ch: carrie mathison


“But the deal with spy stories is that the levels get confused, by design, because that’s what being a spy is: A story that is also a girl telling a story about a girl telling a story. It’s a collapsible wave; you are all these people at once. You are everything you’ve agreed to be, all of the time, even when you are sleeping – even when you are fucking – and that’s how the goods are different from the greats.” –Jacob Clifton

Homeland snap fanfic No.28 – I thought my nursing days were behind me...

CARRIE - I got pretty good at this, I’ll have you know. You don’t remember.
QUINN - I do.

OK so basically, without meaning to, it looks like at this stage in S06, EVERYTHING I WRITE is just going to turn into Carrie & Quinn making out, until it ACTUALLY HAPPENS, goddamn it. I don’t mean it to. Possibly everything I write for the next three weeks will end with the words “They kiss.”. I should write a scene that starts with them cleaning the toilet together and see if they end up kissing (they will).

This is also a rebuttal to the WTH claim that there is nothing sexy about Carrie tending Q’s wounds. Dedicated to @sensemisapplied because I know how much she lurves this shit! ;) (sorry. I won’t be offended if you can’t read it!)

New York? The Flag House? Wherever. Quinn has just told Carrie (almost) everything. The midnight abduction. Astrid’s murder. The guy with the hat - Dar’s guy. But not the rest. Not Dar’s darkest words.

CARRIE - Jesus. Astrid?

She looks at the floor, trying to take it all in.

And how are you?

He breathes out heavily, looks into the corner, evading her gaze.

Are you OK? Do you have your meds? I can get/

QUINN - I have meds.

Reluctantly, pulls his sweater aside, shows her the gunshot wound.

CARRIE - Fuck. Is that a bullet wound? Motherfucker. Can I see?

He pulls away.

Quinn. Just let me see.

He lets her approach and gently peel back the dressing.

Shit. We need to clean this. Were you in the lake with this?

QUINN - It’s fine. I cleaned it.

CARRIE - You don’t get any say in this. I am NOT seeing you go down with septicaemia. Again. Sit down.

QUINN - Carrie.


Eyebrows raised from the blast, he does.

She goes off to the bathroom, comes back with some basic medical kit she’s cobbled together from what was in the cupboards.

Can you get your sweater off? 

Slowly, laboriously, he gets his coat off. She resists - just - the temptation to help him.

He pulls his sweater and shirt up over his head with his right hand, but then he’s stuck. It hurts too much, it’s too awkward, to tiring, his paralysed arm just too hard to manoeuvre with the addition of a bullet wound to the “safe place”.

CARRIE - Please let me.

For a split second he goes to resist - but realises it’s pointless. Lets her gradually, carefully, peel the sweater down over the top of his shoulder. As she does…

CARRIE - We haven’t done this for a while. I thought my nursing days were behind me.

QUINN - Thank fuck.

CARRIE - I’m sorry?! I got pretty good at this I’ll have you know. You don’t remember.

QUINN - I do.

He looks right at her, deadly serious, and she stops. They’re inches from each other. Her hands are on his skin. They breathe. How have they suddenly gone from her nursing him to something very different? But Quinn won’t overstep the line. He did that once before, after the dream, and he knows how that goes. He breathes heavily and bites the inside of his mouth.

Carrie feels her whole world tilt a little at the discovery that he remembers those early days in the hospital. When he was so vulnerable, so frightened, so harmed and helpless, when neither of them knew if he’d ever talk, walk, get back even a part of the man he had been. Or whether this would be life for him now.

She suddenly feels closer to him than she has at any time since those days of intimacy and caring, when he would watch her with his huge blue eyes, lack of  speech placing him a world away, but by touch so close, as she moved his limbs through the well-worn routines of dressing, of physio, of moving and stretching and cushioning him to alleviate the pain. Then he broke away, like an angry adolescent, refused her attempts to help, leaving her watching, impotent, as he struggled to manage his unruly body for himself. And now here he is, back in her hands. Like a newly-cast version of the man she knows so well. Part-mended. Cracked open. Vulnerable. Heart showing.

She gulps and breaks his gaze, looks at her hands as she runs them tenderly over his shoulder, down his arm, peels his sleeve off, ends with his left hand held in both of hers. Stops. They both look at his hand, cradled in hers.

A pause that seems to last forever.

He realises she’s crying.

QUINN - (Softly) You OK?

CARRIE - I’m sorry.

She wipes a tear away, embarrassed. Still looking down at his left hand, cradled in her right.

(Whispers) I just hate that this happened to you. I fucking hate seeing you suffer. You’ve really suffered.

He smiles.

QUINN - I’m pretty brave. 

She laughs.

CARRIE - You really are.

He raises his right hand to her face, cradles it, his thumb wipes away a tear.

But as he does it, his stomach flips. He used to feel so sure in these moments. Knew that movements like this would make women crumble at his charm. Now his certainties are all gone. Is this about to end in anger again, in humiliation?

She feels his hand falter. Sees the worry cross his face.

CARRIE - It’s OK. It’s OK. 

She places her hand over his. Smiles.

He smiles a little back at her. That lopsided smile she occasionally got from him in the hospital on the rare occasions things went right.

I should dress your wound.

She makes no movement to do so, doesn’t even glance away from his gaze.

They breathe.

She realises. He won’t move on her. After the dream. She has to do this. 

She releases his left hand, raises both her hands to the back of his neck. Grasps him and pulls him to her. Stops for a moment right in front of him so that their breaths combine. They kiss.