Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January 2018

Figuring out beginnings is such a bitch. Seriously.

If you think it’s hard to predict the ending of a good thriller, try this: take an important thing in your life and try to figure out how it started. You know what? Forget how . Just try when .

See?

The moment you think you have it - that exact moment that made it all possible - you start wondering… About the choices you made in your life that shaped you into who you were the day the two of you met, and the circumstances that brought your patrol car into that bar. About the day you chose the police academy over college. About the way you chose to wear your hair that day, because later he’d said that it was the way it framed your face that made him just stare at you in the holding cell. About picking up a pile of someone’s dry cleaning on a hunch. A gut feeling, really. About letting him go. About kissing him many years later, despite being married. Just because he needed it. And then realising that your whole marriage had been one big misunderstanding. A fool’s errand of mistaking the need to have someone in your life with the need for love. Because love is when you can’t sleep for months, wondering if he’d ever gotten over killing that child.

Then, and this is in no chronological order, there is the day that you sit in front of your child, having told him there was something important you need to talk about, and not even knowing where to start. Because the beginnings can do that to you - fuck with your mind until you’re lost in the debris of your own lifetime. Because the truth is, the day your child was born was not even the beginning of his story. And it sure as hell was not the beginning of that one thing that you’re still trying to figure out.

Funny enough, though, you end up chuckling at your own thoughts, letting out a long sigh, looking down at the cup of coffee in your hand and thinking…

‘... it began with a broken cup.’

A cup identical to this one, in fact. It is one from her favourite set - tall, muddy green coffee mugs. There used to be six of them - only three left now.

It all probably started the day one of them slipped from her hand and shattered at her feet, spilling coffee all over the kitchen floor. Chronologically, it makes no sense. But then, beginnings are sneaky like that - they really have nothing to do with time.

It was over a year and a half ago. She was listening to the news and getting ready for work. She’d been divorced for almost three years by then. And it all already seemed like a long forgotten dream. Like it had never even happened.

She has three deep scars on her back to remind her of that day. That, and the fact that what had until then been four green mugs is now three.

And then there is this…

A hand comes from behind her, unceremoniously taking her mug and gone just as fast. She turns around, ready to protest, just in time to see him walk into the kitchen. She sees him going through the drawers until he finds a tall paper cup. He pours her coffee into it, places it on the counter, then finds the remaining two green mugs and dumps all three into the trash can. He walks back over and hands her the coffee in a paper cup.

Paper cups don’t break. You don’t end up slipping on the spilled coffee and falling on the shards so hard you need surgery to remove some from your back.

As he talks on the phone with his faculty adviser, he runs a hand along her back. The scars are tangible even through her blouse. His thumb lingers over them, each and every one, and his eyes never leave hers. He has this thing about him - saying everything while saying nothing at all. It’s the eyes. And the lips, when he leans down to place a kiss on her temple. They say ‘No more green cups to hurt you. Ever’. Then he takes a sip from her coffee and grins defiantly. This man and his coffee…

“Go get your own,” she laughs, pushing him away to resume the process of getting ready for work.

He stops her and shows her his closed hand. She raises an eyebrow and gives him a quizzical stare. He opens his fist to reveal a small object on his palm. It’s the earring she’s been looking for all morning. He drops it in her hand and closes her fingers around it. Kisses her wrist and his attention is back to his faculty adviser.

It’s been a tough semester, and it’s time to make some decisions. For all of them. Moving to Boston won’t be easy. But they’ll do it. She’s already been offered two different positions as a homicide detective. Finding a good school won’t be a problem. Mostly, she’s just so goddamn proud of him. And, although, he knows she’d move there even without a plan - hell, she’d follow him to the end of the world if necessary - he has spent the last few months making sure his family will have an easy transition as he continues to pursue his graduate degree.

This ‘saying nothing at all’ is what they’ve always been good at. That’s why on the inside of her wedding band there is a verse from that Ronan Keating song: try as I may I can never explain what I hear when you don’t say a thing .

He’s still on the phone - listening, writing things down, opening his email account on his laptop to see the forms he’s been sent - when she’s ready to leave.

She’s trying to be quiet, not wanting to break his concentration, as she stops to quickly kiss him goodbye, just pressing her lips into his hair. But even before she has a chance to pull away, she hears him say, “Morrie, I’ll call you back in ten.” He puts the phone on the desk and pulls her in, onto his knees.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she laughs. “You’re going to wrinkle my suit. And I’m late as it is.”

“I’ll call your boss. He likes me.”

She rolls her eyes. It’s true.

“Well, he doesn’t like you that much anymore, seeing as you’re taking me to Boston. And, besides...”

They never find out what the ‘besides’ was. As his hands slide under her blouse she gasps his name and sinks into his lips. Three seconds later, being carried back into the bedroom, she laughs again.

“You’re supposed to call Morrie back in ten minutes!” It’s not really a protest, more along the lines of stating the obvious.

“Not the narrowest mission window I’ve ever had,” he smirks, before kissing her again as they collapse on the bed.

Maybe... the beginnings don’t matter so much after all.

Words definitely don’t.

Court orders don’t.

National security doesn’t...

The Patriot Act doesn’t…

Neither does the Geneva Convention...

In the end, all that really matters is standing between the man you love and the people in his life coming to risk it again. And saying NO. Because… no, they don’t know him. No, what he does is not all he is. No, the chance of him maybe having the information they need is not enough to take the father from a child who never knew him. And yes , if something happens to him, if they take another step, you won’t care who they are. Because even if it’s the last thing you do, you will make the latest security breach look like child’s play. Because someone has to care about his life more . More than the thousands or even millions of others. Because he has spent his entire life shedding bits and pieces of himself, giving up everything he dared to dream of, for those thousands and millions. Because this life matters to you MOST . And it should to them , too. And yes, maybe he would want this. But someone has to say no to him too . No more. Somebody has to say enough . He’s done enough . Been through enough. Given enough. Given up enough. Just… enough...

...The green coffee mug slips from your hands and shatters to pieces as you watch the broadcast of the man you love being killed. You leap to the phone, not even knowing who you’re going to call, then slip and fall. The shards slice through your skin, and it doesn’t even hurt. You check out of the hospital against medical advice and call in every favour you’re owed. Take your son with you because, despite perhaps being too young, he needs to be there. You fly to Berlin expecting to bring back the remains of his father, so they can be buried in a place you both picked out years ago. Many years ago. Long before the first time you lost him..

It really all began with a broken cup.

Chapter Text

Beginnings are just too many to sort through. They are made of beginnings of their own - those little moments in time that make up your life. And even inside those, you have moments that break your heart or take your breath away. Maybe you know your life is really whole when you can randomly choose any one of those moments and know it had to happen, exactly the way it did, precisely when it did, or nothing would be the same. And that even the hardest bits - actually, especially the hardest bits - had to be there. Because in the end, life is not a box of chocolates. It’s not even a string. It’s a patchwork blanket. Some pieces are stitched together in an odd way. Some are a perfect fit. But whether you look at it whole or just admire a single patch - it’s just beautiful.

2018

She turns on the radio and takes a deep breath. Getting to the police station at this hour is a pain in the ass with all the traffic. She missed the last chance to enjoy relatively free roads by… well, about ten minutes . She smiles a wide, happy smile.

The phone vibrates and she giggles even before opening the message. Her eyes fall on the contact name and it makes her laugh for real - every time. His name, the one he put in her contacts, is ‘Crazy Badass Motherfucker’ - his favourite of the many she’s ever called him. And what he once had her promise she’d write on his tombstone. A year and a half ago, she thought she was about to.

-Where are the turkey leftovers?

Oh, fuck. FUCK! She forgot. She knew she forgot something!

She pulls over and starts typing… before she can finish, another message bubble appears.

-Stop freaking out. I can make my own sandwich, you know… (crazy emoji)

She knows. It’s just something she always does. It’s her thing. One of the little things they do for each other. It’s like a pact. And she fucking forgot. She deletes what she was going to send, but before she has a chance to type the new reply…

-Stop it. If it helps... I’ll take it as a compliment (smiling happy blushing emoji that looks a little smug)

She snorts, a numbing warmth spreading all over her from inside out, as the memory of being in his arms just twenty minutes ago floods her thoughts. Yeah, he could always make her forget everything. Sandwich included. Another message breaks through her memories.

-Found it. Drive safely.

Yeah, but does he know how to make it? She always uses some sauce on his bread, cuts the vegetables a certain way… this is all so wrong.

-There is sauce in a small jar

-Jules, I know how you make my sandwich

She wouldn’t be surprised. The man has the observation skills of… well, an ex-cia operative.

-Toast the bread a little

She just can’t help it.

-Already on the grill

She smiles. Lets it go.

-Miss you already

-Of course you do

Always a smartass… And then… the usual…

-Miss you more

2003

The first thing she ever says to him is “Face the wall, hands behind your back”. Thinking back, it shouldn’t have surprised her. The first thing he ever says to her, slumped against the wall on a bench inside a holding cell, wasted to the point of barely even being able to slur, is “Officer, you’re fucking breathtaking” .

It’s not the first nor the last time a detainee gets sassy with her. She’s thinking “ best opening line EVER, dumbass” , as she takes out her keys and uncuffs him. But he’s still staring at her when she’s done. And, before she knows it, her eyes go from his freed wrists to his face. He’s a wreck - bloodshot eyes, bruised cheekbone, stained forehead… and the hair… God , the hair! It doesn’t take her long in the weeks to come to figure out the story of that hair. Or, to be precise, the fact that that hair tends to have a story of its own - for every day, occasion and mood. But that night it’s just all over the place. And he just looks at her. Everything about his features is chisel hard, sharp angles, deep shadows, almost warning her away, but then she stops at his eyes… and, as if a ripple just washed over, the angles are smoother, the shadows - gone, and she’s drawn in.

What he sees is the image that will follow him into the darkest of places for many years to come. Still contemplating on the positively dumbest fucking thing he’s ever said to a person, let alone a woman , he thinks he can be more charming than that. But he just can’t stop staring. Everything around him is shades of grey. The cell is fairly dark. It’s getting more and more blurry as he is about to pass out. It takes all of his will power to stay conscious and to keep his eyes open. Because right there, in the tunnel vision of his intoxicated mind, in the middle of the grey blur, there is a face - vivid colors, dark soft skin, kind black eyes, a hint of a smile, hair loosely pulled back, two silky curling strands of different lengths hanging along her high cheekbones... he fights an urge to touch one of them, run it between his fingers… fuck , he’s drunk… She seems to be looking back at him now. But not just at him - right into him, through him. For a moment, she smiles. Her eyes soften. He stops breathing.

It’s too late when he realises that it makes him dizzy, as everything around her face just keeps spinning more quickly. He barely has time to bend over before he throws up. On her shoes. Yeah, he can be charming , alright…

*

How they go from that to waking up in his bed less than two weeks later is a long story. A long story that happened so fast, took over her life with such force, that she will never stop wondering whether he was a tornado, breaking through everything she was and redefining all she ever wanted, or the softest most gentle breeze, soothing and comforting, one that she never wants to stop. It doesn’t take her long to realise that what he really is, is both .

It’s how he just crashed into her life, stubborn and unstoppable, and then left it up to her to make the last step that brought them both here, into this moment, when she opens her eyes, sees his sleeping face barely an inch from her own, and knows that he got her, all of her, for good. Because two weeks ago they didn’t even know each other. Then for five days he showed her that he wanted her in his life. Then for eight days he disappeared and she found herself worried sick, looking for him and beating herself up for not saying ‘yes’. And now she’s here, her head cradled in the fold of his shoulder, his arms locked around her in a tight circle like they have been the whole night, her leg laced between his, and the first thing that goes through her mind is that she misses him. And can’t wait for him to wake up.

She doesn’t know his last name. She’s not even sure John is his real first name. She doesn’t know anything about him. Except what he does. Which is weird. Because what he does is, probably, something he’s not supposed to just say to people. But he did. The first time he took her hand.

Part of it she had already known, anyway. Seeing him fight in that bar, she figured - special forces. Later on, when he and his buddies were hauled away from the holding cell in the middle of the night by a man who got out of a car, handed in papers ordering their release on the spot, she figured - a government job. A dangerous job.

She was standing next to his apartment door, eighth night in a row, waiting and wondering if he was ever coming home, and whether or not if something had happened to him would she ever know, when the elevator doors opened and he stepped out. How she found out where he lived (or more to the point - how he chose to show her where he lived) is another long story. But the bottom line is… She knew nothing about him when he came home - dirty, dust in his greasy hair, lips so dry they were cracked, dark circles around those blue eyes that looked pale and empty, exhausted and with a rifle bag on his shoulder. But she burst into tears at the sight of him just being home, being back, being safe.

And that’s when she knew.

...Because, really, knowing someone’s real name is not what makes you grab a fistful of his dirty shirt and yank him in for a kiss so desperate and so frantic that it makes both your heads spin…

Thinking about it, while she watches him sleep, makes her miss him even more. Also, it’s the first and the last time that she’ll ever be under illusion that he’s actually sleeping when she’s staring at him.

“Stop it,” he grumbles, without opening his eyes, but the corners of his lips curve up.

He can’t see it, but her smile lights up the room brighter than the sun outside the window.

“No.”

“Mphhh…” he snorts, and his eyelids make a tiny crack. Her breath literally hitches at the glow of that deep blue through the black eyelashes. Then he closes them again. Takes a deep breath and exhales in frustration. “Juuuules… seriously, fucking stop . I hate it.”

“How do you know?”

His eyes open fully now. “How do I know I hate being stared at?”

“Yeah. I’ve never stared at you before. Maybe you adore it. You just don’t know it yet.”

He actually thinks about it. Takes his time. His lips move slightly to the side as he considers it.

“It’s not a bad point,” he says finally. But the sleep is gone. He gets more comfortable by beating the top of his pillow to fold on itself underneath and just looks at her. “Are you always a pain in the ass in the morning?”

She snuggles closer. His arm bends to help her.

“Fuck if I know. Never felt quite like this in the morning. And, for the record, it’s probably way past 2 PM.”

His grin, when she says it, is borderline smug. But, somehow, a little shy, too.

“Really?” He’s not talking about the time.

She’s twenty four years old. He’s twenty six. Yes, they are not the first ones in each other’s lives. And yes, really, she has never felt like this. She doesn’t say anything. Just loses the smile.

He kisses her, long and tender. Then deeper, cradling her head in the fold of his elbow. Then flips her to her back and is on top of her in a motion so quick that she lets out a short scream. Leans in and kisses her again. Then lifts his head.

“I can make it even better,” a boyish smile is just too silly for this moment. It makes her laugh.

“You really think I am so easy that I’m going to sleep with you on our first morning together?”

“ Easy??? Really? Just because I barely got a chance to close the fucking door last night?” He grins even wider.

“John…”

“Mmmm?” He reluctantly stops kissing her neck and looks up.

“I think it was your neighbor that closed the fucking door… eventually.”

He laughs so hard he’s a trembling mess on top of her, between her arms.

“Hey… you hungry?”

“What… NOW?”

“Yeah… well, not now -now…” giving her a promising kiss. “But I’m starved.”

“Right. Let’s talk about that… ” She frowns and breaks into a smile just as fast.

*

Fifteen minutes later, she can’t catch her breath. Neither can he. But he drags himself out of bed nevertheless, kicking stuff on the floor out of the way (he lives in a dump, seriously), wrapping a bed sheet around his waist. To her questioning stare, saying something along the lines of ‘Really? Shy?’ , he snorts.

“I’m not making grilled cheese sandwiches naked.”

“And yet you are making grilled cheese sandwiches ,” she says, shaking her head.

“Ok...one - it’s the only thing I know how to make. And two - bread and cheese are the only things I have. So… unless you wanna take your ass out of bed and go out for breakfast…”

“Charming…” she laughs. And yet, it kind of is. Just charming. Everything about him. Even the way the bed sheet drags on the floor as he stumbles to the kitchen in the lamest attempt to be a good host in history.

*

“This is actually not bad.” Chewing on a bite, she gives him a nod of approval. Then swallows and snorts a chuckle. “For the worst breakfast in bed ever .”

Looking at the slightly charred crust, he can’t really argue. It tastes good, though.

“Perfected the recipe over the years,” he jokes, leaning closer and swiping a crumble from her chin, “I’ll get better,” he promises then. And it’s so simple, so honest, that she knows he’ll make it or die trying.

She looks at him long and hard before she knows what to say to that.

“ You don’t have to,” and she hopes he understands that she means everything about him.

He does, because when he smiles his eyes are a mix of slight embarrassment and joy. He doesn’t really know how to respond. But his eyes tell her - he will later.

Taking half of his own sandwich with one huge bite, he cocks his head to the side. “So...Wanna go out later? Stay home?”

It’s really that simple. He wants to know what she likes, what makes her happy. She wants to know the same. Somehow, she has no doubt they will figure this out fast.

“Both,” she smiles. Because it’s the truth. She wants to walk by his side, holding his hand, just wander around and in no particular direction. Then stop and pull him in for a kiss. Just because. But she also wants to stay here, talk, laugh, make out, make love, doze off, wake up… do it all over again.

“Ah… Schrodinger’s date,” he smirks. When she doesn’t get it, he swallows the bite in his mouth and tells her about Schrodinger’s cat.

“So… you’re a government-trained assassin who knows about quantum physics…”

“Used to like it. Was actually going to be an engineer at one point. Was hoping… MIT.”

She wants to ask why he didn’t go through with it. What happened. He hadn’t looked sad when he said that. But something stops her. Then she smiles, remembering what he told her in the elevator the day before, holding her hand for the first time. The ballsy unstoppable motherfucker said “... but when we get married I’ll quit…” referring to the CIA.

“So… when you quit , when we get married , you’ll go back to MIT,” she says, without a hint of a question to her tone, putting her plate on a night stand and sinking back into bed.

He lies down next to her, on his back, turns his head to face her, smiles and waits until she can’t help it anymore and moves closer to kiss him, and then, finding her hand somewhere in between their bodies, brings it up and stuffs her palm under his cheek. “Deal.”

2016

Carrie jolts back into a sitting position and jumps to her feet the moment she sees what’s going on. She hears it before she sees it, actually. That’s what wakes her up - every alarm in the room going off. The monitor, the ventilator, the pneumatic compression device on his ankles as the tubing gets kinked. Quinn is awake. And he’s fighting. She grabs the vent tubing before he yanks the tube out of his mouth as he’s trying to sit up. He’s too weak. But his “weak” is most people’s “viciously strong ” . She presses the call button, fully knowing the alarms are beeping at the nursing station as well.

“Quinn… QUINN!” She grabs his shoulders and pushes him down. His eyes are wide open,he’s trying to say something and it makes him cough hard, which, in turn, makes his vent beep bloody murder again. “Hey, it’s ok… it’s ok,” she tries a soothing voice, cradling his head between her arms, next to her chest, gently lowering him down. “It’s ok… You’re ok. Just… lie down.”

He relaxes and falls back, tugs on the restraints on his wrists, looks at her for answers. It’s not the first time he’s awake. It’s a vicious cycle at this point. He wakes up - struggling, trying to get up, trying to break free. In the end, the only way to make it stop is to sedate him again. Because he is only able to settle down for short periods of time before the struggle starts all over again.

Carrie leaves one arm on his chest, close to his shoulder, just in case he leaps up again before the staff comes in to sedate him. They don’t want to keep him on a continuous drip anymore. His brain, she’s been told, needs to gradually start grasping reality.

It hasn’t yet. The first time he woke up was over a week ago. He still doesn’t know what she means when she calls him Quinn. He has no idea who she is, who Astrid is, who Saul or Dar are, or who Julia is. He’s like a caged animal, and it breaks her heart. He looks at her, pinned down to the bed by her hand. He’s blinking fast. Her eyes are twinkling with tears, and she averts them fast. He looks just like when…

“You’re ok,” she whispers, still unable to look at him. Her words just flow into the room. Hell if she knows if she’s talking to him or herself. Hell if she knows if she’s talking about him being sick. Hell if she knows if she’s talking about him .

He stops blinking. Just stares at her. His lips are moving around the breathing tube.

“Don’t talk. You can’t.” Her voice is so strained that she can barely keep it at an audible volume . She blinks her tears away and turns around to face him.

It still requires a deep breath every time. So she does just that and tells him again. It’s the fifty sixth time. She counts them in her head. Fifty sixth time that she tells him her name. That she’s his friend. That he is at the hospital. That he has a breathing tube in his mouth. That he’s going to be ok. That she won’t leave his side . That his name is Peter Quinn. And that he’s going to be ok… Oh, wait, she already said that… She tries a cheerful smile when she corrects herself. He doesn’t smile back. As the sedative begins to work, he drifts off.

Carrie watches him go limp, stop resisting. That’s what it takes. Two small syringes and some clear liquid pushed through IV tubing. All it takes to make him stop fighting. It hardly seems enough. For him. But it is. And it breaks her heart.

She slumps back into her armchair and pulls it closer to his bed. When she reaches for his hand and holds it with both of hers, it feels warm, steady, comforting. Even now. Her eyes wander across the room, never really stopping to take anything in, until the window makes her glance linger and, eventually, stop. For a while she just sits there watching people, cars, buses... Life goes on.  

She’d been told there was some swelling in his brain due to hypoxia. But it went down quicky and his ICP readings have been good since. His head is still shaven where the probe used to be. The whole idea of a drug-induced coma was to keep his brain calm and quiet so the swelling doesn’t increase. They used pentothal for that. And it made her shiver. The same shit they use in lethal injections.

She thinks about what would have happened if they had woken him up. If Julia hadn’t shown up and bulldozed them into stopping.

To this day, it makes her go numb inside. She’s seen some angry people, fierce people, fearless people, people determined to die for their cause, people leaping to save others at the cost of their own lives. But never like this. She can still see this small woman standing between them and Quinn, telling them she will bury them if they take another step, then telling them how, in detail, and then telling them why . It’s the ‘why’ that Carrie will never forget. Astrid was right - Quinn never did anything he didn’t want to. He is the most unstoppable, uncompromising, and stubborn man she has ever met. And then there was this fragile petite woman, standing there and saying she couldn’t give a damn about what he would or wouldn’t want. Because someone had to say “no” to him too. For some reason, Carrie knew that if anyone could, it would be Julia.

She suspected it was Dar Adal who helped her get the information she threatened to leak. Or maybe Astrid. Or both. Regardless it was how she said it that stayed with Carrie. She said she didn’t care what happened to her or her son. She said she would hunt them down and take them out one by one, would bury them in their own shit and their own lies. If they took another step.

She remembers thinking… she only knew one other person who ever fought for the people he loved that hard.

She’s still angry. She’s relieved, too. The attack has been averted. But at what cost? And at the last minute. Quinn would have wanted to help if he could speak for himself. She knows that. But she also knows Julia was right. Maybe, for once, his life should be put first. If not by him, then by the people who care about him. And she does care.

Julia will b e here soon . They take turns now. Max has flown in as well. So it’s now Carrie, Astrid, Max and Julia staying here around the clock. Max or Astrid watch Johnny when it’s Julia’s turn. They had offered to take him back to the States, but Julia refused. Quinn is going to get better. And when he does, he’s going to meet his son. And his son is going to meet him. Because three weeks ago, she was on a plane to Berlin planning to take his body back home to be buried. You just never know when time will run out and it will be too late. She is not waiting anymore.

Carrie understands that. Johnny is a sweet kid. Quiet and gentle. Smiles a lot. Asks smart questions. Very observant. Very caring. They all enjoy spending time with him. At first it was just for Quinn. Now, they are all in love with the boy. And he gives it back in abundance. The last time Carrie came to Astrid’s, where they are staying, he leaped from the sofa into her arms so hard she almost lost her balance.

Julia is a little harder to read. Well, after her outburst three weeks ago… she has mixed feelings of respect and wariness about her. And it makes her feel uncomfortable when she catches Julia’s eyes watching her. There is something very familiar in the way she just seems to see her.

And then… there is that tiny issue of the slap …

Julia enters, filling the room with the smell of her perfume, the sound of her voice, and the light of her  smile. She comes through the door with a sense of purpose, already comfortable in this otherwise awkward setting. Within a minute, there is a bag with a neatly packed dinner on Carrie’s lap and a bottle of ice tea. Then there is a tall skinny latte she picked up for her at Starbucks. Then there is that peck on Carrie’s cheek that she always offers.

“How are you?” Julia asks, motioning with her eyes to the coffee. “Drink. It’s still very hot. You look like you need it.”

“Um… thanks. I will.” Carrie averts her eyes, fidgets uncomfortably, then gets up. “I’m good. I think. Tired,” she clarifies, gathering her things.

It really strikes her every time that when Julia comes in, her first question is not how Quinn is, but instead how she is. She had less trouble picturing the two of them together when Julia slapped her across the face the first time they met, than she does now when she sees her ‘mothering’ her around. It makes her wonder if Quinn was different back then. Or what’s more, if he had always been the same and she’d just never seen it. She’s usually good at reading people. Quinn and Julia have her confused. And not in a good way.

“Why is he tied up again?” that angry Julia again.

Carrie shrugs, lifts her hands palms forward, “Hey, I didn’t do it. The nurses did. After he pulled his arterial line out last night and bled all over the place.”

“Yeah, but should he be tied when we’re here?”

“Have you tried restraining him when he’s not tied? He just woke up and almost pulled his tube out again. And he was tied at the time.”

Carrie knows what being restrained feels like. But she also knows that sometimes you should be restrained and protected from the harm you’re capable of inflicting, mostly upon yourself.

Julia thinks about it. But only for a few seconds. Then walks around the bed and removes the restraints.

“ Fine ,” Carrie raises a hand again in a gesture that’s both surrendering and warning. “Good luck .”

Julia nods and climbs into the armchair, folding her legs underneath her and taking out a book from her bag, “Drive safely. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Carrie purses her lips, rolls her eyes, wants to say something, changes her mind, then heads for the door.

“Bye, Jules. Night.”

She takes the stairs instead of the elevator. The whole way to the parking lot she thinks about Julia. How one woman can take such a hard line, and yet also be so vulnerable and exposed. How she can’t help but like her. How she can’t help but wonder...

Julia watches the door close behind Carrie. She likes her. Very much. She’s actually sorry she slapped her. She was so angry and heartbroken at the time, and overwhelmed at having found him alive.

But she can see Carrie so clearly now. Astrid seems to have mixed feelings about her. Julia doesn’t. Carrie is a light. So bright and so vulnerable. She is tough, but insecure. Self absorbed, but trying to do good by everyone. Julia can see how Quinn would want to protect that light, put his hands around it to shield it from being extinguished by the storm around them, but with enough space to not deprive it of oxygen, to watch over it and yet let it find its own way. Carrie might not know it, but he has always been this way. He’d keep you grounded, but he’d let you shine. Carrie is very smart. But not very wise. She is very caring. But her attention wanders. She can’t really be tethered. Only kept out of harm’s way. She loves Quinn. But not the way she thinks she should. She would give her life for him in a heartbeat. And she wants to be able to give him more. She really does. But love is irrational like that. You just can’t force it. No matter how much you want to.

Julia and Astrid agree on one thing: when you love someone, when you really want them to be happy, it’s really not a question of whether or not it’s with you.

Julia didn’t come here to win him back. She didn’t even know he was still alive. And all she wants now is for him to get better. And to be a part of his son’s life. The way he was supposed to be.  The way he wanted to be. Because she never wants to feel again that it’s too late.

She loves him. She never stopped. It changed, in many ways. She knows he still loves her . But not the way he loves Carrie. And it’s ok. Really. As long as he lives, has time… it’s ok.

*

Quinn wakes up when it’s almost midnight. It’s the same thing all over again. Except now his hands are free. And they go straight for the breathing tube.

Julia leaps from her seat and grabs his wrists with every bit of strength she’s got. She knows she's not a match for him, even in his state. He feels it too. He doesn’t know who she is, but he knows that he can break free, so he pulls hard, yanks her in, the rail of the bed hitting her hard in the stomach. It hurts, but it just makes her even more determined.

He’s much stronger than she is. But what he doesn’t know, what he doesn’t remember , is that he was the one who taught her how to fight. He was the one who once told her that it should never be about strength, but about the right timing. And the momentum. The stronger your opponent is, the better your chances to use their own strength against them. You just need to feel the right moment.

She holds onto his wrists and watches him thrust and try to shake her off. Then, she knows when the right moment comes. She uses the momentum of his own movement to push his arms down across his chest, in a holding position, each arm to the opposite side of his body. She bears down on his wrists then, pinning them against the bed. He was the one who showed her that freeing yourself from this position is extremely difficult. He tries. But she bears down harder and holds him still.

“Hey… HEY!” there is no point calling him by his name - he doesn’t know it. So she just waits for him to look at her, wide-eyed. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve been injured. Do you understand me?”

It takes a while. He’s looking around, just moving his eyes, then looks back at her. Blinks once. A slight nod, too.

“Good. My name is Julia. You don’t remember me. And it’s ok. It’ll come back. It’s just temporary. You understand that?”

He blinks again. She feels him relax a bit, but she doesn’t loosen her grip. Her eyes are still burrowing into his.

“Your name is Peter Quinn.”

She waits for him to nod, for his arms to relax. His expression is less furrowed now.

“I want to show you something. But I need to use my hand. Can I use my hand without you trying to pull the tube again?”

He seems to think about it. Considers it. He’s not one to break his word. And he does want the damn tube out.

The colors of room are shades of grey. His vision is blurry. He can understand what she’s saying, but it only registers in a very faint and fleeting manner. His mind doesn’t seem to obey when he wills it to concentrate and focus. And it annoys the shit out of him.

In a surrounding of smudged reality he sees a face, so vivid and clear. She is right in the middle - of the room, of the ceiling, of his thoughts. Her face is furrowed, staring him down. But her dark eyes are so soft and kind. He’s pulled into them, into this image. It’s soothing and familiar in a way that he can’t explain. He feels like holding onto it. And it’s more than that. He feels like he had been holding onto it. For a long time.

He blinks hard and shakes his arms gently under her grip. Lets her know it’s ok for her to let go. His head falls back on the pillow and the image is gone.

Julia pushes her weight off of him and stands up. The place where the rail wedged into her is throbbing with pain. She swallows tears and takes a deep breath.

“This tube,” she says, as she carefully frees one hand and reaches towards his face, touching the tube. “Does it bother you?”

He blinks harder, squeezing his eyes.

She touches his cheek, strokes it. “I know. But you see… this tube helps your breathing. They tried taking it out two days ago, but you couldn’t breathe well enough on your own.”

She can see he’s getting restless again. It’s part of the long term effects of massive sarin exposure. It will pass, she reminds herself, then strokes his hair.

“The reason you can’t remember how you got here or what happened to you is the same reason you can’t breathe very well on your own. But it will pass. Peter, do you understand? It will pass. In a couple of days, maybe weeks. It’s just a temporary thing.”

He doesn’t nod, or blink, but he doesn’t fight her either. Just looks at her.

“This tube,” she continues, “it has a balloon on it. If you pull it out, it can damage your vocal cords. And you might have problems later on, talking and breathing. Permanently. I know it must feel like shit. But you have to keep it in for now. Ok?”

He turns his head to the side then, motions with his eyes to the bed rail pressed against her. Then looks back at her.

“I don’t understand.” She tries to smile.

He moves a finger under her hand, and she understands he wants to show her something.

“You won’t pull the tube?”

He shakes his head, blinks several times.

“Ok,” and she sets him free, but just one hand.

He grabs the rail where it’s connected to her body, shakes it, pushes her away from it. Then pulls on her sweater, asking her to look at him. He’s trying to say something.

“You can’t talk. The tube. You can’t talk with it.” Her voice is softer.

He nods, acknowledging that he knows he can’t talk. But his lips keep moving, his hand keeps pushing her away from the rail. She thinks she knows what he’s trying to say.

“Sorry? Are you saying you’re sorry?”

He blinks. Julia lowers the rail and sits on his bed, taking his hand into hers.

“For the record, you hate it when people say they are sorry,” she says, giving him a smile.

He looks puzzled and actually manages to tilt his head to the side a little.

“It’s from a book you used to like. A quote… ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry’ . You used to drive me nuts with it.”

What happens next makes her gasp, as his eyes narrow, tiny crinkles forming in their corners, his entire face relaxing in the faintest of smiles.

Then he nods again. And his hand tightens around hers. He still doesn’t remember her. Or himself. But he’s done fighting. For now.

The nurse and the resident on call come in. They have the sedative on the ready. The room is calm and quiet. They look surprised.

“He’s ok.” Julia gives them a reassuring smile.

Quinn nods as well, confirming, showing them his free hands - one still holding Julia’s.

“Oooookay,” the nurse smiles back and stuffs the syringes into her breast pocket. Just in case. For later.

They both leave.

Julia looks at Quinn and winks. He winks back.

“I think it’s the midazolam,” she says, suddenly. And he raises one eyebrow in a wordless question. “It’s the sedative they’ve been giving you. I think it worsens your amnesia. I’ve been reading on it… a little.”

He doesn’t nod or blink, but she can read his lips now. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by behaving yourself, you crazy badass motherfucker,” she laughs, relieved and moved both.

He shrugs. They both know he probably won’t. It’s not really up to him.

“You good for now? Going to get some sleep?” She settles back into the armchair and picks up her book from the floor.

He thinks about it. Shrugs a ‘maybe’. Lets go of her hand and just looks around.

About half an hour later she hears a weird sound and looks up. He’s scratching the mattress to get her attention.

“Hey,” she smiles, “what’s up?”

His eyes are fixed on her book. She lifts it.

“This? The book?”

A nod.

She flips to the cover. “The Woods. Harlan Coben. It’s a thriller. He’s good.”

Another nod.

Her smile is teasing. “Bored out your fucking mind?”

He huffs and the vent beeps again. Then rolls his eyes, getting agitated again.

“Wanna read?”

He nods several times and blinks hard.

He was the one who hooked her on reading. She remembers him telling her how it used to calm him down when he was a child. Then she remembers why, and her heart is a trembling mess inside her chest. He had survived the worst in people. So many times. And he was still the most loving and beautiful soul she has ever met.

She turns her chair so she can hold the book for him and read it at the same time. Then flips to the beginning.

He shakes his head, tugging at her bookmark.

“Seriously? You wanna read from where I left off?”

Nods. Tries to open the book with the bookmark.

“Well, tough tomatoes.” She pushes his hand away and holds the first page open.

When he huffs again, she looks at him. She knows this expression - a mix of frustration, admiration, and surprise at having her out-stubborn him. With a tad of sweetness that comes with actually enjoying having surrendered.

They read together from the beginning. He used to read faster than she did. He would always wait for her to finish the page. Now she has to wait for him. He touches her hand when it’s ok to turn the page. Until she realises he hasn’t done it in a long while. She looks up to see his head slumped to the side, his eyes closed, his hand resting on his chest. He’s asleep.

She smiles and closes the book, putting the bookmark where he left off. Then places the book under his hand.    Block out the tube and the monitor wires, and it’s the image of him that she loves the most, remembers so vividly - falling asleep with a book dropped on his chest.

She crawls back into the chair and drifts off as well.

*

She wakes up to a room full of light. It’s morning.

Quinn is awake, looking at her. But there is something different now about the way he stares .

She rubs her face with both her palms and stretches before getting up. She is all sore - from hitting the rail, from sleeping in such an awkward position . Max will be here soon. She should start getting ready to leave . She will talk to the charge nurse about not giving him more midazolam. He seems more tethered now, more coherent.

She can see the bookmark is now further into the book. Her smile is bright when she gives him an incredulous look.

“You’ve been reading. Did you get any sleep?”

He nods to both.

“Well, keep it. I have another one.”

He’s trying to say something. His lips keep moving voicelessly around the tube. She leans closer but can’t figure it out. He slams his fists against the mattress in frustration.

“Ok, wait.” She reaches for her bag and takes out her iPad. Opens the keyboard and hands it to him.

The agitation disappears as he grabs it. There is something in the way that he looks at her that she can’t quite place. That , and the fact that he keeps the screen turned away from her when he types.  She can see he struggles with it. Hits keys and deletes. But in the end he has it and looks at it for a long while before turning the screen towards her.

It reads…

“Still fucking breathtaking.”

She can’t hold a sob as it breaks out. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying to hold it together. But the tears are hard to hide. They stream down her face and she can’t stop.

Her mouth pressed against her fingers, she muffles, “Johnny…”

He nods. Not smiling. Then he shakes the rail again. She lowers it and sits next to him.

He types again. It’s a short one this time.

“Jules”

Chapter Text

2013

The first time he has the dream, he’s on the plane from Caracas to Miami.

At first, it doesn’t feel like a dream. Mainly because he’s been thinking about it, rewinding and forwarding, as if there was an actual scrolling handle to those ten minutes, as if retracing his steps and understanding what went wrong or whether he could have seen it coming would allow him to change what happened.

He’s not exactly sure at what point he goes out like a light, defeated by the exhaustion of the past couple of days. He’s in that house again, exiting the study. His mission is over. He looks around for witnesses and sees a boy on the floor. Numbness is rippling through his body. He doesn’t even feel his own legs bend as he crouches down. There is no pulse. The boy is dead. The same boy he refused to kill just fifteen minutes ago. He risked his life to get into a highly secured residence. Just to end up killing him anyway. He barely feels his own fingers brushing against his face. He looks down again. But the boy is gone. Instead it’s Johnny, his son, lying dead there, a pool of blood widening around his body.

He screams. He doesn’t stop screaming until the flight attendant shakes him awake. Everyone is looking at him - some concerned, some with compassion. He swallows hard. He’s shaking.

He stares straight ahead. He doesn’t deserve the compassion. He refuses the water the flight attendant offers. He doesn’t stop staring dead ahead until the plane lands. He doesn’t sleep on the flight home from Miami either.

The debriefing is short. He tells it as it was. Every detail, every reason for his decisions. He studies their faces, one by one. His jaws are locked hard. He can feel a muscle on his right cheek twitching, but his eyes are the only things that are really moving. Nobody gives a damn. Seriously. Nobody. They all congratulate him on an outstanding performance, on single-handedly saving the operation. He shakes hands, and as he does, all he can see is his own - his right hand, the one holding the gun. A wave of nausea comes so strong, he feels the blood draining from his face. He needs to leave. Now. He doesn’t even bother forcing a smile. Or a nod, for that matter. He walks out of the room, through the long hallway, and heads outside .

Dar runs after him, calling his name. He never slows his pace. His phone rings. Dar. He doesn’t take it. A text. “Peter, it was a tragedy, a mistake. Call me.” Right.

He barely makes it to his motel room, unlocks the door, slams it shut and falls on the bed facedown. In his dirty clothes, in his shoes, he falls asleep.

He wakes up from his own screams. In the darkness, even when he’s awake, Johnny is right there, blood on his face, around his mouth. There are other people with him. Blood-soaked, muddy, shot through the head, shot through the heart, blown up… at his hands. They don’t say anything. They just look at him. Somehow he knows what they are all thinking… was it all worth it? He sits up and runs his hand through his hair. Was it?

He sits there. His stare is blank, unfocused. He wonders how long a person can go without sleep. Because he is done with sleeping. His personal record is a little over 72 hours. He can probably beat it by a couple more. Fuck .

He grabs his car keys from where he left them on the floor and heads out. Within a minute, he’s in his car and driving away. North. Home.

It’s not really a home. It’s a dream of one. A long lost dream.

Two hours later he parks across the street and heads up the stairs. The hallway is dark, but he can’t be bothered with the light. He knows his way around here. He lived here. In many ways, a part of him still does.

In a painful ritual, his finger slides along the right side of the doorframe. He closes his eyes, despite the pitch dark. He feels the indentation in the wood. It’s been painted over. But it’s still there. He lets the tip of his finger slide all the way into it. He takes his time, goes over that day in his head. Lets it wash over him. Then unlocks the door, steps in, and shuts it behind him.

Home is empty. It has been for the past four and a half years. He used all the money he had saved up at the time to buy this place. He comes once or twice a month, usually after a mission, sweeps the floors, dusts the surfaces - there aren’t many of them. Sleeps on the floor for one night, and leaves. Until the next time.

The smell is gone. It’s all gone. The furniture. The laughter. The dream.

The single object remaining is a large metal box on the wide window sill.

The light from outside is enough for him to see the engraving. He doesn’t need to, though. He carved it himself, with his old army knife. It reads “CBMJ”. He opens the box and little papers pour out. So many of them - notepad pages, napkins… letters. He opens his backpack and takes out a fresh pile. There are seven, from his last mission and this one. He skims over his own handwriting, looking at them one by one in the pale moonlight coming from the window. Then stuffs them into the box along with the others and slams the lid shut. He traces his finger over the letters. Then covers the box with his palm and stares dead ahead.

Home… is a tricky business. It’s never empty. The smells are never really gone. The laughter is still here. You just put your hand over the metal box and it all comes back.

He stays. Stands next to the window. Until it’s morning. Then drives back, showers, shaves, and goes to Langley.

After meeting with Saul and Fara he drives to Carrie’s. He hasn’t seen her in weeks. They barely exchanged three words since the attack. He tried to talk to her. She shut him out. He figured she needed time to process it. Who doesn’t.

For some reason, he thinks maybe Carrie would know what to say. Or maybe she’ll know not to say anything. Carrie is the kind of person who gives a damn. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to talk to her about it. After all, he really doesn’t know her that well. She sure as hell doesn’t know shit about him . Yet, he would like to think there’s a connection there that she feels as well.  But it doesn’t matter; Carrie’s not home.

He finds out why much later in the day. From Saul.

There she is, in a hospital gown, in a room that looks like a fucking prison cell. A nervous, twitching, paranoid wreck. They wrecked her after all . Was it all worth it? No. But this is. Carrie is. He’s not sure he can find the right words to say to her. He’s scared shitless of what they might do to her. He knows he can do nothing, not a damn thing, to save her if she doesn’t back down. He keeps his voice steady, his arguments compelling, rational, and to the point. But she’s too far gone. In her head, the world is full of monsters. Apparently, he’s one of them.

When people say things that hurt him, things that are so profoundly wrong and completely counter to what he does and what he stands for , something inside of him shuts down and he doesn’t know how to respond. Or he ends up lashing out and saying things just to hurt back. It always seems to him that he’s as open and as forthcoming with everything he says or does as humanly possible. When people read things into his best intentions that sound like the worst of hidden agendas, his hurt and anger merge together. He looks at Carrie, feeling that helplessness to defend what’s clearly been his best intentions. This is not the Carrie he knows. If there even is such a thing as the Carrie he knows. So, he doesn’t say anything in the end. He leaves: angry, lost. Even more than he was when he first came here but, above all, worried about her .

Another night of walking around and he shows up at her hearing. When he goes this long without sleep, it usually makes him somewhat edgy. Nothing he can’t control. Which is the only reason the orderly doesn’t lose the hand he puts on his chest to keep him from battling off the people hauling Carrie away. She’s done it now, alright. His blood turns into ice. What does he do now? Threaten Dar? Threaten Saul? Anyone else? This is just so wrong that he doesn’t even know where to start. He’ll talk to Saul. Well, he’ll start with talking to Saul. He can’t really do to him what he did to Estes. And it’s not just because he is the acting director of Central Intelligence. He respects him too much to threaten him. In any case, the futility of all this, everything he does or ever did, just keeps staring him in the face. Maybe that’s why the boy he killed becomes his son, over and over. What happened to both of them at his hands was a mistake, a tragedy. And now, facing what’s happening to Carrie, it all seems even more senseless.

Out of all the people in his world, everyone he’s known, helped, worked with, respected… It’s Fara who helps him out of the rabbit hole. He watches her, listens to what she’s saying to the motherfuckers sitting across the table from her, and his heart jolts into an awe. She takes his breath away. Literally. He doesn’t exhale until she’s done talking. Fucking incredible. He thinks about what she’s said, thinks about Carrie, thinks about the dead child, thinks about his life’s work. His blood boils. It has to mean something , be worth something.

As he’s walking out of Saul’s office, down the stairs and to his car, he keeps hearing his own words in his head: ‘ We did this to her.’ He knows he’s not responsible. Yet it rings true. It’s the exhaustion. It mixes things up in his head. He can’t separate himself from the agency. They’ve both lost their way.

It’s his fuck you to the agency when he threatens an American citizen on American soil. He stands right in front of the man, looks him straight in the eye and practically admits to being the assassin who killed his colleague and his son. There is something very invigorating about the way he holds himself. Finally not shying away from who he really is or what he’s capable of. He knows if the man doesn’t comply, he will hurt him. And everything about the way he handles himself shows just how badly.

By the time he gets home, he can barely stand or see straight. He’s approaching his limit. He will eventually fall asleep and dream again. He’s all alone. Nobody else cares.

Car keys in his hand, he drops his phone on the bed and heads out. He buys the cheapest bottle of whiskey they have at the closest open grocery store. Leaves it in the brown paper bag. Drinks from the bottle while sitting in the car. Gulps it down, burning alcohol and salty tears in the end. He’s killed a child. A boy.

He shifts the car into drive and finally does what he has wanted to do so many times over the past four and a half years. He drives to Philly again. But to a different place. He’s drunk. Exhausted. Dangerous to others and himself. Too numb to care. Skilled enough to get there safely.

He parks across the small park from Julia’s building, on the same side as her kitchen window. He’s spent many nights parked here, watching her and Johnny. Through Leica military grade binoculars, he can see Julia in the kitchen as close as if he was standing right next to her.

He can also see Dave. Her old partner. And he can see a wedding band on her hand. She looks tired. Still fucking breathtaking. Dave comes from behind her, his palms slide along her sides, around her, his lips are on her neck. She lifts a hand to his head, smiling.

The binoculars tremble in his hand. The blood shoots through his throat to his head and pounds hard against the inside of his skull. He needs air. Needs to get out of the car. He does just that and he doesn’t stop walking until his legs can’t carry him anymore. He slumps on a bench and realises his hand is still clasping the whiskey bottle. Might as well. He downs the rest of it. It all becomes blurry soon enough. He falls to the side and blacks out.

Luckily, when you black out, you don’t dream.

He wakes up cold and with a headache that is begging for a bullet. His first thought is - might as well. It’s morning and the sun is high. But he’s freezing, shaking. He wakes up from someone touching his shoulder. He had fallen asleep on a bench right in front of Julia’s building. And it’s Julia’s hand on his shoulder, not nudging anymore, just stroking. It’s her face in the yellow glow of the morning sun that’s right in front of his. Her eyes are teary and her features flinch in pain at the sight of him. He can only imagine what he must look like. She knows he has nowhere else to go. He’s come to her because she’s the only one who really knows him. The way no one else ever has. Probably never will.

“Jules…” is all he can utter. No voice. Just lips and shaking teeth.

“I know,” she whispers back, touching his face now. “C’mon, get up…” She pushes against his shoulder and forces him into a sitting position. Inspects him quickly. He’s not wounded. Just dirty, unshaven and reeking of alcohol. The bottle goes into the trash can next to the bench. She stands up and waits for him to take her hand. “Let’s go.”

He shakes his head. He can’t. He won’t.

“Dave…” he starts.

“... is taking Johnny to school,” she completes his sentence. And then adds, “...and is welcome to go fuck himself if he doesn’t understand that I will never leave you out in the cold.”

Jules. He actually smiles, lifting his eyes to her stubborn face. Jules.

“C’mon, Johnny,” she is still waiting for him to take her hand. The one with the wedding band. “Hey, I’ll make coffee…” Her smile is teasing now. The one offer he can never refuse. “Shower, aspirin, coffee, fresh clothes and a normal bed. Well… a normal couch. You sleep it off, then we talk.”

He takes her hand. Before standing up, he brings it to his face and closes his eyes. Then kisses it. She takes him to her home.

He only takes the aspirin, the shower, and Dave’s clothes. Luckily Dave is his height.

When Julia is done making coffee, she finds him sitting on the bed in Johnny’s room. She’s not even sure he’s really looking around. Just staring ahead.

“Ok, no couch.” She won’t drag him from his son’s room. She puts the coffee on Johnny’s night stand and helps him into the bed. She pulls the blanket over his shoulders, sits next to him and leans in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll come to get you before Johnny gets home. Get some sleep.”

He nods. Then looks at her.

She would never ask. She never did. There were always things he couldn’t tell her. He knew she wanted to know. But she never made him feel bad for not telling her. That’s why she never asked.

She’s still sitting there, waiting for him to close his eyes. He doesn’t.

“I killed a kid.”

She used to call them the ‘bad bits’. The times when he’d come home drained and broken, lost. He used to need her to hold him. He still does. All those years later, he still does. But he won’t ask. And she won’t make him ask. He doesn’t need to. Never did . She knows he thinks he has no right to. But he does. For what he does. For what he loses of himself every time he does it. For dying inside, all alone, facing the horrors of what he does, surrounded by people who can’t see that it’s tearing him apart.

She can’t touch him without letting him see how hard she’s shaking inside. Her hands would tremble and he would know. It takes several deep breaths for her to find the strength of her voice again. Then she looks at him - calm, resolved, confident.

“Scoot over.”

“Fuck, Jules, no…,” he tries.

“Don’t make me push you. You know I can.” He knows. He taught her how to.

She lies down and wraps her arms around him. He digs his face into her shoulder. And he cries for the first time since the last time she held him.

He lets the tears run out.

He falls asleep when they do.

She is there when he wakes up. In his son's bed. In the arms of the woman who will never turn her back on him. Her eyes are just as close to his as they used to be all those years ago when he’d finally snap out of it. Her hand on his face is just as soft and warm. And, like always, she doesn’t say anything.  He fights an urge to kiss her. She doesn’t. Julia has never hurt a soul in her life. She doesn’t hurt her husband when she kisses him. It’s different. It’s overwhelming and immersive, but it’s different. And he sees then that every time she kissed him at times like this, it was different. It’s her way of telling him he’s made it back. And she is never going anywhere. He’s not alone.

Nothing has changed. The child is still dead. He is still heading back to his old life. The woman he loves is still married. His son is still lost to him. But he’s not alone. And it takes Julia to show him that it’s just… enough.

They have coffee and chat for a short while. She laughs at his hair, all messed up, even more than usual. Spends a minute using some gel on it to… well, whatever can be done with his hair when it gets like this. And, somehow, by the time the coffee is done, he can breathe again. He sees that, married or not, she will never be lost to him. And that, despite it breaking his heart and making him want to break Dave’s neck, he does want her to be happy.

When they are at the door, she stops him by the elbow.

“I can’t live wondering if you’re broken and alone somewhere. Promise me you’ll call me if there’s no one else. Day or night. Promise me.”

He steps closer and takes her face into his hands. There are no words in all the languages in the world to tell her how grateful he is to her. And for her. She knows him too well for him to lie. He needs to let her go. He can’t keep bringing his mess into her life. He pulls her in and holds her for what he knows is the last time. Then he kisses a “thank you” into her hair and walks away to never come back.

There are five missed calls from Dar, three from Saul, two voicemails and one text message. ‘Peter, I’m worried about you’. Right.

He calls Saul. The bank has transferred all the information they have requested. And more. He doesn’t tell Saul how that happened.

Late 2006

How she manages it every time is beyond him. Well, not every time. Sometimes, when he comes home from a mission she’s on a shift. Sometimes, asleep. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he manages to slip into the building through the window without her noticing. Because she’s always glued to the window in the evenings when he’s away. The length of time that he spends away varies. It can be a day, a week, or over a month. When he comes home, he’s not always the same. Sometimes he’s relieved and happy. Sometimes, thrown and shook-up. But if she’s home and sees him coming, she always jumps him. He usually checks the corridors, the stairway, behind the elevator - everywhere and every time. But he never finds her. So, he’s always ready.

In the end, though, he can always hear her running towards him and manages to turn around just in time to catch her as she leaps into his arms. He does now, as well. She crashes into him hard, the momentum throwing them both back, his rifle hitting the doorframe. A quick glance, and he can see a deep indentation it left in the wood. He will need to paint over it. Or they will never get their security deposit back.

It’s late December and he’s frozen. She is wearing her pajamas, and her arms and legs are warm as he picks her up and she wraps them around him. He wants to scold her for hiding outside in this cold, but he can’t. One look at him, just to check and see if he’s in the ‘bad’ or the ‘good’ bits, and she breaks into a smile. Cradling his head in the circle of her slim arms, she kisses his face, all over. He’s laughing, inhaling her scent, the smell of his home. She finds his mouth finally and they kiss for a long time. He smells like dust, like plane, like travels. She smells like dinner, like face cream, like her hair conditioner.

When she pulls away, just enough to look at him, they are both grinning, dissolving into happiness.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, tugging on his hair, tilting his head back and kissing his jaw, then his neck.

He laughs. “I’ve missed you more.”

She lets go of his hair and looks at him. Then cocks her head to the side. There is something different in the way she smiles, almost mischievous.

“No you haven’t.”

His eyebrows furrow. She has never done that before. It’s their thing - she says she misses him, he says he misses her more. That’s it. This is new.

“Listening.” He lets her know she’s got his attention.

She rubs her nose against his cheek, her breath is hot on his skin. “Well, silly… How can you possibly miss me more, when there are two of us and just one of you?”

Whether it’s because his mind races or because time slows down, the next thing he feels is something flipping and exploding inside his chest. It sends shivering waves throughout his body. When they reach his knees, he barely manages to keep them from buckling. When they reach his eyes, it all goes dark. All except her smiling face.

“Johnny, breathe…” she laughs, kissing him all over again.

He exhales. The tears come just as fast.

...That’s what it does to you - it takes your breath away. For real. When you realise you’re not just the happiest man alive anymore, not just a man in love with the most incredible woman in the world, but you’re also about to become a father to the child that you wanted more than anything you ever wanted in your whole life...

He’s been away just a little over two weeks. He’s been away when she… when... He’s been away and… and…

“Hey, c’mere,” she brings his head to rest on her shoulder, his face buried into her neck. She strokes his hair, then presses her lips into his ear. “Happy?”

His hands clasp at her back, pushing her even closer against him, as he breathes a “Jesus, Jules... yes ” into her hair.

“Me too.” She smiles next to his ear. “ And hungry.”

They eye one another again, pulling apart just slightly. Then he nuzzles his face into hers, just breathing, smiling.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, salad… and me.” She gives him a teasing kiss.

“I’ll take it.” He kicks the door open and then kicks it shut, carrying her in. “All of it.”

She pulls the strap of his rifle bag from his shoulder and lets it slide to the floor.

“You were about to faint there, weren’t you?” She caresses his face as he stops in the middle of the room, unable to let her down.

Fuck yeah. “No.”

“You’re so full of it.” She messes up his hair. “You were about to faint and drop me.”

“Ok, I was feeling kinda… dizzy. But I was not going to drop you .” He locks his arms around her and kisses her. “I would never drop you.”

She knows that.

He sits on the bed and carefully lowers her on top of him. His hand creeps between their bodies to touch her tummy. It’s large enough to cover all of it. She puts her palm on top.

“Can I get pregnant again tomorrow just to see you this happy again?”

He trails kisses along her shoulder. “You won’t need to get pregnant again to see me this happy tomorrow.” Then strokes her long wavy hair. “How you feeling?”

“Better now .” Because he’s home, and because morning sickness is called that for a reason. And, so far, her body has been behaving by the book.

“Ok.” He rubs her back and motions his head to the kitchen. “Let’s go feed you both ,” scratching her tummy and kissing her.

Her face lights up all of a sudden.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait!!!” She jumps off of his lap and sprints away towards a small desk in the corner. “I gotta show you something first. Don’t move.”

He shakes his head, following her with his eyes, wondering how the fuck she manages to make him love her more every time he sees her, then falls back on the bed, throws his arms to the sides, just smiling and staring at the ceiling.

She’s back in less than a minute with an envelope in her hand, jumps on top of him and straddles him, removing some papers and throwing them aside until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Here, look.” She stretches her arm to his face and hands him a black and white sonogram shot. “Meet Crazy Badass Motherfucker Junior.”

He pushes himself up on the elbows and takes the image. He will comment on the name later . Fully knowing it won’t help.

“Jules, what the fuck am I looking at?” He’s a government-trained assassin, not a gynecologist.

She leans in, looking at the picture from above, then sticks her finger into a tiny white… something … on the black background.

“Here.”

“Huh?” He sits up all the way, securing her on his lap with an arm around her waist. He squints his eyes. “That’s it?”

“Well, six weeks along… what did you expect?”

He does the math in his head.

“Johnny,” she laughs, lifting his head by the chin and kissing the tip of his nose. “If you’re calculating, go back four weeks . And…” Smiling wider, “It’s kinda futile, anyway.”

He laughs. It is. They’ve been working really hard.

“I say in the car.”

“I say in the kitchen.”

He recalls both, then shrugs. “Works too.”

“Oh, Stevenson says hi and congratulations.”

He lets go of her waist and leans back on his palms. “You told your sergeant before you told me ?”

“No! Well… yeah. Kinda. I vomited on his desk. He took me to the hospital.”

“I see vomiting in your precinct runs in the family,” he laughs. “I’ll call to thank him tomorrow. So, who else did you tell? Your mom?”

“Are you fucking kidding me???”

“Yeah… I can see that happening…” Then, imitating her mother’s voice. “ That man knocked you up!”

‘That man’ is Johnny’s name in her devout catholic family. It goes with everything that’s wrong in her life, in her mother’s opinion. Julia doesn’t care. Johnny does. He wants her mother to like him, to trust him. For Julia.

Julia grabs his shirt and pulls him into her arms again. “Well, ‘that man’ did .” She kisses him until neither one of them can remember what they were talking about.

Then she holds his face in her palms. “I did tell someone else, though.”

There are tears in his eyes before she has a chance to tell him who she’s talking about.

“Jules…”

“I went yesterday, cleaned a little, put fresh flowers. Left one of those… ” she points to the sonogram picture, “for Adele.”

He presses his forehead to hers. “How did they take it?” He smiles, knowing what’s coming. That’s what Julia does. She tells stories about his parents and sister every time she goes to Baltimore. And she goes every time he’s away.

She snuggles closer. “Well, Adele said… ‘About fucking time!!!’ . And Braden just kissed my head and said one of his old irish blessings. And Lizzy …” She narrows her eyes. Lizzy is always the toughest one for her. Because Lizzy is the hardest on him. “Lizzy said that she’ll take a sabbatical from the university where she’s teaching Aeronautical Engineering to help once the baby is here.”

Lizzy has a different profession every time. They are all extremely cool and prestigious. Because Lizzy was so special, Julia insists she could have become anything she put her mind into.

None of it really happened.

Adele, Braiden and Lizzy Quinn are buried in Baltimore. Where they have been for the past fifteen years. Not far from a place that Johnny and Julia picked to be buried themselves, side by side - hopefully many years from now.

At special moments like this, that he would have wanted to share, she brings them back to life for him. Every single time. She makes him laugh.  Because this is how she loves him, all of him.

He wants a girl. She wants a boy. Something tells him she’ll win. She always does. He holds her closer when he remembers what she said before he left. That if it is a girl, they will call her Adele Elizabeth Quinn. And if it’s a boy, they will call him John Braden Quinn. He objected to the ‘John’ part. But she reminded him that he had been Peter Quinn for a while since he’d changed his name. Which is a whole different story. And, she said, sooner or later everyone will call him Peter. Or Quinn, like his buddies in the group already do. And she said she needed a Johnny in her life. For always.

They eat while she sits on his lap. He takes a shower and finds her standing by the window when he comes out. She’s holding a large old metal box and a sonogram picture. He knows what she’s thinking.

He gets his army knife and starts carving letters on the lid. He tries to warn her to stay back but she just cuddles under his arm. She’s not afraid. She knows his hand will never slip when she’s around. He will never hurt her.

When he’s done they drop the sonogram picture inside. It’s the first of many. In the family picture box.

They look at the letters.

“ Not a good name for a baby,” he snorts, as he reads “CBMJ”, which stands… surprisingly… for Crazy Badass Motherfucker Junior.

“Well we won’t call him that all the time .”

“Or her…”

“Or her.” She gives him that. But she really knows. It’s a boy. Her Johnny.

2014

Whoever invented the family tree assignments should be put against the wall and shot dead. That’s what Julia is thinking, sitting in her car in front of Johnny’s school building and taking deep breaths. If she goes in now she’ll break someone’s neck.

She got a call about an hour and a half ago. It’s the first time ever. Johnny is a good kid. A straight A student. He’s hard working and obedient. And he’s definitely never raised a hand on anyone or anything in his life.

But hey, someone calls you a bastard because your family tree sucks , tells you your father is no soldier and your mother is a whore...

She feels her own hands spasm into fists, she smashes the back of her head against the headrest and screams. Then sobs.

The principal told her that Johnny would have beaten the boy to death if they hadn’t torn the two apart. For the life of her she can’t imagine her quiet gentle child pounding someone so hard that it takes two grown men to pull him away.

All she can think about is the body in the coroner’s office - the man his father had tortured and killed with his bare hands for attacking her. Despite what Johnny’s father did for a living, or maybe because of that, he was the most gentle and loving soul she had ever met. It takes a monster to push someone like him over the edge, she knows.

Kids can be monsters. Sometimes more so than adults.

In the end all those deep  breaths don’t help. By the time she’s at the principal’s office she’s a volatile raging mess.

When they leave, they leave for good. She’ll homeschool him if need be. They will figure it all out. That’s what she promises when they are back in the car. He can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop crying and saying he’s sorry, so sorry, he didn’t mean to. He’s curled on top of her in the back seat. His little hands are bruised and  bloody. Her arms are like willow branches around him - soft and pliant, but unbreakable.

Long after he quiets down and just snuggles into her, his head buried into her shoulder, she still can’t move.

Her phone buzzes once and she picks it up. It’s Stevenson, her captain. And and the only man left in her life who knows. Well, her family knows, too. But Stevenson is the only one who understands, sees a tall it takes on her - on both of them.

-Want me to come?

He would. And he would probably find a way to cause some damage to the other boy’s family. He’s overprotective like that. To this day she wonders if he knew, when she came out of the morgue and told him that it wasn’t the man who attacked her on the coroner’s table. It was her last gift to Johnny’s father - breaking her oath, lying to the man who loved her like his own daughter. She remembers Stevenson’s face when he just nodded - a little too fast, a little too eager to get her out of there. They never spoke of it again.

One arm still around her son, she types a quick reply.

-We’re good. Heading home. Thanks

It’s who Stevenson has always been to her (and to Johnny’s father) when her own family turned their back on her, on them, that makes up her mind. Sometimes blood isn't thicker than water. And Johnny’s father’s life story is a testimony to that.

When Johnny was about three years old she told him that his father had a very dangerous job. That he was a soldier. That he protected people. That he couldn’t stay and raise him because he had to protect them , too. And that every time they woke up in the morning safe and sound it was because his father made it so. It’s been enough for a while.

They get home, she sits him on the sofa, takes a deep breath and says, “There is something very important that we need to talk about.”

He nods and waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t know where to start. The  beginnings always have her stumped.

Fuck it. She gets up and goes to the storage room. This will wreck her, she knows.

When she’s back, there’s a pile of old photographs in her hands.

She finds the one she likes the most, and, battling the tears, shows it to Johnny. Between his father’s missions and them leading a penniless existence, it was the only real vacation they’d ever been on. The picture is of both of them on Karlov bridge in Prague. It was late fall, the worst time to travel. But it was the only time they managed. He actually had to tell his boss to go fuck himself before they left. He threatened to create a workers union for black-ops (not to his boss, to her ). He could be silly like that.

To this day she doesn’t know where he’d gotten the money. But he’d promised to take her on vacation and so he did. They took a charter plane and stayed in the cheapest hotel, they’d eat the crappy hotel breakfast and barely anything else during the day. But looking at this picture, it seems like they are on the most luxurious romantic trip. She’s looking at the camera, her face is barely visible, half hidden in her heavy scarf and a woolen hat. Her hair used to be long then and it’s blowing in the wind. She’s molded into his side and her smile is what he’d later said was the only drop of sunshine they’d seen that day. His face is barely visible as well, but for a different reason - he’s not looking at the camera, but at her . Both arms around her, his forehead is against the top of her head, his eyes are half closed as he looks down, but that blue glow is there, and a deep dimple on his cheek is all that can be seen of his smile.

It’s a fleeting moment in time.  A passing tourist saw a fascinating young couple walking towards him and took their picture on his polaroid camera so they can always remember just how beautiful they are. Julia caught him taking the shot, when Johnny’s father was busy leaning in to kiss her as they strolled across the bridge. Every time she looks at this photograph it’s all there, all they ever were.

She Lets Johnny flip through the other pictures and tells him a story. She looks at his battered knuckles and she wants him to know that he might not have met his father, and he might never will, but that he was born out of love, that he was always wanted, that his father loved him, that he gave up everything he ever dreamt of for the both of them to have a life that he himself might never get to have. She doesn’t know where his father is right now. She doesn’t even know if he’s alive. But she’s grateful, and always will be, for what he had given her, no matter how hard it had been for him. For the life he had fought for, until he couldn’t anymore. And for Johnny. Most of all for Johnny. She wants him to know that no matter how sad both his parents were that they couldn’t raise him together, the little time they were allowed to have each other in this world is something neither one of them would ever regret. And given the chance, even knowing how it ended, they would do it all over again.

“Your father’s name now is Peter Quinn,” she tells him. “The name he was born with is John Sullivan. He changed it not long before you were born. Peter was a name his sister Lizzy used to call him when she was little. Quinn was the name of the family that had raised him.” She looks through the pictures until she finds the one she needs. “This is your father when he was twelve years old. This is Adele - his mother, Braden - his father (you’re called after him, too), and little Lizzy.”

“My grandparents. And my aunt.” It’s the first hint of a smile that she’s seen since they left the school. His own little family tree.

“Yes,” she kisses his head.

“But they weren’t dad’s real parents?”

“They were. They weren’t his birth parents, but they were his real family. And yours.”

He’s thinking about it, holding the picture.

“Can I meet them ?” he asks, finally.

Julia takes a deep breath. “You know how I go to Baltimore every once in a while?” He nods. “A place I go to is a cemetery. Adele, Braden and Lizzy were killed when your father was fourteen years old. I’ve never met them. But if you want…”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish. “I want to. I really want to.”

They go on the same day. It’s late in the evening when they get to Baltimore. Johnny sweeps the dirt from the tombstones and arranges the flowers they got on their way.

They may not be his real family. But Adele Quinn had saved his father’s life in every way a person could and should be saved. She was the only one in his life who had ever fought for him . Her bravery and love helped shape the man he had become. She used to tell him that he was all light - to her and everyone else around him. Looking down at her own son’s face, at the stir of wistfulness, grief and longing in his pale blue eyes, Julia agrees with Adele - a mother always knows what her child really is.

2016

“Dinner!” Julia comes in from the kitchen to find a familiar scene - Johnny, Max and Astrid cuddling on Astrid’s sofa, watching TV.

Johnny grabs the remote and checks the time remaining till the end of the episode. “Seven minutes forty seconds?” He gives her a begging look.

They all seem to need seven minutes and forty seconds. She realises she won’t win this battle, laughs and joins them. She sits next to her son and pulls him closer. Then looks at TV.

“Deep Space Nine again?”

“We like it!”

By ‘like it’ Johnny means Max and himself. The two nerds have really found each other. Astrid’s just in for the ride and enjoying the company. At least, that’s what Julia thinks.

“We do, actually.” Astrid proves her wrong. Julia has noticed that her accent becomes more pronounced when she’s emotional about something. It’s very thick now. “It’s so incredible that Dax keeps an oath she’d given in her previous life.”

“It’s a Klingon blood oath . You can’t break it.” Johnny jesticulates in a very convincing manner.

“Yes. But she’s not the same person anymore.” Astrid is not really arguing, just clarifying. Mostly to herself.

“ Jadzia is not the same person. But Dax is.” He doesn’t give up. He knows his Star Trek back and forth.

Julia rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “He’s watched Deep Space Nine at least three times. And this particular episode… I dunno… a hundred? Give it up, Astrid. Dax is the coolest. Even I know that.”

Johnny leans closer to Astrid and half whispers, “Mom likes Quark.”

It’s Max’s turn to comment . “Yeah, Quark’s cool, too. Takes some getting used to.” He scoops up the last of the popcorn crumbles and throws them into his mouth.

“I think my favourite is Garak, though,” Astrid concludes after a while.

“Duh! He’s a spy. Like you. And Carrie. And my dad.”

Johnny scoffs as he says that. It makes Julia muffle a laugh. He’s picked up some of Carrie’s habits. And sometimes he speaks with a hint of a German accent. The boy is like a sponge. And he’s one happy sponge to be surrounded by the people in his father’s life. He hasn’t met him yet, but he’s heard more stories about him than he probably should have. And he’s loved. And spoiled. And adored.

His last comment makes Astrid snort. “Your dad is no spy .”

“He is so!” Johnny knows best.

“He’s more like a spy soldier.”

This makes Johnny roll his eyes. In the same manner that Max does. And pretty much at the same time.

“He’s special ops .” Proud. So proud. Doesn’t know half of what it means but his father’s blue eyes shine with pride.

*

The dinner is over fast. They’d gone sightseeing and they are all famished. Julia sets three boxes of food aside to take to Carrie when she goes to change shifts with her at the hospital.

It’s been two weeks since Quinn was extubated. It was touch and go with his breathing for a while, but he’s off the oxygen now. His memory is not all back yet. The long term comes back faster than the short term. They are all happy about that. And dreading the day he remembers how he ended up in the hospital.

He doesn’t remember yet . But he has flashbacks. And night terrors. They are violent. He can be talking one minute and then freeze, start screaming, sweating, battling people off of him. His blood pressure goes through the roof. The week before, he went into pulmonary edema and was almost put back on the vent.

He can use his hands again , and his fine motor skills are pretty much back to normal. Probably not good enough to handle a weapon. But enough to read a book on his own. He can move around in bed and take a few steps with almost no help. But he’d been on muscle relaxants and high dose steroids for a short while when he was first brought in. The peripheral neuropathy will take time to go away. And tons of work.

He reads a lot. Mostly keeps quiet. He remembers them all now. He’s different with them all. He lashes out when he’s being babied, the criteria for which being fairly broad. He can’t stand being helped out of bed. He goes ballistic when someone adjusts his food tray.  Throws things and screams when he’s not able to do something on his own. Part of it is the agitation from the brain damage induced by hypoxia. Another part is a residual long term effect of the sarin on the central nervous system. The doctors say both are reversible and self-limiting. But it’ll take time.

Julia never helps him with anything. She tells him if he can’t do it now, then he shouldn’t. He will be able to when he works on it. He doesn’t know what frustrates him more sometimes - Max practically trying to spoon feed him or Julia mercilessly watching him stumble out of bed on his own. But he knows that if he falls, she’ll catch him.

Astrid is sort of the same with him. She kicks his butt a lot and doesn’t take his shit. She also never helps him with anything. He can yell back at her, though. It just makes her laugh and kick his butt harder. Astrid is like that.

With Carrie, he never tries to do anything he knows he can’t. The moment she enters the room his eyes change in an instant, become brighter, more wistful, more confident. He watches her every move. She’s grown softer, kinder, more centered. They talk much more than they ever used to. But he can’t stand her seeing he’s not capable of doing something. So he thinks carefully before attempting to get out of bed. She seems to notice that. Though she never comments.

With Max… well, they play chess and barely talk at all. Max thinks now Quinn must be convinced that he’s mute. He doesn't know that when Quinn spoke to Julia about all of them just a week ago, he said Max was one of the best and most decent people he’s ever met. Julia figured they will sort it out at some point. For now, Max just beats Quinn at chess. All the time. It seems to suit them just fine.

Julia takes her antibiotics and pops some Tylenol while she’s at it. The pain gets worse towards the evening.

She is about ready to go, having kissed Max and Astrid goodnight. She’s on her way to the guest room where Johnny is supposed to be asleep , but finds him standing in the doorway in his pajamas, barefoot and rubbing his eye with his fist.

“Back to bed this instant.” She isn’t even trying to sound stern.

“Are you off to see dad?” He doesn’t budge from the door.

“Yes I am,” she says. “And I’m already late to switch Carrie.”

“Mom.” He barely waits for her to finish the sentence. “We need to talk.”

Oh, boy. This is going to take more than five minutes, she knows. Johnny is a very sweet boy, but very serious, too.The ‘we need to talk’ bit is always a sign. It usually comes after he’s thought things through. And when he gets like that, there is no stopping him - between both of his parents, there’s enough stubbornness in his gene pool to move mountains.

“Ooookay,” giving him a kiss and a nudge towards the guest room. “I’ll just let Carrie know that I’ll be in later. Go ahead. Be right in.”

Carrie replies as soon as Julia sends the message. She tells her to take her time. Quinn’s sleeping.

“So...” Julia kicks off her shoes and climbs on Johnny’s bed, crossing her legs and facing him. “The talk. Shoot.”

“I wanna go see dad. Tonight.”

“I see.” She takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he fires off, before she gets a chance to respond. “I don’t care. I wanna see him.”

She can’t help a smile. “What am I going to say?”

Johnny throws his hands in the air, palms up. “What you always say - that he’s too sick, that he wouldn’t want me to see him like this, that he gets angry sometimes, that his memory is not fine… Mom, I don’t care.”

“Well, what if he does?” She tries to be patient. It shreds her heart. The pain is almost physical. “Remember how you were in intensive care with pneumonia three years ago? You didn’t want Joana and Rob to come and see you when you were plugged to all the wires and couldn’t move, on oxygen and meds, a tube in your nose. People feel very…” looking for the right word, “...uncomfortable when they are in the hospital, sick like that. They don’t even want to see their friends sometimes. And your father is… he’s a very strong and brave man. For him to be sick like that, it’s very hard. He doesn’t let people help him.”

“He lets you . Carrie told me. He lets you help him and take care of him.”

“It’s different, Johnny. Your father and I know each other very well. We’ve been together for a long time. We’ve had you together. He feels more comfortable with me than the others.”

“Then he will be comfortable with me , too.” Can’t argue with that. “ And … Joana and Rob are my classmates . Friends, yes. But they are not my family . I never wanted you gone when I was sick. I hated it when they’d ask you to leave.”

“I know.” She rarely calls him ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’. Much like his father, Johnny hates being ‘babied’. But she extends her hand and waits for him to take it. “But you understand how hard it might be for your father to see you when he’s like that, right? Johnny, I know you’ve heard all those stories from Carrie and Max and Astrid. And you think you know many things about him. Probably the most important thing is… despite not seeing you when you were growing up, your father loves you with everything he is. You are the most important thing to him in the world, you always were. He wanted to have you more than he wanted anything in his whole life. And it broke his heart so hard when he couldn’t stay and raise you.” She swallowed tears and steadies her voice. “I know he wants to see you, and be a part of our lives again. But I also know it’s important to him to be better when he does. To be stronger. For you. It’s just the kind of man he is.”

Johnny seems to consider it. Then he nods. But when he raises his eyes to meet hers, they have the ‘Johnny’ look that both he and his father share .

“What if he needs me and he can’t say? Because he wants to be strong?”

The tears come so hard and fast that they hurt Julia’s eyes. She lets out a sob and pulls Johnny into her embrace. Quinn doesn’t even know his son is here in Berlin. She hadn’t wanted to upset or unsettle him. And yet, it rings true. The way he asked about him, the only time he did, there was so much yearning in his eyes.

Johnny digs his face deep into her chest, throwing his arms around her waist. “Mom, I miss him. I want to take care of him too.”

You’ve never even met him , she wants to say. But she doesn’t. “He misses you more.” She smiles into his hair. Then she pulls him away from herself and cups his face in her palms. “Get dressed. And hurry. Carrie must be really tired and hungry. And put something warm and comfortable on. Where’s that navy sweater of yours?”

He jumps off the bed and is ready in military time. She can’t help but smile when he stands before her all dressed, eyes glowing with anticipation, fidgeting impatiently.

Julia climbs down his bed and puts her shoes back on. As soon as she stands up, she feels so dizzy that she almost tips over. It’s the exhaustion, she knows. But her hand is shaking when she takes Johnny’s as they walk out of the room.

When Astrid sees them at the door, the expression on her face goes from puzzled to concerned. She flips the light switch on and gasps.

“Why are you so pale?” she asks Julia, coming closer.

“Just tired. I’m fine,” Julia tries to smile, but the light makes her feel even worse. It seems to flicker, everything around her growing darker.

Astrid puts an arm around her shoulders and jerks her hand back just as fast.

“You’re bleeding!” Her fingers are dripping with blood.

And it’s the last thing Julia sees before her knees buckle and she slumps to the floor.

Chapter Text

1977 

The first time they meet he’s just two hours old. He’s admitted to the NICU, intubated and sedated. He’s a full term baby boy just born to a seventeen-year-old heroin addict. His mother’s family is taking her home for private care - they can afford it. What they can’t afford is a two-hour-old scandal. It doesn’t surprise Adele. It makes her sad. But that’s life.

Adele believes in two things in life: a - there can never be too much coffee, and b - some people should have their fallopian tubes tied the first time around. She’s been in peds critical care her whole life. She’s seen it all. And it never gets easier with the little ones.

Methadone treatment and sedation during the weaning period is experimental at best. Sergey, an old Russian neonatologist and pediatric intensivist, has his own system. He doesn’t write in medical journals. He treats kids with what he knows will work. He always tells her ‘Quinn, I seen it working all the time. We done it all the time where I work in Moscow. This will work here too. One day. Now we do it for our kids. Later they do it for all. Grown up too. You’ll see.’ He has a thick Russian accent. And when he calls her by her last name (and he always does), it comes out ‘Kvin’. Adele believes him. She’s seen the withdrawals before he started using methadone. She is just glad this little fella is in Sergey’s capable hands.

She hums as she plugs in his feeding tube and pushes his first methadone dose. Then she looks down at him.

“A fucked up way to start a life…” She looks for his name on the order sheet. It says ‘Baby John Doe’. “The motherfuckers couldn’t even be bothered to name you, huh?” She puts a hand on his tiny head. The dark hair is soft to the touch. “You’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

*

It’s almost two weeks later when Adele comes to say goodbye to him the night before he’s released to his first foster family.

*

Marsha looks at the time and frowns - it’s almost half past 3AM. Adele is not here yet. It’s never easy for her to get away. But she always manages. Marsha looks at the blue mug filled with coffee on top of her nursing station’s counter. It’s cold now. She grabs it, strides into the staff room and pours a fresh one. Adele needs coffee. All the time.

They are not close friends. But they are as close as it gets in here - work friends. Marsha is almost twenty years Adele’s senior. She’s been working in this maternity unit for almost three decades. Seen it all. But not like Adele did. Adele works in the PICU, sometimes does extra shifts in the NICU. Her life is a mosaic of great satisfaction and deep despair. It comes with the job. That’s why she comes here during her spare breaks. Been coming for years now. To see the healthy ones. To hold one. Feed one. Feel a life starting. Not ending.

The sound of the clogs at the door makes Marsha smile. She always manages.

Adele is a mess. Her blonde reddish hair is still tied in a knot behind her head, held by one… two… three ballpoint pens, but still rogue strands hang loose all around her pale face. Her greyish blue eyes are bloodshot. And there is an actual bloodstain on her bicep, right where the short sleeve of her burgundy scrubs ends.

“MVA,” Adele says in a hoarse husky voice. She takes the mug from Marsha’s hands and stuffs her nose into the thick vapor. Then takes a greedy sip. The coffee is perfect. Black and no sugar. Just the way she likes it.

Marsha knows the ‘MVA’ is the answer to the unspoken question in her of why Adele is late.

“How bad?”

“Fucking bad .” Adele swears a lot. She told Marsha once that the ‘f’ word is for every situation in life. And she sure is proficient in using it - all forms, some known and some made up.

Adele drags her feet over to the nursing chair and collapses into it. She sips some more from her coffee and says nothing for a while. Then she looks around. There are seven babies in here tonight. Usually there are around ten. Nowadays most spend their nights with their mommies. Except the ones who have none.

Marsha picks up a tightly swaddled baby boy and walks to Adele. She puts him in her arms and pulls up a chair for herself.

“He’s been doin’ better today, all-in-all,” she smiles.

Adele holds him tight against her chest. She can feel his arms and legs moving restlessly inside the folds.

“When was his last methadone?” she asks finally, not happy with how he’s doing at all .

“‘Bout an hour ago. They started tapering it down yesterday.”

“Fucking monkeys,” Adele’s face turns dark. She holds the baby tighter. Then takes a bottle of formula and grins when he wraps his tiny mouth around the nipple and starts suckling with all the force he’s got.

“He’s been waiting for you,” Marsha smiles. “Been awake for an hour now. Never cried once.”

Adele nods, deep in thought. He never does.

Marsha leaves and goes back to her shift work. She knows this is Adele’s time to be alone. They’ve been working night shifts in this hospital for what seems like forever now. Adele always comes for the ones that no one else comes for. It’s the half hour she needs to escape from the vents, the infusion pumps, the beeping of the monitors, and the heartbreak. She comes to feed one baby every night she works. She sings to them. Old Irish songs.

“Hey, anyone named him yet?” Adele inquires after about ten minutes of silence. She has the baby on her shoulder now, gently patting his back.

“Yep. John.”  Marsha motions with her head to the name and weight sheet above his crib.

“Fuck me,” Adele shakes her head. “Fucking creative . Was probably better off with Baby John Doe.”

Marsha snorts. She’s been thinking the exact same thing since she first heard of it.

“Adele Quinn… meet John Sullivan,” tickling the baby’s back as she passes by.

Adele smiles. She is so exhausted, her smile is real. She holds the baby in front of her face and tilts her head to the side.

“Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Mr John Sullivan.”

He burps. Figures. Always a mind of his own with this one - pat his back in the upright position for twenty minutes - no burping, put him back in his crib or hold him up - there he goes. Always on HIS terms.

“You stubborn little fucker you,” Adele smiles and cradles him back in her arms.

She holds him tight to make the tremors go away. She knows he will be fine in a couple of days. She also knows they will have to say goodbye now. There will be others - there always are. But tonight he is lying in her arms, looking at her. His eyes are baby blue. She always wonders what color their eyes will end up being. And she never finds out. Too little time.

He’s a quiet baby. Happy and content. Doesn’t need much. He likes to be held. And he likes to be sung to. He never sleeps when she sings. Just looks at her, savoring the little time they both have together. She wonders if he knows they will part ways soon. She wonders what family he will go to. Then she starts to sing. It’s the lullaby her own grandmother used to sing to her. She can still remember her thick Irish accent. And with this song she lapses into it every time.

The night is quiet. John’s trembles subside. The lullaby seems to soothe him. Adele has a beautiful singing voice - years of Catholic school choir. Marsha wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

Adele knows many old Irish songs, some in English and some in Gaelic.

They all sound like prayers.

For Adele - they all truly are.

2016 

Carrie is a bundle of nerves outside Quinn’s room, pacing back and forth. The nurses seem annoyed but say nothing, and this just makes her more agitated. Occasionally, she peeks inside to make sure he’s still sleeping, then looks at his heart rate readings on the huge screen of the central monitor above the nursing station. She sits down in one of the grey leather chairs across the hall. It takes all of fifteen seconds before her foot starts twitching, then tapping, then her fingertips join in, and she realises she’s too restless to stay still. The sound of her own heels against the ceramic tiles of the floor pounds in her head. Everything is too loud, too distracting.

She winces. Distracting from what? She stops for a moment, her eyes moving from side to side, not really looking at or for anything.

Knowing now that it’s going to be alright is just not enough. She should have said something, done something. She shouldn’t have listened. It’s always should have… should have… should have. She scoffs at her own thoughts. One of the nurses lifts her eyes from the book she’s reading, and it makes Carrie both look at her and avert her eyes at the very same moment. As if she’s judging her, can see right through her. She scoffs again, this time while wrapping her arms around herself and turning her back to the nursing station.

The clicking sound of hasty steps coming from the entrance to the unit makes her swing around. Astrid. She almost sighs in relief. Almost, though.

Astrid nods to the nurses with a brief smile, but when her eyes are back on Carrie they are as scalding to Carrie’s mind as hot oil. She has no makeup on, her hair is down and unruly. And yet she looks her usual self - all aces, tall, confident, a little menacing and… well, everything Carrie doesn’t need her to be right now. She feels herself flailing inside, shrinking. But the thing is, with Carrie, when that happens, once she has ‘shrunk’ sufficiently, there’s a void that’s left that can only be filled by all her defenses kicking in at once.

There are so many things she wants to ask but, in the end, she just stops fidgeting, stands as tall as she can, and gets ready.

“You knew ,” Astrid is not really one to beat around the bushes. The way she says it, it doesn’t sound like a question. More of an accusation. “About Julia’s injuries,” she adds, although neither of them needs the clarification.

If Carrie is taken aback, she doesn’t show it. Her head ducks back just a little bit and, with a ‘So?’ expression on her face, she fires a “Yes.”

“I see ,” Astrid tilts her head to the side now. It doesn’t really sound like an ‘I see’, but more along the lines of ‘Oh, so you are just a self-centered bitch after all’. At least, that’s what it sounds like in Carrie’s head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Astrid crosses her long arms on her chest and just stares Carrie down for a moment before speaking.

“And it never occured to you to say anything? To anyone ?”

“I was asked explicitly not to. So, no , it hasn’t .”

Astrid sighs, her expression conveying amusement over this level of incredulity.  She rolls her eyes as she mutters in German what sounds like a string of curses.

“Listen to you, Carrie… You were asked…?! What are you, a three-year-old? Did you make a pact? The woman is in surgery. She’s been walking around with a badly infected surgical wound for weeks. She apparently dashed away from the hospital in Philly AMA to jump on a plane and get here. And she’s been taking care of everyone, sleeping folded on that crappy chair... And you knew she was sick all this time.”

“Ok, first of all…” Carrie moves one foot forward, her head swings to the side, eyes wide and lips trembling, “I only found out two weeks ago. I was here, and she asked for my help to set up a doctor’s appointment to get the antibiotics. I did what she asked. She asked me not to tell anyone. So I didn’t . It’s a personal matter, n ot my business or anyone else’s .” She steps even closer then. “And second, speaking of three-year-olds , Julia is a grown woman. She knew what she was doing. It was her decision to sleep folded on that chair, to take care of everyone . Not mine. Or yours, for that matter. And yes, she asked me.”

“Yeah, you said .” Astrid huffs in frustration. “And what you should’ve said is fuck no . This is not a field assignment, there is no enemy lurking around, Carrie. We’re at the heart of civilization. Getting a doctor’s appointment to get antibiotics? She should have checked into the hospital, gone through proper channels, had a surgeon look at her stitches, for fuck’s sake! She’s a grown woman, alright. And grown-ups fuck-up too, you know. That’s why we have people in our lives, friends , to take care of us. You should have done something, talk to one of us, talk to Peter…,” pointing to Quinn’s room, “... he would’ve never allowed her to do that to herself.”

“ Peter was the last person she wanted to know! Because Peter is the reason she’s here in the first place. She hasn’t even told Peter that his son is here. It’s their business. I don’t see you running to tell him that Johnny is downstairs with Max waiting for his mother to get out of surgery. Not so grown-up after all?”

“Jesus, Carrie!” That incredulous expression takes over again. “It’s just all one big mess in that head of yours, isn’t it? What do Peter and Johnny have to do with telling a friend she needs better medical care? Forcing her if need be?

“It’s about respecting someone’s wishes. She asked me not to tell you… or him. Like she asked you not to tell him about Johnny being here. It’s her decision!”

Carrie’s voice is getting loud, and one of the nurses gives her a warning look. She scoffs, wraps her arms around herself again, looks to the other side, then realises she appears more vulnerable like this. Her eyes snap back to meet Astrid’s.

Astrid lowers her voice to a hiss, which brings so much more disdain to what she’s saying. “Like it was Peter’s decision to bleed to death in that garage? Because he asked you not to take him to the hospital? So you got some antibiotics for him, some bandages… and left him bleeding to death because he asked you to !”

Carrie’s breath hitches, the words she was about to throw back choke in her throat. Her whole face quivers and twitches, her nostrils flare, her eyes fill with tears so fast that they suddenly light up, reflecting the fluorescent light.

Astrid retreats and her face softens. Low blow. Such a low blow. Her palm flies to her forehead as her eyebrows raise and her face grimaces with regret.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… fuck, I’m sorry, Carrie.” She wants to say ‘I’m just so tired’, but that would sound like an excuse. A piss poor excuse for hurting a friend like that.

“No, go right ahead.” Carrie’s lips curve down, she throws her hand in the air. “ Say it. I almost killed him. I left him to die . I ran off to save my own ass when the man who risked his for me was bleeding to death. I’m the selfish bitch.”

“You’re not. Carrie, I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Yeah, you did,” Carrie scoffs again. And it’s more bitter than the pitiful expression in her teary eyes. “And you know what? We all  left him to die. We all did. Or at least let him go off on a suicide quest.” She burrows her eyes into Astrid’s and there is one word written all over that look - ‘Islamabad’. They both know it.

Astrid fights an urge to object but in the end just nods.

And, somehow, both their minds go back to why they are both here.

“She’ll be fine,” Astrid finds herself muttering.

“Who’ll be fine?”

The voice behind them makes them both swing around. It’s only then that they notice the monitor alarm. Carrie manages to catch a glimpse of the interchanging warnings highlighted in blue: “ECG Leads OFF, SpO2 Probe OFF”. Her gaze shifts to Quinn, standing in the doorway of his unit, leaning heavily against the side of the door frame.

It’s the ‘grown-ups’ test, both women know. Time to face the music.

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” says Astrid, shaking her head, avoiding Carrie’s eyes.

He doesn’t buy it, looks at Carrie. He’s getting increasingly agitated, his blue eyes more of a pale grey, ruptured open, demanding answers.

“Quinn…” she starts, trying to approach him.

He shakes her hand off of his arm violently. “What?” It comes out too hard, too brusque, too loud.

Carrie withdraws her hand, looks at him for a while that seems to last forever. There’s a remorse in his eyes the moment he snaps.

But it’s too late. It’s not enough anymore.

The same way that making new friends is not enough to make up for   the feelings of guilt she’s been carrying about the people she’s let down in the past .  Just as how seeing him, talking to him every day, is not enough to erase the image of his lifeless body in that gas chamber from her dreams. Just as knowing that Julia’s going to be alright is not enough to make her feel less shitty about the fact that her best intentions have yet again led her to fail someone who loves her. It’s not enough… nothing can be enough. It’s not enough that she cares about him... she ends up hurting him, one way or another, time after time. And he keeps following her, despite all that, or maybe because of all that. She really can’t tell anymore.

He should stop . She should make him stop.

She looks at Astrid. Then starts laughing. She doesn’t even know why, but it’s just so ludicrous. Everything is so funny. She can laugh, right? Just laugh, just because. She’s the crazy person. She’s the crazy bitch who never knows how or when to do the right thing, huh?

So, here goes nothing. She shakes her head at Astrid and shifts her gaze to Quinn. He’s still staring her down. Fine. Fine!

“Well, here’s the thing,” she says, tilting her head to the side. She goes numb all over, knowing this is it. And knowing it has to be. “Since we’re all being adults and grown-ups here… Get this - Julia is in surgery. She almost bled to death. When she saw you being gassed on TV, she dropped a coffee mug and fell on the shards. They had to be surgically removed, but she never stayed for follow up and the stitches got infected. She jumped on a plane and flew alllll the way here because she thought you were dead. She thought she was going to have to bury the father of her child . She’s been in pain, sleeping here all those nights… taking care of you. Because...” she lets out a bitter snort. “...you’re just two of a kind, aren’t you? You just n ever know when to stop. And “lucky” enough to have friends like me , who somehow never manage to stop you from getting hurt. Who always manage to cause you more pain. ” She starts to walk away, but turns around. Quinn’s face is a trembling, twitching, sunken image of shock and anguish. Right, that’s what I do to you. I hurt you. I always hurt you. I hope you remember this the next time I ask you for help. I hope it’s enough to keep you safe. From me. She draws a deep breath and drives the stake all the way in. “And by the way , your son , Johnny, has been here since day one . You might want to check on him. He’s probably scared shitless. You’ll find him downstairs with Max.”

She walks away, crying. Voiceless, helpless, genuine, for fucking real. She exits the unit, her heels clicking defiantly on the floor. She’s sure she’s done it. She’s driven him away. Away from herself. Away from her missions. Away from her repeatedly nearly leading him to his death. She needs him away. She wants him away. She wants him hurt by words. Not sarin. Not bullets. Hurt, but alive.

She walks away and doesn’t looks back.

Astrid’s eyes follow Carrie, frozen in horror. She doesn’t move or breathe until she feels Quinn’s hand crashing heavily on her shoulder as he nearly falls over.

“Help me,” he whispers.

She lets him lean on her, swings an arm around his torso, her hand grabbing his other side, pushing him up.

“Take me to the… surgery place. Please ,” he begs. He begs . A man who doesn’t even let people adjust his food tray.

“Do you want a wheelchair?”

“Astrid, just take me…” He starts walking, holding on to her.

They walk fast. He’s stumbling but pushing through, gaining speed. Astrid can still hear the click of Carrie's heels as they retreat down the opposite hallway. She wonders if he still hears it too. Or if he ever did.

*

The first time they meet they should probably have enough time, to be alone, be prepared, be healthy, be happy, be ready. Be able to look into each other’s eyes, smile, not know what to say, or do, and then, slowly, figure it out.  

But in the end the first time they meet is when one of them is a terrified child who needs a parent. And another - has to become one, when he’s least prepared.

Johnny is slumped deep into the plastic chair next to Max. The round white clock on the opposite wall seems to not move… at all. It doesn’t have a seconds hand. What kind of hospital clock is that, anyway, without a seconds hand? Seconds are the smallest parts, he knows. People think that measuring time in bigger blocks is better. But he doesn’t. For him, eighty six thousand and four hundred seconds sounds less time than twenty four hours. Because seconds are smaller, and, somehow, because they are, he knows they will fly faster.

He tries to count the seconds that it takes for the minute hand to move from one marker to the next. He tries to match its rhythm, so his seconds are real, and not too fast or too slow.

It’s when he gets to… he forgets how much… that Max touches his shoulder.

Johnny lifts his eyes to Max’s face only to see him adjust his glasses on his nose bridge and smile down at him. And then gesture with his head, inviting Johnny’s glance to follow.

Johnny’s heart sprints into a gallop so hard and so fast, it feels like it's beating right in his throat. Somehow, he just knows . He spins around. He doesn’t really know what he’s about to see, but somehow he does . It’s Astrid. She’s at the other side of the long corridor. She sees him too and waves. Then touches the shoulder of the man walking beside her, pointing in Johnny’s direction.

And that’s when the seconds stop mattering. And the time can be measured in decades for all he cares. Because he’s not even a decade old. And he’s just found his father.

He was only a couple of hours old - too young to remember - when his father tore his arms away from him, leaning in to give him a kiss that seemed to last forever. He left a teardrop on his forehead as he finally forced himself to break away and walk out of his mother’s room, and out of his life, for good.

He’eight and a half years old now- old enough to remember- and he will never forget how his father tore his arm from Astrid’s shoulder and started running back into his life. His legs must be very tired. He could see how hard it was for him. But for some reason it seemed that once he started he couldn’t stop, that he skipped the walking part and went straight to a run. As if once he decided he was going to move, something else took over. And Johnny just knew what it was: gravity. Not like the one the Earth has, but like that other kind, the one between two objects. Because, before he knew it, he was running as well.

He will never forget the strength of his father’s arms, which everyone said was still not the best, when they caught him half leap and lifted him up high - so-so-so high. When his mother is lifting him (and she still does, when she gets happy and silly), she brings his head level with her own, so she can rub her nose against his or just kiss him all over the face. But his father swings him in the air as if he weighs nothing at all, so high that Johnny’s chin rests on top of his head, and he can hold him tight and hide his face in Johnny’s chest.

But mostly, he will never forget the sound his father makes when he just stops. Stands still. Straight and high despite everyone saying he couldn’t . It’s not a sob. Not even a moan. It’s like air that just escapes his father’s lungs, kind of what happens when someone exhales after holding their breath for a long-long time. He wonders if it’s possible that his father’s been holding it in for years. And there is something so happy about it that it makes Johnny laugh. Or maybe it's how his father’s breath goes straight through his sweater and tickles his chest.

The arms around him are so strong, but so gentle, too. They unlock just for a moment as his father leans back, letting him slide down a bit, so their faces are close together. Johnny gasps as he feels himself being let go, but it only lasts a second, even less, and he’s held again, against his father’s chest. And as he catches him again, when their eyes meet for the first time, Johnny sees him smile and hears the first thing his father ever says to him.

“I’ve got you.”

And it’s another thing that he will never forget. Because right away he knows: it’s not just for now. It’s for always.

And Johnny also knows that it’s not a dream anymore. And it’s not just because he can actually touch his father’s face like he is right now, laying his palms on both sides. He knows it’s his father, for real .

Because… well…

A) Everyone’s been saying how he has his father’s eyes. And it’s true! Same color, same shape, even the same eyelashes! He traces the tip of his finger along the thin lines of the tiny crinkles in the corners of his father’s eyes. Then moves his head to the side to see how far they go. Not far. Ok, he doesn’t have those . But he probably will when he gets older. Not a big deal.

B) When he does that, follows the crinkles, his father smiles and even laughs a little. Now, he’s not sure about the laughter, but the smile is also something that everyone says they have in common. And it’s true, too. They both have dimples that just get deeper as their smiles grow wider. He puts his hands over those dimples and watches them become even more pronounced. Yeah, they do have the same smile.

C) His father’s hair is just as soft as he’d always imagined when he looked through the old photographs he had. And it’s just as messy as his mother told him it can get. It’s not spiky now, not like in some of the pictures. It’s actually a little longer than in most of the photos. There’s a patch that’s been shaved off, and even the hairs growing back are in all different directions. He pulls some of the longer strands, pushes them to the side. They just fall as they want... Yep, looks about right. Just like his mom said: a hair with a mood of its own.

D) His father’s chin is supposed to have a small dimple inside of it, too. Johnny doesn’t have one of those. His face, apart from his eyes and smile, is very much like his mother’s. But it’s a mark his father should have. Apparently it’s barely visible, but his mother insisted it was there. So he looks from the side to try and see, and when the light falls on it from just the right angle, yeah, it’s definitely there.

E) His mother always told him that his father is very kind. And it feels like that right away. Because he just stands there, holding Johnny, and lets him touch and inspect his face. And when he smiles at him, Johnny feels like smiling back.

F) Well, “F” is a big one. Just a minute ago he was feeling so scared and lost. Even though Max and Astrid told him the doctor said his mother will be just fine and the surgery won’t take that long. But now he feels safe. Completely safe. And isn’t that what his father does? Make others safe?

G) Ok… maybe enough. Oh, yeah! Strong. His father is freakishly strong. Johnny has his legs wrapped around his waist just in case, because everyone’s been saying how weak he still is, but it’s just not true. And if it is true, than… wow . He must be really strong when he’s all better.

Ok, enough.

When Johnny appears to be done studying and touching every inch of his face, Quinn winks.

“Did I pass?” He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say, but it’s happening, the words are coming out of him. And they feel just right.

Johnny nods hard and fast.

“Do we have a verdict?”

It’s only now that Johnny realises that what he says next will be the first thing he ever says to his father. All those years, he’d imagined what that first thing would be. So many times. So many words and ideas that he’d played out in his head. And now it’s not just something he can pick and choose. He needs to answer his father’s question. His mind races back and forth from ‘a’ through ‘g’ and back. But then he stops. Because, really, it’s all of them. He pulls away further, clasping his father’s head in between his hands.

“Yep. You’re perfect.”

His father throws his head back and laughs out loud. It’s such a happy sound, so full of delight and joy. He leans his forehead against Johnny’s for just a moment.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t argue. No one is perfect. But right now, in this very second, he feels perfect.

He leans his face closer and presses his lips near the spot where Johnny’s nose connects to his cheek. And he just stays there. Johnny can feel him breathing. And he can smell him now, too. He smells of something… like cologne maybe? An aftershave? It doesn’t matter. He smells like his father. One of his breaths is cut then. And the one following it, letting the air out, feels too long. And a little too moist as his father’s lips part. There is a sound to it, too. And it is a sob this time. But not like the ones that Johnny has when he cries. It’s very low, a little wheezing. And when his father kisses him again, on the cheek this time, he can feel that his face is wet.

He lets go of his father’s head and settles his arms around his neck. And right then his father’s embrace tightens too. Their faces slide against each other until there is no more space  between them. And Johnny’s head comes to rest against his father’s shoulder.

But then Johnny remembers something. And, as perfect as that moment feels, his head shoots up.

“Is your memory all better now?”

Quinn laughs through tears. “Why, you think I picked up the wrong kid?”

Johnny grins so wide even his dimples shrink.

“No, I’m the right kid.” But just in case. He recites what his mother has told him so many times. His voice and his expression resemble those he has when he goes over his homework. “I’m John Braden Quinn. John is after you, Braden is after your father and Quinn is after your family.”

Quinn wonders how long it takes for the human heart to melt completely. Because his just keeps dissolving.

“You’re my Johnny,” he whispers, as his son’s fingers are wiping his tears.

Suddenly, the adrenaline wears off completely and he feels too weak to stand. He keeps one arm locked around his son’s waist, while his other one reaches for help. His mind quickly goes through all the possible ways he can fall without dropping Johnny.

“Johnny, can you hold onto me harder?” As he turns around, Astrid is already running to grab his hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “Can you help me sit down?” he asks her.

Astrid let it go the first time around, but she can’t help it anymore.

“Peter, I am going to mark this day on my calendar and petition for it to be made a national holiday. When Peter Quinn the almighty asked for help. Twice .” She leads him to the chairs, as Max comes to their aid as well.

Quinn squeezes her shoulder. Then looks at Johnny, still in his arms. “What Astrid’s saying is that your dad was being kind of an ass to his friends.”

Johnny laughs. He wants to get down. He doesn’t want to be a burden, but he knows his father won’t let go.

“Peter, there was no ‘kind of’ to it. You’re an ass. A stubborn, grumpy ass.”

“Fair enough,” Quinn settles in the chair and makes sure Johnny is safe on his lap before he releases his grip on his son and grabs Astrid’s hand. He pulls her in for a peck on a cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

She kisses his forehead and messes his hair. “And that’s why you get away with it. Ok. I’ll head to the cafeteria and get us some food. You boys are good here?”

They all nod.

Quinn remembers something as she starts to leave.

“Astrid, could you…” He doesn’t get to finish.

“Coffee. I know. Black, no sugar.” She rolls her eyes and laughs.

He shrugs and smiles. “Thank you.”

Max starts to move away, wanting to give them some space. Quinn reaches for his hand and yanks him down into the chair right next to his own. They don’t need to say much to each other. It’s all clear.

He leans back and lets the feeling of his son’s body cuddling on top of his chest spread through every fiber of his own. Johnny’s head is right under his chin. And he just can’t stop running his fingers through his soft hair. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say anything right now, or do anything. There are so many things that he wants to talk to his son about. He has a list in his head. He’s been adding items for years. He has all those letters that he wrote in that large metal box. But it’s not the time.

“Johnny?” he calls softly, gently scratching the boy’s neck.

“Mmmm?” Johnny barely stirs and just holds him tighter.

“Are you comfortable? Warm enough?” He rubs his back. It comes so easy - worrying, feeling responsible, thinking how late it is for his child to be awake, knowing how far he’d go just to get a blanket.

Johnny nods and nuzzles his face deeper between his father’s chin and his neck.

“Do you wanna get some sleep?”

Johnny’s adrenaline wore off as well a while ago. He knows his mother is going to be ok. He’s safe and warm in his father’s arms. And, mostly, this is what he’s been dreaming of doing for so long - falling asleep as his father holds him.

He  murmurs, “You’ll wake me up when mom’s out of surgery?”

“Of course I will.” Quinn smiles and kisses his hair, then covers his head with his palm.

Johnny nods again, his eyelashes tickling Quinn’s neck and making him laugh.

Minutes flow by and he starts to wonder if his son is asleep. He doesn’t wonder for long.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve missed you.” He’s waiting. It’s the last sign.  A, b, c, d, e… What letter did he get to? He doesn’t remember anymore and is too tired to do it all over again. But he knows that his father has to say it the way he always did with his mother.

Quinn doesn’t know he’s being tested. But he knows the answer. He’s known it every day since the last time he held his child in his arms. He turns his head just slightly so that his cheek is on top of his son’s head. When he sighs, the feeling of Johnny’s weight on his chest as it rises and falls sends waves of serenity and peace through every cell of his body.

“I’ve missed you more.”

Johnny grins wider. Because it is  the right answer.

His eyelids grow so heavy that he can barely keep them open anymore.

His father’s heartbeat is slow and steady now, right next to Johnny’s ear. It’s like seconds… Except it doesn’t measure time. But life. His father’s life. Johnny feels himself smiling, snuggling even closer. When his mother told him why they were flying to Berlin, he never believed it.  

Because, above all those other things, his father is his hero. And the bravest man he’s ever heard of.

Every time his eyes close, he forces them back open.

He means to be quiet, pretending to be asleep. But after awhile, he can feel his father’s chest tremble next to his own, even before actually hearing him laugh. Busted. He wants to say that he just needs a little longer. Because everything is just so perfect.

But his father speaks first.

And Johnny remembers something else his mother told him that his father was really good at: sometimes he could know what she was thinking without her having to tell him.

“Just sleep,” he whispers into Johnny’s hair. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And, because that really is what Johnny needed to hear, his eyes finally close for real.

And right away, his mind is a swirl of bliss and joy.

*

The first time Julia wakes up after collapsing on the floor in Astrid’s apartment is when the deafening sound of a shrieking siren jolts her back to consciousness. As the ambulance pulls off and gains speed, the gurney she’s lying on squeaks and shakes from side to side, its sudden movement making her cry out in pain.

“Shhh…” The sound is scantily audible, but the hand that touches her head is both steady and comforting.

Julia is strapped to the gurney, lying on her side, something hard pressing against her back. She can’t move her body to look around, so she rolls up her eyes. Astrid gives her a mere hint of a smile, her eyes are moist and overflowing with concern, compassion and a touch of exasperation.‘What the fuck , Jules???’ She doesn’t need to say it out loud. Julia can feel it in the way she grabs her hand and presses it in between her own.

“Johnny…” she tries to lift her head, but Astrid pushes it gently back to the gurney.

“Lie still. There is a tough and quite handsome German man putting pressure on your bleeding wound right behind you. And Johnny is fine. He couldn’t go in the ambulance, so he’s driving to the hospital with Max.”

Julia manages a small nod and squeezes Astrid’s hand in a silent ‘thank you’.

Astrid’s lips quiver, and there is a faint smirk to her smile now. “You know he’ll kills us, right? Peter? He’ll shoot the three of us like dogs for not taking better care of you.”

It’s a lame attempt to cheer her up, and they both know it. But it rings disturbingly true, so they laugh.

But then Astrid’s face grows serious again, and she shakes her head.

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?” Her tone is harsh and iron hard, but her mouth curves down and her eyes show nothing but apprehension now.

“I just didn’t think it was that serious…”

“Jules… repeat after me… I’m an idiot .”

Another chuckle makes Julia wince in pain. Which kind of proves Astrid’s point.

“Fine. I’m an idiot. ”

“As long as we’re clear on that .”

When Julia wakes up the time after that, it feels familiar. There are no sirens, and everything around her is quiet and peaceful. Not really quiet, but the kind you get in the hospital at night. She’s grown used to this sensation over the past five weeks. There is a soft, distant chatter of voices, as well as some beeping. Her back is throbbing. She almost expects to open her eyes and find herself folded on an armchair in Quinn’s room.

Her mind seems to work at too leisurely a pace, a foggy screen making the memories harder to fetch. And the more effort she puts into speeding it up, the harder it gets. In the end, though, she manages to put the events of the evening back in order. She knows she’s not in Quinn’s room. Probably the PACU or a surgical ward.

It’s the latter, but she doesn’t realise it at first. Because as she opens her eyes, in a flash, despite everything she just recalled, she's back in the small apartment in Philly. There’s an armchair right in front of her, so close to her bed that she can touch it.

The man sitting there has a book in one hand and a thermal cup with what she can only assume is ‘black coffee, no sugar’ in the other. He’s wearing a grey pullover pajama top with long sleeves and is covered with one of those cozy hospital-warmer blankets. It’s the only reminder that they are in fact not in Philly, not at home, but still half way across the world. Ok, that , and the fact that the armchair is a different color than their old, beat-up lazy boy and is facing the wrong direction.

But she loves this picture. And she savors the time that he doesn’t see that she’s awake to just look at him. She’ll kick his ass later for not being in his own room. But not yet.

Quinn secures his coffee cup between his right hip and the arm of the chair so he can use the hand to flip a page. His eyes move to the top of the next one. But his lips curve up in the manner that Julia knows so well. She’s busted.

Without tearing his gaze from the book, he grumbles, “Stop staring!” But, as usual, his smile just gets wider.

She knows what he’s waiting for.

“No.”

The short, silent laughter that he lets out leaves him with a content and somewhat playful smile. He sets his book next to his coffee cup and looks down to where the upper edge of the blanket reaches almost to his neck. He carefully pulls the sheet just a tad higher, and his arm slowly slides against the soft fabric until it lies all the way across his body.

The first thing that draws her attention is a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under the blanket against Quinn’s chest. Then a small hand slightly curled around his shoulder.

She draws a sharp breath, just short of a sob, and her eyes are locked with Quinn’s now, pulled into the deep blue of gratitude and delight. His head tilts down and to the side, holding her gaze, his cheek pressed against Johnny’s hair. His arm draws tighter to deepen the half circle around his son, as his other hand softly covers Johnny’s head under his chin. His smile gets that boyish ‘Look what I’ve got’ touch that makes her laugh through tears.

“Beautiful,” she whispers after a long while in which neither one of them speaks.

Quinn reaches for her hand and waits for it to slide into his palm, her slender fingers curling around it.

“Thank you,” he whispers back. And his eyes tell her that it’s not just for what she’s just said, it’s for everything: for being who she is, for taking a leap of faith and loving him like she did all those years ago, for bearing what his life put her through and never giving up on them, for giving him this child, for raising him alone, for making him a part of his son’s life even when he couldn’t be there himself.

Her smile widens and she shakes his hand from side to side, then winks. “If your ass is still around when I’m on my deathbed, make sure that this…” she motions with her eyes to the two loves of her life cuddled together, “... is the last thing I remember.”

Quinn snorts, and it makes Johnny stir in his arms, which earns him a kiss on the head. When he looks back at Julia, his grin is both shy and a little mischievous.

“I can think of other things to bring up.”

He knows he’s losing his tactical edge when, counting on her arms being barely able to reach his hand, he forgets about her legs being dangerously close and gets kicked in the upper arm.

“Ok, ok! ” he laughs.

His smile fades as his glance moves quickly to the medical monitor above her head, his eyes a mix of pain and concern.

“What the fuck, Jules?” he says softly, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

She remembers what Astrid drilled into her in the ambulance and figures there’s probably no better way to answer that. “I’m an idiot… apparently.”

“Yeah, you are…” His scornful expression softens, though, as he tries to fight off a smile. “I’m so fucking mad at you.”

“Uh-huh,” she snorts under her breath. “And I’m so fucking scared.”

He huffs in frustration and rolls his eyes, then squeezes her hand. “ Not funny, Jules.”

“It’s a little bit funny.” She waits for his face to break into a full smile and winks. “Told ya.”

Trying to regain his stern expression, he ends up looking like a grumpy child. He scoffs nevertheless: “ Still mad at you.”

“You’ll get over it.”

God, he remembers how annoying she could get, how silly she used to make him feel. And how he could never be mad at her. Even nowadays, when his inclination is to be what Astrid called a ‘stubborn grumpy ass’, Julia is the only one who makes him retreat and feel like shit the moment he lashes out. And she doesn’t even have to say anything. She just gives him a look, much like the one she has now, and he deflates like a punctured balloon.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, more serious now, the tips of her fingers sliding into his palm and giving it a soft tickle. “Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not fr…” he starts, then stops. “Yeah, I am.” He looks at Johnny’s sleepy face hidden under the blanket. “But this is not a bad tranquilizer, actually.”

Julia laughs. “Yeah, he’s very snuggly like that. Always loved being held and cuddled. In the genes, you know...” Her smile is teasing.

Quinn’s grins from ear to ear. “Yeah, it is.”

“You guys will have fun together.” She weaves her fingers through his.

He nods, holding his son even closer. “I think so too.” His eyes turns dreamy, almost foggy. “God, Jules, there are so many things… I don’t even know where to…”

“Hey,” she says, tugging on his hand and waiting for him to look at her. “He needed a parent tonight. And you were . And look at you now…”

He still looks unsure. He’s happy, yes. He’s out-of-his-mind, senseless, incandescent, crazy happy. But they both know that dissolving into the bliss of reuniting with a child is not the same as being a father for life. Not the same as knowing when to be strict, when to let go, when to worry, when to say ‘no’, when to let your son make his own mistakes, when to leap to shield him from harm, when to stay back and be a safety net.

Julia seems not to have a worry in the world about it though, and he draws confidence from her reassuring smile.

“You’ll learn together. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His face relaxes and he finally nods.

“You should go back to sleep now.” He picks up his book and takes another sip from his cup of coffee.

“What about you? Aren’t they looking for you upstairs? How long have you been here? And,” gesturing to his coffee, “how many of those did you have?”

He laughs, looking at her worried face. She’s always had this ‘a million questions at once’ way about her when she freaks out. Luckily, with years, he’s gotten very skilled at dealing with that. It goes like this:

“One - I’m fine. It’s almost five in the morning and I’ll sleep when Max switches me at eight. Two - they actually came looking for me downstairs . And it was about to end very badly for them, but Astrid did… her thing… and now I have a pass to stay here until Max comes back. Three - since you went into surgery. Astrid helped me get there so I could be with Johnny. Four - really, Jules? Asking about how much coffee I’ve had? It could damage your reputation as the ‘Quinn Expert’. Which I’ve been told is typically pretty solid.”

Julia snorts at the last part, settling her head back onto the pillow. Weirdly enough, she’s not in pain. And her head still feels a little foggy. She tries closing her eyes, but something keeps bothering her as her thoughts wander back to and forth through the evening.

“Oh my god!” Her head shoots up and, forgetting where she is, she almost sits up. “Carrie! Is she here? The food?”

The pain comes back and she cries out, falling back to her side.

She suddenly notices a small device in Quinn’s hand. He pushes its button and the fog in her head becomes thicker by the second.

“Is this my PCA?”

“No, it’s my PCA… You go to sleep and stop jumping around.” His face is weary all of a sudden, his smile forced.

He hasn’t thought of Carrie since the moment she stormed out. Scratch that - she stopped existing the moment she told him about Johnny. But now she’s back. And everything else, all these feelings of peace and joy that seemed to be so solid and real, seems to be tumbling down like a shaky house of cards.

“Have you been pushing the fucking thing like every minute? My head feels like Alice in Wonderland!”

“It has a fifteen-minute lockdown. So…no.” Getting back to just talking again makes his features relax, but not all the way.

“It’s called Patient Controlled Analgesia for a reason , silly.”

Silly. The closest to a real term of endearment they’ve ever used. He feels a familiar warmth spread over his otherwise tense body.

The lopsided smile he manages now is closer to genuine. “I am a patient… kinda.”

She lets it go. His reaction when she mentioned Carrie’s name seems more important than teasing him about his never being able to see her cry, let alone be in pain.

“Is Carrie still here?” she asks.

He looks away, jaw clenched. Then sucks in the front part of his cheeks. “No fucking idea.”

“Hey! Look at me.” When he does, reluctantly, she squints her eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Ok, not nothing.. But it’s... Just… drop it.” The futility of that request hits him the moment he makes it. He can feel his right hand twitch. It’s still holding Julia’s. He moves it away.

“Quinn.” God, he could never figure out when she’d switch to ‘Quinn’ and why. And the fact that it’s the last thing he wants to be called right now, and the last thing he wants to be , just makes him angrier.

“Jules, not now,” he says, looking down at Johnny and hiding his face in his hair, taking a breathful of his smell. It doesn’t help, not as much as he needs it to.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he hisses, not looking at her, his face grimacing in pain. “Because this is… I can’t. Not now. This is like... home. I don’t want to.”

“Johnny, this is not home.” Her tone gets harsher and she hates it. “We’re half a world away from home . In a hospital. Where Carrie brought you after she found you and saved your ass. Where she spends all her free time taking care of you. Where she stays, despite her daughter being back home , because she cares about you. I know it’s complicated between the two of you…”

He cuts her off right there. “You don’t know shit, Jules, alright?” He snaps, then checks himself and reaches for her hand again. His eyes soften the moment he looks at her. “You don’t know the half of it. So just… I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, you’re gonna.” She takes his hand, not letting him move away.

He huffs and throws his head back. “Fuck, Jules…”

“Yeah, sucks being you, I know. Talk.”

Reluctantly, grumpily, he does, trying to sum up Carrie's outburst from earlier in the evening. It takes him a while to start, but once he does, feeling Julia’s hand holding his, he lets go and just tells her.

When he’s finished, she raises an eyebrow: “So?”.

Irritated, he gives her an incredulous look and mockingly repeats, “ So? ”

“So, Carrie snapped. She’d just had an argument with Astrid. There’s a lot of tension between the two of them, by the way, so it doesn’t surprise me. And you’re saying you heard them yelling at each other. Carrie was tired, she’d spent the day taking care of you. She told me it was a bad one.”

His mouth moves to the side. It was a bad one. Then he thinks of something she’s said.

“There isn’t any tension between you and Carrie. Or you and Astrid. Why?”

“Why would there be?” she asks, with a truly puzzled expression on her face.

“I dunno… because … you and me.”

Julia laughs, “You think the tension between them is because of that?”

He shrugs, looks away. “I figured… probably.”

“No, silly. Well it is because of you.. But it’s not what you think.”

“How do you know?” he asks, showing genuine interest for a change.

“Because I actually talk to people, you moron. Which is what I’ve been telling you and Carrie to do for… Well, forever now.”

“We talk…” It comes out just as confident as it is true. As in NOT . And he knows it.

“No, you don’t . You exchange three-word sentences, stare intensely, clench jaws, and ‘leave it alone’.”

“Well, there were more than three words today. Happy?”

“No, I’m not happy ! And you’re not nearly that stupid!” He stares at her, squinting, a silent question written all over his face. Julia sighs. “ Look, here’s what I know and how I see it. And that is based on some of what Carrie has told me, and some of what I had to infer on my own… Carrie feels guilty as hell for pulling you in time after time. She’s afraid she’ll end up getting you killed for real one of these days. You know, she has nightmares about you lying on the floor of that gas chamber. You’ve always been there for her, and she thinks she’s let you down.”

He considers. “Jules, what she said… how she said it.. it didn’t sound like guilt .”

“But what if it was? Astrid confronted her about not telling anyone that I was sick, right?” Waiting for him to nod. “It’s not Carrie’s fault, and Astrid shouldn’t have put that on her. I may be an idiot, but I’m not a baby- I can take care of myself. I asked Carrie to keep it between us. And she did. I don’t know what I would’ve done in her place. But the thing is… with Carrie, she’s always trying to do the right thing. And she cares about me a great deal. She was probably worried sick, then Astrid comes and snaps at her like that… I think it just brought back all the feelings of guilt she has about you, what she thinks she does to you, how she thinks it’s because of her that you almost died.”

“Jules, that , right there , is the problem,” he stops her. “It wasn’t because of her. Because not everything is about her. It was my decision to follow the cell to the Syrian border. Mine and my superior's. It had nothing to do with Carrie.”

“Except how you ended up with the cell in the first place…”

“Shit, Jules! Who told you all that???”

“ Carrie . And Astrid. And don’t change the subject!”

“Fine. It was a little bit about Carrie.” She gives him a skeptical look and he concedes , “Ok, a lot about Carrie. But still, it was my decision to help her.”

“I know . But she asked you to. And she feels responsible. I would too if I were her.” She waits for him to react but he seems taken aback by the realisation, now feeling profoundly unhappy and concerned . “Ok. Let me start again . Astrid seems to… how do I put it mildly... have strong opinions about Carrie. She says Carrie is self-centered and thinks she’s the center of the universe. Maybe she is. I really don't know her that well. But from what I've seen, the way she's taken care of you... I don't know... I think there's more to Carrie than that. When Astrid and Max told me that you seem to have a ‘thing’ for her... ” makes imaginary quote marks with her fingers, “... it didn’t surprise me one bit. Because I can see how anyone would. She’s a fascinating person. A beautiful, incredibly head-strong and yet fragile woman. And I’m sure there’s more to it that I don’t know. But you do … right?”

“What… have a ‘thing’ for her?” He can’t help smiling a little.

“Yeah.”

He nods his head slowly in a defeated affirmation: "I do."

“Do you think she feels the same about you?”

“I dunno, Jules… sometimes.”

“But you do know she cares about you, right?”

“Yeah, I think she does.” He’s starting to realize where she’s heading.

“Ok. So, let’s set aside the fact that this is probably worth talking about. But tell me this… Do you think the Carrie you do know, the woman you value enough to feel so strongly about, would just hurt you like that? Out of the blue? Just to cause you pain?”

He lets out the breath he’s been holding. He wants to say ‘yes’. He wants to say ‘no’, too. He wants to say ‘it’s not that simple’, but something tells him that maybe, twisting himself in a knot like this, is as much of a problem as Carrie believing it's all about her.

When did it all become so fucking complicated? He rubs his face with his palm. He’s tired. Exhausted, really. And it’s not just the physical weariness. It’s the constant struggle he’s been in for the past… he doesn’t even know how many years. Fuck if he ever figured out how it started, or when .

He looks at Julia. It used to be so simple. The first time around, everything was so clear. His gaze goes to their joined hands. His thumb slides up and down her fingers. For her, it’s still simple. She’s known Carrie for what… about five weeks? And she’s figured out on her own more than the two of them together managed in years. He’s not even sure Carrie ever tried to figure it out. But he certainly has.

And then, because Julia is just that big of a pain in the ass, he feels her stroke his arm and say exactly what he’s thinking.

“What happened to you? What happened to the charming ballsy daring motherfucker who spent five days hanging around in my precinct just to get my phone number?”

He died , he thinks. And his eyes tear up faster than he realises what’s happening. He got the phone number of a girl he had a crush on, then he fell in love with her so badly that to this day he can’t look at her without feeling his heart tremble. Then he had the happiest four years of his life with her. Then he wanted to have a family with her. Then he felt his child moving inside her and knew he could literally die of happiness every time. And then his life almost killed them both. And he walked away. And left his heart, and everything he was, behind. And he became cynical, closed up, cautious. And then, one day, he was no more.

“Johnny…” he hears her whisper. And it’s being called ‘Johnny’ that finally breaks him.

He looks at her. Everything he’s been thinking is in his eyes, in his tears.

“You’ve never really changed,” she smiles. And before he can object, she stops him. “And we’re not lost to you. We never were . Carrie is… complicated. I give you that . But she’s also a woman. A person. You’re both at a loss about how you feel about each other. Which is why you should talk . Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it won’t lead anywhere. Maybe it’s love and it still won’t lead anywhere. But you’re not the kind of man who leaves shit like that to just… be . And yet you have… And maybe I’m way off, because I really don’t know that much about how it all happened between the two of you. But I don’t think I am. I think she tried to push you away today because she cares. She doesn’t want you hurt because of her. It’s fucked-up, I know. But it’s kinda nice, too.”

“It didn’t feel…” Nice , he wants to say. But he never finishes. Because what strikes him then and there is that it still doesn’t. Even after realising why Carrie said those things to him the way she did.

“Because it’s Carrie ,” Julia completes his sentence. “She has the best intentions, she wants to make it all about you for once, and she ends up making it all about her in the end. The things she can’t live with, the guilt that’s eating away at her . But, Johnny, you know that about her. And you know she means well. Maybe… this is another thing you two need to figure out… you know? How far you can go on best intentions alone?”

His attempt to smirk warps into a sad smile. “My favourite proverb… The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

“I remember.” She strokes the back of his hand. “And it’s not just a proverb to you, never has been. You live by it. And, ‘thing’ or no ‘thing’, maybe what you need to figure out for yourself is just how far you’re willing to follow someone who might never be able to match her intentions with her actions. Carrie is who she is. She can make you very happy. Or very miserable. She doesn’t have to be like you for it to work. There's a limit to how much people should have to change to make a relationship work. And that’s for you to decide. For yourself .”

He nods absentmindedly, deep in thought. He has been trying to figure out just that for… well, a very long time.

“Hey,” Julia scratches his wrist to get his attention. “But right now, Carrie’s out there. Hurt. Thinking you’re better off without her. Thinking she’s pushed you away. And she doesn’t deserve that. Best intentions count, too. Because people put their hearts into them. And Carrie is willing to let you go to keep you safe. She might suck at the execution, but she did that for you . And, whatever this ends up being, you owe her that much. And you owe that to yourself. You two have been through too much to just let her walk away like that. Like I said… it might be nothing. But it might be everything you ever wanted. You both deserve to find out which one it is. Or you both might live to regret never having done that.”

“Fuck, Jules…” He takes a sharp breath and looks away. Then back at her, at her hand, warm and confident, resting in his palm.  His head falls back, but now it's less frustration and more fatigue. His smile is lopsided, but not forced. “I’ll call Carrie.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Not now , if it’s ok with you . But I’ll call her today.”

Julia quietly claps her hands, mouths a ‘yay’ and looks like a happy three-year-old.

“God, you’re one smug bulldozer,” he laughs.

“Yeah… yeah… huff all you want. I won.”

He feels himself relaxing again, lapsing back into the sensation of home and belonging that he so desperately wanted to hold on to.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. I’ve missed talking to you. Being able to say things and not worry about having them used against me. Being shown that I might be wrong and knowing that all you want is for me to see it, find my own way out of it. God, I’ve missed you...

“Hey, that’s my line!”

“Fine… you go.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve missed you.” Her playful smile works wonders, washing away any unease from their conversation.

“I’ve missed you more.” He smiles back. Then punches the PCA button again and looks at her defiantly. “Now back to the wonderland.”

She yawns an “Ok” and nuzzles her face into the pillow.

It’s quiet for a long while.

“Jules, you still awake?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She opens her eyes to find him looking at Johnny, his fingers gently touching his son’s hair.

“I know we’ve done some crazy shit together, you and I… But this…” He kisses Johnny’s head. “ Nailed it!”

Chapter Text

1977

The second time they meet Adele has two fingers digging into his sternum. She counts in her head. The chest compressions on an infant have to be fast and deep. The palm of her other hand is under his tiny body, feeling every bone that sticks out. As she counts, her voice is breaking. She wants to scream, but she needs to keep it together. She’s here with just two residents and an intern. She keeps looking at the door. The attending can’t make it fast enough.

“Another epi,” she says, looking at the huge intraosseous needle sticking out of a tiny leg. Fuckers picked the wrong size again. Damn ER monkeys. Probably broke his shin.

Another epi. Then another one. The ambu bag is puffing, she keeps pushing her fingers into the chest of the baby in the incubator. Third code in the last two hours. Maxed out on inotropes. Barely keeping sats on the vent. Pupils still reactive. She’s been keeping him cooled down. Not dead until warm and dead, she knows. She’s seen it all. The little ones push through. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger- that’s what she always tells the parents, doing her best to be reassuring. Except this time. This time she wants to kill them. And she will. She just knows she will.

“Is this the Sullivan baby?” A man pops his head into the unit. He’s wearing a police uniform. They all turn to him without stopping the CPR. “Umm… sorry. I’ll come back later.”

“Hey… HEY!!!” Adele yells him back. “Did you get the motherfuckers? Are they here?”

The last time she saw him he was over eight pounds- the last number on his weight sheet before social services took him away. She wasn’t working that day. But it wasn’t the first time. She was happy he found a family to go to. He’s just a little over three and a half pounds now. Looks like something from a black and white Holocaust movie. But not like the babies who survived - like the ones in the mass graves, mummified, grey.

“Did you hear what she said???” she keeps yelling at the young policeman. “The baby didn’t cry so it wasn’t hungry???” Her fingers are getting numb, but still she pushes against the little heart. Tears of anger are in her eyes now. She blinks them away and turns to the monitor.

“Quinn… QUINN!” it’s Sergey, the attending. He jolts her shoulder. “Look!”

She can see it now… Between the erratic waves of her chest compressions… well-formed narrow complex ECG waves. She stops and they all wait in silence as the stubborn little heart gains speed. All the epi drives it above two hundred now, but they all let out a sigh of relief.

Adele’s right hand is so numb that it no longer has any feeling. She shakes it, her left arm still under the tiny form in the incubator. She tickles the side of his chest with the tips of her fingers.

“Now, was that so hard?” she smiles through tears, talking to the near-lifeless face of the baby. She checks his pupils. Still reactive. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she whispers to him, touching a knuckle to his tiny greyish cheek. “Don’t you do that to me again, Johnny. You’ve got to stay now. You hear me?” Everyone leaves to write more orders and get a portable x-ray. She stays. She talks to him as if he can understand what she’s saying. Or see what she’s showing him. “You see all those meds I’ve got for you here?” pointing to a row of infusion pumps with syringes of epi, nor-epi, vasopressin, bicarbonate and hydrocortisone. “You’ve gotta use ‘em. I’ll make more for you. I’ll fucking make as much as you want. Just stick around…”

Sergey stands by her side now. He’s afraid to talk to her. Adele has a temper. He’s told her many times she needs to take it easy. It never helps. He’s never understood how she survived in this unit for over twelve years. Every one of them breaks her heart a little more.

Adele has been married to Braden since way before Sergey knew her. They had been trying to have a baby of their own. No luck. She’s almost thirty five now. The best intensive care nurse Sergey has ever met. And the most fragile heart inside. She weeps for them all like they were all her own.

“Umm… Quinn… They got the father, too,” he says quietly.

Adele’s eyes fly wide open. Her hand slides from underneath little Johnny and, before Sergey can stop her, she’s out the door.

He catches up with her when she’s just through the entrance to the waiting room. It’s full of cops and social workers. He manages to grab her by the wrist, using all his strength to hold her back. She’s screaming, cursing and kicking in the air, flinging her tight fists at two people in cuffs.

“... I’ll fucking kill you!!! I will hunt you down, and I’ll carve your fucking hearts out with my bare hands!!!..”

Sergey holds her while the police haul the foster family away. She roars at the social worker next. Curses at Sergey to let her go. He doesn’t. He wishes he could, though.

*

Little Johnny continues to fight for his life. It’s been over two weeks. He’s gained weight again. He’s still weak and can barely lift his little hands when he’s finally weaned off sedation. Adele has her family and everyone in her church praying for him. Everyone she’s ever met knows the name Johnny Sullivan. She takes two extra shifts each week, but Braden never says anything. Sometimes he comes to visit the ‘little lad’ too and sings to him when Adele is busy. And he holds his wife when she cries over him. This baby is not the first to take over her life like that. And not the last, he knows. Braden knows what all those babies are to her, what they all mean. He’s a quiet man. But he cries at night sometimes. He knows she loves him. And it kills him that he never managed to give her the one thing she wanted most.

He starts asking around about adopting Johnny. He’s told it’s too complicated right now because of the criminal investigation in place. He prays for the little fighter as well.

It’s almost the end of the shift when Adele sees Johnny’s eyes open. They’ve turned blue for certain since she last saw them. Not baby blue anymore - real, bright, beautiful blue. She can see them following her movements as she replaces his feeding bag. His grip is weak when she lets him hold her finger. But when she tries to move it away, it tightens.

“Ok, I’ll stay.” She smiles and pulls a chair with her other hand.

The breathing tube is still in his mouth as he just looks at her. His whole head fits into her hand. Patches of dark hair have been shaved off to place IV lines. But it’s the most beautiful sight she has seen in a long while.

“You fucking did it,” she leans over and kisses his forehead.

Adele goes to testify at the hearing against the foster family who almost starved him to death. She testifies in court, too. The detective in charge of the investigation feels like she’s his own personal shadow. She doesn’t rest until the neglect charges stick.

She goes with the Child Services agent to see his new home, to meet his new family. They seem nice. They have another foster kid in their care. They get temporary custody right away. She considered applying but, like always, she stopped herself. She can’t take them all home. It’s just the job. She knows she needs to let them go at some point.

They say goodbye in the waiting room of the pediatrics department. Johnny is in Adele’s arms now. He’s almost two months old and he’s always smiling now, especially at Adele. He was about six weeks old when he smiled for the first time and it broke her heart. Only babies can be that forgiving. He’s been to hell and back, but his first smile was so peaceful and happy. She said a blessing, wishing for him to never come in harm’s way again. She asked the angels to watch over him for as long as he lived.

The CSA woman is waiting to take him away, but Adele takes her time. She stands by the window and cradles Johnny against her chest. She whispers to him:

“You’ll grow up so strong. I know you will. You’ll be tall and handsome and charming. And smart. Oh, you’ll be so smart. The first in your class. Then college. And you’ll meet a beautiful girl and fall in love with her. And she fucking better love you back just as much.” She sniffs his fluffy black baby hair and presses her lips to the top of his little head. She whispers some more then. “I’ll always remember you, Johnny Sullivan. I’ll pray for you every day.”

He smiles at her as he’s being carried away. She smiles back and waves.

*

Adele finds out she’s pregnant at an age when most women have already given up on having more children. She’s almost forty years old when she gives birth to her own baby girl - beautiful Elizabeth Quinn. Braden cries every time he holds his little Lizzy in his arms, and Adele holds him when he does. She is so beautiful. Their own little angel. A miracle of her horrors-battered life.

She sings to Lizzy every night, rocking her to sleep. She sings the Irish lullaby to her. The same one her grandmother used to sing.

She thinks of little Johnny. He must be about five years old now. She wonders what he looks like, what his life is like. She wonders who sings him to sleep these days. She keeps him in her prayers. There have been many more before and after him. But she will never forget the night she pressed her fingers against his brave little heart. The night he was strong enough to survive the worst in people. She prays he never meets such evil in his life again.

She watches little Lizzy fall asleep in her crib. She doesn’t know that years from now, her own daughter will bring Johnny back into her life. She prays for them both to always be safe. And loved.

Late 2007

The wee hours are the worst. Although, she can never figure out whether it feels lonelier when she’s alone in a crowded bar, or when it slowly empties as she watches people leave: couples, couples-to-be, friends, co-workers. But the wee hours are definitely the worst. And it’s the same in every bar she’s ever been in, on every continent. Why would it be any different in Rome?

She points to her emptying martini glass and shoots a meaningful glance at the bartender. He’s cute. Not too bright, though. Not too skilled , either. A tall handsome Italian man with bad English and even worse jokes. They’ve been flirting on and off through the whole evening. She usually picks a spot at the bar. There’s something quite soothing in watching the bartender do the magic. Some are better than others. This one… sucks. He’s too slow, the drinks are average at best, the olives are… beh (she winces as the sourish taste fills her throat and makes it quiver). Worst bar ever. Ok, maybe not… But it’s climbing the charts by the hour.

So, yeah… the wee hours. She doesn’t mind being alone. There’s a reason she usually ditches her colleagues and goes out on her own. She likes the quiet in her head after a day of being surrounded by people, briefings, debriefings, strategy meetings, just meetings. They always invite her to join (ok, they used to… no one bothers anymore). But she always ends up wandering off on her own, just strolling along the streets, watching people, looking at buildings, knowing that eventually she‘ll stumble into a nice little bar and end up with a martini in her hand. Hoping to meet a tall handsome stranger to not just " get to know" but " want to know" as well. Of course it usually doesn't work out that way: people fascinate her, but they bore her easily, too.

Her next martini is here, accompanied by what can pass as flirting only in Italy  and only at four in the morning. She rewards the clumsy bartender with a polite, dismissive and somewhat irritated smile and averts her eyes just as fast. The drink is not nearly as chilled as it should be. And no, she won’t touch those olives. She digs the skewer out of the glass and drops it contemptuously onto the napkin. Better.

She should probably call it a night after this one. The place is almost empty, the music way too loud. There’s a man sitting next to her, a couple to his right… The tables are almost deserted. And yet she knows she’ll probably stay until the last call.

“Verdammt erbärmlich…” she mutters under her breath as she takes another sip.

The voice right next to her sounds rather amused.

“Not just pathetic? Has to be fucking pathetic?”

She swallows, slowly lowering her glass to the counter and just as slowly turning her head to the right. She’s good with faces. Although, this is the last face she expected to see. Here or anywhere .

God, he’s handsome, though. Smirky, confident, yet slightly tentative grin, barely past warm, just shy of a real smile. The same curious and observant look in those blue eyes that captured her gaze in a full conference room no more than three weeks ago. He gives her a small nod and raises his whiskey glass in a sleek greeting gesture. Then empties it in one gulp, sets it down, and glances at the bartender, pointing with his finger for a refill.

She can sense an involuntary smile curling in the corners of her mouth. The crappy establishment is climbing the charts in the opposite direction. Go figure, right?

“So…” Just that. And he stops, looking at her hesitantly, somewhat complacent, but a little cautious too.

“So… hi,” she manages, finally. Fancy meeting YOU here. She doesn’t say it out loud.

“I know, right?” And now she wonders. About two things. Did she? Say it out loud that is? And if she did… how drunk is she?

His glass is full again and he takes a small sip.

Ok, it was a whole different story the first time around. Barely three looks during the joint briefing in Barcelona, fifteen minutes of hot and rather delusional sex in the back alley, then parting ways in that courteous but impersonal manner that they both seemed to be all too familiar with. What was his name? Did she ever find out?

“Peter Quinn,” offering his hand.

Ok, the guy is a fucking mind reader.

“Astrid Keller.” She shakes it, and turns halfway towards him.

“Like the winemaker, right?” Referring to her last name.

“Not bad,” she gives him that much. “Ich wusste nicht, dass du Deutsch sprichst.”

He snorts. That’s all. And then she does, too. Yeah, she didn’t know he spoke German. Or English , for that matter. There wasn’t that much talking involved. The first time around.

“Das tue ich. Wahrscheinlich nicht genug, um eine Unterhaltung zu führen.”

She’s impressed. And painfully aware of the fact that her face shows it. And there’s that smug look in his eyes again. His accent is rather solid, pronunciation is great. But if he claims his German is not good enough to carry a conversation, she won’t argue.

“Any other… remarkable skills?” she asks, picking up her martini glass and crossing her legs.

A shy smile. His head, hovering over the glass, turns just enough to meet her eyes. “You mean, other than…”

“Yes, Peter, other than.”

“No, not really,” he laughs into his drink.

“I see. And you’re here…”

“... not by mistake.”

“Oh?” she says, giving a quizzical stare with a touch of… something she’d rather not be there.

“Saw you at the embassy today… figured…”

“... how about a second date ?”

“That was a date ?” One raised eyebrow.

“Well…”

“Kind of?”

She elbows him and lets out a drunken snort. “ Kind of . Let’s go with that .”

“To second dates…” He raises his glass.

She nods and raises hers. They both drink. There’s a word for it. Awkward . And yet, it doesn’t feel quite as awkward as it probably should.

He talks first.

“Listen, I didn’t feel quite… right… to…”

“... leave like you did?”

“Yeah. I mean… It was…”

“... great. But?”

“No ‘but’. Just… you know…”

“...spur of the moment?”

“Well, obviously... But…”

“Oh, so there is a ‘but’.”

“Will you fucking stop and let me finish the sentence?”

“Sure.” Clears her throat. Smirks. Gestures to him with her palm. “Go for it.”

Trying to gather his thoughts. Looking very serious. So serious, in fact that, given the tone of the conversation, the hour and the estimated blood alcohol level, he looks rather adorable.

Then, the bottom line of all that ‘thinking’ effort is simply, “I liked you.”

Astrid snorts into her martini, and it goes through her nose and all over the place.

“Which part ?”

He rolls his eyes and hands her a napkin. Waits for her to wipe her face and her fingers. Motions to the bartender to take care of the counter and get her another drink.

Then, “The part where you kinda saved my butt in that briefing.”

“Oh, well… you’re quite welcome. And it was a rather…”

Rolls his eyes again with an exasperated shake of his head to go along with it. “...  nice butt to save. You said .”

“Did I? Say that?”

“Yeah. Great opening line, by the way.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. Kind of .”

Both laugh. Astrid looks at him long and hard.

“What?” He’s not really embarrassed, but rather self-conscious under her intense stare.

“You know… if I had a penny for every time a… “ What’s the word?

“... one night stand…” A valid suggestion. And yet...

“... a fifteen-minute stand… followed me across Europe to say he’s sorry he was kinda rude… I’d have a…”

“... penny, I know.”

“Right. So, you know you’re special.”

“Oh yeah. Very.” His time to stare. He’s smiling as he does. Then cocks his head to the side right before motioning it to the door. “Wanna get outta here?”

“The back alley is that way,” pointing her thumb towards the door behind her.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes a little before staring at her deeply, challenging her to argue. They both know she’s joking, and that he’ll never hear the end of it.

He reaches into his back pocket, fetches a twenty euro bill from a small black wallet, drops it onto the counter and nods to the bartender. Then offers her his elbow as he slides off the bar stool.

She takes it, shaky and unstable, as she links her arm with his.

“You have a place in mind?”

“Not really . Was thinking more along the lines of… taking a walk?”

Her head ducks back, eyebrows furrow closer together, then shoot up. “A walk …”

“Yes. You know… two legs moving in an alternating manner… creating a forward motion… with a slow to medium velocity.”

“Oh… so an actual walk.”

He laughs, “C’mon.”

“And then?”

“What, you need like the whole plan?”

“Do you have the whole plan?”

“Talking?”

“Wow…”

“I’m full of surprises, I know.”

He leads her outside and helps her with her coat, and her scarf as she fumbles to wrap it around her neck. Then, with a nod of approval and a content, adoring smile, he extends his elbow again.

The cold air sobers them both up in an instant. The streets are deserted; so is the river bank. The wind is stronger here, and he puts an arm around her shoulders. Her laughter is tinged with amusement and comes with a white cloud of air.

“What?” He grins.

“You’re nice, Peter.”

“Surprised?”

Curving down the corners of her lips and tilting her head from side to side, “Undecided.”

He pulls her closer. “Thanks. I guess.”            

“So… what’s next?”

“You mean… the plan ?”

“No… I mean… where is this going?”

“Jesus,” he laughs out loud. “Does it have to be going anywhere?”

“So… not looking for a relationship?” Please say ‘no’.

“No.” He looks into the distance, just staring, as if searching for something he knows he can’t find. His  arm still around her, they keep moving, the dry snow squeaking under their feet. Suddenly there is a sadness to that sound. Loneliness.

She knows this kind of look. She knows what he does. She knows the life.

“How long?”

He tears his gaze from the invisible spot and shifts it to her face. They exchange a look, appreciating the unspoken.

“Couple of months.”

“The job?”

“Yes.”

“Miss her?”

Nods. “Both of them.”

“Jesus… boy or girl?” She doesn’t know why she asks.

“A boy. Three months old.” He doesn’t know why he tells her.

“Wanna talk about it?” Need to?

“Maybe.” Thinks about it some more. Squeezes her upper arm. “Maybe later.”

2016

SXF. The plane lands and comes to a full stop. The flight attendants are saying something in German and then English. None of it registers. People are moving along the aisle, luggage compartments ease open and then slam shut, bags slide out and are carried to the exit. The chatter is in multiple languages, different voices. They all seem to have something in common - happy, excited. Tourists going on vacation, tourists coming home, businessmen, visitors, locals - they frame her mind with their presence, with their voices, their smells, the brief touch of their bodies and bags as they pass her along the way.

She doesn’t have luggage. There is a small purse on her lap containing just her passport, her wallet, and her phone. She has her son. That’s all.

Johnny is curled at her side - has been through the entire flight. His arms are locked around her waist. His head is resting on her chest. His hand is clasping at the photograph he’s been carrying around for the last two years or so - the one of his grandparents and his aunt. He’s never met them. But he knows they’ve come here to bring his father to his final resting place near them.

He’d cried himself to sleep shortly after the plane departed. She never managed to drift off. She did cry, though. She’s still crying. Quietly. Tears just streaming down her face. She hasn’t noticed the concerned looks from the other passengers. Nor did she touch the drinks and the food offered by the crew.

The flight attendant talks to her, urging her to disembark.

“Ma’am…?” It doesn’t register.

“Mom.” This does.

She looks down at her son’s face, into his eyes. They are teary and red. They are so beautiful. So kind. All-knowing. Everything he’s thinking and feeling is right there. They are a gift. The one for which he will never be able to thank his father.

“I love you so much,” she whispers, unable to stop the the quiet sobbing.

He nods, without tearing his eyes from her face. The sensation of his cheek rubbing against her chest as he does sends waves of unexpected joy through her body.

“I love you too, mom.”

She places her palm on top of his head and leans in to press her lips into his dark hair. The pain in her back makes her catch her breath. She thinks about the shards of the coffee mug. Her arms wrap around her son and pull him onto her lap. They sit there for a little while longer, holding each other. They are the two remaining shards of a broken dream.

*

They are waiting in line for passport control when it hits her.

She has no idea where to go. Who to call. Berlin is a huge city. And she knows no one here. What does she say to the cabby? Hi, this boy just lost his father. You might have seen it on the news. Can you take us to where his body is?

Should she go to the embassy? What does she say to them ? Will they be able to help? Is the Berlin CIA station listed in the tourist guide?

She takes out her phone and powers it up. Stevenson. He will know what to do.

Before she can even open the dialer, there is an incoming whatsapp notification.

-Call me as soon as you land

She does. He picks up on the first ring.

“Are you there? Was your flight ok? How’s Johnny holding up?”

She looks down at her son and pulls him closer.

“We’re ok. Yeah. Just landed.”

“Ok.” Stevenson is a man of actions, not words. She knows he’s worried sick. She knows he’s heartbroken. Johnny’s father was one of the few people he loved and respected in the world. “So, listen… I’m gonna say something to you that won’t be easy to stomach. And you’ll probably kick my ass when you get back.”

She smiles. Doubtful.

“Go on.”

“So… J and I… We kept in touch.” It doesn’t surprise her. It’s news to her. But not really. On some level she always knew she was being watched over by him. “J” was what Stevenson called Johnny’s father from the first time they met. “Anyway, about half a year after he left, he called me. We met up for a coffee in DC. He gave me a number for this woman. Said even if he’s overseas, should something ever happen, should I need to contact him, I should call her and she might be able to reach him.”

The line is quiet for some time. Julia is waiting for more. Stevenson is dreading the next part.

“You there?”

“Yeah. Go on. Have you? Contacted her?”

“Yeah,I spoke to her today. She’s in Berlin right now. She’ll meet you at the airport. Her name is Astrid Keller.”

So many questions. Julia forces her mind into rational mode.

“How will she know it’s me?”

“She… knows you. She’s seen you and Johnny before. It’s a… long story.”

It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters anymore. Long stories, short stories… they are all reduced to the background noise of her life.

“Thank you,” feeling her eyes well up again.

“You got it. The least I could do. Keep me posted, yeah?”

“I will. As soon as I know more.”

“This woman… Astrid... I think she’s in intelligence… or at least is connected in the diplomatic channels. She said she’ll help you with anything you need to bring him back.”

“Ok. Thanks.” God, what would I… WE… have done without you in our lives? “Things good back home?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Just tell me how things go over there. As soon as you know anything. Promise?”

“Will do. Promise.” She smiles again. Her tears dry up.

“Tell JJ I…” She can hear his voice break. “Fuck…”

“Hey… he knows. He loves you too.”

“Yeah…”

She’s about to hang up, when she hears his voice again.

“Jules?”

“Yeah?”

“That woman… I think J and her had a, uh…”

This makes her laugh. That’s what he’s worried about now. Now. That’s why he dreaded telling her about Astrid. Did he really think she expected him to be celibate for eight a half years? But it’s not the kind of thing she wants to discuss in front of her son. She’s been married herself. She’s been in other long relationships. Life went on for both of them.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you soon. Love you.” And the line goes dead.

Astrid walks over to them the moment they step into the arrivals terminal. The airport is a sea of people. But somehow Julia spots her right away.

Astrid is tall, slender, graceful. She’s just walking, making her way through the crowd, but she stands out. She didn’t wave when she first saw Julia looking at her, didn’t smile. And there’s something about her, about the way she’s holding herself, her every movement - it’s so elegant that it seems almost regal.

She’s older. Much older than Julia. Probably older than Johnny’s father as well. But the years have been nothing but kind to her. And even though they are written all over her face, they make her exquisite beauty even more distinct. Her large eyes are a dark tint of blue, bloodshot. But they are kind, smiling. It’s a sad smile.

She walks straight to Julia and softly hugs her. Taken by surprise, Julia just puts her hand on this stranger’s back. Astrid doesn’t let go for some time, holding her close and tight. As tight as you would hold a friend you haven’t seen in a long time.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Astrid says as she pulls away. She looks down at Johnny now, who’s snuggled to Julia’s side, both arms around his mother. Her eyes flicker and her lips tremble when she reaches for his face and touches her hand to his cheek. “And you.”

He is a beautiful boy, with silky dark hair, a shy smile and those bright blue eyes that she knows so well.

“Do I know you?” he asks in a very gentle voice.

“I’m Astrid.” She offers him a hand and, tentatively, he takes it. “I’m a friend of your father’s.”

His eyes glisten, tears reflecting the bright lights around them. “You mean you were .”

She’s confused. Then it hits her. She shifts her eyes to Julia’s face and stands up. “Oh my God, you don’t know?”

2016, 8 weeks later

When they first arrived, they had nothing on them except Julia’s purse and Johnny’s school bag. Astrid had to take them shopping: for clothes, underwear, shoes, toothbrushes… everything. She’s sitting on the bureau in her guest room and watches as Julia folds and packs all their new belongings into her travel bag. Eight weeks can be a lifetime, Astrid thinks. You can find friends where you least expect. You can have your lonely home suddenly fill with laughter and the smell of food everyday. You can fall in love with people you’d never met before and feel your heart twist in your chest as you watch them go.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Vague question. And Astrid knows that Julia understands what she really means.

“Packing.” No shit .

Astrid rolls her eyes, fully knowing that Julia’s not looking at her.

“Good one. And… why?”

“Because we have to leave for the airport at 5AM and it’s past 10PM already.”

Jesus, this woman is stubborn .

“Am I going to have to keep asking?”

“I dunno, are you?” Without breaking her concentration, Julia gives her a smirky smile and goes back to folding Johnny’s pants.

“You know exactly what I mean, Jules.”

“I do. And you know that I don’t wanna talk about it. So drop it.”

Astrid wraps her palms around the cup of tea in her hands and slumps her shoulders forward. Her elbows come to rest on her knees.

“I don’t want to drop it and I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.” Another smile, softer this time. “I’ll miss you too.”

“Yes, but I’ll miss you more …” Astrid emphasizes the last word, waiting for the response.

“ Don’t… ” Shooting a warning and contemptuous look in Astrid’s direction.

“What?”

That earns her a narrowed-eyed glance of ‘Don’t fuck with me’.

Astrid huffs in exasperation. “You idiot.”

“Yeah, you said .”

“I mean it.”

“You always do.”

“But you’re not going to let me talk you out of it…”

“Not if I can help it. No.”

“He loves you.” Astrid is watching closely now, studying her face, waiting for a flinch, a flicker of an eyelid. Nothing.

“I know.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. He’s always loved me.”

“But you think he loves her more…”

“God, I feel like I’m in highschool again! What are we twelve ? He loves her differently .”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion.” Julia’s eyes scan the room, looking for something. “Could you…?” She motions with her eyes to Johnny’s pajama neatly folded on the dressing bureau that Astrid is sitting on.

Astrid picks it up, but instead of tossing it over, she puts it on her lap and wedges her elbows on top of it. Her expression gets a defiant touch of ‘Make me’. Julia shakes her head, letting out a loud sigh, then walks over and snatches it out of her grip. She goes back to the open bag on the bed and throws it in.

“Fine,” Astrid raises her hands in a surrendering gesture. “Stay for me, then. You know I love you more than Carrie.”

Julia snorts. “You love fleet enemas more than Carrie.”

“True. And you.”

Another snort. “Flattered. And you’re wrong about Carrie.”

“I am not. I respect her a great deal. She cares for him, I’ll give you that. But I’ve seen what she does to him. And she will never stop. And if they actually get together… He’ll be happy for a while and then miserable for life and will never walk away. She’ll suck the life out of him. And he’ll let her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. Whether she means to be or not, she’s poison to him. Like an addiction. He keeps trying to get away and she keeps pulling him back in.”

“Again… your opinion. In any case... It’s none of your business. Or mine. And also…” mockingly repeating Astrid’s words, “... ‘ what she does to him’? He’s not a child. He’s a grown man who’s responsible for his own life. If she ‘ sucks the life out of him’, he won’t ‘let her’ . He’ll up and leave. But he has to figure this out on his own. For himself . And we’ve been through that.”

They have. Many times. Astrid stares into her tea. She’s unconvinced . And that’s probably the understatement of the century.

“Do you still love him?” When Julia doesn’t answer, she pulls on her arm to force her to stop packing and sit down on the bed. “Jules?”

Julia looks down at her hands, clasped together on her lap, fingers moving restlessly. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Then why are you pushing him towards another woman?”

“I am not pushing him anywhere . I only came here because I thought he was dead. Listen, it’s been eight and a half years. And nothing has changed - he never did leave the Agency. And he’s all wrapped up in this thing with Carrie now. It’s… whatever it is. It’s his life now. And we have to get back to ours. I told him he can be as big a part of Johnny’s life as he wants to be. And I know he will be. But not mine. I mean, obviously he will be. But not like he used to be.”

Astrid gasps. “So you did talk about it. Is that why you’re leaving?”

Outsmarted. Right into the trap. Julia feels the anger rising from inside her. She can feel her face getting all flushed and hot.

“Yes.” She stands up and goes back to packing.

“What happened?”

“Astrid…”

“Did he want to be a part of your life again?”

Julia picks up the sweater she’s folding and throws it hard into the bag. Her eyes are flashing with frustration when she looks at Astrid again.

“He kissed me. Alright?”

Astrid’s jaw drops, her expression now both surprised and exasperated.

“ He kissed you? Wow… speaking of twelve-year-olds. Want to hide in the bathroom and whisper about it some more before my parents get home?”

Julia shakes her head. “He didn’t just kiss me…”

“Oh…?”

“No. No ‘oh’. I mean, it’s how he did it. And how he acted afterwards. Like things were back to the way they used to be. Like the last eight and a half years never happened.”

“Well he probably wished they hadn’t .”

“But they did . He left us. And I let him. Because it was the right thing to do. And I still think it was. You of all people should understand it. You were the one who said he will never quit. And that’s not even the point. What you don’t get is why.”

“And why is that?”

“Because what he’s always looked for is something to pull him out. Something stronger than the pull of duty, than the sense he can’t do anything else in his life. He thinks it’s the only thing he’s good at. And it’s bullshit . And he used to know it! He was a straight A student. He wanted to be an aeronautical engineer when he was growing up, dreamt of going to MIT.”

“He still could be…”

“ I know that. And you do. But he’s so deep in the shit that his life has become, he can’t see himself anymore. Not as the man he used to be. Because eight and a half years ago, he was going to quit for real. And it wasn’t for me or for Johnny. It was for himself. For the things that he wanted. For the dreams that he used to have. You can’t quit just because there’s something out there that’s pulling you out. You need to quit because there is nothing that keeps you in anymore. And it’s the same with Carrie. He’s trying to cling to me… to what we used to be… so he can get himself out of whatever his feelings for her are. And if I let him, I will always wonder if the man I'm with left a part of himself behind because he couldn't face dealing with it. And what’s worse… I will never stop thinking if he is still wondering about that. So… that’s why I am leaving. Because I’m his safe haven. And he will never deal with any of it as long as I’m around. He’ll keep going back to this fantasy world. But it’s gone . It’s been gone for years now. And he needs to deal with his life in the now . With his job, with Carrie… with all of it.”

There are so many things Astrid wants to say. Julia’s eyes are locked on hers, as if daring her to argue. She can argue, alright. And then some. Her eyebrows furrow, forming deep wrinkles. Her head moves back a bit. At first she just stares, long and hard.

“Fuck it,” she says finally. In one quick motion she grabs the edge of Julia’s suitcase and flips it over, spilling all its contents onto the bed. “You’re not going anywhere.”

The expression of shock and disbelief on Julia’s face is replaced by a flicker of anger, and then a look of amusement. But when she reaches for the suitcase, Astrid leaps for the handbag on the dresser and snatches both her and Johnny’s passports. Before Julia has time to react, she’s in the hallway, opening her weapon’s safe and locking the passports inside.

She turns around, and Julia is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed on her chest.

“I’m guessing we’ve moved past high school all the way back to the kindergarten.”

“You’re not running away.” Astrid is dead serious.

“I’m not ru… who said anything about running away? I’m going home . I have a life there. I have a job . He’ll be going home in a week or two as well. He’ll finish his rehab, figure out what he wants to do next. He’ll be back in his son’s life.”

“I see.” Astrid walks past her back into the guest room and takes her place by the dresser. “So why not wait another week or two? What’s the rush? Oh, and while you’re thinking about that, maybe another question… Why did you stay in the first place? Eight weeks ago you flew in thinking he was dead. He wasn’t. Great. Why stay? Because you’re right: You have a life back home. You have a job. Johnny has school. Why did you stay? And don’t give me that bullshit about wanting Johnny to get to know him… That could’ve waited two or three months until he’s back in the US. So why stay?”

“Well, why did you ? Or Carrie? Why did Max fly all the way here? For the same reason I did- Because he has nobody else.”

“Jules, you really are an idiot. You’re not me, or Max, or Carrie. You’re you - the woman he loved  once, the mother of his son, a part of what he’d given up. And then, two months ago, you brought it all back into his life. How did you expect him to react? When you’re here, every day, taking care of him, talking to him, when Johnny is here... Wouldn’t you …” imaginary quote marks, “... ‘cling to that’ ?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Julia’s eyes open wide. “That’s exactly why I have to go. Because he keeps…”

“What? He keeps what? Trying to figure out what he wants in life? Trying to see if there’s still something out there? Beyond the job? Beyond Carrie maybe? You keep saying that you’re not pushing him towards her. But I think you are . Whether you mean to or not. Because now that you’re here, you and Johnny, now that you’ve showed him what he’s given up, what he left all those years ago, what might still be there… And now you leave and take it all away again. What’s left for him?”

“What’s left is his life the way it was before I showed up here. Maybe it wasn’t great . But it was his . Whatever he feels for Carrie he felt long before I came to Berlin. Same with the job. He’ll sort it out eventually. On his own.”

“Or you assume he will. What if he doesn’t ? He’s known Carrie for what… four years? In that time, she stood on a bomb to save his life, he tried to drown himself for her, he got shot, stabbed, gassed… God knows what else. Does that sound like someone “sorting it out”? Who’s to say in half a year you won’t hear on the news that he got himself killed for real?”

“I don’t know!” Julia’s voice jumps up as her eyes fill with tears. “But this is still his life. His choice. I won’t treat him like he needs me to hold his hand. I never did.”

Astrid huffs a string of curses. “What choice? You’re leaving him with none! You keep saying that he’s not the same man he was when you met him. Well, now he is again. He's going after what he wants. And that insane theory about him needing time away from you to sort out his life… Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe he already has? That maybe he kissed you because he knows what he wants?”

Julia is quiet. For a long moment they stare at each other, saying nothing.

Then Astrid gets up and walks out of the room again. When she comes back there are two passports in her hand. She throws them on the bed and points to them.

“Here is your choice. You think you’d be doing him a favour? You think you know what’s best for him? Fine, go home.” She starts to leave, then stops and turns around once more. “I’ve known him for eight and a half years. In all that time, I’ve never seen him as happy as he is when you’re around. His eyes light up the moment you walk into the room. You think it’s a diversion from what’s really important to him ? A fantasy ? Do you really think you could live with yourself if this life ends up finally killing him? Are you willing to take that chance? If so, then go ahead and leave.”

Julia eyes the passports on the bed. When she looks back at Astrid, her mouth finally gives way to a tentative smile. “But you don’t think I will...”

“I think you’ve fallen for that man all over again just as hard as he’s fallen for you. And I think you’re going to go back to that hospital, walk into that room, kiss him back and… “ Astrid smirks and winks. “ Well, I have other ideas. But there’s a security camera in every room. Might wanna talk to Max about disabling it first.”

Chapter Text

1985

The third time they meet is when Johnny is almost eight and little Lizzy is almost three. It's also the first time he gets to hold Adele’s hand. The first time he remembers, anyway.

They came to a residential campus facility to check on one of Adele’s former patients - a nine year old girl who suffered hot oil burns at the hands of her foster brother. Adele is happy to chat with her, carefully checking her new bandages and finding the condition of her skin graft satisfactory. She knows she will keep coming here until the girl is assigned a new home. So does Braden. He leaves his wife to do her thing and takes Lizzy’s hand. She’s holding that book of hers under her other arm. He just knows she will find a quiet spot for him to read it to her.

There is a long table in the corner of one of the rooms. It’s covered with a silky tablecloth with long folds around it hanging almost all the way to the floor. Almost. An adult wouldn’t be able to see underneath. And that gives Johnny enough of a safe space. He is sitting on the floor, hidden from the people around him. He’s been here for two years now. The agency is about fed up with his violent outbursts and constant running away. The therapist lady keeps asking him questions, playing pretend games and using all kinds of puppets. The puppets make him so sick. That man used the puppets, too. The bad man in his dreams. He wakes up screaming and thrashing in his bed almost every night. He can’t stand being in bed anymore. Even though the scary man is gone now and is not lying next to him. He goes to sleep on the floor, huddled in the corner. He can’t tell all that to the therapist lady. It makes him angry when she asks about it, or hints about it. And he starts screaming and kicking her away when she tries to hold him.

Under the table is his favourite place. He is sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, and he is reading. Reading calms him down. Just enough so that, sometimes, he can even smile and chuckle. Just enough.  But only when he is alone with his books and no one is watching.

The silky folds raise a bit. He thinks it’s Jennifer coming to fetch him for dinner. But the face popping in is one of a little girl. She has big grey eyes and a long blond ponytail. Without asking, she crawls in and sits next to him.

“What are you reading?” she asks, stuffing her little head in between his face and the book.

He wants to tell her to go away. But she is so little. It’s not her fault he is always angry. He turns the book’s cover upwards, his finger serving as a bookmark.

“Timm Thaler,” he tells her, fully knowing she can’t read.

“I don’t know it.” Her face turns upwards and is now really close to his. “What's it about?”

He summarizes the book in his head, wondering if it’s a good way to explain to a child so little. He has no idea.

“It’s about a boy… who wanted to help his father win a gamble. So he trades his laughter for the ability to win any bet.”

“Oh, that’s so clever,” sitting next to him now, her cheek rubbing against the sleeve of his shirt. “Does he? Always win the bet?”

“Yes,” Johnny says, finding himself smiling. Her hair smells like flowers. “But he can never laugh again. Not even smile. The bad man tricked him and took his laughter away. And after a while, the boy realises he can have all the money he wants and anything he wants, but he can’t be happy about it.”

“Oh, so it’s a sad book,” she concludes.

“Yeah, it kinda is,” he nods. He hasn’t finished it yet. So he doesn’t know if Timm ever gets his laughter back. Against all odds he keeps talking. “See, I was thinking… if the boy made a bet… with someone… that he can have his laughter back… if he wins, he gets it back. If he loses, it breaks the contract with the bad man. And he gets it back anyway.”

“Yes!!! Yes, that’s right.” Her face is beaming, and she’s tugging at the shirt on his chest now. “Why doesn’t he? Does he?”

He doesn’t know how the girl did it, but he’s all excited now. He turns half way towards her.

“I forgot to tell you - he’s not supposed to tell anyone about the deal he made with the man.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. But it’s a nice book. I really like it.”

She nods. She understands about liking books. She gives him hers. It’s Peter Pan.

“Can you read for me?”

He smiles now. “Sure,” and he takes the book from her little hands and opens it where the green paper is stuck between the pages. “This where you left off?”

“Yes, my mom did. She reads for me.” She grabs his elbow. “My name is Lizzy. Elizabeth.”

“Hi, Lizzy.” He looks down at her and lifts his arm to let her get a better hold of it. “I’m John.”

“You’re so nice.”

He shivers from inside out. He’s not. Everyone says he’s bad and ill tempered. He hurts people. All the time. He doesn’t understand why people think that way about him. He does try to be good. Most of the time. He always does what he’s told. At least here. But he can’t help it sometimes and he goes off. They are grown-ups, they know better. If they say it’s because he’s bad, they must be right. He used to think it was because he got angry and upset. He really didn’t mean for it to happen. But he believes otherwise now.

He looks at Lizzy. She’s just a little girl. She thinks he’s nice. She probably doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s not a grown-up. But it makes him feel so weird inside that he wants to cry. He would never hurt Lizzy. He frees his arm from hers and instead puts it around her. She cuddles closer, waiting for him to read. She seems to feel safe next to him. He likes the feeling of making someone else safe. Is Lizzy new here? If she is, he will do more than just never hurt her. He will protect her from others as well. It makes him smile again.

He starts reading. It’s the part about Tinkerbell drinking Peter’s poison. He knows this part. He can see Lizzy does too. She gets her hands ready to clap when Peter calls to all the children in the world to clap their hands if they believe in fairies. That would save Tink.

The voices reaching them from the outside, somewhere in the other room, seem worried.

“She was just here, I swear,” a man’s voice says.

“Uh-oh,” Lizzy’s eyes widen. “It’s my dad. I should go.”

She quickly grabs the book from his hands and starts crawling out.

“Lizzy, wait.” He joins her, standing up and helping her up as well. “I’ll take you.” He waits for her to take his hand and leads her to the other room.

Two people rush over, smiles of relief on their faces. Lizzy’s mother is a small woman, very petite, she has hair the color of reddish sand and eyes just like Lizzy’s. Her arms are so slim, but they seem very strong. She scoops Lizzy up and holds her tight. She is not mad at all. Neither is Lizzy’s father. It makes Johnny think that these are some weird parents. They are not angry. Just happy she’s found. But he will protect her just in case.

“It’s my fault,” he says, squirming inside, waiting to be reprimanded or yelled at. “I was telling her about my book and I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“Mom, this is John.” Lizzy tugs at her mother's hair. “He’s so nice!”

“Is he?” The woman smiles down at him, still not angry. She waits for him to take her hand. “Hi, John. I’m Adele. This is Braden,” pointing at her husband.

“Hi,” he barely utters. Her hand feels so soft that he never wants her to let go.

“Mom, can we keep John?” Lizzy fires all of a sudden.

“Lizzy, we don’t keep people. People are not property,” her mother corrects her with a soft kiss. Then she looks at Johnny again. “Thank you for bringing her back, John.”

“Johnny Sullivan!” Jennifer’s voice makes him flinch. His face is a wincing mess all of a sudden. She only calls him that when she’s mad at him.

But the woman with Lizzy in her arms stops Jennifer from coming closer. Her face changes. She hands her daughter over to her husband and crouches down.

“Is that your name? John Sullivan?” Her eyes are moist now all of a sudden.

He nods. Really confused now. But he’s happy she sheltered him from Jennifer’s wrath.

“Can you wait here with Braden and Lizzy a minute?” She puts that soft hand of hers on his cheek now and it makes his own eyes tear up.

He nods again and steps closer to Braden. He feels Braden’s hand lie heavily on his shoulder. Jennifer can’t get to him now. He turns his face away from her and into Braden’s side.

Adele demands to see ‘that boy’s file’. They know her here, so she gets what she wants. One look at his birth records and she knows it’s him. She skims through the file, and her heart shatters in her chest into a million pieces. None of her prayers was answered. Not one. He’s had it worse than anyone she’s met. And she’s met quite a few. She asks to use the phone. She calls everyone she knows with power to make things happen right now. She’s not leaving him here. Not one second more. She’s taking him home and keeping him. God keeps bringing this boy to her. She finally takes the hint. He’s hers to take care of. He always has been.

When she comes back, she throws her arms around him and holds him tight. He is so much bigger than the last time she held him. He smells of old clothes and cheap soap. She pulls away and takes his face into her hands. She knows she doesn’t need to explain it to Braden.

“Johnny, would you like to come and stay with Lizzy, Braden and me?”

He doesn’t know what to say. He starts crying. Tears are streaming down his face, and he can’t stop sobbing. He was such a quiet baby, Adele remembers. He’s a battered boy now. Sad and broken. She can’t take one more second of his tears as she pulls him into her arms again.

“Please come home with us,” she whispers, kissing his dark hair, holding him tight, like she did the night he had withdrawal tremors.

He nods. It’s all he can do. And he cries harder.

Adele takes his hand and leads him out of that place. And out of his old life. Her hand is so soft and she doesn’t take it away all the way to their old car. He puts his other hand there too, holding hers with both of his now. He hopes she will never let go. And somehow he knows if he asks her, she never will.

2004

When he comes home this time, something is different.

Typically, if she isn’t hiding outside, waiting to jump him by the door, he lets himself into their apartment, scanning the room impatiently. The moment he sees her he surges into her arms, dropping his duffel bag and rifle as he goes. Wherever they meet is where they stay for a long time. He scoops her up, and she wraps her arms and legs around him. They don’t kiss at first. He buries his face in the curve between her neck and her shoulder. It’s the warmth. And the scent. Breathing her in until he’s dizzy. She - lets him. She never knows where he’s been, what he’s done. But she knows he needs this - home, her. When they do kiss, it’s what he calls the ‘smiley kisses’. Because in between, neither can stop smiling. At least at first. It’s the silliest kind of kissing they have, with the wrinkling and rubbing of noses, the giggling into each other’s mouths. And in general, as kisses go, this one is their favourite. Sooner or later, it’s no longer silly and becomes urgent and passionate. Sometimes they are hungry enough, or he’s dirty enough, for them to stop for dinner and a shower. In most cases, not.

But this time it’s different.

The door opens, and Julia’s heart sprints into a happy flutter. She drops her book and jumps up from the bed.

But this time, he just stands there. Something is wrong; she sees it right away. His stare is empty. His eyes look like they’ve lost all their blue - they seem a pale and translucent grey. They’re in constant movement, his gaze shifting from place to place. His expression is just as hollow, lifeless. He looks like a man who suddenly stepped into an alternate plane of existence and is struggling to get a grip on this new reality. Like he knows this is where he’s supposed to be, but nothing will tether him to this place.

“Johnny…” She walks over to him. As she comes closer, his eyes finally settle and fix on her.

Julia moves to close the door, but he’s in the way and doesn’t move. She has to nudge him slightly so that he takes a step in. She carefully slides the straps of his bag off his shoulders and puts it aside. He follows her with his eyes, saying nothing.

He looks down at her face, into her eyes, when she stands in front of him. But his expression still doesn’t change. As if she’s one of the things he can’t bring himself to connect with in this weird place.

When she stands on tiptoes and stretches up to kiss him, he finally moves, leaning in. But the moment their lips meet, he flinches so violently that she gasps. When she touches his face, he jerks back as if her hand feels like scalding water against his skin.

“Ok, c’mon.” She carefully takes him by the elbow, while her other arm slides around his back.

She leads him in. Slowly. He follows. In the middle of the room, he stops. She can see he’s looking at her now. The hollowness in his stare is replaced by grief, remorse. He tries to smile, but his lips curve down instead.

“It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re home,” she whispers, taking deep breaths in between to keep her voice from shattering into a sob.

When she says ‘home’, his eyelids flicker. He doesn’t jerk away when she touches her hand to his face again. He kisses her then, both palms around her head. And pulls away just as fast.

They eat in silence. Neither of them is hungry. He’s barely able to swallow the first bite and ends up just staring into his plate afterwards.

Their apartment is a small one. There is a tiny kitchen and just the one room. Most of the space is taken up by their bed. There is an old, beat-up, faded, lazy boy armchair wedged in the small space between the bed and the window. Julia calls it Johnny’s one real place in the world. They spend hours at a time just cuddling there with a book. Or two books. She never sits there when he’s away. He told her once she’s not allowed to. Not without him. It was a joke. But she c ould never bring herself to anyway. Days and weeks with him gone, never knowing when or if he’s coming back, it’s too hard. She could never be in their happy place alone.

That’s where he goes when they are done with dinner. His plate is still full. So is hers.

He lowers himself into his armchair and stares dead ahead. Then out the window.

For a while Julia lets him be. She puts away the food and turns off the lights, all but his favourite small lamp on the night stand at the other side of the room.

She sits on the edge of the bed. The armchair is s o close that she could easily reach his hand. But she doesn’t. She wants to ask: What happened? Did the mission fail? Did someone die? But she won’t. Because he might not be able to tell her. And she doesn’t want to add to his pain by making him feel bad about it.

When he looks at her, she knows. The mission failed. Some of his comrades died, maybe all of them. He wasn’t able to save them. He barely got out himself. He came home, but a part of him didn’t. There are bits and pieces of him that are lost every time. This time it’s a big one. She sometimes wonders if one day all of him will be gone , lost to her, lost to himself. She wonders if today is that day. She wonders if she will ever see him smile again.

She thinks about it often when they walk outside, when they go to the mall… she looks at the people around and she wonders if any of them know. What this man, holding her hand and laughing, does for them every day. They’re passing him by , and they have no idea that he is one of the nameless people who provide the blanket of security they enjoy. The ones who do horrific things to keep the malls open, children laughing.

“Jule.”

His voice jolts her out of her thoughts. She’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. She realises it’s the first thing he’s said since he walked in. His voice is low and husky. She can't respond, knowing if she tries she'll break down and cry. She knows if she says one word she’ll break down and start crying. She can’t afford to cry. Because no matter how scared and lost she feels, it pales next to what’s broken him this hard. And because he can’t bear her tears, never could, she won’t add to his anguish.

Instead, she gives him the brightest and the most beautiful of smiles. She reaches for his hand, and he meets her half way.

He pulls her in. In a heartbeat she’s on top of him, pressed against him so hard that it’s difficult to breathe.

“Hold me,” he whispers.

She does. She feels herself too small, her arms too thin, too weak, too powerless to contain him, his despair. But she does what she can. She holds him with everything she has. She wraps her slim arms around him, burrowing them between the chair and his back. He drops his head onto her shoulder.

Minutes pass. Then hours. He’s blacked out. She feels his breathing becoming slower, his heartbeat too. She knows he’s asleep. Her arms feel numb, her body is stiff and sore. But she still holds him, even as he sleeps. When she is finally sure he’s out for good, she leans her head against the side of his and closes her eyes as well.

She wakes up c lose to dawn . H e’s awake now too, staring out the window. He’s crying, quietly, voicelessly, tears running down his face and neck. She’s never seen him cry before. She wasn’t really sure he could.

He feels her stir in his arms and slowly shifts his gaze to her face. And that’s when he lets go. He pulls her up closer, his hands clasping her back hard, and he hides his face on her shoulder, shaking, sobbing. She knows then why he can’t bear her crying, why he goes frantic and looks like he is about to shoot someone. Because at this moment, she feels like finding the people who send him away on these missions and making them bleed slowly, one drop of their blood for every tear slipping through her pajama top.

She strokes his hair, running her fingers through it, slowly, gently. It’s a while before his tears run out, his trembling subsides, his breathing lapses back into a sleeping pattern. She doesn’t go back to sleep. She cries herself then, unable to hold it in any longer. Still holding him.

There is dark water everywhere he looks. Pitch black sky above, not even a single star. It’s cold. He is so cold. His limbs barely move as he turns around. He needs to swim. To get himself out of here. He doesn’t know w hich direction to head in - i t’s too dark to see land. But he needs to go. To fight. To find his way back. To the life he is not allowed to have, but wants to so desperately. He needs to go home. Now. Or he will never make it. He will freeze to death or drown. He sees it then. Flickering in the distance. And he starts swimming.

When he wakes up again it’s almost nine in the morning. The moment he lifts his head, she knows he has made it back. His eyes are red, puffy, tired, but truly bright blue underneath. His smile is barely noticeable, but it’s real. It fades away for a moment when he sees her tear- stained face. But then it comes back, just a little sadder now. He wipes her tears with his thumb, then with the back of his index finger. His hand slowly slides under her chin as he leans in to touch his lips to her eyelid, then her cheekbone, all the way down to her mouth. It’s not a ‘smiley kiss’. It’s a ‘thank you’ one.’ She lets out one last sob and the air trapped in her lungs along with it, before kissing him back.

They still say nothing, when he lifts her up in his arms and carries her to bed. He lowers her onto the covers and lies down next to her, then rises to hover over her, to kiss her again and again, to feel her arch against him as his hand slides along her side.

It’s slow. Quiet. But not dreamy. Beyond intimate, past immersive. The kisses are long, soft, overwhelming. They barely break away before they kiss again. It’s neither passion, nor desire. It’s a need. His need to be tender, gentle. To show her what she is to him, and what it means to him. Her need to tell him that she knows it’s not the last time, and not the first, either. Her need to tell herself that, despite not being sure she is strong enough to go through this again, when he needs her to -  she will . To hold him. And not just for this time - for all the times he had to live through this alone before they met.

He stills suddenly. Pulls away just enough to look at her. His hand comes up slowly until it reaches her face. His fingers trace wavy lines. His eyes follow every inch he touches, then fall back into hers.

“There was a light… I was in the water, in the dark...” he whispers, finally, smiling at the revelation, kissing her again as she smiles back. “On the headlands, Jules… There was a light. It was you.”

2016

Julia is still shaking as she’s standing by the window i n the hallway . The adrenaline is wearing off, and her mind begins to grasp what she’s done. Everything she’s said. The look in their eyes when she said it. Whatever happens… Whatever happens… it doesn’t matter. Her palms are sweaty and cold as they curl into fists. Whatever happens, she’s kept her promise.

The clicking sound of hasty heels against the floor tiles makes her turn around. At first she thinks it's Astrid, but it's not. It's that woman. The one who was inside with the bearded man. Julia remembers her face during the scene. It was wincing in pain, in agony, every muscle twitching as she tried to keep the tears from falling . She cares. She didn’t want them to wake him up either.

Her face has a different expression now as she approaches. Determined, fierce, single-minded, purposeful. No longer hesitant. And it’s not just that. It’s the way she holds herself, the way she stands. She seems taller. Julia feels herself shrinking under her eyes.

“Can we talk?” She asks right away. Her tone is impatient, a little forceful.

Julia swallows and nods. “Sure… Carrie, right?”

“Yes.” Carrie extends her hand.

“Julia Diaz.”

“ Yeah , I know.” That impatient tone again. She motions towards an empty waiting room.

They walk in, side by side. Carrie slams the door shut and, before Julia even has a chance to turn around, she gets straight to business.

“What you did… in there …” pointing to the door with her thumb. “It might seem brave and noble, but it’s the most reckless, stupidest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.” Julia just stares back, so she goes on. “Can you even imagine what these people could do to you… and your son… just for knowing these things? Do you have any idea who that man is and what you’ve opened yourself up to?”

She has an idea. A very good idea.

“I do.” Julia straightens her back and finds her voice again.

“I don’t think you do .” Carrie comes closer.

“Fine.” Julia stares at her defiantly.

Carrie’s eyebrows shoot up, her face showing genuine discontent, tinged with a touch of admiration. “ Fine? How do you figure? ” Her intense blue eyes squint as her head tilts up and moves back.

As Julia keeps staring, not answering, Carrie lapses into analytic mode. She needs all the data sorted before she can proceed. Her mind wanders along the mental picture of events, players and connections. Compartments.

First, she needs to tease apart the different factors. The attack, it’s imminent. The cell, it’s connected to Quinn. They are connected, but they don’t go in the same compartment. She draws a mental sketch, with hypothetical lines between the two.

And Quinn has his own compartment. Actually, he has two.

One, for who he is - to her. This one is full of dust and question marks. And tears. And anger. Some resentment. Some tenderness. Mostly empty, indistinct . But it feels full. And overwhelming. Because it’s fucking in the middle of everything. Wherever she goes in her mind, whatever she tries to figure out, she has to go around it. It’s always in the way, muddying her thoughts. Sometimes to the point that she has to go through it.

The other one, is just Quinn. Who he really is. And does she even know? What he does. What he’s capable of. What she’s afraid he’s capable of. Or what he would do. It’s a pile, a mess. But it’s like that mess on your desk where you always know where everything is, what everything is used for... The box labeled ‘who he is’ is made of thin paper. Every time she touches it, it shifts, collapses and expands, changes shape.

There are two dashed lines connecting both of these compartments to the one of the attack. In her mind, when she uses this structure, the dashed lines signify a ‘maybe’. There is a ‘maybe’ line connecting the ‘other Quinn’ compartment to the attack, because he is connected to the cell, but that information is not accessible to her. And now it never will be. And the one connecting ‘her Quinn’ to the attack is another ‘maybe’. The one that makes her eyes sting with tears every time her mind goes there. A ‘maybe’ of I shouldn’t have left you, you should’ve been there, I’ve failed you, again.

She blinks that thought away- there he is! in the middle again-  and gets back to sorting out.

She looks at Julia. She knows about her, but not much. She knows Quinn has a son out there. This is the mother of Quinn’s child.

Right then, they both go into the ‘other Quinn’ compartment. The paper box wiggles, and the new contents makes the thin walls change shape. They are a part of him, his past. A part she was never privy to. Was that because he never wanted to tell her? Because she never really asked? Stopped long enough to care to ask? Even the fact that she knows about him having a son is a piece of inte l, not because he told her. Carrie shakes it off. It’s not important right now.

The connection. There has to be a connection between this suddenly overly-populated Quinn compartment and something new, something else. Who would know? Who would care enough to provide Julia with the means?

She realises she’s been quiet for some time. And that Julia never answered her question.

The way Julia looks at her now makes Carrie uncomfortable. As if she knows what Carrie is thinking, feeling. As if she can see the new shape of Quinn’s box, and she’s laughing. Because it’s all wrong. Because Carrie doesn’t know who he is. And why he is this way .

Knows . Carrie is focused now. One word is all she needs. That’s the question. That’s the connection. She burrows her gaze into Julia’s eyes.

“How did you know all those things?” Then, mostly to herself. “Dar. Dar told you. Astrid? Probably not Astrid. She wouldn’t know the half of it.” Talking to Julia again .  “Was it Dar?”

Julia: Yes. “Does it matter?” Why does it matter?

Carrie: Because it fucking matters. It’s the connection. And it involves you. And you’re part of Quinn. And you can get hurt in ways you can’t even imagine. You’ve put yourself in harm’s way. And someone let you. Someone showed you how. Someone used you. I don’t know shit about you, I don’t even know why I care, but I know Quinn would.

Exasperated sigh. “Of course it does. Because you’re most likely being played.”

Played? Julia’s eyes open wide in genuine shock. Really? After everything she said in there, this woman thinks she cares about being played?

“I don’t understand,” she finally fires back. Because she really doesn’t . “I saw you in there. You didn’t want them to wake him up either.”

Carrie’s chin wobbles, her lips purse, a trembling wave ripples through every muscle of her face. It takes some effort to regain a confident expression. I didn't. But I had to. We had to. You will never understand. You don’t know what you have done. She stops for a second, and is finally honest with herself: Ok, OK! Fine! What I should have done.

She takes a deep breath. Then another one. But her thoughts are still a swirl. She’s angry. And relieved. And then more angry, at herself. The way Julia stares at her makes it harder to focus.

Quinn. Julia is in the Quinn compartment. Go for Quinn .

Her tone is softer, less resolved now. “If something happens to you… or your son… his son. How do you think he will feel? If he ever comes out of this? How do you figure he will be happy that his life was spared at the expense of yours? How do you think he will feel knowing that his life was spared and the expense of hundreds of others?”

Julia’s eyes flash with a mix of anger and pain. They grow dark, almost black. The adrenaline hits so hard again that she can feel the blood pumping in her ears. She steps closer. So close that when she speaks, Carrie can feel each word bouncing out of her own face.

“I don’t give a shit. He can be mad at me, disappointed, he can hate me for the rest of his life for all I care. I’ve seen enough of this world chewing him up and spitting him out. And him leaping head first for more. Well, fuck him . You’re talking to me about hundreds of people.. Maybe thousands… that can maybe be saved if he maybe has the information you need… i n the event he is maybe able to even be coherent enough or conscious enough to recall it…”

Carrie retreats, but not really. “It’s not the point . The threat is real. And yes, hundreds, maybe thousands…”

She doesn’t get to finish.

“What about all the other hundreds of lives he’s already saved ? The thousands? I don’t even know how many! He’s given his life, his whole life, every day for years, protecting and serving. How many has he saved already? How many attacks? Lives? And even now, when he’s barely survived his last mission, he’s expected to risk his life again to save yet more?”

“He’s an officer … an operative . On active duty.” Carrie’s anxiety is rising and it takes all her will power to keep her voice from jumping to notes that unnerve her. “Yes, the mission was fucked up, and he made a rush decision which turned out to be a tactical mistake…”

“No shit!”

“That’s right. No shit .” Carrie leans closer herself, feeling her face becoming hot and flushed, knowing it’s beyond her control now. Not caring anymore. “And, by the way, the same man who got you involved in this is the one who approved it. With no tactical support, no real plan, no briefing, no intel. And that’s what I’ve been saying to you. You might think you know who Quinn is and what his job involves, but you have no fucking idea. And you know how I know that? Because I’ve been doing this for almost fifteen years and I don’t have any fucking idea either. But Quinn… Quinn knew what he was doing. Or so he thought . And the point is, Dar trusted him enough to let him go through with it. And Quinn did what he always did - his job . And yes… I don’t want him to be woken up. I don’t want to risk his life again after everything he’s been through. But I do know what’s at stake. And so would he . And I have no doubt he would have wanted us waking him up, even if it meant risking his life. Because as heartbreaking is it sounds… that whole ‘spitting him out’ story of yours… This is what he chose to do. And even when he wanted out, he ended up choosing it all over again.”

Julia lets out a bitter chuckle.

“Right. He did . And I’ve seen what it did to him . For years . Days and nights. I’ve seen his life going through the shredder because of this job . Sometimes he’d come home so broken, that I was sure he’d never be the same again. He had nightmares. So horrible that he would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, beating me…” Her voice breaks and becomes inaudible, unable to flow around the lump in her throat.

Carrie deflates, feeling every muscle of her face relax. Then tremble. She looks aside. Then back at Julia, into those dark eyes behind the pools of tears. She can feel her arm twitch and realises she’s about to reach out, touch this woman. But before she can, Julia steps back, shaking a ‘no’ with her head.

“There was a treatment.” She continues, having found her voice again. “He tried several, actually. Prazosin helped- the nightmares went away. It worked for a while. But one time he almost fainted on a mission because of one of the side effects. So he stopped. And I don’t mean the job .”

The bitter irony breaks through Julia’s chuckle. Carrie’s eyes well up again. The pills. He stopped the pills. Of course he would.

As if reading her thoughts, Julia nods.

“Yeah. He stopped taking Prazosin. And the nightmares came back. And he was ok with that. So yeah. I know something about him choosing this job. About being reckless. About always putting himself last. And that’s him. His fucked-up priorities. Loyalties. But it’s not him making a choice right now, is it? It’s you. You and the same agency that’s been crapping on him and his life for years. He never cared. Probably still doesn’t. But you should. And I think you actually do.”

Carrie looks away again, then down at her hands. Julia can see her brow form thick wrinkles, relax, then do it all over again. She can’t see her face. But she knows her answer.

“I don’t know how well you know him. Or what you know about him. So I’ll just speak for myself. Many years ago I loved him so much I would have given anything, done anything, if it meant he could get his life back… sleep better, eat better, stop losing parts of himself every time he went away. I don’t love him like that anymore. It’s been almost a decade. But then I watched that broadcast and it all came back. The anger. At you . At the agency. At the people who let him l ive that life. Who knew what those men were going through and they let them.”

She makes her way to the window in the far side of the waiting room. She points outside in the downward direction.

“To all those people outside, the victims of that attack you’re trying to stop… he’s just a nameless person. They have no idea that this ‘peace’ that they live is actually in the shadow of a constant war. That there are people fighting, dying, everyday to avert an attack that could ruin their little world of worries. Or even if they do, they will never know their names, never hear how they died. But to you and me... He’s not nameless. He had dreams. Many dreams. He liked Sinatra. The Beatles. He liked to read. To walk. He has a son . One he’s never met. A boy almost orphaned just days ago. Maybe he never meets him. Maybe his father will wake up and make another reckless decision and die for real this time. But it won’t happen today. Because I can’t let it. I’d wanted to say ‘no’ to him so many times. No more missions. No more risking that life. Enough. And I always ended up letting him go again. But I can’t. Not this time. Not anymore. Say I’m a horrible person, that I don’t see the big picture, that I don’t care about hundreds of possible victims... say what you want. I really don’t care. Whatever that costs me, if I’m being played, I’ll deal with it.”

It takes a moment for Carrie to catch her breath. She realises she’s been holding it the whole time Julia was talking. She goes through all the things she wanted to say. She knows Julia is right. But she is wrong too. Something is off. Something just doesn’t make sense.

“How is what you have done any different from what…” imaginary quotes, “... ‘ we’re’ doing? How is you saying ‘no’ to what he would have wanted - what you know he would have wanted - any different from waking him up without asking him if he would? Other than the fact that having it your way puts you in danger, and ends up costing hundreds of people their lives?”

“I don’t know, Carrie,” Julia whispers. It’s all she can do now, suddenly feeling so exhausted she can barely stand. “It probably isn’t any different. But it’s what I can live with. The only thing I can live with. And, more importantly… and literally … so can he . I am not sure I can ever explain to you what I’m feeling and why I’ve done this. And it’s not your fault. It’s very personal. Something that I thought was long gone and now is back with a vengeance.” She looks down at her hands, trying to find the right words. There is so little she knows about his life now. And she doesn’t know anything about Carrie. When she looks up again, she tries to measure every word. “See, you keep saying he’s an active operative. And it’s true. To the Agency, at least, he’s just a source of information right now. Means to an end. But I look at him and all I can see is the man I loved many years ago. A man who was fighting so hard to have a life he wanted, to break free. But the Agency just kept pulling him back, time after time. I know I can’t see the big picture. Not like you do. Every time I try, he’s right in the middle of everything. I’m not even sure I’m making any sense.”

Carrie’s heart flips in her chest and she swallows around the lump in her throat. Agency. Right.

The anger comes before she’s able to get a hold and try to control it. Before she’s even aware of what it was that Julia said that struck a nerve. Because it does make sense. And it hurts. Because somehow the anger is tinged with shame and regret. And it makes her feel exposed, too exposed, and makes her want to hurt back. Unable to keep it in, she lets out a loud puff of air and tilts her head to the side.

Both eyebrows raised, she waves her hand. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

At first Julia doesn’t reply. She’s waiting for Carrie to go on. But for some reason Carrie keeps staring her down, the blue in her eyes is a mere rim around the blown pupils.

“Forgetting what?”

“That it’s been almost a decade. ”...

...Or just two and a half years ...

“And you’re here because you’ve watched some news on TV, in the comfort of your home.”

...And I am here because I watched the news in a bar. Nine days after I left him to die and ran off to fix my new life when my old one finally caught up with it. The life that he wanted to have, with me, and that I ended up living with somebody else...

“And he’s here because he’s still an active operative , all those years later, it’s still his life.”

...Or because my old life caught up with him too ...

“Because I’m guessing , and I don’t think I’m that far off, that almost ten years ago when he made this choice that you’re talking about, he walked out . On you and your son, on all of that life he wanted so much.”

...And still wants . Or did. Before Syria...

“And he chose this job over you, like he always did.”...

It comes so fast and so hard, the pain so sharp and sudden, that Carrie cries out. And yet the sound it makes echoes across the room and bounces off the walls longer and much louder than t he sound o f her scream. The sensation is so piercing, and the searing heat on the side of her face so immediate, that her hand flies to her cheek. Tears of shock and pain burst through.

She burrows her eyes into Julia’s, fierce, enraged, humiliated. She has never been slapped before. It consumes her, the feeling of shame and disgrace, lapsing into flames of anger. Her first reaction is to hit back. To lash out.

But something on Julia’s face stops her. The hurt. Not the kind that you feel when someone has struck a nerve. It’s the real hurt. The one you get when what’s been said to you is profoundly untrue, when it touches something so intimately personal that it’s rendered immensely painful.

The hand that slapped Carrie drops dead at the side of Julia’s body. She looks even smaller all of a sudden, sunken, defeated. Her tears are not just in her eyes anymore, they are flowing freely. Her mouth curves, then her lips part as if she’s about to say something, but in the end she doesn’t. She turns, pushes the door open, and leaves. Her steps are quiet, and as she walks away, with every passing second, she becomes smaller yet.

Carrie watches her slow down as she passes Quinn’s unit. But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look in. She walks on by.

At the end of the dim hallway there is a door. It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun breaks through the glass and paints thick stripes across the floor tiles. The light.

With the back of her hand Julia wipes the tears from her face, then dries her eyes. Johnny has been so happy since he found out that his father was not just alive, but that in fact right here, at this very hospital.

Before she walks through the doors, Julia stops. She looks at the light outside. The mere shadow of a smile touches her lips.

Whatever happens, she has kept her promise. Not the one she’s given to him. But to herself. Every time he’d come home a tortured wreck, every time she managed to finally pin him down and hold him as he was battling her off during his night terrors, she promised herself that she would never stop. That she would do anything to not let that world consume him, break him apart, take away the last part of him.

And she did.

Johnny and Astrid are waiting outside.

Johnny jumps onto her at the door, giggling happily. She lifts him up and they perform their ritual of rubbing wrinkly noses. He’s too big for her to be doing this, but she can’t let go. Throwing his legs behind her back, she kisses him all over his grinning face.

“Ready to go?”

“Is dad ok? Going to be ok?” He studies her face.

“Not yet. We don’t know. But…” she snorts a puff of air into his neck. “Your daddy is stubborn and strong. And he’ll be walking around and grumbling in no time.”

Johnny laughs, “Crazy badass motherfucker.”

“Yep.” Julia sets him down and only then notices two raised eyebrows on Astrid’s amused face.

Johnny feels the need to clarify.

“That’s what mom used to call dad before I was born. I’m named after him.”

It’s not what Astrid was puzzled about, but she plays along.

“Yes, I know. John.”

“Not John.” And there it comes. “Crazy Badass Motherfucker Junior.”

Astrid laughs, messing up his dark hair, so silky that it reflects the sunlight and breaks it into different colors. “I can see the resemblance.” She turns to Julia then. “I have to go now. Here…” reaching into her purse, she retrieves a set of keys and removes one. Then gives Julia the address. “I’ll probably be busy all day. Maybe all night too. There is a guest bedroom. You’ll find the bedsheets and the towels… I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Oh… wow.” Julia shakes her head. “We shouldn’t . I’ve already booked the hotel.”

“Unbook it. You’re staying with me.” Her tone is so decisive and resolute, that Julia just accepts and smiles back.

“Thanks. Really.”

“Sure. You’ve got my number. Call if you need anything. I’ll let you know how things go…” she motions her head to the hospital. “... here”.

Carrie walks out soon after. Looking straight at Astrid and avoiding Julia’s eyes.

“We should go. The briefing is in twenty minutes,” said in a dry, calm, all-business voice.

Astrid nods. But then stops to look at Carrie’s face.

“What’s that ?” She points to a red mark on Carrie’s left cheek, the unmistakable impression of fingers.

“Nothing,” Carrie scoffs. Starts to walk away.

Astrid catches up. “Looks like something .”

“A misunderstanding.”

“I’d say .”

Chapter Text

1985-1988

They never part again until the day Adele dies. Until the day they all die.

The first night he stays there, he’s given his own room, new clothes, new towels, all kinds of new soaps and shampoos. His hair smells like Lizzy’s now. She is waiting for him, dressed in her own pajamas. Hers has tiny red flowers with miniscule green leaves over the pink fabric. His - the ones that Adele and Braden just bought for him on their way home - is an off-white one, with fleece on the underside. It feels like a cloud against his skin. He’s never felt anything like that in his life. Ever.

Seeing him get out of the shower makes Lizzy bounce and giggle.

“Mom, can Johnny read for me tonight?” her eyes are a begging pool of sweetness.

“Sure, love,” Adele kisses her and nudges her towards the bedroom. Then she turns to Johnny. “You don’t mind, do you?” she knows the answer to that one. The two of them have been inseparable through the entire evening. Like two peas in a pod who were always meant to be together.

“No,” he says. It comes out a little too fast. And he feels she might take it as him saying no. So he adds, “I would love to. I want to.”

“Oh my goodness, you’re so amazing,” Adele is a smiling and beaming light in the hallway, when she holds him, kisses his head, presses him against her. She smells of dinner. They had meat roast with mashed potatoes, gravy and salad.

Johnny doesn’t want to cry again. He’s been crying on and off all evening. It doesn’t seem right. He should be happy, smiling. Not crying. He doesn’t want these nice people to think he is sad and not grateful. Because he is. Oh, he SO is. He knows now Adele can never be mad at him. Or Lizzy. Or Braden. But Braden is harder for him to read. He is very quiet most of the time. He is a tall skinny man with dusky hair and brown eyes. His face is long and open. Clean shaven. He seems to have a very special smile - it’s small, very small, just in the very corners of his eyes and his thin lips. Most of the time Adele is the one doing the talking and the laughing. But Johnny can see Braden never takes his eyes off of her. Or Lizzy. Or him, now.

It’s then that Braden comes close and puts two hands on Johnny’s head. He bends down to reach him and whispers something into his hair.

“It’s a blessing,” he says, in an accent that Johnny has never heard before. “A foyne one, too. You go off now, read to Lizzy, ye?”

He learns later that it is an Irish accent. Braden’s words are few, but they are colorful. He explains to Johnny some months later that Quinn, their family name, means ‘wise, reasonable’ and Sullivan, his name, means ‘dark eyed, or hawk eye’. He likes their name better.

The moment he sits on Lizzy’s bed, she jumps under his arm, practically forcing herself close to him. It’s that feeling again, of being stronger than her, older, being able to protect her, feeling his arm guarding her - that gets him again. It’s the best feeling he has had in his whole life. He thinks maybe he should become a policeman. He likes it alot. He knows he can hit hard with his hands, he is very good at fighting, very instinctive. But with Lizzy he feels he can do more - he can hold her, he can feel his hand so gentle, so caring. This is what he likes doing with his hands. More than fighting, more than hitting.

“Will you stay with us forever and ever and ever?” Lizzy, cozy at his side, lifts her sleepy face to his.

“I don’t know,” he answers, suddenly afraid he might not.

“I want you to,”  she says, looking at him wistfully.

He doesn’t have an answer to that one. It makes him feel scared inside. What if he is taken away and she is sad about it? What if she is mad at him for leaving even though it’s not his fault? Before he finds an answer, she thinks of something.

“You’re like Peter Pan,” she says.

It makes him laugh, a sudden burst of happiness leaping out of him into the room, “How so?”

“‘Cause you were in the house with all the lost boys… children.”

“Ah…”

“Yeah! And you look like Peter Pan, too. In my head.”

He laughs again. He looks like a normal boy. But he likes it that she thinks of him this way. Peter Pan could fight for his friends, he could protect the girls. He wouldn’t mind being Peter Pan at all.

“Will you be my Wendy?” he asks in a mysterious whisper.

“Yes!” she bounces under his arm and her head nods and nods and it seems to never stop. “It’ll be our secret,” she suggests.

The pain in his chest is so bad he can’t breathe. The secret. He hates that word. It makes him hurt everywhere. ‘It will be our secret’. The scary man can’t be here. Not here. He closes his eyes and tries to make him go away. He remembers, suddenly. What happens at night when he goes to sleep. How he ends up waking up from his own screams. How he wakes up in the corner on the floor in the morning. He doesn’t want it, not to scream, that would wake up those nice people. And Lizzy. This is how it always happens. This is how he ends up running away. He can’t have people knowing. Hearing.

“Peter,” he hears Lizzy whisper into his ear, her palm curled around her mouth, touching his head. His eyes fly open. He is in her bedroom. “Were you imagining how we fly away from the window? That why you closed your eyes?”

No, he wasn’t. But he nods. And he holds her closer. Read, Johnny, he tells himself. Read, Peter. Reading makes the bad man go away. So, he does. The sound of his own voice surprises him. He’s calm. His reading is expressive. He makes all kinds of funny noises for her. For his Wendy.

Her head falls on his chest when she dozes off. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to go to his room. He needs the Neverland. He needs Lizzy. He lets her sleep. And he dozes off himself.

It’s on the third night that he spends at his new home that they all find out. Adele wakes up to a horrible sound. Screaming. Yelling. Crying. Begging. She’s out of bed in a heartbeat, forgets her slippers, runs to Johnny’s room. She sees Lizzy in the hallway already, her eyes are terrified. Adele doesn’t know that to do - to hold her daughter or to run to the boy who needs her.

“Johnny is hurt, mommy,” Lizzy starts crying.

Adele falls to her knees next to her brilliant, sensitive little girl and pulls her into her arms. “He is, honey. He is. But he’ll get better. We’ll help him.”

“Go, mommy, GO!” Lizzy is pushing her away, towards his room. “Make it better. Make him stop being hurt,” she cries.

Braden scoops Lizzy up into his arms. He looks at his wife. His eyes beg the same.

Adele runs into Johnny’s room. He is thrashing in bed. Covered with cold sweat. She tries to hold him, whisper to him. He hits her hard, kicks her in the stomach, slaps her on the face, then his fists are just a shower of hits all over her. He screams at her to get away from him, to leave him alone. She is all sore- he is very strong for a little boy. They all are, she knows. The hurt ones. They have the strength to fight off their pain.

He leaps away and falls down. Then he crawls on the floor, really fast, into the corner. He sits there, shaking. She sits on his bed, helpless, teary. Then he just stops. His little body goes limp. She takes his pillow and his blanket and she gets on the floor herself. She crawls next to him. Touches him. He is asleep. She puts the pillow on the floor, pulls him into her arms, cradles his head against her chest, covers them both as much as she can with his blanket. Before she knows it, she starts singing again. Her voice is strained and broken with tears. But she sings and sings. And she prays and prays. Until she falls asleep.

Johnny wakes up on the floor. In Adele’s arms, his head is stuffed into her chest, her arms are tight around him. She is still sleeping. He is afraid to move. He knows what happened that night. The bad man came to take him. But Adele saved him. He closes his eyes and drifts off. Her smell, her warmth are all around him.

Adele tears apart the medical library at work, then at the university. She calls all the child psychiatrists she knows. She is looking for something to help him. Something other than her arms around him at nights like that. He is trying so hard to get better. It breaks her heart to see how he tries to battle his demons so his pain doesn’t break their peaceful life. She loves him for that even more. And she tells him that, every day. She believes it, too - he is the most special child she has ever seen, the kindest, the bravest, the sweetest. She wills her love and her prayers to save him from the hurt of his past. It seeps in slowly. Months go by. Then years. And his nightmares become lighter, easier to control, further apart.

His grades shoot up. His teachers can’t praise him enough. He is very perceptive, very well behaved, very good at comprehension, very good at math - he is very good at everything he touches. And he is passionate about everything he does. He gets into fights, sometimes. Adele is called to his school for that. He sits outside the principal's office and feels bad, because she’s been woken up after a night shift. But then he hears her defend him, loud and vigilantly. She always stands up to him. She never believes the lies the other kids say. He always used to feel so helpless when other people would lie and no one would believe his story. Adele always believes him. She knows that boy never lies. He’d rather stay silent than say something he doesn’t mean. And she tells the principal to ‘leave him the fuck alone’. And she says she will get the parents of the kids who were involved and teach them a ‘fucking lesson or two’. Then she walks out of the office, and he leaps into her embrace. Because he heard everything. And because she believes him. That’s when she takes him home. The school is always over on days like that. They go out for ice-cream. And then they walk around and look at stuff, do window shopping, laugh.

He is almost eleven years old when he first comes to Adele’s work. It’s early morning. He takes the bus. He rides all the way to her hospital. Then he waits outside. Braden gave him permission. He thought it was a great idea. But he is worried about what Adele might say. Not that she would get mad, but that she would get upset that he was on the bus on his own.

She walks out the ER entrance and sees him sitting on the fence. He jumps down, but doesn’t go to her yet. Her clogs thumping on the ground, she runs to him. She picks him up. He’s no little boy anymore. But she is very strong. He can’t help laughing when she spins him around.

“Morning, my love,” she kisses him all over the face. She smells like bleach and some medicines he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t have to ask if it’s ok that he came anymore. He knows it is. She shows him, showering him with love, smothering him with hugs and kisses. She is so happy to see him. So tired, but so happy.

She throws her bag onto her shoulder again and takes his hand. God, he loves her hands.

“Wanna grab some breakfast?” she asks as they walk side by side, morning sun on both their smiling faces.

There is a diner next to the hospital. He eats there with Braden and Lizzy sometimes  after taking Adele to work. He likes the pancakes.

“Yes, please,” he smiles at her.

“Alright then,” they start running. It’s not a competition. It’s just fun to run when you’re happy.

Adele has coffee. Then more coffee. The nice waitress keeps bringing her refills. They know each other. She knows Johnny, too. She calls him ‘Peter’ (because Lizzy isn’t very good at keeping secrets after all) or ‘cutiepie’ or ‘honey’ or ‘blue eyes’. He doesn’t mind. Adele tells her to get him all the pancakes he can stuff his smiley face into. And it makes his face even more smiley.

She says she’s not hungry. Just needs coffee. He knows better. He heard her and Braden talking. They are struggling to make ends meet. She takes on some extra shifts. He is working harder in his carpenter’s shop. Johnny doesn’t believe her when she says she got stuffed on food at work. He asks the nice lady if it’s ok for them to have an extra plate. Adele’s eyes are on his face when he does. He looks straight at her, a little defiantly. As if saying - stop me, I dare you. She doesn’t. She watches him unfold more than half his breakfast into an empty plate and put it in front of her. He is an angel, she knows.

“I love you so much,” she can’t help saying. She reaches across the table and puts a soft hand on his face. “I love you with all my heart and with all my soul and I will never ever stop.”

He knows it. When he sees her digging into her pancakes, he reaches across the table to stroke her hand.

When they are done eating, she asks if he would like to come and look around where she works. Oh, he would, he would. He always wanted to.

She tells him about some of the kids. There are all kinds there. From very young to much older than him. A man comes to greet him, he shakes his hand.

“This is Johnny, my son,” Adele says and he presses his head and his face into her scrubs. He likes it when she calls him that.

“I remember,” the man says. His name is Sergey. He is the head of the unit. Johnny’s heard Adele mention him a lot. She likes him. Sergey asks if Johnny wants to see where the two of them first met.

Johnny is puzzled and looks up at Adele. She is a little worried, doesn’t know how to explain it to him. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She doesn’t want him to know how badly people treated him when he was a helpless baby.

She takes him to the most far away unit. It’s empty now. So they walk in. The equipment is all new now. Not the way it was when he was sick more than ten years ago. She tells him then. Not everything. But she tells him he was very very ill. And he almost died. But he was also very strong. And very brave. And he fought for his life harder than anyone she has ever seen. Harder than any of the other kids she’d ever cared for before. And he knows there’s been a lot of them. She takes care of everyone here. All the time. He holds her when she cries.

“But you saved me,” he whispers next to her.

She cries harder now. She hides her face and cries into his shoulder. That night was when she almost lost him. She tells him how she doesn’t know how she could ever live her life without him. She tells him again how much she loves him. He strokes her hair. And it’s the first time he says it.

“I know, mom.”

She lifts her face and stops crying, “What did you just say?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “You’re my mother.”

“Oh dear Lord,” she throws her arms around him again, laughing now. “I am. I am, my beautiful baby boy.”

He is not a baby. Far from it. But he lets her have it. He was a baby when they first met. He will always be her baby.

2017

Johnny huffs and slams his notebook against his knees. He’s not frustrated (ok, he is , but not that much). It’s more of an act to get his father’s attention. When there is no response, he adds a theatrical slap of his palm on the sofa and a soft (but loud enough) “Ufffff.”

For a moment he can see the iPad in his father’s hands move down a little and one of his eyebrows slowly rise. He can’t see his entire face from where he’s sitting, but he knows there is a smile somewhere behind that iPad. It’s the crinkles in the corners of the eyes. They are a dead giveaway.

“It’s hard ,” Johnny answers his father’s silent “What?”. He then lifts his math book from the coffee table and lets it fall back.

“Tell me about it.” Quinn turns the screen towards him.

Johnny leans closer and reads out loud. “Introduction to String Theory,” tilting his head to the side. “What’s a string theory?”

His father’s turn to huff. And it is in frustration. “Fuck if I know.” He’s been at it for over a month now. The answer is still the same.

Johnny giggles. Picks up his notebook again. Remembers how it all started. Puts it down.

They are both on the sofa, facing each other, but not really. Each struggling with his own homework. Each with his back propped against the opposite arm of the couch on large pillows, legs bent and meeting in the middle.

Johnny lifts a foot and gives his father a slight kick in a shin. Then a harder, more impatient one. “Daaaaaaaad….”

Peter lifts his arm and opens his hand, telling Johnny to ‘toss it’ , which he does. His notebook flies across the sofa and lands decidedly and firmly in his father’s grip.

About five seconds later, it flies back. “Start again.”

“I already did . I don’t get it.”

“One and two thirds of ninety?”

“One hundred and fifty.”

“And you got?”

Johnny looks down. Slams his fist against his forehead, grabs an eraser and starts demolishing half a page of calculations based on one stupid mistake.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Peter kicks him and pretends to toss over his iPad. “Your turn. Supersymmetry. Go.”

Johnny laughs hard. Yeah, right.

“Why do you have to study all that stuff? Every time you talk about it my head goes…” mimicking an imaginary explosion.

“Coz mom said she would only marry me when I’m back on track to go to MIT.” Quinn winks.

Skeptical frown. “But she already married you.”

Teasing, half a smile. “So you think I should quit?”

Johnny thinks about it for a second, then smirks. “Nah, engineers are cool. And you never quit. Plus… you were on probation for like two months.”

Peter laughs. He was. She made him sweat for it. Work for it. Even though they both knew after just five days that they would end up right here.

“Studying, huh?” Julia’s voice makes them both look up towards the door to the kitchen. She turns to Johnny. “Math? Done?” She’s smiling, but her voice leaves no room for arguing.

“Almost,” Johnny sighs, and starts scribbling again.

“Hurry up. Almost bedtime.” She looks at her husband then. “String theory?”

“Still a bitch.” The god’s honest truth. He does look miserable. But determined.

“My condolences.” No mercy.

She replaces his coffee mug with a full one and leans in to drop a kiss into his hair. She squeezes between the coffee table and the sofa and they adjust their feet to make room for her to sit in the middle. The moment she does, four legs stretch happily on her knees. She rolls her eyes, but lets it go. Then lifts her own legs on top of the coffee table and opens her book.

About ten minutes into the happy silence, Peter’s phone buzzes a notification sound.

-Can talk?

He smiles and shakes his head. Every time . No matter how many times he’s told her she can just call. He sighs and puts the iPad on the back of the sofa.

“Carrie?” Julia smiles, turning the page.

“Yeah.” He retrieves his slippers from where they disappeared under the couch, stands up and stretches.

The moment he’s off the sofa, Julia jumps into his spot and pretends (or not) to keep reading.

“Hey!” he laughs in protest.

“It’s warm.” She grins mischievously and wiggles deeper in.

“I know . And it’s mine .”

“ Was yours. We’ll discuss the future ownership of this real-estate when you’re back. And say hi.”

As he rolls his eyes and starts to leave, her arms goes around his leg, just above the knee. He looks down, and the soft wistfulness in her eyes makes his heart skip a beat.

“Tax.” Tightening her grip and pulling down.

He crouches next to the sofa and his smile melts into hers. The way she grabs at his pullover and pushes herself up to be closer, and the small sigh she makes when he deepens the kiss just slightly, are mind-dulling to the point that he barely stops.

Before moving away, he finds her ear. “We’ll discuss the new taxing system later,” a promising whisper.

“Consider me warned… and scared.” She pushes him away.

The kitchen is rather cold, and he adds more hot coffee to what’s already in his mug, then sits at the table and opens the dialer. Long-pressing ‘five’ is all it takes. ‘Two’ is Johnny. ‘Three’ is Julia. ‘Four’ is Max.

Every time he looks at number ‘five’ he can’t help remembering how hard it’s been, how awkward. For months after Berlin. Carrie had kept in touch with Julia. They would chat several times a week, meet for coffee even. Sometimes Julia would drag him along. He was just there for the ride. With the woman he used to be in love with, and another woman with whom he was trying to be a family again.

It crept up on them both. The ease tinted by shadows of their past. Both having new lives, struggling to make them work. Both out of place in the world, trying to find a corner to stash their baggage. In the end, finding out that they don’t need to. Because they have each other.

It started when Julia would go to the ladies room, leaving them alone. An awkward silence at first. Then a joke, a memory. Or both. Talking about it, until neither could shut up. Then wondering: how come they never talked like this before? And what it took for them both to let go.

Then there were messages. Coming at all times of day. Messages like ‘Can talk?’ or ‘Need to vent.’ Because they could now. Talk. So they did.

And in the end, there was being parents. And still is. Exchanging photos. Meeting for weekends. Johnny missing Carrie. Quinn falling in love with Franny all over again, finally giving Carrie the letters he’d written to her daughter when he was in Syria. He warned her about the language. And left it up to her to decide if she’d ever show them to Franny. Then it was Franny staying at their place when Carrie needed to travel. And even having their guest room nicknamed ‘Franny’s room’.

Carrie picks up immediately.

“I know, I know, I should’ve just called.” Her voice is cheerful, carefree. “But I just…” she laughs. “... can’t.”

“ Try .” Quinn smiles, sipping his coffee.

“I will, I promise. Next time.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Are you rolling your eyes and thinking ‘yeah, right’?”

“Yes. On both accounts.”

She laughs. Then there is a long pause.

“You ok?” he asks finally.

He can hear the smile in her voice. Some things never change. “Yeah. Just work. Tired.”

He works two translator jobs, then spends the rest of the evening studying at the library, studies more at home. Yeah, he knows about being tired.

“Sure.”

“So…” Carrie quickly changes the subject. He usually doesn’t mind listening to her talk about work, but right now it’s too depressing. Especially in light of why she wants to talk to him. “How’s the wife ?” She emphasizes the last word, showing off what she knows.

“Fucking Max.” He wanted to tell her himself. Max is dead meat.

“Because Islamabad just didn’t teach you anything… ” Her laughter is sincere and light. It’s the first time they’ve talked about this in a joking manner. “So, tell me… how’s married life?”

Peter only now notices that he’s absentmindedly playing with his wedding band, spinning it around his finger. He looks down at it and smiles. It’s a new habit that’s growing on him.

“She still likes me… I think .” Then adds, “Says hi.”

“Hi back. I actually knew ahead of time. Sorry I couldn’t make it.”

He remembers that day and feels shivers running down his spine. “Shit, Carrie. I’m sure Keane isn’t sorry.” When she says nothing in return, he sighs and shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you were there.”

“Yeah, well…” Carrie’s voice is low, quiet. But a moment later, it’s cheerful again. “Think of it this way… You’ll never forget your anniversary date. It’ll probably be in next year’s history textbooks.”

No shit. An assassination attempt on the President Elect?

He chuckles. “Probably.”

“Miss it?” He can hear a hint of teasing in her voice.

“No.” There is no hesitation before he answers, no doubt in his tone. But then he stops, thinks about it, wondering what she means, if she’s talking about all of it. “You mean you or the job?”

“Jesus, Quinn…” Carrie laughs. It’s not the question that amuses her. It’s the ease with which it comes. The warm feeling in her chest when she hears him ask. How simple it has become. Her tone is tentative, a little playful. “Both?”

Recalling the order in which he asked, he clarifies then. “Yes. And no.” Both true. Both very much so. “Are we still on for spring break?”

“You fucking kidding me? Franny crosses the dates off the calendar every day.”

He lifts his gaze to the flip calendar on the side of their fridge. It has more than a week crossed off by Johnny. Fucking two peas in a pod. He quickly opens his phone’s camera, snaps a picture and sends it. Barely two seconds pass and he hears Carrie laughing.

“I’m starting to get worried,” he jokes.

“I’m not.” Carrie knows what he’s talking about and her smile is wide and joyful. “Quinn and Mathison... I mean… what can possibly go wrong with that ?”

Peter smiles now too. Nothing. In the end… absolutely nothing.

“Carrie?”

“Yeah?”

“String theory is a bitch.”

“Still have no fucking idea what it is.”

“Me neither.” He says in a surprisingly whiny voice. “And I have an exam in two weeks.”

“Well, tell you what. Fuck you , Quinn. There was bound to be something in this world that could bring you to your knees.” He hears her taking out a glass. Wine , venturing an educated guess. “I’ll drink to string theory.”

His grin widens, becomes a tad smirky. “Carrie… you’re a shitty friend.”

“Hey, I single-handedly… ok… almost single-handedly ... stopped an assassination attempt on the President Elect. You should be proud to have a friend like me.”

“Fucking am.” He takes out a wine glass for himself and pours in some chilled chardonnay. Then clicks it against his phone. “To string theory.”

They drink, chat and laugh for a little while longer. Then say goodnight.

Peter is about to go back in, having put his wine glass in the sink, when the notification buzzes again. It’s a picture of Franny, a flash of auburn curls, sleepy face and a beaming smile as she opens the Christmas present they sent.

Smiling, he types a reply.

-Wow she’s grown. Hope she enjoyed it. Kiss her goodnight from us

-Will do. Same. Night, Quinn

-Night, Carrie

He goes back to his living room, and the rest of the world falls away.

“Where’s Johnny?” Looking at the empty space on the other side of the couch.

Julia’s eyes meaningfully point to the clock on the wall, then rest on his face. He grins. It’s ten to ten and his household is run on military time by a policewoman. So the answer to his question is most likely: packing his school bag and taking a shower before going to bed.

He sits next to her, finds Franny’s picture and switches his phone to landscape before showing it to her. Julia gasps and her face lights up with a wide smile. While she’s looking, he solves the ‘spot on the couch real-estate ownership’ problem by unceremoniously turning her to the side and lying next to her. She snuggles between his arm and his side, resting her head on his chest.

“Gosh, she’s adorable… Jesus ... just wanna…” Letting out a low growl, she imitates trying to claw Franny out of the screen and eat her up.

Peter takes the phone from her hands and puts it on the coffee table before turning all the way towards her. With a little hustle, pushing elbows, giggling and almost tumbling off the sofa, he finally manages to lace one arm under her neck and wrap another around her waist. Her face is barely an inch from his, but he pulls her even closer.

“Want one?” he whispers, as his hand slowly creeps between their bodies, the back of his index finger gently rubbing against her tummy.

“Fuck yeah ! And right now .”

He snorts, kissing the tip of her nose. “I don’t know that trick, Jules.”

She moves her head back just enough to study his face. He’s serious. Eyes-shining-with-happiness serious.

She nods, tears of joy tingling her throat. “I do. God , I do.” Then, tugging the back of his pullover, “You? I mean with your studies right now and all… we could wait a bit longer…”

His arm bends under her head until the rest of her words are muffled into his mouth. Then pulls away to whisper, “So fucking much.” And kisses her again.

July, 2016

“You’re an idiot,” Astrid says, standing next to Max at the airport. It’s five in the morning.

“Yeah, you said.” Julia hugs them both, lets them say goodbye to Johnny.

Both their passports are back in her purse. Astrid had said that it was her choice.  And she made it. She didn’t go back to the hospital, didn’t ask Max to disable the security cameras, and she didn’t kiss Quinn back.

They’re strolling through the Duty Free section, when she gets a message. Both her eyebrows shoot up when she sees the name of the sender. It’s an email:

Dear Julia,

We haven’t gotten to talk much. And I don't know many things about you, or Quinn for that matter. But I wanted to tell you that although Astrid does have a point, if someone did for me what you did for him today, I’d spend the rest of my life fighting to get them back. I hope we stay in touch when we’re all back home. I’ll miss you and Johnny. You won’t know why, and maybe one day I will tell you, but getting to know you has helped me deal with something I lost some time ago. Because I’ve seen what real endurance and real courage are. And so will he. If he doesn’t already.

Yours,

Max.

August, 2016

Day 1

Peter wakes up before his alarm goes off. About 2 hours beforehand, actually. He can’t breathe. He’s sweating, and it’s not the nightmares. It’s just hot. Too damn hot. And he’d forgotten what a dump this place actually was. Heating broken half the winter and no central air in the summer.

There’ll be no getting back to sleep, he knows. Might as well drag himself out of bed and start getting ready for work. So, yeah. And there is an actual bed. An old one he found on sale. No more sleeping bags. And yeah, there is actually a job. It’s his first day as an interpreter. He was offered a better position - a parting gift from Dar. He politely declined. And by politely he means… well, he tried. He told him to go fuck himself. Hopefully, for the very last time. Then opened Max’s laptop and started looking for jobs in Philly.

And yes, he’s back in Philly. Because he’s allowed to be a part of Johnny’s life now. But not Julia’s. He can’t blame her. He’s been over it in his head too many times, reaching the exact same conclusion time after time. It ended years ago.

Yes, she came to him when she thought he was dead. Yes, she stayed and took care of him. Yes, she brought Johnny back into his life, something that he probably (definitely) should have t ried to do himself a long time ago. But, no, that didn’t mean she wanted that life back. Or him .

He would have liked to have more time to settle down. To have a more stable employment to speak of than a first day at work, to see what his studying options are. But today is the first day that he gets to see his son again. He could barely wait to let the dust of his old life settle before he made the call. He missed the first eight and a half years of his life. Then three more weeks while sorting out his exit from the agency and looking for a job. He’s done waiting. And Julia is there, part of it, part of what he wants back.

He’s scared. Terrified. Every time he thinks about seeing her again, wondering what he would do if he knocked on the door and another man opened it, not being able to breathe at the thought of her asking him to leave her for good and knowing he won’t be able to say no to that. He feels physically sick when he thinks that he might be too late.

Barefoot, he walks into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, changes and goes for a run. It’s hot and humid outside. His clothes are sticking to his body. He hates hot and humid. It reminds him of the worst places he’s been. But he forces that thought out of his mind and runs faster. Because he can. And because it’s the first time in many years that he’s starting a day knowing the phone won’t ring, a voice on the other end telling him to shit, shave, shower and leave. In two hours he’ll get dressed and drive to work. He’ll get to know new people. He’ll talk to them. Laugh with them. Have a sandwich for lunch. Maybe in the company of some coworkers. Next to a table. Or outside. The interpreter job is in the medical center. Maybe they have a park.

Thinking about it helps. It helps to not think about all the things that he can do. All the things that he did .

And then he will contact Morrie, his old faculty advisor. In fact, he already has. Go figure. His first call the moment he landed at JFK was to a man he hadn’t spoken to in over eight years, who may not be a faculty advisor anymore, or alive for that matter. But Morrie was. Both. And he remembered Peter. And agreed to meet.

And now he’s thinking about thermodynamics. Great . Fuck. No, great. Actually… No, it’s thermodynamics, so it’s definitely a fuck . He has a love-hate relationship with physics. And it’s about to get a hell of a lot more intense.

There’s a small park on his running route. The same route he used to take all those years ago. He stops, empties his water bottle in one go, and collapses on a bench.

He doesn't stare ahead anymore. He looks around. It’s too early. Not even dawn. Just the hint of a twilight. No one is in the park, but there will be, later. He imagines it filled with people, women with strollers, children, couples. He remembers sitting on this very bench with Julia when she was pregnant with Johnny. Thinking about how they would need to find a better place to live. But not too far from here. Because they wanted to be one of those couples walking by, with a baby in a stroller, or a toddler circling around them.

Two days ago he met up with Stevenson. The tough old bird was so happy that he teared up. They both did, actually. Stevenson had asked him just one thing, but really it was many things in one question:

“What are you gonna do now, J? Get your life back on track? Get a job? Go to school?” His tone softened. “Get Jules back? Are you going to quit fucking around and make her happy for real this time? Give her and yourself the life you motherfuckers deserve?”

Peter didn’t have to consider any of the questions separately. And he didn’t have to take his time before answering.

“Yes.” To all.

He didn't get out intending to get back with Julia. He did it for himself, on his own. But he knows now that trying to get back the family he never had is something he wants to do for himself as well.

But he's seen more death and suffering in his days than a person should be allowed to. She has always been the one thing in the world that was able to push through his darkness and make it all fade away. And then she let him go to find his own path, make his own choices, when he wanted to the least and needed to the most.

It might not happen all at once, but that’s not going to stop him from trying. Because he’s here. Where it all started. He’s out. And he’s back. He’s done waiting.

And he's even more in love with her now than he was all those years ago.

He shows up at Julia’s at a quarter past six. He’d stopped by his place and changed into something more comfortable, as opposed to the suit he’d worn to work and the meeting with Morrie. He’s wearing light jeans, sneakers, and a khaki t-shirt.

Julia opens the door and gives him a genuinely surprised but approving look from head to toe.

“Clean up good?” he asks, when the pause seems to be too long.

“Eh…” But she winks. And smiles.

They embrace briefly. He barely has time to take it in: her smell, the feeling of her next to him, the tickling of her hair next to his cheek, the way she leans into him when he holds her. She moves away quickly. Too quickly.

“Johnny will be back any second. He was at a sleepover.” They’d talked about it. She’s been trying to make him as familiar with Johnny’s life as she can, to ease the transition for both of them. It’s not Berlin anymore. This is home. “Joey? Remember?”

“Joey Reese. Classmate, 9 years old, 3 and a half feet tall, blonde hair,  blue eyes, freckles.” He remembers. He’s done his homework. Meticulously. “Parents Eden and Paul, Eden is a dentist, Paul is a Lawyer. They live on…”

“Got it, smartass.” Julia laughs, putting a palm on his mouth before he gets to finish. “Want some coffee? I made a fresh batch.”

He cocks his head to the side and lifts one eyebrow. She never drinks coffee this late in the day. He grins. She knows she’s busted.

“Sure.” Is all he says in the end, following her to the kitchen.

It takes more than a ‘second’ for Johnny to get back from his friend’s, so they end up chatting. He tells her about the new job. About Morrie. She remembers Morrie. There’s a wistfulness in her eyes when he mentions him. And he wants to grab it and hold on to it. Because he wants her to be wistful. He wants her to miss it. He wants her to hope. To want more. Again.

“So, your place nearby?” She asks after a while that none of them speaks and it becomes just awkward enough to fall back into the small talk.

He’s wondering whether to tell her the truth. Should he say he rents a place? That he stays at a motel? And to what end? It’s not a covert operation. It’s just life. And yet, he has no idea how it would make her feel. Knowing where he lives. Knowing that he owns the place that was once their home. Knowing that he’s owned it all this time.

He takes too long to answer. And there is probably something in the way he looks at her that gives him away. Her face twitches and her eyes well up.

“Jesus, Johnny…” She’d been calling him Peter for some time now, most of the time in Berlin and ever since. He knows why she calls him Johnny now.

“I didn’t meant to… I didn’t want to bring it up.”

“When?”

“Does it matter?” And yet it does. Somehow. “About half a year after you moved out. Used all the money I had saved for… you know. And Adele’s fund.”

She stands up and takes his empty mug, turning her back to him and heading to the counter.

“A refill?” she asks in a shaky voice.

“Jules…”

“Do you want more coffee?” she snaps, a little too hard. She rubs her face with her hand. Sighs. Her expression softens. “Do you?”

He nods, not taking his eyes off of her.

She doesn’t move, though. It all comes back. Why she moved out of that place. How it became unbearable to be there anymore. With him gone. Alone. How one morning she realised she couldn’t see his armchair now without feeling her innards being shredded by pain. She dragged it outside and left it by the dumpster. How she came back looking for it the next day, running up and down the streets, asking strangers if they’d seen anyone take it. How she came home and spent god knows how much time just standing there and looking at the empty space left where it used to be. Johnny was crying. And she couldn’t move. And that’s when she sat down and found a new place. For her new life.

They don’t talk much after that. Johnny comes home, and within minutes they are ready to leave. She reminds them again what to do, what not to do, what time to be back.

Johnny sprints downstairs, ready to leave. Peter follows, but turns around at the last minute, pulling Julia into his arms. She doesn’t resist. He holds her longer than needed for a goodbye hug. When she still doesn’t try to break free, he covers her head with his hand and kisses her hair. Then leans closer to her ear.

He’s shaking inside, literally shaking. All numb with fear. The kind of fear he’s never felt in his life, not in the darkest of holes, not on the toughest of missions. Many things can be fixed. And it’s probably not a ‘now-or-never’ moment. But it feels like one.

“Tell me you don’t love me anymore,” he whispers.

She looks up, but doesn’t move away. There is a mixture of pain and sadness in her eyes.

“And what if I don’t love you anymore?”

He reminds himself to breathe. As long as she doesn’t say that she wants him to leave and never come back, that it would make her happier, he can take it, all of it. He strokes her hair and presses his lips to her forehead.

“Then I will have to make you love me again.” And he walks out.

It’s barely fifteen minutes after they leave when her phone buzzes. The time it took him to find the courage to send the message he typed the moment he left.

-You didn’t actually tell me you don’t love me anymore

She can’t help a smile, imagining the smug look on his face when he typed this. The keyboard is open and she thinks about her reply. In the end…

-Fuck off. And have a good time. Don’t be late

He looks at it. Both happy and terrified. He knows her. She’s like that. She can be abrupt and funny. Especially when she’s nervous. All his thoughts curl into a single word. Fuck .

Julia looks at his message, remembering how she felt just now when he held her, how she didn’t want him to let go. How she’d told him in Berlin that she missed the man he used to be, the one who was so daring and annoyingly charming when he pursued her the first time around. He’s being so honest with her. So has she. But not all the way. Not right now. It doesn’t have to mean they will make it. But she does have to tell him. Because it’s the truth. And because she knows how scared he is underneath this seemingly ballsy attitude.

She starts typing and it just comes out. The truest thing she can say.

-You can mark the part of making me love you again as ‘done’

And just like that the sunlight on his face feels different. Everything around him is made out of bright light. And the sky looks as big and as deep as his hope. Not even ten seconds pass and her phone buzzes again.

-I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight

Day 2

He does. Pick her up at eight, that is. He shows up on time. Precisely on time. Because Julia has a thing about everything being on time.

She opens the door wearing a beige work pant suit. Not what he expected. Did he tell her it was supposed to be a date?

She lets him in without a word and shuts the door behind him.

“So, get this. Stevenson showed up half an hour ago and said he wanted to take Johnny to a movie. Any thoughts on how that might have happened?”

Half a shrug. “I guess he likes him. I mean, who wouldn’t .”

She squints her eyes and props her hands on her hips.

“Fine,” he says. “I asked him to.”

“Because…?”

“Coz... seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“To…?”

“Toooooo… take you out?”

“Aaaaand… did I agree to go out?”

It takes everything he has not to show how fucking scared he is that she actually means it.

She bursts into laughter and picks up her purse. “Jeez, you should see the look on your face.”

He mutters a “Motherfucker” under his breath, following her outside.

“So, you have a plan?” she asks, as they pass straight through the parking lot and she realises he came on foot. Which means wherever they are heading they’ll be walking there as well, and she’s in heels.

“I do.” Then, “Oh, you mean for the evening?”

“Well, yeah.” She looks puzzled. “What did you mean?”

“I meant… you know… the plan.”

“Okkkk. How about we start with the evening?”

“Sure. It’s a date.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know if it counts as a first date. But it’s a date.”

“Got it. Not bad. Traditional. As opposed to… say… sleeping in my car .”

He laughs, remembering their actual first date. “The night is still young and I’m pretty tired. So not ruling anything out.”

The dinner is nice. They both feel at ease enough to talk. Even joke.

They'd fallen back into their old routine during dinner. She picks the wine, he picks the appetizer, they share two entrees. They play an old game they used to play, spotting other couples in the restaurant and creating their backstories... which are out on their first dates, which are out on their last. It's familiar, comfortable. Too comfortable. As he reaches to steal a piece of her hot chocolate cake, she remembers why she ended up leaving Berlin, despite Astrid's little diversion attempt.

It’s a wonderful thing to be able to say things without using words, to know what the person you love is thinking. And it’s the damnedest thing in the world, too. Because he’s still smiling, feeling the sweetness of chocolate feeling his mouth, when he sees her eyes, and it turns bitter.

“Peter, what are you doing? What are we doing?”

He sets down his spoon and takes a deep breath.

“Getting you back.” It’s the best and the most honest answer he can come up with.

“To what end?”

“Does there have to be an…”

“Yes,” she interrupts him. “There does. I don’t know what you think we’re doing here, but this isn’t just an exercise in reliving the past for me.”

“It isn’t for me either, Julia.”

“Then what is it?”

“I thought we were on the same page here. I’m trying to get you and Johnny back.”

“Get Johnny back? I’ve raised that child on my own since you left, Peter. For eight years.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out as harshly as it sounds, but something inside of her has been unleashed.

“I don’t understand,” he responds, confused. “I thought we made the decision for me to leave together. We didn’t have any choice.”

“Or did we? Yes, maybe not at first. But it’s been eight years. And you never did leave.”

“And now I have. I’ve wanted to for a long time…”

“But you never did, not until you were left with no choice. Who’s to say you won’t go back?”

“This is my life now. My work, going to school, trying to build a life with you…”

“Peter, I’m not in my twenties anymore. I have a life. And it’s not just me this time, it’s Johnny too. You don’t know what happened after you left. Life didn’t just go on for me. I had to regroup, rebuild. Knowing you weren’t going to come back. Never knowing whether you were alive or dead. But I survived that. I never forgot you, but I tried to move on. Then to see you on TV… I thought you were dead. It was like losing you all over again, but I’d never really had you. For the entire time I’ve known you, you lived that life. You hated it, but you couldn’t live without it. You could never leave. Why is this time different? How do I know you won’t go back again?

“Because I won’t.”

“And I’m just supposed to take you at your word? What if someone comes after me again? After Johnny? What if you decide this new life of yours, work and school, is too boring? What if you cut and run again? I would survive, but what about Johnny? What about you? I don’t think I can see you go through all of that again.”

“So what you’re saying is you don’t trust me.”

“I’m saying I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know why I don’t know what I want. God, this just feels so right, so… inevitable. But there’s a part of me that sees warning lights flashing and flashing. That’s screaming at me not to let it go further.”

“And there is part of me that’s screaming not to let this go. You’re right, Julia. I left before. And I never came back. And I’ve regretted it every day since. I didn’t think I had a choice. I’m still not sure I did. But I’m making a choice now. I don’t want to live a life of killing people. I don’t want to live a life of waiting till I’m the one who gets killed. And I don’t want to live a life of regrets. A few months ago, I nearly died. And I had hours, alone, to think over my life. I have so many regrets, things I did, things I never did, things I never said. And you, you and Johnny, you were my biggest regret, but also my biggest joy. And in that time, waiting to die, all those thoughts…”

“But I don’t want you to live your life for us. That’s too much pressure, Johnny. I don’t know if I can do that again. I can’t be all that for you.”

“Yeah, I see that now. And that’s the thing… I don’t just want this life with you, or for you. I want this life for me. I’m done, Julia. I’m just done with the bullshit. I’m not going to let anyone make choices for me. I want you and Johnny in my life more than anything. And if I can’t have it, if you don’t want it too, I’ll have to live with that. Not run from it, but live with it. And that’s what’s different this time.”

There he goes. He’s going to say it. And that’s going to be it. One way or another. He will know. It’s not just his mind that’s numb anymore, it’s all of him.

“Jules…” his throat is shut and his voice is almost inaudible when he finally speaks again. “I mean it. If you don’t want it, I’ll understand. You owe me nothing. For all the reasons you’ve said. But if you do, if you let me… You won’t have to take me at my word. You’ll know it. And I’ll fucking make sure every day that you know it. Just…” Suddenly he can’t bear the look in her eyes any longer and lowers his. But then he forces his gaze up again. Because he needs to, wants to. “Please… let me.”

It takes everything she has, all her willpower and self-control to not leap across the table into his arms and drag him home with her. Also, knowing them, they probably wouldn’t even make it home. Because she fucking does love him. More than she did years ago. More than she thought possible to love another person. She would take him even if she knew four years from now it would end the same. Just to have him again. To be happy like that again. But she is not alone anymore. They are not alone anymore. She can’t have Johnny go through what she went through. And she wants more. She wants a home. More children. More of him.

Even before she moves, before she says anything, it’s that damndest thing again - her eyes, the way they change, the way they don’t look at him anymore, not even through him, but into him. They are like a burning flame, scorching the ice of his fear, dissipating it so fast that he melts along with it and for a moment isn’t sure if he can sit straight anymore or is about to slump down, all of him.

But she doesn’t say anything.

Slowly, she reaches across the table, picks up his spoon, scoops some of her cake, some ice-cream and stuffs it into his mouth.

Sweet. It’s all sweet again: the taste of her dessert, the way he looks, unable to move, just sitting there with the spoon sticking out of his mouth, the way she laughs, throwing her head back, the way he knows that what he wants more than anything in the world right now is a chance to make her laugh like that every day.

“ Izh ‘at a yesh? ” he slurs around the spoon.

Day 3

He comes to pick up Johnny at the usual time. But Johnny is not ready to go. In fact, he promptly informs his father that his mother said they were staying in tonight and having dinner together.

Peter looks at Julia, who’s leaning against the kitchen door, her arms crossed on her chest. She lifts both eyebrows in a silent ‘You have a problem with that?’ . What he feels lies somewhere in between wanting to scream and going up to the roof to dance in the moonlight. He does neither, though, and simply shakes his head.

“Lasagna,” she says then, disappearing back and leaving them alone in a hallway.

Johnny and Peter look at each other, both shrug, both smile. Then go into Johnny’s room first, where Peter gets to see all the Star Trek posters, as well as Star Wars posters (and bed sheets), The Lord of the Rings posters, Battlestar Galactica posters… long story short, he gets to see his little nerd’s room, kick back on his bed and listen to all the stories Johnny can think of about school, the books he’s read recently, his favourite movies, all in no particular order.

Later they watch Deep Space Nine, in the only fashion that Johnny will agree to- from the beginning. In fact, he originally suggests they start from The Original Series and go through The Next Generation all the way to DS9. But all and all, calculating the time it would take to finish eleven seasons of more than twenty episodes each, not counting the movies, they decide that Peter will catch up on his own. Which scares him a little, all things considered. But he knows he will.

They eat dinner at the living room table. It’s loud and funny. From time to time they catch Johnny stealing wistful looks at both his parents. That’s when they look at each other. And smile a little.

Right before it’s time for Johnny to go to bed, he begs to watch another episode. Julia is not happy about it: bedtime, military schedule and all. But before she has a chance to protest, she feels Peter’s hand on her wrist. She sighs deeply and lets it go. But just for this once.

They crowd on the sofa and watch together. Johnny gives his ‘director’s cut’ commentary. They all discuss it and chat. Until Peter notices that Julia’s grown quiet. He looks at her, but she doesn’t look back, deliberately avoiding his eyes. And he can see her chest rise and fall heavily as her breathing becomes faster and more irregular. His throat dries up in an instant. He doesn’t know what to do now. Move away? So their shoulders and hips are not touching anymore? Would that make it worse? Better? Put his arm around her? He knows what he used to do when she’d get like that. Because… fuck… he knows why.

Day 4

They go on a date again, late at night, having spent time with Johnny and kissing him goodnight. It’s the first time they do it together. Julia sits on Johnny’s bed, while he crouches next to it. Overwhelmed, Johnny can’t hold it in anymore and jumps up, leaping into his mother’s arms. He turns around and grabs his father’s shirt, trying to pull him in for a group hug.

Fuck, Johnny, I love you to death, but don’t do that , he thinks, gently removing his son’s hand and putting it back around his mother, then stroking his back. Julia grabs his arm. Their eyes meet, and he can feel her drawing him in.

“C’mere,” she mouths.

And when she does, he feels dizzy. He can screw up what he’s trying to build with her, he knows, but she will never throw him out of his son’s life. Slowly, he crawls into their arms, throws his around the both of them. Kisses both their heads. And prays she doesn’t look up to see the real tears in his eyes.

They don’t go to a restaurant this time. And, having sensed this wasn’t the plan, she foregoes high heels. In fact, she doesn’t dress up at all. She wears no makeup, an old pair of worn jeans, simple tricot top, her hair down. When he sees her, he gasps for air.

Julia’s sister comes over to babysit. And they walk downstairs in silence tinted with bliss.

They walk around. At some point he takes her hand and she doesn’t remove it. Without noticing, they get closer to where he lives now. He tries to change the route, but it’s too late. She pulls on his hand, and five minutes later they stand next to the huge city block that used to be their home. She looks at their window, his window now, and her eyes glisten, a transparent layer of tears reflecting the street lights. His heart breaks, then mends on its own, then breaks again and again.

“Wanna come up?” Before he finishes the sentence he hears how it sounds and regrets it.

But he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees that she knows he didn’t mean it like that. She shakes her head.

“I can’t.”

Day 5

Julia follows him. She arranges for Johnny to go on a sleepover the day before and wakes up at four in the morning. She drives over to his place, but keeps her distance.

She follows him as he takes his morning run, stops by the park, sits on their bench, then runs back.

She follows him to work. He’s translates in both Arabic and German. He never takes a break. He’s attentive to the clients, to his superiors, to the other people who work there. He’s there on time and clocks out when he’s due.

She follows him to Penn. He meets with Morrie at the university coffee shop, opens his laptop and they talk for about an hour. She doesn’t hear about what. But she can see Peter writing things down, making calendar entries.

He goes to Penn’s library and spends two hours studying something without lifting his eyes. He seems to struggle, gets more books, looks up things online, listens to a lecture. He makes notes on his laptop, keeps gulping down coffee. Then his phone buzzes with what seems to be an alarm. She looks at her watch. He has just enough time to go home, change, and come to see Johnny.

That’s when she knows. Sees it. One day. Minutes and hours around relentless work. The most important mission of this man’s life. From dawn to dusk. To get what he never had. To be what he once wanted. For himself, for his son, for her. She doesn’t need to see if he still keeps at it a year from now. She knows him.

She sneaks outside and takes a spot on the bench near his parked car. Then takes out her phone and starts typing.

He feels the vibration in his pocket as he’s walking out of the library. His heart flips and squeezes when he sees her name. Well, it’s not exactly her name that he had in his contacts. It reads “Fucking Breathtaking”.

-I hate you

He smiles. Keeps walking. With every step he walks faster. Then he sees her and stops.

“I do,” she says, trying to look serious, but barely holding back a smile. “I fucking hate you.”

His grin widens. He extends a hand and she jumps off the bench and takes it.

They don’t go to his car. They just walk. For a long time. She calls her sister and asks her to stay with Johnny.

They don’t stop, don’t talk. When they get closer to their favourite park, she feels his thumb rubbing against the back of her hand and looks up. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask anything, but she knows he’s waiting for an answer.

She can feel a smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“You’re on probation.”

Three words. She says three words and his throat dries up. Jesus-fucking-christ , three words, barely a smile, and he can’t even breathe, can’t even squeeze her hand. She does it for him, as she leans closer to his arm just briefly and presses her lips to his shoulder. All the things he wants to do, say, dissolve into that feeling.

They keep walking in silence, both knowing where they are heading. They stop at the entrance to his building when he finally finds his voice again. He swings her around.

“Name the terms.”

She does.

“I want this. You . But I still need more time. I don’t know why and I don’t want to try and figure it out or explain it to you. But I do need time and you’ll have to let me have it. I want to see you keeping your job and studying. I want more kids. I won’t marry you until you’re back on track to go to MIT. I want you to sell this place.” She motions up with her eyes.

All he can think about is the following:

1. He will give her all the time in the world and he doesn’t care why she needs it. He needs time too. He doesn’t want to start a life before he leaves Syria, and Lebanon, and Iraq, and Iran, and Berlin. Probably most of all Berlin.
   Prazosin helps. Therapy… he’s just started. But it’s not just the nightmares. He doesn’t want to look at his son and remember a mother wailing over the body of a boy his age after a bombing in Syria. He will never forget it. Any if it. But he needs more distance. He doesn’t want his family to touch that too closely. 
2. Every day is a gift. New imagery. New memories. Slowly, they flood his thoughts and replace what has been. Some of it will never go away. But most of it has to.
   He will give her the time she needs. And they will work through the rest together.
3. He loves his job, he loves to study, for the first time ever he’s alive for real, and it’s not just for her or Johnny, it’s what he feels, what he needs.
4. All the work he’s going to do to make more kids (which dulls his mind and unevens his breathing).
5. She will marry him (much like the previous one, it’s a recurrent thought that he keeps circling back to).
6. Luckily, he’s already sold the place.

But mostly… as determined as he was to try and get his family back, if she asked him, if he knew it would make her happy, he would leave and never bother her again. And yet, all she’s asking for is what he wanted to give her more than anything in the world.

“Five days,” he whispers.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Five days?”

He nods, squeezing her hand. “Both times. It took me five days.”

He pulls her after him then, not asking anymore if she wants to come up. She doesn’t protest.

The place is almost empty. There is a bed next to the wall. A small table, a chair, some books on the window sill.

And there is their old lazy boy armchair in the corner, where it used to be.

Her hand slips from his and clasps at his shirt.

He draws her close, wraps his arms all around her, presses her face to his chest and hides his in her hair.

“Did you really think I would let you throw it away?”

He’s talking about the chair. And then they both realise that he really isn’t.

Chapter Text

1991, Baltimore

The last time he gets to hold Adele’s hand is when he is fourteen years old. Lizzy is nine. She is beautiful. And he loves her more than a real older brother ever could.

That morning, Lizzy wakes him up. It’s spring break and they’re both out of scho ol. Adele is still at work. Braden is in his woodshop, working. Just the two of them in the house. They are old enough to be left alone now. But they are still silly and giggly around each other. They always will be. Always. He hasn’t read to her in a long time. She can read on her own now. And she does - alot. They both read. The house is full of books, old and new. During the winter, Adele makes hot cider with cinnamon sticks. They all cuddle up together on the sofa and read in silence. Sometimes they start arguing about something they’ve read. And it gets loud and funny.

Every night before Lizzy goes to sleep , Johnny still spends time in her room. He sits next to her as she dozes off. They talk for a long time. Chatter non stop. They laugh all the time. It’s a quiet life they all lead. Normal and happy.

Adele is the head nurse now. The money is better. Johnny helps Braden in the shop. He has good hands, Braden says. He’s good, patient, and creative. And they make enough to always have anything they need. Also, they don’t need that much. Maybe that’s why it works. They even saved enough money to finally have a family vacation. They are going to Ireland this summer, all of them, to visit whatever relatives Braden and Adele still have there. To visit their grandparents’ graves. And to see the Emerald Island that is the heart of their lives. The heart of every Irishman’s life. Johnny is thinking about going to college in Dundalk. His aunt, Adele’s sister, lives there. And she really wants him to come. He is dreaming about it, about seeing Ireland, maybe living there for a while. The Quinns are Irish. So are the Sullivans. But it’s really the Quinn part of him that wants to go. And it’s the same part that wants to stay here, with his family. He can’t see himself one day away from home.

A couple of months back, Adele and Braden sat down with him and told him that, as much as none of them cared for any official document (because he was their son and would always be), they would like to adopt him if it was ok with him. He really didn’t know how to respond to that. He knew he was too old to cry now. But he kind of did anyway. They all hugged him then. Even Lizzy, who was eavesdropping at the door the whole time. He said he would like to change his name, too.

“Why, love?” Adele kissed his tear stained cheeks. “Johnny is a beautiful name. And you don’t have to be a Quinn for us. You’re the light in our hearts, it doesn’t matter what your name is.”

“But I want to,” he said, kissing her hand, then her palm. “Plus, you all keep calling me Peter anyway.”

“So, Peter Quinn?” Lizzy jumped onto his knees and wrapped her slim arms around his neck.

“Peter Quinn,” he grinned and rubbed his nose against hers.

So, Adele is still at work. And she will be for a while. They had plans to go celebrate later on, as their lawyer had informed them yesterday that it was just a matter of a few formalities before the adoption is officially done. But then Adele’s work interfered. They are planning to surprise her by meeting her at the hospital when her shift is over and taking her to a celebratory breakfast at that diner they all like so much. For pancakes. And coffee.

They all call him Peter all the time now. And not because he’s Peter Pan, but because he is Peter Quinn. He hasn’t officially changed his name yet, but he adores it already. It comes so easy. And it feels like everything he has ever wanted to be. His whole life lies ahead of him. It’s simple. And normal. He wants to study engineering. Maybe. His guidance counselor tells him he might even get into MIT. It’s all still a distant future. But it’s a possibility. Life is full of them. Possibilities are what love is made of. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

He wakes up to Lizzy is staring at him. He can always feel it. He tells her he hates it when she does that. And he kinda does. But she can’t stop. And he is ok with that. He opens one eye and lets out a long sigh. She jumps on his bed. There is a cereal bowl in her hands, and she’s chewing loudly. She has cute morning hair. He’ s splayed out on his front. Covering his head with a pillow. He knows it’s a futile exercise. But he does it anyway.

Her fingers are cold against his neck as she tickles him, giggling.

“Liz,” he grumps against the mattress. “Butt off.”

“C’mon, you know I won’t.” Always the same answer. And always true.

He waits patiently. Waiting for his tactical advantage. For her to let down her guard. Minutes pass. Then in one swift motion he flips to his back, grabs her bowl and, before she can scream, sticks a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“Eww… Eww… Eww,” she screams, trying to take it back, battling his evasive maneuvers. “Go get your own.”

They are both out of breath from laughing when he finally gives it back to her. She puts it on the table and splashes on the bed next to him, side to side, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. He’s fourteen, tall and slender. His arms are strong now. His voice is one of a man. She is tiny for her age. They are still two peas in a pod.

“We should get ready. Dad said we’ll be leaving in half an hour.”

“Mphhhhh… mmm-hmm,” he kisses the top of her head. “As soon as you get the fuck off of me.”

Oh, they all curse quite a lot. Adele doesn’t believe in bad words. She thinks people are hypocrites for swearing when their children are not around. Everyone grows up eventually. Everyone curses. It’s just a way of expressing yourself. It’s just another word. Braden is not so sure. But the kids agree.

Peter swears. He often wonders if he feels closer to Adele when he does. He also drinks coffee now. Black, no sugar. He loves his mother, her language, her smell, her hands, her bravery. She saved his life many times. She is his light in the world.

“I am not getting off of you,” Lizzy laughs, and rolls on top of him now.

“Yeah you are.”

“And you’re not going to tickle me.”

“Yeah I am.”

He does and she flies off of him, running for the door. He jumps up and leaps after her. They run around the house, giggling and screaming. Braden comes in and tells them to stop and get ready. He’s not mad at all. He’s smiling.

Adele is tired, but happy. They all sit at the booth in the diner and place their orders . She tells them about her shift. She asks how things are at home. Peter is next to Adele, Lizzy across from him, kicking him under the table, ignoring his menacing looks. She steals all the strawberries off his plate and stuffs her mouth with them. He lets her.

They were a normal family. Life is full of normal. They weren’t heroes, or celebrities, or rich. They did have an extraordinary love shining through every look they ever shared, every word they ever said. Even the ‘f’ word. They didn’t die heroes. They died normally. In what the police called later a ‘random act of violence’.

There is nothing random about an act of violence when it takes away everything you ever loved and wanted. The bullets that hit your family are never normal. It seems like that to other people. To the police. But it wasn’t random for Peter Quinn. There were people, boys really, who came and took his loved ones away from him. He will never forget. Nor forgive.

They said later it was a robbery attempt gone sour. Sour was not a word Peter would use.

Adele sees it first. There are a group of four teenagers at the cash register. They argue in loud voices. One of them reaches for something behind him. That’s when she knows. The first thing she does is to push Peter under the table. She is very strong and manages to stuff the whole nearly six feet of him down and under before he even understands what’s happening. When he tries to get back up, she pleads, “Stay down, love.” It’s the last thing she says to him. Ever. Seeing it too now, Braden pushes Lizzy down as well. And that’s when the shots come. People screaming, running, chairs falling, glass breaking. Peter covers Lizzy with his body, presses her to the floor, so that she’s completely underneath him. He doesn’t know yet that he’s too late. He’s just happy she doesn’t object. Or move. He whispers to her. Calms her down.

Time slows down, to the point it seems to stop . The only thing that’s left is the gunfire. So many shots. They don’t stop. There is a smell in the air that he will never forget. It’s the first time he ever smelled so much of it. Metallic. Blood, he knows. This is what blood smells like. It’s thicker than water when you love your family. It flows on top of him, when he’s under the table, easily, just like water, when his family is gone.

The shooting stops as the police rush in. People start crying. Screaming. But he doesn’t. “Liz,” he whispers, pulling himself off of her. Then he sees her. Her beautiful eyes are staring at him. Wide open. Her silky blond hair is sticky under his palm, patches of red. “Liz… Liz…” he keeps calling for her, whispering, nearly voiceless. “Liz!!!” he screams at the top of his lungs. No sound comes out. His throat is shut. His vision turns darker.

He looks around him from under the table. Braden has fallen to his side. Shot through the heart. His eyes are closed. His face peaceful as ever.

“Dad,” Peter cries, reaching for his face, touching it, stroking it.

As he rises , he feels Adele’s arm touching his shoulder. He swings around. Adele is still sitting up, but her blood is streaming all over him. Her hand is lifelessly hanging. She probably reached for him. One last time. To hold his hand.

He takes Adele’s hand. It’s warm and soft as ever. It’s free of blood. He can’t find a pulse. She’d taught him how to check for pulses everywhere. He doesn’t need to check everywhere. All he needs is her hand. In his. This is the hand that pushed against his heart once. Saved his life. It’s the hand that held him when he had nightmares. It’s the hand that held his hand, to this day, even though he was all grown up. Just because she knew he liked it so much.

He puts it against his face, his cheek. He kisses it, long sobbing kisses. He whispers things, words in between those kisses. Most of it is incoherent, even in his mind. But some of it is clear. He whispers, ‘I love you’, over and over. He whispers, ‘mom’.

Time passes. He doesn’t know how long. The police have closed the place down. No one can see him. Or Lizzy. The coroner is not here yet. Maybe they think he is dead, too. And maybe he should be.

He looks at Lizzy again and he can’t breathe anymore. He pulls her up. Her head falls back and he holds it with his palm. He presses it against his neck. Then he stops crying. He turns around, taking Lizzy with him. He lies down on the floor, his head against the wall. He makes sure Lizzy is comfortable on his chest. He holds her arms to keep them falling off of him. He never wants her to get off of him again. He wants her right here. For always. He rubs her back. His arms are strong around her little body. He wants to keep her safe still. He would like to sing that Adele’s lullaby now, though he doesn’t have Adele’s singing voice. He remembers Peter Pan by heart - he has read it to her so many times- so he starts reciting it from memory. His eyes close. He’s back in her bedroom, like the first time he sat on her bed, and all the other times, too. He reads for her. It’s all he can do. Reading always calmed him down. He reaches for Adele’s hand again. He holds it. Time passes. He will never get up. Never leave them.

How come there wasn’t a bullet for him, too? He is a Quinn. His name is Peter Quinn. He should have a bullet of his own. Maybe… one day… he will. He passes out. His hand drops from Adele’s. It’s all quiet now.

1991, one day later, Philadelphia

Martin grouchily gets up from his chair near the dinner table and drags himself outside, following his mother’s plea (not so much of a plea, actually, seeing how it sounded more or less like “I don’t care where that girl is. If she’s not here in five minutes, she’ll go hungry. She’s the Lord’s punishment to me for all my sins”). Martin and Isabella both let out a long sigh and roll their eyes, while their younger sisters, Anna-Sofia and Daniela just giggle.

“I’ll find her.” Martin puts on his jacket and walks out.

It’s not difficult. He knows exactly where ‘Lord’s punishment for all his mother’s sins’ is. He passes two neighbors’ houses and stops by an old tall tree in the cul de sac.

He can’t see his sister, but he knows she’s up there.

“Mamma’s pretty mad,” he calls out.

There’s a long silence. They both know she’s up there, hiding in the higher branches. He once tried to take her down by force. It didn’t end well.

“She’s always mad,” a high pitched girl’s voice replies angrily. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do. And everyone is waiting for you.”

“Tough tomatoes.” God knows where she picked up that phrase, but she’s been driving everyone nuts, having added it to her lexicon, which was never to their mother’s liking to begin with.

“Get your ass down here or I’m coming up to get you.” It’s an empty threat and he knows it. And what’s worse, so does she.

“Ha! That would be a fun one to watch again.”

“Julia… please. It’s hard on everyone. I’m so sick of the two of you fighting all the time.”

“Then fuck off, Marty.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? I like it.”

“Mamma doesn’t. And it’s a bad example for the girls.”

“She’s a bitch. And I don’t give a shit what she likes.”

“She’s your mother. And she loves you.”

“You’re such a kiss-ass.” He can hear her giggling. “And she hates me. I heard her tell dad she wishes she never had me. And that her Lord w as punishing her when she had me.”

“She said no such a thing. And if she did, it was probably because you’d made her mad again. Or refused to go to mass.”

“She did too! And mass is boring. I hate it.”

“Why do we always argue about it? This is our church, people know us there, ma wants to have her whole family there, because people talk… you know? It’s embarrassing to her when you don’t show. She keeps making excuses for you.”

“Well, fuck her. She’s a hypocrite. She’s a bad person and she keeps going to them confessions and asking for forgiveness. And you know why.” Julia’s voice is angry now. “The Lord will never forgive her for what she does. And there is no Lord . People just make it up so they can clear their conscious and then go home and beat their kids again. I ain’t doing that.”

“Julia, she doesn’t mean to…”

“Right!” she interrupts him. “She broke my arm she twisted it so hard.”

“Oh Jesus…” Martin remembers now: he had just gotten home from college this morning and found his sister with a cast. “How did you manage to get up that tree anyway?”

There’s a car approaching from behind him. It parks no more than ten feet away, and Martin can hear the branches above his head groaning and creaking. With a soft thump his sister jumps down. She has leaves in her hair, on her red overalls. She’s covered with dust and sticky resin.

Without even looking at her brother, Julia sprints towards the car, and the man stepping out of it smiles, shakes his head at her appearance, but opens his arms for her nevertheless.

“ Evening , Mr. Stevenson,” Marty greets him.

The man in a police uniform waves back. “ Evening , Marty. Been back long?” He barely has a chance to respond before Julia crashes into him and knocks the wind out of him. “Hey, squirrel,” calling her by his nickname, bestowed on her for climbing every tree in the district. “Why you out so late? Ain’t it dinner time?”

Without looking at her brother, as if he has ceased to exist, Julia buries her face deeper into her friend’s uniform.

“Not hungry. And was waiting for you to get back from Baltimore.” She lifts her face and her black eyes flash with concern. “Was it as bad as they said on the news?”

“Yeah,” he nods, picking leaves from her silky braids.

Martin had heard about th e horrors of the day before. He recalls that Andrew Stevenson had moved to Philadelphia after losing his son and wife to a hit-and-run in Baltimore. His best friend was on the news, in charge of the diner-shooting investigation.

“How bad?” Martin comes closer.

Andrew looks exhausted, his face sunken, his brown eyes surrounded by dark circles. He’s probably been up ever since.

“Nineteen dead, seven wounded, one critical. Doesn’t look like he’s gonna make it.”

He looks down at Julia, his brave little friend, the first one to welcome him to the neighborhood when he had moved in, and his best ‘pal’. He doesn’t like talking about things like that with or in front of her. She’s tough as nails, but she’s a child.

“Are you going back tomorrow?” she asks .

“Will have to.” He absentmindedly puts a hand over her head. “The investigation is ongoing, Ricky needs help. And one of the victims was someone we both knew, apparently. The funeral is tomorrow. I’d like to go.”

Julia’s face twitches with sadness. “Your friend? Died?” Her dark eyes narrow with compassion.

“Someone I knew from way back, yeah. So did his wife and daughter.”

She doesn’t know what to say. As social encounters go, Julia is pretty awkward. But she throws her arms around her friend’s waist and holds him tight. She’s really small for her age, very slim. But she has the strength in her to care for everyone.

Andrew still remembers the first time they met. He’d been waiting for the movers, sitting on his new front porch, when a kid, barely five years old rolled into his front yard on a bike that was way too large for her size, jumped off of it, let it drop on the grass and came closer. She asked if he was their new neighbor, motioning to the house next door, where she, apparently, lived. When he said that it would seem so, yes, she asked if he had any kids she could play with. She also said she hoped he had sons, because ‘girls bored her’. He told her that, in fact, he used to have a son. His name was Oliver. And he had just died with his mother in a car accident. The expression on her little face shifted from curious to mortified. She was quiet for a long while, as they just looked at each other. Then she asked if he needed a hug. He did. But he managed to give her a sad smile and shake his head with a ‘no, I’m good’. He’d just moved into the neighborhood and was not going to get a reputation as a stranger who hugs little girls. This never seemed to bother little Julia. She crawled onto the porch, sat next to him, and put her tiny arms around him, her cheek coming to press against his elbow.

He’s watched this girl grow up. He doesn’t like her family. There’s something strange going on in that nice house, among those churchgoing people. Two of the eldest left home for college as soon as they could. Isabella is a lawyer, Martin is studying medicine. The younger ones are good catholic girls, very quiet and polite, good students, the light of their parents’ eyes. All except the ‘black sheep’ in the family. She’s constantly bruised, running away and hiding out for hours. Andrew always suspected some form of physical abuse. And he’s tried to get an admission out of her for years. But Julia never tells. She always has an excuse. Which, he admits, sometimes is true. She’s a tomboy. She falls off of things all the times. And to take action, he needs a more solid evidence. And there’s also the fact that no other kids have ever shown any signs of having been beaten. So he figured it’s a ‘not sparing the stick’ situation in a devout catholic household. Still abuse in his books. But he can’t prove it. And can’t do anything about it.

That’s why he keeps an eye on her. While she thinks she’s the one keeping an eye on him. She keeps running away and hiding up that tree waiting for his police car to come to a stop when he’s back home at the end of the day. She gets in trouble for that. Time after time. And he begs her to stop. But she’s a stubborn little girl with a warped perception of friendship and loyalty. She knows he’s a lonely soul who needs a friend. He knows she’s a lonely child who needs a parent without a stick in their hand. Somehow, they make it work.

The next day he’s n early made it to Baltimore, when he hears a rustling sound from behind his back. He knows without looking. He also knows the funeral starts in fifteen minutes, and he won’t have time to drive back to Philly. She will get in trouble for this when she gets home… and it makes him both angry and heartbroken.

“Jules, get out from under there,” he commands, in a voice that leaves no room for discussion.

She’s small enough to have hidden on the floor partially under the back seat.  With a bit of struggle and numb limbs, cursing at her casted arm, Julia finally emerges and sits like a normal person. Andrew gives her a discontented look in the rearview mirror. She just crosses her arms (as much as it’s possible with the cast and all) on her chest and stares back defiantly.

“Why do you keep doing that? You know your mamma will be mad.”

She purses her lips and shrugs. “She’s always mad at me anyway.”

“Because you always do shit like that! I’ve told you, you can’t come with me. And here you are.”

“Well, I wanted to come. You seemed sad.”

“Jesus Christ, of course I am sad. Lots of people died in a stupid shootout, families gone, families broken apart, my best friend is nowhere near catching the shooters. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be even sadder tomorrow when your mom beats the crap out of you.”

Go for it, Jules, deny it. Tell me again how you fell off of that tree and broke your arm.

“Pfffff… beat me? Are you crazy? She wouldn’t dare . She just yells and hisses. She’s never laid a hand on me. She couldn’t hurt a fly. I already told you.” She stares out the window now, stealing cautious looks at the mirror.

“Right.” Andrew sighs, his heart breaks all over. Seeing the abuse victims protect their abusers always gets to him. “Just cut the crap, Jules. Just tell me. You know I can do something about it.”

“Like what? Take me away from home? Put me in foster care? Thanks but no thanks.”

“Well, you can’t come live with me.” They have talked about it. It’s impossible. For many reasons.

“I know.” She looks away again. “So leave it alone. She’s a bitch, is all. I can take it.”

Fucking twelve-year-old who can take it. Fucking sixteen-year-olds with semi-automatic guns. Fucking world.

He can’t take arguing with her. His eyes soften when they meet hers in the rearview mirror again.

“So, ice-cream later? I know a great italian place not far from the cemetery.”

She has one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever seen. It’s bright and happy, despite everything she’s been through. He can see her nod and wink. Then he stops by the side of the road and waits for her to climb into the front seat next to him. They high-five and he drives on.

Andrew had warned Julia not to wander off too far. Right. Like that would work. Before she knows it, she’s climbing the hill on the cemetery grounds, heading towards a patch of tall trees. There are four funerals going on at the same time, too many people. She hates crowds and so always likes to watch from afar, and she needs to get higher up.

None of the trees have low branches for her to use as leverage to start climbing. She might just have to do it the straight up way, which is tricky with one arm disabled. But she knows she’ll try anyway. She looks up now, circling the tree of her choice, c onsidering whether or not the most easily reached branch will be enough to support her weight.

She adjusts her hold of the trunk and is trying to find a good indentation for her foot to give her an initial push, when she hears a voice from behind. It startles he r so much that she falls backwards, landing on her butt.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Julia jumps up, not even bothering to swipe off the dry leaves and dust from her red overalls, then swings around. There is a boy sitting under one of the trees. He doesn’t get up when she looks at him, just eyes her incredulously with a hint of amusement.

“You’ll never make it with the cast,” he says, motioning to her arm.

She comes closer. He’s older than she is, seems much taller, too. He has nice clothes, but they are dirty and stained with blood all over. So are his neck and his face. He’s sitting on the ground, his back to the trunk of a tree, his legs bent and arms thrown around his knees. There’s blood on his sneakers, too. It’s dry. His dark hair is dusty and full of dry leaves. Julia wonders if he’s slept here, on the ground. Was he in the diner? Did he lose anyone? Someone being buried now? His eyes are… not really sad. Just kind of empty. They are pale blue , corners drawn down. His mouth is drawn down as well.

As Julia steps closer, blocking the sun, he looks up and sees an image surrounded by a soft yellow glow. She’s much smaller than he is, about Lizzy’s size, but older. She has kind dark eyes and two long braids of silky black hair, one behind her back and one up front. Her features are soft, delicate. Her face is beautiful and so expressive, full of compassion, that for a short while he just keeps staring. He knows what he must look like to her . And, frankly, he doesn’t care. He just wants her to leave him alone, let him be by himself.

“What?” he snaps, when she doesn’t stop staring at him too. “Are you lost?”

Instead of answering, she turns around and sits down next to him. Now her head is tilted so she can still look at him.

“Are you ?”

Yes , he thinks. But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he motions to her broken arm again.

“What happened? Fell off a tree ?” He’s being sarcastic and she nods in acknowledgement.

Then she laughs. “Actually, from a fence.”

His eyebrows rise and fall and there’s a small lopsided smile in one corner of his lips. “I see a pattern.”

“Yep.” Julia stretches her legs forward and leans back, using her good palm to support her weight. She tilts her face up to the sun, closing her eyes.

Damn she looks peaceful, happy and beautiful. One of those kids who have a good life. Like the one he’d had just two days ago. She reminds him of Ronnie, a girl in his class, one he used to have a crush on last year. The joy dissipates the moment he thinks about school. It’s still spring break. And when it’s done, he’s never going back. There’s no more home, no more school. And he’s not going back in the system. He’s had a good six years of life that was never meant to be his. It’s all over now. He looks down at the people gathering around the two big coffins and one small one. There’s Adele’s father, her sisters, even the one from Dundalk. Braden didn’t have any close relatives left.

“Were you there?” The voice next to him jolts him back to reality.

He looks at his clothes, his hands covered with dry blood. Then simply nods.

Now Julia doesn’t know what to say. She can’t very well go ahead and hug him.

“I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t even know if he’s lost anyone, why he is here. His face gives away nothing. No tears. No grief. Just his jaw clenched hard, and his eyes opened wide, as if finding it hard to focus. She knows this face. She makes it when her mother slaps her hard and she doesn’t want to show how much it hurts.

He says nothing in return, just barely nods again and keeps staring ahead.

Julia remembers something Andrew had told her once: the sorrow of many is a fool’s consolation. She doesn’t know exactly what it means. But it sounds in her head like something that one would find comforting, knowing someone shares the burden of pain, knows how it feels, even when it’s different. That’s probably not what it means at all. But she knows that sitting next to this boy, feeling his pain, makes her feel less lonely, less hurt inside. Or maybe it has nothing to do with what he’s been through, or what he feels. Maybe she just needs to say it. To someone who doesn’t know her, never will.

“My arm,” she starts, and he slowly turns his head and looks at her cast. “My mother did this to me. She meant it. She always does.”

He lifts his eyes to her face. In an instant, something else takes over. Like a windshield wiper over his mind, her words push away his own sorrows. The rage floods his thoughts, makes his face feel hot, makes his fists clench.

“Is she here?” A fool. He’s a fool. And if she is? What is he going to do? Hit some woman he doesn’t know? Break her arm?

“No.” Julia shakes her head. “But she’ll be mad again when I get home. It’s my fault. I never listen to her.”

“So she breaks your arm??? Jesus-Fucking-Christ!!!” His voice jumps.

Julia just shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, well… she wants me to be a good Catholic girl.”

“What does that have to do with…”

He stops himself before he goes there. He’s been raised a Catholic. By two people who were devout and kind. Who never raised so much as their voice on their children. He looks down at their coffins again. And something inside of him tears and snaps.

He doesn’t realise that he’s crying until he feels her arms awkwardly come around him. Weird girl. What the fuck? But he doesn’t push her away. He can’t. She’s too small, the arm across his chest is the broken one. And that just makes it worse. He lifts one hand and places it over this strange girl’s cast. He can’t stop the tears from running down his face. He can feel her kindness tearing through his pain when her head leans against his shoulder. But he can’t move. And they sit like that for a long while.

It takes him some time to calm his breathing and dry his face. He moves away, and she lets him go. Her good hand is playing with the dry leaves on the ground. He can’t tear his gaze from her cast.

“ Jules ?” he reads her name in one of the signatures, in between many hearts and smiley faces and ‘get well soon’ bits.

She nods, laughing a little. “Julia. Everyone calls me Jules.”

He shakes the dust off of his hand, then looks at the blood on it, and decides against hand shaking.

“I’m Peter.”

Julia looks into his reddish eyes, dark eyelashes clumped from tears.

“Will you be ok, Peter?” She doesn’t know why she asks that. She needs to go, and if he’s not going to be ok, there’s nothing she can really do about it.

“Sure. I will.” He sounds less confident than he means to. Because he knows that nothing will be ok from now on.

Julia kind of knows that he knows that. With that much hurt, nothing is really ever ok.

He tries to be cheerful.

“I would sign your cast… but… no pen.”

Her smile is as bright as the sunshine.

“You would? Hold on…” She always has a sharpie on her now, for everyone who asks to sign it. It barely has any ink left. But she fetches it nevertheless. “Go ahead.” She sits closer and holds her casted arm in front of him.

“What should I write?” He’s never actually done this before, always thought it was kind of stupid. But he wants to now. For this kind stranger who just held him without even knowing why he was sad. Who just told him about her own pain without even knowing his name.

“ Whatever you want,” she shrugs.

There is something in his head. It’s been in his head for two days now. It’s one of his favourite quotes in the world. He and Braden had discussed it at length at one time. It’s about a man’s duty, an obligation, to stand up for others, to stand up for what’s right. He thinks about his parents being buried, about his sister, he thinks about this girl going back to her mother who will do terrible things to her for many years to come. He thinks about all the people going on about their lives and never giving a damn. About abused kids. About random acts of violence.

Then he scribbles what he wanted to write. It stands out. It goes all along her cast from her elbow to her wrist. Between all the wishes, hearts and smiley faces. It stands out because it’s different. And he wants her to know that despite not being able to do anything about what pains them both now, one day he will. He doesn’t say what he’s going to do once he finds the people who took his family away from him. He doesn’t even know if he ever will. Or know how to. Or what he would do to her mother if he ever met her. What he’s written about is not anger, because he’s angry to the point of not even feeling anymore,  It’s the only thing he can afford to feel right now, because everything else makes him want to lie on the ground, close his eyes and never get up again.

Julia reads out loud.

“ The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing . ” She looks at him now and sees that he’s looking back. “Wow.” Is all she can say.

“Edmund Burke wrote it, he was an Irish philosopher. Although I think maybe he never did. At least my father said so. It was attributed to him because of his other teachings. But… anyway. I like it.”

She reads it again and again. She likes it too. She thinks about Andrew. How much he wants to help her. It’s just not that simple. Sometimes the good men are not allowed to do anything. And evil triumphs anyway. She’s been wanting to tell Andrew the truth about her mother for years now. She knows he would do something about it. But she knows her mother’s shit. She can live with it. She’s scared of what she might meet if she’s taken away. A home is a home. It might not be perfect, but this is her family. The only one she knows. Blood is thicker than water. And she loves them, in spite of everything.

“It’s beautiful,” she says in the end.

“Keep it,” he actually smiles. Then gets up. “I should go.”

“Ok,” she looks up at him and waves a little. “I think I will stay a bit.”

“Sure…” He hesitates before he turns around. “Jules, you take care, ok?”

“I will,” she assures him. “You too, Peter.”

In the car, on their way back, Julia can’t stop looking at Peter’s signature on her cast. She’s wondering what will happen to him now. Where he will go. He seemed very lost. Very sad. But he was kind to her. She has the quote memorized by now. And she pictures his face everytime she goes over it in her head. She can’t shake the feeling that he left to do what he said good people should do to stop evil from triumphing.

“Is that a new one?” Andrew steals a look at her cast, as she’s running her fingers over the long line across it.

“Yeah, someone signed it. It’s a quote.” She recites it out loud, not even looking at it anymore.

“Oh I know it.” Andrew’s eyebrows furrow as he digs into his memory. “Burke, right? At least I think so. And I think the original quote is ‘Evil triumphs when good men do nothing’ ”.

“I don’t know,” Julia shrugs, thinking. She has a feeling that Peter was the one who got it right. “You know, maybe it’s not Burke. But something people attribute to him because of his other teachings.”

She doesn’t know shit about his other teachings. But she will find out. And it feels good, almost warm inside, when she repeats that boy’s words.

“I wouldn’t know,” Andrew smiles. “So, who wrote it for you?”

“Ah… this boy I met. At the cemetery. I think he was in the diner. Maybe came to watch.”

Something changes on Andrews face when he looks at her. “Your age? The boy?”

“Mmmmm… no. I think he was older. Fifteen maybe? He was… tall-ish.”

“Was his name John?”

“No. Peter. Why?” It’s her turn to be curious now.

“Oh ok.” He shakes his head. “It’s just the family, of the man that we came to pay our respects to, they had a foster kid, they were about to adopt him, loved him like their own. They say he ran away from the crime scene. And they’ve been looking for him.”

Julia knows now. She just met him. She wishes she knew then . And she feels tears in her eyes, wondering where he’s gone, how he’s going to be from now on, who’ll take care of him.

“He was nice,” she whispers, barely audible.

Andrew stops at the red light and looks at her now. She’s her usual self - leaves in her hair, dirt on her pretty face, sadness in those dark brown eyes.

“Hey.” He wipes some mud from her cheek and shakes his head. “So, where did you meet your ‘nice’ prince, Cinderella?”

Julia laughs, pushing his hand away. He calls her that a lot. But the boy she has met was no prince. Just an orphan. Another hurt child.

“Andrew?” She turns to him all the way now. When he looks back, she finally says it. “I know you’re trying to help me. I mean, I know you want to. But I’m ok. Really.”

“You’re not. Really .” His smile fades away. “And I will get to the bottom of it.”

“Please… Don’t. I don’t want you too.”

“Why?”

Because if you do, they will take me away. And I will probably never see you again. And you’re my only friend. You live next door. And, although I never have, I know that if things get really bad I can run to you and you will save me. And I don’t know what will happen if they take me away, what people I will meet. Now, at least, I have you.

“Because it’s not that bad,” she says aloud. “And I don’t want to go away. I love mom and dad and my sisters. Can you promise me you’ll stop?”

He swallows hard, all of him is screaming ‘no’, but in the end he nods. And says he promises.

“But I’m going in with you,” he warns. “And I’ll tell Maria I was the one who kept you busy.”

She smiles. “Sure.” It won’t help. But sure.

They are almost back in Philly. She’s been quiet, thinking the whole time.

“Where do I go to join the police?” she asks suddenly.

“What, NOW?” he coughs, taken off guard.

“When I can… when can I?”

He needs to think about it. “In most places I think at least twenty years old. But I think… if you still want it…” He knows someone who can help. Maybe. “We can probably push for eighteen.”

“Thanks.” She goes back to thinking and looking out the window.

That’s what she’ll do. Like Andrew. She’ll be one of the good people. So that the evil can never triumph.

Every time they stop at a red light, Andrew looks at her cast. He wonders about a boy who would think about a quote like that, on a day like this one. But mostly, he wonders about himself, his promise. He’s been walking a thin line for years now.

He has an obligation to report. As a friend, as a citizen, not to mention an officer of law enforcement. He almost did. Many times. But something always stopped him: not being sure, not wanting to stain a good family name, not willing to break her family apart, and, most importantly, not being able to imagine what she’d go through, being sent away from her parents, her siblings.

And there was another reason, a selfish one . He’d met this little girl half a year after losing everything he ever loved. He’d almost drunk himself into a stupor and was almost forced out of police. Two things keep him alive today: the love he has for his job, which made him clean up and stay sober to this day, and the love he has for this girl, who’d thrown her arms around him and tore her way through his anguish when he sat on his front porch seven years ago. He convinces himself that he will be able to keep an eye on her, stay close, make sure she’s safe. The truth is, he can’t risk losing her, can’t lose another child.

Evil triumphs when good men do nothing .

He’s done nothing. For years. He suspected, he’s told himself he doesn’t have enough evidence. But in the end, he knows… he knows … this child is being beaten, every day, probably. And he’s done nothing.

Right before they get out of the car, he takes her broken arm and reads the words again. He puts a hand on Julia’s shoulder and leads her to the door.

Maria Diaz is a short woman. She has a pleasant face and a bright, wide smile. She is always dressed meticulously, even when she’s at home. Appearances matter. If her hair is turning grey, he could never tell. It’s always a shiny black, pulled back tight, not a single strand left astray . She opens the door and gives him a happy welcoming gasp, then looks at Julia. She’s still smiling when she does, but her eyes grow darker, the smile is just on her lips now.

“Officer Stevenson, what a lovely surprise. Come on in, please.” She opens the door wide enough for both of them to enter and closes it in a hasty manner. “We’ve been so worried. Where did you find our dearest Julia? She’s not in trouble, God forbid, is she?”

Andrew clears his throat, his arms around Julia’s shoulders, pulls her closer to his side.

“Oh no, ma’am. Nothing like that. It’s my fault, really, I should have called. This morning I was loading some boxes into my car, Oliver’s old toys to take to the children’s shelter. And Julia here was an angel and kindly offered to help. I know I should have asked your permission, but it’s just around the corner. And I never imagined it would take us half a day. But you know… poor children. Julia saw them taking the toys and the books and she insisted we stay and read to them for a while. I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble. Please, kindly forgive my carelessness.”

Julia lifts her eyes to Andrew’s face. Wow, the man can lie. And he sounds so convincing, so truthful. Even his tone. For a moment there she’s confused and wonders if that’s actually what happened.

“Oh, of course.” Her mother’s face is an image of compassion and concern now. “Poor babies. Poor Oliver, God rest his beautiful soul. You’re such a wonderful man, Mr. Stevenson. I’m always telling the kids what a wonderful neighbor we’re lucky to have, and a police officer, too. Isn’t that right, Julia, dear? Haven’t I always said that?”

“Yes, mama, you have,” Julia nods, holding her breath. She knows. Andrew will leave. And her mother’s tone will change. Her words will hurt. Then her hands.

“Oh, you dear angel, reading to those poor souls.” Maria leans in and kisses her daughter's forehead. “Go on now, wash up, dinner will be ready soon.”

Andrew puts his hand on Julia’s head as she looks up at him. The fear in her eyes, the helplessness on her face, make his throat shut constrict with tears. He gives her the most encouraging smile he can manage. And a slight nod. He watches her climb the stairs. She’s still looking at her cast, tracing her finger over the words, unaware that the boy who’d written them has changed her life. Because her mother will never lay a hand on her again.

“Would you like some lemonade, officer?” Maria makes sure the door to her daughter's room is closed, before turning her attention back to their guest.

“Oh yes, I would, if it’s not too much trouble. Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a hot day.”

He follows her to the kitchen. There’s no one inside. When she opens the fridge to fetch the lemonade, he closes the door behind him and steps closer.

“I know,” he says.

She turns around. His voice is closer than she expected, and it makes Maria flinch.

“Oh my goodness, you’ve scared me a little.”

“Good.” He’s not smiling anymore as he steps even closer. “Because I need you to be scared. And I’ll tell you why. I know what you’re doing to that child. And you will stop.”

“Dear Lord, Mr Stevenson, whatever do you mean? If Julia’s been saying things…”

“Julia’s been saying nothing. Not a damn thing,” he interrupts her, his voice is a roaring whisper. “She’s been taking your shit, for years. Making up stories about falling down stairs , getting into fights at school, being scratched by tree branches… You’ve been beating the crap out of that little child and she’s been protecting you, protecting your family, afraid of losing you, of being taken away, of her sisters being taken to foster care. But you see, I’m not afraid. And I want to be very clear about that one, because it’s the most important part that I want you to understand.” Andrew takes the pitcher out of her shaking hands, places it on the counter and leans even closer, his face is almost touching hers now. “ I am not afraid… of ANYTHING . What I’ll do to you, to your precious reputation, to your precious family, to you personally… you never want to find out. Do you understand? It’s important that you do. I’ll stop at nothing. And I mean nothing . I’ll destroy you, everything you ever wanted, everything you ever cared about. I will turn the wonderful image of your righteous existence into nine circles of hell. And I will use everything at my disposal to do so. I’ll call in every favor I’m owed, I’ll lie under oath, I’ll fabricate the evidence if I have to. And I won’t rest until I see you buried under the ashes of your hypocrisy.” He takes a deep breath, piercing her with his eyes, shaking with rage. “I will end you. I swear to God I will. You put one hand on that child again and I will burn you alive. She’ll hate me for it. But I’ll do it. I see one scratch on that girl, one bruise on her face… you better fucking pray real hard in your church that she doesn’t so much as slip and fall on her way from school… because so help me God…”

He stands over her now, staring her down, looking into her eyes, seeing the terror in them. He doesn’t move until she nods.

“Say it.”

Her voice is trembling. “I understand…” is all she can manage.

Andrew turns around and walks out the back door.

He’s broken his promise. He’s threatened to break his oath. When he’s back in his own living room, he collapses on the sofa and stays still for a long time. He’s thinking about the shootout in Baltimore. About families who were wiped out, erased from existence. He’s thinking about Oliver, his mother. He’s thinking about a teenage boy whom he hasn’t even met, but who, without even knowing him, has given him the strength to find his voice, to face his demons, to stand up for what mattered most. A boy who, surrounded by people grieving for victims of a random act of violence, changed the life of one little girl with a random act of kindness.

His father, who was killed in the line of duty when Andrew was just fifteen years old, told him once that being a police officer doesn’t mean you can save the world. But you can make it better. One person at a time.

2004

Long before Johnny is done telling her his life story, how it started, what it meant and how it ended, Julia knows. There's no part in his tale about meeting a little girl with a cast on her arm, but she's figured it out long before he's gotten to the diner shooting.

“Have you ever been back there?” she asks, when he tells her how he ran away from the police.

He kept running, for hours, until he couldn’t anymore.

He came to the cemetery on the day they were buried. He waited for it to get dark, hiding out of sight. Then he came out and lay on Adele’s grave. He cried until he blacked out. He stayed there until someone noticed him the following evening. He was barely conscious and was taken to a hospital. Then put back in the system. Ran away several times. Was caught and put back again and again.

“No. Not since that day.”

Julia frees herself from between his arms, climbs off his lap and stands up.

“C’mon,” she says, holding her hand out for him to take.

“Jules, it’s like two in the morning…” He tries to protest, but he’s already on his feet.

“It’s actually four in the morning. And we’re going.”

He sighs, smiling. He gave up arguing with her when she gets like this a while ago. Reluctantly he gets dressed. So does she. Then she goes through one of the unpacked boxes with her belongings (this place just isn’t big enough to fit everything they own) and slips something into her bag. Johnny is intrigued, but he knows better than to ask her about it.

He’s driving. The roads are empty , and it only takes them a little over an hour and a half to get there. Julia picks up some flowers at the gas station.

When they arrive , they clean up a little, arrange the flowers around the graves, and then hold each other.

“I wish I’d known them,” Julia whispers, standing on tiptoe and placing a soft kiss on Johnny’s jawline.

He draws her closer, and she can feel his breathing mixed with silent sobs. “They would have loved you so much,” he whispers back.

“I know…” Her lips curve into a playful smile next to his neck. “I’m pretty cute.”

He’s laughing now, kissing her again and again. “Damn right you are.”

She takes his elbow and turns them both around. Then points to a tall hill covered with trees.

“If I die first, I want to be buried there.”

It’s beautiful, he gives her that, but he doubts it’s possible.

“Jules, I don’t think they have a place there to…”

She presses the tips of her fingers to his mouth. “It’s where I held you for the very first time…”

He freezes. The memory comes back in a flash. He looks into Julia’s eyes and sees the little girl with a cast on her arm and two long black braids. Fuck me . Julia. Jules. The words on her cast, the smiley faces, the little hearts. Her head pressed against his shoulder when she hugged him. Her kindness. Her words. Her pain. His girl. His Julia. And that battered little girl. It’s his Julia. She’s the one who was being beaten by her mother, she’s the one he had left to go back to that life.

It’s too much. He tears himself from her and takes a step to the side, then turns away, throws his head back. Slowly, she follows him and laces her arms around his waist, pressing her face in between his shoulder blades. He covers her hands with his.

“I’ve never believed in that shit, you know?” She smiles. “Still don’t. I mean, I don’t believe in fate or God or any of that. But this is fucking incredible.”

He nods, squeezing her hands. “No shit.”

She places a kiss on his back. “I wish I knew then. What happened to you. Why you were here. I would never have let you leave. I would have told Stevenson. We would have figured something out together.”

Johnny turns around, his eyes are moist. He takes her face into his hands. “That image… of you… your words... what you said… it haunted me. For years. The way I left you. To go back to your mother, to that house… I just walked away, consumed by my own grief. Jesus, Jules…” He leans his forehead against hers. “I just left you.”

She smiles, running her fingers through his hair. “But you didn’t.” She snuggles into his arms. “I was here with Stevenson. He knew your father, apparently. After he drove me home, my mother never laid a hand on me again. Not once. I always suspected he’d said something to her that day, but he always denied it. Until about two years ago. He said… what you wrote on my cast made him realise he didn’t care what I wanted or asked of him.”

She opens her purse and takes out a long yellowish piece of hardened plaster, covered with a protective transparent polish layer. He can see his own handwriting, staring back at him from thirteen years ago.

“Christ, you’ve saved it…” he murmurs into her hair.

Julia nods, giving him a smirky smile. “You said ‘keep it’. I did.” She pulls him close again. “Whatever he said to her on that day, she never came near me again. I know today, being older, being a police officer, having seen the shit I’ve seen, that he probably saved my life. You both have.”

Just thinking about it makes him shiver violently, gasp for air. Julia strokes his shoulders, holds him tighter.

“And… you did more than that. Because what you wrote made me want to join the police. And if I hadn’t… you and I...”

“Don’t even say it…” He presses his lips to her mouth with everything he has. Then, in between desperate kisses, whispers again and again, “... don’t even say it…”

Chapter Text

2014

I’ll be back in a few days, and we’ll talk then, alright?

Right.

The phone drops on the sofa cushion and bounces off of it three times. One, two… the third one is almost negligible - either the upholstery fabric is not very elastic or the foam inside is the wrong density. Those two factors, and the weight of the object, are the variables affecting the number of times said object will bounce on the surface before becoming stationary. Now, what’s interesting about the fact that he’s thinking about this…  is fucking nothing .

Trying to kid yourself into thinking you’re finally about to take the most important step in your life will do that to you, alright.

The small TV across the room has a fairly matte surface, not nearly reflective enough to create his mirror image. Not a bad thing. The last two times he felt this pathetic and angry with himself and happened to see his own face staring back at him, it didn’t end well for the reflective surface.

It’s not on you, Carrie.

Without moving his head, his eyes follow a free trajectory across the living room: oil painting, fruit on the table, chairs, coffee table, his knee, his arm thrown over his knee, his hand helplessly hanging off the end of his arm, fingers starting to fall into an erratically restless movement pattern, his other knee… the phone. It stopped bouncing.

Bouncing.

Maybe there was something interesting about the factors that make an object bounce or stop bouncing after all. He actually turns his head this time, because what he wants to look at does not lie on the path of his free trajectory. It’s behind him. By the door. Ok, it’s two things. One - a pile of letters to his comrades’ beneficiaries, two - his black backpack, half open, and next to it some basic toiletry items… toothpaste, toothbrush, dental floss… some other crap he usually packs… right before he shits, showers, shaves and… well, goes.

Because bouncing is what his shit is really about. Carrie: C’mon, you know my shit. Asshole: You know mine. Carrie: But you don’t have my condition. Asshole: True. And you don’t really know half my shit.

Now, that would be a fair conversation. Honest. Truthful. Because the truth is, he bounces. Takes off. Time after time. And it has nothing to do with Carrie saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Or with the dead kid in Caracas. Or with any of the things among the endless line of excuses that he’s made over the years. In the end, he always bounces. Probably for the same reason the phone eventually stops bouncing on the sofa. Gravity.

It’s not on you, Carrie.

And gravity, like they say, is a bitch. For the phone, it’s Earth’s gravity. Sooner or later, it loses momentum and can’t escape the pull. For Peter Quinn, the last twelve years have become a constant search for alternative sources of gravity strong enough to pull him away from the ultimate one - the job, the mission, what he does, the only thing he does, the only thing that’s ever made him feel good about himself. Maybe not the only thing, but he surely had fucked-up the only other thing.

He picks up the phone and throws it against the wall. It hits hard, right next to the oil painting, and breaks into three separate objects before landing on the floor. No bouncing this time. As an added bonus, no making phone calls either.

The force.. His hand, picking up the phone and throwing it against the wall, is the force. He was always somewhat good at physics. Two things can move a stationary object in a direction opposed to the pull of gravity: a stronger source of gravity, and an applied force with a vector going in a direction of… Jesus-Fucking-Christ, what’s wrong with you???

Quinn gets up, walks around the sofa, and in three determined strides reaches his backpack. He throws things in one by one. Then stops, turns around. His back against the stand by the door, his palms resting on the edge of it.

It’s not on you, Carrie . Never has been. Never should have been. You don’t know my shit. Half the time, I don’t even know my shit. It’s some fucked-up shit, I can tell you that much. And you’re about to find out just how bad it is.

The truth is, there’s no stronger source of gravity on Earth than the one of Earth. And there’s no stronger source of gravity in his life than the one of the only thing he was ever really good at. But the most honest, most raw truth is… escaping gravity should never be about an alternative source of it. It should be about force. For thousands of years, humans were using their creativity and inventiveness to come up with new ways to generate motion against the force compelling an object to remain stationary. For twelve years, he’s been trying to find something that would pull him away without him needing to generate enough force to do it himself. He’s been using others, people and circumstances, to create a sufficient counter force. In the end, though, it’s not enough, never has been, never will be. The only thing it does, or ever did, is leave behind bits and pieces of broken hearts, broken dreams, broken expectations… and most of them his own. And if they were just his own, it would really be ok.

It’s not on you, Carrie. I had no right. Coming to you after everything that’s happened in Islamabad, when you had just lost your father, had just committed to being a mother to your daughter, had just met your own mother after years of not hearing from her, had just found out I’d made it out of Pakistan alive…

The truth is… he never quit. All those times he tried, in the end, he never did. There was always something. But really, all those ‘somethings’ were the same excuses that were always there, that he knew would be there ahead of time.

Twenty percent is harsh odds for a mission. He knows that. He’s been in the position of having to calculate those odds many times. When a mission commander tells you, based on being briefed on the objective, the situation, the people at his disposal, their seniority, experience, their skills, the mark, the conditions on the ground, that you have twenty percent less chance of completing the mission, twenty percent less chance of getting all your men out alive, you believe him. Because this is a real number, based on real factors.

He walks over to the sofa again, slowly lowers himself onto it, leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and locks his hands. His head is down. Because probability is even harder to argue with than physics.

He remembers a joke one of his professors once told, explaining the treacherous nature of statistics and probability.

“So, they ask a man ‘What are the chances of you walking out of this building and meeting a tyrannosaurus?’ The man looks confused for a while, stumped, thinks it’s a joke, but in the end says, ‘I dunno… one in a trillion? Much lower actually?’ Now they ask a woman the same question. Without having to think about it, the woman answers, ‘Easy. One in two. Fifty percent. I’ll either meet it, or I won’t.’”

And the thing is, it’s not really a joke. Because that truly is the essence of calculating the odds in real life. If you know that dinosaurs have been extinct for over sixty million years, it’s a factor, you can’t ignore it. It reduces the chances of meeting one on the street tremendously. But the woman is ultimately correct. If you take out the factors or don’t know them, it all comes down to fifty-fifty.

What’s the probability of the mission succeeding without him, of every man getting out alive? Twenty percent less than optimal. What’s the probability of him making it in real world? One in two. Because he has no fucking idea, does he? He either will or he won’t. What’s the probability that he and Carrie will make it work? Same shit. One in two. What’s the probability of Carrie saying ‘yes’ when she’s done sorting out her life? One in two.

Why?

Because there are no factors to base the calculations on. What clue did she ever give him that she was interested in him in the first place? What made him think she was willing to (or planning to) get out? What would he do once he gets out? What can he do? The only market where his skills are considered remotely ‘marketable’ is the one that he wants to stay away from. What can he give her? Give Franny? In all his fantasies, did he once imagine beyond the point where they tear off each other’s clothes and wake up the next morning deliriously happy? Because after that, there is life. Even with Carrie. Maybe especially with Carrie. There’s a new life that he had promised her, basically proposed, with nothing to base it on, with no plan, no feasible idea of what to do the following morning other than the morning-after sex.

And why?

Because he fucking needs it. He needs the pull. A pull strong enough to tear him away from the event horizon around the black hole of his life, his job. He needs it. He . No matter the fact that he’s laid the load of his needs on Carrie’s shoulders when it was the last thing she needed. Fucking talk about the worst timing in the history of bad timings.

Yo, Carrie, I know some shit’s going on in your life, with your dad being dead and all, with your daughter needing a mother, and you finally doing the right thing and becoming one, with everything you went through on our last job… but hey, you know what? I need out. I can’t do it on my own, I’ve learnt that. I don’t want anything like Islamabad in my life ever again. And you know what, I’ve never been strong enough to pull myself out of my own shit. Care to give me a hand? Oh, and you know… we could do it together, ‘cause you want out too, right? You’ve never said anything about wanting out (if anything, all the evidence is to the contrary), but let’s assume you do. Let’s get out together. See, I have feelings for you…

He unlocks his hands and drops his head into his palms. This is getting worse by the minute.

Maybe Carrie does want to get out. After all, she’s committed to taking care of Franny now, she’s seen the worst.

After all, isn’t that why he’s still here? Why he keeps coming to her, time after time? Because at some point, about two years ago, in a place where he least expected it, she took his breath away. Everything about her was like a breath of fresh air in a world that had become a prison he was rotting in. And he stuck around. Because he never wanted her to end up the way he did. Because in this world you reach a point of no return, beyond which there’s only bouncing farther away.

And maybe it was his delusional thinking, but he actually does want her out. He wants that for her. He wants to be there when she does, he wants to be the one who gets her there. But the big question in the end, is not ‘But does SHE?’, but rather ‘CAN he?’.

He looks at the pieces of his phone on the floor.

When he called her, just minutes ago, was he waiting, hoping for her to say ‘yes’ or was he dreading it? If she did say ‘yes’, was his next line going to be ‘I can’t wait for you to get back so I can hold you in my arms. I can’t wait to start a life with you’ or was it going to be ‘Wow, I don’t know that to say. When are you going to be back? There’s this mission… I’ve been called away. I tried to say no. But they really need me. It’ll be the last one, I promise. Then I’m out. It might take a while, but I’ll be back. I mean it. I’ve meant everything I said.’

Because the truth is, he did. He meant everything he said. While another truth is, he’s going to Syria. And it’s not because of Carrie not giving him an answer, not because what she’s left him with sounds more like a ‘no’ than a ‘yes’. It’s just about him. What he does. Over and over.

And the worst of it is... if they were to get together, who’s to say that a year from now, two years from now, he won’t bounce again. Or worse. Because this is his duty, his life, his gravity. What if he and Carrie have a fight and the phone rings? Will he stay? What if they need him? If they give him the odds? Will he dangle at the end of his rope, try to lay it on Carrie, will he ask her to throw him a line again? For how long? To what end?

He doesn’t need an answer to that one. He’s known it for as long as he’s known himself, been honest with himself about what he is and what his life has become.

It’s not on you, Carrie. It’s on me.

Was there ever a moment after Rob left that he didn’t know he was going? Desperation and vague hopes aside, was there ever a doubt? The whole time he was talking to Carrie there was only one thing, one phrase in his head,  ‘Carrie, I’m at the end of my rope. Say something. Do something. Make me stay. Change my mind. I need you. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own, I really can’t. I never could.’

He chuckles at his own thoughts. The last moment of truth. You don’t get out because somebody helps you, because somebody throws you a line. You get out because you can, because you’re the ruling force in your life. Because you push yourself out, not because you wait for somebody to pull you out. And you definitely don’t presume you are capable of helping somebody get out, when you can’t even carry your own weight.

And it’s the same conclusion he’s reached over and over every time he’s tried this on. In the end, he knows, the phone will ring, or someone will come, and he will go. Sooner or later, he will go.

He looks at the pile of letters on the stand by the door. Time to add one.

He can’t even call, can’t tell her he’s going. And not because the fucking phone is broken. Because Carrie is right, she needs time, she has things to sort through that don’t involve him and his needs right now. She’s been through enough. She’s asked him not to pressure her. And if he calls, tells her he’s going away, how would it sound? What would she make of it? He knows exactly what. She would fly back, try to stop him. She’d feel pressured to drop all the things that matter to her right now because she’d think he decided to leave when she didn’t give him an answer. No, he’s done enough. He’s not laying this on her as well.

And he knows that leaving like he’s about to means there’s no coming back. It’ll hurt. Both of them. It’s a ‘cut-and-run’; he’s good at it, even though this time he doesn’t mean for it to be that. But he made that call. And she told him not to pressure her. And he won’t. He’ll live with the repercussions. He always has.

In the end, by the time he has a pen and a paper ready, he knows what he wants to say. In essence, he’s been saying this to her in his head over and over. It’s not on you, Carrie. It’s on me.

Everything he knows, everything he feels is right there, clear as day.

He’ll always be pulled back.

He never wanted that life for her. He wanted to be her anchor, the light to guide her to what she’s seeking, whatever it is. To show her the path and help her stay out of harm’s way.

He’s had many hopes at times throughout his life. This one wasn’t the biggest, but it felt like the strongest pull. Because for almost eight years, he had none. But he can see now that nothing will be enough to pull him out completely.

He loves her. With everything he is. That’s above all other truths.

He’s hers. In many ways. He wanted to be. He wanted to be for her what he never found for himself. Not here, not in their world. But in the end, he couldn’t even be that for himself.

There’s always been something pulling him back…

2007

Stevenson’s face is red and his eyes become darker by the second.

“What did he look like?” he asks, pulling a notepad from under a pile of papers on his desk.

“ What did he look like? ” Julia leans forward as far as her nearly eight months pregnant belly allows. “You don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter what he looked like. Or what I know about him, which is nothing . Or what his name is. What are you gonna do? Go threaten him? Beat the crap out of him? Do you even know what kind of deep shit that world is?”

“He came to your home, at night, and he threatened you. That’s all I need to know.”

“He didn’t threaten me! He told me the truth. The fucked-up, god’s honest truth. That Johnny will never get out. They won’t let him. That we’ve been fooling ourselves into thinking we can make it work. That both our lives will be worth shit if he does. That’s not a threat, it’s the truth .”

Stevenson stands up abruptly and takes a step back. He half-turns towards the window behind his chair, considering what she’s just said.

“And you think J doesn’t know that?” he says finally, facing her again. “How dumb do you think he is? He doesn’t know what his own people can do to him? To you? Fuck, you think he would ever put you or the baby in that kind of risk if he even suspected they would?”

“I don’t know ,” she raises her voice. “ Nobody knows. And Johnny is out there, on a mission again, and I can’t very well ask him, can I? The only thing I do know is that what that man said, it makes sense . More so than anything we’ve been kidding ourselves about.”

“Oh, fuck… kidding yourselves ? You two are the strongest people I’ve ever met. You’ve held it together for over four years. And now, when it’s finally almost over, he’s on his last mission, one motherfucker comes to fuck with your head and you’re actually considering it? Considering letting him go? Where? Back to that life where there’s nothing for him but war? That’s all it comes down to? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying we might not have a choice . Maybe we thought we did, but we really didn’t. Maybe Johnny knew parts of it, maybe he thought we could go away… and I would , in a heartbeat. But that man is right. What if we end up on the run for life? What if we’re never safe? What if that shit catches up with us? With any of us?”

“Seriously, Jules… Now you’re just being paranoid. I’m sure the Agency has more important things to deal with than tracking an ex-operative. I am hoping so… you know.” He winks.

She doesn’t smile. “I don’t know. Who said it would be the agency? I have no idea what he does, really. And that’s something that motherfucker has made very clear. From the sound of it, it’s some bad shit. And by bad I mean the worst . I sleep next to a killer. I know that. You know that. But neither of us really knows what he does, how deep it goes, how far people would go for it to remain protected. I watch the news sometimes, I hear about a successful assassination, and I can’t help wondering… did the man I’m with, the father of my child, do that?”

“What are you saying? That you’re afraid of J?” Stevenson’s lips quiver and he looks genuinely puzzled.

“I’m not afraid of him. You’re not listening. I’m saying that man had a point when he said I have no idea how deep the rabbit hole goes. And I don’t know how much of what he warned me might happen is exaggerated and how much of it is an actual possibility. But can I really afford to take that chance? Can either of us?”

“And you’re just going to throw it all away? Four years… the happiest four years of your life… both your lives… because there’s a chance that he was telling you the truth? I am listening, Jules. But I’ve seen you, both of you. How can you even consider letting him go? Why?”

“Because I love him!!!” She screams at the top of her lungs, her voice breaking into a soul-wrenching sob. “I love him more than I want to have a life with him! That’s why. That man said that he can protect all of us, but only if he stays. If Johnny leaves, we’re on our own. I believe him. And I’m not sure that’s a chance I’m willing to take.I don’t want Johnny dead because he tried to get out for us. I don’t want him to live through something happening to me or his child, with the thought that he’s the one who brought it on.”

Stevenson walks around his desk and sits next to her. He looks surrendered, beaten, defeated.

“So, you decided… is that what you’re saying? It’s over? What about J? Doesn’t he get to have a say in that?”

She shakes her head, wiping the tears with the inner side of her wrist.

“Of course he does. I haven’t decided anything . And if he says we can make it, I’ll believe him. I’ll take his word over anyone’s. I trust him, with my life, with our son’s life, with his life… and with my heart. I’m just…” Julia exhales. “I’m just… getting myself ready for the inevitable, I guess. Because if it comes to that… for all the reasons you’ve just said, it won’t be easy. And he’ll need me to be there, with him, he’ll need to see that I understand it, that I am able to let him go. Because he won’t leave if I don't let him. And I need to be able to let him.”

The next few days go by in a blur. Work is overwhelming, the air conditioning in their home goes out, Johnny still isn’t back, and carrying around an extra 30 pound and counting everyday isn’t making things any easier. Julia manages to push the man’s threats and the talk with Stevenson to the back of her mind for a while. There’s nothing to be done about it now. Better to focus on the present until a decision can be made.

A week later, she’s almost home, walking through the back alley of the neighboring city block, when it happens.

She’s on her way home after a long day at work. Their home is within walking distance from the precinct. It’s been dark for a while now, and the air is crisp, a little chilly. She’s been having hot flashes through her third trimester. The cool air is refreshing.

The first blow hits her square in the face. It’s so hard, so sudden, that for a moment she’s airborne and flies across the alley, hitting a brick wall. Sharp pain slashes through her body, sending shock waves from her head to her belly. She doesn’t even have time to scream. Disoriented and unable to move, she feels herself sliding down against the wall, slumping to the ground. She sees legs in high boots stepping closer.

The second blow lands on the side of her chest and knocks the air out of her like a silent scream. Covering her belly with both arms, she rolls to the side, the only thought in her mind to protect their child. Despite knowing that she’s opening her face to the attacker, she forces herself to look up. Her vision is a little blurry, but she can see his face clearly. Evidence. If she survives this, she needs to be able to identify the man. She takes in as much detail as she possibly can: his clothes, approximate height, complexion, eye color, hair color, the shape of his nose, his mouth.

That’s when she sees the pipe in his hand.

He swings it high, right above her head, and she knows this is it. If they find her body soon enough, if she survives long enough, maybe little Johnny has a chance of being taken out of her alive. So, she doesn’t cover her head, just tucks it in, forming an even tighter ball, still holding their unborn son with both her arms.

She will never meet him, she knows. Never watch him grow up, never find out if her prayers were answered and he inherited his father’s beautiful eyes, his smile. She will never see his father again, never hold him. Her last thought is about him, what losing her or both of them will do to him, how he will survive this.

Then it all goes dark.

2016

Carrie stands by the door. She’d rather be anywhere right now than here. She’d rather be uncovering a terrorist plot to bring down the entire western civilization. And yet, here she is. Because there’s a part of her that wants to, needs to. There’s one part that’s screaming that what she should be doing is going home, back to Franny, back to starting to figure out what she wants to do with the mess of her life, her own life, her own little dysfunctional family. But it’s that other part, the part she could never let go, the one that slashed open again when she saw Quinn’s name on the caller ID.

He’d called her early, seven thirty in the morning. She’d expected him to be angry. He wasn’t. He sounded tired, but his voice was soft. He’d asked if she was okay. She wasn’t. Far from it. She was barely conscious, after a sleepless night of drinking and crying. She was angry: at him, at Astrid, but mostly at herself. And she was lost. Alone. Wondering if this is how she’ll always be now, having pushed away the only person who’d always made her feel protected, tethered, grounded, who’d always had her back, even when he was half a globe away.

He’d asked where she was, if she needed Max to come and pick her up, to make sure she got safely to her hotel. He hadn’t said one word about how she’d acted the night before, about the things she’d thrown at him. He told her that Julia’s surgery went fine, that she was recovering nicely. And he thanked her… fucking thanked her … for telling him where Johnny was and that he needed him. It made her tear up again, remembering how she told him about his son, what words she used, how cruel she was. And why.

He’d told her about the night he’d spent in Julia’s room, holding his son for the first time, having him sleep in his arms. There was something in his voice that she’d never heard before - joy. And yet, for some reason, everything inside her was twisting into a tight painful knot. And all she could think about was… he’s talking, just talking, about himself, about how happy he is. She kept trying to remember if they’d ever talked like this before, and why they hadn’t, and why they were now? She kept trying to figure out what had just changed, why they changed. Or maybe nothing had changed at all.

She kept trying to picture Quinn, her Quinn , holding his boy for the very first time. She wished she’d been there. To see that side of him, to watch him finally get that lost part of his life back. He wasn’t the one who told her about having a son. But she knew that one pain, that one regret, was always there, following him everywhere he went. And now, somehow, it had become her pain, her regret- for never asking, never taking the time, never showing that she cared enough to listen. Because she did, she fucking cared. So why didn’t she ever bother to ask?

She’d said she’d see him later in the afternoon, when she comes by to switch Max. There’d been a long pause, and then his voice got concerned again. He asked her if she was sure she was okay. She lied and said that yes, she was. Then he did something that he had never done to her before - he laughed, and called her a ‘liar’. She found herself laughing too, telling him what she’d always wanted to when he’d see right through her: “Fuck you, Quinn.” But when she did, her voice was soft, relieved, tender.

He’d said that they should maybe… probably… talk some day. And she said, “Sure.” When she hung up she cried again, then laughed through tears. After everything she’d said to him the night before, all the hurtful words, he’d seen through her, forgiven her, same as always. She realized then she would never be alone as long as he lived. Would never be lost. He would never leave her.

She’d put her phone away and ordered three strong short espressos. Emptied them one after another, called a cab, and went back to the hospital.

She’s awakened from her reverie when the nurse she’d spoken with earlier passes by.

“That’s the one, honey,” pointing to the door.

Carrie knocks and, before even getting a response, she opens the door a crack and peeks inside.

Julia is sitting in the chair by the window, hooked to an IV, her legs tucked underneath her, a book in her hands. The moment the door opens and she sees Carrie, she breaks into the most joyful of smiles, jumping up and leaping towards her, forgetting about the IV. She stops and curses, looking back at Carrie, waving her in impatiently.

In a flash, the turmoil of doubt in Carrie’s head dissipates. Because in that moment, she knows why she came here. That there’s in fact no other place she’d rather be right now, no other person she’d rather be with . There’s a reason Julia is in the ‘Quinn’ compartment in her head, she realizes. And it goes beyond their past history, beyond their son. Julia has that Quinn-feeling about her. Carrie feels it in how she is with her. When she talks to Julia, it reminds her how it used to be with Quinn sometimes. She feels herself exposed and almost transparent. She hates it. But then she loves it. Misses it. Craves it.

Closing the door behind her, she crosses the room and steps into Julia’s embrace.

Carrie has known Quinn for a while now, over four years. She’s known Julia for barely four weeks. But they are both like gravity to her, a pull she cannot withstand. She can kick and scream and try to break free, but in the end, just like when she’s walked into this room, she’s drawn in, dreading the powerlessness, but inevitably defeated by the need to be accepted and loved just the way she is.

Julia is much smaller. Her frame, her arms, are almost too fragile. Being held by her, Carrie has the strange sense of feeling protected and protective at the same time. Julia keeps holding her, not wanting to move away, and Carrie is unable to let go for a long time. After a while, she finds herself tucking her face into Julia’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and her eyes well up again.

The  moment those words are out, Carrie is angry with herself. She hasn’t even asked Julia how she’s feeling. All she can think about, again , is her own guilt.

“Sorry?” Julia pulls away, giving her a quizzical stare.

“Nevermind,” Carrie retreats, quickly inspecting her. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” Julia’s not one for letting things slide. “What are you sorry about?”

Carrie heaves a frustrated sigh. “This,” she says finally, motioning around the hospital room, at Julia’s PCA pump, at her. “I never should have let it come to this. I should have dragged you to the emergency room, not stolen you some antibiotics. I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

Julia doesn’t reply at first. Her mouth opens and closes again. Her eyes narrow and she arches a sly brow. Under her stare, Carrie feels a familiar jab of lapsing into full defense mode, ready to be confronted, blamed; prepared to lash out if it comes to that. She’s caught by surprise, when Julia just starts laughing and flings her arms around her again.

“Oh gosh, you really are as silly as they say.” She doesn’t let go until Carrie relaxes, becomes less stiff, lifts a tentative hand to place on her shoulder. She’s still wondering what to make of the ‘silly’ remark, when Julia clarifies. “Ever blame yourself for being born too late to stop the Kennedy assassination?”

Carrie can’t stop what happens next any more than she can stop herself from waking up in the morning. It’s like a storm: within seconds she’s taken completely in, bits and pieces of information swirling in her mind, clicking into place, question marks added, connecting lines formed. It’s not until Julia pulls away again, her expression screaming both admiration and amusement, that she realises what she’s doing.

“Oh my fucking God, you just stopped it, didn’t you? In your head? You just stopped the assassination!”

Huffing with irritation, Carrie moves away, her eyes darting to Julia’s face. She can’t help the half smile curling in one corner of her mouth.

“Maybe...” she grumbles in the end.

Julia gives her an unrelenting stare. “You look like shit, Carrie. Have you slept at all?”

Carrie feels like shit, too. And no, she hasn’t. “Long night.”

Julia sits back in her chair and points to another one, in the far corner of her room. Instead, Carrie lowers herself to the edge of her hospital bed.

Julia tucks her legs underneath her again. “Wanna talk about it?”

Actually, Carrie does. Which is weird, annoying, and totally unfamiliar territory for her.

“Quinn called me this morning,” she finds herself blurting out, hating herself the moment she says it.

“Ah.”

That’s it? Ah ? Carrie’s eyes narrow to crinkled slits. “You put him up to it.”

“Bullshit. I never told him to call you.” Julia winks.

Carrie sighs, shakes her head.

“God, I’m bad at this shit...”

Julia’s head tilts sideways. “You mean like visiting a sick friend or…?”

Carrie exhales impatiently. “You know what I mean.”

“Maybe. But it’s too much fun pulling it out of your embarrassed and irritated ass.”

The momentary discontent in Carrie’s eyes is swiftly replaced with something resembling actual delight. She's actually looking forward to this, talking. Feeling compelled to, and at ease enough to. Feeling heard.

“Hey, do you smoke?” Julia asks suddenly.

Carrie’s face changes again, a stir of surprise and curiosity.

“Do you ?”

“Not officially . But I’ve been craving a smoke since this morning. You wanna get outta here?”

Carrie eyes her IV line, then the PCA pump. “You sure?”

“Fuck yeah .”

Julia fidgets impatiently in her chair, reaching for her IV with the clear intention of removing it and setting herself free. Something akin to camaraderie comes over Carrie. She rolls her eyes and sighs, fetching some hep-locks from one of the plastic containers on the wall. She unhooks the IV properly, the ways she’s seen the nurses do for Quinn countless times, and turns the PCA pump off.

“I don’t have cigarettes on me, though,” she informs Julia. Then, with a wicked smile, remembers something: “But I bet Quinn does.”

“He still smokes?” Julia slips her shoes on.

“Not officially ,” Carrie winks. “Hold on.”

With a conspiring grin, she fishes her phone from her purse and types quickly.

-Is he asleep?

Max replies within seconds.

-Yep.

-I’ll be up in five. Can you get his Marlboros for me?

-???

-His hospital night stand, top drawer

-I KNOW. Just not sure I should

-Fine. Wake him up and ask if Julia and I can borrow a cigarette

There’s a long pause.

-Jules smokes?

-Max…

-Fine. Meet me outside in five.

Carrie drops her phone back into her purse.

“All done. Good to go.”

Julia pauses. “Oh yeah. I’m kinda not supposed to leave. The doctors are rounding and we’ve been told to stay put until they finish.”

“Jules…” Carrie shakes her head.

“We might need a diversion.” Julia winces apologetically.

“And you’re looking at me because…?”

“You’re the spook. You do the diversion.”

“Jesus... “ Carrie sighs, unable to resist a mischievous grin. “Fine. Stay here, count to thirty, then slip out. There’s a door leading to the service stairs across the hall from your room. I’ll meet you in the park.”

“Thirty? That’s all? And how do you know about the service stairs?”

Carrie’s smile widens as she scampers out the door. “Jules… you want a spook-worthy diversion? I don’t know what they teach you in the police academy… but leave it to the pros and do what you’re told.”

The hospital park is small, but it’s one of the most beautiful little pieces of heaven Carrie has ever seen. Drowning in green, shaded by the heavy branches of tall trees, it’s far from the main entrance, on the other side of the ambulance bay and away from the noise of the busy road nearby. It can get crowded - too crowded for Carrie’s taste - but it’s still pretty early in the morning and visiting hours haven’t even started yet. Also, most patients - normal patients, that is - are waiting for the doctors to finish the rounds.

She finds Julia on the far side, away from the back entrance, under an old tree. There’s a small table with two benches arranged on opposite sides. Julia has taken one, her legs crossed underneath her, her head tilted up, while her eyes explore a low hanging branch.

“Don’t,” Carrie gives her a small all-knowing smile, taking the bench across from her, then looking up as well.

Julia muffles a chuckle. “He’s told you.”

“Yep.” Carrie puts a wrinkled pack of Marlboros, a lighter and two tall cups of coffee on the table, and points to another spot, not far from the one Julia’s chosen. “We were sitting right there. He looked at this tree and started laughing.” She stops, remembering that day. But mostly having that feeling flooding her thoughts again: Quinn’s been laughing a lot lately. And for the life of her she couldn’t remember him so much as smiling, really smiling, in all the years she’d known him. Catching Julia’s eyes on her, she regroups and takes a sip from her coffee. “Anyway… He said ‘ If Jules were here, she'd be up that tree before she even knew what hit her .’ ”

Julia shakes her head and laughs. “He’s not wrong.”

They sip their coffee in silence for a while, listening to the birds. Suddenly, Carrie is not sure she wants to talk anymore. She just needs this , the quiet. She’s not a fan of the outdoors. No cover - not safe. But, somehow, this is different. Because she is safe, safer than she’s felt in many years, as far back as she can remember, actually. She’s taken in by a feeling of deep calm, an immense sense of belonging, that she can’t explain, and, probably for the first time in her life, is not trying to.

“What I said to you… when we first met…” The sound of her own words startles her. The topic, the fact that she just blurts it out like this, freaks her out even more. But she can’t stop herself anymore, “... when you…”

“... ‘slapped me’ ,” Julia finishes the sentence, looking right at her now.

“Yes.” Carrie nods, looking into the foam on top of her latte. “It wasn’t entirely true, was it? What I said? About him leaving you and Johnny?”

Julia swallows around the lump in her throat. “No.”

Carrie levels her eyes with hers. “So, he didn’t just choose the job over you and your son. Something happened.”

Julia nods, but says nothing. She hasn’t talked about it for almost a decade. She’s still not sure she can go there. And it’s not the part about being attacked, beaten within an inch of her life, almost losing the baby, that makes it so painful. Even now.

“You two were really close, weren’t you?” Carrie knows the answer to that one. She may not know the whole story, but she’s seen them together.

“We were young and naive.” Julia’s voice is low, but it’s iron hard, almost snappy.

She reaches for the Marlboros, takes one out and lights it. A violent coughing spell follows.

Carrie’s eyes narrow. “You don’t really smoke, do you? Never have.”

Julia’s mouth curves up in a small appreciative smile. “You’re good.” One professional to another.

“So, all of this…” Carrie motions around. “Just to make me feel more comfortable about talking?”

“And you’re getting better by the minute.”

For a while Carrie watches her struggle with the smoke, coughing every time she tries to take a puff. She then unceremoniously takes the cigarette from her hand, inhales deeply and lets out a white cloud.

“Do you still love him?”

Julia smiles again, tilting her head to the side. “That’s not what you’ve come to talk about, is it?” she answers with a question of her own. When Carrie just smiles back, arching a brow, she shakes her head. “So, how weird is this?” Carrie’s expression shifts from thoughtful to quizzical. Julia gestures with her finger back and forth between them. “This. Talking about your feelings for a man with his ex? Say… on a scale from one to ten?”

Carrie doesn’t need to think about that . “Twelve…” and after a short pause, “... thousand .”

Julia’s grin turns impish. “Well, tough tomatoes. Spill.”

Carrie shakes her head. She’s ready to spill , alright. She just hasn’t figured out what . And, given her usual state of mind, which is precisely the opposite - when she knows what she wants to say, but is not necessarily ready to share it - she’s somewhat at a loss of words.

Sensing her confusion, Julia leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You can pick up where you left off...  when you said ‘Quinn called me this morning.’ Or you can just get to the point and answer your own question.” When Carrie seems unsure of which question she’s referring to, Julia waves her hand. “Do you love him?”

“Pfffft…”

“That bad?”

Carrie stares at her for a while longer, then her eyes lose focus, her gaze traveling into the distance. “I don’t know. It’s not that simple.”

“Seems pretty simple to me. One of them ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, you know.”

Carrie’s eyes fall back on Julia’s face, her chin wobbling. “But it’s not.”

“Not, as in… you’re not sure you love him? Not sure if you should? Not sure how you love him?”

“The latter?” Carrie prompts, realising she’s not even ‘sure’ there isn’t more to the list of things she’s not sure about when it comes to Quinn. With a frustrated sigh, she lights another cigarette. “All of them. And probably more.”

“Okkkkay. One by one then?”

Carrie is beginning to lose her patience. I don’t have the answers, don’t you get it? I usually do. But this is… utterly and profoundly fucked-up. And that’s why I’m here. And I’ve NEVER been here. Not even in college, not even in high school. I’ve NEVER talked to ANYONE about my feelings, not like this. So, just tell me. You KNOW him. You seem to know ME. More than I care for you to. Just tell me… Because everything I am, everything I’m feeling is lost half-way between my heart and my head and it’s not a place I can go to, not something I can figure out on my own.

“Before he called me this morning,” she finally says out loud, “he’d talked to you. What did he say?” Pathetic. She’s pathetic and pitiful. And angry. For asking, for caring, for needing to know… for everything.

Julia leans back. Her eyes squint. “You don’t really expect me to tell you that, do you? Or want me to? And you know I won’t. For once, I think you know how he feels. And I don’t think you’d be here, talking to me, if you thought I’m the kind of person who blurts out shit that I’ve been told by a friend. I’m not the gossiping type, and I definitely don’t think you’re looking for gossip . Whatever he said to me, whatever I know, or think , has nothing to do with what you’re feeling. Or what you’re going to do about it.”

“But you do know,” Carrie insists, approaching new levels of self-loathing as she does.

“I have an idea . Maybe. But you don’t want me to tell you what I think you’re feeling, right?”

“Fuck…” Carrie takes out another cigarette.

“You’re about to finish his stash,” Julia laughs.

“Fuck him…”

“Do you want to?”

Carrie chokes on her puff and coughs. “Want what?”

“To fuck him.”

“Jesus…” Gulping the coffee to clear her throat. “And people say I’m brutally blunt.”

“Do you?” Disregarding her remark, Julia keeps holding her stare.

“I don’t know .” Carrie grumbles finally. Then adds, “Maybe.”

“Then tell him.”

“Really? That’s your advice? Just go up and tell him I want to fuck him, maybe ?”

“I’d recommend a more subtle approach, but basically… yeah.”

Carrie laughs, relaxing again. “Say I do… to what end?”

“Ok, I’m gonna assume we’re not talking about the actual fucking anymore and to what end people do that. But you do understand that it’s something you two probably should talk about. And by that I mean how you feel about each other. I mean, I’m happy to listen, maybe even tell you what I think… eventually… but in the end it’s between the two of you. And there seems to be something there. Why not just go for it?”

Carrie shakes her cup in a circular motion, watching the milk foam stir into the light brown liquid.

“I tried. I think . At least I wanted to. At one point. Maybe.”

“Care to be more vague?” Julia laughs.

Carrie scoffs and looks away. Right.

“A little over two years ago. We almost tried. And when I say ‘maybe’, I mean it. I’m not being vague . Because one day he comes to me and basically says we should give it a go. The next day he’s called away on a mission and never even tells me he’s leaving. He goes to Syria. Just like that. After telling me we should try to get out together… whatever that meant.”

“So, he went to Syria. But he came back, right? At some point?”

“Yeah, he did. Fucking two and a half years later .”

“Jesus…”

“No shit.” Carrie reaches into her purse, but before taking out what she’s searching for, she looks at Julia. “Can I show you something?” When Julia nods, with a ‘Go ahead’ gesture, she takes out a manila envelope. She holds it for a while, staring at her name written on top of it. Not because she’s unsure if she wants Julia to read it, but because she doesn’t know, or is afraid to know, what she’ll make of it, or what it really has to do with her own feelings. “When we first found him… ok, a couple of days later… after you showed up, and all the drama around waking him up… or not … Dar gave it to me. I guess it was back when the doctors didn’t give him much of a chance. It’s a…”

“Beneficiary letter,” Julia interrupts her. “I know. A goodbye letter.” The chills are running up and down her spine despite the warm day.

Carrie feels her eyes well up, for the first time thinking about the life Julia had led with him all those years ago, shadowed by uncertainty, dreading the day a letter like this would arrive at her doorstep instead of the man she loves coming home from a mission. Four years of ‘Syria’. On and off. Never knowing, never being sure he’d come back, yet never giving up.

Overwhelmed by the new found compassion and affection for this woman, she battles an urge to stand up, circle the table and hold her. Because that’s the question, isn’t it? Would she herself ever be able to do that? Did she love him that much?

It’s a short letter. Carrie knows it by heart. It’s angered her to no end. What he’s saying, the way he sees himself. Fucking darkness. He’s been the light of her life. And his last, or supposedly last, words to her are all about fucking darkness that he sees himself a part of, that he sees following him everywhere, pulling him back.

She watches Julia read and notices her smile all of a sudden, then shake her head and smile wider. Carrie is even more confused now. Because there’s nothing even remotely heartwarming about that letter.

“What?” she fires impatiently.

Julia lifts her eyes. “It’s that line in the end, before he says he loves you. The light on the headlands … I’ve heard that line before. In those exact words. That’s what love is about for him, what he thinks love means. It’s what he always needed, what he always wanted for himself. It’s how he knew he was loved. And that’s what he wanted to be for you. And for him , that says it all.”

“But the rest of it…” Carrie insists. “It’s so…”

Julia hands the letter back to her. “The rest of it is just… Johnny. I mean, Peter… Quinn .” She finally settles on a name that Carrie prefers. “Look, I don’t know exactly what happened. Why he left, what went down between the two of you. But it seems to me that he’s owning up to his shit here. He’s telling you... it’s not on you, Carrie, it’s on me . He’s always been harsh on himself like that, always took responsibility, and I think you know that. I don’t know why he had to go, but he’s saying to you that he had to, and it wasn’t your fault, it had nothing to do with you.”

“But it had everything to do with me!” Carrie stands up abruptly and takes a few steps back, then turns around, her face red, her eyes teary. “He’s written that letter to me . When he was leaving me . After asking me to try a life with him.”

“You sure about that?” The calm in Julia’s voice is like salt on Carrie’s open wounds. “Because it seems to me that what he’s saying is that he tried, he hoped, but in the end he couldn’t. For whatever reason, that had more to do with him, his life, his duty, than it had to do with you… maybe he wasn’t sure it would work out, maybe he wasn’t sure he could ever give you the life he wanted to… I don’t know, I’m just speculating here. But I don't think that his feelings about you, or whatever you might or might not have felt for him, had anything to do with him going away.”

Seeing Carrie turning pale, blood draining from her face, Julia softens up.

“Look, you’ve come to me because I know him, right? So, this is what it feels like to me. I’m guessing he was called away. And he left. It’s fucked-up, considering what he does , but maybe it seemed like the safer choice. Because for many years that had been his life, his only life. And I’m guessing he was afraid he’d fuck it up again, for the both of you. Because he always knew he would leave again, sooner or later. See, he’s been down that road before. And when it ended, he had to rip his heart out of his own chest with his bare hands so he could walk away. It’s not an experience a person cares to repeat. And he had to watch me do the same. And he didn’t want to put you through the same thing. But, Carrie… that’s not the question, now, is it? ‘Cause he is back. And, if you want, you can still pick up where you left off.”

Carrie sits down. She’s quiet for a long time, just smoking, not even touching her coffee.

“Do I want to?”

“Well, that is the question.”

“The thing is…” Carrie looks away. “When he left… after he left. For a while, I was obsessed, trying to find him. But I also felt…” looking for the right word.

“Relieved?” Julia suggests.

There are tears in Carrie’s eyes again when she shifts her gaze to Julia’s face. “Yes.” She swallows hard. “Because I wasn’t sure. It was all… it happened when I was very emotional, we both were. Lost of shit had gone wrong. And I think… we were both trying to find a way to make things right, a way back to a normal life. But before that night I’d never thought about him like that. I mean, he obviously had. But not me. And I don’t think I ever really thought about what he meant to me before that day. Not seriously.”

“But you have now. You have been ever since, haven’t you? And you know he means a lot.”

“He does. More than a lot.”

“But… not enough?”

“Oh, fuck, this is hard…” Carrie puts her arms on the table and leans in. “I think it’s more than enough. I think it’s more than…” She tries to formulate that thought. “Do you think you can love a person more than you want to have a life with them? More than that, but not like that?”

Julia smiles. “Yeah, I do. How do you know it’s not like that, though?”

Disregarding her last question, Carrie throws herself into something that’s finally making sense.

“If we tried, and we failed… if I hurt him, or if he hurt me… for whatever reason… if I lost him, what I have of him now , I don’t think I could live with that.”

“Carrie, that’s like the dumbest , most chicken-shit reason not to be with someone that I’ve ever heard of.”

“Is it?” Carrie’s face twitches in pain. “Because that’s what I feel. I can live with never having him like that, but I know for a fact that I couldn’t live with trying, failing and losing him, and not having him at all. Even the thought of it scares the shit out of me to the point of wanting to run back home and never see him again.”

“Right, because that makes sense even more .”

“But it does . To me . Because that’s how much he means to me. More than that. It's more than what he could have been if we were together, more than he wanted for us . Or at least used to want.” Carrie takes several deep breaths. “Because the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I was ready to try and give him that simply because of what he’d always been to me, because of how much he means to me.”

Julia reaches across the table and puts a hand over Carrie’s. “How do you know if you never tried? I hear you, I do. I see what you mean. He’s special to you. I know the feeling, believe me. He’s… special. He’s a human fortress, the most honest, uncompromising, beautiful and loving man I’ve ever met. But, Carrie,” she squeezes Carrie’s hand in her palm. “You never answered my question. How do you know it’s not like that?”

“Because…” Carrie exhales loudly, trying to sort through her many thoughts, countless pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into places in her head. “He’s never the groom.”

Julia looks lost for a moment, then bursts into laughter. And Carrie hears what she’s just said and how, although it makes complete sense, given the imagery in her head, it’s completely out of context.

“Ok, I’m gonna need more access to that head of yours to interpret that one,” Julia laughs.

“Fine.” Carrie huffs in exasperation, unable to help a smile. “But you’re gonna laugh your ass off.”

Julia points to her own face, indicating to Carrie she’s already there, then tries to regain a serious expression. “I won’t. I promise. Shoot.”

Carrie tries to find the right words to explain the only picture in her head that actually makes sense. She takes a deep breath.

“Whenever I picture myself… maybe getting married…” Here she goes. “Which does happen… my imagining it , I mean… no matter how… uncharacteristic… Quinn’s never the groom. He’s the best man. Always.”

She stops, knowing there’s really nothing more she can say to make this any clearer. And Julia seems to get it, because she doesn’t laugh, just nods. Then there’s that damn naughty smile again.

“You know brides don’t get to have best men, though, right? In your head… are you marrying Max?”

“Jules!”

“Fine, just saying.” Julia smiles wider. “So, it’s kind of like ‘My best friend’s wedding’ , but in reverse?”

“Yes.” Carrie hasn’t watched a lot of movies, but this came out when she was in college, and what’s more, it actually makes more sense than she’d given it credit for at the time. “But you understand what I mean, right?”

“I do.” Julia holds one of Carrie’s hands with both of hers now. “Your best man is that one person. The one who’s always been there for you and always will be. The one you come to when your marriage seems to go down the crapper. The one who knows you so well he embarrasses the shit out of you in his speech at your wedding, but also makes you feel just how lucky you are to have someone who’s been through all that with you, who can complete your sentence, who knows your darkest thoughts and still loves you.”

Carrie can’t hold the tears back anymore and they just run down her face and neck, blurring the surroundings. “That’s Quinn,” she whispers with a quiet sob.

“Oh boy…” Julia circles the table, lowers herself next to Carrie and draws her close, pressing her head against her shoulder, stroking her hair, then her back. “Just tell him that . But tell him.”

When Carrie lifts her head, Julia smiles into her moist eyes, softly wiping her tears.

“He’s not a child, Carrie. You don’t need to protect him. He’d be the first one to tell you that. Life’s no fairytale. Love is not forever. It might hurt him for a while. But he’ll value you being honest with him, and you know that. Eventually, he’ll get over it. And so will you. You’ll find that spot, maybe not right away, but with time… where you’re both happy with what you’ve become for each other. Or maybe… you’ll find out that he could be the ‘groom’. That you do love him like that. But you’ve got to talk . And the mere fact that I’m sick of saying that just proves my point. And Carrie… based on what you’ve said… you kinda owe him that much. The truth. I don’t know what he wants now, or what he’s hoping for, and maybe in the end you two will end up together. But in any case, I think he deserves to know.”

Carrie is about to reply, when a voice behind them makes them both turn around.

“Do I even wanna  know what the two of you are talking about?” There’s a smile in the tone with which those words are spoken. It matches the smile on Quinn’s face as they see him slowly making his way towards them, one arm around Max’s shoulders.

His eyes are an incredible shining bright blue, as he looks at both of them, together, then separately. Max seems fairly uncomfortable and embarrassed when they stop just a few feet away. He shifts his weight from one foot to another and tries to avoid any of their stares.

Julia is the first one that speaks, answering his question. “None of your damn business.” She jumps up and quickly approaches. “Morning, sleeping beauty.” She hugs him briefly and gives him a peck on a cheek. “I gotta go back. See you guys later.” She throws a meaningful look at Max, which he seems to get.

Quinn’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Where are you going?” he asks Julia.

“Uh… doctors rounds.”

“ Right .” He arches an eyebrow, not buying any of it, but knowing it’s a futile exercise to argue with this woman. He reaches a hand to her face. “How’re you feeling?”

“With all the morphine you pumped into me last night?” Julia laughs. “ High . And late . To doctors rounds . Bye.”

She’s about to sprint off when he catches her by the wrist, pulls her in and drops a kiss on the top of her head. She’s got him, both him and Carrie, right where she wants them. She’s shamelessly smug and happy about it. And he can’t even force himself to be grumpy, looking at her glowing face.

“I hate you.” He shakes his head at her, unable to stop smiling. “I fucking hate you.”

Julia tops that by sticking out her tongue. “Hate you more. Have fun.” And with that she’s gone, leaving the three others to wonder what’s next.

Max helps Quinn sit on the bench and looks around uncomfortably. “I better go too. Make sure… Jules finds… Ummm… her room. Doctors rounds and all.”

Quinn rolls his eyes, glances at Carrie, who does the same, and just shakes his head. Max takes it as his cue and leaves as well.

They stare at each other across the table, not speaking for a while. When Quinn reaches for her hand, Carrie doesn’t move it. She breaks down, tears flowing free again, her head falling until it comes to rest on the back of his wrist.

He slowly gets up, leaning heavily on the table, and stumbles around it. She doesn’t offer to help him. She knows he’ll make it. And she knows what it means to him to be able to.

He sits next to her and gently pulls her up, then wraps his arms around her. Leaning against his chest, next to his heart, Carrie thinks about having just been here, minutes ago, with a different person, but not really. Being surrounded by love like nothing she’s ever felt, feeling safer than she could ever imagine.

She needs him. Right now. More than she’s ever needed anyone. She feels herself moving closer, lacing her arms around him as well. He’s like gravity, her gravity, her anchor, the one constant in all the craziness of her life, of this world. After all, he is her light on the headlands. She can feel him breathing, his heart beating so close, so steady. His fingers in her hair, just stroking, running through, gentle and comforting.

“Quinn…” she whispers into his shoulder. And she feels him place a soft kiss next to her ear.

“Mmmm?”

Without moving away, she lifts her hand, touching his face, his forehead, then his hair.

“You know I do…” love you , she means to finish. But she doesn’t.

The circle of his arms around her tightens, he draws her closer, and she can feel him heave a long sigh. It’s not bitter, just a little sad. Because she doesn’t need to say more. Not right now. Because, like always, he knows.

“Yeah,” he whispers into her hair and presses his lips into it again.

And somehow, he doesn’t sound hurt, or disappointed. Because all he wants her to feel is that it’s ok. It’s enough. And it doesn’t seem to matter to him if it’s for now or for always, if it’ll ever change. He’s her Quinn again. He knows her better than anyone, sometimes better than she knows herself. And he’s here to catch her, when she plunges into the abyss of her own making. He knows. Maybe, he’s known for a while. But what he needs her to know, is that he’ll never let go, he’ll take whatever she can give, and he’ll never stop being for her what she’s afraid of losing the most.

Because he loves her. More than he wants to have her.

Chapter Text

2006

His hands shake as he tries to slide the key into the lock. The hallway is dark, and he’d rather not turn the lights on. Johnny takes a deep breath. When that doesn’t help, he tries a couple more. Clenching and unclenching his fists is the best way he knows to stop the trembling. Usually, his hands are as steady as solid steel after doing it just once. It takes more than five times now before he can unlock the door to his own home.

It’s a little after 3am. He slips in quietly.

His favourite lamp on the night stand is on. Julia never turns it off at night when he’s away, he knows. She joked once that with him being named after Peter Pan, she should leave the window open as well, but it gets too fucking cold, so she settles for the light of his lamp.

The gesture would have made more sense tonight than ever. Because he is Peter now. Forever. Today was the day he’d dreamt about for fifteen years.

The first question Julia had asked him when he told her his family’s story was why he never changed his name in the end. He said it was too painful. And it was true. But there was more to it. Something he could never tell her. Because he’d been waiting. For today.

He needs to take a shower. His clothes are all new. He’d bought them in Baltimore, just before. He knows he’ll probably need to hide them. Julia’s been the one buying his clothes for years now. She knows everything he owns to the last pair of socks. And she’s not a fool. He’ll also need to come up with an excuse as to what happened to the clothes he was wearing this morning when he drove off to Langley. The truth is, they are a pile of ashes in an old building’s trash incinerator.

Julia has never asked him about his work. He tells her the bits he can. He wants to tell her about all of it, but that’s not really an option. What pains him the most is that this time he’ll have to lie to her. He never has before. But he didn’t go to Langley. He wasn’t at work. What he did wasn’t a government secret he needed to protect. He’s committed a crime, on American soil, and he’s about to slip into bed with an officer of the law. And the only person in the world who would probably understand. But she can never find out.

Johnny lowers himself onto the edge of their bed, careful not to wake her up. Her side is closer to the window, so that she’s able to hold his hand when he’s reading in his armchair. She’s facing the door now, her arm crossing over to his side despite him not being there, her face nuzzled between her pillow and his.

He looks at her for a long time. She’s a vision of peace and serenity - everything his life is not. He needs her so much that it hurts. He needs himself the way he is when he’s with her, now more than ever.

When he finally slips under the covers, having taken a shower and changed into his pajama pants, Julia wakes up. He moves closer, sliding his arms around and underneath her, drawing her all the way in, until her warmth, her soul-shattering tenderness, dulls all of his senses just enough to push the events of the day to the back of his head.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, cradling her head in the fold of his shoulder, kissing her sleepy face.

“Gosh, you’re freezing,” she murmurs, pulling the blanket up to his neck and tucking it behind his back. “What time is it?”

“Almost four. I just got home about an hour ago, had something to eat, took a shower…” He tells her all that because he knows she’ll ask anyway, and if he hasn’t, she’ll get up and rewarm the food for him.

“Good boy,” she giggles and snuggles closer. “Was work ok?”

“Yeah. Just sleep, silly.” Johnny buries his face in her hair, breathing her scent, feeling her everywhere: her hand traveling up and down the curvature of his spine, her legs intertwined with his, her lips next to his chest curved into a joyful smile.

Minutes go by and he knows she’s not drifting off. Her fingers on his bare back become more impatient, demanding, her breathing is shallow, fast, hot and moist against his skin.

“Johnny…” she sighs, her hand slipping to his chest, then up his neck, into his hair. She pulls his head closer, finds his mouth, kisses his smile until it disappears and she can feel him let out a soft moan. “I don’t think I can sleep now,” she whispers against his lips, gasping for air as they press against hers again and his hand slips under her pajama top.

“Really…” breathless already, he laughs, pushing her to her back with the weight of his body, kissing her deeper.

The world fades away, along with everything that’s happened today. All that’s left is Julia, her taste, her scent, the way she loves him, passionate, overwhelming, the way he loves her, with everything he is and ever was, the way he feels about himself when he’s in her arms. When she trembles under his touch, arches against him, almost sobs with pleasure, he forgets all the other things he can do with his hands, all the lives they have taken. Even today. All he wants, all he needs is right here, all around him, all his.

Long after he still holds her, unable to break away. He brushes his lips over hers, again and again, whispering words that make little or no sense at all, and yet somehow they make her smile. He kisses her face, her eyelids, shedding parts of today with every kiss, his mouth wanders aimlessly and softly, stopping for long and lingering moments, then moving again, craving and finding more of her.

“Johnny, something happened,” he feels her hand sliding from the small of his back all the way to his head, then the side of his face. It’s not a question. She knows.

He turns to place a gentle kiss inside her palm. Then looks into her eyes again. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re sad,” she whispers, caressing his face with the tips of her fingers.

He tries to smile. “I’m happy, silly. Deliriously-fucking-crazy happy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” he lifts an eyebrow.

“You are now .” It’s not really an accusation. She doesn’t need the details. But she knows him too well.

Johnny slides off of her, without letting go, turning her to her side to face him, holding her close and tight. “It’s… I’m ok, really. You know that, right?” She nods and he kisses her again, squinting his eyes shut. God, he wants to tell her, all of it. “I’ve changed my name today,” he whispers finally, the only thing he can divulge.

She’s been waiting for him to do that- he always said he would. But there’s something else, something sad, heartbreaking, that she can’t quite put a finger on. For whatever reason he can’t tell her. Maybe it’s work, maybe he had to change his name because something happened at work. Julia tries to let go of the uneasy feeling inside her.

Smiling, she nuzzles her face into his. “So… Did I just have sex with Peter Quinn ?”

He trembles with laughter in her arms. “You did .”

“Mphhhhhh…” She moves her head further away and props it in the fold of his elbow. A playful smile crawls into her eyes and spreads all over her face. “I gotta tell you… he’s… quite skilled.”

His face is a collage of content and joy, painted randomly over a shy grin. “Actually… he might not be done for tonight.”

“We’ll test that theory in a minute,” she says, giving him a teasing kiss. “For now… new ground rules? Am I expected to scream ‘Peter’ from now on? Coz the neighbors might wonder if I’m cheating on you.”

He flips to his back, pulling her on top of him, then up, until her face is right above his and her arms lace under and around his neck.

“As long as I’m the one making you scream, you can yell Brad Pitt for all I care.”

Julia winces, considering it. “Eh. Too blond. But hey… can I yell… George? Oh-oh-oh! Or Collin?”

“As in… Clooney? And Firth?”

“Yep.”

“Sure. They’re um…  handsome… I think . Any other preferences?”

“Can I yell… Crazy badass motherfucker?”

“You already do,” he laughs. “Well, you try. Seeing how usually you can neither pronounce nor finish it.”

She giggles. “Aaaaand… If I scream the name of my old boyfriend… I suppose Peter Quinn won’t mind?”

He arches a sly brow. “Now, that depends… ” She’s had several boyfriends before him, and even in this silly mood he h as to d raw a line somewhere.

“Pleeeease… His name was Johnny, and he was so goddamn sexy!” she clarifies, kissing his smile as it just becomes wider and brighter.

Her long wavy hair is like a screen, shielding them from the world around them.

“Sure,” he breathes a whisper, still smiling. “I don’t care, silly. Call me anything you want. Scream… whatever name you want.” His eyes crinkle deeper as his grin widens even more. “As long as you do .”

Julia lowers her head and traces butterfly kisses all the way from his nose to his ear. “It means so much to you. This name. And to me, too. It might take me awhile... to get used to it. But I’ll get there… Peter .”

He literally gasps, feeling the breath of her saying his name reach his skin, followed by her mouth pressing softly in the same spot.

His arms draw a tighter circle around her, his hand slips into her hair, tangling his fingers between the silky strands. “You mean more,” he finds her lips, dissolving into their soft warmth.

The first time she says it, it’s a mere whisper. The next time makes his heart almost stop, then race again, even faster. She moans, almost weeps “Peter,” against his mouth and he can barely breathe. Scantily slurring coherent words, he begs her to say it again. And she does. Over and over, sometimes mixing up letters and dropping syllables into the haze of what’s left of her conscious thought, when neither of them can stop any longer.

He’s drifting off, finally defeated by exhaustion. Still holding her close, like he does every night. But it’ll never be close enough to make up for all the nights she sleeps alone while he’s in some hole, thousands of miles away from her.

“Peter,” she calls, and she can feel his smile forming next to her forehead.

His kiss falls on her hairline. “Sleep, silly. I’ll still be Peter in the morning.”

“Why today?” Julia asks, and his eyes fly open. The tiredness is gone, and everything inside him turns cold.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you change your name today ? Did something happen at work? You don’t need to tell me what.”

He can’t. He fucking can’t. Can’t lie to her and can’t tell her the truth. About what he’s done. About where he’s been.

“No, nothing that has to do with work.” It’s the truth, the only truth he can afford to tell without hurting her, without making her choose between her oath as an officer of the law and her love for him.

She looks into his eyes long and hard. He holds her stare. He also holds his breath. There’s a part of him that wants her to see, into him, all of him, everything he did, everything he is.

“Please…” the other part of him begs, as he leans in and presses his lips to her forehead in a long desperate kiss, “...don’t ask me more.”

“Ok,” Julia whispers, stroking his hair. “Ok.”

She won’t ask. Ever. Because she knows. She’s known for a while. He’s been looking for them, the people who took everything he had, everything he loved, away from him fifteen years ago. She’s been looking for them as well. She and Stevenson, both. They picked up the cold case, having gotten permission from Baltimore PD. They will never find them now, she knows. Because fifteen years after twenty innocent lives were taken in a brutal shootout, justice has finally been served. Today. It’s the wrong kind of justice, maybe. But it’s justice, nevertheless, for a boy who’d lost his whole world on that day, for all of them.

She wants to ask if he’s been careful, if he’s taken care of the evidence. But she won’t. He won’t tell her. He won’t put her in that position, not even if she begs him to.

“Never lie to me again.” She kisses him, brushing her lips against his in soft motions, soothing him with every touch. “About being sad…”

He cradles her head in his palm, his thumb sliding up and down the soft skin of her face. “I won’t. I promise. And I’m not sad anymore. I swear. And you fucking know why.”

She smiles, wrinkles her nose and rubs it against his. “Coz I make you deliriously happy? When I scream and all?”

“No,” he laughs. “When you scream and all you make me ‘lose-my-fucking-mind-and-go-mad’ happy. Deliriously happy is more of an… everyday term, all the time, every minute I’m with you.”

“Aww… you’re so… charmingly full of it ,” she murmurs, cuddling next to his chest and holding him tighter.

He huffs, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Just fucking sleep already, you smug shameless tease.” But he presses his cheek to the top of her head, letting out a sigh of delight and bliss.

“Night… Peter. ”

Peter finds her hand, brings it to his face and kisses her fingers, one by one, then her palm, the inside of her wrist. “Night, angel,” he whispers, placing it over his neck and covering it with his.

She dozes off in the circle of his arms when it’s almost dawn. A new day. He watches the sky change colors: light brown at first, then a fiery orange, tinged with blood red, then shining yellow. The first rays of the morning sun creep in through their window, leisurely crawling across his chair, onto their bed, Julia’s shoulder, his hand curled around it, then his face, his eyes.

He thinks about Adele, Braiden and Lizzy. What he’s done. What they would think of him, if they knew what he’s done, what his life has become. How he tried to stop thinking about it all those years but never could. It doesn’t feel like justice. Not anymore. He thought it would bring him peace, after all this time. It didn’t. The only peace he knows is right here, sleeping between his arms.

Fifteen years ago, a boy who wanted to be Peter Quinn had so many dreams. His mother prayed for him to find love and happiness. And he did. When he looks into Julia’s eyes, he forgets that most of the time he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, any of it, that he can never be redeemed. He’s Peter Quinn now . Peter Quinn will have a different life, make different choices. He will leave the war behind and never look back. He will have children, will be there to raise them, every day. He will give the woman he loves a home she deserves, for everything she’s done for him, been for him, for everything she is.

Right before his eyes close and he finally falls asleep himself, he smiles. It’s a new day, new name, new life. He’s out. He will be out. It’s just a matter of time now.

2008

“Sure, I can come in. No, not a problem at all. I have time.” Julia keeps her voice low, hoping that Johnny can finally quiet down and go to sleep, gently rocking his crib, while she’s on the phone with Baltimore PD. “Well, it might take some time… with the traffic.” She looks at the clock on the wall. Yeah, it will take her at least three hours in one direction. Maybe more. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks. You too.”

She looks into her son’s blue eyes and smiles. Sleeping is out of the question. When she leans in to pick him up, he stretches his chubby arms towards her, happily thumping his little feet against the mattress and giggling.

“C’mere, you stubborn troublemaker.” She sniffs his head and tickles his tiny baby neck with ringing kisses, making him laugh harder. “Mommy’s gonna get dressed, and guess what? We’re going on a trip. Yay!” She bounces him in her arms, walking into her bedroom and picking the first outfit she lays her eyes on.

Getting dressed and putting on makeup as a new mom is one of those “mission impossible” scenarios. Even more so because Johnny is a generally quiet, smiley, and incredibly cuddly baby, whose only desire in life is to be held so he can snuggle against her chest and stuff his cute face into the curve of her neck. She keeps wondering if it’s a genetic trait, passed on from his father, or whether it’s one of those nurture over nature things, that she’s engendered in both of them.

As she approaches her car, fumbling with the baby bag to find her keys, she sees Stevenson, leaning on the hood. It’s not a coincidence, she knows. She’s still on maternity leave, but he’s probably been kept in the loop. It still strikes her as odd that someone managed to reopen the investigation into her attack, which took place almost eight months ago now. She’d been under the impression that a federal order to cease-and-desist for reasons of national security had put an end to that.

Seeing Andrew, Johnny starts to fidget in her arms, reaching for his best pal. Stevenson looks like a big baby himself, snatching Julia’s son from her hands and swinging him up in the air above his head. He’s the only one who calls him JJ. Seeing how he refused to call his father anything but J, even after he’d changed his name, Julia lets him have it.

“I’m guessing you’re coming with?” She opens the back door, throwing the baby bag in and starting to arrange Johnny’s car seat.

“Yeah. It’s a…” he coughs, clearing his throat, looking at Johnny as if the infant could understand what he’s about to say. Then looks back at Julia: “It ain’t the kind of place you wanna take a baby to, Jules.”

______________________

Stevenson was right about that. She’d been called to try to ID her attacker. But he’s not in a holding cell. She’s being shown to the medical examiner’s office, thanking Andrew in her heart for tagging along to stay outside with the baby.

It had been over eight months. But she knows him right away. It’s him for certain, lying on the steel table. The man who ambushed her in the alley and beat her up so badly that she’d almost lost her unborn son, spent the next month in the hospital following two major surgeries to save her life, recovering from a severe concussion.

It all comes back - the fear, the helplessness, worrying about the baby, about his father. Her fists clench so hard that she can feel the nails cutting into her skin.

“Take as much time as you need.” The medical examiner is about to leave, but she stops him.

“Do you have the cause of death?” She can see the Y-incision on the body, indicating that at least one post-mortem has been performed.

“Massive internal bleeding,” he says, shaking his head, pulling off the sheet and uncovering the body. “Well, aside from all the rest .”

Julia gasps. There are signs of terrible torture on this man’s hands and feet, his fingernails are torn off, some fingers broken, knuckles smashed. His knee caps are shot through. She’s seen beaten bodies before, but this is a whole other level of shocking. He’s covered with bruises, all over his chest and abdomen, arms and legs.

“Jesus Christ…” She looks away, motions for the coroner to cover the body.

“My impression...” She hears his voice much closer now, as he comes to stand by her side. “He’s been beaten to death, by a blunt object or someone’s bare hands. And, judging by the signs of torture, I’d bet on the latter. Lots of rage.”

“Oh God…” she whispers, almost inaudibly.

“As I said… you can take as much time as you need.”

The coroner walks away, and the heavy metal door closes behind him.

Julia covers her mouth with her palm, tears streaming down her face. The rage. It’s not just the rage, she knows. It’s pain. Agony. It’s the last cry of a dying soul.

“Oh God, Johnny, what have you done...” she muffles a heart-shattering sob into her hand.

She turns away. She can’t look at the lifeless face of that body. All she can see, every time she does, is the man she loves, the man she’s lost. Her beautiful, gentle, smiling Johnny, the father of her son. He’s gone. All that’s left is this… Rage . The body of a man he’d tortured and killed with his bare hands. The same hands that held her, caressed her, loved her. A crushed finger for every crushed dream.

The thought of him out there, alone, consumed by grief, having nothing left to live for but war, brings her to her knees. She slumps down, crying harder. She wants to run out, to the street, scream at the top of her lungs, shout his name until he hears her, until he comes back. So that she can hold him, tell him she won’t let his world kill him, she won’t let him go, no matter what.

But she can’t. Because she knows she won’t be able to protect him anymore than he’d be able to protect her and their son. He’s gone for good, having given up everything he ever wanted so that she and his child could have this life that was meant for three.

He’s killed this man, slowly, by systematic torture… for what he’d done to her. He’s gone. They are both gone.

______________________________

She washes her face with cold water for a long time, then re-applies her makeup, before heading out of the medical examiner’s office.

The officer in charge of the investigation, Ricky Meyers, is an old friend of Andrew’s. They’re waiting for her outside. She walks up to them resolutely, taking Johnny from Stevenson’s arms.

“It’s not him,” she says, leveling a calm gaze into Ricky’s eyes.

“What do you mean it’s not him?” His brow furrows.

“I mean, it’s not him,” she replies in the same soft confident voice. “That’s not the man who attacked me.”

“There’s evidence . A partial foot print, maybe even DNA.”

It’s bullshit. There’s no evidence. There had never been any evidence. Not from when she was attacked. The case was closed three days later. But there might be evidence now , connecting this man to Johnny through her. She needs to break the link. If this man is not the one who attacked her, then her ex-boyfriend is not a suspect in his murder. Any leads they might have will be thrown off course.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I remember the man. It’s not him.”

“He looks exactly like the man that the sketch artist drew based on your description.”

“Maybe. But I was attacked in Philly, this is Baltimore. People look alike, shit happens. I’m telling you, it’s not him.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Ricky lets out a frustrated sigh and looks at Stevenson. “Say something. This is madness . It is the man.”

Andrew’s eyes grow darker, when he turns to his friend. “You saying she’s lying? She’s taken an oath to protect and serve, same as you and me. If she says it ain’t your guy,  then it ain’t him. End of story. You wanna put her on the stand and have her repeat that under oath, you do that. You’ve asked for identification. The only witness denies it’s your guy. Take her statement. You ain’t gonna get a different one.”

Ricky deflates, looking surrendered He shoots an apologetic glance in Julia’s direction, but feels compelled to hear her say it one more time nevertheless.

“Are you sure? One hundred percent sure?”

“Hey, I risked my life to take a good look at that piece of shit. I remember what he looked like. And the man in your morgue just isn’t him.”

_______________________________

She signs some forms, gives a written statement, and they drive back home.

Stevenson doesn’t say a word the whole time, the whole two and a half hours. He doesn’t even look at her, just stares dead ahead at the road. But his eyes are glassy, filled with tears. When they drive up to her street, he can’t take it anymore and reaches for her hand.

“Goddamnit, Jules,” is all he says.

2016

“Your move.” For a genuinely shy, self-conscious, and somewhat sheepish person, Max seems rather full of himself, as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms on his chest. He looks at his opponent (opponents- plural, actually) and can’t help the small smile already creeping in. “ Any move. Any time now.” He glances at the chess timer.

It’s the first time that he’s managed to convince Quinn to play with a chess-clock. Normally they play in relaxed mode. Especially if Max takes the night shift and Quinn can’t sleep. They can play literally from dusk to dawn, taking their time, talking about every move. They both enjoy it immensely, albeit for different reasons.

Max loves talking about chess and strategy. Often enough, the conversation stirs towards math, numbers, probabilities, algorithms, and even electronics. He has to admit that Quinn doesn’t know nearly as much as he needs to in order to have a really challenging conversation, but he seems to catch up fast, surprisingly fast. Max is still fairly intimidated by Quinn, even more so as a result of the new heights of respect and admiration that he’s found for this man since he first got to Berlin. But that didn’t stop him one day from pointing out that, in his opinion, Quinn is kind of wasting his clearly mathematical mind on… well, what he does. He regretted it for a second, seeing how Quinn’s head snapped up and his stare got a little too intense, even scary. But then, despite huffing in frustration, he smiled and shook his head, saying, “That’s the question, isn’t is?”

Quinn’s reaction time has improved dramatically over the last three weeks. There are still signs of neuropathy and some delays in his processing, but it’s barely noticeable anymore and Max insisted that playing with a chess-clock might be a good mental exercise. Reluctantly, Quinn agreed. Which doesn’t seem to stop him from shooting menacing looks at the game timer every time it’s his move. Max is comforted in the knowledge that if he ends up throwing it against the wall, he has a spare.

At first, Quinn convinces himself to treat the chess-clock as a mission timeframe. It’s simple, he tells himself over and over. You have limited time and a single task- make up your mind, make your move, hit the clock. What aggravates him in the end is not being limited in time, it’s the panic that takes over every time Max hits his button. His mind races, grasping at pieces of thoughts. All the possible moves seem either too numerous or too scarce. He finds himself looking at the clock and panicking even more. He tries to find comfort in the thought that it’s not really a mission, that no one’s life depends on his next move, but it rarely helps. And yes, he’s thought about throwing the damn thing against the wall on more than one occasion.

Finally, he leans towards the board and makes his move.

“Dad!” Max’s other opponent, sitting on his father’s knee, secured by Quinn’s arm around his waist, throws his hands in the air. “What are you doing?”

“Just hit the clock,” Quinn urges him. Truthfully, he has no clue what he’s doing at that point.

As Max’s clock starts ticking, Quinn wedges his chin into his son’s shoulder, assessing the situation on the board. “Yeah, we’re…” He stops himself. He’s been consciously trying to improve his lexicon, especially around Johnny.

“... fucked.” Johnny completes his sentence, which earns him his father’s palm covering his mouth. Barely coherent, he mumbles the rest into Quinn’s hand. “Mom says it’s ok if I swear, as long as it’s not at school or in front of strangers.”

Quinn shakes his head. “Mom and I are gonna have a long talk.”

“Grandma Adele thought it was cool. Mom said you told her that.”

Quinn throws an arm around his son’s neck and, unable to hold it in anymore, pulls him in for a kiss on the cheek. He’s only known him for three weeks, and the boy has already uncovered more safe buttons to push to get an upper hand than anyone did ever . Well, except his mom , that is. So far he’s found three things that deflate his father on the spot: calling him ‘dad’, hugging him, and bringing up Adele (especially when Johnny couples it with ‘grandma’).

Max’s next move creates a ‘check’ situation, and the two Quinns are saved by the bell when Julia walks in to pick up Johnny. She looks at her son, who’s far from being ready to leave, despite her telling him exactly what time she’d be coming to get him more than once. His boots are still off, he hasn’t changed into his new set of clothes, and, what’s worse, but not unusual anymore, he doesn’t jump up and leap into her arms the moment he sees her. Instead he wiggles deeper into his father’s embrace and impatiently waves her to come closer.

Shaking her head at the both of them, she crosses the room, dropping a kiss into her son’s hair. She unceremoniously releases Quinn’s arms from around him and nudges Johnny to get off of his father’s knee, handing him the new clothes and pointing to the bathroom.

“Get dressed. Now . Three minutes or I’m leaving without you.”

Johnny obliges, but not before giving her a smirk of a stare. “Dad’s gonna have a long talk with you. About me swearing and you saying it’s ok.”

“ Go .” She rolls her eyes, pushing him towards the bathroom. “Your dad is a very scary man. And has the cleanest mouth I’ve ever seen.”

Giggling happily with himself, Johnny runs off.

Quinn grins at Julia, watching as her clearly discontented expression melts into an amused smile.

“The police…” he starts, gets a playful smack at the back of his head, and laughs.

She hasn’t changed much in all those years. She’d always been obsessed with things being done on time, hated people being late. She can be tough and soft, he knows. But seeing the maternal side of her, finding that she’s turned out exactly like he always pictured her being with their children, adds a new level of both sadness and adoration to what he’s feeling about her today.

The chess-clock buzzes, and Max wins. They shake hands. Quinn gets up and gives Julia a hug. It’s a brief one. But he enjoys the feeling of her leaning into his arms, the sensation of her head coming to rest right under his chin, even if it is for a very short time. But mostly, it’s the melting, like all those years ago- something inside of him changes, thaws, becomes calmer every time she holds him.

As Johnny comes out of the bathroom, ready to leave, the door to the room opens. A man peeks in whom Quinn vaguely recognizes as the neurosurgeon who operated on him and has been visiting randomly ever since.

“Bad time to visit my favourite soldier?” he inquires with a smile, seeing way too many people in the room.

“No, that’s fine, come on in,” Quinn waves him in. “They’re all leaving and I have about an hour to be bored out of my mind before my next PT session.”

Three more hugs and pecks on a cheek, and the room is free from visitors. Dr Emory takes the chair that Max had occupied just a minute ago. With a smirk of admiration he watches as his patient, whom he’d barely given any chance of survival, puts away the chess pieces, folds the board, rearranges the hospital furniture, and pulls a chair for himself.

“Not bad,” he admits, nodding with approval. “Last time I saw you… was it three weeks ago? Four? You needed help getting out of bed. I’ve had a look at your file, your last EMG results are quite impressive. So is your latest Echo. The cardiomyopathy is almost gone. I’m betting on two more weeks before we kick your ass back to the front lines, good as new.”

Quinn nods absentmindedly, deep in thought. The front line is definitely not happening. He’d already been offered other options in the agency, attractive positions all over the world, to give time for his face, broadcasted everywhere , to change or fade into the background. Maybe then he can get back into the covert operations. But it’s not just that.

“My eyesight,” he says, pointing to a pair of reading glasses on his night stand. “It’s getting worse by the week. They still don’t know what to make of it. So… no front lines for a half blind sniper. That … and the fact that my fucking face is all over the social media.”

Emory waves him off dismissively. “I’ve seen snipers with contact lenses. And your eyesight is probably the result of cortical hypoxia. Could be reversible, like everything else. And, worse case scenario… desk job for a while.”

“That’s what they keep telling me,” Quinn grumbles, remembering his last conversation with Saul Berenson.

“Hey, it could’ve been much worse, and I think you know it.”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes taking a break is not a bad thing. Especially at your age. You’re what? Forty?”

Quinn nods. “Almost.”

“Take it. The desk job. That is, if you still want to remain with the Agency. You’ve been to hell and back. I’d say you’ve done enough.”

It’s a decision that will need to be made, Quinn knows. He’s been back and forth about wanting out for so many years, both for real and just to satisfy that constant itch. But, somehow, now, when it’s actually a possibility, and, above all, a situation of little choice on his behalf, all he can think about is wanting back in.

Emory’s voice jolts him back into the conversation. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” He nods. “I’ve been wondering, ever since that day. Did you know? About the attack? Where it was going to be?”

Quinn seems confused. “You mean the attack here? In Berlin?”

“Yeah. I keep thinking… if they did wake you up… did you even have the information they needed?”

“Wake me up?” Quinn seems even more lost now.

“When you first came in... seeing how you were with the cell, the video... the thought was you might have had known about their plans, the possible location. That’s why they wanted us to wake you up from a coma.”

“They?” It’s the wrong question, Quinn knows, but his brain seems to be working more slowly than usual, his thought pattern too erratic.

“Oh, you didn’t know…”

Quinn shakes his head, not taking his eyes from Emory’s face. “I had no idea. About where the attack was going to be,” he says in the end, answering the initial question.

“So I guess she was right.” Seeing the confusion on Quinn’s face, he points to the door. “That woman who was just here? She was the one who stopped them. Well, us . I tried myself, I explained the risks to them, went to the hospital board, contacted the ethics committee. But in the end, with an attack pending, and Germany being a NATO member... Between the Patriot Act and the Geneva convention… I had a direct order. There was little I could do.”

“The risks?” Quinn’s trying to regroup, gather his thoughts, but along with his feelings, they are all over the place. What he really wants to ask is: ‘With all that, you couldn’t stop them, but Jules, a CIVILIAN, did? How?? How in the face of an imminent attack, did Julia manage to stop Saul from attempting to gather intel that could potentially save hundreds if not thousands of lives???’

He asks to be excused, telling Emory that he’s not feeling well. And it seems true, seeing how his face has gone pale and beads of cold sweat cover his forehead. Emory offers to call one of the nurses, but Quinn shakes his head, telling him that it happens, just one of the flashbacks. And it’s true, this is what those can feel and look like. But what he’s just heard has him terrified in a very real way that no flashback ever could.

Before Emory leaves, Quinn asks him some more questions, such as who was there, did he know their names, and, finally, what Julia said or did to make them stop the procedure. Emory’s memory of that day is rather vivid. He describes Saul and Carrie. Quinn nods - based on the little he knows, it makes sense. As for ‘how’ she convinced them, Emory says “She made threats.” Despite the chaotic haze of Quinn’s thought pattern, that’s the only conclusion he’d come to himself. There had to be threats, some kind of blackmail involved. The doctor says she was vague, never mentioning any specific details, but whatever she said seemed to strike a nerve. She threatened to go to the press, mail some stuff to WikiLeaks.

After Emory leaves, Quinn’s knees give out. His hands are shaking as he grabs his phone and dials. He calls Julia, again and again. All his calls go to voicemail. Fucking movie theatres. He tries Max twice. Same shit. Then Johnny. Nothing.

He opens Telegram and messages Julia. The first thing he types is that he’s ok. Because he realises that twelve missed calls from him would freak her out. Then he tells her they need to talk and asks her to come to the hospital as soon as she reads this. He also asks her to come alone, without Johnny or Max.

He opens the dialer again. Carrie. He should call Carrie. She was there, she would know what threats Julia had made, how bad they were. His blood gets even colder - to stop a man like Saul in the face of an imminent attack, they would have to be very bad . He starts to to dial, but his fingers seem to have a mind of their own, working slower than usual, each number coming after an even longer delay than the previous one. In the end, when her name is highlighted above the dial pad, and all he needs is to press the dial button, he can’t bring himself to. He knows how this will go. Carrie was there. Before they know it, the conversation will shift to how they needed to wake him up and she didn’t want them to, but they had no choice. He’s too overwhelmed, he doesn’t have it in him right now to handle Carrie’s guilt driving her into full defensive mode over something that he doesn’t even care about. He’s afraid he’ll end up snapping at her. And it’ll end the way it always does - taking their already strained relationship another three steps backwards.

He long-presses delete until the search window is cleared, then stares at the dial pad. Who else would know what she said? Or maybe that’s not the question at all. Because what’s really important is, who would give Julia the information sensitive enough to make Saul back off?

He can think of two people. In fact, the moment he has the list narrowed, he’s pretty sure he knows how it went down. Julia came to Berlin thinking he was dead. And yet she ended up in this hospital. Someone brought her here. He’s fairly sure Julia knows no one in his world. Except the one person whose contact information he had given to Andrew Stevenson almost eight years ago.

Astrid doesn’t answer. Quinn throws the phone on the bed and walks over to the hospital closet. He goes through his clothes, looking for something he can wear outside, other than pajamas and tricot home attire, that is. That’s when his phone rings.

“Peter, are you ok? Did something happen? I was in a briefing.”

He gets straight to the point. “Did you put Julia in contact with Dar?”

Astrid knows better than to play stupid. “Yes.”

Her honesty seems to calm him down a little. “Do you know what movie theatre Jules, Max and Johnny went to? Can you find them?”

“Why? Did something happen? Peter, what’s wrong?”

“Can you?”

“Probably. I can go there now. Should I bring backup?” When he doesn’t answer, she starts to feel waves of panic wash over her. “Peter?”

He sits down on his hospital bed and takes a deep breath. He tells himself that he’s being irrational. It’s been eight weeks, and nothing has happened. No one has made any threats, not as far as he knows, anyway. He realises he’s too blindsided to be thinking straight. What he needs are answers, not an extraction plan.

“Astrid, can you come over to the hospital?”

“After I find them or…”

“Now. Can you come now?”

Astrid finds him pacing. The moment she enters, his eyes burrow into hers. She tries to assess his state of mind. She can’t tell if he’s angry or panicked, or just confused. He looks pale and disoriented.

“You should have told me. Somebody should have said something ,” he fires.

Astrid closes the door behind her and drops her purse on the little table, coming closer.

“You’re right,” she says finally. “And I’m sorry I didn’t.” She takes one of the chairs and watches him reluctantly sit down as well. “What do you want to know?”

Quinn stares at her long and hard, but eventually nods, acknowledging her candor. She’s the closest thing he has to a friend, the only one who actually knows him, at least parts of him. She’s always been there for him when he needed her.

She gets right to the point, not mentioning the decision about waking him up, whether she thought it was right or wrong. She knows that’s not what has him so wired. She tells him everything she knows about what happened before Julia walked into this hospital and stopped them, that she was the one who’d taken Julia to the meeting point Dar had chosen before driving her back here. She doesn’t know what Julia had on the agency, or on Saul. But she knows it was Dar who’d given her the information.

“Jesus, Astrid, she’s a civilian !”

“So?” Astrid arches an eyebrow.

“ So? I need to spell it out to you? You’ve put a civilian in contact with a CIA official in order to obtain information to blackmail another CIA official!”

Astrid gets it now. He has a point, but she knows he has it all mixed up. “Peter, first of all, I had no idea why Julia wanted to see him. She just…”

He stops her right there. “For fuck’s sake, Astrid! Julia wanted to see him? Just like that? All of a sudden she had an epiphany that Dar Adal would be able to provide her with blackmail material on Saul to interfere with his plans? You had no idea ?”

“That’s right . I picked her up at the airport and drove her to the hospital. She was out in less then five minutes and asked if Dar Adal was in Berlin. Which he was. She asked if I could contact him, which I did.”

Quinn’s expression is a volatile mix of anger and mistrust again. “She asked for Dar Adal… the head of the Special Ops Group... Jules did?” His tone is mocking and sarcastic.

“She did . By name ,” Astrid replies calmly. “And when I called him, and gave him her name, he didn’t sound surprised. Which made sense to me, seeing how you’d told me that he was keeping an eye on her and Johnny, a long time ago, remember? Wasn’t that a part of your deal with him, when you decided to stay right after Johnny was born?”

He stands up and starts pacing again. Then stops and looks down at Astrid. “It was . But Jules never knew about it. She’s never met him, never even heard his name.”

Astrid winces, hating to break it to him. “You sure about that, Peter? Because she seemed to have known him rather well. And not only by name. I took her to the park where he’d said he would meet with her and stayed in the car with Johnny. She saw him on the bench and walked right towards him. Believe me, she knew him.”

Quinn’s memories of those days are foggy. He remembers coming back home from what was supposed to be his last mission. Stevenson had been waiting for him in the car next to their apartment building, had told him what had happened to Julia, brought him to the hospital. He remembers going to see Dar later that night. And he remembers Dar looking concerned, acting compassionately, telling him that he’d had his suspicions, which was why he stopped the investigation into Julia’s attack. He’d said he had no idea if it was the agency or someone related to one of Quinn’s previous operations. But he promised to find out more and keep him in the loop. He reminded Quinn that he’d tried to warn him. There had been sensitive missions, involving ongoing operations, information that had to be protected at all costs. It was the worst time to quit. He said that he was sorry, that there was nothing he could do, except promise to keep an eye on Julia and the baby, make sure they’re safe in case anyone tries something again. He told him again that it didn’t have to be for good, that sooner or later it would be safer. But Quinn knew. By the time what he knows becomes irrelevant to national security, if it ever does, there will be something else. Because if he stays, he’ll be going on more missions, getting involved in new operations. It will never end.

He’d known it was over long before he left Julia’s ICU room and went to see Dar. And he knew that he’d never told Julia his boss’s name, and that she’d never met him.

Catching Astrid’s concerned eyes on him, he realises he hasn’t spoken in a long time.

“Peter, you weren’t there . For eight and a half years ,” Astrid says in a calm rational voice, as if reading his thoughts. “Julia could have met him after you two split.” She’s trying to see why he still looks unconvinced. “What’s bothering you about it? What else do you want to know? I mean, it’s done. And, considering the alternative…”

“It’s not about the alternative, Astrid,” he grumbles, looking even more irritated.

“Then what? What is it about?”

“This is exactly what I never wanted for her, for them . This life of mine, this shithole , it almost killed them both. I walked away so they could have a life away from it. And now they’re in the middle of it, again . And for what?” His tone gets harder as he speaks the last words.

Astrid gives him an incredulous stare, raising both eyebrows. “For what ? As in.. your life isn’t reason enough ? Because you’re allowed to risk it for anyone you see fit, but, hey , God forbid anyone tries to do something for you?” She gestures at his face, his blank, almost hollow expression, that she knows all too well - the full “Peter Quinn emergency emotional lockdown”. “Why do you always have to be this hard on yourself?”

He sits back down, forcing himself to remain still, despite the restlessness that’s tearing him apart, driving him to act, figure it out, do something to fix this mess. For a moment he looks powerless, almost subdued, desperate.

“Because it’s on me, Astrid,” he grumbles finally, exasperated. “Julia’s done a dumb and reckless thing, because I’ve done a dumb and reckless thing, made a tactical mistake, got myself into this shit. I fucked it up. And if something happens to her, to any of them…” A dark shadow runs over his face.

“Yeah, you did. Fuck it up, I mean. You do this long enough, crap like that is bound to happen. But you didn’t force Julia to jump on a plane and come here. It was her choice. Everything she did. You’d probably do the same… and more, for any of us. So, give it a rest already. For once, someone stood up for you - boo-hoo. Deal with it. People love you. You’re not the only one allowed to take risks for those you care about.”

Quinn can’t help a faint, but sincere smile at the ‘boo-hoo’. His eyes soften, resting on Astrid’s face. Then the momentary joy fades again.

“I never really stayed away, you know, never completely let go,” he says finally, looking away, wistful and sad both. “If I had, she wouldn’t have jumped on a plane, she would have a life by now, her own life. But I kept…” he exhales loudly, shaking his head. “I wrote, asked for pictures of Johnny. I even came to see her once, about three years ago. She was married. She got divorced three months later. I just keep fucking it up, Astrid.”

Astrid actually laughs at that, ignoring his irritated stare as she does. “Wow. That’s a new record even for you. People get divorced, Peter. For many reasons that, believe it or not, might not be about you . My God you’re an idiot. You asked for pictures of your son. You’ve given up your life for him. And Julia would have jumped on a plane even if she were still married. Because unlike some people…”

Quinn gives her a warning look. “ Don’t …” he stops her, like he usually does when she goes there.

Astrid scoffs, but obliges. “Well, you know what I think.”

He rolls his eyes. “I do. Just… not now , ok?” She dislikes Carrie, she adores Julia, she thinks he’s an idiot. That sums it up pretty well. He usually gives her some leeway to ramble about his fucked-up personal life preferences before telling her to shove her opinions where they belong. Luckily, Astrid is pushy, but not very stubborn. She keeps coming back to the topic, at the most inappropriate moments usually, but she lets it go when he lashes out.

“Fine,” Astrid gnarls, getting back to what’s important. “So, what do you wanna do about it? Probably not much you can find out from here. I might be able to try and… Although, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Saul and I aren’t exactly ‘drinking buddies’. Your girlfriend might be able to find out more. Did you call her ?”

Completely ignoring her stinging remark, he shakes his head. “No.” He’s even more happy now that he hadn’t. With dread, he realises there’s only one person who can really give him some straight answers. And by straight answers , he means whatever he can manage to pull out of that man, which depends on just how sensitive the information is and whether or not his disclosing it could actually serve his own agenda. “Is Dar still in Berlin?”

Astrid starts to leave but hesitates and turns around as she approaches the doorway. She seems apprehensive, troubled.

“There’s something else…” Quinn just gives her a questioning stare, and she shakes her head, trying to figure out a way to put it. “It’s just…” She sighs. “The way Julia asked to talk Dar, how she talked about him… it’s like she knew he was going to help her. But Dar… I mean, you know him better than I do...” She waits for him to nod. “He’s not a very helpful type, is he? I mean, not without his own reasons. And I’m not saying saving your life wouldn't be a reason on its own, just…” She shivers at the implications. “It seems like Julia didn’t just know him. I think she had something on him. Something that would make him cooperate, you know?”

The blood in Quinn’s veins turns cold. He does know Dar. As well as anyone can really know that man. No, he’s not an exceptionally benevolent type. And yes, he’s always claimed to care about him. But Dar doesn’t scare easily. He’s not the kind of person you threaten or blackmail, not without repercussions, not without him having an alternate play in place. What the fuck has Julia gotten herself into?

__________________________

He leaves another message for Julia, telling her what he can without lying to her. He says he was just having a panic attack when he tried to reach them, so there’s no need for her to come over. He knew it wouldn’t stop her and, sure enough, about an hour later she calls from a cab on her way over, frantic and worried about him. It takes a lot to convince her to turn around and go to Astrid’s to be with Johnny. In the end he pulls it off, making it perhaps the first time he’s managed to change her mind ever .

Carrie calls twice but he lets it go to voicemail, eventually messaging that he’ll call as soon as he can, without elaborating. The good thing about Carrie is that when she doesn’t really need something, she’s capable of letting it go. Which she does, telling him to take his time. Oh, he plans to.

He’d told Dar to meet him on the eleventh floor. The truth is, there isn’t an eleventh floor to this hospital. It’s a construction site, basically an initial cement structure, destined to become the new maternity wing. It can only be accessed by one service elevator. Quinn had to steal the keycard from the maintenance manager to get up there. He’s not worried about Dar finding his way - if history is any indication, he will.

He arrives with a newfound sense of calm and contentment. He gets there early to scope the place out, and he’s struck right away by just how empty the place is. It’s the perfect strategic spot: great vantage point, holes in the walls instead of windows, plenty of construction materials to improvise a rifle stand of any height he needs, good cover, single but solid escape route - it’s too good to be true. He spots a place in the corner where he could unfold a sleeping bag. It makes him wistful, almost sad. It feels like home. And suddenly, the sense of calm and contentment is replaced with a sense of dread.

“You sure know how to pick’em, Peter,” a voice from behind his back says.

Quinn tenses, but doesn’t turn around. Based on the sound of Dar’s approaching footsteps, he can approximate his exact location within a range of three feet. He wonders if by ‘them’ Dar means the location he’d chosen or if it is something else entirely. He lets it go; with Dar, it’s probably both.

“Relax. For Christ’s sake, I’m just saying hello.” He eyes Quinn from head to toe and manages a barely noticeable nod of approval. “You’re coming along well. At this rate, you’ll be back to scalp-hunting in no time.”

“Nope. I’m done with that, Dar.”

“Says who? Saul Berenson? The director? I’ll take you back, Peter, with glasses, contact lenses, on crutches, in a wheelchair… You’ll still top the best of them.”

Quinn would ask how he knew about him needing glasses, but it’s a futile exercise. Dar is everywhere, all the time. He’s not just the shadow of his life, he is the darkness around him. The momentary feeling of pride that washes over him when Dar expresses such high regard for his skills is swiftly replaced with the sensation of nausea and chills running down his spine. Quinn swallows: he knows the routine, he knows himself around Dar. It’s not being able to escape it, time after time, that aggravates him.

Dar looks at him long and hard, then spreads his arms, motioning around him. “Is this really why you brought me here? To whine about not being fit for duty anymore? Because I dropped everything and went through a lot of trouble to get here as soon as you called.”

He steps closer and feels the anger rising inside of him to a whole new level.

“Eight and a half years ago you promised me… you swore you’d protect Julia and my son if I stayed. You fucking looked me in the eye and you swore you’d keep them safe.”

“And I did , didn’t I,” Dar responds, more a statement of fact than a request for affirmation.

Quinn’s eyebrows rise as his jaw drops and his eyes widen. “Are you shitting me? Are you fucking shitting me???” His voice, hard and sharp, but controlled, resonates against the concrete walls.

Dar’s voice remains calm. “I’ve kept an eye on them. No harm has ever come to them, not from the agency and not from anywhere else. And it wasn’t always easy. But I did promise and I did keep my word.” His eyes soften, resting on Quinn’s face, and it brings on another wave of unease. “I care about you. I trained you, invested in you. Do you really think I’d ever let anything happen to either of them? You’re my guy, Peter.”

“No, you’re wrong, Dar. I’m not your fucking guy. Not anymore.”

“Okay, fine. You’re not my guy, Peter. You’re your own person. You don’t need me , or the group , or the agency, you don’t need anyone . You’ve clearly proven that. So how is it that you got into this mess, Peter? How did you end up nearly getting yourself killed by a bunch of amateur ISIS rejects?”

It stings. Not just because it’s coming from Dar, which for some reason makes it matter all the more, but because it’s true. He fucked up, big time. He changes the subject. “What really happened? In the hospital?”

“What do you mean?”

“The doctors said they wanted to wake me up. To see what I knew about the cell.”

He knows there’s no point in stalling. “Yes. Saul and Carrie were prepared to risk your life for information you might not even have. So tell me, Peter. Did you?”

“Have the information? No.”

“So they made the right decision. I told them it wasn’t a risk worth taking. But I guess you were a sacrifice they were willing to make. They’ve never really seen your value, those two. Not like I have.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Dar. For once. Tell me what really happened.”

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“But you know. They didn’t change their mind about waking me up. You stopped them.”

“I didn’t do it alone. Your old friend Julia was a big help.”

“So I heard. Julia, a civilian , managed to keep the CIA from waking up an operative to stop a terrorist attack. How does that even happen?”

“Peter, why are you asking me if you already seem to know the answer?”

“Because I want you to tell me yourself.”

“Fine. It was her idea. She begged me for information to blackmail Saul. I didn’t disagree with her. So I gave her what she asked for.”

“You didn’t help her; you used her.”

“She came to me , Peter. How is that using her?”

“You wanted to stop them, why didn’t you do it yourself? You had no right risking her life like that, anyone’s life.”

“I did what I had to. Same as I did eight and a half years ago, when I came to talk to her. I was trying to save your life. There was a fucking order for your elimination. And I explained it to Julia. But you are two of a kind, aren’t you? Because instead of listening she pulled her service weapon on me and basically threw me down the stairs…”

Dar keeps talking, but nothing registers anymore. It’s as if the volume of every sound in the world has been muted. His mind stops racing, and for a while it all becomes very still. Then, with a loud click, it comes together.

Caught up in telling his story, Dar is too late to notice the change in Quinn’s eyes as they widen, fill with grief, then pain, then despair, and, finally, rage. His pupils blow all the way, fueled by the sudden surge of adrenaline.

“You came to see her,” he mutters, not really talking to Dar anymore, but giving voice to the many realisations that are hitting him at once.

The attack on Julia. It was one week into that mission. It was meant to get to him. But not like they’d thought. He’d thought it was an attempt to assassinate him. But it was all a ruse, an act meant to show him there’s no way out. And it wasn’t orchestrated by an enemy. It was Dar.

In a flash it all merges in his head: almost losing Julia and Johnny eight and a half years ago, because of him, of what his life had brought on them, and them being in danger now, for the same reason. His jaw clenches so hard that he can feel the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. All he can see are flashes - white and burning hatred, for Dar and himself both; then grey, almost black, throwing him into a bottomless pit of despair. Layers shed off, erasing the last eight and a half years from existence, and all he’s left with is the memory of how much he loved them, how he never wanted anything more than he wanted to have that life. But it was never up to him, was it? None of it.

A vision goes through his head of a dog, its neck in a collar, a man behind it holding the end of the leash. The dog walks in front; it thinks it’s the one in charge, taking the lead, making the choices. But really it’s the guy behind him, subtly pointing him in the direction he wants him to go. Quinn realizes this was the real truth all along. He thought he was making the decisions in his life, but really he was just a dog in a collar, his fate determined by the one in control, who had that control all along.

When Dar finally sees it, realises he’s said too much, he knows it’s too late. He takes a step back as his eyes flash to the side, contemplating possible escape routes. Quinn’s hand grabs his shirt and twists a fistful of it next to his throat. His stare is ice cold, colorless, blank. He closes the gap between them, holding Dar’s eyes, almost smiling when he finally sees what he’s looking for, what he realizes he’s been waiting to see all these years - fear, raw and primal, undisguised.

Ironically, Dar has a dog metaphor of his own. He’s always known that when you spend your life raising fight dogs, you risk winding up with one of them sinking their teeth into your throat if you drop your guard. But that’s not it. The thing is, this one is not a dog, never has been. He might have had found him as a puppy, but he always knew that Peter Quinn was a whole different kind of animal. And now, for the first time ever, he knows this is it, staring helplessly into the pale blue eyes of a grown wolf.

Quinn takes another step, shoving Dar backwards, once, twice, all the way to the edge of the concrete barrier that becomes the only thing keeping them both from falling below. Both . Because he’ll go down with him if necessary. And maybe it is. Dar might have been the ruling force of his life, but he let him . He never had it in him to roll out from under this man’s influence, and as a result he’s brought nothing but grief and misery to those he loved. It’s not just Dar’s price to pay. It’s both of theirs. He pictures Dar’s body shattering into a thousand pieces, his insides exposed. Broken, weak, powerless. And his own body there beside him.

One more step and they are there. Dar’s staring deep into his eyes. Boring into his soul, seeing right into him, even now. And for the first time Quinn doesn’t want him to stop - he wants him to look, to see . Once a scalp-hunter always a scalp hunter. Do you see me, you motherfucker? Do you see the killer you’ve made? How proud are you of me now? He pushes one more time, feeling the cold breeze on his face, seeing the world below, seeing the end of it all, seeing his freedom.

He stops. The killer . The last piece of puzzle finally falls into place. He’s a killer. That’s what Julia had on Dar all these years. That’s why he was so forthcoming. She never told him about Dar’s visit. Because she knew. She knew he would do exactly what he’s doing right now. She knew he would figure it out and kill him. And so did Dar.

Something inside of him snaps so hard that the pain is almost physical. It hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, more than being shot, stabbed or even gassed. Julia’s love used to be his sanctuary, the one place in the world where he could forget about who he was and what he did. But she never forgot. She used it to ensure her safety, and his safety as well. Even to her, the only person who was ever able to make him feel that he could be more, that killing was never all he could be - he is a killer. And he’s about to prove it. Again.

It’ll never end , he remembers himself thinking, when he left Dar’s home eight and a half years ago.

But it has to. Now. It ends now. You don’t stop being a killer because someone loves you enough to make you forget who and what you are. You stop when you stop killing. You kill Dar and you’ll prove him right, again. You let him and what he’d done to you control your life once more. He becomes yet another skeleton in the graveyard of your life.

Quinn takes a step back, but he doesn’t let go. Faster than Dar can realise what’s happening, Quinn’s arm flings around his neck and the palm of his other hand smashes into the side of his head. For a moment Dar wonders if he’s changed his mind and is going to strangle him in a death grip instead, but then he feels his fingers dig deep into the spot in the triangle between his trapezius and carotid artery. The pain is so deep, paralyzing, and sharp that he wails, feeling his eyes bulging, his head almost exploding.

“Does this hurt?” Quinn’s voice, calm and expressionless, slashes through the throbbing fire of Dar’s pain like a sharp stick of ice. His fingers press harder and Dar screams again until he’s out of breath. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Quinn forces Dar’s head towards him, until his hazy and disoriented stare is fixed on his face. “You’re not able to talk right now... but then again, you probably know that . So just nod if you can understand what I’m saying.”

Dar can’t nod, he can barely breathe. But he manages to blink.

“Works too,” Quinn says, digging just a little deeper. Dar’s not a young man, and he knows there’s a limit to how much pain a person can take. He needs him conscious. “I’m going to walk out of here now. And you’re going to let me. Actually, I don’t give a shit if you let me. I’m out. For good. You, the group, the agency - all of it. And you’ll make it happen. I don’t care how, I don’t care what you do, who you kill - you make it happen. We ok so far?”

Dar blinks again, groaning, not even able to scream anymore. He blinks again and again, his eyes getting bloodshot, bulging even wider.

“Ok, so that’s one down. One to go. The information you’ve given to Julia, you take care of it. And I want to be really clear on that. Because this is actually very important. Something happens to her, my son, and I mean anything … you better hope they don’t get into an accident, fall down or scratch their knee… Because, Dar... anything happens to them and I’m coming for you. And when I do - I’ll make it last. And you’ll beg for me to kill you. And I promise you, I swear on my son’s life , I will make you regret I didn’t killed you today.”

He waits for Dar to blink again then releases his grip around his neck in one swift motion, watching him slump to the ground at his feet, stay there for a short while, then slowly get up, and, without looking at him, walk away.

His eyes follow as Dar struts across the concrete floor, stepping into the elevator. Still distinguished, still controlled, but elderly now, slightly hunched over, one leg oh so subtly dragging behind the other. The years are catching up with him. He must be over 70 now. It’s laughable, really. He turns to face Quinn one last time.

“You’ll always be my guy, Peter,” he says with just a hint of a sad smile.

Quinn chuckles, shaking his head, then levels his eyes with Dar’s, making sure he can once more see into him, as he speaks, calm, content, more at peace than he’s ever been in his life.

“No, I won’t. I’ll walk out of here, build a life for myself and never so much as think of you again,” he quips. Then adds, “But you… You’ll always be a dirty old man.”

Chapter Text

Late August 2003, Day 0, Saturday Night 04:07

He’s awakened by a screeching sound that resonates in his throbbing head, causing a discomfort that he’s all too familiar with. Ok, maybe discomfort is not the best word for it. Pain, sharp, shooting pain, exacerbated by the commotion around him and turning the sound of hushed voices into what feels like bullets piercing his brain.

Someone touches his shoulder. Fully intending to continue sleeping, he tries to flip to his front. His face hits something wooden, between the ridges. He also can’t flip his legs, as they are not in a vertical position, but hanging to the ground. Without opening his eyes he re-evaluates his posture: he seems to be slumped on his side, his back against a hard surface, his legs still in a sitting position. Ok, so he can’t turn around. Fine. He can keep sleeping, though.

Screeching metal again, more voices, static of a radio communication device, more voices. Slowly, he recalls the events supposedly leading to him being here. Which seems kind of futile, considering the fact that he has no idea where here is .

Aakkar, Lebanon. The first thing he remembers. Short mission, three targets.

Another metallic sound, he recognizes it now - bars. He’s in a holding cell. Were they taken prisoners? Mmm no. They made it back. All four of them. Sam had to go, he had a date. Lucky bastard, he always has a date. Rob, Nicky and himself… Oh yeah. Philly. Bar. Whiskey. More whiskey. Someone taking the bar st ool occupied by Rob’s duffel bag . Jesus-fucking-Christ, did they take on seven guys in a bar over a fucking bar stool??? The police show ing u p, tall skinny man and a short dark haired woman. He feels his abdomen tensing. She fucking zapped him, in the gut .

“On your feet.” His eyes open. “Yes, you . Get up. You’re being released.”

He sits up too fast. Motherfucker . His head is splitting. Everything is foggy. Slowly, his eyes get more focused. The man standing behind the bars doesn’t look happy. He never looks happy. Rob and Nick are up as well. They both look like shit. He can only imagine what he looks like. Who fucking cares? He’s in a holding cell.

“For fuck’s sake, John, I haven’t got all night. Get your sorry ass off that bench and let’s go.” Yep. Dar sounds pissed, more so than usual.

John gets up, feeling himself sore all over, and stumbles towards the door. Rob slams a palm on his shoulder, grumbling something along the lines of “...not so pretty anymore, pretty boy …”. John jerks his hand off, “Fuck you , asshole.”

Dar leads them out through a long narrow corridor. The fluorescent lights are flickering and the headache gets worse. They are in a large room now, full of desks, most of which are empty. The lights are dimmer here. They are almost at the door, through which they can see a black SUV parked right in front of the main entrance to the precinct. Dar, the drama queen.

John stops. Dar shoots an irritated glance in his direction and impatiently waves him to keep walking.

“I’ll be right there.” Disregarding Dar’s clearly discontented demeanor, John scopes the room.

There’s a woman: probably early sixties, a little chubby, blond curls, muddy light brown eyes. He remembers her. She looks like a secretary or something. Ignoring Dar’s warnings, John turns around and heads directly towards her desk. She looks up and stops typing.

“You again.” She doesn’t seem pissed, mostly amused.

Did they talk before? No fucking idea. He looks at the nameplate on her desk.

“Lucy, right? Hey, Lucy, was there a girl here before?”

He needs the name. All he remembers is the face. The eyes. The hair. He can’t get it out of his head. The smile. Fuck, that smile . He needs her name. Dar is hissing at him to get his ass into the car this very moment. He keeps looking at Lucy.

“A girl ?” Lucy shakes her head and goes back to typing. “Damn drunks…” she mumbles.

“Yeah, a girl. There was a girl here before. What’s her name?”

Lucy looks up again. “Honey, look around. It’s a police station. There are boys, girls, in-betweens… aaannnything you want. There…” she points to a group of ‘working girls’ chattering in the corner and waiting to be processed, “...pick one. And get lost.”

One of the girls waves at him with an inviting smile. Oh man. He thinks he smiles back. Can’t be sure. Focus, focus . He turns his attention back to Lucy. He needs to be more clear.

“Mmm no. A girl who works here. About… this high…” He lifts a hand to his shoulder. “... dark eyes, dark hair, uniform. The one who brought me in.”

“What… Jules?”

He feels a dumb grin spreading all over his face. “Jules…” Why does it sound familiar? Never-fucking-mind. “ Jules have a last name?”

Lucy rechecks his file. He has the right to know the name of his arresting officer. “You were brought in by officers David Fletcher and Julia Diaz, Mr… Smith . Seriously? John Smith ?”

Yeah, he wasn’t very creative with a cover ID, was he? Oh, screw it. Dar will sort it out. What he does next leaves Lucy at a loss of words - he bends over her desk and gives her a peck on a cheek.

“Thanks, Lucy. You’re a saint.”

A hand grabs his shirt collar from behind, yanks him back and literally throws him towards the main entrance. “Get your wasted ass into that car or I swear to God…”

Day 0, Sunday afternoon, 16:15

John wakes up. Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t. Barely keeping his eyes open, he drags himself to the bathroom, throws up, and steps into the shower. Cold water helps. With nothing but a towel around his hips, he stumbles into the kitchen and opens the fridge.

Beer. Aspirin. More Beer. Another cold shower. Ok, he’s good as new.

His phone is where he dropped it - on the floor by the door. There’s a yell ow piece of note paper stuck to it, which has the name ‘Julia Diaz’ scribbled across it. Good thinking gluing it to the phone, pretty boy, good thinking.

One problem. No phone number. Not a problem. He calls Dar.

“You want me to… what? ”

He explains it again. Dar hangs up. He calls again. He’ll just keep calling.

Dar knows it. The truth is, this is not the most bizarre thing he has ever been asked to do. Hell, it’s not even in the top ten. Being a babysitter is part of the job description. Mental note - refer to last night. Those guys, his guys, are the nameless and faceless last line of defense this country has against its many enemies. Their existence is fleeting. Once they are gone, there’s rarely a memory of them. Most of them don’t have families. The ones who do, rarely make it past a year or two.They are far from being spoiled. They are soldiers. The time they have in the real world is usually spent sleeping off missions, boozing and fucking around. Who’s he to say no to one of his boys looking for a fling?

After the third call he barks that he’ll get back to John in fifteen minutes. He does. He has a phone number and an address.

John can’t find a pen. It’s a good thing he can memorize details on the fly. He hangs up without so much as a thank you and gets dressed. He considers calling first. Then re-considers. First thing first - survey. Then - surveillance. Then… he’ll see. He grabs his car keys and drives to her place.

By the evening he knows she rents an apartment with two roomates, n either of who m is on the force. One’s a student at Penn. Another - a waitress. They seem friendly enough, but not really friends. She’s been on night shifts for a month. She starts on day shifts tomorrow. She’s twenty four years old, never went to college, graduated from the police academy about three years ago, been working car patrol ever since. She’s not a girly type, nor does she seem to have girl-friends.

She goes out after dark and meets her partner, David Fletcher, whom she keeps calling Dave, and another guy, called Shorty, in a bar. John sizes both men up - he can take them. He can take a squadron of their kind, probably. Why is he thinking about it? Why is he still here? In that moment Julia turns around, laughing - John’s heart squeezes and does weird things in his chest. That’s why. He can’t kick the image of her face hovering over him in the holding cell out of his head. It was there when he went to bed, it was there when he woke up, and, despite a crippling headache, it was definitely there when he took a shower.

It’s way after midnight when she says goodnight to her drinking buddies and heads home. Alone. She lives about five blocks away. He shoots a menacing look at these two men who let a woman walk home alone at this hour. Then follows her in his car.

She seems to enjoy the walk. Her steps are light, careless, almost skipping at times. She’s smiling to herself. She removes her hairpin and shakes her head, letting her wavy dark hair fall down like a shimmery black waterfall, all the way to just below her shoulder blades - John almost drives into a van, parked on the side of the road. She’s skipping for real now, almost dancing down the street. He stops the car, hands clutching the wheel, following her with his eyes now. He’s at a relatively safe distance, a mere twenty yards from her building entrance. He can see her head tilting all the way back, her face to the sky. She spins around several times and starts laughing. Then just stands there, her eyes closed, her smile a mix of bliss and serenity. In his whole life John has never laid eyes on anything so wonderfully weird and mind-numbingly adorable. When she disappears inside, he has to remind himself to let out the air he’s been holding the whole time.

He sits in his car for a long while, the image of her still swirling in his thoughts. He knows this world for the dark shithole that it really is. He’s seen what lies below this seemingly peaceful surface. In his fantasy he’s brave enough to get out of the car, walk up to this girl and ask her, “What are you so happy about?” then look at the sky, following her dreamy gaze, and add, “What do you see out there that makes you smile like this?” He would have given the rest of his life to catch one glimpse of this world through her eyes.

But then… the real question is - what can he really offer her? His life is on a whole different plane of existence. His phone can ring any minute now, and he’ll be packing his bag and leaving for what could be days, weeks or even months. Even if he gets her, does he really want this for her? For anyone? He shifts the car into drive and heads home. Enough.

Day 1, Monday, 04:15

He wakes up before dawn. Even before he opens his eyes, he can see her again. She’s still dancing down the street, spinning, laughing for no apparent reason. John flips to his back and stares at the ceiling. He tries to remind himself why he left and went home last night. He has nothing to give. He’s barely a real person anymore. He’s a mere means to an end. But every time he remembers her smile he aches all over. What if he could? What if he tried? What if he told her what his life was like and she was willing? What if they made it work?

The sleep is gone. He goes through his morning routine and gets more and more confident. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll tell her. Not everything. But he’ll tell her he can’t be there all the time. But when he is, he’ll give it everything he’s got. He’ll leave it up to her, that is if he can get her to talk to him at all. He’s scared shitless, yet excited beyond insane. He doesn’t have a plan. If she says no - no harm done. Eventually, he’ll forget her. And if he doesn’t, it’s only his own heart that he’s risking.

By the time he’s ready to go, he doesn’t walk to his car - he sprints.

It’s quarter past seven. She’s not at her desk yet. He is. He showed up at seven AM sharp with a huge box of donuts for everyone. Lucy is not here. The daytime secretary’s name is Alice. He likes Alice. Five minutes after he dropped the donut box on her desk, he knew how many years she’s worked here, how many kids and grandkids she has, how hard it is sometimes (to which he said… ‘sure’), and how handsome she thought he was. Oh, she also told him that Jules had a meeting at human resources, which was after he confessed that he’d met her the other night, leaving out the part of him being in her custody at the time, and that he was determined to get her to agree to go out with him. Alice thought he was very sweet and romantic.

One look in the direction of her desk, as she’s walking out of the elevator, and Julia recognizes him. She has to give it to him - he cleans up good. He’s all aces - ironed navy blue shirt, black suit pants, shiny belt buckle. The top button of his shirt is open and the sleeves are carefully rolled up just one fold. His hair is still a mess, but it’s a tidy mess, a little spiky on the front, but short and flat on the sides. And she remembers those eyes, being drawn into them. She also remembers how minutes after calling her no more no less than ‘fucking breathtaking’ and staring at her like a moron, he bent over and vomited on her shoes. You’ve got to be kidding me .

He’s half-leaning, half-sitting on the edge of her desk, looking all cocky and confident. Julia walks straight to him.

“Nice outfit. Don’t tell me - you came to ask for my hand in marriage.”

He keeps his jaw from dropping, which takes a lot of will power, and manages a smirk. Fine. He can be bold too.

“I was thinking I’d take you out for drinks first. Maybe dinner. But yeah, that’s the general idea.”

Nice save, motherfucker . Julia eyes him from head to toe, drops her bag on the chair, and turns around.

“Let me save you the trouble. The answer is no. Get your ass off my desk and fuck off.”

“Why?”

For a moment she’s stumped. “Why? What do you mean why?”

“I mean what I said… why? Why is it a ‘no’? Why should I get off your desk? And why… that other part?”

She answers slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “N-o-t i-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-e-d.”

“Yeah, I get that . How do you know?”

“What do you mean how do I…” She stops. She’s not getting into this. Time to go.

She circles the desk and pushes him off. He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even move. She puts both hands on his arm and pushes harder. Weirdly enough, she can’t even make his upper body shift an inch, as if he’s a steel statue. And he doesn’t look like he has to put an y effort into resisting. In fact, when she lifts her eyes to his face, he’s grinning down at her. Irritated and n ow even more determ ined, she uses her legs as leverage and throws the weight of her whole body against his. She’s muttering curses under her breath and huffing, but she keeps pushing.

“Need a hand?” He doesn’t say it, he fucking whispers it, still not budging, but having managed to bend his head enough to reach her ear. She growls from the effort, leans against him even harder. “You always this stubborn?”

Julia lets go at once. “You know what? Stay. Go. I don’t care.” She turns to leave.

He relaxes. She’s surprisingly strong. In fact, he was about to give in. He opens his mouth to tell her that she didn’t answer his question, and that he still doesn’t understand how she knows she’s not interested, when she swings around, leaps forward and crashes into him. Unprepared, he’s knocked off her desk, flying sideways and sweeping away files, paper clips, pens, pencils and her phone. His reaction time is good, but it’s not that good. Before he knows it, he slumps against the wall and barely has time to catch her, as, carried by the momentum, she lands on top of him.

He can’t fucking believe it. Three years in delta forces, followed by two years of government training, all the combat experience, and he’s taken down by a girl half his size and, judging by the feel, probably half his weight. His shoulder hurts like a motherfucker, and he starts to wonder if it’s dislocated, because he can barely lift his arm to pull her up to a sitting position.

“You ok?” he asks, inspecting her quickly.

Julia is a little disoriented and shocked. She looks at the mess on the floor around them. Then at his legs bent at her sides, his arm holding her up. When her eyes finally land on his face, all she can see is remorse and concern. She snorts - once, twice, then once more. His eyes crinkle and they both burst into laughter. He pushes himself up against the wall, winces and grabs his shoulder.

“Oh God, did I break your arm?” She stops laughing and removes his hand. John watches her face, her eyes, the way they change, soften, fill with compassion. Then he shifts his gaze to her fingers, palpating his upper arm, his elbow. Her head is so close now that he can smell her hair.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” she determines, lifting her head and looking at him.

Her face is right in front of his now, merely two inches away. He swallows hard, unable to stop staring at her eyes, then her mouth.

“Nah, I’m...,” he starts to say, but his voice is gone, strangled. He clears his throat. “... I’m good.”

“You should at least go see a doctor. Maybe your shoulder is dislocated.”

Maybe??? It takes all of his self control not to wail in pain. He knows the drill. He dislocated this very shoulder at least five times before. It’s kind of a loose cannon now.

“What the hell???” A voice nearby makes them both look up.

A man is standing above them, probably in his late forties, wearing a uniform with the rank of sergeant. John is trying to remember if he’s seen him before. Julia speaks first.

“Sorry sir… I’m… He was…” She steals a look at John, then turns back to her superior officer. “I knocked him down. By mistake. It’s my fault. I’ll clean it up.”

The man shakes his head at her, and John notices something very soft and tender in his eyes as he does. He mutters a string of curses and extends his hand to help her up.

“By mistake, huh?” He glances around, then back at her, giving her half a smile.

“Yes, sir.”

He looks down at John. “You ok there, man?”

John nods, still holding his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Just need to…” In one motion he pushes himself off the floor and stands up. “Excuse me, sir.” Barely able to bear the pain anymore, he strides to the back entrance and disappears into the corridor.

Julia runs after him and catches up just in time to see him slam his shoulder against the corner of cement wall. He lets out a small cry, turns pale, and falls forward against the wall, panting. Her hand flies to her mouth and she sprints towards him.

“Jesus… did you just…”

He nods, unable to speak, breathing heavily. You dislocate the same shoulder often enough, especially in the field, you learn how to put it back into its socket. It hurts like hell, but not as much as it hurts when it’s dislocated.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry…” She realizes she doesn’t even know his name.

Apparently, he’s a mind reader. Because he forces himself to half turn and offers his hand. “John.”

“Julia.” She shakes it carefully. Then gives him a smirk of a stare. “But you already know that.”

He flips all the way and leans his back against the wall, smiling down at her. “So… drinks? Dinner? Marriage?”

Julia sizes him up with a na rrow-eyed l ook and purses her lips. Her face gets that stubborn expression again.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why should I? I said no five minutes ago. It’s still a no.”

“But…”

“But what? I knocked you over, I said I was sorry. End of story. How does that change anything?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that. “But you don’t even know me.”

“Who said I want to?”

He starts to lose patience. “How the fuck do you know that you don’t want to if you don’t even know me???”

“I’ll tell you how,” she quips, stepping closer and looking at him defiantly. “The first time we met you almost smashed me with a bar stool. Then you were rude to me and vomited on my shoes. Sound like someone you’d like to get to know better ?”

“No.”

“So?”

“Can we start over?”

“Again… why?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. There’s no arguing with this woman. “Fine. You’re not interested. Go back to your patrol.”

“Fine.”

“ Fine. ”

She walks away and slams the door behind her so hard that one of the fluorescent lights flickers and goes out.

John stumbles to his car, shaking his injured shoulder, and swearing under his breath. He gets in and puts the key into ignition. Then stops, falls back against his carseat, and stares dead ahead. One problem. Now it’s not just an image of her in his head, there’s also her smell, the way her breath feels on his face, the way he forgot about the pain when she touched his arm and he took a lungful of her scent, the compassion in her eyes, the sound of her laughter. Basically, he’s fucked.

He gets out of the car and walks back into the precinct. Julia is gone. Her sergeant's name is Andrew Stevenson. He sees John and crosses the room in his direction, introducing himself and eyeing the young man with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He doesn’t know what it is that he doesn’t buy in Julia’s ‘knocking him down by mistake’ story, but he wasn’t born yesterday. Something is off here.

He motions with his head towards a corner office, which turns out to be his, then looks back at John. “Want a coffee or something? Let’s have a word?”

Day 2, Tuesday, 06:57

John parks in the same spot, takes out another box of donuts, and heads to the precinct. He does have a plan now. Admittedly, it’s the dumbest plan in the history of dumb pla ns. But it’s all he’s got. He’ll just keep showing up, trying to strike a conversation, hang around with her colleagues. He’d gotten to know some of them yesterday. They seem like a nice bunch. He especially likes Stevenson. They talked for about an hour. In the end, John seemed to pass whatever inspection he was undergoing, because the man wished him the best of luck and warned him that changing Julia’s mind was borderline impossible, but that she was worth more than dislocating a shoulder . Somehow, John already knew that.

With dismay and horror, Julia watches as he enters the precinct, high-fiving her fellow officers, giving a peck on a cheek to Alice and shaking hands with Stevenson. If he comes near her, she’ll kick him where it hurts and make him miss the pain of the dislocated shoulder. Probably having figured out as much, he doesn’t. He asks Alice if she needs any help. She hands him a bunch of documents to xerox. He turns to Julia and gives her a smile. Just that. A part of her wants to smile back, because there’s something about him that’s just so fucking adorable. Luckily, it’s not that part that rules her life. So, she turns her back to him, sits at her desk and starts working. Her patrol doesn’t start for another hour.

He catches her stealing glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s used to utilizing reflective surfaces to conduct surveillance. At any given moment that she’s in the precinct, he knows where she is and what she’s doing, despite staying out of her way. He approached her twice: once, bringing her coffee, which she threw into the trashcan, without lifting her eyes from the file she was reading; second time, bringing her a sandwich at lunchtime, which she handed to Dave, grabbing her keys and urging him to ‘ let’s get the fuck outta here’.

At the end of the day, when she gathers her stuff and starts to leave, he walks her out and holds the door open for her. It’s getting dark outside.

“Can I at least walk you to your car?”

“You can do better,” she snaps. “You can get a life. Elsewhere .”

“Jules…”

“ Don’t. ” She lifts a finger and shakes her head. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

She puffs her cheeks and lets out an exasperated sigh. “‘Cause I don’t want you to. Bye.” She leaves.

John stays and follows her with his eyes until she safely gets into her car and drives away.

Day 3, Wednesday, 03:47

Julia can’t sleep. She tried counting sheep, drinking warm milk with honey, taking a long hot shower, calming herself by inhaling deeply and holding her breath. Nothing works. She keeps t ossing and turning. Every time she closes her eyes, he’s there - the way he looks at her, the way he stays out of her way, the way he talks to other people, the way he talks to her : so open, so caring, so unpretentious. And his voice… she loves his voice. It distracts her when she’s trying to read a case file. She finds herself trying to listen into his conversations with Alice and other officers, not because she cares about what they are saying, but because she can’t have enough of his voice.

She flips to her back. He pisses her off and drives her nuts. He’s a stubborn menace. But his eyes... She sighs and closes her own. She remembers his face so close to hers, when she was checking his shoulder. She’s never seen such expressive eyes. For a moment there she thought she wouldn’t be able to stop looking into them, feeling herself drowning in that pale blue. She slides down, grabs her pillow, covers her face with it and half-growls half-screams into it.

Because it’s not just his eyes, or his mouth, or his smile… It’s all of him - his posture, his body, his arms, his hands, his legs. She remembers how strong he was, sitting on her desk, flexed into solid steel to the point that she couldn’t move his arm. But then she remembers how gentle he was, pulling her off of him, helping her sit up. And she also remembers how he fell. He could’ve protected his shoulder. Instead, he twisted himself to the side to catch her . He blocked her fall and let her slam into him, driving his shoulder into the wall. God, she misses him .

He follows her everywhere, why not here? Why not to her home? Into her room? Her breathing gets faster. Then slower. She closes her eyes. Her mind is a twister of images as she starts to drift off. She imagines him walking in, sitting on her bed, slowly running his hand over her. Then lying next to her, hovering above her, touching her face. She can see his eyes smiling at her as he leans down and kisses her. And she kisses him back with everything she is, leaning into him, aching for him. In her dream he’s everything she ever wanted.

Julia wakes up exhausted and grumpy. No more dreams, no more fantasies. She walks into the bathroom, takes a shower, and gets dressed. In general, she doesn’t give a rat’s furry ass about makeup or caring what her hair looks like. And it drives her insane that she spends nearly an hour inspecting her face in the mirror, ends up putting on some lipstick and changes her hairdo three times.

She’s five minutes late for her shift. And she’s never late. She hates being late. And therefore she hates him . She finds him placing a cup of coffee on her desk. She could kill for a coffee right now, she’s that tired. But she demonstratively lifts it up and throws it out. Then walks to a coffee machine and makes one herself, all the time cursing and hating him even more for feeling so pathetic.

To make things worse, fucking Dave calls her ‘a stubborn fool’, opens his phone, finds her contact, writes down her phone number and hands it to John while she’s watching. To make things even worse, the handsome menace takes the paper, and, never looking at it, without taking his eyes off of her, walks over to the shredder and slides it in. Motherfucker . A part of her, the same part that kept her up last night, wanted him to put it in his pocket and give her a call. Luckily, the other part of her will bust Dave’s balls as soon as they go on patrol.

Day 4, Thursday, 13:49

Julia’s been on patrol since the morning. They had two prisoner transfers and three domestic disturbance calls. She had to climb the stairs to the eighth floor of a city block with a broken elevator. She’s tired beyond words and can barely see straight when she finally gets back to her precinct, slumps into her chair, and drops her head on top of her folded arms.

She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting like this, when she gets the distinct feeling of being stared at. She’s too tired to care.  That’s when she feels a hand on her head, softly sliding to her elbow, fingers curling around it. His thumb rubs against the fabric of her uniform.

“C’mon,” he says in a soft, low voice that makes her go limp inside. He gently shakes her arm. “Get up. Have some coffee.”

Her head shoots up, eyes bloodshot, face sunken.  She looks at the cup of coffee on her desk.

“You ever give up?” she mumbles, slurring barely coherent words.

One corner of his lips curls up. “No more than you do… apparently .”

She sighs, reaching for coffee, then looks up. His eyes are overflowing with concern and a touch of joy. “Thanks,” she murmurs.

“My pleasure. And I’m fucking warning you - you throw that away and I’m making you a new one.” When she just smiles back, he points to the cup. “I didn’t know how you take coffee. I drink black, no sugar. So that’s how I made it. Ok for you?”

She takes a sip and winces. He’s got to be kidding her. It’s a bitter disaster. She hands it back. When he arches a brow, she softly lays a hand on his wrist. “It’s too strong. Sorry. Could you make one with two sugar and a little bit of milk?”

He almost literally chokes on his own breath. “Sure,” he mouths, unable to produce a sound, and he walks away, thinking that if they don’t have sugar or milk, he’ll go to the end of the world to get it.

Julia sits back and follows him with her eyes. She’s still smiling. It’s then that she sees a wrapped sandwich on her desk. Right. It’s lunchtime. Although this time something is different, and she notices a yellow paper triangle sticking from underneath it. It says “I’m not here for Dave. Please, eat me.” Before she has a chance to wonder if he means it literally or… she’s blushing so hard that her whole face feels as if it’s on fire. Her heart is racing, pounding hard, and her hand is shaking when she slips the note into her pocket. She scopes the room until she sees him looking at her. His smile is a little shy, but mostly wistful. Waiting for her coffee to be ready, he gives her a small wave. Smug motherfucker, I hate you . But she waves back, grins wider, and digs into the sandwich.

John is pouring milk into Julia’s coffee, when he hears a familiar voice behind his back.

“J, coffee and a smoke?”

It’s Stevenson. They’ve known each other for less than four days, but it’s become a tradition of sorts. Every day, around this time, the sergeant walks out of his office and comes to fetch John for a cigarette break. It usually takes more than one cigarette. They go outside, sip coffee, smoke and talk. By now John knows about the tragic loss of his family, about how and when he moved to Philly. Apparently, he’s originally from Baltimore, which gives them something to talk about, since John grew up there. They talk about the service, too. Not John’s current service, but the army. Andrew did two tours in Vietnam. He doesn’t say much about it, but he knows John can read between the lines and fill in the blanks.

But mostly they talk about Julia. That is, Stevenson talks about Julia, telling John bits and pieces about her, trying not to divulge anything she wouldn’t want him to. John listens. He listens to all of them. And they all have only one thing to say - she’s the kindest, sweetest kid they’ve ever met. She’s not a kid, though, John thinks, she’s a beautiful woman - stubborn, headstrong, and yet fragile - that he wants to take into his arms, hide from the world and never let go.

“My God , you’re smitten,” Andrew laughs, jolting John back to the real world. John realizes he’s been just standing there, absentmindedly stirring the sugar into Julia’s coffee and looking at her.

He feels himself blushing and looking away.

“So? Meet you outside?” Stevenson asks again.

“Sure. I’ll just…” he motions to the coffee in his hand, then to Julia.

“Take your time. See you there.”

John places the coffee on Julia’s desk, then picks up the empty sandwich wrapping, balls it and, almost without looking, throws it into a trash can half way across the room. It’s a square hit. Smug and happy with himself, he looks back at Julia.

“I’ll be outside.”

“Daily Stevenson drill?” she smirks.

“Something like that. More like a neverending briefing.” He inspects her face. She looks better, still tired, but nowhere like she was before. “You ok?”

She sighs, pulling a file from a pile on her desk. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

He cocks his head to the side. “As in… you’re looking forward to it?” One of his eyebrows crawls up slowly and tentatively.

“Don’t push it,” Julia gnarls at him. But she takes the coffee and draws a long sip. Her face breaks into a blissful smile. “Gosh, this is perfect. Thank you.”

Day 5, Friday, 19:23

Julia is leaving and John is holding the door open for her, like he does every night. It’s been hot and humid all day, but, come the evening, the weather finally settled down and a cool breeze is a welcome and pleasant surprise. They walk down the stairs, shoulders almost touching, in silence. They are both quite happy and a little scared.

“I’m off on Sunday,” Julia says, speaking first. Then, before he takes her the wrong way, she clarifies: “In case you’re planning on coming. I won’t be here.”

“I know,” he smiles, looking up at the deepening blue of an evening sky.

“You’re really good at finding out shit about people, aren’t you?”

“Yep. That’s what I do. Among other things.”

She considers it. “So, your job is kinda… on and off? Seeing how you’ve been here the whole week?”

He shifts his eyes to her face. “My job is not here. Sometimes I have to leave. And I’m away for… sometimes days, sometimes weeks. It varies.”

“Huh. You mean, one of these days you’ll just be gone?”

A muscle on his face wobbles. “Yeah. But I’ll try to let you know. If I have time. Sometimes, I don’t. Is that ok?”

Julia shrugs one shoulder. “Sounds… complicated.”

“Too complicated?” His throat is almost shut.

“No,” she hurries to answer, sensing the sadness overwhelming him. “Well, maybe . But I guess, it’s not that big of a problem.”

But it is. She doesn’t know the half of it. It can be weeks, sometimes months. He’d be gone. She’d never know when or if he’s coming back. There’d be a letter for her, out there, waiting to be delivered in case he dies. He can be called away in five minutes, later on tonight, tomorrow, a week from now. He never knows when. He never knows where. But he’d have to leave her. And he wants to drop dead right here right now just thinking about it.

He shakes his head, looking at her. “It’s not an easy life,” he says finally.

Suddenly, she comes closer, places a hand on his shoulder, stands on tiptoe and presses her lips to his cheek. “Life’s never easy, silly,” she whispers, her breath touching his skin. “It just has to be worth it.” She kisses him again, inhaling deeply. “Night, Johnny.”

His heart flips and twists, every inch of him that she touches, breathes on, is burning. The sound of her voice, the way she softens his name to ‘Johnny’, makes him almost tear up.

“Night, Jules,” he dares, looking deep into her eyes, challenging her to object to him calling her that again. “See you tomorrow.”

She steps even closer. “Say that again.”

Johnny lifts an eyebrow. “See you tomorrow?”

Julia smiles, “No. The first part.”

He sticks his hands into his pockets and narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want me to call you ‘Jules’.”

She scoffs, backing away. “Fine. Don’t. Bye.”

She’s turning to leave, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her back. “Say it.”

“No!” She purses her lips.

Johnny bends his head lower. “Say you want me to.”

“ Fine !” she almost screams. “I want you to!”

His arm goes around her waist, drawing her closer, all the way. His hand slides to the small of her back. “Now I don’t know…” he whispers, pressing his forehead to hers. “Are we still talking about your name or…?”

“No,” she murmurs, but then retreats: “Yes.”

He presses his mouth to her cheekbone. “Jesus, you’re stubborn.”

“I know… I don’t know why.” Julia clenches at his shirt.

His lips travel up, to her temple, then into her hair. “You’ll figure it out. Goodnight, Jules.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Suddenly, thinking about what he said about his job, she’s scared.

“You will.”

One Day Too Late, Saturday, 07:53

He’s not there. It’s been fifty three minutes and he’s not there. Julia is numb all over. He’s gone. Was he called away? Did he tire of her stubbornness? Alice, seeing her distress, tells her that he might be stuck in traffic. Julia nods, tries to smile, thanks her. But she knows it’s not true. He was never late. He’s like her, he hates it when things and people are not on time. He’s like her in so many ways. And he’s gone.

She pulls his arrest file. Right away she knows his last name is fake. Maybe the first name too. She really doesn’t know anything about him. She doesn’t have his phone number, nor his address. She tries the number in the file and gets a dry cleaner's place downtown. She’s looking for the donut box, to see if there’s a receipt inside - maybe he paid with credit card. She finds the box in the dumpster, outside, climbs all the way in, fetches it. There is no receipt. There’s nothing. He’s gone. He was just holding her, kissing her face, talking to her. He told her she’ll see him today. And she knows he meant it. She could feel it with every fiber of her being.

She goes back inside, sits at her desk, waiting for Dave to come back so they can drive off on patrol. She’s not sure she can make it - working, going from one stupid call to another. All the time thinking that she might never see him again.

“Hey!” Stevenson approaches with a cheerful smile. “What’s with the face? Where’s your man?”

Julia jumps up and storms out, walking fast at first, then sprinting into a run.

Andrew finds her sitting on the stairs near the back entrance, in her usual hiding place. She’s curled into a ball, head stuck between her knees, and she’s weeping.

“Oh baby,” he sits next to her, his heart breaking, forgetting he’s supposed to be her superior officer. All he can see is a five year old girl, who came to give him a hug when he first moved into her neighborhood. He pulls all of her into his embrace, rocking her from side to side. “What happened, squirrel? What’s wrong?”

Julia hides her face in his chest and cries harder.

“Is it J? Did something happen? That why he’s not here?”

“He’s gone. I was too fucking stubborn. Or he was called away. But he’s gone, Andrew.”

“Horseshit. He’d never give up on you. No man in his right mind would . And if he was called away, he’ll be back.”

She sniffs. “You don’t know that!”

“My angel,” he kisses her head. “I do. He’s told me some things about his service years. He was Delta Force, did you know that? Those guys are very capable. Whatever he does now, I’m sure he’s good at it. And he has you to come back to. How can he not?”

“Yeah?” She lifts a stubborn face and looks at him. “He doesn’t know that! He doesn’t know he has me!”

“Jules, quit being a dork already. He’s known he had you from day one. He’s just been waiting for your stubborn ass to figure it out.”

She sniffs again, her voice calming down. “You think?”

“I know , dummy. Everyone in the precinct knows.”

Julia pulls away, wiping her tears and nodding. “He said he could be gone for weeks, months even.”

“So? We’ll be here when he’s back.” Andrew winks. “Oh, and he left something for you.”

“How…” she looks puzzled.

“Well, he told me he could be called away. Coupla days ago. He said if he is, before you quit jerking him around, I should give you this.” He pulls a small piece of yellow pad paper from his chest pocket and hands it to Julia. “Do you know what it means, though?”

She frowns, reading out loud: “Best donuts in town, don’t you think?”

She turns the paper over, but there’s nothing on the other side.

“Do you get it?” Andrew asks impatiently.

Julia shakes her head. But then feels a smile curling in the corners of her mouth. “I think… it’s a clue.”

“A clue?”

“Yeah!” She smiles wider, starts laughing. “I think it’s a game.”

“Uh-huh. And the winner gets…?”

“Johnny.”

“I dunno, Jules. Seeing how you’re the only player and you already got Johnny …”

She considers it. “What do you think he does? His job, I mean?”

Stevenson shrugs. “Mmm… take the fact that he’s ex-military, add the way he and his buddies were released on the spot in the middle of the night, plus how he’s called away… I’d say government. My best take.”

“Right. Mine too. And I don’t think it’s just government. Some kind of… agency. Maybe private, maybe government. Maybe a contractor. But I think it’s classified. I mean, have you seen his file? The other ones? It’s all bogus. Fiction.”

Andrew nods. “So what? He couldn’t give me his phone number or home address? That’s just bullshit.”

Julia laughs. “Nah. I think he’s just screwing with me. For all the crap I’ve put him through. But I think this is his way of giving me his address and phone number.”

“Ah.”

“Yep.”

“Ok, but Jules…” Time to get back to being her sergeant. “You do the game thing after work.”

She throws her arms around him, drops a loud kiss on his temple, and sprints back inside, skipping and jumping.

Chapter Text

By the end of her shift, Julia is a nervous wreck. But she keeps her word, finishes the paperwork, submits all the reports. She’s not sure if it’s excitement or fear. In the end, she stops trying to figure out which and settles on both.

One thing she needs to understand is why she kept pushing him away so hard. Because she knows herself. She’s stubborn, but she’s not a fool. She knew she wanted him when he asked her how she could be sure she didn’t. She remembers his voice, when he whispered ‘You’ll figure it out’ kissing her hair, just yesterday. She wonders if he knows the answer. And she finds herself tearing up every time she remembers how he was about to kiss her, really kiss her, but seeing how she wasn’t quite there, just backed off. She was ready. She wanted him to. But he wouldn’t, despite having her in his arms, not until she was absolutely sure. Who the fuck makes men like that anymore?

She digs out the damn donut box from the dumpster again. “Best donuts in town, don’t you think?” That’s what his note says. There’s nothing on the box suggesting a possible clue. Nothing but the address of the bakery. After submitting her last report and signing the last of the witness statements, she sprints off to her car.

The place is still open. She’s never stepped foot in here before. It’s a small family business. The customers are scarce. The place offers a small menu for eating in, mainly hot beverages and baked goods. She walks around slowly, looking for little notes, more clues, reading daily specials.

“Miss Julia!” At the sound of an unfamiliar voice speaking her name, she turns around. The man talking to her looks to be in his sixties, almost completely bald. His long, open face wrinkles into a wide smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Hi,” she says, cautiously, shaking the hand he offers.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea? We have a fresh batch with strawberry filling just out of the oven. A perfect way to start an evening after a long day.”

Julia doesn’t quite know what she’s supposed to say. So she just goes for it. “Am I supposed to? I mean… to have tea and a donut?”

His laughter is wholehearted. “Oh no, my dear. Nothing like that. You’ll get what’s waiting for you anyway. But the young man did say that you like the strawberry ones. And that you might need a minute of quiet if you come here in the evening.”

Her eyes well up. She’s not sure she can take weeks or months without him. She grants the owner a polite smile and nods. “I’ll have some tea, thank you. And yes, I would love a strawberry one.”

Three minutes later she settles at the corner table and a young woman with a smile much like that of her father’s places a donut, a cup of steaming mint tea, and an envelope in front of her. “It’s our treat, ma’am. Enjoy. And say hi to that fine man of yours when you see him. Come visit us together sometime.”

“Thank you. We will.”

She says ‘we’ and a wave of joy spreads all over her from the inside out, making every inch of her skin tingle. She imagines walking in here, holding his hand, leaning against his arm, pressing her cheek to his shoulder as he chooses their food. He’d let go of her palm then, but only so that he can throw an arm around her, slide his hand to the curve of her waist, pull her even closer, kiss her head, then tilt it up so he can brush his lips against hers. He’d whisper that he’s famished, then smile next to her mouth, and they’d both giggle, flashing back to why .

She opens the envelope.

“Dear Jules (if you’re still mad at me for calling you that, you’re welcome to kick my butt when I get back),

I don’t know if we ev er ended up having the chance to talk about it, but if we didn’t, I might as well tell you now. My job takes me away sometimes. I can be gone for a long time. I wish it were different, and now, having met you, I do so even more. It’s not easy with me, and it probably won’t be for a while. I can’t say more, but if you finish the paper-chasing trail, I’ll try to explain when we meet again.

That being said, I don’t expect you to follow through. I want you to. Very much. But if you think you’re not ready, or not willing, then just enjoy your coffee (or tea), your donut, and I hope you have a life every bit as wonderful as you are.

This is not a test. You owe me nothing. This is my way of either saying goodbye or letting you come to me. I wanted a chance to make you smile, even if you decide you don’t want this, us.

I don’t know where my job took me this time. But wherever I am when you’re reading this, I’m pretty sure I’m missing you like crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you. And, whatever happens, I’ll always be happy I did.

Yours,

J

P.S. When you’re done eating, you’ll get another clue. Where I had my training, we used to call it a ‘lost burner routine’. And yes, I know you probably think I’m a pathetic loser. Normally, I’d agree. But right now I’m too happy to care.”

The tea is sweet, mixing with the saltiness of the tears in her throat. No, she doesn’t think he’s a loser, pathetic or otherwise. And when he comes back, she’ll make him even happier. Every day.

She finishes the donut quickly and eagerly jumps up. The owner hands her an old model Nokia phone and gives her a small wink, saying that she’d left it here last time she visited. Right, the ‘lost burner routine’.

She powers it up and goes through the menus. There’s a single number in the call log, marked as ‘Outgoing call’. That’s it? That’s his number? One stop?

Walking out of the bakery, she dials.

After three rings another voice she doesn’t know comes through. Again, what’s she supposed to say? She thinks about it and, in the end, just introduces herself.

“Miss Diaz, pleasure to hear from you,” the voice says. “Should we get your table ready right now?”

“I’m sorry… a table ?”

“Yes, ma’am. You can come in now or any other day. It’s all been taken care of.”

He gives her the name of a restaurant she’s never heard of, then an address. She writes it down and says she’ll be on her way.

Fifteen minutes later she walks into a cute little bistro. A waitress greets her by the name and shows her to a small table for two in the farthest most inside corner. It has two sets of plates and glasses. For a moment, her heart races and she looks around, almost expecting to see him walking up to her, saying that it was all a joke and he’s never gone anywhere. But then she knows - it’s a date. The dinner he promised.

She’s given a special menu with redacted prices and she’s told to choose anything she wants. It’s all been taken care off. When she settles on her meal of choice, she’s given another envelope.

“So, I stood you up. I’m an asshole. By now you know I had little choice in it. But I feel like shit not being there anyway.

But! If I were there, we’d be having our first date. I’ve got to be honest with you - I suck at traditional dating. I don’t think I’ve been on a real dinner date… ever. But if we meet again, we will go on one together. That’s a promise. I’ll have you dress up for me and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go .

If I were there, what would we be talking about? See, I’m not a big talker. But I have a feeling  you’d make one out of me. For now, let me start by telling you a story. A confession, really. The kind of thing I want to get off  my chest, just in case we DO happen. There’ll be many things I won’t be able to tell you, about my job, for example. But I do want to come clean about something.

Before I showed up at your precinct, I spent half a day following you around. I couldn’t get an image of you out of my head. When you uncuffed me, in that holding cell, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. And I meant what I said. You ARE fucking breathtaking.

I was in my car outside the bar where you met up with Dave and Shorty and I followed you home. At that point it was just to make sure you get there safely. BTW, remind me to punch Dave for letting you walk home alone after midnight.

Anyhow. There I was, sitting in my car, watching you, and you did something that blew my mind.You skipped and danced. Just like that, in the middle of the street, you smiled and laughed. If I hadn’t known that you’d only had one beer in that bar, I’d probably assume you were drunk. How do you do that? If I had more courage, I would’ve asked you right then and there. But I still want to know. What do you see in this world that makes you so happy and full of life? See, I miss that. If we make it work, one day I’ll tell you why. But for now, what I want you to know is that my job has to do with the worst of this world. And I needed it so much - to see someone still loving it. I hope you can teach me how to feel like that again.

Finally, when I got home, all I could think about was that I want to walk by your side one of these days, watch you skip and dance for no reason. Or maybe I want to be a part of that reason. A part of what makes you happy.

Enjoy our dinner date for the both of us.

Yours,

J.

P.S. If you want to kick me where it hurts for invading your privacy like that, you have my permission. Just… you know... not too hard, ok? In case we want to have kids one day. Just saying.”

Over the course of dinner, Julia reads his letter again and again. In her head, she’s telling him that it’s a good question. She really doesn’t know what made her so happy that evening. Something just did. She remembers imagining herself taking off and flying away. It happens to her sometimes. She’s been like that since she was a little girl. And in her head, she tells him why.

She’s telling him that whatever happened to him, whatever made him so disillusioned about the world, maybe they can fix together. She’s not really sure how much she likes it herself. In her line of work she’s seen some terrible things as well.

She tells him that she doesn’t believe in God, fate, or sixth sense. But maybe what made her so happy that day was a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen to her. Because the following day, it did.

She tells him she never cared much about dinner dates herself. She hates dressing up and going out. But she’ll take a dinner in bed, wearing nothing but bedsheets, maybe not even that, stuffing food into each other’s mouths and kissing in between.

Finally, she tells him that if he were to walk by her side, she wouldn’t be skipping and dancing. Ok, maybe a little. She’d hold his hand and she wouldn’t want to fly away, because she’d know she’s where she belongs.

When she’s done eating, she’s given a small pinkish gift card. The waitress tells her that it’s for an Italian gelateria, just around the corner from the bistro.

There, Julia gets a cone of strawberry sorbet. And another envelope.

“Too cheesy? The ice-cream, I mean? I’m so all over the place that I can’t tell anymore. I don’t even know if you like ice-cream. My sister did. She was a sucker for all kinds of sorbets. I’d always get one for her on our way home from school. Is this place any good? I never had a chance to try. But, I mean, Italian gelateria… I figured not many ways THAT could go wrong.

I was thinking about making this paper-chasing shit longer, and I had quite a few more ideas, but I didn’t have much time to prepare. When I’m called away, it’s usually on a very short notice and I need to leave pretty much immediately. We can do another one some time, if you want to.

When you arrested me and I had to give contact info for my file, I gave the number of a dry cleaning place downtown. It wasn’t meant for you. The guy who owns it… Let’s just say it’s work related. You probably tried calling that number (I know I would). Anyway, call it again, give your name, and he’ll explain the rest.

Yours,

J.

P.S. It’s across town. Drive safely.”

When Julia gets there, the place is closed. But the moment she’s out of her car, a man comes to the front door, looks around, opens it just a crack, and waves her in. Leonid, the owner, appears to be in his late thirties. He doesn’t strike Julia as the type who’d spend his life in a dry cleaner’s shop, let alone own one. Having noticed her suspicious look, he tells her that the place has been in the family since they immigrated from Ukraine when he was barely seven years old. Both his parents had passed away, his sister moved to Canada with her husband, and so, once he was discharged, he took over, seeing how he could never bring himself to sell the place, and it suited his disability just fine. By disability he means his left prosthetic arm, amputated just below the shoulder. Swiping dust from a chair he’s fetched for her, he tells her he’s a special forces veteran, then invites her to sit and brings two sets of old Russian tea cups on little plates, as well as a small pot of home brewed tea.

She’s still sipping her tea when he gets up from the table and goes to the back of the store. When he returns, there’s a pile of freshly folded clothes in his hands. Apparently, she’s supposed to pick it up. That is if she wants to .

Moving his cup to the side, Leonid places the clothes on the table and puts his hands on top of them. His eyes, when he looks at Julia, get a distinctly discerning expression, as if he’s prepared to share a secret with her.

“You don’t have to take it,” he says, and in that instant his faint smile disappears completely. “We do deliver. John said that if you feel it’s too heavy, you should just leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

It’s all in the way he says it, holding her stare, accentuating the words ‘if you feel it’s too heavy’ . She’s thinking about everything she knows about John, all the things he told her about his life, his job. He’s giving her a way out, no harm done. She can leave here, go back to her life, forget any of this ever happened.

Not a chance. “I’ll take it,” she says. There’s no hesitation in her voice. She grabs the clothes and puts the pile on her lap, wrapping her arms around it.

Leonid smiles again and takes two envelopes out of his pocket, handing one over to her.

“What’s in that one?” she asks.

“Nothing you’ll ever need to read,” he replies, then picks up his lighter, sets the other envelope on fire and tosses it into a metal trash can.

Julia holds onto his pile of clothes even tighter as she watches what she can only assume is Johnny’s goodbye letter burn to ashes. In those flames are the last of her doubts.

Leonid pours some more tea for the both of them. He tells her then that he’s Johnny’s contact. Should she ever need anything, should she ever be in any kind of trouble when Johnny is away, she should come directly to him.

Julia thanks him and starts to leave. As Leonid holds the door open for her she turns around, steps closer, and places a soft kiss on his cheek. He smiles a little and gives her a slight nod. She sees it then - the deep loneliness surrounding him. He's as reluctant for this night to end as she is. She’s wondering if she should ask if he needs a hand closing up. But she knows the type all too well. The truth is, he reminds her of Johnny. And of Andrew.

“Actually…” she starts, looking at him tentatively, “it’s been a long day. Way too overwhelming. And it’s a long drive to where I live. Do you mind if I… that tea was absolutely wonderful. Could I have another cup?”

Leonid’s grin widens, his whole face lighting up. “Sure. I would love that.”

He waits for her to come back in and closes the door. He’s fussing around with the teapot, throwing away the old leaves and filling it anew. Then goes and fetches some jam, telling Julia that it’s his favorite and that he hopes she likes it. It’s a Russian “thing” to have tea with jam, he says. His grandmother had the best recipe and he still uses it, making a fresh batch at the end of every summer.

They chat for a while, about everything and nothing. Leonid tells her how happy he is that she stayed. He was wondering whether he should ask her to, but he didn’t want to appear rude. He lives in the small apartment right above the store. He and Johnny meet up every night after closing when Johnny's in town, drinking tea and talking about books. He says they go way back, that he owes his life to Johnny. He doesn’t give her the details, but Julia knows it to be true. He also tells her that in all the years he’s known Johnny, he’s never seen him this crazy about anything or anyone. And he can see why he likes her.

In the end, Julia asks if it would be ok if she came to visit him again, later. She could swear there are real tears in Leonid’s eyes when he just nods, speechless, before giving her an awkward hug. She wraps her arms around him and promises she’ll see him tomorrow. And she smiles, thinking that Johnny might be away for a while, but she’s found someone who connects her to him.

She opens Johnny’s final letter walking back to her car.

“Fuck. This was supposed to be the most important letter. But sitting here, knowing what it means that you’re reading it, I can’t think straight. Maybe when I see you again, after I hold you until my arms fall off and kiss you until we’re both out of breath, I can be more eloquent and tell you what it really means to me.

Jules, I’ll be back. I know you might be worried about me, and for some fucked-up selfish reason, it makes me so goddamn happy. But please, don’t. I’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll find you. I know I said it can take months, but usually it’s a couple of days, two weeks tops.

I know what I can offer is very little. Sometimes, I can’t believe how stupid I am to think anyone would agree to such life. But you have. And all I can say is that everything I CAN give is yours. It might not be much, but it’s all I have, and all I am.

Yours. All yours.

J.

P.S. Leonid makes the best strawberry jam in the world, seriously. He’ll probably make you drink tea with him until you puke. He’s a great man, one of the bravest I’ve ever met, and a hell of a friend. I think you’ll like each other. He’s too proud to ask, but he gets lonely. We keep each other company quite often. Why am I telling you all this? Fuck if I know. Maybe… I guess I’d love to see the two of you be there for each other while I’m away.”

Turning around, Julia sees that Leonid has not moved from the door to his shop, making sure she gets to her car safely. She waves and he gives her a small military salute.

Inside the envelope there’s also a note with an address and a phone number. She memorizes it and sets it on fire. Not because she’s been instructed to, but because all this spy shit is just too damn exciting.

His place is an apartment in a tall building just two blocks down the street. Nobody is home. She stands there for a while, feeling the excitement of the evening slowly fading away. The truth is, she is worried. And it’s the first time ever that she realizes that if something happens to him, she might never know. He just won’t come back. And all she’ll have left of that kind, beautiful man is four letters, an old phone, and a pile of clothes.

Her back to his door, she feels her knees give and slides to the floor. She lowers her head on top of his shirts and pants and closes her eyes. She sits there for a while, just breathing, dreaming. He'd said that when he comes back he’ll hold her until his arms fall off, that he has so much to tell her. It makes her giggle softly and bury her face in his clothes. She highly doubts that after he kisses her until they’re both out of breath, that they’ll be doing any talking.

The following week is a blur. During the day, Julia works. She throws herself into her job even harder than usual. She can’t think about Johnny, how much she misses him, all the time, or she’ll go mad.

Everyday after work she drives to his place. She knows he’d said he’d find her. And she trusts him. But she needs to be there for reasons she doesn’t understand and is not even trying to. She just does. Every night she sits on the floor by his door, waiting for him.

Sometimes, she stops by Leonid’s dry cleaning shop and has tea with him. She helps him clean and close up. They don’t talk much, but they enjoy each other’s company.

On the third night, after they are done with Leonid’s chores, he brews more tea and, as usual, they settle behind the counter. Leonid keeps glancing at Julia and smiles at his thoughts. He does that quite often, and she always wonders what goes through his mind.

“I can’t decide,” he says finally, sipping his tea and looking at her with a faint dreaminess in his eyes.

“Can’t decide what?” Intrigued, Julia sets down her cup and leans forward, her elbows on the little table between them.

“You two remind me of Gray and Assol. But I can’t decide which is which. Because, you see, in the end, Assol tells Gray that he was just as she imagined he would be. And now John will come back and you’ll get to find out. Or will he get to find out?”

To say that Julia is confused would be the understatement of the century. Leonid can be peculiar like that, she knows. He’s not a man of many words. And it’s not the first time that he ends up blurting just the last part of his musings, leaving her in awe and puzzled as to what brought him to this point.

“Leonid, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she laughs.

He shakes his head at his own inarticulateness, gets up and goes into the back. Julia can hear him moving things around and muttering curses in Russian. Finally, he seems to have found what he’s looking for. When he comes back, he’s holding what appears to be a handwritten manuscript. It’s about twenty pages stapled together, really. He hands it to her and takes his place at the table.

“Is called Scarlet Sails. Or Crimson Sails. Whichever translation you prefer. You see, is an old Russian novel. Maybe a fairytale even. By Alexander Grin. I never liked the translated version they have on Amazon. So I translated it for John myself. He likes to read. Not many Americans read as much as he does.”

Julia flips through the pages, her eyes wide with amazement. “You did all that? For John?”

“Yes,” he says, pleased with the admiration in her tone. “He liked the story when I told him about it. Wanted to buy it on Amazon. I said no way. I have to translate it myself. He has another copy. I rewrote it more neatly for him. You can take this one.”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t,” Julia shakes her head. “But thank you.” She tries to give it back.

“It’s a gift,” he urges her. “From me. It’s a beautiful story. And when I think of the two of you, this…” he points to the manuscript, “is what comes to my mind.”

Julia nods, putting the story on her lap. “What’s it about?”

“Being rewarded for never giving up on your dream,” Leonid sums it up. “It’s about Assol, a little girl who grew up without a mother. Her father carved a boat out of wood for her but had only had crimson silk to make the sails. An old man sees her boat and tells her that one day a crimson sail will glimmer on the horizon, and under it will be the man of her dreams, coming to take her away from the place of her childhood.”

“Oh,” Julia laughs. “And let me guess… one day it did.”

Leonid scoffs softly, laughing. “Well, it wasn’t that simple. See, Gray, the man she was bound to fall in love with, was an heir to a rich family. But he was a dreamer himself - all he wanted was to roam the seas, become a sailor. He ran away, and later became captain of his own merchant ship.”

“With crimson sails?”

“You have a patience of a three year old,” Leonid grumbles, but his face never losing the smile.

“Sorry… go on.”

“So, Assol grows up an outcast in her village. She still carries the little boat around with her. One day, Gray comes there, and he finds a girl sleeping on the ground in the woods. He’s fascinated by her and can’t get her face out of his mind. He asks around and is told that she’s a crazy local girl, who’s obsessed with a prince coming to save her on a boat with scarlet sails.”

“Oh Gosh! So he goes and fits his ship with red sails???”

“Yep,” Leonid smirks, taking another sip of his tea. “And he comes back for her, scarlet sails shimmering in the sun… and she runs into the water to meet him. When he lifts her from the water, all wet, she looks at him for the first time and she says ‘Just as I imagined you.’ See, she’s never seen him before. But he has , and he still has her face in his mind.”

Julia smiles, looking at her own copy. “And John likes it?”

“Pfft… you kidding me? When he told me about you, he said… It’s like in that story, I can’t get her face out of my head.”

Julia’s laughter rings and jiggles. “I see. And other than that...?”

Leonid considers it for a short while and shrugs. “I dunno. The dream, I guess. Finding it. Not letting it go. Something… I dunno.” Then he thinks of something else and adds: “But you see, the reason I can’t decide… when he comes back, he won’t know you’re here waiting for him already. It’s like both of you are a little Assol and a little Gray. Or maybe not." Abruptly, he shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively as if to wipe the thought from his mind. "Bah, it’s just a stupid fairytale.”

That night Julia reads the story. Truth be told, she’s not big on reading, never has been. She reads a thriller or two a year. A part of her is worried now, knowing that Johnny loves reading and has long conversations with Leonid about the books they’d both read. Leonid tried to ask her about a book or two that he wanted to discuss, but she hasn’t even heard their names, nor the names of their authors. She knows she has to start somewhere, fully realizing she will never be able to catch up. She’d asked Leonid about Johnny’s favorite books and he gave her three titles. She’ll get them tomorrow.

She’s smiling as she drifts off, thinking about Assol and Gray. For some reason her mind travels twelve years into the past, to the cemetery in Baltimore. She never forgot a sad teenage boy she met, who, without knowing, changed her life. For years she’d been wondering what happened to him. She used to scold Andrew for teasing her about having a crush on him, but deep inside she always knew it wasn’t far from the truth. She knew nothing about him. But every man she ever dated ended up being measured against her idea of him. And not one of them managed to replace the tender memory of Peter in her head. No one. Except Johnny.

She was never the sentimental type. But when she’d had her cast removed, she saved the piece with the quote Peter wrote on it. Andrew had it covered in some kind of protective polish. She still has it.

That night she has a dream that she will remember for many years, despite not knowing what it means for a long time to come. She dreams again of Johnny, but now he is wearing Peter’s clothes, stained with blood. He’s giving her what looks to be a yellowish piece of plaster. Except it’s not. It’s a small wooden boat with sails made out of crimson silk.

On the eighth night, she's at her usual spot outside his apartment, sitting on the floor by the door. She's about to give up, pulling herself to a stand and preparing to leave alone once again. The elevator doors open, and she swings around. He steps out and into the hallway, sees her, and stops dead. In her whole life she’s never seen a sight more beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

The sharp lines of his face etch the tale of where he’s been. Looking at his fallen features, the drawn down corners of his mouth, she knows enough of the story that she’s aware he can never tell. He looks wearied, drained, exhausted to the point of barely standing. His hair is greasy and dusty, his lips so dry they are cracked. On his left shoulder there’s the strap of a long, narrow bag, containing what she can only assume is a rifle. On his right one - a dirty duffel bag. His shirt is wrinkled and stained. The only thing still alive about him are his eyes, the way they light up and turn the brightest blue when they rest on her face.

She opens her mouth to say something, but stops. All this time, missing him, thinking about him, and it’s only now that it really hits her. Her entire existence distills into a single thought: he’s alive, he’s safe, he’s home. And just like that, the image of him standing right in front of her blurs behind her tears.

She doesn’t hear him crossing the distance between them. But she feels his palms, rough and dry, gently cupping face, then his lips on her eyelids.

“Johnny…” she sobs, and her hand crawls up his side, to his chest, clasping a fistful of his shirt.

“I’m here, I’m ok.” He steps closer, still holding her face, kissing the tear marks on her cheeks. “Don’t cry, silly. I’m home.”

“I’ll cry all I want, you crazy badass motherfucker!” she nearly shouts, raising her voice, tugging on his shirt even harder.

“Ok… ok...” he laughs, shaking his head at her, then touching his forehead to hers. “God I’ve missed you, you stubborn pain in the ass.”

She yanks him in with everything she’s got and presses her mouth to his, hot, frantic and desperate, feeling him gasp at first, then let out a low groan, his arms coming all around her, drawing her so close to him that she can feel her body molding into his.

“I hate you!” she sobs, kissing him again and again, her hand releasing his shirt, her own arms looping around his neck so tight there’s nothing left between them. “So much…”

Johnny tears himself from her lips, slides his face against hers, and lets his head fall onto her shoulder. “I hate you more,” he laughs.

He’s so tired that he’s about to faint. The last time he slept was for a three hour period over two days ago. But he needs her, all of her. Pulling himself together, he places his hands on her sides and picks her up, lifting her against him until her face is slightly above his. She wraps her legs around him and cradles his head in the circle her arms. Falling back against the wall, Johnny closes his eyes.

“Home,” he whispers.

She kisses his hair, running her fingers through it, then his forehead, his temples, his eyes, his cheekbones, his nose… she kisses him everywhere, slow and tender, breathing in his scent, letting him breathe in hers. When she finally reaches his mouth, he lets out a soft cry. They kiss for a long time, slowly, gently, caressing each other’s lips, her arms around his head, his hand deep in her hair.

“Oh my fucking God…” Fairly breathless, Julia pulls away just slightly, still dropping soft kisses on his mouth between words. “I can’t stop…”

“Don’t…” he breathes.

“Johnny, you’re barely standing. Let me down.”

“Not a chance…” He kisses her deeper this time, making her gasp and hold on to him tighter. “I fucking couldn’t sleep for eight days thinking about this…”

“Oh really ,” she giggles, beaming with joy, as the tips of her fingers caress the side of his face. “Tell me.”

“This,” he smiles into her eyes. “I don’t know why, but all I could think about was coming home and finding you here.”

“I was here every night.”

He smirks. “You stubborn little moron…”

Her fingers slide to his jawline, then the side of his neck, making him shiver. She trails butterfly soft kisses all the way to his ear. “So…” Her breath is hot and urgent. “Anything past coming home and finding me here?”

“Mphhhhhh… yeah .”

“Yeah?”

“ Yeah …” He looks at her, his eyes a mix of adoration and yearning. “ Lots of ‘anything’.”

“Uh-huh…” Julia’s smile turns playful, then out right mischievous. “Was I any good? Just trying to figure out how high the bar is.”

Johnny grins. “You were… incredible ,” he pushes past embarrassment and gives into the image that took his breath away every time he could afford to let his mind wander. “Naked, beautiful, passionate… all mine . And you were so good you made me weep .”

“Damn,” she laughs, breathing faster. “Wait, what about you? Did you make me weep???”

Johnny kisses her. “You fucking kidding me? It was my fantasy. I was so good that I made you scream and beg for more.”

“Hmm… Your fantasy… sounds… rather familiar .”

He grins wider, feeling himself blush. “Oh, really … Was I any good?”

“Johnny... You ruined me for other men. For life .”

“ Jesus… Talk about setting the bar too high...”

They giggle and kiss again.

“Jules,” he whispers, reluctantly pulling away. His smile is tired. “Is it ok if I ruin you for other men tomorrow night, though?”

Her heart breaks. She places a soft hand on his face and kisses him with every bit of tenderness she has in her. “Don’t you dare feel bad about it.”

He rubs his nose against the side of hers. “Thank you. Fuck, Jules, I’m so tired.” But his arms draw a tighter circle around her, unable to let go.

Julia smiles. “I will.”

Puzzled, he tilts his head back and lifts an eyebrow. “You will what ?”

“Just stay with you tonight. If you want me to.”

Feeling the tears welling up, Johnny nuzzles his face between her head and her shoulder. All those dreams, all those fantasies, and what breaks him is how she knows just what he needs, even when he’s too ashamed to ask. “I want you to.”

Julia’s mind races ahead, planning the evening, thinking about what she can do to make it more efficient, so that he can go to sleep as soon as possible.

“Hey, you hungry? When was the last time you ate? Do you have any food inside? I could run down and get some, while you take a shower.”

He’s starving. Last time he ate was yesterday morning. He doesn’t have shit inside. And he’s not letting her go anywhere , not without him.

“Tell you what... Let me just drop my things inside and I’ll take you out for dinner. Then we’ll come back, take a shower and go to sleep. Sound good?”

Julia’s head ducks back, her brow furrows skeptically. “For real? You wanna go on a date ? Now? Looking like this? ”

“No. What I want is to be able to take you inside and never get out of bed with you until we both happily die of starvation. But life’s full of disappointments, and the least I can do is take you out for dinner.”

Somehow, Julia knows that arguing is not an option. She sighs deeply, nods and messes his hair. “Fine. But nothing fancy. Hamburger or pizza. And you’re off to bed.”

Reluctantly, he sets her down on the floor and releases his arms around her. Then unlocks the door, throws both his bags inside, locks it again, and takes her hand.

In the elevator, he leans over and places a kiss on the top of her head.

“Not gonna ask me where I’ve been?”

Julia considers it for a moment. “I figured if you could tell me, you would.”

Johnny nods, lifts her hand and presses his lips to the back of her wrist. “Will you be ok with that?” he asks then, not smiling anymore. “If you never know where I go?”

She takes a deep breath. “I think so. I mean, I might… not be, not all the time . And I’ll worry. But we’ll work it out.”

He hits the ‘stop’ button, pulls her against him and tells her what he does for a living.

“I thought something like that, yeah,” her eyes well up again.

His lips curve up next to her ear. “Hey, but when we get married, I’ll quit.”

Still a ballsy motherfucker, aren’t you? Julia smacks him on the back of the head. “ Depends . Does it pay well? Because when we get married , I want three kids.” Feeling him swallow hard, she smirks. That’s right, you asshole, I can make you choke on your breath too. “So we might need the cash. And God knows my salary is crap.”

Johnny kisses her so hard that she feels her knees weakening. I’ll have a dozen with you, he thinks. “Deal. On all of it.”

The small burger place he has in mind is barely ten minutes away. Julia drives, and by the time they get there he’s passed out on the passenger seat, his head fallen to the side, his hand on her knee.

She makes a U-turn and drives back to his place. The whole time, he doesn’t wakes up once. Julia finds a quiet spot at the far side of the street and parks the car. She turns on the heater, opens one of the back windows just a crack, and lets him sleep. Soon, she dozes off herself.

It’s almost six AM when she wakes up, a little disoriented and sore all over from sleeping all night in the driver’s seat. Johnny is still out. He hasn’t even moved.

She needs to go to work. Trying to be quiet, she takes his phone and puts in her phone number, leaving the contacts screen open, naming the entry ‘Fucking Breathtaking’. She pulls on the door handle, fully intending to sneak out and take a taxi home to change before heading to the station.

“It’s like you haven’t heard a word I said about what I do,” he quips in a sleepy but fairly amused voice. Even before she has a chance to turn around, he unbuckles himself and leans over to her side, burying his face in the curve of her neck as his arms lace around her. “Jules,” he places a lingering kiss in the soft spot right below her ear. “You should’ve woken me up.”

She sighs. “ Sure . In your stupid opinion.”

He snorts into her shoulder, shaking his head. “Thank you.” Feeling her fingers in his hair, he almost drifts off again, until his eyes fall on the dashboard clock. “ Shit! it’s past six.”

Julia nods with a bitter smile. “I know. I really need to go to work.”

“Fuck…” he sighs, looking guilty. His hand creeps across her tummy as he places a long wistful kiss on the apex of her shoulder. “This is not how I imagined waking up today.”

Julia lets go of the door handle and leans into him, smiling into the blue glow of his eyes. “Tell me.”

Johnny shakes his head and kisses the tip of her nose. “No.”

“Why the fuck not???”

“Because you hate being late. And it’ll take a very long time to tell you what I wanted to do to you this morning.”

She sighs, a little frustrated, then drops her head onto his shoulder. “Ok, you crazy badass motherfucker. Go home, take a shower. And get some more sleep.” When he ignores her and just holds her even tighter, she kisses him. “And you better be very rested and very clean by the time I come over tonight.”

“Fuck, Jules…” he growls, grazing her neck with his teeth.

“Fuck’s right,” she laughs, pushing him away. “ Go . I’ll see you later.”

He looks at his watch. Twenty past seven. Her shift was supposed to start twenty minutes ago. Did she get there on time? Did she get there safely? Johnny turns to his side and stares at the phone in his hand. Should he message? He doesn’t mind her thinking he’s being clingy and overprotective. But he wants her to be able to work and think about work .

It hits him hard then. What he does and what she does might be different, but she’s a cop, she carries a gun, chases bad guys with guns of their own. He goes numb all over and pushes that thought deep into the darkest corner of his mind. Not now. Not ever .

That’s when his phone buzzes.

-You better be asleep. I was wondering if I should message at all. I got to work safely, everything is ok here. We go on patrol in twenty minutes. I’m wearing my vest

-Fucking mind reader

-Go to sleep already

-Trying…

-Try HARDER

-Need you here

-Imagine I am

Johnny grins and flips to his back.

-Tell me

-Ok. But you promise to go to sleep then?

-Promise

-So… Imagine us both in your bed. We’re too exhausted to even move. Because I did make you weep and you did make me scream, over and over, it went on for HOURS. You slide off of me and fall on your side. I scoot up until your head is pressed against my chest, right under my chin. My face is in your hair, my arms are all around you, you can hear me breathing, whispering to you. You hold me tight against you. And you doze off, thinking about what you’re going to do to me again when we wake up.

His heart is pounding harder and faster, his vision getting blurry, his fingers barely managing to punch the right keys.

-Fuck, Jules. Get your ass over here

-Hey, you ASKED

He smiles, rolling to his side again.

-You sure I’m too exhausted? Because I think I could go once more

-Yes, silly, I’m sure. I’m the one who exhausted you, remember?

-Right

-Now sleep. I’ll see you soon

-Jules, I can’t wait

-Me neither

-Be safe, ok?

-I will. Stop freaking out

He does. Within a minute he’s out like a light, still clenching his phone in one hand. Smiling like a smitten teenager, thinking that she’s wrong, and he could go once more.

Julia comes back to the precinct at lunchtime. Knowing he’s finally asleep, she managed to concentrate on work and time went by faster. It’s almost three PM and she just has a little over four hours to go. She’s starving, a little tired, but all in all content to the point of almost skipping as she walks in.

Johnny is half-leaning, half-sitting on the edge of her desk. There’s a brown paper bag next to him. He’s dropped the fancy act too: he’s wearing a khaki tricot shirt and an old pair of light blue jeans. His hair is all over the place - still wet from the shower, spiky and messy.

Her silly smile matches his shy one as she crosses the room, accompanied by the loud woohooing of everyone in the precinct, trying to ignore people settling their bets. She doesn’t care who won the pool on how many days it would take them to get together. She falls into his arms, hiding from everyone, sliding her hands to his back, and she lets out a soft happy moan when he covers her mouth with his.

“Hungry?” he whispers, rubbing his nose against her cheek.

“Famished,” she smiles.

“Want some coffee too?”

“Maybe later. What did you bring?”

“Tuna sandwiches. Leonid knows a nice place. I tried them once or twice before. They’re good.”

She kisses him again. “Yum. Let’s get outta here. I know a… more quiet spot.”

He looks around, blushing a little. “Are they ever going to stop doing that?”

“I doubt it. They probably already have a pool going on how long it takes for you to knock me up or for us to get married. C’mon.”

She takes him to the back stairs, away from the noise and all the commotion. He sits down, dragging her onto the stair below his. She pulls up her knees and he crosses his legs around her, handing her one of the sandwiches and worming his free arm around her waist as she leans back against his chest. He’s already chewing, when she stretches up and presses her lips to his neck.

“I plan to get used to this.”

He slides a finger under her vest and tickles her tummy. “You will, silly. Eat.”

They finish their lunch quickly and just sit there, listening to each other’s breathing, warm afternoon sun on their faces. The sky is deep blue and looks as vast and as beautiful as their hopes for the future, starting right here, right now.

After a while Julia takes his arms and draws them tighter around her, then does the same with his legs. Johnny laughs softly into her hair. He wonders if she’ll ever know how much he loves her just for needing him like this.

“Happy?” he breathes with a lingering kiss on her temple. Julia nods, wiggling even deeper into him. Johnny covers her head with his palm. “Just a few more hours, Jule,” he whispers, smiling as she groans in frustration. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“Mphhhh,” she huffs into his neck. Way to make it easier, you motherfucker.

He laughs. “Want me to throw you over my shoulder and haul you away?”

Better. “Yes, please.”

“Stevenson will shoot me. And I’m not wearing a vest.”

Julia giggles. “Guess what?” she asks, looking up and smiling when he plants a loud kiss on the tip of her nose. “I have two days off now. Ended up working last Sunday. And this Sunday too. So…”

“Oh man… So we have…”

“Yep. You have… two whole days and three nights to make it up to me .”

“Oh, I plan to.”

It’s late August - the hottest month of the year. His place doesn’t have central air. Johnny looks at the takeout boxes and tries to figure out whether he should just shove them into the fridge. He highly doubts they will eat any time soon. He’s a bundle of nerves, aching and squirming all over with anticipation.

His place is a dump. He never cared about what it looks like until today. It took him three trips to the garbage chute, laden with as many trash bags as he could carry each time (and he can carry quite a lot…). Then almost two hours to gather his books, CDs and clothes and make it look like he actually gives a damn about how he lives. He had to buy new bedsheets and throw his old ones away.

All that work, and when he hears the knock on the door, it suddenly doesn’t matter anymore. He gathers the food cartons and throws them into the fridge.

He barely manages to catch her mid-leap and lift her up. She crashes into him, nearly knocking him off balance, and definitely knocking the last shreds of conscious thought out of his mind. The last thing he remembers wondering about is whether he kicked the door shut hard enough. Oh, fuck it .

It takes him about three seconds to come to the realization that all of his wildest fantasies are about to pale next to the image of her throwing her head back, moaning and sobbing with pleasure under his touch. He manages to stop once, when the last of their clothes is gone, and she’s in his arms again. Standing in the middle of the room, holding her up against his chest, feeling her all around him, he looks into her eyes long and hard, with every bit of longing in his heart and soul, as if daring her to see all of his lost hopes and broken dreams mending around her. Julia slides both hands to the sides of his face. “I know,” she whispers, caressing his lips with hers. And he’s lost: all of him, to all of her. But then he’s found, for good this time, anchored into this moment so hard that the world seems to stop spinning, years of war and death fading away, shattering against her arms around him.

They don’t make it into bed until after the first time. And even when they do, he barely reaches the edge before his knees buckle and he collapses on top of the covers, taking her down with him. Laughing, Julia cradles his head on her shoulder, in the loop of her arm, her other hand stroking his back and shoulders, as they rise and fall hard and heavy.

“Funny, huh?” he grumbles, sinking his teeth into her clavicle, then kissing it.

She laughs louder: “Considering the fact that you almost dropped me… yeah, a little funny.”

One arm around her waist, he picks her up, balancing both of them on his other hand, throwing her across his bed onto the pillow, crashing on top of her again. “I’ll never drop you,” he assures her, looking happy, smug, and full of himself.

Julia stops giggling and looks up at his face, hovering over her. She places her palm on his cheek and slides a thumb over his lips. Her smile is dipped in the dreamy pool of wistfulness.

“Just as I imagined you,” she mouths, almost inaudibly, wondering if he’ll even remember the quote.

His breath cuts between his chest and his throat. He can’t be sure if he wept when he had her, but he knows he’s about to now .

“And you too, my dear,” he breathes Gray’s reply to Assol next to her mouth, grinning with joy. “So, Leonid got you hooked on his Crimson Sails, huh?”

“I loved it.”

He nods, kissing her. “Yeah, me too.” Then, flipping to his back, he pulls her on top of him. His smile gets a little cocky. “So, I have a question…”

Julia blushes a little, rolling her eyes. Yeah, she should have warned him. “Shoot.”

“How many times exactly did you just…”

She laughs when he can’t even finish the sentence. Then leans down and brushes her lips against his. “It’s better if you don’t keep count.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, sliding his hands along her back all the way to her hips.

She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah…”

“So, you’re one of them girls that…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck me. ”

She snorts, looking at the incredulous expression on his face as it spreads into the silliest grin she’s seen on him to date. “Thinking you’ve just won the lottery?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he props his head on his folded arm, tracing a finger down the side of her face and tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. His smile gets fainter, until it’s gone completely. “Jule… we’ll make it work, right?” The light of his night lamp reflects in the watery film forming in his eyes. “Tell me we’ll make it work.”

Julia pushes herself up and slides her arms around his neck. “C’mere, silly,” she murmurs, kissing his face until he lets out a soft longing moan. “We’ll make it work. I promise.”

He shakes his head. “How can I ever leave you now? Make you wait for me? Worry about me?”

Her smile widens, tinged with both devilishness and delight. “I’d rather think about how you can make it up to me when you come back.”

Johnny laughs softly, removing an arm from under his head and wrapping it around her neck, pulling her head down until her mouth crashes into his. “Deal,” he whispers between kisses that become more urgent and impatient by the second.

Hours merge into a single image, a collage of mirth and bliss. By the time they drift off, it’s nothing like Julia wrote in her message, although they are exhausted to the point of sweet oblivion, and he is still claiming he could go once more. But she doesn’t have it in her to scoot up and cradle his head next to her chest. Instead, she snuggles into his arms, her head in the fold of his shoulder. The last thing she remembers is kissing him still, kissing him more , smiling and giggling at his silly jokes.

Before she falls asleep, she finally remembers what it was that she needed to figure out. Because at that moment she understands that she won't be waking up in the morning with a man who is just another date. His life is too complex and unpredictable for that. He's offering her everything he has in the world, everything he has left. And that's what she had to be sure she could accept before telling him yes. She had to know that when they're past the point of no return and she's involved in exactly what he didn't want for her, that she would be able to promise him and herself that they'd make it work.

Johnny stays up a little longer than she does. Everytime his eyes close, he forces them open again. He looks at her, sleeping peacefully between his arms, and he’s more scared than he’s been in his whole life. Because he knows she took a leap of faith with him, and he knows how deep the rabbit hole really goes. He imagines her sleeping alone when he’s away, and he wishes there was more of him around her now , for every time he won’t be here. He battles the urge to kiss her, wake her up, he needs to see her eyes again. Because much like Gray in Crimson Sails, every time he looks into them, he sees all that is best in a person, and, what’s more, all that is best in the world. And in that moment he finally understands what it is in this world that’s still worth fighting for - it’s her.

He barely touches his lips to her brow and she stirs in his arms, smiles. She sighs his name, wiggling closer and planting a sleepy kiss on his chin.

“Sleep, already,” she snorts, nuzzling her face between his cheek and the pillow.

“Told you I could go once more,” he smirks, stroking her hair.

“Bullshit.” He can't see her smile, but he can feel it spreading wider.

“ Excuse me??? ”

“You heard me. B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!”

He huffs, opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. He’s bluffing. She knows it. And he loves it about her, the way she can just see through him, even in silly things like this.

“Jule?”

“Mphhh what?”

His smile gets cheeky. “Did I… ruin you for other men?”

She snorts again and presses her mouth into the soft spot just below his throat. “Want me to try it with other men and get back to you on that?”

“What??? NO .” Joking or not, he feels a sharp pinch at the base of his spine.

“Then shut the fuck up and let me sleep.” When he just nods and holds her tighter, she sighs and emerges from under his chin. “C’mere,” she whispers, meeting him half way for a mind-bogglingly sweet kiss. “You ruined me for other men before you laid a hand on me, you crazy badass motherfucker.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really . And if you go to sleep now, you can ruin me again tomorrow.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

Chapter Text

July 2016, 9:03PM

Back in his room, Quinn sits alone peacefully, feeling the newly found joy of his liberated life taking over. He lifts his legs, gets comfortable. Propping his back against the pillow on the elevated head of the bed, he grabs his phone.

Carrie answers on the first ring, making his smile grow even wider.

“What took you so long?” she demands right away, although her voice is more relieved than anything else.

The last time they spoke, he’d messaged her that he’d get back to her as soon as possible. That was almost three hours ago. And he knows Carrie all too well to presume she’d stopped wondering for one second why he hadn’t been taking her calls.

“Had to…” what’s the word? “... take out the trash.” He chuckles at the comparison, a vivid image of Dar’s body spattered on the asphalt popping into his mind again. There’s a small pause. He knows Carrie understands he’s not talking literally. “I’ll tell you when we meet,” he adds, when she still doesn’t respond.

He hears her sigh. “Fine,” she quips. “You ok, though? How was PT?”

“No fucking idea. Wasn’t there.”

“Quinn…”

He stops her before she can go into the whole lecture about how he will never get better if he keeps skipping his therapy sessions. “Last time, I promise.”

She huffs in exasperation, then just shakes her head and lets it go. She’s been in his face about neglecting his treatment for weeks now, and she’s not alone. Normally, he just jokes it off or finds an excuse for why he couldn’t make it. It’s gotten worse since Johnny came along. Quinn’s been skipping sessions right and left just to steal another hour with his boy. Everyone knows it and everyone lets him get away with it, because it just melts everybody’s heart seeing the two of them finally getting back the life they were robbed of years ago.

Carrie’s heart melts too. But she’s not letting it slide: he needs the workout, he needs the therapy, both PT and with his psychiatrist. It drives her insane how everyone just refuses to see how important it is. The last thing Quinn needs is his friends being soft on him and indulging his careless disregard of his own health. But she hears him say the word ‘promise’ and she lets it go at once. Quinn is a stubborn menace, true, but if he promises to do something, he’ll do it.

He can hear the clicking of silverware and soft chatter in the background, suddenly realizing it’s late and that he’s caught her having dinner.

“Where are you?” It’s really none of his business, but the words are out before he has a chance to stop himself.

“Prague, actually.” Carrie gives an apologetic smile to her company, motioning to her phone and indicating she’s about to finish the conversation.

Congressman Keane and the head of her presidential campaign wave her off, saying she can take her time, as they are still busy going over the national security brief she’s prepared. Nodding a ‘thank you’, Carrie gets up from the table and, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, walks onto the small balcony, overlooking the beauty of the Old City across the shore of the Vltava river. The sight is breathtaking.

“Prague?” She hears Quinn’s voice.

Carrie smiles, lighting a cigarette and picking up the wine glass she’s carried outside with her. “ I’ll tell you when we meet ,” she says, mocking his words from before. He laughs. She remembers she can’t really tell him why she’s here. “Well, I’ll tell you some things,” she corrects herself.

She wishes he were here. She wants to tell him everything despite being sworn to secrecy. The new offer she just received a few days ago, the honor that comes with it. She’s turned down all offers of going back to the agency. She’ll work nine to five, be there to take Franny to school, be back to spend the rest of the evening with her. She can’t tell him about her involvement with the presidential campaign, but she can’t wait to share her new business plan of founding a law firm taking on cases of Muslim prosecution. She knows he’ll be proud of her. After all, isn’t that what he always wanted for her?

“Secretive,” he remarks, smiling wider.

“It’s not what you think,” she assures him, suddenly realizing he probably assumes it has to do with the agency. It doesn't take her long to recognize why it bothers her - their lives have been drowning in the darkest secrets of this world. And eight weeks ago that darkness almost consumed them both. “Just not the best time. And not over the phone.”

He laughs. “Carrie, it’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“No, I know.” Damn, this is hard. It’s like nothing she says comes out right. “I mean, I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll talk then, alright? You’ll tell me about your three hour long ‘trash’ project, and I’ll tell you… well I’ll tell you some things.”

“Sure. No rush,” followed by a pause a tad too long to be a comfortable silence. Quinn clears his throat. “Carrie?”

“Yeah?”

“It was the right call. Waking me up. I couldn’t have helped you. I really didn’t know anything. But it was the right decision.”

Carrie swallows hard, feeling the blood draining from her face, hot flashes that have nothing to do with the wine she’s drinking rolling all over her.

“Quinn, I…” She stops.

There’s nothing she can say to make this better. She didn’t want to go through with it, but she was ready to let him die. Or worse, end up permanently brain damaged. And what’s even worse, she knows he thinks it was the right choice. But she also knows what d oes bother him, or should bother him: she’s had eight weeks to tell him about it and she never has.

“Carrie.” His voice is soft. So low and tender, wrapping around her name, that she feels the tears welling up. “I wasn’t sure I should bring it up at all. But I felt I needed to.”

Her heart flips and trembles. She’s still getting used to it - him talking . He’s changed over the past month. At first she thought it was the PTSD, the therapy, dealing with what happened to him, recovering from anoxia. But it then it got more intense, especially since he met Johnny - he’s smiling all the time, laughing, joking with her. And talking.

Ever since he started walking entirely on his own, he’s been insisting they take a stroll around the hospital every night she comes to stay with him. She knows about his family now, his childhood, him losing them, about his life with Julia all those years ago. He asks her about Franny, asks to see the pictures Maggie keeps sending, even saves some of them on his own phone. About a week ago he told her that he shatters inside every time he thinks that if he hadn’t disobeyed an order four years ago, Franny might never have existed. And that’s how Carrie learnt the truth about how and why they met. And how much she never knew about all the things in her life that she owes to Quinn.

She remembers Julia’s words, what she said to her after she’d stopped Saul from waking him up. She said she understood their position; that to them, to the Agency, he was an active operative, a possible source of information, means to an end. But that all she herself could see was the man she loved once, the man who had dreams, the father of her child. When Carrie looks at him now, all she can see is the man who’d saved her life, over and over, saved Saul’s life. She sees the man whose integrity had saved the man she loved once. He was never just a means to an end to her . And he is so much more now .

“You still there?” he asks, when she says nothing for some time.

“Yeah. Here.” Carrie wipes her eyes, realizing her voice is strained and breaking.

“Carrie, it was the right choice.”

She lifts her eyes to the sky, taking a deep breath. “You wouldn't have. To me. You would never…”

“You don’t know that. I don’t know that. And it really is besides the point. I’m telling you this, because I want you to stop beating yourself up over it.”

“I’m not.” It’s a lie, and they are both painfully aware of it. She doesn’t even know why she’s lying to him again, or why she feels the need to anymore.

Quinn’s initial response lies somewhere between a sarcastic ‘Right’ and a cynical ‘Fine’. He’s almost dragged into it again, following Carrie down their usual rabbit hole of things left unsaid, unresolved anger.

“You are,” he says instead. “And, Carrie, I don’t want you to. Not over anything that has to do with me.”

Motherfucker . Carrie needs to get back. She’s keeping the woman who might very well be the next President of the United States and her future chief of staff waiting. But she can’t get enough of this, of Quinn, of this sudden change in him, the sound of his voice. He’s always known her. She knows how he feels about her. But it’s never been more out there. And she’s never been this content, definitely not with him calling her on her bullshit like that.

“I’ll try.” It’s the best she can give him right now, but she hopes he can hear the smile in her voice when she says it.

He laughs again. It’s a start. Knowing Carrie, it’s the start of a very long road. But she’ll get there, eventually. Maybe.

“Hey, you wanna have dinner and talk sometime this week?” He figures he might as well ask now. The last time he said they should probably talk was almost three weeks ago. And neither one of them has brought it up since.

“Yeah, ok. When I get back. Maybe a couple of days after that.”

“Sure.”

“Any more exciting plans for the evening? Who’s there? It’s Max’s shift, isn’t it?” Carrie feels herself relaxing again, falling into the familiar routine of the past two months.

“Actually, nobody. Plans for the evening…” He smiles, thinking about it. He does have some unfinished business to take care of, and he’s not going to sleep before he does. “...I need to talk to someone.”

Carrie’s mind works fast. If he knows about their plans to wake him up, he knows why it fell through. “Jules?”

“Yeah.”

“Go easy on her. For your sake. I was there . She’s one scary woman when she’s mad.”

Quinn smiles. He wouldn’t know. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Say hi. I gotta go back. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Quinn’s about to hang up when he remembers something. “Carrie?”

“Yes?”

“You like beer?” he asks out of the blue, and Carrie almost removes the phone from her ear to make sure she’s still talking to Peter Quinn.

“Umm… I’m not a huge fan, but in general… I guess . Why?” There’s still some caution in her tone when she asks.

Quinn rolls his eyes, wondering if it’ll ever change. But he pushes past it once more.

“Find an actual tourist guide and look up Klásterní Pivovar. I think it’s also called Strahov Monastery brewery or something. Best beer I’ve ever had. And order a side of roast sausages in dark beer sauce. Trust me. You’ll thank me.”

Carrie laughs. “I do trust you. Although, this would be the first when it comes to food recommendations . Oh, and also… I’m a vegetarian, Quinn.”

“Fuck. Right ,” he winces. He actually did know that. “I don’t think they have anything remotely vegetarian in there. Not that I remember, anyway. French fries maybe?  But hey, you can always smuggle a sandwich in your purse.”

Carrie snorts: “I’ll let you know if I need tactical support with that one. Ok, gotta go for real now. Night, Quinn.”

They say goodbye, both grinning, both looking at their phones for some time before moving along to the rest of their evening. Both thinking that if this is the new normal, then they should redefine the old weird. But then both figure they’ll just see where it takes them.

Before going back in, knowing she’s just being rude at this point, Carrie snaps a picture of the Old City Prague. Without adding a caption, she sends it over before she loses the nerve.

Quinn looks at it for a long time. Carrie doesn’t know, but Prague has a very special place in his heart. He’s been all over the world in his years with the agency. But Prague was the only city where he didn’t carry a gun, the only vacation he’s ever been on. He still remembers the haze of those three days: the crappy hotel with questionably clean bedsheets and walls so thin that they had to be really quiet at nights, which, on a side note, never stopped them; slow walks during the day, just strolling, holding each other, looking around; kissing with lips frozen in the cold outside; the taste of beer, mulled wine sold on every corner; happiness like nothing he’s ever dared to even dream of since.

9:21PM

Quinn searches for Julia’s number next. But then he stops, smiles and closes the dialer. Before he knows what kind of high school bug bit him, he opens Telegram.

-You free?

The reply makes him laugh out loud.

-For you - never

-Hot date?

Julia looks at the message bubble and wonders if they’ve adjusted his medications again. She glances at her ‘hot date’, snuggled under her arm, his head resting against her chest.

-Yep. The man of my dreams - tall-ish, dark hair, blue eyes, great smile. My usual type

Quinn raises an eyebrow, sliding down in bed and turning to his side.

-I can’t compete with that one, can I? Give him a kiss for me

Compete? She moves her mouth from side to side, wondering where this is going and what’s gotten into him. She leans down and drops a kiss on Johnny’s hair, whispering that it’s from his dad, which makes him smile from ear to ear and cuddle deeper into her embrace.

She types.

-Are you high? And done (for the second part)

-No more than usual, no. And thanks (for the second part)

Okkkkkaaaayyyyy . They both stare at their phones. The contact name on top showing ‘online’ doesn’t change to ‘typing…’ for a while.

-What are you guys doing?

Ok. Easier. Normal.

-Watching BSG

-?

-Battlestar Galactica. Shame on you. You’re a nerd’s father. Another nerd’s best friend. Both say hi btw

-Say hi back. Any good?

-I like it. More than Star Trek. Don’t tell Johnny

Oh, he will.

-I’ll think about it

-You do that. While you’re at it, think about me having a recording of you saying you hate the new Star Wars movies

He’s fucked. His son is probably the only Star Wars fan in the world who thinks episodes one, two and three are the best backstory ever made for a franchise.

-Deal

-God, you’re easy

-I’m not EASY. You’re just a pain in the ass. With evidence against me

-True. And TRUE. And I have more

-I KNOW

-Just saying

-Fine, I won’t tell him. Weren’t you guys watching SD9 or something?

Julia laughs. Yeah, when they get back home he’s gonna have a lifetime worth of homework.

-DS9. As in Deep Space Nine. We’re alternating. Max insists on expanding Astrid’s nerdy education

-Fuck. Am I going to have to watch all that?

-Fuck’s right

Quinn sighs, grinning. He’s just started allowing himself to imagine what life will be like when he gets home. He doesn’t have real plans yet, seeing as it’s only been about an hour since he got back to his room. It’ll take some time. Lots of time, probably. He has a lot of catching up to do. And for Johnny, he will.

-Did you guys eat? Order in or something?

Julia looks at his message and her brow furrows in puzzlement. Is he just making conversation? Is he hungry?

-Nope. I cooked. Mushroom casserole with crust. Remember?

He swallows the excess saliva flooding his mouth. He does. And he also realizes he’s skipped dinner. Before he can type a reply, another message bubble appears.

-Want some?

-Fuck YEAH. You even have to ask?

Julia laughs. It’s not his most favourite, but it’s very close.

-I’ll pack some for Max to bring over

Quinn looks at her message. It’s been a lengthy round of small talk. And high school has been over for decades now. Setting aside the fact that all he wants to do is just keep messaging, dissolving into the best and the warmest feeling he’s had in a long time, he sighs and opens the dialer.

“Fingers get cramped?” Julia laughs. He hears the TV in the background, the volume getting lower as she evidently walks out of the room. He feels bad taking her away from Johnny.

“Can I ask you for something?” spitting out the question before his guilt takes over and he changes his mind. She was here last night, long shift. And it was a bad one. He’s not even sure she’d slept during the day.

“You want me to come over instead of Max?”

God, he’d missed her. And this is why.

“Could you?”

“Sure, silly. But you’ll have to wait until I tuck in my ‘hot date’.” She takes his faint joyful laughter as a ‘yes’. At first she was a little heartbroken seeing him and Johnny together, watching them falling in love with each other, as if the eight and a half years of Johnny’s life never happened. It used to feel bittersweet. Now it’s just sweet.

“I miss him so much, Jule. All the time. He’s just…”

“... fucking incredible? ”

He laughs. “Fucking incredible.”

“He’s your son,” she says softly. He’s YOUR son , he thinks. “I’ll see you soon, alright? Want me to smuggle in anything else?”

“You got any beer there?”

Julia laughs. “What do you think? It’s Astrid’s house. There are like four different kinds in the fridge. Craving any brand in particular?”

He smiles. Astrid. Right. He should have known. “Whichever you prefer.”

She smirks. “So… dinner and drinks?”

“Objections?” He winces, for the first time realizing how it sounds and looks.

“Nope. But I will have to go over your recent meds list.”

Quinn flips to his back. He wants to say something. He wants to keep talking. And he can’t stop grinning like a moron.

“Jule, drive safely, ok?”

“You’re weird . You’re freaking me out! Maybe I’ll send Max instead.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll see you soon.”

Julia hangs up and stares at her phone, still trying to make sense of what just happened. Did anything just happen? She shakes her head and realizes that a smile is still stuck on her face. She rolls her eyes when her phone buzzes again. Of course it’s not over.

-I’ve always been weird. Right?

She considers it, tilting her head from side to side.

-Right. But today earns you an Olympic medal

-Good thing?

-We’ll see

Astrid walks in, opening her fridge door and grabbing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks Julia.

“Um… nothing. I think I’ll go to the hospital tonight instead of Max. Would that be ok? I know it’s two nights in a row. But Max will be here.” She feels bad when she asks them to watch Johnny, despite them telling her repeatedly that it’s the highlight of their day, if not their lives.

Astrid ignores her apologetic silliness and raises an eyebrow. “Huh.”

Julia huffs. “No. No huh . I guess he wants to talk about something.”

Oh, Astrid knows he does. She also knows about what.

“Jules, you’re grinning like a smitten fifteen-year-old.”

“Oh, don’t start again.”

“Why not?” Astrid protests. She won’t be shut down by both of them in one day.

“Because you’re a nag,” Julia laughs, passing her by as she walks back to the living room.

“Well, you’re an idiot ,” Astrid yells after her and takes a large sip from her beer, smiling to herself. “You’re both idiots,” she adds later in a lower voice, basically talking to herself at this point. “And I need to get a hobby.”

10:22PM

The door to his room opens. Quinn puts down his book and takes off his reading glasses, expecting to see Julia. He sees her alright, but not before Johnny flies across the room and crashes into him. Knocked over on his bed, he struggles to sit up and pulls his son onto his lap, laughing and coughing as the two little arms around his neck squeeze just a tad too hard.

Before he has a chance to ask, Julia comes closer and gives him a peck on the cheek, running her fingers through Johnny’s hair.

“Max dropped us off. This little pain in the butt got all jealous that I get to see you two nights in a row, while his royal highness barely got three hours. Max will take him back to Astrid’s once you guys, and I quote, ‘say goodnight properly, like you should every night’ , because, apparently, ‘ it’s not fair that dad can’t tuck him in like I do. So he wants to at least say goodnight’ .”

Quinn puts a palm over his son's head and kisses his forehead. “I agree,” he smiles into the blue glow of Johnny’s eyes.

“Why can’t I stay here with mom?” Johnny asks, tugging on his father’s pajama top.

Quinn holds him tighter. “You know why.”

“Because you get bad dreams?”

“ That . And because I want you to get a good night sleep in a normal bed, so you’re rested enough for tomorrow.”

“For when I come over in the morning?” Johnny beams.

“Yep. I just have one PT session tomorrow and some tests. We can spend most of the day together.”

Johnny nods and sighs, both sad that he has to go and excited about the prospect of tomorrow. He tucks his face under his father’s chin and inhales deeply. He needs just a little longer. Quinn’s fingers softly tickle the back of his neck.

“Done sniffing me?”

Johnny draws another lungful and shakes his head. He’ll never be done. He wants to go home taking his father with him, as much as he can, anything he can. Quinn laughs, then closes his eyes. Because that’s what he can never have enough of - his child needing him this much.

Johnny stretches his slim arms around his father’s torso, throwing his head back so that he can look at him. He’s so close now that in order to do this his chin is on Quinn’s chest. He’s whispering every kind of goodnight wish he’s ever heard, and some that he just made up on his way over, including all kinds of ideas for the dreams he wants his father to have instead of his bad ones. Quinn’s face is a mere inch from his son’s, his smile frozen from fighting back tears, knowing if he moves one facial muscle he’ll break. He cradles his child's head in the palm of his hand, thinking how it all fits in there, and he knows he can never have a dream more beautiful than this one. He’s in love with every eyelash around those kind blue eyes, with every tiny freckle on this little nose, with every finger and every toe of his boy. He’s loved him and missed him every day of the last eight and a half years. And he’s the only dream in his life that ever came true.

“I love you,” he whispers, hiding his face in his son’s hair. “So damn much.”

Johnny snorts a happy giggle. “Love you too, Dad.”

The knot in Julia’s throat makes it hard to breathe. In the four years they were together they’d never said those words to each other. They’d loved each other every minute of every day. And they laughed about never saying it, never needing to. Johnny and Peter say it to each other on a nearly hourly basis. And it never seems to lose its meaning.

She looks at the father of her child holding their son, wishing him goodnight, unable to release him from his arms, and she wonders why that was, why the two of them never felt the need to just say it. Because she does now. For a whole bunch of different reasons and despite many reasons why she never will. Busying herself with unpacking the food and the drinks unto the table, she smiles: she’s loved this man since she was twenty four years old, in many ways she never stopped, and probably never will.

She’ll never get the complexity of his feelings for Carrie, nor hers for him, for that matter. But then, she’s not meant to. All she wants is for the two motherfuckers to take their heads out of their asses and own up to what they mean for each other. She wants both of them in her life and she wants them together. There’s a weird pinch right under her ribcage when she imagines that. It sends waves of unfamiliar sensation to the very pit of her stomach, making something inside of her squirm and twitch. Taking a deep breath, Julia just pushes it away.

Max comes to take Johnny home, and they both say goodnight. Julia’s back is still to Quinn as she’s waving them goodbye, when she feels his hands on her upper arms softly turning her around. Before she gets a chance to realize what’s happening, he draws her in and holds her so tight that for a moment she can’t breathe.

“Hey.” Concerned, she looks up. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head and presses her face back into his chest, keeping his hand on top of it. She can feel him breathing into her hair, loud and labored.

“Jules, you stubborn silly moron…” He’s shaking.

“Peter, what happened?”

He exhales loudly, muffling a bitter chuckle. “ You happened, you idiot. You and your fucking dumb stunt, taking on the CIA to save my sorry ass.”

Julia sighs with relief and laughs, lifting her head and looking at him. “Oh… that .” For a moment she wonders if she should feel like she’s been busted. Because she doesn't. The truth is, she hasn’t thought about that day in a long time, as if it happened a lifetime ago.

He’s not laughing, not even smiling. “Don’t you ever do anything like that ever again.”

She shrugs her shoulder. “Why not? You would. For me, for Carrie, for anyone . Go ahead, try to tell me I’m wrong.” She squints her eyes, giving him a daring stare.

Quinn thinks about Carrie making the same point. About how he responded, suggesting it wasn’t so clear. Did he just say that to put her mind at ease? Did it work? He knows with Julia it wouldn’t, not in a million years. She’d throw her usual ‘bullshit’ at him and laugh in his face. And she’d be right.

But that’s not the point, is it? He presses his lips to her forehead, feeling himself go numb all over. Just thinking about what she’s done, the repercussions of it, makes him sick again. He’s both grateful to her, more so than he could ever tell her, and terrified to the point of wanting to shake her and scream at her until she understands how little his life would mean to him if anything happened to her or Johnny.

“You’re stupid,” he whispers, gathering her into his arms again, feeling and knowing that he’s not enough to shield her. “You’re so goddamn stupid and crazy. And I fucking don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.” He feels the smile spreading over her face and he knows what’s coming. Julia can’t take sentimental moments without making some silly joke. He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare, Jule. Not now,” he warns her.

He’s so shook up, that she bites her tongue for once and just lets him hold her. He keeps whispering to her. After a while it becomes nothing more than a scrambled mess of words that he seems unable to stop. Julia is trying to make sense of it all, at least some of it - it’s something she used to do when he’d get like this in the past. Sometimes, he’d just become too emotional and his ability to express himself would shut down, leaving bits and pieces of whatever overwhelmed him. She used to adore it. And now she does again. That is until she finally manages to make out what he’s trying to say - that it’s his fault, that he should have let her go, live her life, stay away like he planned to. Her head snaps from under his hand, and her eyes bore into his.

“I swear to God, Peter, you say that to me again and I’ll fucking kill you myself,” she hisses without a hint of a smile.

He’s taken aback at first, startled by the fierceness in her voice, the sudden change in her expression. “I never wanted this for you,” he tries to explain what he meant.

“Yeah, well, guess what? I never wanted this for you . Any of this. For years, all those years, every time I would think you’re out there, still going from one mission to another, coming home… not even home , probably… some crappy motel room… alone . Going through what I watched you go through, but on your own… It would break me. Every single time . The letters you sent? Asking for Johnny’s pictures? They were the only way I knew you were still alive. I never changed my address or my phone number, and it wasn’t because you couldn’t let me go. It was because I couldn’t live with the thought of you needing someone one day and not being able to find me.”

“Jules, I didn’t mean…”

She interrupts him, her voice getting even harsher. “But you did . You think you can take it and nobody else should have to. Well guess what? You’re not the only one willing to put everything on the line for people you care about. And guess what else ? Being on the receiving end of it sucks . All this time I had to live knowing what you gave up for me and Johnny to have our lives. For years , Peter. So, suck it up . You get to live knowing somebody risked their life to save yours for once.”

He feels the smile creeping in, wondering if she’s going to break something on his head if he laughs now, but he can’t help it.

“So… that was… revenge?” He winces, ready for her to punch him.

Julia takes a lungful of air, her eyes opening wide, her expression a mix of awe and disbelief. She could strangle him now for turning it into a joke like that. But then, she knows the feeling. She wrote the book on dodging emotionally overwhelming moments by laughing them off. She swears under her breath and deflates with a loud wheezing sound.

“Yeah, you dumbass, that was revenge ,” she says in a softer voice. “And you never answered my question. Actually, you know what? Don’t bother . I know you would have done the same for me, for anyone . And you did . Every day for the last fifteen years. You wanna think that your life’s not worth shit, you go ahead and do that. But leave me out of it. And while you’re at it, take your fucking head out of your ass, and look around. You’re surrounded by people who love you, who would dread losing you. Stop trying to die for them and try living for them.”

She’s trying to stop her thoughts from scattering all over the place, losing any logical order in the face of everything she’s feeling right now. She looks straight at him.

“They were right, you know? It was the right thing. To wake you up. And I know you would have wanted them to. Carrie… she looked like she was dying inside in that room. But she knew it had to be done. And she was so brave. And I was…” her voice breaks. “... selfish. I didn’t care about what you wanted or how many lives it would save. All I could think about was that I couldn’t stand by and watch anymore, what that world did to you. And that you had a son, who hadn’t even met you, but whose whole world revolved around how much he worshiped you. He’d just lost you and found out you were alive again. When we were on that plane, on our way over here, all I could feel was…” She keeps talking but nothing can get past her tear-shut throat anymore.

“Jules… Jules …” Quinn presses a hand to her mouth. All he can see now are her teary eyes, blinking at him with everything else she wanted to say, everything she’s feeling, all she’s been through. “I know. I know . I shouldn’t have said that. Oh Jesus...” He pulls her back against him.

It’s the first time he actually stops to think about it, to imagine what she must have felt, watching him die on TV, grabbing Johnny and flying here, thinking she was going to bury him. Even the thought of how he would have felt if the roles were reversed makes him see black, his heart bursting into pieces in his chest.

She quiets down in his arms. Her breathing becomes slower, calmer. He’s stroking her head, overwhelmed by the tenderness of his own touch. In his head, to this day, she’s everything that’s still good and pure about this world. Years after leaving her, he’d remind himself of that, when he’d forget what it was that he was still fighting for. He didn’t just want to have a family, to have children - he wanted to have her children. He wanted to be surrounded by her and parts of her for the rest of his life. Because he didn’t just love her, he admired her. Every day, she astounded him, with her blunt honesty and her simple way of finding beauty and something worthy of her love in almost everything and everyone.

Eight weeks ago wasn't the first time she'd saved him. She’d done it for years, over and over. And she’d done it again today, just hours ago, when she’d given him the strength to finally walk away from a life that had become nothing but a prelude to an inevitable death.

He leans his head down, so he can reach her ear. He’d forgotten how small she was, how fragile.

“Yes, Jules, I would. Do the same for you,” he finally answers her question in a soft whisper. “And shut up . You’re the least selfish person I know. And I’m the luckiest dumbass alive for having you in my life. You and Johnny both.”

Julia smiles. “You’re forgiven. For now .”

“Bullshit,” he laughs.

“Say what?”

He smirks. “You were never really mad at me.”

“Well, I am now . For using my ‘bullshit’ against me.”

He wrinkles his nose, the same way she usually does, trying to imitate her voice even harder. “ Bullshit .”

Julia sighs - there’s no winning when he gets like this, she knows. She gives up. “Fine. Fine . I’m not mad at you. But for the record, next time , saying ‘thanks for saving my sorry ass’ is enough.”

“Got it,” he starts, then grabs her chin and makes her look at him. “ Next time??? No next time ! You’re not pulling this crap again. EVER. Promise me. Right now.”

She gives him a defiant stare. “I ain’t promising you shit, you crazy badass motherfucker. But tell you what - you stop dying or being in a coma, and you got yourself a deal.”

“Actually…” He reaches over to the table, grabs two bottles of beer, popping both open and handing her one. “That’s the plan.”

“The plan …” Julia squints her eyes. “You have a plan that involves no longer d ying ?”

He clicks the neck of his bottle to hers, one arm still around her. “Yep.”

“I like it. Is there more to it? Care to share?”

“Depends. You free tonight?”

She winks. “For you - never. Spill already.”

Quinn shakes his head at her. The half circle of his arm around her waist tightens fast and she gasps when he just picks her up with one hand, carries her to the armchair and lowers her in.

“Sit and be quiet.” Before moving away, he drops one last kiss on the top of her head. Then picks up the box with the casserole and jumps on his bed, crossing his legs underneath him and popping the lid open. “I can spill and eat, right?”

He tells her everything - starting from what he learnt from Dr Emory and ending with him confronting Dar Adal and almost shoving him off the 11th floor. He’s always been honest with her, but never this completely forthcoming. There were many things that he wanted to tell her but never could. Having her here, now, telling her not just how it all went down, but also everything he can remember thinking and feeling, even the darkest of his thoughts and realizations, feels like stumbling upon a creek in a desert. He keeps going back and forth, remembering and adding more, words just spilling out of him in an endless stream, as if a dam has been breached somewhere.

When he’s done talking, he looks at Julia. He’s not sure what he expects her to say, or if he even wants her to say anything . She’s as pale as the walls of his hospital room, her eyes teary. She gets up, walks over and sits on the edge of his bed, tucking one leg underneath her.

“And I’m the stupid one…” she mutters, slightly admonishing, stroking his back as he turns to his side, forming half a circle around her. “You almost shoved the head of Special Ops to his death and threw yourself down with him, and I’m supposed to be the moron.”

“Ah. But I didn’t .” He tries to cheer her up.

“Johnny it’s not even remotely funny. And it’s not a competition in silliness, either.”

“But it could be.” He scoots down a little and wraps an arm around her folded leg, pressing the side of his head to her knee. An impish smile crawls from the corners of his eyes all the way to his mouth. “You just called me Johnny, again. I could never figure it out.”

“Figure out what?”

“When you would call me what and why. Even before I left, you used to call me Johnny, Peter, Quinn, crazy badass motherfucker. I never figured out which name meant what.”

She smiles, putting a hand over his head. “You know… I don’t think there was ever a particular rhyme or reason to any of it. Well, except for the ‘crazy badass motherfucker’. That’s just who you are, silly, face it.” She tickles his neck and laughs when he traps her fingers between his jaw and his shoulder.

Quinn nods absentmindedly. For a while he just lies there, his body curled around her, his fingers aimlessly scratching her shin and drawing lines, dots, letters and geometric shapes on the sleeve of her pants. Gradually, the contented smile fades and he looks up at her face.

“Jule?” She arches both eyebrows in a ‘what?’. “What I said… about why I didn’t kill Dar…” He stares deeply into her eyes. “We never talked about it, you and I.”

Julia sighs, sliding her hand under his palm on her leg and waiting for his fingers to close around it. “Are you asking me if I knew what your work involved? Of course I did.”

“No, I know that . That’s not what I meant.”

“What then?”

He tries to swallow, his throat dry from the feeling of dread. “Was that what you thought of me? Even when we were together? Was that who you thought I was? What I was?” He can’t even bring himself to say it.

She recalls what he told her about his last minutes with Dar, and her face twitches. “A killer ??? Are you asking if I thought the man I was in love with, planned to have a family with, had a child with, was nothing but a killer ?”

“No…” When she puts it like that, it knocks off a thousand-pound rock weighing down on his heart. He drags her hand closer to his face and kisses the back of her wrist. “But you did use it against Dar, right?”

Julia’s eyes narrow. “So?”

“So… you did? Or…?”

“Yeah, I did. Wouldn’t you ?”

Confused, Quinn furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean - Dar knew what you were capable of. He was the one who trained you. He was your handler. He knew how protective you were of me and Johnny an d that you would kill him for hurting me, us , be that eight years ago or twenty. So I used it.”

He nods, slowly wrapping his mind around it. Julia is a cop. She knows how to use what she has on people to get what she needs, what she needs them to do. That’s what she did with Dar. Dar already knew what he was capable of. That was explanation enough. Or was it?

“But you knew that too, Jules. That I would kill him if I found out.”

She sighs. “Peter, spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“What you really want to ask. What really bothers you. Because I hope you don’t think I lived with you, slept next to you for four years, and didn’t know what you were capable of doing to someone who’d hurt the people you loved.”

“Jules…” He averts his eyes and turns his head, until his face is nuzzled between her kneecap and the mattress.

“Nononononono…” Julia snorts, sliding her hand into his hair and tugging on it until he emerges again. “You asked. You can’t take it back now. Look, obviously it bothers you.”

Quinn draws her hand closer again and presses it to the side of his face. She’s right - he knows what he really wants to ask. But he’s not sure he can deal with the answer.

He slowly lifts his eyes to her face. His voice is strangled and barely audible when he finally speaks. “Were you afraid of me? Are you now? For you? For Johnny?”

The silence that follows is like a dark, bottomless pit. It’s hollow, but not empty.

For Julia, the silence is filled with words she once thought she’d never have to give voice to, something she thought was mutually understood. Now those words are staring back at her, laughing. Because they weren’t just young and naive, were they? They were fools. They thought they could stay in their little bubble forever, him thinking he could spare her the pain of finding out what his world was really like, her thinking that loving him was enough to one day make it all go away. She’s not foolish enough to believe that talking about it back then would have changed the outcome. But maybe it would have made them face it sooner, be prepared. Maybe they wouldn’t have been caught with their guard down when his life finally caught up with them, leaving her beaten within an inch of her life, and driving them deeper into what he was trying to escape.

For Quinn, the silence is filled with the sense of finality that comes with knowing he’s just thrown himself on the sword of his worst fear. He'd given up his life time and time again to protect and to serve, only to now realize that he might have been a menace to those he cared about most. They were never safe with him, from him. He’s not even sure if they are now. Any of them. There was never this world and that world. There was never a line separating what he did from what he was, because he’d let the one seep into the other. And he’d watched the people he loved pay the price.

Julia feels his fingers tighten around her hand. “You don’t have to answer.”

But she does. She should have all those years ago. She should have made him face it, deal with it. Because it was never so much a question of being afraid of him, but afraid for him.

She frees her hand from his and places it on top of his head, then bends down and presses her lips to his temple.

“No,” she whispers, softly but firmly. And the conviction with which she says it leaves no doubt in his mind as to how serious she is. “Not then, not now, not for me and not for Johnny. Never.”

The gust of air escaping his mouth comes out with a muffled sob. She’s waiting for him to nod. When he finally does, she sits back up. She slides her hand back into his palm, squeezing hard. Quinn nods again, feeling the lump in his throat getting denser.

“You thought about it, though.”

“I did,” Julia admits. “Many times. I knew what you did. I knew what it took . The things you screamed in your sleep, your nightmares… I still have chills when I remember them. The way you’d fight me off when I’d try to calm you down… there was so much rage that you kept bottled up. Did I wonder if you were capable of harming me, our children, if that rage were to come unleashed? Yeah, I did. But every time I asked myself that question, I just knew the answer - you could never hurt me. Or Johnny. Or anyone you cared about.”

Quinn looks up, trying to smile, but feeling the corners of his mouth curling down instead. He believes her. And he knows she believes it. But she’s wrong. Because she doesn’t know how far it went. He was never completely honest with her. It wasn’t just what he did when he was away on missions, and it wasn’t just in his dreams that his rage would tear through him. And now, as if Pandora’s box of his life has been yanked open now, he knows he can’t close it until all the truth is out. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. But then, the reason he never told her wasn’t because he was afraid she’d report him.

“I didn’t just kill ‘on the books’, Jule.”

He looks at her, both terrified and exhilarated. If she reports him, if she gets up and leaves, he can live with it. And maybe there’s a part of him wants her to. He expects her expression to change, the soft glow in her eyes to be replaced with horror, condemnation, disgust. But it doesn’t. Instead, they fill with tears. Julia blinks them away and looks down at him, nodding slowly.

“I know, Peter.”

His eyes widen and his breath hitches. Cold shivers run up and down his spine, but only for a moment. Because then it all comes crashing down. She’s always known, all those years. He never told her because he wanted to spare her being torn between him and her oath. But she’d made that choice long ago.

And it turns out she wasn’t alone.

Julia tells him about the cold case investigation Stevenson was running into his parent’s murder. How Andrew had reopened it the day after he’d told her about their deaths. She also tells him how on the night he’d come home and told her he’d changed his name, she’d realized they would never find the shooters. And she knew why.

When she tells him about being summoned to ID her attacker, he goes numb with horror all over. And it’s not about her signing a false statement, not that Stevenson knew it and backed her up. It’s what she tells him she felt while standing in the medical examiner's office that shatters him: how all she could see was the pain he was left to live with, the rage, the loneliness; how she wanted to find him, hold him again, tell him she won’t let this world destroy what’s left of him. She’s right, and he feels that same rage flooding every cell of his body again, remembering how he felt when he finally found the man who attacked her. Julia’s words ring in his ears: a crushed finger for every crushed dream . That’s what it was, what he did, why he did it. She was right to feel that he perished along with that man. In a way, he’d always known it - that was the day he really died, shedded the last of his hopes, left behind the last of his dreams.

He looks at her, sitting on his bed, holding his hand and telling him all this - she’s calm, rational, resolute. Was he ever the one who protected her ?

As if reading his mind, Julia gives him a sad half smile. “Peter, I was in love with you, b ut I wasn’t stupid . And I definitely wasn’t suicidal. If I thought, even for a moment, that you were capable of hurting me, our future children, I would have left. And I certainly wouldn’t be here today, bringing Johnny back into your life.”

Quinn looks up, still bewildered, shaking his head. How can she be so sure? He’s not even sure himself.

“Jules, the shooters from the diner… Today , I probably wouldn’t have killed them - I would’ve turned them in. But that guy.. The guy who beat you…” his vision goes black. “I would . Even today. I would probably do worse .”

“And that proves what, exactly? You asked me if I was ever afraid of you. The answer is no. And I hope you know better than to assume I’d lie to you about something like that.”

He says nothing, just lying there, holding her hand, staring into an invisible point on the opposite wall. When Julia chuckles all of a sudden and scratches the inside of his palm to get his attention, he shifts his eyes to her face and gives her a quizzical, almost admonishing stare.

“You know what Johnny’s favourite book is, right?” she asks, smiling wider.

Easy. It was one of the first things Johnny ever told him, that same morning, after waking up in his arms in Julia’s hospital room, while brushing his teeth. “You ever read the ‘I, Robot’ collection?” he asked, slurring adorably around the toothbrush in his mouth. Quinn said yes, a long time ago, when he was about Johnny’s age, maybe a little older. He used to be a sucker for sci-fi growing up. Azimov in particular. Beaming, Johnny had informed him then that it was his favourite book to date. And, while waiting for Max and watching Julia sleep, snuggling back into the hospital armchair, that was the first real conversation they ever had.

Quinn swears under his breath, beginning to see where she’s going with this, and lifts a finger to her face.

“ Fuck no, Jules! You’re not applying the three laws of robotics to me.”

“Ah, but I am .” Julia is laughing now, even more amused with the thought. That , and seeing him thaw at the mere thought of his son. “ And it’s just the one law, really. The first one. You’d tear yourself apart before you’d lay one finger on me, or Johnny, or anyone you love. You’re wired like that.”

He grins, shaking his head. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. He’s not particularly thrilled about being compared to a robot, but he can’t argue with the logic. And he knows it’s the truth. He can be a volatile raging fireball, but he would burn inwards until he’s nothing but a pile of ashes before he’d let it touch anyone he loves.

He lifts his eyes to her smiling face and releases the breath he's been holding all this time. The sudden wave of relief and joy is so powerful, that he barely stops himself from knocking her down on the bed, laughing and kissing her, feeling her close to him. But mostly, being that man again, being Johnny, happy and silly, forgetting about the ugliness of his reality, loving this life, this world , despite everything he’s seen and done, just for having her in it.

And then he gasps, very softly, because he sees her lowering her eyes, looking away, blushing under his intense stare. He sees her chest rise and fall heavily, and, like all those years ago, he feels his toes curling, every inch of him tingling and burning.

“Fuck, Jules…” he whispers, tugging on her hand, trying to pull her closer.

Julia takes a deep breath and manages a carefree smile. “Time to sleep.” She stretches up and turns off the lamp above his bed. She gets up to move back to her armchair, but he doesn’t release her hand. “C’mon, Peter. It’s past two AM. You might as well start your new life well rested. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t object when she adjusts his pillow and monitor wires, tucking him in. Reluctantly, he lets go of her hand. What was he thinking? It’s been eight and a half years. She’s not here because she doesn’t have a life of her own, she’s made that clear. She’s here because that’s who she is, what she’s always been to him. He’ll be released in a week or two, go back home. And so will she. Things will be different, he’ll see her all the time, when he comes to pick up Johnny. She’ll always care about him, he knows that now. In many ways, he’s always known that. Julia is like a Marine - she leaves no man behind. But it ends there. They’ve both lost what they had many years ago. And there’s no going back.

“Can you just stay a bit? Sit with me?” He’s thankful for the room being pitch dark. He can control his voice, but he can’t stop the tears from streaming down his face.

“Sure.”

He can feel her next to him again, her hand rubbing his back. He turns to his side and wraps his body in half a circle around her.

“Peter,” she says, following a long silence.

“Mmm?”

Julia’s hand finds his face and he can feel her wiping his tears. He lets her. He never really fooled himself into thinking she wouldn’t know he was crying.

“I was never afraid of you, it’s true, even knowing what you were capable of. That doesn’t mean it didn’t bother me. It still does. I watched you slowly dying inside, bits of you lost after every mission. You did kill all those people. And you’re still thinking about killing the man who attacked me all over again.”

He nods. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe now that you’re thinking about getting out, starting a new life… well, it’s something you should probably work on. I think it’s always been your go-to response: someone hurts the people you love, you hurt them back, even kill them. And you have the means to make it happen. For what it’s worth, I think it’s wrong. And I think you’re killing yourself in the process. And I don’t want to see you do that to yourself, ever again.”

He just lies there, saying nothing, for a long time, but she can feel the tears on his lips, as his mouth leaves trails of soft lingering kisses along her fingers before finally stopping inside her palm.

“I love you,” he whispers.

He just says it. Maybe because it’s what he’s been wanting to say all along, ever since he messaged her and asked her to come over. Maybe because he never really stopped loving her, not in the way that matters. He’s not sure if she said anything in return, or if she even heard him. And he’s not expecting her to say anything in response. But it’s the last thing in his Pandora’s box. And now that it’s out, now that it’s all out, there might finally be a chance for hope. For a new life. With or without her, he doesn’t know, and, in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Soon enough his mind is a rollercoaster, rising and falling, a kaleidoscope, images coming into his line of sight and fading away again. As he drifts off, the last thing he remembers is falling asleep almost ten years ago, having just changed his name, fooling himself into believing that now he would be able to put the past behind him. But it really isn’t about rewriting your story, righting a wrong. You have to face and accept your past to move forward. And it’s not about losing and finding the people in your life, how they make you feel, what they think of you. In the end, it should probably be about holding onto yourself, your entire self. And, for the first time since he was sixteen years old, he dares to think that maybe, just maybe, he can.

Chapter Text

The following day, aka Day One, 09:45

Even before Quinn opens his eyes the following morning, the events of last night come like a waterfall, washing over him, sorrow mixing with joy. Day one , he thinks, and just like that he’s tingling with anticipation and wistfulness. I’m just gonna fuck it up again, aren’t I? he thinks next, almost expecting to picture all of his new found hopes crumbling down and turning to ashes, but finding himself even more thrilled at the mere thought of a challenge.

His eyelids feel puffy, throbbing. He doesn’t remember the last time he cried himself to sleep. Or the last time he wanted to, but couldn’t. He’s still curled on his side, but the place next to him is empty, and so is his hand. He figures Julia went back to sleep in the armchair once he dozed off. He’s trying to recall if he had any nightmares last night. Usually he can remember, at least some. But no, there’s nothing now. Did he just sleep through the night?

He finally opens his eyes, expecting to see Julia still sleeping. She’s not there. Instead, he sees Astrid in the armchair with Johnny cuddled at her side, their heads close together as they appear to be watching something on Astrid’s iPad, each wearing one earbud of the same set of earphones.

Quinn smiles, careful not to move, stealing a moment to just look at them. He’s wondering how long he slept - Astrid never gets here before nine o’clock.

Johnny sees him awake first. His smile lights up the room brighter than the glow of the morning sun. Quinn barely has time to open his arms, and his son is already on the bed, throwing himself into his embrace. Knocked onto his back, he laughs with more delight and joy than he can remember feeling in a long time. He gathers Johnny on top of himself, tickling him mercilessly and messing up his hair.

“Mine. All mine ,” he growls, drawing an even tighter circle around the squirming and giggling happiness on top of his chest, scooping every bit of him as close as he can. Because he is . The only thing in the world that truly is his , a part of him, something he can never - will never - lose again.

Breathless from shrieking and giggling, Johnny just nods, his head moving up and down, trapped between his father’s body and his palm. And he can feel the tremble of his father’s delighted laughter, sending new waves of elation all over him. He crawls higher up for a wrinkled nose rub. It’s a family trait, he knows now. He’s not sure who started it, or when. But that’s what they all seem to do when they are this happy.

Leaving one hand on Johnny’s head, Quinn releases his grip around him and bends his other arm behind his own neck, smiling as he watches Johnny lift himself on his elbows, prop his chin between his palms and bend his knees, swinging his feet in the air. Day one , he thinks again. And somehow, the weight of his son’s body on top of his chest makes everything inside of it feel even lighter.

“Morning, snuggle-bug,” he snickers.

Johnny smirks and snorts a little at his new nickname, “Morning, Dad.” For a while they just stare at each other, blue into blue. Then Johnny tilts his head sideways, grinning wider. “Ready for breakfast? You should go wash up and brush your teeth. ‘Cause mom packed a whole box for you.”

“Did she now?” He doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t care. Just the memory of nearly licking the mushroom casserole box last night makes his mouth water so hard that he needs to swallow.

Johnny nods vigorously. “Yep. She says it’s your favourite. Mine, too, by the way.”

Quinn’s stomach makes a loud and happy purring sound. He only has one favourite. For years he’s been ordering it in every diner and coffee shop he stepped foot in on every continent. He even attempted to make it himself once. Nothing ever came close. Julia makes the best french toast in the world. And he’ll punch anyone who dares to claim otherwise.

Sensing his father being torn between him and his breakfast, Johnny slides off of him and nudges him to get up. That does it. Within seconds Quinn is on his feet, unplugging the monitor wires and nearly sprinting towards the bathroom. He stops in his tracks twice: once - to drop a loud good morning kiss on the top of Astrid’s head, and the second time - to snatch the note glued to the lid of a huge plastic box on the table.

He shakes his head and laughs: “Happy first day of the rest of your life, silly. The maple syrup is in Johnny’s bag.”

That settles it: day one - perfect.

11:43

Once the doctors rounds are over, Quinn is sent to have another echocardiography, then another stress test. He’s given good news on both and is told that he’ll most likely be released by the end of next week.

Johnny, who’s been tugging along everywhere his father went, is jumping with excitement at the prospect of the both of them finally going home. He can’t wait to show him his room, his comic book collection, all of his posters and action figures, all of his favorite movies and series, his school, his grades charts - everything. Astrid promises to come and visit as well, which makes it even better! And he knows Max and Carrie live just about two hours away, so, despite being a little sad to leave here, he’s mostly excited to move his newly found weird family back home.

After leaving the Heart Institute, they stop by Neurology, where Quinn has another nerve conduction study. He doesn’t need to see the results to know that his peripheral neuropathy is as good as gone. To prove it, he walks in carrying Johnny under his left arm. The neurologist raises an eyebrow, smiles, says ‘nice try’, but sticks the probes into his forearm muscles nevertheless.

His Ophthalmologist is the only one who seems to be concerned, and with good reason. Not only is his eyesight not improving, it’s actually getting worse. He might need to wear glasses or contacts all the time soon. The worst part of it is that no one really knows why it’s happening and whether the deterioration will stop. The prospect of ending up blind sends chills down Quinn’s spine. He hopes Johnny doesn’t understand what his doctor is saying, wearing all kinds of funny test glasses to try to distract him. They also take selfies on Johnny’s phone and send them to the new whatsapp group that Carrie started about two weeks ago.

It was originally called “The Gang”. But that didn’t last long. Within two hours Max had it renamed to “The Fellowship”, which brought on a long and enthusiastic discussion about The Lord of The Rings, initiated by Quinn and involving pretty much everyone except Carrie who, apparently, hadn’t even watched the movies. The next day the name was changed to “The Obsidian Order” which, in turn, had to be explained to both Carrie and Quinn, who never watched Star Trek. Seeing how the Obsidian Order was the Cardassian CIA, it almost stuck. In the end, though, they settled on “The High Council”, Johnny’s idea this time, omitting the Klingon part which, despite being Star Trek as well, just sounded nice to everyone.

As they are on their way to the park to meet Astrid, they receive a picture of Carrie with a pint in her hand, shining glow in her eyes and a smile that could blind a man with healthy eyesight. The caption says “Wish you were all here. Quinn, best beer in the world indeed. Thanks. Btw, won’t be back to Germany till the day after tomorrow. Sorry. Unexpected delays.” Quinn feels a wave of sadness rolling over him. He’s been looking forward to their regular stroll around the hospital tonight. He has so much he wants to tell her. And he’s more than a little curious about her sudden mysterious adventures in Prague.

His PT session has been pushed to the late afternoon, which suits everyone just fine. They find Astrid at one of the tables in the park and gather around for a game of Go Fish. It’s a beautiful sunny day, not too hot. The cool summer breeze is a welcome distraction from the troubling news about his eyesight. Soon enough Quinn is laughing again, plunging back into the happy oblivion of Day one .

He tells Johnny and Astrid about the recent development, deliberately omitting the part about confronting Dar and basically everything surrounding it. But he tells them that once he’s released from the hospital, he’s going home. For good.

The only thing Quinn knows about what that means at this point is that home will be in Philly. Because this is where Johnny is. And he intends to build his life around his son’s. He’ll need to get a job, maybe go back to school, finish his pre-graduate degree, then maybe continue for more. He’s still not sure where and what he’ll study. But he has an idea. After all, he had that same idea since he was fourteen years old. For a moment, he wonders if there is such a thing as a blind engineer, but immediately pushes that thought to the back of his head. He’ll cross that bridge if and when he gets there. And, looking at Astrid and Johnny, thinking about Carrie, Max and Julia, for the first time in his life he knows he won’t be crossing it alone.

Apparently, deliberating about the many jobs he can do as a civilian can be tons of fun. Because soon enough, having forsaken the game, Astrid and Johnny do just that, laughing until they both get hiccups, making up stories to come with each job they have in mind. They usually end with him snapping and shooting someone or blowing something up. Or uncovering a conspiracy leading to everyone at his workplace getting arrested for their involvement with a terrorist cell. Quinn just shakes his head at them, squints his eyes and laughs. They are not wrong. And he really has no idea what he will do when he’s out.

Day one - getting a little scary.

14:27

They are about to leave the park and head to the hospital cafeteria to have lunch, when Julia and Max surprise them with an unannounced visit, carrying a picnic basket. Neatly packed in German casserole dishes to keep warm, there’s a full lunch for everyone - fish and chips this time. Jumping in excitement with their stomachs gurgling in delightful anticipation, they all crowd around a single table.

Taking out a plastic box containing what appears to be a cut watermelon, Julia turns to Quinn. “Should I put it on the table now, or…?”

“Nah, we’ll serve it later.” He pulls on her hand until she’s sitting next to him.

“Fine. I just hope it’s still cold enough. Too hot outside.”

“Stop freaking out and eat,” Quinn laughs, taking on the job of filling everyone’s plates. He steals a piece of fish, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth, and collapses against the back of the bench. “Goddamn you, Jule. And I’m supposed to eat hospital food again after this?”

Johnny giggles. “Mom’s cooking is the best.”

“I remember .”

The truth is, she wasn’t always a good cook. In fact, when they first met, she couldn’t even make scrambled eggs. Soon enough he learnt that she was a tomboy who never stepped foot in her mother’s kitchen, systematically and deliberately skipping every single home ec class in her catholic school, and, in general, not able to be bothered with household chores. For the first week all they ate were his grilled cheese sandwiches and the occasional takeout. His first mission lasted almost a month. By the time he came back, Julia had thrown herself into turning their new apartment into a home with all the stubbornness and determination she had in her.

He was always a messy roommate, and the constant chaos never bothered her. But the place had to be sparkling clean. He remembers telling her not to worry about it, that he didn’t give a fuck about being fed three meals a day or having a bathroom so clean that you could operate on the floor. But after awhile, he stopped. Because he realized that it was the only thing keeping her sane when he was gone. It made her happy - feeding him, taking care of his clothes, of their home. She always had boxes of food in the freezer, ready for him to take when he’d be called away. He’d share it with his buddies in the group, and by the first night it would usually be all gone. He never minded being called the luckiest asshole in the bunch. Because he was.

“Sleep ok?” He hears Julia’s voice next to him, yanking him from the memory lane back into the present.

Johnny has wedged himself between Max and Astrid, chatting them both up about something called Rogue One.The most Quinn can gather is that it’s Star Wars, a story, according to Johnny, based solely on a single phrase from New Hope. Those are his son’s favorite topics of conversation: how someone can take one moment, one thought, and build a dream on top of it. And it fits too. Because this is what Johnny is - a dream, born out of his parents’ being young and delusional enough to believe they could beat the odds.

Not everyone’s fit to be a parent , Quinn hears his own voice in his head. He watches Johnny climb onto Max’s knee, flushed with excitement, eyes shining with delight at having found a kindred soul who seems to share all of his passions, and he feels the empty space between his own arms produce a pain that’s nearly physical. He misses his boy even when he’s sitting right across the table. Because he is a parent. He has to be. Even if his attempt at this new life ends up going up in smoke, he can’t fail at this .