting to type.

"So what did you mean, you're not coming?"

He was quiet for a minute. He sipped his coffee. He realized the tension was growing and she was getting irritated, so he finally said, "I think I'm getting out."

"What?!" Carrie snapped. "You can't be serious."

"I don't know, Carrie, but I feel serious. Ever since Sandy…." He trailed off, wanting to finish the sentence but not knowing how.

"Quinn. Come on. The mob, the situation, it would have been too much for almost anyone. You're alive. I'm alive." Carrie was almost pleading. Quinn shut his eyes.

"I need to think it over. I need to, I don't know, look at myself. What am I still doing? What is the Agency to me?" Quinn hoped that asking these questions would elicit a response from Carrie –something that boosted his self-confidence professionally. Or something that made him feel wanted personally. Either, or both would do.

Carrie drank her coffee. She moved her knee away from his. The companionable warmth between them was cooling. "You need to do what you need to do, Quinn. But I can't say I'll be comfortable over there without you. The operation needs you." She pounded the rest of her coffee and stood up, then turned to him and addressed him still sitting there.

"Whatever you decide, I'll be waiting."

Quinn boiled over a little inside, and when he opened his mouth, what came out was, "You see Carrie, there's one thing…"

"What?"

"It isn't about you."

She rounded on him and strode away, chucking her cup in a trash barrel as she walked inside. As she disappeared out of the courtyard and into the glass doors, he cursed himself for a fool, inwardly, over and over.

"You idiot! Of course it's about her. Of course it is. Of course it is."