Author's note: If you are enjoying, PLEASE REVIEW. I have no idea if I'm hitting the right notes. In love with the characters, but new at this! Cooking up chapter 5 for your pleasure.

Meanwhile, did you know there really is a Stealthy Starbucks at Langley? Enjoy your coffee :-)

In the air above the Atlantic, Carrie reclined in a first-class seat, and after using the eyeshades, putting in her mouthguard and washing an Ambien down with white wine, she slipped almost immediately into twilight sleep.

For so many months now, she'd required all those things to get anything like sleep. After Brody's death, the birth of her daughter, and then the events on the first trip to Islamabad, it would have been impossible for her to sleep at all without some kind of chemical assistance. For the longest time, she had been tormented by images of Brody – loving him, being with him, and then usually ending in the nightmare of his death. But even though only 11 short months had passed since Franny was born, she realized that the very worst of the grief was starting to lighten.

She still felt emotionally disconnected, that was for sure. She was inward-focused and self-absorbed for the longest time. She had been robot-like, effective at her job. But she had been completely clueless about the feelings and motivations of others around her. That is, until recently. It seemed like Quinn's recent distress had snapped her out of it a little. And then, came the therapy appointment she went to the previous month.

"I keep seeing these horrible images… in my head," she had sobbed. The therapist commiserated, and said, "After a certain point, Carrie, you're just kicking porcupines. You're going to have to feel your grief, no doubt about that. But you should not deliberately create more pain inside yourself. You don't deserve that."

"I don't feel pain, I feel like a machine," she said. "And what the hell do you mean by kicking porcupines?"

"Ah," said the therapist, "I can see you're feeling pain and grief right now. It's obvious. And normal. As for porcupines, that's a reference to an old Ray Bradbury short story. Do you want to hear about it?"

"With all my heart," Carrie snapped.

The therapist continued, "The hero of the story is a space traveler. And he talks about how memories of Earth, which they can never return to, are porcupines. When we deliberately probe sad memories over and over, he says, we're kicking porcupines. Generating unnecessary pain."

Carrie had sniffled. "Well, what would you suggest?"

"I would suggest finding things that make you happy when you think about them. That make you feel safe, make you feel loved. Then make a list. When you start going down that road too often, pull out that list and think about those happy things."

Carrie had rolled her eyes. That was entirely too simple for a woman like herself. But then, it was cost-free to find out if it worked, ridiculous or not. So she thought about it. What makes me feel good, safe, happy, loved, even?

Well, there's my family, she had thought. But Maggie and Dad, well, mostly that's a source of guilt and angst, not love and safety. And Franny. Well, shit, that's 100% guilt.

Apartment? Nice, but anonymous. No pets. Nothing in the transient lifestyle of an agent to feel warmly about. Nothing but…

Quinn. Oh, Quinn. He'd been such an ass at first. Almost the first words out of his mouth to her were something about fucking Brody. But as time had gone by, he'd behaved with more respect. And as they had continued to work together, it became clear that he was very concerned about her… assets. She knew that he was still in an agony of guilt about taking that shot at her, when she had been running up to the hotel, trying to catch the bomber. His excuse was that he couldn't risk anyone else taking the shot. It was strange, but she knew that he was protecting her, even then. Someone who was a lesser shot could have killed or crippled her. He wouldn't let it happen. She was still slightly pissed, but she understood.

So Carrie had come up with a list of one. And the therapist had been right. When the horrible feelings started flowing in, she remembered there was one living person she could trust, rely on, be safe with. It was Quinn. It was why she'd gone looking for him at his apartment on his drunken night by the pool, why she'd been so hurt when he'd decided not to come back to Islamabad – though she hoped she could still talk him around. She intended to try. Quinn, the black ops specialist, God help her, he had become her "Happy Place".

So on the plane, as the twilight phase of her meds kicked in, she turned her mind to Quinn. It was really the best part of her day – in the earliest part of sleep, she could often focus her thoughts around something – desirable – and shape her dreams. And whether or not things really ever happened in the daylight, well Goddamn, at least she could enjoy her fantasies. She cast her mind back to the time in the hospital that Quinn had dropped the towel and stood there in the altogether. She thinks, he did that partly for shock value, kind of a "fuck you," but he also did it as another kind of shock. "Look at me," that gesture had said. She had. She scolded him, but her eyes had taken in every inch.

He really was a beautiful man. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hands. Maybe they were killer's hands, but they didn't look like it to her. In her dreams, they were hands that grabbed her by the lapels of her expensive jacket, that pulled her close enough to smell his breath, hands that gripped her tightly and wound around her, and into her hair. Lover's hands. That reached around to lift her off her feet, that guided her towards his bed. She smiled as she drifted off. Whatever else Quinn might be, he was intense. That would certainly be a good match as far as lovemaking, because she was pretty intense herself.

Over the Atlantic, the jumbo jet hummed as Carrie drifted deeper into a blissful sleep. The nightmares of the past, the fears of the present, the trepidation about the future , all of it needed to be set aside, sometimes. Sometimes even covert operatives need to dream. "And I can dream, can't I?" she thought, smiling. Then, she was out.