Chapter Text
The first time she finds out about the letter is at the funeral of one of Quinn's colleagues, when a young man with cropped brown hair approaches them and shakes Quinn's hand. They make small talk for a few minutes before Quinn catches her by the elbow.
"This is James" he introduces her, "He was in my special ops team, back in the day."
"You must be Carrie" says James, and shakes her hand firmly, "It's great to meet you."
Carrie looks between them, nonplussed.
"You too - but, uh, how do you know my name?"
James laughs, shakes his head.
"Fifteen years I've known Peter and he's never written the letter. Then suddenly he shows up and puts it in the new guys hands without a word, and your name on the front -"
He stops speaking abruptly at the look on Quinn's face and smiles nervously.
"I'll er...just...anyone need a drink?"
Carrie turns to face Quinn, head tilted quizzically.
"What letter?"
"Drop it" he says flatly, no trace of humour in his voice, and surprised at his tone, she does.
*****
The next time it comes up is when a wedding invitation appears in the post; or more specifically, a wedding invitation appears in an oversized manilla envelope addressed to Quinn at her address. As he opens it, the creamy card falls out, cursive gold letters inviting them to 'Save the Date', and next to it falls a long white envelope with what is unmistakeably her name written on it in fine black pen. She picks it up before Quinn can stop her, running her hand over the indentation into the paper where the pen has pressed down.Her name is written in scratchy handwriting; obviously done in a hurry.
"Quinn" she says softly, still crouched on the floor, the wedding invitation in one hand completely ignored, "What is this?"
Her heart is thumping and her palms feel clammy, as though she's close to something dangerous, and she doesn't know why. Above her Quinn is rigid and silent, hands clenched into fists at his side.
Upstairs Frannie starts to cry and Quinn wordlessly plucks the letter out of her hand and takes the stairs two at a time to see to their daughter.
Carrie sits on the kitchen floor feeling tears well in her eyes with no idea why, and thinks she wishes she'd never seen that letter, even though she has no clue what it is.
Later that night she looks through every hidden place in the house that she can think of, not even sure she wants to read it, but just wanting to lay her hands on it again. She hunts high and low but there's no sign of it. Maybe, she thinks, he's burnt it - but her heart tells her there's more to it than that.
*****
The next time is nearly 6 months later at the wedding itself, where she's sat in a flowery dress clutching a glass of champagne and feeling awkward as fuck. She hates these kind of social events, and Quinn has disappeared in search of more alcohol for them, leaving her temporarily alone at the table. She toys with the idea of checking her phone, maybe even making up a work crisis that would enable her to escape. But on the other hand Frannie is with Maggie for the weekend and her and Quinn have a king size bed, bottle of champagne and the night to themselves, so she thinks she shouldn't really complain.
"Hey"
She looks up to see one of the women she'd seen earlier at the wedding, a pretty redhead. Claire, her brain supplies, and she smiles
"Hey. Having fun?"
Claire kicks the chair out and sits down, huffing a sigh.
"I'm not a big wedding person" she admits, toeing off her shoes, "You're Peter's girlfriend, right?"
"Carrie" she introduces herself, shaking hands, "And you're Claire, I think."
Claire nods and reaches to the table behind to snag a bottle of wine.
"I don't know how we tolerate them" she says, suddenly looking worn, "You're lucky Peter's out of it all now. Every time the mail comes..."
Carrie frowns, trying to put the pieces together
Claire's eyes are unfocussed, gazing into the far distance as she sips her wine.
"I'd never have picked this lifestyle for us" she admits, "But I shouldn't be complaining about it, least of all to you."
"It's fine" says Carrie, mind still three sentences back, "I'd kill him if he went off again, I think - it's too much to stand. But...what do you mean about the mail?"
Claire looks at her, surprised.
"He never told you about the letter?"
She shakes her head, heart thumping.
Claire finishes her wine, her face sad.
"They write letters" she says, so softly she's almost unintelligable, "In case they don't come back. To the people they're leaving behind. One of them team delivers them."
Carrie's heart stutters in her chest and she swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
"I didn't realise" she says, trying to keep her voice even. Claire touches her arm.
"Hey, are you okay? You've gone really pale."
She takes a deep shuddering breath and forces a smile.
"I'm fine - just gonna get some fresh air."
Ignoring Claire's concerned face she pushes her chair back and walks out of the hall as quickly as she can, tears clouding her vision. She follows the hallway around until she finds a fire door leading out into an alleyway and pushes out, collapsing against a wall. She doesn't know why she's upset, apart from the fact that he loved her so much that she had been the first letter he wrote, and hadn't loved her enough to wait a few days for her answer. The thought of reading that letter; of knowing that he was gone, feels like a blow to the stomach. The thought of his fear, his sadness writing it. No wonder he hadn't wanted to tell her.
There's a click, and the door opens behind her. She feels Quinn sit next to her without looking up; it's not until he puts an arm around her shoulders she realises that she's been crying.
"Do you remember the night we killed Abu Nazir?" he asks, and how can she forget? "It was the first time I got to put my arm around you. I was such a fucking sap Carrie, no wonder you never looked my way. But I wanted to protect you, and you came out of that building looking like you were going to break into a million pieces. Even if you hadn't been frozen solid and in shock and needed my jacket I'd have still had my arm around you. I haven't stopped wanting to protect you since then."
His speech is delivered in a monotone and she knows how difficult it is for him to say. Her sniffles punctuate the silence as he takes a breath.
"I didn't want you to know about the letter. I didn't think it was fair on either of us. I guess it was stupid thinking that someone wouldn't tell you about it though, eventually, and I'm sorry it wasn't me."
"Will you ever tell me what it says?" she asks, and he squeezes her shoulder.
"Someday"
They sit in silence for a while before she starts to shiver and he wraps his jacket around her shoulders, rubbing her arms lightly against the cold.
"How did you know I was out here?"
He tips her chin up with a finger and kisses her chastely, brushing away the remains of her tears an makeup with a thumb.
"You're pretty predictable" he teases, "That and you nearly knocked me and the vodka flying on your way out."
She perks up.
"Vodka?"
He draws the bottle out from the inside of his jacket, his smile sharp.
"All ours, babe. I charmed the bartender for it."
"Liar, you stole it from the unlocked fridge."
"That cannot be proved one way or another" he admits, and she rests her head against his shoulder.
"So you going to get me drunk and take advantage of me?" she asks, feeling somehow calmer. Quinn pretends to think about it for a moment.
"If nothing better comes along."
She kicks him halfheartedly and lets him pull her upright, still cradling the vodka bottle in one arm. Even in heels she has to stand on her toes to reach up to kiss him, holding him close.
“Let’s do this then” she says with a put-on tone of resignation and they both head into the fray again.
*****
One night, tangled in bed, she rests her head against his chest.
“Why don’t you want me to read the letter?” she asks, cautious, knowing the question could tip him into a glowering mood. He’s silent for a long moment before he answers.
“Because it’s a goodbye” he says finally, “And I don’t want it to be.”
****
Just under a year later they visit her father’s grave together. Carrie lays down flowers and leans against Peter’s arm, still clearly emotional at the sudden loss.
“I thought he’d live forever” she says softly, “Looking after me and Maggie and Frannie.”
Quinn has nothing to say to that; all he can do is squeeze her shoulder.
“I was so happy to see you that day, after the funeral” she says, voice choked, “I’d been scared I was never going to see you again.”
And then you ran off less than 48 hours later on what could have been a suicide mission, he hears, even though she doesn’t say it out loud. You would have left me with no answers and a lifetime of regrets. For someone trying to protect her he’d done a bang up job of being a complete dick.
“I’m sorry” he breathes, tucking her head under his chin. They fit so well that way; like two pieces of a puzzle. The irony is not lost on him.
“Carrie”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to read the letter?”
****
Their journey home is quiet and introspective, both lost in their own thoughts. Carrie, now she has the offer, isn’t sure she wants to know what was written now. But Quinn has made the offer, and she doesn’t know how to say no.
He parks in her drive and they open the house together silently, in their usual routine. Carrie puts the kettle on for coffee while Quinn picks up the mail and the newspaper and for a short while everything is just normal.
They gripe over the inaccurate security reports in the paper, bicker over the crossword and mainline black coffee like it’s going out of fashion. Maggie turns up later in the day to drop off Frannie and they take her to feed the ducks in the park, walking around the lake hand in hand as she waddles around chasing the ducks unsuccessfully.
In the evening Quinn makes pasta for them, cutting it up into tiny pieces for Frannie, and Carrie thinks for the millionth time that she never could have imagined him being like this five years ago; she didn’t think he had the capacity for such a mundane life. Maybe at the back of her mind she still doubts a little - wonders if he would fly out if a big enough mission came up.
Carrie puts Frannie to bed that night, kisses her daughter on the forehead and slides into bed with Quinn, gravitating towards his heat. Her feet are perpetually cold; he used to complain about it and now he lets her rest her icy soles against his calves because it’s just easier than arguing over it.
His bedside light is still on, throwing the angles of his face into sharp relief. He pulls her into his side and sighs.
“I’ve got it, here” he says, “If you want...”
“Will you read it to me?”
Her question takes both of them by surprise and for a long minute he stares at her, silently, before he swallows. It occurs to her that this is the closest she’s come to seeing him nervous.
“Okay”
In that moment, as he reaches for the letter, she feels a million miles away from him, although she can’t figure out why, and she reaches for his wrist before he can tear the envelope open.
“Quinn” she says softly, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not okay with it.”
Something seems to relax in him then and he presses a kiss to her temple.
“It’s going to hang over us if we don’t, right?”
She wants to deny it, but he’s right (he almost always is) - neither of them have the personality to let something like that lie.
“Okay then” she says, and rests her head against his shoulder. He lets the envelope fall to the floor, takes a breath, and begins.
“Dear Carrie....”