Carrie looks over at Quinn, puts her hand on his shoulder, not sure if it's to reassure her or him.
He's hunched over in the seat, face covered in cold sweat, blood everywhere. His eyes are closed, but she can tell he's still with her, can see him silently groaning, trying to muffle the pain.
She gives him a little shake, needs him to stay conscious. They're closing in on his hideout and she's going to need his assistance in getting him inside, dealing with the wound.
"Quinn, I need you stay awake for me," she says sharply, tries to stir him to attention.
He snaps to, opens his eyes obediently and she takes it as a poor sign. If Quinn's not arguing with her he must be pretty bad off, she thinks. Otherwise he'd still be telling her to get on a train, saying he's fine.
But at least he's alert as they finally pull into the hideout, able to help her as she clamours around, helps him out of the car.
Arms around him, Carrie supports him as he stumbles along, grunts in pain. He almost falls, but she catches his weight, doesn't let him go. Then she finally gets him to the bed, where she checks his back, sees a lot of blood and an exit wound.
"Good, it went through," Quinn grunts, while she's thinking of everything a bullet could have hit going through him. It's a lot more than a flesh wound, Carrie realizes in half panic. There could be some serious damage in there.
"It could have hit an artery," she says, really thinks he needs a doctor, more than she can do. She should have taken him to a hospital, despite his objections, she thinks again. But also knows why he's refusing, that he will not give in on this.
"I'd have bled out by now," he replies, not really making her feel any better about the situation. But now that they're here, there's nothing she can do except get some drugs into him, wrap him up, hope for the best.
"We need to get some morphine into you," she says, looking at the expression in his face, knows it has to be pretty fucking bad.
Quinn tells her there's a medical kit on the bench and Carrie hurries to grab it as she listens to him gasp in pain, breathe in shallow laboured breaths. She's filling the syringe when he lets out a little moan that hits her in the gut, tells her she's about to lose him.
"Quinn, you with me?" she asks.
He opens his eyes again, and Carrie again sees all the pain he doesn't want to admit to. Knows he's really doing badly if he's letting her see it, has a slightly desperate look in his eyes.
So she deals with that first, shoots the morphine in his hip, as he grunts in pain. Then opens up the pads, tells him they need to put some pressure on his wounds.
She tries to ignore the amount of blood coming from him, puts the pad over his wound and helps him pull himself back up to sitting. He's holding the pads now, putting pressure on and she's pulling to get the bandage around when Quinn starts to slip, drops to her shoulder with another moan.
By the time Carrie finally gets the bandage wrapped tight, he's passed out on her shoulder, his blood-splattered arm wrapped around her tight. She feels him nestle into her, tells herself it's just the morphine kicking in, the shock he's just been through.
But she also knows Quinn, that he wouldn't drop these walls for anyone else, not in any situation. And she remembers all those ways he looked out for her, how he was always there for her. An almost sweet Quinn. Not that she would ever think of him like that. But he had his moments.
And now he's nested in the crook of her shoulder, still hanging onto her tightly. Carrie would like to get him out of his bloody clothing, but it'll be a lot easier with his help. And part of her doesn't want to disturb him yet, wants to let him have a content moment.
She thinks to herself how strange it is to be sitting here, holding a vulnerable Quinn after the day they just had. And she knows he will blame it on the morphine, but Carrie knows it's not only that, that this is what he needs. It's something he would never allow himself, except in this precise circumstance, his every wall knocked down by pain and medication. He would never even admit to the want, probably not even to himself.
But right now, it's a meeting of moments, two years of absence held tight between them. Quinn stirs, settles into her, lets himself have the comfort in being taken care of. And for once, she can give him this, let him know that she won't leave him. Holds onto him tightly, prays that he's going to be okay.
#
Quinn comes to with a most unfamiliar feeling of comfort, safety. For a moment he can't figure out where he is, what is going on. And then he remembers holding the dressings, Carrie wrapping them tight, the pressure making him pass out.
Still not quite conscious, Quinn wonders how long he was out. Then suddenly freezes with the realization that he's still tucked into Carrie's shoulder, holding her tight.
Even more absurdly, she's wrapped her arm around him too, is absently rubbing his back with her thumb. Quinn can feel it now that the pain has dulled from the hole in his side, the morphine finally getting some traction.
And despite the throbbing still present throughout his body, it feels like nothing else. Total release, all of his flaws out in the open, an invitation to hurt him. But also everything he's wanted, yet would never admit to.
It's all so confounding Quinn tries to sit up, resists the urge to just settle up against her, let her take care of him. But his attempt ends up being little more than a weak movement, a pathetic moan. At first he wonders if the sound came from him, then realizes it's the only option. Which then makes him realize that the morphine has only dulled the pain so far, that he is also weak with shock and Carrie's proximity.
And now Quinn remembers making some pretty pitiful noises earlier, wonders what the hell has gotten into him. Not that he wasn't in pain, as bad as he's experienced in a long time. But he has better self-control than that, has standards he expects to meet. His stoicism is his only armour. And rarely does he let it fall even in the most dire of circumstances.
Which these aren't, not yet. Not ideal circumstances by any stretch of the imagination. But he's alive, and Carrie's here. And somehow it is both heaven and hell, the thing he wants so badly, the thing he tries to resist. So he had let it go, slipped out of his need to be steel.
Quinn tells himself it's just the morphine that let him give in. But he knows that really, she's the drug he can't fucking resist. Still, whatever it is, he's in pain, vulnerable. So he had himself have it, her comfort, her concern. And now he's not sure he ever wants to give it back.
Carrie finally notices he's conscious, tells him she needs to get him out of his clothes.
And it's all so unlikely. To wake up in Carrie's arms, in this situation. He would laugh, make a baited comment if he had the energy. But everything's concentrated on pure survival now, he has nothing to spare.
Quinn does his best to sit up, braces himself with one arm, tells himself to fucking breathe. The morphine is doing it's job but he's still cold with sweat, weak, in shock.
He manages to take off half the jacket before Carrie puts her hand on his shoulder to stop him, pulls him toward her, gently peels the rest of it off. Then, slowly, she tugs his bloody t-shirt up over his head as he lifts his arms obediently for her as asked, manages to only gasp in pain minimally.
Shirt off, morphine kicking in hard, Quinn looks at Carrie, can't quite believe this is really happening. But there she is, looking him over with a very worried eye.
"Lie down, Quinn," she says, and it sounds like a fantastic idea, just what he needs.
She hovers over him, all concern, as he lowers himself painfully to the mattress, then tucks the blanket up over him, gently wipes the sweat away from his forehead. And this time Quinn doesn't resist the electricity of the feeling, doesn't try to tell himself he doesn't fucking love it.
"I think I might like you drugged up," Carrie says with the barest of smiles. "You're not so difficult."
Drugged up me knows he fucking likes you, Quinn muses to himself. Difficult or not.
Lying there, somewhere between levels of consciousness, Quinn thinks to himself yet again that she's different now. He's surprised she seems so genuinely concerned about him after all this time, after she'd left the Agency behind, after he'd run off without a word. He hadn't predicted that. But then again she was just ultimately unpredictable, he remembers.
Carrie's different, but the same, Quinn thinks. Just as he is.
She's more open, a bit softer. Yet just as fucking determined, infuriating. And he's closed himself off, shut off all non-essential instincts. But he obviously still has the same weakness, his one fatal flaw.
You fell asleep on her shoulder, Quinn thinks to himself. Fucking hell.
Through dimmed eyes, he watches as Carrie gets cleaned up, washes his blood off her for the second time of the day. And he wonders how this all happened, what fate is trying to say to him.
Really he's been wondering that since sitting in outside the post office, looking at her name. Right then he knew it was a test, even thought he had the right answer. Thought he could do it, get her out without any personal involvement.
And now here he is, bullet to the side, both their lives at risk. Fuck, Carrie, Quinn thinks. This is what life is like when you're in it.
But as he passes out again Quinn has to admit to himself that he's missed it, that he's missed her. That he's glad to be with her, regardless of any trouble to come.
#
Quinn's finally passed out again, still wearing a grimace of pain even in his sleep. Carrie watches him breathe as she wipes his blood off of her yet again, thinks to herself he should be in a hospital, not on a dingy cot in a Berlin dungeon.
But she knows he won't go, doesn't want to attract any attention. Whoever ordered the hit will be looking for any survivors at hospitals, in police files. And maybe realize that he's not the only one who's still alive, come looking for them both.
Carrie wonders if he really thought refusing to go to the hospital was going to lead to her getting on a train. That she would really leave him in the parking lot of the train station bleeding to death.
At least he's consistent, she thinks. About hospitals. And about her.
Carrie sighs, tells herself that he's stubborn as fuck, will survive this. Tries to tell herself the same thing, that she will get through this.
It's barely been a week since Otto insisted on going to Lebanon, since she had a perfectly normal life. Jonas, Frannie, a mostly nine to five job. The most drama she had to deal with was Laura Sutton accusing her of still being CIA.
And now she's on the run, in hiding. Supposedly dead, holed up with another half-dead operative who also now has a target on his back.
Carrie shakes her head, takes a breath. Tells herself she's got this; that they are both going to be fine. Suddenly remembers all the way back to his hospital room Gettysburg, thinks that may have been the first time she realized he was likable after all.
She smiles to herself at the memory, finishes wiping her hands off and remembers about the phone. Takes it out, tells herself it's time to figure out what the hell is going on.
#
Quinn comes to again, tries to blink away the morphine haze in his eyes before remembering what happened, where he is.
He sees that Carrie's just finished washing up, thinks he must not have been out for too long. Then she pulls out the cell phone she grabbed at the scene, looks at the picture she took of their assailant.
It had been quick thinking on her part to have gotten the phone and the picture in the middle of all the action. He had seen the instinct kick into her instantly, watched as she reacted exactly as needed. Just like riding a bike, he thinks to himself. She will never just be a civilian.
Carrie tells him there's only one number saved to the memory of the phone and he tells her to call it.
She dials and listens, gets a look on her face that he's not quite able to read.
"What happened?" he asks after she hangs up the phone, stares at it contemplatively.
Carrie looks at him, clearly thinking hard.
"I'm not sure," she says, doesn't explain any further.
"Come on, Carrie,' Quinn mutters. "Tell me what it was."
But Carrie just gives him a stern look, shakes her head.
"You have more important things to worry about," she says, walking over, looking down at him. "Rest, Quinn."
He looks at her, tries not to waver. But he already knows that he's a lost cause, that there never was any hope for him.
Because Carrie's got that look that says she's back in the game, that shit is on. And he remembers her exactly, all those things he spent two years trying to forget. Knows if someone can figure it out, it's Carrie. But this is exactly what he was trying to avoid, just wanted the easy, safe solution of getting her to disappear. Keep her out of the picture completely.
And yet here he is, looking up at the worry in her face and trying to convince himself he doesn't want this. Again Quinn tells himself it's the drugs, the pain - that he feels like shit, knows his situation is not good. But no matter how much he wants her gone for her own safety, he still has to admit that part of him is really fucking glad that she is there, knows he would never think that about anyone else.
As if to accentuate the point to him, Carrie reaches down, puts her hand on his bare chest. "Sleep, Quinn," she says softly. "I need you to get better."
And this time he doesn't argue, closes his eyes, falls asleep under the ghost of her touch.