4.2.3

######

Carrie drives away from Langley, frustrated and irritable. She's sure Jordan Harris knows something about what happened in Islamabad and can't quite figure out how to get it out of him. The guy is tense, doing his best not to make waves now that he's been royally fucked over once. But maybe she can work that to her advantage, let him know she can help him.

She wonders if Quinn knows more than he's saying, thinks he must have seen something during his time in Islamabad. Not like he would share with her at the moment, would probably throw her out for showing up at his door.

Carrie sighs, remembers telling herself earlier to look in on him, that he bears watching. Though right now she feels exhausted just thinking about it, knowing that everything is a battle with him at the moment. Yet it's better than going back to Maggie's, dealing with the life that she's dreading.

So she drives up to Quinn's, wonders how she's going to get him to talk to her. Is walking into the courtyard when she hears a woman's voice, talking loudly by the pool.

Carrie's not sure if she's surprised to see Quinn, barely conscious, lolling on a pool chair, an empty fifth of whiskey bobbing in the pool, another half-empty by his side. She is rather surprised, however, to see the woman trying to rouse him, a large redhead who seems to know him.

The woman is telling 'Peter' he needs to get up, get to bed. But Quinn is having nothing of it, can't quite speak by the looks of things.

And it's fucked to see Quinn this wasted, with no bodily control whatsoever. He's twitchy, sloppy, even just lying in the chair. Trying to speak but not quite forming any sounds.

Carrie watches for a moment before the woman finally notices her, gives her a look that says 'do you need something?'

Carrie's immediate reaction is to say who the fuck are you? But she holds back, doesn't need to start a fight when it's obvious the woman is right - that Quinn needs some help.

"Here, let me help with him," Carrie sighs, as she approaches.

The redhead is still hovering over Quinn, shaking him and getting a bare minimum response.

"I don't think there's much you can do," the woman says. "He's pretty out of it."

And she's definitely right about that, Quinn is flailing on the lounger, only half-conscious. The woman shakes his shoulder again to indicate his state and for a moment it looks like he might snap out of it but then he just leans over the side of the chair, pukes up a slurry of alcohol and stomach acid.

Carrie raises her eyebrows, thinks that's another thing she never expected to see. Is a bit concerned about Quinn's state but knows he's just got to get it all out, be put to bed. Which is, again, not something she expects from him. But she's here now and she can't exactly just leave him in a messy heap by the pool.

So she sits beside him, nudges the redhead out of the way. Puts her hand on Quinn's shoulder and shakes him sharply.

"Quinn. You're a mess. Get up," she says sternly, loudly.

The result isn't perfect but it's enough. Quinn snaps his head around, opens his eyes to look at her. Shakes his head, grabs her hand.

"Whaaaaat's wrrrrrong?" he slurs, drawls it out in uneven syllables.

"You're fucking wasted, that's what," she snaps at him. Hopes to keep him talking at least.

Quinn shakes his head, looks to be drifting off into half-consciousness again. So Carrie gives him a little slap on the cheek, just enough to stir him. Thinks she's going to need some assistance from him if she's going to get him into his place.

"Wake up, Quinn. Let's get you cleaned up," she says. "I need your fucking help on this, you know."

And for a moment he looks all business, tries to hop to his feet but stumbles. Carrie helps him up though and they manage a few steps, him leaning haphazardly against her.

She has to give him credit for being fairly ambulatory despite his condition and they zigzag their way to his place where she finds the door unlocked, the floor littered with alcoholic debris.

Quinn staggers to the bathroom and she watches him hurl up another round of alcohol and stomach acid, thinks it looks like he hasn't consumed anything but alcohol all day.

Carrie still can't get over the state he's in, has never seen him lose control in this way and she isn't exactly thrilled to be there, to be the one figuratively holding his hair back as he loses the contents of his stomach. But she's there now and can't exactly just leave him like this, half-conscious on the bathroom floor.

So she waits, lets him heave until he's got nothing left then watches as he leans forward, passes out.

Carrie shakes her head, asks herself how she ended up being the one to deal with Quinn. Thinks it's her own fault, that she put herself in this position by letting him get too close, to the point where she actually gave a shit about him.

And now she's here, waking him up, helping him pull his shirt off. She can tell he's still confused why she's there, tries to push her off as she's trying to help.

"Fuck off, Carrie," he mumbles. "I don't need you."

Carrie huffs in annoyance, just wants to get him off the bathroom floor and into bed. Does not need to pointlessly fight with him while he's wasted. They do enough of that already while sober, she thinks.

"Well, fuck Quinn," she replies. "I can't just leave you here on the floor. Let's get you to bed and then I'll leave you the fuck alone."

Quinn gives her a sloppy drunken version of his serious irritated look and it's almost enough to make her amused at the situation instead of annoyed. Reminds her that he may be a stubborn asshole but he's also a friend, one of few in her life. And she figures this is a one off, that she's never going to see him like this again, that he actually does need help.

"Come on, bedtime for the drunken sailor," she quips sarcastically, helping him off the floor.

And he scowls again but accepts her assistance, lets her stumble him into bed, where he passes out instantly.

Carrie sits on the edge of the bed, watches him for a moment. Thinks he should be fine now, just needs to sleep it off. But she can't pretend she isn't concerned about him, that coping by drinking is not a sustainable option. Not that she hasn't been guilty of the same. But this is out of character for Quinn, makes it feel like he's really far gone.

She knows he's no stranger to emotional crises, that he has his ups and downs. But through it all he's always been solid, steel. Someone she can count on.

And now Carrie can see he's bad off but she has no idea what to do about it. In some ways she feels like she doesn't fucking know him at all, that there are layers to Quinn that she's only caught glimpses of. Yet it's clear he's having a hard time, really fucking struggling. And she knows it has something to do with her.

But Carrie also knows she can't crack his hardened veneer, not with the defensiveness she's seeing in him. Thinks there's not much she can do for him, that he's a big boy, can take care of himself. Because the truth is she is having a fucking hard time herself, does not have the capacity to worry about Quinn too.

"Please be okay, Quinn," she says to no one in particular. Because he has to be alright, she can't have it any other way. Yet she can't do anything about it either, just can't deal with his issues right now.

So she gives him one last look, sighs to herself with a sad half-smile. It's somehow endearing yet disheartening to see Quinn so defenseless, all his demons escaping through the hole in him. She hopes it's just temporary, that he gets his shit together once she figures out how to get them back there, find out what the fuck is going on.

Carrie stands up to go. Shakes her head, sighs again at the situation in front of her. It's too much in every way, work, family, Quinn, all going to shit at once. And all she knows is she needs to get the fuck away, needs Quinn to just go back to being his reliable self.

Because something big is happening and she needs something, someone, to back onto.

######

Quinn wakes with a start, fleeting images of blood in his mind, a parched wasteland in his mouth. He groans at the thunder in his head, the rawness of his guts. Wonders how he made it to bed when the last he really remembers is being poolside.

It's a battle to slough himself out of bed to get some water, try to alleviate the alcoholic desert in his mouth. But with a concerted effort he makes it out the bedroom, manages to slam back some water before lying down again on the couch, hand over his eyes.

He's trying to make sense of the collage of memory flashes in his head, mostly remembers finally getting rid of Carrie in the afternoon and starting in on the first bottle of rye. There's some flashes of his new friend, the redhead and he remembers her scolding him about glass bottles again but by then he must have been pretty far gone already, can only just see the edges of the memory.

And then there's a few scenes he thinks must be from his dream. Carrie sitting on his bed, asking him to be okay. Because that was ever going to happen.

Yet it seems quite clear, stands out vividly through the memory mash. And then other odd images pop through, stumbling home supported by someone. Puking up alcoholic sludge, a certain presence standing behind him.

All of which adds up to something he doesn't want to consider, especially with the raging headache he's already experiencing. Thinks it's all too unlikely anyways, that his head is just filling in the blanks with fictional material.

Quinn closes his eyes, tries to deny the veracity of what he vaguely remembers. Is sorting through what's possibly real and what's a dream when he hears a knock on the door, the voice of his new redheaded friend asking if he's alright.

And he is and he isn't. But either way he figures he should at least tell her he's fine so she'll leave him alone until his headache abates. He does remember her trying to get him up the previous night, that she seemed concerned about him as always. So he at least owes her an apology, hopes he didn't do anything worse than pass out at the pool.

Quinn opens the door, gives her his best attempt at a smile.

"Hey. Sorry about last night," he mutters, hopes that's all she's looking for.

She gives him a considered look, frowns a little, looks concerned about his disheveled appearance.

"You were in quite a state," she replies, raising her eyebrows.

Quinn sighs, does not like it when he has gaps in his memory. It makes him feel out of control, unlike himself.

"Yeah. Well, thanks for getting me home," he says, remembering that she was trying to get him up at some point, thinks it's the only way he would have made it to bed. And it explains the memories of being helped up the stairs, of someone watching him pray to the porcelain gods.

But looking at her, Quinn realizes right away that he missed the mark. She's wearing an expression he hasn't seen from her before, somewhere between concern and irritation.

"That wasn't me," she replies, gives him a pointed look.

And Quinn groans, knows exactly what that means. That he hasn't conflated real life and his dream, that the flashes of false memory are likely real.

"Oh," he says, rubs his eyes with a clammy hand. "So she really was here."

She nods, gives him a pointed look.

"Yeah. Who is she?" she asks.

Quinn exhales loudly, thinks this is exactly what he doesn't need at the moment. He doesn't even know the answer to the question, much less how to explain it to this relative stranger.

"A friend," he finally mutters. Thinks to himself he's not even sure of that but there's nothing else he can say.

"She isn't very nice," she replies.

And Quinn finds the energy to at least smirk at that, thinks to himself, no, no she isn't. But he isn't about to talk about Carrie with his new friend, especially when just thinking about her makes his head pound even harder.

So he just grimaces, gives a little nod to indicate his agreement with her statement. And thankfully she gets the hint, doesn't push it.

"Well, just wanted to make sure you didn't drown in your own vomit," she says, a little snappily.

Quinn groans internally, thinks he didn't need that piece of information verified again. He can't remember the last time he was so far gone he puked but he does recall that he hadn't eaten anything the previous day. Not that it helped him feel any better about the situation, just added to the list of things hanging over his head.

"Thanks," he manages to mutter. "But you don't need to check up on me."

She looks like she disagrees but doesn't argue the point. Just gives him another disapproving look and says "okay then" before turning and walking away.

Quinn closes the door, runs his hands through his bristly hair. Exhales loudly then sits down, tries his best to elicit the reality of the night before.

He brings himself back to the pool deck, remembers the redhead trying to get him up, then suddenly Carrie is there and she slaps him softly. Quinn startles at the memory, can still feel the little smack on his cheek. And now he can hear her scolding him through the haze of drink, remembers getting up because she tells him he has to.

Great, he thinks. Even two bottles drunk he can't escape her effect. But he supposes she did haul him home, clean him up. Which is too much to contemplate at the moment, makes his throat constrict.

Because he still wants to be pissed off at her, gets worked up every time she hits his mind. Which is all the fucking time. His personal trigger for flashbacks, dreams, all that shit. So that doesn't exactly help, has him caught up in that fucking moment, in the choice he made.

Quinn knows he's losing it, has never been so affected by something. Not even when he killed the boy. He lived through that a lot too. But it wasn't like this.

So he sits, head in hands, trying not to think about Carrie. Pretends to himself that he isn't dreading every minute of his future. Sandy's funeral, all those people. Everyone's seen the video, seen him leave the scene, leave Sandy to die.

And just thinking about it is enough for the mental tape to play again, throws him back into the car, Carrie yelling in his ear. He relives the choice, plays his role. Feels the pain the moment, the claws of doubt.

Which just brings him full cycle, back to forgetting, or at least trying to black it out. Quinn looks around, finds a bottle with a few shots left in it. Uncaps it and throws down a shot, feels it hit his raw stomach, relaxes as it travels to his brain.

He tells himself the funeral isn't until the next day, then wonders if he'll have figured out what to say to Carrie by then. Not that anything has an effect on her, but clearly she still has a fucking effect on him. Because his head is a wreck and it's not just the hangover. It's this in and out game they play, somewhere between colleagues and friends, somehow responsible to each other.

But whatever Carrie is playing now, he knows he can't play along. He's a fucking wreck, a danger to himself and everyone else. And right now he has no intention of stopping the downward spiral so Quinn tilts his head back, downs the rest of the bottle.