Carrie toweled off after a long, hot shower and put on a t-shirt and shorts before wrapping up in a bathrobe. She used a washcloth to wipe steam off the mirror, then leaned in and inspected her forehead. The cut she had gotten in the RPG attack was almost big enough to require suturing - she thought. She slowly shuffled into the kitchen, and was rooting in the nearly empty freezer when came a discreet tap on the door.

Carrie opened the door, expecting Saul and Quinn, but only Quinn stood outside her door. She opened the door wider to admit him. "Where's Saul?"

"He was beat. He went to bed."

Carrie closed the door behind Quinn and tightened her bathrobe belt. "Did you continue your debrief? Or just tell him a bedtime story."

"Come on, Carrie," Quinn said with mild disgust.

"Sorry. But you were hard on him before," she said, heading back into the kitchen. She found two small water tumblers and set them on the counter. "He'll probably remember better in the morning after he gets some rest. Do you want some of this?" She pulled a fifth of Tito's vodka out of the freezer.

"Wow. Where the fuck did you get that?" Quinn said.

"Chase brought it in for me. He visited his mother in Texas last week."

"Make it a short one. I can't stay long. I'm wiped out too." Her eyes flicked to his face as he said he couldn't stay. But Quinn was looking at the floor.

They took their drinks to Carrie's living room and sat across from each other, she on the couch, he in the armchair. She folded her legs under her and they sat in amicable silence for some time.

Carrie sighed, sipped and then slumped down a little deeper. "Ah. It's good."

"America's only hangover-proof vodka. Believe me, I have tested them all," Quinn said.

Then it was quiet again as the incredible stress and tragedy of the previous day seemed to spread out between them. Carrie segued into a preoccupied silence, so many images flowing in front of her eyes, like a second-rate horror movie, the face of one colleague and friend after another flowing by. Her stomach churned. Quinn was staring at his vodka glass soberly, swirling the liquid around. She hiccuped slightly and then said, "I called Fara's father."

Quinn looked levelly at Carrie. "How did that go?"

"You can imagine. He's old, sick... This was his only child. He's all alone." They made eye contact and Quinn nodded. He finished his vodka in one gulp and set the glass down.

Feeling like he was preparing to rise, Carrie felt a mild internal panic - she didn't want him to leave yet. The emptiness of the apartment was unbearable after a day like this, filled with agony, blood, death. She brought up another topic to engage Quinn. "And, I got singed by Max. Fucking ouch."

Quinn settled back into his chair, hands on his knees. "What did he say?"

Carrie gave a short, sharp ironic laugh, and said, "He said I was a bitch to Fara. Basically."

Quinn said nothing for a moment and then said, "Were you?"

That was all it took. Carrie put her feet on the floor, and sat forward, putting her face in her hands. "Fuck, fuck, Quinn, I don't know! I never meant to be! I was just doing my job. Trying to make her a better agent. Toughen her up." Her eyes swam as she pictured beautiful, youthful Fara, laid on white plastic in the Embassy lobby. Forever stilled. She sniffed and a tear dripped off the end of her nose and onto the floor. When she looked up, Quinn was sitting up and leaning closer to her. He reached out and touched her wrist very gently, then pulled his hand back quickly as if he might get burned.

"It's hard to be tough all the time," he said, his voice rough. She felt so empty and sick and overwhelmed that she could hardly meet his eyes, but when she looked up, she saw nothing but acceptance, understanding, reassurance. And that softness again. She reached up to swipe hair out of her eyes, and bumped the cut she had gotten in the RPG attack.

"Fuck. Ouch."

"Here. Let me see it." Her words seemed to energize him because he got quickly to his feet and walked a step closer, bringing his warmth into close proximity, coming down on one knee to inspect the wound more closely. Somehow in squatting down, his other knee had insinuated itself between her legs. She looked straight ahead, wiping at her nose with one hand, as his broad chest filled her vision entirely. She was motionless, inches from his body, close enough to smell him. God, but he smelled good, even after the crazed action of this day. He touched the top of her head, inspecting the cut with a light, featherlike touch. He stayed near quite a bit longer than seemed necessary, then said, "It's not too bad. But you should put something on it." He stood again and said, "Do you have anything?"

"Uh, I don't know. Maybe."

He nodded, "Well, if you don't, I do." She smiled. Quinn could probably field-dress an AK wound with the paper towels in her kitchen and a pocketknife.

Carrie stood up and brushed closely past Quinn, heading to her bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and looked for some kind of ointment, eventually locating a tube of Neosporin. Quinn reached over her shoulder and took it out of her hand.

"Here. Sit," he ordered, indicating the edge of the tub. She sat down and held still for him. He stood close again and dressed the cut on Carrie's head with an incredibly gentle touch. Jesus, he was taking his sweet time, it was just a scratch... she squirmed at the attention, and as she wiggled the shoulders of her robe fell open.

"Alright, Quinn. I'm fine," she said, trying to sound disgusted, irritated, independent. But what came out sounded defeated and tired.

"I know," Quinn said, "you've lived through worse," his voice breaking slightly. He stopped dressing the wound and looked down at Carrie, and suddenly his medical attention became something else. His hand stroked her hair, lightly, down the side of her face, around her ear, and then repeated, gentle stroking over and over. Head, hair, ear, neck. She closed her eyes, didn't stop him. Carrie recognized a change in the chemistry of the air in the room. He had gone from being kind and pragmatic to being intimate, sexual. His hand was hot and she swore she could feel him tremble as he touched her. His closeness, his smell again, so good. Her gut was tied in a knot. Finally, she gathered enough courage to look up into his eyes. He was tall, she had to crane her neck. But his eyes locked onto hers. "You've lived through much worse," he said, voice filled with regret.

She saw such a mixture of emotions in his eyes. Pity, fear, anxiety, tenderness, anger. His hand slipped down onto her shoulder. He leaned in towards her as his hand continued down her arm and stopped right over the tiny, puckered scar. The scar from the bullet wound he inflicted the previous year.

Quinn tossed the tube of antibiotic into the sink, and bending over, put his left hand on her other upper arm. Under his caresses, she came slowly to her feet, her robe falling off completely. His eyes never left hers. The direct contact of his skin on her arms was comforting, arousing, warming. His right thumb rubbed the scar on her left bicep. He looked down at it, said nothing. She saw he was breathing deeper, and faster.

"Quinn," Carrie said. She had no idea what she was going to say next. She felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, felt such a stab of desire for him in her guts that she almost felt nauseous. After the pain of the day, how dare they find pleasure in such a moment? A ridiculous thought. Bandaging a cut in the bathroom, for God's sake.

"Carrie?" Quinn's voice was rough again. His eyes were tender, and he looked so fucking sad, that she had to look away. After everything they'd been through, this deep connection was just too much. Overwhelming. He seemed to have gone past the place inside himself where he could be shocked at his own actions. His breath coming faster, he put both hands around her arm, and raising it to his mouth, he bent and kissed the scar his bullet had created. Carrie sucked in her breath. Then she could feel his hot tongue on her skin as he kissed the scar. "Carrie," he said as he mouthed her arm, open and hot, his cheeks covered with stubble, his eyes closed. This time her name was an affirmation. She felt weak in the knees, she felt like screaming.

Finally Quinn regained some control of himself, and let go of Carrie's arms. Immediately, she howled internally for his touch to return. He took one step back and just looked at her face. For a loaded second, neither of them said anything. Who the fuck knew that the mind of a trained killer could house such tenderness?

Abruptly, Quinn looked abashed. Awareness of the day, the time, the situation came flooding back. "I should let you get some sleep," he said, turning and walking back out of the bathroom.

The need in her was so great that she nearly snapped. She followed him into the living area. "I can't. I can't sleep. I never sleep anymore," she said. She was desperate for him to stay, to not leave her sight.

Quinn turned and looked at her. Waiting.

"Please stay. I can't stand to be alone tonight. Please."

Quinn looked at his shoes. Then back into her eyes. He appeared to be on the verge of closing the space between them and making a move that would send both of them collapsing into the bed, the furniture, the floor, anywhere, everywhere, with their clothes coming off as fast as he could remove them. Still, Quinn was nothing if not self-controlled. He looked at her levelly and tried to gauge what she needed the most. "I'll stay. You sleep, I'll keep watch," he said quietly.

She took a deep breath. Now that the tension was eased slightly, Quinn went to the kitchen, pouring himself one more short drink. Carrie went into her bedroom, and peeled back the covers, climbing gratefully and exhaustedly into bed. A moment later, Quinn came into the room, and pulling an overstuffed armchair sideways, placed it so it faced her pillow. He reached out and turned out the bedroom light. Sitting in the near darkness, Quinn cocked one ankle up on the opposite knee and sipped his drink. His eyes never left Carrie's face. He seemed to have regained something of his composure, and the boiling, volcanic sexuality which had minutes before threatened to explode into a raging fire seemed somewhat banked. It was so clear now - he was burning for her. But exhaustion and grief had won this round. He said nothing.

She had forgotten to put in her mouthguard, hadn't taken an Ambien, and had only had one drink. If she managed to fall asleep, this would be the least medicated, least fucked-up rest she'd had in Islamabad. She felt safe as a child, in bed with him watching over her. The sharp, stabbing pain in her chest, the worst symptom of grief, eased as she took a deep breath and let it out. The warmth between her legs suffused her entire body, and improved the feeling of contentment. He wanted her. She had sort of known, but not in her conscious mind. And not how much. In the gloom, she could see Quinn's eyes on her.

"This day was fucked," Carrie said finally.

"Yeah, it was."

"How long will you stay?" she said quietly.

"As long as it takes. Just go to sleep."

Her eyes closed. Finally, she felt relaxed enough to rest. A few minutes went by and then she opened her eyes again, slightly. He hadn't moved and appeared to be wide awake, studying her face.

She closed her eyes again, and this time sleep took her. There were no dreams.