Back Together Again

He woke with a startled jerk, his eyes wide and wild, darting around the room as he pulled away from her. She watched him intently, frightened that his petrifying sadness and fear may have returned.

"OK?" she asked.

Sensing her concern, he nodded his head slowly and ran his hand through his hair.

He appeared stronger, she knew he was resilient, but Carrie wondered if it was too soon to build on the progress they had made. She slowly sat back and hesitantly offered, "I met a friend of yours yesterday." Quinn's eyes were calmer as he looked at her and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Rob," she said and as his face darkened she rushed on. "He's been trying to get hold of you."

Quinn snorted in a characteristically dismissive gesture that perversely Carrie found incredibly reassuring. "He's an asshole," he muttered, his voice was tough and yet honeyed with the same sincerity that Rob had used when cursing him previously.

"He spoke very highly of you too," Carrie continued dryly. "He has a proposal for you."

Quinn moved properly for the first time since she had entered the room what seemed like a lifetime ago. He stood up stiffly as if his body was suddenly made old by the strain of what he had gone through, and he lurched away from her. It was easy to forget how close to death he had been nine short months ago, his whole body killing itself as it fought off a malicious virus and all of his major organs shut down. It was easy to forget because Quinn had recovered so well but Carrie remembered it all, every agonised whimper that he tried so hard to bite back, every painful prod, the weaning off the life-sustaining machines, endless tests, drugs that made him ill, nightmares punctuating the darkness, every muscle-straining exercise, the joy of finally walking out of the hospital and the slavish stamina to complete his programme to rebuild his broken body. It all rushed back to her now as she saw his stumbling gait, and she realised just how much more the evaluation and the harsh reality of his failure must have taken from him.

She stood up and grabbed him before he fell. "Are you OK?"

"Fine," he snapped. Carrie knew that he was still fragile beyond belief but she also realised that it had always been, and would always be, that way, until now he had simply managed to keep this vulnerability hidden behind the strongest of walls. If she wanted to help him, to love him, as she knew she did, she must accept both his strength and his weakness and she must not berate him for either. She must be patient and understand that he would hide his deep insecurity behind the confident facade he showed the world and that abrasive sureness, in turn, would easily spark her off. She must accept that such friction made them stronger. She pressed on. "You should consider it."

He snorted. "He wants me to train them," he said knowingly as he moved away from her support.

"Have you spoken to him?" She let him go but continued to watch him to see if he would falter again.

"No. I don't need to, HR are always at it. It's what they do to redeploy the fucked-up no-hopers."

"You have skills that should be passed on. You have a wealth of experience that could help the new guys out."

"Those that can do those that can't train!" His voice was withering as he gave into the exhaustion that was causing his legs to tremor and sat down on the seat furthest away from her.

"At least consider it." She knew he was tired and she hated herself for doing it but she honestly believed she still had to push him on this subject at least.

"I have."

"Consider it more."

"I don't need to."

"Why not?" She stopped, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him suspiciously.

He almost smiled, nodded his head towards his whiskey glass, still untouched. "Maybe I'll have that drink now."

She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I'll join you and we can toast." She passed the glass to him before refilling her own. "We certainly have sufficient supplies!"

"Toast what?" His voice had taken on an air of tired apprehension as he eyed her doubtfully.

She shrugged. "To successful missions!"

He cocked his head, bleary eyes narrowing to suspicious sharpness. "What do you mean?"

Her smile was sugary sweet. "Nothing, only that you got a chance to help me out with a little operation I'm running as well as becoming the best goddamn trainer black ops ever had."

"An operation?"

"What, you think just cos you're out of action for a while the rest of the world stops? I need your help in fighting some real life fucking demons."

He nodded wearily and raised his glass. "To Carrie fucking Mathison; let's go chase our demons, both real and imaginary, together!" His voice was resigned but she saw the warm gratitude flicker in his expressive eyes as he hesitated and then said simply, "Thanks."

Though she knew he would never utter any further reference to what had happened that night, this simple acknowledgement was enough for her.

Quinn woke with a start as spring sunshine leaked through a gap in the drapes bathing the right side of his face in warmth. He gulped as the well known pain, his constant waking companion now, slithered silkily through his muscles. His head felt like wet wool, so he lay still, eyes closed, breathing deep, as he summoned the energy to reach across to grab the ever present painkillers from the side of the bed and dry swallow a couple. It was his morning ritual and he followed it religiously, laying back, waiting, as if he could feel the drug working to lessen the pain.

But physical pain was easy, he had spent a lifetime ignoring it, it was the emotional kind that he increasingly found difficult to deal with. His mind was on the verge of racing, of taking him to memories where he didn't want to go to. He fought to keep it blank for a little longer, imagining himself on a mission, searching for the peace that only being truly immersed in his field of expertise could bring. The calm eluded him, as it always seemed to now and reluctantly he let the fuzzy memory of the night before enter his conscience and with it a mass of conflicting emotion. Firstly came relief; she had come, he admitted to himself now that earlier the previous night as he sat in his paralysing, hopeless torment, he had worried that she would not, that she would find better things to do with her precious time. Resignation hit him then, that he would not blame her if she had, especially as he hadn't been honest with her about the black ops stuff. Then amazement, she had understood his pain, not just understood but helped him to fight it, brought him back when he knew that without her he would have been irrevocably lost. And then embarrassment and shame; fuck, she had seen him in that state, so weak, so out of it, how could she have anything but contempt for him now?

But she hadn't left; she had stayed and pulled him through. Or had she?

His gut twisted as he opened his eyes glancing to his left, the bed was empty. So she wasn't there now, maybe she had had afterthoughts, realised anew what a fuck up he was and gone? Maybe he would never see her again. The rush of fear strengthened within him then but he refused to succumb to it... Enough fucking thinking! He pulled himself up, ignoring the screaming in his body, stumbling to the shower, the water cleansing and relieving his body, if not his battered mind.

He donned a towel and hobbled to the kitchen, in desperate need of caffeine. It was there that he saw it, propped by the coffee jar, a quickly handwritten note. Jesus, his mind spun off into despair again; surely not like this? Trembling hand reached and picked it up, fearful eyes running along the words and then a relieved grunt at the end. She was gone but only to work and she gave an address, for him to follow, if he wanted to.

He made the coffee, telling himself to calm down. He had to stop falling into these frightening pits of fear that told him everything was about to go to hell. And yet everything was so raw, so sensitive and the fear so close. Fuck it! He had to find some fucking confidence once more.

Back in the bedroom, he went to the closet and reached out to take the next shirt as he always did but the hook was strangely empty. He looked at it for a long time, not able to continue as his familiar routine was out, his rhythm off. Then shaking his head ruefully at his own stupid rigidity, he preceded to get dressed.

The drive downtown was uneventful, in fact quite enjoyable as he relished his habitual colourful cursing at the other drivers on the road. And, as he stood outside the address Carrie had given him, even with the sudden flurry of apprehension in his gut, he felt almost good. Good enough that nobody else would be able to perceive the doubts in his mind or imagine where he had been the night before which was the just the way he wanted it.

Carrie opened the door and her appraising smile fed his newfound confidence. "Looking good," she said supportively. She hesitated, gravitating toward him, as if considering an action, but then thought better of it and turned away. He followed her into the darkened interior and then stopped in surprise as he saw what could only be described as a CIA operations room with screens flickering in the dull light. Over in the corner was a whiteboard with photographs and scribbles. "What the fuck?" he muttered.

Carrie beamed. "Welcome to Operation Chasing Demons!" she said proudly.

The figure hunched over the nearest screen turned, his features accentuated by the light of the monitor, were very familiar. "Max?" Quinn said. Max nodded not trying to hide that distasteful grimace that he seemed to reserve especially for Quinn. There was further movement from the kitchen area where the light shone on an unmistakeable balding head. "Virgil?" Quinn said.

"Hi Peter," Virgil responded. "Sorry to hear about the physical assessment result."

Quinn sniffed. "Life is full of disappointments," he muttered as his eyes continued to take in the contents of the room.

"Don't look so shocked," Carrie said clearly enjoying his surprised reaction.

"Shocked? I'm worried that Senator Lockhart is gonna come out of the john at any minute," Quinn shot back dryly.

Carrie's smile widened approvingly. "Quinn, did you just make a joke?" she asked with mock seriousness.

He stiffened and looked confused for a second before spitting back. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

Carrie's hand moved unconsciously to the collar. "Yeah, I got whiskey on my blouse last night getting you into bed."

A wave of irritation flashed through Quinn at what they had inadvertently revealed. He tried to ignore the knowing look that passed between Virgil and Max and then something deep inside him realised he was actually quite enjoying the moment, that he had missed such interaction and he allowed himself a half smile for a second. "Is someone gonna tell me what the fuck is going on here?" he growled.

"All in good time," Carrie retorted. She picked up a pile of files from one of the desks. "In the meantime I suggest you have a look at these. I'm interested to see what you make of them."

He took the offered files, ignoring the fact that their weight made his muscles shudder and pulled a face. "Paper copies? Haven't you got these electronically?" he asked.

Carrie snorted. "And that is the point," she replied cryptically. "I got to go." Again she hesitated. "Don't forget to call Rob." That supportive smile creased her lips for an instant and she was gone, leaving the scent of her perfume on the air and two men staring awkwardly at the newcomer.

"Right," Quinn said finally, biting his lip. "Guess I better do what the boss says."

Quinn read all the files that Carrie had given him but they still didn't give him much of an idea of exactly what was going on and what was at stake. His muscles were screaming from being confined too long in one place and he stood up, lurching stiffly towards the kitchen area. He arrived there at the same time as Virgil who, from the look on his face, obviously had something serious on his mind.

Quinn raised his eyebrows in question. Virgil gulped. "I think it only right for me to say, as Carrie's father isn't around any more, and since things have obviously taken a step forward with you and her..." He stopped, licked his lips. "That if you ever hurt her I will..."

Quinn's eyebrows rose higher in disbelief."Virgil," his voice matched his eyes, ice cold. "Are you fucking threatening me?"

Virgil gulped, turned a sick green colour, glanced over to where Max was watching them intently, and groaned softly but nodded nevertheless.

Quinn shook his head. "The whole world has gone fucking mad!" he observed wistfully.