Carrie IV

Carrie's drinking coffee, eating a bagel when Quinn shuffles out of his room, leaning on the railing to make it down the stairs.

He probably shouldn't be out of bed yet but he's a stubborn bastard, still trying to do everything himself. But when he makes it into the kitchen she notices he is actually starting to look better, the pallor of fever and death mostly gone now after a week spent mostly in bed. He even takes half her bagel and stuffs it in his mouth before she can smack his hand.

Quinn gives her a dickish smile but gets up to grab some coffee and puts another bagel in the toaster.

"I was hungry," he says with a shrug.

Carrie gives him a scowl that turns into a smirk. "I see you're feeling better," she says.

He nods, then winces as the coffee hits his still-fragile intestines. "Doing great. You haven't found me passed out naked and shivering for days now," he says dryly as he takes another sip.

Carrie tries not to smile, thinks it's been good to have a task, something she's had to do. While she wasn't so into taking care of herself lately, she didn't have much choice when it came to Quinn. No one else was going to do it and the idiot would have preferred to die before asking for help.

So she actually did the mundane things she neglects when she's depressed; go outside, buy food, eat food, answer email. She wants to go freak out at Adal, let her anger out on him for dumping Quinn off to die on his own in a shithole. But she also maybe wants her job, doesn't need to give them more ammunition to use against her. So she tells herself it was at least half Quinn's fault too - she's sure he could have asked to go to a hospital and didn't due to being a stubborn ass. At least he's felt so shitty she can't be too pissed at him.

"You look better," she admits. "But I still think you're going to fall down the fucking stairs."

Quinn laughs, then sputters. She's used to this by now, his fucked up lungs and ribs are still obviously very sore, will be for at least another couple weeks. It's too bad because she kind of likes it when he laughs, he's so fucking serious all the time, so tightly wound.

"Let's go outside," he declares. "For a walk."

Carrie shrugs, thinks what the hell. The worst thing that could happen is he passes out while walking and then he can deal with the embarrassment of an ambulance showing up for him.

"Alright, let's go," she says, finishing her coffee and grabbing the freshly toasted bagel.

Quinn looks surprised but pleased, pushes himself up with the help of the table. He looks a bit derelict in his sweatpants and cheap shirt but doesn't seem to give a shit as he follows her out the door at a weak shuffle.

They walk, shuffle towards a small park in the area and Quinn looks determined but waning. After about ten minutes she can see the park but wonders if Quinn is going to make it that far.

"Let's go back," she says, stopping. But Quinn shakes his head.

"We're going to the park, Carrie," he argues.

Carrie frowns at him but doesn't bother responding, just shrugs and keeps walking and watching. Making sure he doesn't fall and crack his head on something.

They make it to the park and he pretends to not collapse on the first bench he sees. Carrie sits down next to him and covers him with a concerned eye. Quinn looks flush and exhausted from the short walk but at least he's gained some colour. And he looks pleased with himself to be here, outside at the park.

"Do that breathing shit," she says once he's caught his breath.

Quinn grimaces but complies, does his prescribed deep breathing exercises while she watches to try and see how deep his breaths go.

She can tell it hurts but he pulls each breath in right to the bottom of his lungs, even as it starts to make him sweat. He only chokes on one long last breath and recovers quickly, without much hacking.

Carrie lets herself breathe too, remembers that he's steadily improving, that she doesn't need to be quite so worried about him anymore. She looks around the park to calm herself, to let him compose himself, and notices it's fairly busy for a weekday morning, toddlers and nannies on the playground, young moms jogging with strollers.

Of course, as soon as she stops worrying about Quinn, Carrie starts worrying about the baby. And sitting in park full of kids is not helping the anxiety.

By now it seems inevitable that she's going to have this baby, her baby. It was not so much determined by wanting it as by not being able to get rid of it. And what does that say, she wonders. Not a very auspicious way to go into motherhood.

And now, just watching them wears on her sanity - how can she possibly think of taking care of one on her own? Carrie knows herself well, knows her patience is in short supply already, knows she is often blunt and can be mean. She just figures other adults should be able to take it. It's obviously fucking different when it comes to a baby though.

She looks over at Quinn, sees him watching the kids at the playground furtively, trying not to look like a creep. She wonders what he is thinking, can see some unidentified emotion going on behind his eyes.

Carrie remembers what Virgil told her after they broke into Quinn's apartment, about the photo. But back then she remembers not caring, not finding it particularly significant that Quinn had some kid with some chick somewhere. Everyone has a past and black ops guys were generally running from something.

But now she remembers Quinn saying something about having to make a choice like this before, regretting his decision. And she knows enough about the kinds of thoughts he's been having lately to guess where his mind is. He's looking for a change, he's lost his drive. She wonders if he ever sees his kid, can't picture him as a dad, can't imagine him sticking around in that kind of situation. He's a lone wolf type, classic black ops - it's why she never believed he was an analyst right from the start.

"I don't think I can do it," she says quietly.

Quinn turns his head and looks at her with a frown. "I'm fairly sure there's nothing you can't do, Carrie," he replies, all seriousness.

Carrie huffs a laugh.

"Only a million things, Quinn. Be patient, be calm, spend my life walking a screaming kid around in a stroller. I can't do any of those things," she scoffs. "I can barely get up and feed myself these days. What the hell am I going to do with a baby to take care of?"

She knows he's heard this all before, it's all that she says when the subject of the baby is brought up. Carrie knows it's true, thinks of how having a bipolar father fucked things up in her life, is self-aware enough to know her own deficiencies.

It would have been different with Brody - he already was a father, no matter how fucked up his family situation was at least he had the experience. And even then, look how hard he tried for his kids and how things ended up with them.

And now, she's all on her own. Maggie's already got two kids and a full life. Her dad would help out but he doesn't need the extra stress in his life. And she doesn't want to put this on them, she needs to deal with her own shit.

Quinn is looking at her with the same concerned frown. "You'll find a way, Carrie," he says. "You took care if me."

She lets out a frustrated breath. "It's not the same shit, Quinn," she retorts. "I'm not made for this. I can't even deal with my own crap."

He keeps looking at her, shrugs nonchalantly like it's not that big a concern. "I know you're scared, Carrie," he says. "But you won't be on your own, you'll have people around to help."

Carrie scowls, fires back. "Maggie is too busy to deal with me, let alone me and a newborn. My dad has enough trouble managing without the stress of my life," she retorts. "So what you're going to stay and be the nanny when I go back to work?"

Quinn gets a twitch of a smile, has a contemplative look in his eyes. He doesn't respond except to put his arm around her shoulders.

Carrie hates this, he is too close and she still finds it terrifying, even though she's the one who invited him in. She gives him a glare, silently urges him to remove his touch.

But he just looks steadily back, doesn't move his arm. "Whatever you need, Carrie," he responds.

He keeps telling her this and sometimes it's too much. Too much pressure to be watched over, to have his concern all over her.

So she stands up, pushes his arm off. He looks briefly disappointed but hides it well, struggles to get himself up from the bench.

Quinn grunts in pain and she tries not to look back in concern as he surreptitiously shoves a few pills into his mouth.

They walk back in silence, Carrie holding her pace back to make sure he keeps up. She's annoyed with him, hates that he keeps telling her she can do shit she's sure she can't do. But she still keeps close enough to watch out for him, to catch him if he falls.

Quinn catches up, she can hear him breathing hard through his fucked up lung. He looks wiped out and she thinks he actually might pass out but he grits his teeth through it and sweats his way all the way back to her place.

Carrie helps him up the stairs, drops him unceremoniously into bed where he instantly drops out of consciousness from the combination of exhaustion and pain medication.

She stands there for a moment looking at him, wondering how the fuck her life got to this point. Two months ago she was going to run away with Brody, ditch the CIA, play house with the object of her obsession. Now she's here, playing nurse to a guy she once thought she hated.

Carrie has to admit it's been good to have him around, something else to occupy her mind. But now that he's not sleeping through most of the day it's harder - she almost forgot how challenging he can be. Obstinate. Relentless.

In a way it's comfortable, in another way it's horribly awkward. She's not used to having anyone around, especially after being in self-imposed solitary confinement for over a month. And she definitely does not want to let Quinn get any closer. Though it doesn't get much closer than living together, she thinks.

It's barely noon but Carrie is already exhausted from thinking about her problems. She puts a blanket over Quinn and goes downstairs, still wondering where the hell her life is going.

She hears her phone ring, doesn't bother to answer it. It's most likely Maggie or her dad and she doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment. But when she checks her voicemail Carrie finds that the CIA has finally called. Adal, of all people, trying to sound conciliatory, asking her to return the call urgently. This should be a good sign - obviously they need her for something. But today it only adds to her exhaustion, her confusion over her life, her purpose. She knows she will call back but not as urgently as he would like. She hopes it pisses him off, wants to throw it in his smug face.

Carrie sits on the couch, head in her hands, asks herself what the fuck she wants. And the answer is still the same, she wants Brody, wants the life she thought they could have, wants to have saved him, wants the past few years of her life to have counted for something other than death and heartbreak.

She takes a well-worn book off the table, pulls a photo out from amongst the pages. It's a picture of Brody, the only one she has left after tearing apart her Brody wall the night of the debrief. The next morning she had found the place magically cleaned up, all evidence of her rampage gone, this one untorn photo left on her coffee table. Quinn, of course.

Carrie stares at the photo, thinks of all the things that could have been, how hard she tried yet still failed. She misses him, has been missing him for a long time now, since the fucking bomb at the CIA really. Like usual, she thinks how they really only had a few actual days together, how fucked up all of it was, how fucked up she was to fall for a guy that sold her out, lied to her face time and time again. A murderer, a terrorist, an adulterer, an addict. All those things. But other things too.

A tear slips out and it starts a torrent. All of her fuck ups, her fears, her love, her grief come pouring out as she looks at Brody's photo. She doesn't even bother to try and stop, not even when she hears footsteps on the stairs.

Quinn walks over slowly, sits down next to her on the couch. He looks at her with his usual concern.

"Are you okay, Carrie?" he asks.

"Do I look fucking okay?" she answers, with an incredulous look.

Quinn nods his head as if to say she made a good point. But he doesn't stop looking at her.

"Tell me what you need," he says.

Tell him what she needs? She needs Brody to have survived, for it all to have amounted to something. She needs a plan for this baby, especially if she's going back to work. She does not need being asked if she's okay when she's clearly not fucking okay.

"Well I don't need you hovering around," she replies, no longer crying.

Quinn frowns. "Why am I here then?" he asks with barely contained anger.

"Because you're too fucking stubborn to go to a hospital and I couldn't exactly just let you die in that hellhole," she fires back.

Now he looks properly pissed off and Carrie is perversely pleased with herself. Still has the knack, she thinks.

"Well I'm not dying anymore. Just tell me if you want me to leave," he counters.

Carrie looks at him seriously. Thinks it could be that easy. But she's not sure she wants him to leave. It is true he wouldn't be likely to die anymore, hasn't ran a fever in a couple days. It would be easier being back on her own, it's what she's used to. And obviously he has to leave at some point anyhow.

But he really is still weak as shit, hasn't eaten properly in weeks. He toughs it out without a word but she can tell he's worn down. It would be pretty shitty of her to kick him out after everything that's happened.

"Fuck. I don't know what I want," she says. "What do you want, Quinn?"

Quinn looks surprised she asked but answers right away.

"I want you to be okay," he says.

Carrie doesn't know why it makes her so furious when he says this but it always does. She hates the idea that he's sticking around to make everything okay for her, that he doesn't have any other purpose.

"Fuck! Why the hell am I any concern of yours, Quinn?" she asks. "You don't even know me."

Quinn furrows his brow, looks at her intently. "Don't tell me what I know," he replies darkly.

"What do you know then?" she spits, glaring at him.

He keeps his eyes on her for a long time, doesn't reply. Carrie starts to feel uncomfortable, under the microscope and is about to stand up and relieve the tension when he finally speaks.

"I know you're hurting but you're a survivor," he says. "I know it's easier for you to be alone, that you're scared of having people around that give a shit about you."

She hates it because what he says is true, succinctly captures much of her story.

"So why do you give a shit?" she asks. "You still haven't explained that."

Quinn looks contemplative, breathes a sigh. "I was fucking naive. I thought I was protecting the world but I was just serving an agenda," he says resentfully. "It's time I make my own choices about who I'm protecting and know I'm doing something for the greater good. So I want to be around to make sure things are okay for you."

Carrie scowls. "You can't even fucking walk to the park and back, Quinn," she snaps. "How the hell are you going to make things okay?"

Quinn tries to stop a laugh but chokes on it, groans in reaction to his constantly sore ribs.

"See, I don't need you," Carrie says meanly.

He frowns again but now he looks more sad, less pissed off. "I know," he replies. "You keep making that very clear."

They sit together, the air tense between them. Carrie thinks about where this is all going, wonders when Quinn will finally fall out of her life. She's going back to work soon and he will probably be reassigned - black ops guys never stayed in one place very long. So logistically he could be forced out of her life soon and with their jobs and schedules the likelihood of crossing paths would be low.

And normally she would have decided that it would be best to just tell him to leave now and let the course of life then keep them apart. But she can tell he's already tired from being out of bed, hears his shallow breaths. She tries to remember how worried she had been, the various things she offered to deities if they helped her find him.

"I'll order takeout," she finally says after what seems like an hour of silence.

Quinn opens his eyes, seems to try and blink away his tiredness. "I thought you wanted me to leave," he croaks.

"I didn't say that, I just said I don't need you," Carrie counters. "But you still need someone around to take care of your pathetic ass."

Quinn is instantly no longer drowsy, looks right pissed off. "I'm fine. And I'm leaving," he snaps, pushing himself up from the couch quickly. He looks like he might pass out from the quick movement and she grabs his hand, pulls him back down.

"Fuck, I'm sorry Quinn," she says, angry yet apologetic. "That was a shitty thing to say. Everything's just all so fucked up right now."

He doesn't try to get back up but she can see there is real anger in his eyes, his body.

"When wasn't it?" he asks.

Carrie nods to concede the point. Things have been truly fucked up for years now, her already manic emotions hitting both higher and lower than ever before.

She looks at Quinn and he is still pissed off. She realizes she likes him this way, on edge and ready to fire. It's much easier to deal with than when he's full of quiet concern. Maybe it's why she incites him so frequently.

"Indian?" she asks, her way of apologizing.

His eyes still hold some fire but he looks more relaxed already. Finally he nods. "I'm fucking hungry," he admits.

Carrie breathes a little sigh of relief, gets up to make the call. She would have felt shitty if he'd left, if she'd pushed him out. She reminds herself it's just until he's back on his feet, that she doesn't always hate having him around.

By the time she's done ordering from his preferred restaurant Quinn's just about fallen asleep again, sitting on the couch. She sometimes forgets he was barely alive just a week ago, that he is still fragile under the stoic exterior. He is skinny as shit, still pale.

Carrie picks up her keys, leaves to get their food, realizes she will be eating a lot of indian food if she's to fatten him up. The thought of that makes her flash a smile and its only then that she realizes she really does give a shit about him. Which seems ridiculous after all the time she worried about him - but the source of her worry then had mostly been guilt. More about her than about him.

But now the worry is gone and the guilt is mostly hidden. And yet she still doesn't quite want to be rid of him.

This is uncharted territory for her and she is nervous as shit. But Carrie brings home the food and makes sure he eats his share. Then watches him up to bed, reminds him to take his meds. He's still a bit testy, has his own walls up but she knows it's her own goddamned fault.

Carrie waits until he's in bed then goes to check on him as she does every night. Just to reassure herself that he's there and alive, that she didn't send him off to die.

He's still awake when she walks in but doesn't look her way. "You just decided now that you want me to leave?" he asks, deadpan.

Carrie smiles a bit, takes the jibe because she knows she deserves it. "I'm sorry I'm so fucking moody. But that's just how it is and you should know that if you're going to be around me," she states. "Still, I'm glad you didn't leave."

Quinn finally looks at her and she can tell he is both pissed and pleased, that he knows it's as close to an apology as he's going to get.

"You would have just found me passed out in the park and dragged me back here," he finally concedes.

Carrie hides her smile but a little laugh squeezes through. "Goodnight Quinn," she says. "I'll see you in the morning."