At 2:30 AM, Carrie woke from a comalike sleep, coming up in consciousness one level at a time. First she remembered the convoy - the missile - Saul handing her the automatic. She frowned as she remembered bodies lined up in the lobby. Hensley. Jude. Fara. John. Full consciousness clicked in and she remembered Peter and what had happened last night. It had been only one vodka, Jesus. But what she remembered both jarred and excited her. She remembered she had asked him to stay, and was suddenly terrified that he had snuck out in the night to try to find Haqqani. She opened her eyes.

But sure enough, he was still there in the armchair, silhouetted in the gray light that filtered through her closed curtains. His head had been leaning back on the armchair, but as she sat up, he lifted his head, apparently still completely awake.

She felt in her mind for the right greeting. When you find your Chief of Support sitting in your bedroom at two in the morning, staring at you, what do you say? Feeling like the world's most awkward teenager, she sat up slightly and leaned on her elbow.

"Hi," she managed.

Peter sighed. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"I am. You're still awake."

"You're not the only one who has trouble sleeping."

He stood up and walked to her window, pulling back her curtain. The residential wing where the Chief of Support and the Station Chief lived was far inside the embassy compound, but it was also high up. From the ninth floor, Quinn looked out over the compound, towards the administrative buildings, and north towards the front gate of the embassy. This late at night, even busy Islamabad was usually quieter, but not tonight. Cars, taxis, ambulances, G-cars and SUVs as well as bikes and groups on foot thronged the one street he could see. A small gaggle of Pakistanis, excited by the news, still stood outside the bustle of the embassy, taking pictures of the building. The Taliban flag had been taken down, but the shock and awe remained, as evidenced by the level of rubbernecking.

Carrie got out of bed, and came to stand next to Quinn, opening the curtain all the way. She folded her arms as they stood side by side. "They've been at it all night," Quinn said. "I counted three carloads of Talibs going by, automatic weapons ready to rock, Taliban flags waving. And that was just in the one hour I stood here. This is not the same country we arrived in two months ago. What a fucking circus."

"You hit Haqqani today. Right? What are the odds that was a fatal injury?"

"Very low. I know it wasn't a lung or heart wound by the speed he moved when he fled the building. Motherfucker was hot-footing it."

"Fuck," Carrie said, shuffling her feet. "But still, better than nothing."

A beat passed. Then Quinn, still looking straight ahead out the window, said, "I'm sorry about last night." Her heart cramped in her chest.

She leaned over and put her hand on his arm, her other arm around his waist. "Hey," she said, waiting until he turned and looked at her, his spine still erect as steel. "Hey. I don't want you to be sorry."

He looked down at his feet, thought a moment, and then said very quietly, "Carrie, I've been doing this job for a long time. More than twelve years. I don't know about you, but I feel sometimes like I have become my job. And my job is fucking killing people."

"Always for a reason, Peter. Always on the right side." Her eyes were huge and luminous in the darkness, her skin white. She looked both intrigued and terrified.

"We've talked about this. I'm not sure there is a right side."

Carrie's eyes filled with tears.

"Don't." she said. "Not now. I don't care about any of that. Or what happens tomorrow. I need you here. Do you remember when you called me? Told me the Sandy's murder was orchestrated, a setup?"

"Of course I remember."

"Do you remember what I said?"

His voice gravelly with exhaustion, Quinn responded, "Yes."

She said nothing more. Just looked at him. His eyes were hooded with fatigue and almost black with desire. He took a step towards her.

He reached up, and with the back of his hand, caressed her chin up to her jawline and then rested his hand on the back of her head.

"None of that shit matters right now, not to me," she said, shaking her head.

"Carrie," Quinn rasped, his arousal evident. "Are you sure about this? We don't have much time."

She shook her head, confused. "I don't know what you mean. I don't care," she said. "Please," she said, not knowing what she was pleading for.

She found out soon enough, when Quinn moved to her in one rapid step. "Then fuck it," he snapped, reaching for Carrie and pulling her into his arms. He looked at her face wistfully for only one second before the last of his restraint snapped and his mouth came down on hers. She expected a bruising kiss, but his lips covered hers gently at first. So soft, he was, and tasted so good. His tongue ventured into her mouth, and she eagerly returned the kiss. As it deepened, she was so startled by the turn of events, by the intensity of the feeling, by her own nerve, by the insanity of the day's events, and then the nights, that she felt herself grow extremely weak in the knees. Quinn's arms around her enclosed her in a tight, loving grip, strong, safe and finally able to show the care and protection he had repressed for so long.

He felt her legs weaken and held her up, and then moved swiftly to the bed with an agile move that felt like something he must have learned in ops. One arm under her back, the other hand buried in her hair, a foot behind hers that tripped her, followed by a lift-and-carry that delivered her bent backward over the bed, a victim of lust, flattened for his mercy. She wondered how many people he'd killed with that move. She wondered how many women he'd seduced with that move. Then she decided she didn't give a fuck, because Quinn's hands were all over her. He had no qualms about removing her clothing and before a minute passed, he had pulled her panties over her ankles. He sat back and observed her naked form, white and perfect, and was able to hold back his his highly stoked desire for only a moment, lay down full length on top of her, eyes burning, and went back to work kissing her neck, eyes, lips, cheeks, and buried his head in the crook of her neck. "Oh, God, Carrie," he moaned.

He was still wearing all of his clothes. This made Carrie feel even more naked as he kissed his way down the front of her body, between her breasts, taking a pink nipple in his mouth and sucking deep, deeper, until it started to hurt and she moaned for him. His hands found their way down and parted her thighs, which she opened willingly as his tongue circled her navel. Eyes closed and head thrown back in complete abandon, Carrie moaned his name, the way he'd always wish she would, "Peter, Peter, Oh God," and rocked her hips back and forth over his stroking fingers. He found the center of her and worked it hard, slow, in circles. She tossed her head, and begged him again, causing him almost to shoot in his pants like a kid. Her hands gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging in.

"Peter, please..." His nose was in her soft blond hair, his tongue on her cunt, as he finally found and kissed the very center of his beloved Carrie's womanhood, eating and licking in a steady rhythm, one finger entering her and holding her G-spot. Pressing. Listening to her sounds and responding to what she seemed to like best. The floodgates of her pent-up orgasm, all the tension, the stress, the hidden love, the fear and pain, came out in one almighty climax. She screamed and buried her hands in his hair. Finally, he thought, finally.

She lay still, panting, eyes half closed, watching him unbutton his shirt, strip off his pants, socks and shoes, and reveal a large, eager and extremely hard member. Climbing back on top of her, he eased himself between her thighs and took her in his arms. More softly, he kissed her, and then holding himself poised at her entrance, he quietly stated, "I don't care what happens tomorrow. Next week. I don't care where you are or what you're doing. Some part of you will always be right here. With me, fucking you." He slid inside her wetness possessively and started to move.

"Yes. Yes. Not so gentle," she whimpered. His nostrils flared and he obliged her, fucking her with strong, deep strokes, taking complete possession of her and making her moan aloud. Those crazymaking sounds she made while fucking, all the while, and he finally put her ankles on his shoulders and finished her that way, working her clit with his thumb. Her third orgasm threw him over the edge, and he spilled himself into her and fell onto his elbows, the whole world going white for a moment, in his ears, only the sound of her voice, the feeling of her breath on his lips. Neither of them had any words. He kissed tears from the corners of her eyes.

Carrie and Quinn lay still together, sweat lightly sheathing their bodies, listening to the distant traffic outside the apartment. Recovering herself a bit, Carrie said, "What the fuck was that."

"If it was anyone else, I'd say it was a wild fuck," Quinn said.

"Oh. But it's not someone else, so what the fuck was it?" She sat up, next to him, naked in bed, her soft breasts shadowed in the half-darkness.

He choked on what he had to say next, so he said nothing. He reached out and placed a hand on her bare chest over her heart. Reached up higher and touched her cheek.

"Sleep with me," she said.

They both got into her bed, and Quinn wrapped himself around her, naked from behind, pressing as much of his skin into contact with hers as possible. Peter kissed the back of her neck, and then his lips moved in her hair, next to her ear. "I'd never let anything hurt you, you know that. That's why I've always been around, that's why I come when you call."

Almost asleep in the cocoon of warmth, Carrie murmured, "I know. I know."

In the morning, Carrie woke naked, alone, and a bit sore, but her body still felt tingly and alert to his caresses. But where the hell was Quinn? This wasn't a very big apartment. He was obviously gone. He must have gone across the hall for some fresh clothes.

She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, pulled on a bathrobe. Walking into the kitchen where her phone was charging, she saw that a text message had arrived. Swiping her phone open, her jaw dropped as she read the message from Quinn.

"Leaving Embassy. Going after that cocksucker. Don't try to follow me. Give me a week. I will see you stateside."

"Fuck!" Carrie screamed, and slammed the phone down.