Quinn showered thoughtfully, and pretty much drained the hot water heater while he shaved, doing a careful job. It isn't like he planned on kissing anyone, but it didn't hurt to be ready. He smiled grimly to himself. Everyone always liked to quote the Marine Corp motto, "Semper Fidelis", which meant "Always Faithful." It was a great motto, really. But he was partial to the Coast Guard Motto, which was less well known: "Semper Paratus" which meant, "Always ready." He snickered at the memory of a Coast Guard buddy who'd gotten "Semper Paratus" engraved on the inside of his wedding bands, tongue at least partially in cheek. He hoped the guy's wife was as ready as the groom, and that she had a sense of humor.
He had just stepped out and was toweling off, when he heard someone knocking at the door. Who the hell could it be, at this hour? His rent was paid months in advance, although that apartment manager always seemed to find excuses to bug him about something. A week ago she had shown up with a gallon of shiny blue paint, and asked if she could paint his door. He bit his tongue and didn't respond with the sharp "I don't give a fuck," that jumped to mind. She had gamely painted the door, and left a couple of potted plants on either side. A little sprucing up, she'd called it. Quinn couldn't have cared less, as long as nobody burned the place down while he was inside it. A few days later she'd shown up again, this time with a fifth of bourbon. It was a good thing he was flush on Jimmy Beam at that exact moment, with plenty to spare. He'd just pretended he wasn't home. If he'd been desperate for booze and lonely for company at a later hour, he might have let her in, and who knew what complications that would have led to? He didn't need any extra bullshit, that was for sure. Other than that, he had no idea who it would be. He didn't have any other friends in the area, or any at all, really.
He involuntarily pictured Carrie standing outside his door, needing him, hammering on the door frame with tears in her eyes, and his heart leapt. Idiot, he told himself. She's in Pakistan. Where you would be, if you wanted to watch over her, his inner watchdog growled at him. He shook his head fiercely, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Whoever it was, they pounded relentlessly, and he'd not have time to get dressed. He emerged from the bathroom, and instead of Carrie's silky fall of golden blonde, was the bald and shiny pate of one cold-hearted Black Ops motherfucker.
Dal Adal. Fuck. Last person on Earth he wanted to see.
After a quick peek, Quinn angrily yanked the curtain over the side windows open. "I told you to go fuck yourself, not come for breakfast," he snapped angrily.
Adal, unmoved by Quinn's dismissal, chided, "Come on, Peter, let me in." He dangled a paper bag in front of the door, and continued, "I brought donuts."
Was there ever anyone so successful at hiding the depth of their impassive cruelty in a cloak of collegial informality? He sounded as calm as if they had cheerfully disagreed over the outcome of a football game in a three-beer bar argument. Donuts. Fuck me, Quinn thought. The balls on this guy. But I guess there's a reason why he's climbed this high in an organization that doesn't exist.
Quinn opened the door, almost twitching with anxiety, to see Adal's driver-cum-bodyguard standing behind him on the balcony.
"Just you," Quinn said.
"Whatever you say," Adal said formally, and stepped inside.
Adal handed the donuts over to Quinn without looking at him, sauntering forward like he owned the place. Quinn snatched them out of his hand. "I won't go to Langley, so Langley comes to me," he snarled. "Is that what this is?"
"Can you not accept that I'm genuinely concerned about you?" Adal drawled.
Oh, right, Quinn thought. After the number of times you've sent me, Rob, all the guys on Ops that were 50/50 survival, with exfil plans that consisted of,"find your own way out, somehow." Cocksucker, the only thing he was worried about was losing an expensive, highly trained tool. A mechanic, worried about where his favorite torque wrench was. One that knew a lot of secrets, to boot. I bet he's fucking concerned.
"So why the gorilla?" Quinn asked sharply, referring to the bodyguard.
"Oh, Jay? He's just my driver," Adal said. The guy could come up with an excuse for standing on the Capitol Mall with a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, and people would buy his line of shit. He was that effective at snowing people. How did I land with this bunch, mixed up with a guy who could sell sand to a Berber, and make a profit. I used to be an honest man. Somewhere inside me, that honest man still lives. And I want him to stay alive.
"Well, I appreciate the concern," Quinn said, more calmly. "But I'm fine. Thank you." Leave now, please, he thought to himself. Fuck off. I need to make this decision on my own.
It had been a see-saw, a nightmare of back-and-forth. One day, he was filling in the forms, preparing to get out. The next, he found himself folding his things, preparing himself for a tour in Pakistan. He had his bags half-packed one day before he knew what he was doing. It was insane, it was a nuthouse. But the last thing he needed was anyone insinuating anything about his state of mind. He was working on himself, he was fine. At least he wanted to be. The bottle kept getting in the way. Adal didn't miss that detail, either.
"Mm," was all he said, when Quinn said he was fine. Then a moment later, he kicked a few of Quinn's empty beer cans across the floor. "So I can see," he finished, smarmily.
"A few beers," Quinn said through clenched teeth. "I need help sleeping. Big deal," he said. He knew it was more than a few, and that it was more than needing to sleep. But none of Adal's fucking business, that was.
Adal's voice changed. It asserted command, took on a stronger tone. "The group takes care of its own. You know that, and you know why," he said.
Quinn hadn't moved, but to turn to face Adal. His ire was growing, but he retained his control.
"I don't belong to the group, or to you, or to anyone, anymore," Quinn said tightly.
Adal had the nerve to quote an old Ops saying, one that was older than the C.I.A. by a couple of hundred years. "Once a scalp hunter, always a scalp hunter, they say," he said.
"That's what you say. That, and, 'You're my guy, Peter,'" Quinn didn't know what he hoped to gain by bringing that up. But he didn't want to cave, to let it slip. Let the knowledge through that loneliness, mayhem and assassination had taken their toll, and that there was only one shining light in his world anymore. And that she was half a world away – no –that was not for Adal's ears. Or for anyone's, except Carrie's. Someday, maybe. If he could bring himself to tell her, while sober.
Adal spoke again. "Well, I invested a lot of time and money in you," he said. Again, the cojones on this guy. He spoke about Quinn like he was nothing more than investment that wasn't paying off. It was dehumanizing.
"I'm sorry to disappoint," Quinn said, as coolly as he could.
A long silence fell between them. Neither one moved for the bag of donuts. Quinn finally broke the quiet, saying, "Alright. So what now?"
"Simple. Convince me you can keep your shit together from now on. Stay on with us," Adal intoned.
"Or else, what?" Quinn insisted, even though he inwardly cringed, knowing the answer.
"I believe they call it retraining," Adal threatened. And it was certainly a threat.
Retraining. It was a catch-all buzzword, meaning anything from the gentler tactics of being busted down in rank, sent back to basic, pay-cuts and all, to more ugly techniques of mental reconstruction – some could be regarded as flat-out brainwashing, almost torture – to the very worst. When an operative could not be controlled, was completely off the hook and was ready to open a line to the Washington Post and start revealing the secrets of the group, the final "retraining" was a couple of 9 mm slugs to the back of the head. The poor slob would never see it coming.
He had to project as if he was in control. As if the only words that would ever leave his mouth would be the right ones. That he would never let secrets out that could hurt Langley, his group, or the security of the USA. If Adal perceived him as a loose cannon, someone drunk, hell bent on breaking the rules, spoken and unspoken, he'd never see Carrie again, not as an assignee of Adal's group, not as a case officer in Saul's group, not in a position with Carrie over in Pakistan. What was that job title she'd cobbled together for him? Chief of Support? The very title suggested she needed him. What the fuck was he waiting for?
It was like that fucker Adal was reading his mind. He had segued off into this little mental vacation after Adal had brought up retraining – it had only been about 15 seconds. But Adal went on from there, like Peter's thoughts were completely transparent. Maybe they were.
"Come on, Peter, let's get real. This," he said, indicating the beer, the empty, lonely apartment, Quinn's general state of barely built-up exhaustion, the whole mess – "This is not about PTSD. This is about your feelings for Carrie Mathison," he finished, suggestively. He watched Quinn carefully for a response.
Careful. Careful. Don't do anything crazy. Don't let this motherfucker see what you feel. It's not his fucking business – just Carrie's – and mine.
Quinn cocked his head back, cast a half-closed eye at Adal. He projected his whole demeanor to suggest that the very idea was preposterous, as if Adal suggested that he was quitting because he wanted to join the Rockettes and dance every night at Radio City. As quietly as he could muster, Quinn answered with a half smile, "Are you fucking kidding me?" He dared a quiet laugh. Careful. Careful.
"If she hadn't been in that car, Sandy Bachman would be alive today," Adal said, now clearly baiting him. Motherfucker, Quinn thought. But still, he stepped carefully. He kept his response quiet, and a little ashamed.
"You're wrong. I did all I could. If Carrie had been in the front seat and Sandy in the back seat, Sandy would be alive today. You can watch it all online."
Quinn turned around, opened the bag of donuts, and took one out. He used the moment to compose himself further. "Also, there was supposed to be another weapon under the rear seat. But it wasn't there. If Carrie had access to a weapon, the outcome might have been different. I guess we should take that up with the chief of the watch in Islamabad, right?"
He kept cool, turned, and kept his eyes on Adal. Took a deep breath.
"I'm going to stay in the Agency, or not. It's my decision. Whatever I do, I'm going to keep to our agreement. I understand what I agreed to, and I'd never endanger the group. That's not the guy I am," he finished. Then he took a pensive bite of the donut.
He held the paper bag out to Dar Adal. "You gonna have one?"
Adal seemed to be satisfied, seemed to realize that no amount of bitching, pointing out Quinn's failings, or using Carrie's name – how ugly to hear his foul voice form the syllables of her name! – Quinn just wasn't going to bite. He reached in the bag, took out a powdered donut, and took a large bite. He might have intended himself to look fierce, but he looked a bit ridiculous, with powdered sugar on his mustache and goatee, a trace of it down on his eternal black turtleneck. Score one for the home team, Quinn thought. How unusual to feel like he'd won an argument with this asshole. He breathed a little more easily.
"Well, Peter. I knew you weren't that far gone," Adal said. He moved casually toward the door, every move probably scripted in his manipulative brain the day before – if Quinn says this, do that. But Quinn felt like the heat was off. And he'd felt like he'd deflected something worse. He couldn't say for sure it was retraining. Perhaps it was just a deflection of attention to the deepest feelings he had, and the only person he knew who could elicit them. It just wasn't Dar Adal's place to touch his relationship with Carrie. "You make your decision."
Adal let himself out, and Quinn watched until his and Jay's dark silhouettes moved down the second floor balcony, down the stairs, and back out to the parking lot. Only then did he exhale. He strode into the kitchen, and threw the rest of the donuts in the garbage.
Fucking Adal. Quinn hoped he had thrown him off the scent. Whatever he did, he'd do it for the right reasons. And for the right person.
Later that night, the bottle called to Quinn again. He'd been doing ok, had eaten a decent meal including a vegetable and some protein, though he'd forgotten quickly enough what it had been. He had also gulped a couple vitamins – he had read somewhere that people who drank too much usually didn't get enough B vitamins. Or probably enough anything, he thought. Otherwise, why would they drink so much?
He had been fine until he'd answered the internal call to crack open his computer – again – and start reviewing Youtube footage of Sandy's murder by the crowd. And when it started, he began to relive the whole mess. So many clips to watch, and he watched them over and over. Before he knew it, Bacardi Black was keeping him company. It was so fucked. His memory of it, compared with the footage. Sometimes he thinks he remembered it accurately. And sometimes he confabulated things and didn't realize it right away.
Sometimes he even closes the computer and fantasizes that Carrie had gotten out of the car when they got back to the Embassy. That she opens the front door, where Sandy had been, sits down next to him. That she breaks down in tears and throws herself into his arms, not able to speak. He kisses her cheeks, holds her close. They sob quietly together – they had lost a man, but they had survived, thank God. It was how he had felt. Why hadn't she felt that way? Or in another version, she reaches up, tries to wipe the blood off her face with a tissue, and reaches for him with her other hand? In this fantasy, he catches her hand in his, kisses it, holds it to his face. "Quinn," she says softly, as he closes his eyes, "You did all you could. Thank you for saving my life." Sometimes this version of the fantasy finishes with her expressing her gratitude, in other ways, later that night.
But not tonight. Tonight Quinn reviews footage, and drinks, and becomes more frantic with each passing moment. Adal's visit set him on edge, no matter how cool he kept. Again and again he reviews videos, old and new. Was there something else he could have done? He didn't think so. But now and then, he wasn't sure.
Tonight though – something new pops up. In a video Quinn had never seen before, he sees a man clearly directing the flow of events using a comm unit. He's speaking into it, directing the crowd, obviously telling a few key people which car to box in, and that they must have the bald guy at all costs. He can read his lips in a few scenes. Fuck! The whole thing was scripted, from start to finish.
He grabs his cell, immediately dials Carrie. She answers, "Please don't say you pocket-dialed me," cheerfully, seeming glad to hear from him.
"We never had a chance," Quinn starts intensely. He guides her to the video, sends her the link.
Quinn and Carrie converse brusquely for about three minutes. And when Quinn rings off, he reels at what he's just heard. He's just agreed to stay in the service, to keep with the C.I.A., to go back to Islamabad and work with her. But that's secondary to what came out of her mouth just before she hung up.
One choice phrase that would ring through his skull for the rest of the night is, "Don't make me beg." Something leapt up boldly in him, at that remark. He intended to make her beg, at some point in the future, oh yes. Quinn would hear her beg. But it would not be for work, nor money, nor firepower. It would be something entirely more earthly and intimate than that. He was going to see to it.
But the kicker was almost the last thing she said. "Is that a yes? God, I fucking love you Quinn," she had said. "You know that, don't you?"
He was so flummoxed, he couldn't even respond at first. Then he managed a brief, "Yeah," and hung up. He had to hang up fast, because it was on the tip of his tongue to say it.
"I love you, too," Quinn said to the empty room. He started to his bedroom, on his way, throwing the rest of the bottle of rum in the trash. Feverishly, he began to pack.