The Demons that Come at Night
It was dark by the time Carrie stood, hesitating at Quinn's door. She had a set of keys that he had given her awhile back and she had used on occasion but she had not brought them with her and instinct told her it was important now that he let her in. She knocked on the door. She did so lightly at first but with growing impatient intensity as it appeared that no one was going to answer. As she became increasingly infuriated she ditched the idea of gaining his tacit approval, and began to seriously consider trying to break down the door. Although, swirling around the maelstrom in her head was the thought that she was more likely to break her shoulder than make any impact on the substantial door structure, after all Quinn wasn't the type to live behind a door that was easily opened. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw a dark shadow of movement through the glass.
She waited impatiently, intoning "C'mon Quinn!" under her breath.
Finally the door opened and he stood in front of her. She had expected he would be a mess, would be drunk, maybe even paralytic, only just managing to open the door and she was ready to grab him as he lurched forward. She had not expected what she saw. He stood straight and tall, frighteningly sober, he was even smiling at her but that was the most terrifying thing of all, for his smile was the death mask of a corpse - completely lacking life.
This was a different and new Peter Quinn: Not the cold eyed, committed assassin she had seen in Islamabad nor the gentle but desperate man searching for a normal life who had kissed her so longingly on the dreamy night of her father's funeral. Not the depressed, reticent PTSD sufferer descending into a bottle who had nevertheless answered her call even when he knew he would suffer the consequences and certainly not the impressive, determined man she had seen fight back from his injuries through sheer strength of will over the last nine months. Everything that had made him into these acerbic, and in their own different ways, brave men seemed to be missing, every prickly virtue smoothed away so that only smooth fear remained.
Biting back her disquiet, she offered up the bottle of whiskey. "Peace offering," she said as lightly as she could. Silently he took it from her as she walked passed him into the room beyond. A dull, despondent atmosphere hung over the place like a dark rain cloud but she sensed more too, a swirling undercurrent of mind numbing terror. She forced herself to ignore it and instead went for mock merriment as she continued, "Thought you'd be in need of more supplies!" She stopped as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the room. There was a whiskey bottle on the table in front of her and at least five more on the kitchen top. None of them had been opened. "Maybe not." she muttered.
He moved passed her, his movements listless and robotic, placing the bottle with laboured care next to the first on the table and indicating she should sit. She did so and he sat on the chair opposite, although he only perched, remaining rigid and forebodingly brittle. She waited, watching him, trying to read what was before her, trying to make sense of the anxious desperation within the room, as her concern for him grew.
"So, you not drinking?" she asked finally. He shook his head slowly. "Mind if I do?" Again the bleak head shake, followed by an almost undetectable shrug. She reached forward to open the first bottle before standing up to wonder through to the kitchen in search of glasses. She came back with two, and filled them both, pushing one hopefully across the table towards him. If he perceived it, he made no move, simply sat, staring into the distance, still. It was this complete lack of motion that scared her the most. It was as if all of the life had been sucked from him and all that remained was a soulless husk; the empty vessel that sailed on heedlessly with no one at the rudder.
She took a long gulp of her whiskey, felt it burn all the way down to her stomach, grateful for the earthy fullness it brought to her in this place where everything was empty. "I thought you'd be shitfaced by now," she tried again.
He bit his lip and shook his head minutely, still staring distantly, still inanimate. Her fear was growing now and not only that but frustration was taking hold too. She had primed herself to deal with an emotional, despairing, even violent drunk, had thought he would scream at her, lash out, cry even, that he would be in the very place she had inhabited in her most manic times. Now she realised that all she knew about Peter Quinn should have told her that he would never let his feelings out, never reveal them even as his soul was shredding apart. This pathetic, blunt creature would be the only way he would react to the very deepest despair; holding on to his control until he simply imploded, disintegrating into dust. Inwardly she kicked herself; she had misjudged him again but how to make it right? How could she reach him, bring him back from this, his darkest place?
She took another drink, emptied her glass, refilled it as she tracked back through her memories. Fuck, she should be good at this, hadn't she had enough experience of this sort of shit with her own condition? Why couldn't she remember an intervention from her own past that would bring him back? Panicking, casting about for help, she wondered should she call Maggie? Instantly she rejected the idea, if he ever came back, Quinn would never forgive her if she shared his state with any other person, shit he may never forgive her now because she had seen him reduced to this.
Fuck, she had to do this on her own! But how?
She looked across to him. He was a pure marble statue, all smooth, static whiteness, the dull light giving him a ghostly, grey look that made him almost ethereal, almost but not quite, as if he touched the world only barely and could find nothing to grip, nothing to hold on to. He was slipping away, melting to nothing. She yearned for his raw complexity, the jagged imperfections that made up his living being, the barbed moving edges that gave character to him but they had seemingly been rubbed away by adversity to leave only this perfect, inert figure that was simply still as the grave.
She drank again, trying to drown the hot fear that was flickering at her consciousness, threatening to steal her purpose as it had done his. She could not let that happen. He had been strong for her for so long, now she needed to be strong for him.
"Doesn't work," he said softly as she took another long swallow.
"What?" She tried to keep the surprise from her voice at his unexpected and sudden vocalisation that had brought her back from her unnerving, racing thoughts.
"Whiskey... only makes the blackest black blacker." His voice was brittle as glass.
She nodded, fearing he was about to shatter, searching for a way to stop that from happening. "So what will help?" she said, trying to remain calm, forcing away the panic that screamed in her mind.
He snorted and shook his head. "I fucked it up again, there's nothing that can help."
She stood up, moved to kneel in front of him, the cheap floor covering cold on her knees was somehow a relief from the stifling fiery fear that pulsed in the room. She wanted to touch him but sensed that it was too soon. She had to reach him only by words, soothe him like a skittish colt before he could tolerate her touch. "You don't believe that, Quinn. After everything that you've been through. Talk to me, tell me what's in your head, please. We can do this. We've done it before. Think of all the nights in the hospital. Remember what Dr Munro said, you're her star patient. Nobody else but you could have got this far."
He shook his head again. "This far? Fuck. What's that stupid saying? 'Be careful what you wish for?' I wanted this, I wanted to be out, well now I've got it." His voice was slow and sorrowful, hitching only slightly as he continued. "And now I know it's not what I fucking want. What a fucking idiot!"
For the first time he turned his head then to look at her and it broke her heart to see his wide damp eyes so desolate, so drenched with despair. She smiled reassuringly, clutching hard at her own courage, as her heart lurched for him. Very slowly she reached out and took hold of his hand, he shuddered at her touch, made as if to retract but held himself still. She sensed the strength then, the rough but solid iron core, buried so deep below this fragile, smooth exterior, yet there still, and hope sparked deep inside her, quietening her internal panic a little.
"I miss it," he continued. "I miss the team, and I miss the feeling of doing something, of making a difference. Even if it was the wrong fucking thing, at least it was something. I had power..." he gulped. She squeezed his hand gently. "Now I am just invalid, worthless..." Her hand tightened as she felt his own begin to tremble.
He was bearing his soul to her, and Carrie knew it was testament to how much he suffered that this intensely private and controlled man was forced to reveal to her so much of the molten current that swirled deep within him. Through all the time she had helped him in his recovery, she had been amazed, witnessing, but not being able to understand, the stoic strength that had pushed him on. He had not given into self pity, he had not wept and wailed, he had not once asked 'why me?' instead he had set himself a recovery plan and worked towards it methodically and mercilessly. To see him now, finally vanquished, so desolate that he was opening himself up to her one final time, sharing his demons, she knew what it was costing him and she saw the responsibility that he was thrusting on to her. There had been times, although never as bad as this, when he had asked for her help before, that she did not handle such a duty, she ran away, lost herself in the bustle of her own noise, found other petty things and pretended they were more important, deserted him. But not now, that damaged girl, so lost in her own selfish need, was gone, now she instinctively knew she had to grasp hold of the brittle vulnerability he revealed and protect it with a savage intensity like she had protected nothing else on the planet. Somewhere deep down the thought spiralled around her head that this must be what love was really about.
"Quinn," she said softly. "You don't have to pass a physical evaluation test to prove you have value. I haven't forgotten that you are where you are because you put yourself on the line for me. I will never, ever forget that."
He shook his head, gritting his teeth. "Not enough," he mumbled.
"It is more than enough. Trust me. Did you really think you were going to get back into black ops after all that you've been through?"
He gulped. "I had to prove..."
"No, you did not. You have proved enough." She lifted her hand and traced the outline of his cheekbone emphasising its sharpness as she continued resolutely,"I can name what is happening to you, I know because I have suffered it too. I know there are demons that come at night, I know the fear they bring, Christ they've stolen enough from me over the years. I know their fucking terrifying screams and I know how their claws rip everything away from you. I know how weak and insignificant they make you. I know that they suck the life from you and replace it with nothing but pure fear until you are so numb you cannot fucking function. I know them and I know you, Quinn. I know you can beat them."
He hesitated, blinking his eyes as it computed in his dulled, over-burdened mind that she understood his pain, that she was actually empathising with him, because she had suffered similar too. Carrie could sense his intense desire to believe her but the grim fear that stalked him was stronger, the power of his own demons too devastating. "I can't see a way out. I can't see how I can escape," he said, tense now, rocking slightly, on the very edge of the abyss."I can't do it. Not now."
"Yes you can. You were the one who told me, who showed me how... Together... We can do this together."
"But I'm not..."
She placed her finger gently on his lips. "Yes, you are."
He shivered violently then, a wretched groan escaped his lips and she feared that she had lost him and he would shatter into a thousand shards of sorrow before her. But, as his crisis was reached, his iron core was revealed and his robust heart revived, grasping hold of the hope she had given him, and she felt the courage begin to beat through him once more. He nodded slowly and gulped, looking down at her hand still clenching his, he returned the squeeze. She pulled him closer, suddenly holding him so tightly as if she was hauling him back from a gaping chasm and he clutched at her, accepting the salvation of her embrace.
They sat entwined for a long time, neither could find the will or the energy to pull away. Quinn pressed his face deep into her hair as if to hide, his body shuddering sporadically and she gently grasped hold of him, never wanting to let go. They were still save the shivering but it was a cherishing, supportive stillness infinitely more healthy than the one which had defined him earlier.
And then it began as she held him in her arms. She felt the statue-like smoothness of him splitting apart, his complex and raw edges spiking outwards as life and faith returned and he came back to himself and she was grateful for it. A long deep sigh and a relaxing of the tightness in his body told Carrie that exhaustion had claimed him and he was in a shallow sleep. Ignoring the discomfort and cramping in her own muscles she continued to hold him as the shadows lengthened in the room. The night grew old and day began to lighten the darkness.